I was proud of him. He was clever enough to realize his own shortcomings, and surely that is a sign of greatness in a man?
He will be as great a king as his father was, I told myself, though I prayed not a warlike one. Let him be a king who gave his attention to learning…to the building up of culture in the land. Surely that would make him a king of true greatness?
DEATH IN FRANCE
As soon as Henry left, Owen came to me and I told him what had taken place.
“So he listened to you and is taking your advice. He will be a good and great king, I believe.”
“Gloucester must have flattered him considerably to make him feel that he is quite capable of taking on the burdens of state. I am surprised that he was taken in. But, of course, Gloucester stressed that he would always be there to help.”
“Which of course was the main purpose.”
“Gloucester terrifies me,” I said.
“We have managed so far,” replied Owen. “And we shall continue to do so. And having succeeded in this rather delicate matter, we shall have had practice in case a similar occasion should arise again. You see, it all worked out very smoothly. Guillemote managed the matter of the baby very well.”
“How lucky I am to have had her all these years.”
“She is as one of us.”
I agreed with that.
“Now,” went on Owen, “we will send a messenger over to Hatfield and let Guillemote know that she may bring the children back.”
I was awaiting the arrival of the party which would bring the children to me. It was midafternoon. I lay in bed drowsing. Very soon I should be up, and everything, I hoped, would return to normal. I was congratulating myself on the resourceful manner in which we had dealt with the difficulties of Henry’s visit and, after all our fears, how smoothly everything had gone, when I heard the sound of horses’ hoofs.
They had come home. It would be wonderful to see them. Guillemote would bring them up to me immediately because she would know of my impatience to see them.
I sat by the bed waiting for the sound of children’s feet…waiting for the door to be opened, for them to dash into my arms.
I could picture the beaming face of Guillemote looking benignly on.
The door was opened suddenly. It was Joanna Courcy. She was white and trembling.
“Joanna …” I began.
She was thrust aside and standing there, glaring at me with undoubted malevolence in his whole demeanor, was the Duke of Gloucester.
“My lord …” I stammered.
Joanna was trying to keep him out of the room. “The Queen has been ill. She is recovering …”
He looked at her coldly and said: “You may go.”
Joanna glanced at me. I nodded for her to obey him. I was glad that I could hide my trembling hands under the bedclothes.
I heard myself saying, and I was surprised by the steadiness of my voice: “I do not understand why you come bursting thus into my bedchamber.”
“Because I would speak with you, Madam,” he retorted.
“Of what?” I asked.
His face was scarlet. I could see he was trying to control his temper, which I knew, from repute, could be violent. I wondered briefly whether he had come to kill me. I thought quickly: no, not even he would dare do that. His methods would be more subtle.
“I have come to ask why you should malign me to the King.”
I knew at once to what he was referring. Had Henry told him? If he had it would be because Gloucester had forced it out of him. Or perhaps his spies knew that the Cardinal and Warwick had visited me, asking for my help. He would have his spies in many places.
I have often found it useful to feign ignorance of the language, which is plausible enough when it is not one’s native tongue. So, to give myself a few moments to recover a little, I pretended not to understand.
“Please …” I said. “You mean…I cannot understand …”
Showing a certain petulant exasperation, he said slowly: “The King has been here. He has talked to you.”
“Yes…he visited me…recently. I see so little of him. That is sad for me …”
“And you have spoken to him against me.”
“But no, my lord. I have spoken against no one. My son tells me that you are so conversant with the Latin poets…and what pleasure it gives him to learn of them.”
“I know you have told him not to listen to me…not to take my advice.”
“To listen to you? But no. I have told my son…because he asked me…that he is a boy yet. He will govern his kingdom one day…but not yet.”
“The King is my nephew.”
“Oh yes…and he is my son.”
“I vowed to my brother to care for him…to give him what he lacks through his father’s tragic death.”
“I know my husband commanded the good Earl of Warwick to teach him the use of arms…and what he should know…how to lead his armies as a king must when the need arises. My husband’s dear brother, the Duke of Bedford, and Cardinal Beaufort have cared for my son. He is not yet fourteen. A boy of his age cannot take on the government of his country. That is what he is and that is what I tell him. No…no…I say. It cannot be just yet.”
“But the King is unusually endowed. He has the spirit of a ruler. He has special gifts. He has inherited these from his father.”
“His father told me once that he was wild and reckless in his youth. It was only when he was a king that he changed his ways…and that was because he was of an age to understand what kingship meant.”
“The King is very serious. He is more interested in learning than the use of arms. He will be a great king.”
“Yes…in time. That is what I tell him. But he must wait for that time. Until he is of age he must rely on his advisers.”
“He would have the best advisers, my lady. He understood this. But since he has talked to you, he has lost his confidence.”
“The King has the wisdom to come to the conclusions he came to.”
“I trust, my lady, you will not consider it discourteous of me if I suggest that living shut away in the country, you cannot have a grasp of matters of state. May I add, Madam, that you have allowed yourself to become the tool of that archvillain the Cardinal and that fool Warwick.”
“No, my lord, that is not so. I have come to my own conclusions in the matter. They are my own and not those of others.”
“It may be that you would be wise to keep out of matters of which, by the very nature of the life you lead, you know nothing.”
“And you, sir, I wonder if you would leave me in peace to recover from my illness.”
He stood regarding me somewhat insolently. He looked around the room.
“Did you hear me?” I asked.
“Perfectly well, my lady. I am just about to depart, but there is one thing which has set me wondering.”
I waited in trepidation, for there was evil in his countenance. The heat of passion had passed and it was replaced by something cold, deadly and evil.
“I was wondering what you…such a beautiful lady…find to amuse you in the country?”
“I enjoy country life, my lord.”
“Here! With a few ladies-in-waiting? And men-at-arms, of course. I would say that that Welshman has quite a presence. Would you, my lady?”
He was looking at me maliciously. I thought in terror: he knows something.
I felt my color deepening and I was beginning to tremble.
“Did not he distinguish himself at Agincourt?”
“The King thought highly of him,” I said. “He was in his household…and he continues to be in mine.”
“That must be a very desirable situation. Though this is hardly the place for a soldier. Why is he not in France with my brother Bedford?”
“I have no idea,” I said. “Some soldiers tire of perpetual war.”
“I’ll swear he has a liking for country life. Please, sister, do try to be a little kinder to your poor brother-in
-law. It is a great sadness to me to know that you are not friendly toward me and suspect me of…I know not what.”
“This matter has nothing to do with my friendship toward you, my lord. My son asked me for my opinion and I gave it to him because I felt that it was the right one.”
He bowed to me. “You must come to Court,” he said. “You and I must get to understand each other.”
He was at the door. I sank back onto my pillows, and as I heard his clattering footsteps going down the stairs, I could not stop myself trembling.
Joanna Courcy came in.
“I could not stop him,” she said. “I wanted to get up to warn you.”
“I know. There was no help for it.”
“Why did he come here? Does he suspect anything?”
“I know why he came here. And I think he suspects.”
“Oh God have mercy on us! What next?”
“Where is Owen?” I asked.
“He is in the gardens, I think.”
“Does he know Gloucester was here?”
“I do not know.”
“He must keep out of the way. I do not want him to be seen. Gloucester talked of him…in a certain way.”
We heard the sounds of departure below, and Joanna went to the window. “He is leaving with his men,” she said.
“Thank God he has gone.”
“I will go and get something to steady you.”
“No…no…stay. I wish Owen were here. I must talk to him. The way Gloucester spoke…I fear he knows …”
We were silent, and almost immediately there were sounds of arrival. I heard Edmund’s voice.
Guillemote was coming back with the children.
They were home again. My heart was leaping uncomfortably. And Gloucester was just going.
Could it be possible that they had met as Gloucester was leaving the house?
Guillemote brought the children to me. Edmund and Jasper scampered across the room, Jacina toddling after them. They threw themselves into my arms. I held them so tightly that they protested and wriggled free. I was trying to stifle the terrible fear in my heart. I gazed over their heads at Guillemote. She was standing still, holding the baby, and I knew by the expression on her face that she had met Gloucester.
The children were all talking at once, telling me about their journey…how Edmund had ridden with Jack on his horse, and Jasper with Dick. Jacina had been in the litter with Guillemote and the two babies—Daisy’s, who was the wet nurse, and little Owen. I feigned an interest but all the time was wondering what had happened.
They had gone to the big house, Edmund told me. They had all slept together…except the babies. They had played in the gardens.
I knew that Guillemote was longing to talk to me, but by tacit agreement nothing was said until the children had gone to the nursery.
Owen was with me. He had been in the gardens, had seen Gloucester’s arrival and had thought it wise to keep out of sight. Then she had seen his departure after the brief visit and had been about to come to me when Guillemote had arrived with the children.
“I was horrified,” he said. “It seemed certain that they had met.”
Guillemote explained to us.
“We were turning into the palace when he came riding along with his small company. I was in the litter with little Owen and Jacina and the wet nurse and her child. Edmund and Jasper were riding with two of the men. I recognized the Duke at once and I was very shaken. We could not turn back. We were too close for that and he had already seen us. We had to pass each other.”
“What did he do?”
“He drew to one side of the road…signing for his men to do the same. They stopped. He lifted his hat and bowed his head. He seemed to be staring at us all. I was not sure whether he knew who I was. He would probably know some of the ladies. I thought it hardly likely that he would have noticed me from the past when he may have seen me once or twice. He looked at the children and…we passed on. The way he was looking at us sent shivers down my spine.”
“Is that all?” I asked.
She nodded.
I looked at Owen. It was enough, we both knew.
We were certain that Gloucester would take revenge. The only thing we were unsure of was when; but we believed it was only a matter of waiting.
He had always had the notion that, in view of my position, I must be watched. He had been determined that I should not marry again. I had been wife to the King, and he probably thought that any children I might have could imagine they had pretensions to the throne. It was hardly likely, of course, but a man such as Gloucester would be alert for possibilities.
My son was King; it was likely that he would marry and have undisputed heirs to the throne. But strange things happened in the royal line. And at the moment between Gloucester and what he coveted there was Henry and after Henry, Bedford. And Bedford had no heirs. I believed Gloucester had not worried a great deal about my activities in the past—but certainly enough to try to prevent my marrying again. Yet I had been a mild irritation until now. The King was growing up, and it might be that my influence over him might increase. And now I had openly offended Gloucester. He believed I had turned my son from falling in with his wishes. Gloucester was a man who did not like to be flouted. He would regard what I had done as an insult—and insults must be avenged.
I guessed, therefore, that sooner or later he would strike, and I am sure the blow would have come more quickly but for a dramatic turn of events.
The French were heartily tired of the war. I supposed the English were, too. No one was winning. If Henry had lived, people were saying, the conquest would have been completed by now. France and England would be one country under the domination of the English. But what was the case now? True, the King of England had been crowned King of France. Who was to say which was the King? What was the point of paying taxes just to continue a war which was coming to no satisfactory end? It was different before the coming of The Maid. Truly, she had changed everything, and although she had not brought complete victory to the French, she had made the English position very difficult to hold…and it was becoming more so.
At this time there was a meeting in Arras which must be causing a great deal of anxiety to the Duke of Bedford. I thought of him as I had last seen him, his face careworn and a desperate sadness in his eyes…in fact, a certain hopelessness.
The meeting in Arras was an attempt to bring an end to the war and to unite the royal house of France with that of Burgundy. If this succeeded, it would be a fatal blow to English hopes in France.
Looking back over the events of the past years, I could see what an effect that quarrel had had on our history. The Duke of Burgundy and my brother Charles were both Frenchmen—moreover close kinsmen—and the quarrel of the Orléans–Armagnac faction with Burgundy had been the downfall of France. It was not until a simple peasant girl had restored that country’s faith in itself that the misery of failure and defeat began to lift.
It was quite clear that Philip of Burgundy and my brother Charles must become allies so that France could grow proud and strong again.
It was tragic that the two leading houses in France should be fighting against each other when an enemy was attacking the country. There must be an end to this talk of revenge. The welfare of France must come before petty family quarrels. Frenchmen must not make war on each other.
The English refused to give up their claim to the crown of France, and Bedford left Arras and went to Rouen. I could imagine his thoughts as he entered the town. This was the place where they had burned The Maid, but she was indestructible. They may have destroyed her body, but her spirit lived on.
I remembered Tressart’s words: “We are lost. We have burned a saint.”
It might well be that he was right.
And there in Rouen, that city of bitter memories, Bedford would be awaiting the outcome of the meeting at Arras. His relationship with Burgundy had suffered even further since the death of Anne. It was she who had helped
keep it alive. Bedford had respected Burgundy, and Burgundy had respected him. They had been brothers-in-law. And then Bedford had married again, and so soon after Anne’s death. True, there was an advantage in the match, but it had surprised me…and no doubt others. Moreover, the marriage had naturally displeased Burgundy and could only be expected to widen the rift between them. Perhaps Bedford realized during those days in Rouen that his marriage had been a mistake, for it was still of the utmost importance to England to keep on friendly terms with Burgundy—far more important than any advantage which could be obtained elsewhere.
I had always admired Bedford. He was undoubtedly the best and most honorable of Henry’s brothers. He had been a good friend to me and a good guardian to my son.
When I heard that he had died in Rouen, I was overcome with grief and a sense of foreboding.
The first thought that occurred to me was: the Duke of Gloucester is next in line to the throne.
We had waited in trepidation for some reaction to his discovery. I was sure he had heard rumors about my relationship with Owen, for, careful as we were, some little indication must have leaked out. There was that occasion at the dance when he had fallen into my lap. That had happened a long time ago, but at the time I was sure it had been talked of. Sometimes such things are greatly exaggerated and a minor incident is turned into one of significance.
After he had forced the statute through Parliament about my remarrying, Gloucester had done nothing. That might well have been because he had matters of more significance to occupy him. But now that I had presumed to advise the King, I had brought myself to his notice, and I was sure he would have taken some action if it had not been for his brother’s unexpected death which had taken him a step closer to the throne; and he would have thought for nothing else at this time.
Later I heard accounts of how the Duke of Bedford had died. He was a sick and disappointed man, obsessed by the fear that he had failed in the mission his brother had left to him. He had gone wrong somewhere, he was convinced. He should never have allowed them to burn The Maid at the stake. It was said that that—and much else—was on his mind when he died.
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