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AbouttheBook

Richard the Second islosing his hold on the crownand Henry of Bolingbroke,previouslyexiledbytheking,returnstoEnglandtoclaimit.Richard is deposed and diesmysteriously,murderedsomesay on the orders ofBolingbroke, now KingHenry theFourth.ButHenryfindsthecrownhardertohold

ontothanitwastowin.Heisbeset by enemies, hamperedby disease, and concernedabout the rebelliousbehaviourofhisson.

Dominating thecourt andwith his eye on the crown isHarry of Monmouth, whosereckless conduct in low-classtaverns with his crony SirJohn Oldcastle causesscandal.When the king dies,Harry became King Henry

the Fifth, and the change isdramatic for both him andOldcastle. The licentiousyouth becomes a great king,andOldcastle, the rake, turnsinto a religious reformer.Oldcastle dies a martyr andHarry becomes theconquering hero ofAgincourt.

TheStarofLancasterisinthe ascendant. Harry hasbrought France to her knees

and married her princess. Itseems that the long war wasat an end. But a greaterenemythantheFrenchawaitsHarry…

‘Plaidyexcelsatblendinghistory with romance anddrama’NewYorkTimes

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PublishedbyArrowBooks2009

24681097531Copyright©JeanPlaidy,

1980Initialletteringcopyright©

StephenRaw,2008TheEstateofEleanorHibberthasasserteditsrightundertheCopyright,DesignsandPatentsAct,1988tohaveJeanPlaidyidentifiedasthe

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coverotherthanthatinwhichitispublishedandwithoutasimilarconditionincludingthisconditionbeingimposedonthesubsequentpurchaser.FirstpublishedinGreat

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Contents

CoverAboutthebookTitleCopyrightPraiseforJeanPlaidyAboutTheAuthorFurther titles available in

ArrowbyJeanPlaidyMapI:EncounterintheForest

II:TheChildWifeIII:TheLordHarryIV:TheLastFarewellV:TheForget-Me-NotVI: The Prince and the

VirginWidowVII:HotspurVIII:IsabellaattheCourt

ofFranceIX:PrinceHalX:OldcastleXI:AgincourtXII: Death at Lollards’

GallowsXIII: A Charge of

WitchcraftXIV:KatherinedeValoisXIV: Death of the

Conqueror

Bibliography

PraiseforJeanPlaidy

‘Plaidyexcelsatblendinghistorywithromanceand

drama’NewYorkTimes‘Outstanding’VanityFair

‘Full-blooded,dramatic,exciting’Observer

‘Plaidyhasbroughtthepasttolife’

TimesLiterarySupplement‘Oneofourbesthistorical

novelists’NewsChronicle

‘Anexcellentstory’IrishPress

‘Spirited...Plaidypaintsthetruthassheseesit’BirminghamPost

‘Sketchedvividlyandsympathetically...rewarding’

Scotsman‘Amongtheforemostof

currenthistoricalnovelists’BirminghamMail

‘Anaccomplishednovelist’GlasgowEveningNews

‘Therecanbenodoubtoftheauthor’sgiftforstorytelling’IllustratedLondonNews

‘JeanPlaidyhasonceagainbroughtcharactersand

backgroundvividlytolife’Everywoman

‘Welluptostandard...fascinating’

ManchesterEveningNews‘Excitingandintelligent’

TruthMagazine‘Nofrillsandplentyof

excitement’YorkshirePost

Jean Plaidy, one of thepre-eminent authors ofhistorical fiction for most ofthe twentieth century, is thepen name of the prolificEnglish author EleanorHibbert, also known asVictoria Holt. Jean Plaidy’snovelshadsoldmorethan14million copies worldwide bythetimeofherdeathin1993.Forfurtherinformationabout

ourJeanPlaidyreissuesandmailinglist,pleasevisit

www.randomhouse.co.uk/minisites/jeanplaidy

FurthertitlesavailableinArrowbyJeanPlaidy

TheTudorsUneasyLiestheHeadKatharine,theVirgin

WidowTheShadowofthe

PomegranateTheKing’sSecretMatterMurderMostRoyalStThomas’sEveTheSixthWife

TheThistleandtheRose

MaryQueenofFranceLordRobert

RoyalRoadtoFotheringayTheCaptiveQueenofScots

TheMediciTrilogyMadameSerpentTheItalianWomanQueenJezebel

ThePlantagenetsThePlantagenetPreludeTheRevoltoftheEagletsTheHeartoftheLionThePrinceofDarkness

TheBattleoftheQueensTheQueenfromProvenceTheHammeroftheScotsTheFolliesoftheKingTheVowontheHeronPassagetoPontefract

TheFrenchRevolutionLouistheWell-BelovedTheRoadtoCompiègneFlaunting,Extravagant

QueenTheIsabellaandFerdinandTrilogy

CastileforIsabellaSpainfortheSovereignsDaughtersofSpainTheVictorians

TheCaptiveofKensingtonTheQueenandLordMTheQueen’sHusbandTheWidowofWindsor

ChapterI

ENCOUNTERINTHEFOREST

Thewallsoftheconventrose serene and beautifulamong the green meadows.Closebywere thegreywallsofPleshyCastle,thehomeofthe littlegirlwhowas seated

at the table her lesson bookspread out before her. Howquiet it was in the convent!shewasthinking.Therewasapeacefulness here which shefound very comforting, themore so because she hadbecome aware of a certainturmoilinthecastle.

Mary had always been alittle in awe of Eleanor, hereldersister,andperhapsmoreso of Thomas, Eleanor’s

husband. He was a veryimportantman,ofcourse;andEleanor was proud to be hiswife. She was constantlyremindingherlittlesisterthather children would be royalbecause Thomas was theKing’sson.

It was true. Thomas ofWoodstock, as people calledhim because of the placewhere he was born, was infact the Earl of Buckingham

andtheyoungestsonofKingEdward theThirdandQueenPhilippa. Mary couldremember when he andEleanor were married. Herfatherhadbeenalivethenandtherehadbeengreatrejoicingat the castle, for it was abrilliant match for the deBohuns, even thoughHumphrey de Bohun was averyrichmanowningaswellas Pleshy Castle those of

MonmouthandLeicester anda mansion in the City ofLondon;and,although itwasbecause of his immensewealth that the marriage hadbeen approved by the royalfamily, the de Bohuns hadbeen well aware of thehonourdonetothem.

Then everything hadchangedbecauseher father–Humphrey de Bohun to givehim his full title – had died

andhisvastfortunewastobedivided between his twodaughters for there was nomaleheir.ThusEleanor,wifeof royal Thomas, and ten-year-old Mary became therichestheiressesinEngland.

Eleanor was delightedabout that; so was Thomas;Mary was amazed at theirexcitement. What differencedid it make to them? shewondered. They had been

very rich before.What morecouldtheywant?

When she asked this, shewas sharply told by Eleanornottobefoolishandshewassubdued for she had alwaysbeen very conscious ofEleanor’s seniority. Eleanorhad always made her awareof it, even before theirfather’sdeath.Shewasmucholder, Eleanor had pointedout, and Mary was only a

child.Shemustdoasshewastold by those of superiorknowledge and that naturallymeantaneldersister.

Brooding now over thosedays as she sat within thepeacefulwallsoftheconventher books lying neglectedbefore her, she was thinkingofallthathadhappenedsinceher father’s death and theattitude of Eleanor and herhusband towards her. It was

almost as though they wereplanningsomething.

Thethoughtmadeherfeelslightly uneasy and she wasmore than ever aware howpleasant it was to be in theconvent among the gentlenuns. Presently one of themwould come and look at herwork. If it was good, littlewould be said, for it wasimplied that they expected itto be good; if it was

carelessly done or betrayedan ignorance of the subjectsset there would be a gentlereproof which strangelyenough hurt her more thananger and contempt wouldhavedone.

Mary liked the nuns; sheliked the convent; theatmosphere fascinated her.TheAbbesshad toldher thatthePoorClares livedonly toserve.Theymoved about the

convent like grey silentghosts for if they wished tospeaktoeachothertheymustfirst receivepermission todoso from the Abbess. Theyslept on hard boards; theyfasted; they followed strictlaws of poverty; and it wastheirduty to forget theirownneedsanddevotetheirtimetothe care of the sick and thepoor.

Often she compared their

liveswith thosewho lived inher castle home. Eleanorliked luxury and so indeeddid Thomas. He had beenaccustomed to it all his life,for his father had kept anextravagant court and KingRichard’s it was said waseven more luxurious. Yetherewithintheconventwalls,thePoorClaressleptontheirhard boards, deniedthemselves food, taking only

that which was necessary tosustain them that they mightcontinuewiththeirwork,andMary often thought howstrangeitwasthattherecouldbe such differences inpeople’slives.

Eleanorlovedrichclothesand her seamstresses wereworking constantly on newgarments for her. She wouldspendhoursdiscussingwhichtwocoloursharmonised–for

all her gowns were two-coloured now in accordancewith the fashion – and finesilks would be placedtogether and matched. Hercote hardies were verysplendid indeed and oftendecorated with gems. Herhanging sleeves grew longerwith every fresh gown andshe was happy to hide herhair–whichwasstraightandnot very abundant – under a

veryelaboratehead-dress.Mary often thought what

the nuns could have donewith the money which hersister spent so freely onadorning herself. She oftencompared her with the nunsintheirgreygowns,shapelessandloose,heldinatthewaistwith their linen cords whichwere tied with four knots torepresent,andtoremindthemof, their four vows. She

compared the serenity of thenunswiththerestlessactivityof her sister and it seemedclear to her which of themfoundlifemoresatisfactory.

Itwasnotoneofthenunswho came to her but theAbbess herself. Mary wasovercome with awe and shefeltthatsuchavisitationmustbeofsomeportent.

The Abbess said: ‘Well,mychild,youhavedoneyour

lessonsfortheday.’Shetookthe books and glanced atthem; then her piercing eyeswereonthegirl.

A beautiful child, shethought. She had inheritedmore than her share of thefamily’s good looks. The deBohunshadbeenbenefactorsoftheconventforyearsanditwasnaturalthatthislittlegirlshould have been given overto them that they might

educate her. It happened tomany children of high birthand they must welcome it.Noblefamiliesweretheirlifeblood. They needed thepatronageof thosewho in somanycasesthoughttoexpiatetheir sins by endowing aconvent and by supporting itthroughout their lives. Itwasironical thatsuchholyplacesweresolargelydependentonsinnersanddoublysothatthe

greaterthesinscommittedthemore munificent were thegiftslikelytobe.

Now shewas responsiblefor the education of thisyounggirl;butsheknewthatambitious Thomas ofWoodstock and his equallyambitious wife had sent herhere for a purpose. It wouldbe good for the convent ifthat purpose was successful;buttheAbbessdidnotwishit

tobesounlessitwasthebestthing for the girl. With herdarkhairandhergentleratherdoe-like eyes, her heart-shaped face and her delicatefeatures she showed signs ofreal beauty. Her nature wasgentlebutalert;shewouldbesteadfastbutthefactwasthatthe Abbess was unsure. Asyet, she thought, she is tooyoungtodecide.

‘Itisafineday,’shesaid

briskly. ‘Let us walk awhileinthegardens.’

This was strange. TheAbbess had never walked inthe gardens with her before,but one thing Mary hadlearned in the convent wasnot to ask questions so sheshut her books immediatelyandrose.

She followed the Abbessthrough the stone corridors.They passed silent-footed

nuns, who, preserving theirsilence, did not speak. In thegardens, where vegetablesand herbs were grown, threenuns were working: they didnot look up. In the bakery itwould be the same, as in thewash-house and the alehouse.Theywereallworkingsteadily away and in silenceas they would be in the stillrooms where the herbs werebeing made into medicines

fortheuseofthepoor.‘You see,my child,’ said

theAbbess,‘thathereweareworking for others. It is ourmission in life to serve Godthrough His unfortunatechildren.’

‘Yes, my lady Abbess, Ihave long been aware ofthat.’

‘And you think it aworthyvocation?’

‘Ohyes,mylady.Ido.’

‘Therearesomewhotaketheir vows perhaps too earlyandlaterregretthattheyhavedone so. The world is analluringplace,mychild.’

‘It is full of wickedness,mylady.’

‘And what do you knowof that wickedness? Tell methat.’

Mary was silent and theAbbesssmiled.

‘Youknownothingofthe

world save that which youhave heard. But you haveseen something of what anun’s life is like. And youthinkitagoodlife?’

‘OhIdo,mylady.’They walked in silence

for some moments then theAbbess said, ‘How old areyou?’

‘Iamtenyearsold.’‘It is too young to make

decisionswhichwould affect

thewholeofyourlife.’‘What decisions, my

lady?’‘MylordtheEarlhassaid

thatifyoushouldwishtojoinusherehewouldnotstandinyourway.’

‘To...joinyouhere.’‘To become one of us.

Whatdoyouthink,Mary?’The girl was silent. To

livethelifeofanun!Toworkfor the poor! To speak only

whengivenpermission to doso!Shedidnotknowwhattosay. When she entered thecalm of the convent she hadfelt a happiness envelop her.That was because Eleanorhad said something that shehadfelttobeunkind;andshewas aware of the friction atPleshy. Her brother-in-lawwas often angry aboutsomething. He and her sisterwere constantly discussing

some grievance and assuringthemselves that the daywouldcomewhentheywouldbe avenged. It made heruneasy; and for that reasonshe liked togetaway.But toliveherealways. . .nevertoknow what was reallyhappeningintheworld...

The Abbess said: ‘Mydear child, do not lookalarmed. It would be yearsbefore anything was done.

The Duke of Lancaster isyour guardian and he wouldhave to give his consent ofcourse.Hisplansmightdifferfromthoseofyourbrother-in-law and sister. But a greatdeal depends on your ownwishesforwewouldnotwantyou to be here against yourwill. The decision is yours,remember that, but there istalkofitsbeingasuitablelifeforyouandIthoughtIwould

tell you this that you can bemorewatchful of us and ourways. I think it is never toosoon to think of thesematters.’

‘Thank you, my lady. Iwillthinkofthem.’

‘That is well. I believeyour groom is waiting at thestablestotakeyoutoPleshy.’

TheAbbesswentintotheconvent and Mary made herway to the stableswhere her

horsewasreadyforher.

In thesolariumatPleshy,Mary was embroidering analtar cloth for the chapelwhen her sister joined her.Eleanor was pregnant; shewas hoping for a son; shealready had one little girlabout a year old and shethoughtherselfratherillusedby life because her first-bornhadnotbeenason.

She sat beside Mary andsaid:‘Youlooksohappy.Butyou always do when youreturn from the convent. Ibelieveyoulovethatplace.’

‘I do. It is very pleasantthere and the nuns are sogentle. They are very good,youknow,Eleanor.’

‘I do know it. There arenomoreworthypeopleintheworld. Some of us haveduties in other directions.’

She sighed as though shedeploredhavingtobeagreatlady, go to Court, wearmagnificent clothes, andwouldhavecounteditagreatprivilege if she had beenallowed to put on the greyrobe of the Poor Clares anddevoteherselftotheneedy.

Now that was too muchfor Mary to accept. Eleanorthoroughly enjoyed herworldlylife,butshehadbeen

planning something for sometimeandMarywasbeginningto understand what it was.Eleanorwantedhertogointoa convent; in fact she wastryingtopersuadeherto.Hernextwordsconfirmedthis.

‘OhMary,Iambeginningto think you are morefortunate than I. I do believeGodisgivingyouachancetoleadaveryworthylife.’

‘You mean go into a

convent?Becomeanun?’‘I see you are full of joy

atthethought.’‘No, Eleanor. That is not

entirely true. I do think thenuns are good and I shouldliketobeastheyare...’

‘Well then, sister, is thatnotwhatIsaid?’

‘But there are other joysin the world. When I playwith little Anne I think howfortunateyou are to haveher

andthenthereisthenewonewho iscoming. Ido love thepeace of the convent but Ishould love to be a mothertoo . . . to have babies likeAnne.’

‘What nonsense!’ saidEleanor sharply. ‘Having ababyisbynomeanspleasantIcanassureyou.’

‘Iknowitisanordealbutthe reward is great.Sometimes I think the most

wonderful thing in theworldmustbetohaveachild.’

‘You are speaking ofmatters of which you knownothing,’ said Eleanorsharply. ‘I think you shouldbegin to consider going intothe convent. I could speak totheAbbess.’

‘Eleanor, have youalreadyspokentotheAbbess?’

‘We have talked of your

future,ofcourse.’‘Andourmother?’‘She has not given an

opinionbutIamsurethatshewould be happy for you totakeuptheholylife.’

‘Ithinkshewouldrespectmywishesinthat,’saidMarywithspirit.

Eleanor opened her eyesvery wide. ‘But is that notwhatweallwish todo?’ shedemanded.

‘If that is so,’ repliedMarygravely,‘itisformetodecide and I have some timeyettothinkaboutmyfuture.’

‘Ofacertaintyyouhave,’retortedEleanor. ‘But I thinkyou would be very happy tofeelyouhadsettledit.’

Mary was silent. Eleanorwouldbeveryhappy,shewassure, if itwassettledthatheryoungsistershouldbecomeanun.

Thomas Woodstock, Earlof Buckingham, rode out toPleshytosaygood-byetohiswifebeforeheleftforFrance.He was not displeased to begoing for he was of anadventurous nature and hadthe Plantagenet desire to dobattle.Hewasfreshfromthetriumphhehadenjoyedwhenjust before Christmas he hadcaptured eight Spanish ships

off Brest. Egotistical,impulsive, inclined torecklessness,Thomasyearnedtobeinthecentreofevents.

Eleanor understood well.Shesharedhisambitions.Shegreeted him warmly andimmediatelycommanded thatthe finest dinner should beservedand theminstrelsgiveof their best.Shehadalwaysinsistedthattheyshouldhavethe newest songs fromCourt

andastheywerenotfarfromLondon andWestminster sheusually succeeded in herendeavours.

Eleanor had married intoroyalty and she could notforget it nor allow anyoneelseto.

It was a good marriagefrom the point of view ofboth husband and wife.Thomasenjoyedherambitionand approval in all his

endeavours and it gratifiedhim that she should be soconscious of the royalty hehadbestowedonher.

Intheirapartmentshetoldher of his successes at sea –avoiding that part in whichthesquadronofwhichhehadbeen in charge had beenscatteredbyastorm.

‘IamgoingouttoaidtheDuke of Brittany,’ heexplained. ‘He is handing

over thecastleofBrest tousfor as long as the war shalllast.But theFrenchwill takeitunlessIgetthereintimetoholdit.’

‘You will do that,’ shesaid. ‘I trust Richard isgrateful for all you do forhim.’

‘Grateful! He takeseverything as his right andknows little of affairs. He’snothing but a boy. A boy

KingofEngland!’‘Thereshouldhavebeena

Regency,’saidEleanor.‘Ah my dear, you speak

truththere.’‘ThoughLancasterwould

have been in command youmaybesure.’

‘He would have tried tobe. I should have stoppedthat.’

Eleanor nodded sagely.Therewaslittlelovebetween

the two brothers. John ofGaunt, Duke of Lancasterwas as ambitious as hisbrother.Bothbitterlyresentedthefactthattheyhadnotbeenthe eldest of Edward’s sons.It would have been differentiftheBlackPrincehadlived.He would have steppednaturally onto the throne andthere would have been noquestion of his right to bethere.Buthisson,thisyoung

boy–delicateandeffeminate– was quite unsuited to thedestiny thrust upon him; anditwasparticularlygallingthatit shouldbesowhenEdwardtheThird had had other sonsthantheBlackPrince.JohnofGaunt and Thomas ofWoodstockbelievedthattheyweremore suited to take thecrown. As for the thirdbrother, Edmund of Langley,he was not ambitious,

preferring to live quietly inthe country. But John andThomas were constantlyjostling forpower and itwasgalling to both of them tohave to accept their punynephewastheirKing.

Thomas was a man whobrooded on his wrongs; hecouldneverforgetnorforgivea slight; and when John ofGaunt had put forward hisown son Henry of

Bolingbroke for theOrder oftheGarterandtheirlatefatherEdward the Third hadbestowed it on him, Thomashadbeenconsumedbyhatredofhisbrother– for therehadbeen two candidates for theOrder, Thomas himself andHenry ofBolingbroke and toget it for his son, John ofGaunt had had to push asidehisbrother.

No, that was something

which would never beforgiven. ‘Well,mydear,’hesaid, ‘my stay here is a briefone.By the time I returnourlittleonewillbeborn.’

‘You shall have news assoon as the child arrives,’Eleanor promised. ‘How Ihopethatthistimeitwillbeaboy!’

‘If not, there is plenty oftime for us. Take care ofyourself,mydear.AndMary

. . . has she given anyindicationyet?’

‘Iamhopefulthatshewillsoon do so. She is happy inthe convent. But the Abbessthinkssheshouldwaitawhileand not make a hastydecision.’

‘The Abbess should beaboutherownbusiness.’

‘Itmaybethatshewouldconsider Mary’s taking hervowsasherbusiness.’

‘Onceshehastakenthem,yes. The girl must bepersuaded.’

‘Iamdoingmybest.Sheis young yet, and if we canonlypersuadeherbefore...’

Eleanor frowned andThomas said: ‘You arethinking of fortune hunters.My dear wife, none couldmarry herwithout consultingus.’

‘You have forgotten your

brother.Heisherguardian.’‘He is occupied with

other matters. He spends agreat deal of time with hismistress. I wonder what it isthis Catherine Swynford hasto cast such a spell on him.There is no doubt that he isbewitchedbythewoman.’

‘Youthinksheisawitch...’

Thomas shrugged hisshoulders. ‘If she had been

she would have made himmarryherdoubtless.Heknewher when Blanche died. ButhemarriedConstanza,didhenot?’

‘BecausehehopedforthecrownofCastile.’

‘Yes, Johnhasmatters tooccupyhim.Idoubthegivesmuch thought to little MarydeBohun.’

‘Then it is really just amatterofpersuadingMary.’

‘The day will come,’prophesied Thomas, ‘whenshe enters her convent andthen everythingwill be ours,mydear.’

His eyes glistened at thethought.SodidEleanor’s.

ShewouldpersuadeMaryin time. She had alwayspersuadedMary.

Thomas left for France.Mary returned to her lessonsat the convent. She had

become very much aware ofeverything around her, andshewas beginning to believethat thepeaceof the conventwouldbeverydesirable.

John of Gaunt had cometo Arundel Castle where hewas being entertained by hisgood friends, the Earl andCountess.

John had recentlyreturnedfromScotlandwhere

hehadnegotiatedpeacewiththe Scots and he had takenwithhimhiseldestsonHenryof Bolingbroke. Henry wassomefourteenyearsofage,agood-looking sturdy boy andhisfatherwasproudofhim.

Soon, he had thought, Imust findasuitablebrideforhim. It would be someonewho could bring himwealth.That was necessary. Thericher a man was the more

power he had. His brotherThomas had done very wellfor himself with the Bohunheiress. Those Bohun girlswouldbetwooftherichestinthe kingdom. It was smallwonder that Thomas hadbecome very smug since hismarriage.

Johnwasverywellawareof the extent of the Bohunfortune, the younger girlbeinghisward.TheKinghad

bestowed this gift on him –for gift it was, as thewardship carried with it agrant of five thousandmarksand Richard had given it tohim as compensation forsome payments which wereduetohim.Thomashadbeendispleased about that. Johnsmiledgrimlyat thememoryof Thomas’s disquiet. Nodoubt he did not want hisbrother to know too much

about the de Bohuninheritance.MoreoveritgaveJohnacommandoverMary’sfuture.

As he rode up the highcircular knoll on which thecastle stood, his thoughtswere on his brother and hewondered what mischief hewas concocting now. Acrossthe drawbridge under theportcullis into the castle hewent where the Earl was

waiting togreethim. JohnofGauntwasthemostpowerfulman in the land – under theKing;andRichardasyetwasbutaboy.

It was the Countess whohadbroughtupthesubjectofthe de Bohun girls. She wastheir aunt and she was veryinterested in their futurebecause she had heard arumour that the youngerwasthinking of going into a

convent.They had eaten dinner

and the minstrels wereplaying in the gallery; muchgood wine had been drunkandtheconversationwasofadesultorynature.

‘You are my niece’sguardian,mylordLancaster,’said the Countess. ‘I doubtnot you would have beeninformed if Mary had madeherdecisiontotaketheveil.’

‘I have heard nothing ofit,’repliedJohn.‘AndIthinkthegirl is tooyoung tomakesuchadecision.’

‘I doubt not,’ put in theEarl,‘thatsheisbeinggentlypersuaded that the conventlifeisforher.’

‘Persuaded!’ cried theCountess.

‘Well,’ said the Earl,‘look what Buckinghamwould gain by such a

measure.NotahalfofthedeBohun estates but the wholewouldfalltoEleanor.Sheisaladywith herwits about her,soIhaveheard.AndThomashas a nose for money. But,mylordLancaster,shewouldneedyourconsent.’

‘I should not give itunless it was the girl’s ownwish,’Johnreplied.

‘Iamgladtohearyousaythat,’said theCountess. ‘She

is tenyearsold.Girlsof thatage can be filledwith ideals.They can make a decisionbefore they understand whatit is all about, particularly iftheyarediscreetlyjostledintoit.’

‘I shall go and visit her,’said John. ‘I shall see formyselfwhatitisallabout.’

‘I believe Eleanor is avery forcefulyoungwoman,’explained the Countess.

‘When she sets her mind tosomething sheworks hard toget it. Mary is gentle – thebeauty of the family. Such apretty little thing. I confess Ishould hate to see her shutaway with the Poor Clares.Andthinkofallthatmoney!’

‘Iam thinkingof it,’ saidJohn. ‘That iswhy I shallgotoseeher.’

‘It would be easier if itwere not known that you

were sounding her,’ said theCountess. ‘I have an idea.Wouldyouliketohearit?’

‘Weareallears,’saidtheEarl. ‘Is that not so,my lordLancaster?’

Johnnodded,smiling.‘Why should I not ask

Mary to Arundel? That willarouse little comment. I shalltellherweallwanttoseeournieces. There is no reasonwhyIshouldnotbringherto

seeherUncleRichard. Iwillride to Pleshy and bring herbackwithme.Weshallhavesome merriment here inArundel and we shall seewhether Mary really wishesto give up the world for theveil. What think you of thisplan?’

‘It seems to me fairenough,’ said her husband.‘Whatthinkyou,mylord?’

John was thoughtful. An

ideahadcometohim.Hedidnot speak for amoment, andthe Countess prompted:‘Well,mylordLancaster?’

‘I like thisplan,’ he said.‘Itwouldbeaweightoffmymind to know that she wasnotbeingforcedintothelife.Iwishtoseethegirl...awayfrom her sister and theinfluence of Thomas. I wantto judge for myself what isbestforher.’

‘Then Iwill go toPleshyand when Mary is here, mylord,Iwillsendyouword.’

John was smiling. Heliked the idea. He liked itverymuch.

Eleanor receivedher auntwith a certain graciousdignity.

She gives herself airssince she married intoroyalty,thoughttheCountess,

smilinginwardly.ShedidnotlikeEleanor.Thegirlwastooproud, too ambitious. Marywasquitedifferent,charmingandpretty.TheCountesswasglad young Mary hadmanaged to acquire all thegoodlooks.

‘My dear Eleanor,’ shecried, ‘it is long since I sawyou. Marriage suits you, mydear.Onebabyinthenurseryand another on the way. I’ll

vowThomaswantsaboythistime.’

‘We are hoping for aboy,’repliedEleanor.

‘Is there news ofThomas?’

‘None. You know howdifficultitistogetnewsfromFrance.’

‘Doubtless the child willbe born by the time hereturns. A reward for hisservicestotheKing.’

‘He is not likely to getanyother.’

‘Oh come, Richard isgratefultohisuncles.’

‘NottoThomas.’The Countess laughed

lightly.‘Itisapleasuretoseeyou so contented with yourmarriage. AndMary, how isshe?’

‘She is devoted to thenuns. Itwas so fortunate thattheconvent issoclose to the

castle. Itmeans thatwehaveherwithusandshecanatthesame time indulge in herpleasure to be within theconvent.’

‘It was most convenientthat you chose to come toPleshy,’ commented theCountess.‘Itmighthavebeenone of your castles or thatdraughtyhousethatwasyourfather’sintheDowgateWardofLondon.’

‘YoumeanColeHarbour.Yes, Pleshy is just the rightplace for Mary, and I amready to stay here for thatreason. I like to seemy littlesistercontented.’

‘Assheis,Ibelieve.’‘Oh very. People are

fortunate when they arealmost born with theknowledgeofwhattheywantinlife.’

‘You mean the convent

forMary.Iagreewithyou.Itis very fortunate. I lookforwardtoseeingMarywhileIamhere.’

‘Ofacertaintyyouwill.’I am determined on it,

thoughttheCountess,foritistheobjectofmyvisit.

LaterthatdayshedidseeMary.

She thought: The child istruly a beauty. Itwould be apity ifshewereshutaway in

a convent just because hergreedy sister and heravaricious brother-in-lawwant her share of the deBohunfortune.

She was very cautious,beingeagertogivenosigntoEleanor that she was in theslightest degree averse toMary’sfutureintheconvent.

Shementionedmore thanoncethegreatadmirationshehad for the Poor Clares and

thewonderfulworktheyweredoing.

Mary spoke glowingly ofthemandEleanorpurred likeacontentedcat.

TheCountess said: ‘YouruncleRichardwassayingthatheshouldsoliketoseeyou.Itold him that I wouldpersuadeyoutocomebacktoArundel with me for a shortvisit.Hesaid:Isolongtoseemydearnieces.’

‘I am scarcely in acondition to travel,’ Eleanorpointedout.

‘Alas, that is so,’ agreedthe Countess. ‘Mary couldcomethough.’

Mary cried: ‘I should somuchlikethat.’

Eleanor looked a littletaken aback but before shecouldspeaktheCountesssaidfirmly: ‘Then so it shall be.Wewillsetouttomorrow.’

Eleanor said: ‘Mary, youwill not wish to leave yourstudies.’

‘ButEleanor, itwill onlybe for a short visit. I long togo.’

‘Then you shall, dearniece,’ said the Countessquickly. ‘Lateron,whenyouhave the baby, Eleanor, youwillcometoseeyouruncleIknow.’

‘Cannothecomehere,my

lady?’‘Hewill,ofacertaintyhe

will.Buthehasaskedmesoparticularly to take you bothback with me. He did notthinkthatyouwouldbeunfitto travel. Men do notunderstand these things. Imust take one of you back.Mary,wemustleaveearly.Itis a long journey and I wishforanearlystart.’

Mary was clearly excited

attheprospectofthevisitandEleanorcouldonly shrughershoulders.

Itwouldbebut fora fewdays and their aunt wasclearly in favour of Mary’staking the veil. Perhaps shewouldhelptopersuadeher.

There was no need toworry.

It was exciting riding toArundelwith her aunt.Mary

had forgotten how beautifulthe Sussex countryside was.She could smell the sea andshe remembered that thecastle was only a shortdistance from the coast. TheCountess had been talkingabout the pleasures ofArundel and the new dancesandsongsofwhichMaryhadsome knowledge becausenone could enjoy social lifemore than Eleanor and

Thomas. There were oftenvisitorsatArundel,explainedher aunt. It was a greatpleasure when they camewith news of what washappening in Court. Not thatshewas ignorant of that, shewasquicktoadd.Youruncleis in constant attendance ontheKing.

Mary did notice that,although while they were atPleshy her aunt had talked a

great deal about theConventof the Poor Clares, stressingthegoodlifeledbythenuns,during the journey herconversation had changedconsiderably;andsheseemedto be extolling the pleasuresoflifeoutsideconventwalls.

As the drawbridge waslowered and they rode underthe portcullis and into thecourtyard, theCountess said:‘What joy there is in coming

home.IalwayswonderwhenI return what will have beenhappeningtotheplacewhileIhavebeenaway,whatvisitorswe have had or who will beawaiting us. One of the bestthings in life is cominghome.’

She looked side ways atMary on whose face was anexpression of understandingandsharedexcitement.

Itwillnotbe theconvent

life for her! thought theCountess. Lancaster will seetothat.

IntothecastlewentMary,to the chamber which hadbeen made ready, there towash off the stains of thejourneyandtoprepareherselfto go down to the great hallwhere the appetising smellswhich pervaded the castleproclaimed that food wouldsoonbeserved.

Oneof thewomenof thehousehold arrived to say thatontheinstructionsofmyladyshe had come to help herdress.My lady had set out agown for her as her ownwouldnotyetbeunpacked.

Mary was astonished atthesplendourofthegarment.The surcoatwas of fine bluesilk and delicatelyembroidered with birds andflowers. Under the surcoat

was a less loosely fittinggown in a delicate shade ofgreen; the sleeves of thegarmentmadeitintheheightoffashionforfromtheelbowthey hung almost to herknees.

Mary was not used towearing such fine clothesalthough she had seenEleanor in them. ‘You likethe colours of your nuns,’Eleanorhadsaid;andshehad

notcaredenoughtoprotest.The serving girl brushed

her dark hair and let it fallabouthershoulders,saying:

‘Myladysaidnotforyouthe wimple or the dorelet.Your hair is too pretty to behidden.’

Mary felt like a strangerto herselfwhen theCountesscame to her chamber to seethe effect and to conduct herdowntothehall.

Itwas clear that her auntwas pleased by thetransformation.

In the hall was the Earlwhobadeherwelcometothecastle,andwithhimwerehisdaughtersElizabethandJoan.

Mary was glad that theywere there. The boys wereawayfromhome–aswasthecustomwithboyswhoalwaysseemed to be brought up insomeone else’s home. But it

was pleasant to meet hercousins.

The warmth of herwelcomewas heartening andshe could not help feelingglad to have escaped fromEleanor who would havebeenhighlycriticalofherandthat would have spoilt herpleasure.

Mary was placed at thehightableinbetweentheEarland the Countess and they

talked to her about life atPleshy and naturally theconvent of the Poor Clareswasmentioned.

‘The nuns are the bestpeoplepossible togiveagirla good education,’ declaredtheCountess.‘Poorcreatures,whatsadlivestheylead.’

‘Theyarenot in the leastsad, my lady,’ said Maryhastily. ‘They serve Godthrough the unfortunate and

that brings them greathappiness.’

The Countess laid herhand on that of her niece.‘Indeed they do. I am sorryfor them because they willneverknowthejoyofhavingchildren.Ispeakasamother,dear child. I wonder howmanyof themever regret thelife they have chosen whenthey hear children chatteringandlaughingtogether.’

Marywassilent.This was a special

occasion, whispered heruncle. They were sodelighted, he and her aunt,that she had come. He wasgoing to lead her into thedance when they had eaten.What did she think of that?Didsheliketodance?

Oh yes, she loved todance.

And music? Did she

enjoythat?She liked to sing. She

played the guitaraccompanyingherself.

‘Wemust hear you,’ saidtheEarl.‘Doyousingtoyoursister and her husband? Itwould be no use singing tothenuns,I’llwarrant.’

‘Oh no,’ she said with alittlelaugh.

‘This venison is to yourtaste, I hope,’ went on the

Earl. ‘I’ll swear you’d nottaste better at the King’stable. He has a fine palate,our King. Do you know heinterestshimself intheactualcookingof the foodwhich isservedathistable?’

‘The King has veryunusualtastesforaking.’

The Countess laughed.‘You are right,’ she said.‘One could not imagine hisfather or his grandfather

caring how much honey inproportion to mulberries wasputintoamoree.’

‘DoestheKingcareaboutsuch matters then?’ askedMary.

‘Indeed he does,’ repliedthe Earl. ‘He concernshimself not only with hiscooksbutwithhistailors.Hespendshours in consultationswith these fellows who are,theysay,gettingagrandidea

of their worth. He’ll bebestowing the Garter on oneof them soon, some say,because he has producedsome delicate recipe or aparticularly magnificent cotehardie.’

Therewas laughterat thetable. And then while thesotiltees were being servedthe minstrels and themummersarrived.

It was a wonderful

entertainment, more amusingthananythingshehadseenatPleshy.Themummersdancedand pirouetted in the mostagile manner; in theirgrotesquemasks they lookedlike beings from anotherworld.Mary laughed a greatdeal and the Earl andCountess were delighted ather pleasure. They weredetermined that by the timeshe left Arundel she was

going to have changed hermind about this wish to jointhePoorClares.

She slept soundly thatnight and arose feeling freshand full of vitality the nextmorning. She could not helpbeing pleased that Eleanorhad been unable toaccompanythem,forshewasrealising that Eleanor had away of damping down herpleasure and implying that it

was sinful for Mary toindulge in that ofwhich she,Eleanor, could not haveenough.

Her cousins showed hertheir horses and they crossedthedrawbridge,randowntheincline and walked as far asthe forest. How she hadenjoyed standing under thetreesandinhalingthescentofearthandpines.Shelovedtheforest and longed to be there

alone free of her cousins’chatter. She felt she had somuch to think about. Theybelieved they had been verybold to cross the drawbridgebut said Elizabeth: ‘It is allright because there are threeofus.’

She felt much older thanthey were, though she wasnot reallyso;shesupposed itwas due to her upbringingwith thenuns. It seemed that

during the last days she hadgrown up suddenly; she waspresented with a problemwhichcouldaffectherwholelife and she needed solitudetothinkofit.Howshewouldlove to wander alone amongthesebeautifultreesandthinkof the future. She wasthoughtfulastheyreturnedtothecastle.

Itwasafterdinnerandthehousehold was very quiet.

Mary knew that her cousinswerewiththeirmotherbeforeshe took her rest. Anirresistible urge came overher togetout into the forest.She wanted to be absolutelyalone and she could not feelthatwithinthecastlewalls.

Onimpulsesheputonhercloak and went to thedrawbridge. Itwasdownandtherewerenoguardsonduty.She crossed it and felt free.

Sherandowntheinclineandturned towards the fringe oftheforest.

Itwasgreatlydaring.Heruncle and her aunt would behorrified if they knew shewere out alone. I shall onlyventure into the edge, shepromised herself, and shallkeep the castle in sight. Imustbealonetothink.

The grass was green andspringyunderher feet.There

had been much rain of late.How beautiful it was! Therewas a tang in the air whichmadehercheeks tinglebut itwas not really cold forJanuary.Shelikedthewinter;she thought the trees raisingtheirstarkbranchestotheskymade a more intricate anddelicatepatternthancouldbeproducedwith needle on silkand theevergreenpineswereas resplendent now as in the

height of summer. She stoodlistening to the call of askylark; she filled her lungswith the sharp fresh air andgratefully smelt the scent ofgrassandfoliage.Shelookedup at the grey sky and thepale wintry sun and thoughtthe world was a beautifulplace. Therewas somuch todiscoverandifonewereshutaway in the convent onewould learn so little about it.

She was deep in thought asshe walked through theglades, pausing every nowandthento lookcloserat thetassels of the hazels and tosee whether the blossomswere beginning to show onthe ancient yews, as sheinhaledthefreshair.

She began to smile,suddenly thinking of themummers she had seen lastevening.Howexcitedshehad

beenwhenher uncle had ledherinthedance!Ithadbeenagreat honour; she wonderedwhyheandtheCountesshadtakensuchpains tomakeherfeel so important. She was,after all, only just past tenyearsold.

Her uncle had talkedabout her going to Court.Thatwould bemuch later ofcourse but he had made itsound exciting. Richard

would be pleased to receiveher he had said. Howwouldshe like that? Itmust alwaysbe a pleasure to be receivedbyaking,shehadreplied.

ItwassodifferenthereatArundel from Pleshy.Was itbecauseEleanoralwaysmadeherfeelthatshewasdestinedfor the convent and mustneverforgetitforitwouldbesinfultoturnherbackonherdestiny.

But was it her destiny?Since she had come toArundelshewasunsure.

She stood listening. Shecould hear the sound ofhorses’ hoofs.Theremust bearrivals at the castle. Therewas nothing unusual in that.Travellers were constantlycalling. They came often toPleshy. They were neverturned away unless, ofcourse, there was some

reasonfordoingso.The incident had

reminded her where she wasandwhatshewasdoing.Shewas disobeying rules whichwas not very good of hersinceshehadbeen treatedsoaffectionatelybyherauntanduncle at the castle. Becausethey had behaved as thoughsheweremucholder,withthehonours they had bestowedonher,shehadfeltgrownup.

Perhapsitwasforthatreasonthatshehadventuredintotheforest.

Sheshouldreturnatonce.She started to walk back

theway she thought she hadcome,but after shehadgonesome little distance andexpected to emerge from theforest toseethecastlebeforeher,shedidnotdoso.

The trees hedged her inandwith dismay she realised

that she was not sure of thedirectioninwhichsheshouldgo. It was nothing to bealarmedat.Shehadnotreallypenetratedtheforest;shehadjust skirted the edge. Shemust emerge from the treesandseethecastlesoon.

But alas, it was not sosimple.Shehadbeensodeepin thought that she had notnoted any landmark whichmight have helped her. All

the trees looked alike. Shepaused uncertainly and triedtoworkoutwhichwaytogo.

Shemust not panic. Thiswasasituationshehadneverhadtofacebefore.Itwasthefirst time she had been awayfrom her home alone. Whathad she been thinking of tocome into the forest? Thetreatment given her by herrelations had made her feelshewasnolongerachild.

Howfoolishshehadbeenand here she was alone, lostintheforest.

This was nonsense. Shewould find her way. Shestoodquitestillandasshedidso she thought she heard arustlingintheundergrowth.

Was someoneelse in thispartoftheforest?

Her first thought was ofrelief. If somewoodmanwasthere he could show her the

way back to the castle. Thenshe thought of robbers. Sheheard that they abounded onthe roads. During the earlydays of the reign of the lateKing there had been strictlaws against them and theroadshadbeencomparativelysafe; but,when the oldKinghad grown senile and paidmoreattentiontohismistressAlice Perrers than to theaffairs of the country, laws

had become lax and therobbers multiplied. Richardwasyoungyetanditwasnotknownwhathisrulewouldbebut it seemed clear that hislawswouldnotbeasstrictasthoseofhisgrandfatherinhisheyday.

Her hands went to thegirdleatherwaist.Itwasnotover-elaborate, not to becompared with the kindEleanor wore – but it would

have great value in the eyesofsomeneedyvagrant.

Therewasanothersound.There was no doubt now.Someonewascomingnearer.She walked on, quickeningher pace. Whoever it wasquickened pace also. So shewasbeingfollowed.

She was now reallyafraid.

She started to run. Wasshe going in the right

direction? So many trees, somany bushes, that lookedalike and she had been tooabsorbed in her thoughts tonoticelandmarks.

Couldshebesurethatshewas going the way she hadcome,thatthetreeswouldbeless dense in a fewmomentsand she would be able toglimpse thegreywallsof thecastle?

Whoever was following

herwasrunningnow.‘Wait!’calledavoice.Sheranon.Someone was

immediately behind her, anda hand was laid on her arm.She started violently as avoicesaid:‘Gooddaytoyou,mylady.’

Sheturnedsharply.Itwasaboy–afewyearsolderthanherself, tawny-haired, blue-eyedandfairlytall.

‘Why do you run fromme?’heasked.‘Youarequitebreathless.’

‘What do youwant?’ sheasked and instinctively herhandswenttohergirdle.

Hestoodbackapaceandbowed low. ‘To serve you,’he said and there was aslightly mocking look in hiseyes.

‘Then show me the waytothecastle.’

‘Youhavenotcomefar.’‘AmIontherightpath?’He shook his head. ‘You

willneedmyhelp.’‘You will want payment

forit,Isee.Neverfear.Takemebacktothecastleandyouwillberewarded.’

‘How did you come toloseyourway?’

‘Nomatter, Ihave lost it.Are you going to show metherightpath?’

‘Followme,’hesaid.She was relieved for a

moment.Hewalkedaheadofher. She noticed his well-shaped head and how histawny hair curled softly; heheld himself proudly. Shethought he might be the sonofsomeneighbouringsquire.

After a few minutes shesaid: ‘I do not remembercomingthisway.’

He turned to smile at her

and there was a hint ofmischief in the smile. ‘Ah,butyoulostyourway.’

‘Are you sure this is thewaybacktothecastle?’

‘I swear that I will showyoutheway.’

They had come to aclearinginthetrees.

‘Ididnotseethisbefore.’‘It is a pleasant spot,’ he

said.She had become very

frightened. He was notleading her to the castle. Itseemed rather that he wastakingherawayfromit.

‘Please showme thewayatonce,’shesaid.

‘You are tired,’ heanswered soothingly. ‘Restawhile. Then I promise youthat Iwill showyou thewayback.’

‘Ihavenodesiretorest.’‘Ithinkyouhave.Youare

flushed with exertion andalarm.Sitforafewmoments.Look,thereisapleasantspotunderthetreesthere.’

‘I have nowish to.Gooddaytoyou.’

He had thrown himselfdownunderatreeandlookedup at her smiling. Shethought: How insolent he is,thissonofasquire!Myunclewould punish him severelyforthis.

She turned away andimmediately asked herselfwhichwaytogo.

She hesitated and sheheardhisvoice.‘Youwillgofurther into the forest. Betterwaitforme.’

Shecamebacktohim.‘Ifyouwilltakemebacknow,Iwillpayyouwell.’

‘Later,’hesaid.‘Later.’He indicated the spot

besidehim.Shehesitated for

a second and seeing that sheneededhishelpshesatdownbesidehim.

‘You must know howeager I am,’ she said. ‘It isnotverygallant tobehaveasyoudo.Youshouldstudythemanners of knighthood, eventhough you may not be ofnoblebirth.’

‘Youasktoomuchofone. . . not of noble birth. Youare,indeed.Iguessthat.You

areaguestatthecastle.’‘The Earl of Arundel is

my uncle. He would bedispleasedifheknewofyourconduct.’

‘I wonder what mypunishment would be.PerhapsIshallfindoutwhenyoubetrayme.’

‘Iwillsaynothingof thisif you take me back to thecastlewithoutdelay.IndeedIshall see that you receive a

goodmealandsomereward.’‘I am overcome with

gratitude.’She leaped to her feet.

‘Then, show me the wayback,now.’

He did not rise but laybacksmilingatherlazily.

‘Very soon,’ he said. ‘Ipromise you. You have nottold me your name but Ibelieve you are the LadyMarydeBohunwhoisatthis

time visiting her aunt anduncleatArundel.’

‘Howdidyouknowthis?’‘Wehumblefolkdiscover

these matters concerning thegreatones.’

‘ThenasyouknowwhoIam you will realise the neednot to offendme . . . or myuncle.’

‘It is a great need,’ hesaid.‘Youhavenotaskedmyname.’

‘It is ofno importance tome.’

‘That was scarcelyfriendly.ThenIwill tellyou.MynameisHenry.’

‘Then, Henry, it is timeweleftthisplace.’

‘Such a pleasant place,’he murmured. ‘It has been ahappyadventureforme.’

‘If youwill not showmethe way back I shall attemptto find the waymyself. And

rest assured I shall tell ofyour knavish behaviour tome.Youwillregretit.’

‘You are not often angryareyou,mylady?’

Sheturnedaway.‘But you are angry now

because you are frightened.Pleasedonotbe,LadyMary.Iwantyoutolikeme.’

‘I shall not do that afteryour behaviour. Take mebackatonce.’

He stood up meekly andsaid: ‘It was only a game.Come.Itishere.Youwillbesurprisedhowcloseyouwereto the castle. The trees growso thickly and the bushes sohigh that even in winterweather it is easy to lose theway.’

She walked beside himuncertainly. From time totimeheglancedatheralmostappealingly as though

begging her to forgive him;andstrangelyenoughbecausehe was rather handsome andseemed really contrite andwas after all only a boy, shefound she could, particularlywhen she saw the castle alittlewayahead.

At the edge of the woodshe paused to bid him good-byeandthankhim.

‘You shall be rewarded,’she told him. ‘I will tell my

uncle.’‘Ishallcometothecastle

formyreward,’hesaid.She hesitated. Perhaps

that was the best way. Hecould go to the kitchens andbe refreshed there and besatisfied.

They came to thedrawbridge.Thereweremen-at-arms there now and theybowed both to her and hercompanion.

Together they passedunder the portcullis and intothecourtyard.

He was preparing toaccompany her into the halland she said to him: ‘Youmust go through that alleythere. You will come to thekitchens.YoumaytellthemIsentyou.’

‘I prefer to enter by wayofthehall.’

‘But you do not

understand.’He raised his eyebrows.

He was a most unusual boy.He had, she noticed now, anair of arrogance whichimplied that he thoughthimselfequaltoanyone.

‘Myuncle...’shebegan.And at that moment her

uncle came into the hall andwith him was the Duke ofLancaster himself. Even atsuchamomentshecouldnot

help but be overawed by herguardian.

He was a tall man,commanding in appearance.His deep-set eyes were avividblueandhishair tawnyas a lion. He had the longnose and narrow cheeks ofthe Plantagenets, and on histunic was emblazoned hisemblemoftheliliesofFranceandtheleopardsofEngland.

Beside him her uncle

lookedinsignificant.For a moment she forgot

the boy at her side and thenshewasafraidforhim.Itwasone thing for him to ventureinto thehallof thecastlebuttocomefacetofacewithheruncle and the great Duke ofLancasterwasanother.

‘It is Mary herself,’ saidtheEarl.

She walked forward andtoherastonishmentsodidthe

boy.Hestoodbeside thegreat

Dukewhodidnotdisplayanysurprise at this strangebehaviour.

Apprehensively shecurtseyed, wondering howshewasgoingtoexplain.

TheDukeliftedherupinhis arms and said: ‘Why,Mary, you have grown sincewe last met. You havealready made the

acquaintanceofHenry.’Henry!The boy was smiling at

her.‘We met outside the

castle, my lord father,’ hesaid. ‘So . . . we came intogether.’

It was bewildering. Theboywhomshehadthoughttobesomehumblesquirewasinfact thesonof thegreatJohnof Gaunt – more noble than

she was. She was overcomewith shame. What had shesaidtohim!

Itwas all something of ajokenow.Hehadcometothecastlewithhisfatherwhohadbeenanxious to seehiswardand todiscoverhowshewasgettingonatPleshy.

TheCountesssaid:‘Whenmy lord Lancaster heard thatyou were coming here he

thought it would be an easyway of assuring himself thatyou were well and happy. Itwas so much easier thangoingtoPleshy.’Sheloweredhervoice.‘Andyouknowheandhisbrotherarenotonthemostamicableofterms.’

‘It isapitywhen there isconflict in families,’ saidMary.

‘But always inevitable.ThisyoungHenryofoursisa

fine young sprig of the royalbranch,doyounotthink?Hewas the cause of the troublebetween the brothers.KnightoftheGarterandalreadyEarlofDerby! I amnot surprisedthat his father dotes on him.Hewillbeagoodcompanionforyouwhileyouarewithus,Mary.’

‘Ihavemycousins.’‘Yes, but I am sure you

will find Henry more

amusing.’Itwastrue,shedid.At first she had

reproached him for the wayhehadbehavedintheforest.

‘It was but a game,’ hesaid. ‘I could not resist it. Isaw you as we arrived. Youwerejustenteringtheforest–which was forbidden, I amsure.Icametoguardyou.’

‘It was deceitful not tosay who you were,’ she

retorted.‘Oh dear. I had forgotten

theyaregoingtomakeanunofyou,aretheynot?’

‘They will not makeanything of me if I do notwishit.’

‘Then I’ll tell yousomething.Youarenotgoingtobeanun.’

‘Howdoyouknow?’‘Because you will never

agree to shut yourself away

from the world. You like ittoomuch.’

‘My future is not yetdecided.’

‘It will be soon,’ he toldher,andtherewaslaughterinhiseyes.

He wanted always to bewithher.

‘You neglect my cousinssorely,’shereprimanded.

‘They do notmind.Theyarebutchildren.’

‘Andhowoldareyou?’‘Soontobefifteen.’Itwasindeedafewyears

older than she was, but henever seemed to notice thatdifference.

Shecouldplay asgoodagame of chess as he could.They would often be seatedtogether in a corner of thegreat hall, their heads bentover the chess board.Sometimes the great Duke

himself would stand bywatching the game –applauding a goodmove.Heseemedverycontentedtoseethemtogether.

She would sing to him,playing her guitar asaccompaniment. His voicewould join with hers; theywereinperfectharmony.

The Countess said theymust sing together for thecompany after supper and

whentheydidso,shenoticedthe eyes of the great John ofGaunt glazed with emotion.He clearly had a greataffection for his son and shecould understand it for shewas discovering that she hadtoo.

The days passed tooquickly. She knew that shewould have to go back toPleshy very soon and whenshe thought of returning to

the old way of life she feltdepressed. Perhaps Henrywould come to see her atPleshy; but if she became anuntheywouldnotbeabletomeetveryoften.

They rode out togetherwithapartybutHenryalwayscontrived that he and sheescaped. She fancied thattheir elders realised this andwere amused rather thandispleasedbyit.

Then one day when theyhad escaped from the partyandwere riding in the forestthey came to the clearingwhere they had sat on thatfirstoccasion.

Henrysuggestedthattheytetherthehorsesandsitinthesame spot for a while as hehadsomethingtosaytoher.

‘You will soon be goingbacktoPleshy,’hebegan.

Shesighed.‘Alasyes.My

stay here has been longeralready than I thought itwouldbe.Ishallbereturningsoon,Iamsure.’

‘I too shall be leavingherewithmyfather.’

‘Ithasbeensuchahappytime.’

‘Forusboth,’saidHenry.‘Mary,youwillnotgointoaconvent,willyou?’

‘Iamunsure...’He turned to her

passionately, and putting hisarmsaboutherheldhercloseto him. ‘Oh Mary,’ hewhispered,‘youcan’tdothat.Promiseyouwillnot.’

‘Whyshould itmean . . .so much to you?’ she askedratherbreathlessly.

‘Because Iwant tomarryyou.’

‘Tomarryme.OhHenry...’

‘Doesthatpleaseyou?’

She looked about her atthestarkbranchesofthetreeswhich she loved and shethought theforestofArundelwas the most beautiful placeintheworld.

‘You have answered,’ hesaid.‘Itdoespleaseyou.’

‘So much,’ she said. ‘Ihaveneverinmylifebeensohappy as I have since youcame.’

‘Thenitissettled.’

‘What is settled? I shallhave to go away from hereandsowillyou.’

‘Weshallbemarried,’hesaid.

‘Married. How can webe? I cannot marry . . . justlikethat.’

‘Whynot?’‘It would never be

allowed.’‘I can tell you that my

fatherwillnotforbiditandhe

isyourguardian.’‘How can you know

that?’‘Hehastoldme.’‘So . . . you have talked

withhim.’‘Only because I was so

eager. I felt if Icouldgethisconsent thatwould be allweneeded.’

‘And...hehasgivenit.’‘He loves you. He says

you have been his ward and

now you will be hisdaughter.’

‘Isthistrulyso?’‘Itisindeed.Hehasbeen

delightedbythewayinwhichwe have grown to love eachother. He says he sees noreason why we should notmarry...soon.’

‘Henry, I am not yetelevenyearsold.’

‘That is a very pleasantage. I am fourteen. You see

there is not much differencebetweenus.’

‘Theywould never let usmarryyet.Weshouldhavetowait.’

‘There could be aceremony . . . so that nonecouldkeepusapart.Whatsayyou,Mary?’

She clasped her handstogether and was silent. Itwas too much to take in. Itwas not so long ago that she

hadsathere,lostintheforest,uncertainofthewayshemustgo back to the castle,uncertain of her way in lifetoo.

Henryhadtakenherhandand kissed it. ‘You want tomarry me, Mary. You knowyoudo.Thinkhowyouhaveenjoyed these last days. Itwouldbelikethatfortherestofourlives.’

Shecontemplateditandit

seemed to her too wonderfultobetrue.Nottohavetoliveat Pleshy; to give up herstudies at the convent. Howcould she ever have thoughtshewantedtobecomeanun?

‘Yes,Henry,’shecried.‘Ido want it. I want to marryyou. I want to have manychildren. Iwant to be awifeand a mother and live likethisforever.’

Henry was laughing. He

embraced her fervently. Hetold her that he had neverbeensohappyinhislife.

‘Let us go back to thecastleandtellthem.’

She did not want to goyet. She wanted to linger intheforest.Forallhesaid,shefeared their disapproval.Although they had seemedcontent to seeher andHenrytogether and had not stoppedtheir being alone, which in

itself was strange, she stillfelt that her extreme youthwould be stressed and whiletheywouldbekind,mightletthem become betrothed, thatwouldbeasfarasthismatterwould go for the time. Theymightbemarriedinsaythreeyears’time...

Butshewaswrong.Whentheyreturnedtothe

castle Henry took herimmediatelytohisfather.

‘My lord,’ he cried,‘Maryhaspromisedtomarryme.’

Mary was astonished bytheexpressionon theDuke’shandsome face. His eyeslooked more fiercely bluethan ever and a smile ofdelightspreadacrosshisface.

‘But,mydearchildren...this news moves me anddelights me. Nothing couldpleasememore.’

He took Mary into hisarms and held her tightly sothat she felt she wouldsuffocate against the liliesand the leopards. Then hereleased her and embracedHenry.

‘ItiswhatIhopedfor,’hesaid. ‘It has delighted me tosee you two grow to loveeach other. Love is the bestfoundation for marriage.’ Hewas too emotional to speak

foramoment.Hemeantwhathe said. His ambitiousmarriage with Constanza ofCastile had been undertakenfor love of a crown whichwas love of another sort andoften he had wonderedwhether he should not havebeen recklessly romantic andmarried Catherine Swynford,the woman he loved.Marriage for love. What ablessing.Butwhen therewas

great wealth as well as love,then there could be no doubtthatthemarriagewasanidealone.

He smiled benignly onMary. ‘So, my child, youhavedecidedtheconventlifeis not for you, eh.You havechosen wisely, and mosthappily for this son ofmine.Youshallbebetrothed.’

‘Weareanxious,mylord,that we should be married,’

saidHenry. ‘Wedonotwishforalongdelay.’

‘You see what animpatient man you are tomarry, Mary,’ retorted theDuke. ‘Well, it is a measureofhisloveforyou.I tellyousincerely, nothing shall standin the way of your wishes.’Mary could not believe sheheard aright. The great manseemed as happy about theunionassheandHenrywere.

ChapterII

THECHILDWIFE

Lancaster could notawaittoacquainttheEarlandCountesswiththegoodnews.

‘It hasworked perfectly,’cried Lancaster. ‘Henry hasplayed his part to perfection.HeknewwhatIwantedandit

seems that when he saw thepretty child he wanted thesamethinghimself.’

‘It is a pleasure to havesuch a dutiful son,’ repliedArundel.

‘They make a charmingpair,’ said the Countess. ‘Ithink Henry is a very luckyboyandIamsogladourlittleMary has escaped from thatsister of hers. IwonderwhatThomasisgoingtosaywhen

he hears the news. I shouldlove to be present when itfirstcomestohisears.’

‘He will rant and rave,’said the Earl. ‘And try topreventit.’

‘That is what we mustbeware of,’ added Lancaster.‘I do not think it wise forMarytoreturntoPleshy.’

‘No indeed,’ agreed theEarl. ‘Eleanor would becapable of anything. She

might lock the child up untilshe promises to go into aconvent. She’ll be furious –particularly as this hashappened while Thomas isaway.’

‘He could not haverefused to let Mary come toArundel,’ pointed outLancaster.

‘HewouldhavetriedtoifhehadknownyouandHenrywere coming here,’ said the

Earl.‘He would not have

thoughtofthis...inviewofMary’syouth.’

‘Mary’s youth!’ musedthe Countess. ‘She is youngformarriage.’

‘Oh let them livetogether,’ said Lancaster.‘They will act according tonature and that is the bestway. I want to see themmarried and I intend that the

ceremony shall take placewithallspeed.’

‘And you want her toremain here right up to thetime when it shall takeplace?’

‘I think it best. And weshould keep quiet about theproposed marriage. Then itshall takeplaceat theSavoy.Idoubtmybrother–ifhehasreturnedwhichIhopehewillnot – or his wife will be

amongtheweddingguests.’

Eleanor had begun torealise how long her sisterhad been away, but she wasnot unduly disturbed. Theweather was bad and it wasnot easy to travel in thewinter. Her aunt had giventhe impression that shebelievedaconventlifewouldbe good forMary and if thegirl came back convinced of

her vocation Eleanor wouldbedelighted.

Pregnancywasirksometoone of her vitality. It was anecessityofcourseifshewasto breed; and she mustproduce sons. She hoped shewould have one to showThomas when he returnedfrom France. Even so theywould have to busythemselvesingettinganother.

She sat disconsolately

among her women whotalkedcontinuallyofthebabyand sometimes they wouldmention the Lady Mary andwonder if she missed theconvent.

‘Of course she does,’retorted Eleanor firmly. ‘Herlife is with the nuns. Dearchild,shehasasaintlynature.It is clear where her destinylies.’

The ladies murmured

agreement. It was alwayswise to agree with Eleanoranditwasimpossibletobeinthis household and not knowthe urgentwish of itsmasterandmistress.

Onasnowyafternoonherpainsstarted.Everythingwasinreadinessandwithinadaythe child had made itsappearance.

It was a greatdisappointment to the

Countess that it should beanothergirl.

She lay disconsolately inher bed and listened to thewind buffeting the walls ofPleshy. How frustratedThomas would be. But thechildwashealthyenoughandshe decided to call her Joan.Before long she would beonce more pregnant shesupposed and would have togo through the wearisome

months of waiting and thenproduce . . . not anothergirl.No, that would be toounfortunate. But it hadhappenedtoothers.Lancasterhad got girls and a stillbornson before young Henry hadbeenbornatBolingbroke.

Whileshewasbroodingamessenger arrived. It wasstrange that he should havecome from Lancaster whentheDukehadjustbeeninher

thoughts.‘A messenger from my

lord of Lancaster,’ she cried.‘What news from him, Iwonder.’

The messenger wasbrought to her bedchamberandtheletterswerehandedtoher.

Shedidnothastentoreadthem, but questioned themessenger whence he hadcomeandwhensheheardthat

he came from Arundel thefirst quiver of concern cameto her. She sent themessenger down to thekitchenstoberefreshedintheaccepted manner, and broketheseals.

What she read almostmade her leap from her bed,weakthoughshewas.

The Duke was delightedto inform her that his sonHenry, Earl of Derby, had

fallen in love with her sisterMary. There was no one hewould rather see married tohis son. He had thereforegiven his consent to themarriage,forhecouldseenoreasonwhytheyoungpeopleshould be denied theirhappiness.Thomaswasawaybuthehopedshewouldmakeall speed to his palaceof theSavoy where the marriagewas to be celebrated without

delay.Shecouldnotbelievethis.

It was impossible. It was anightmare. She wasdreaming!

Mary to be married! Thechildwasnotyetelevenyearsold.How could shemarry atsuchanage!OfcourseitwasMary’s fortune Lancasterwanted. The avariciousschemingrogue!

Mary was too young for

marriage. She was going toprotest. Oh, why was notThomashere!

Yet what could Thomasdoifhewerehere?Lancasterwas Mary’s guardian.Lancaster was the elderbrother. It was said thatLancaster was the mostpowerful man in the countryfor poor King Richardcountedforlittle.Andhehadtaken advantage of the fact

that Mary was away fromPleshy.

‘Theschemingdevil!’shecried.

Shewas helpless.Unabletoleaveherbed.

They had planned this.Was Arundel in it? Thomaswould never forgive them.There would be murderbetween those brothers oneday.

Sheshouldneverhavelet

Mary go to Arundel. Sheshould have seen what wascoming. She might haveknown...

She read the letter again.HenryandMaryinlove!Shesneeredinfury.Henrywasinlove indeed and so wasLancaster. In love withMary’sfortune.

Thatwasattherootofthematter. ItwasMary’smoneythey wanted. It was Mary’s

moneytheyallwanted.‘OhMary,youlittlefool,’

she cried, ‘why did you notgointoyourconvent?’

Clenching andunclenching her fists she layinherbed.

Themidwifecameinandshook her head. ‘My lady,you need rest. You must becalm. It is necessary to yourgoodhealth.’

She felt limp and

exhausted.Shehadgainedachild–a

girlchildandlostafortune.

Mary was bewildered.There was no time to thinkverymuchaboutanythingbutthe approaching wedding.Shewas in a stateofblissfulhappiness, but the rapiditywith which everything washappening could not fail tomake her feel somewhat

bemused. She had expectedbetrothal but not this hurriedwedding. It was not that shehadanydoubtsaboutherlovefor Henry. She wanted tomarry him; but she hadnaturallythoughtthatinviewoftheiragestheywouldwaitforayearatleast.

But no, said the Duke ofLancaster. They would havethis happy matter settledwithout delay.Henrywanted

it. She wanted it. And theDukewantedtheirhappiness.

In the circumstances hethought it wise that theceremony should take placeathispalaceof theSavoy. Itwouldbesimplerthanhavingit at Cole Harbour which hebelieved was anuncomfortable draughtyplace.

Mary confirmed that thiswasso.‘ThereisPleshy,’she

suggested.TheDukesaidhastilythat

he thought the Savoy wouldbemoresuitable.

‘It is one of our homes,’he said, ‘andoneparticularlydear to me. After theceremonyyouandHenrycangotoHertfordorLeicesterorperhaps Kenilworth. I thinkHenrywillwant toshowyouKenilworth. Ibelieve it tobehis favourite of all our

castles.’Mary said she would be

pleasedtogowhereverHenrywished,whichmadethegreatDuke take her hand, kiss itand declare that Henry wasindeed lucky to have foundsuchabride.

They were wonderfuldays. She and Henry rodetogether through the forest.He toldherofhowhehopedtostandbesidehisfatherand

bring glory back to England.He seemed to her soknowledgeable of the world.He was on intimate termswith the King. ‘We’recousins,’ he said, ‘and of anage. Three years ago wereceived the Order of theGarter together. That waswhentheoldKingwasalive.Itwasjustbeforehedied.Hewas a sick old man then. Iremember him as little else,

but people say that when hewas young hewas goodly tolook on. Then he was afaithfulhusbandandastrongKing.’

Shelovedtohearofthesematters many of which shehadhearddiscussedatPleshybut they seemed morecolourfulandexcitingcomingfrom Henry. Or it may havebeen that as his wife shewouldhaveherparttoplayin

them.He talked of Alice

Perrers, the loose woman ofwhom the old King hadbecome enamoured. She hadbewitched him and robbedhim and had even started todo so before Good QueenPhilippadied.

‘I shall be faithful toyouforever,sweetMary,’vowedHenry.

Shesworethatshewould

betruetohim.Theywereidyllicdays.But there was one small

fearwhich had started in hermind. She had overheardwomentalkingaswomenwill– and all the talk atArundelwasofthecomingmarriage.

‘Oh ’tis a wonderfulmarriage. The best for thelittleLadyMary.WhyyoungHenry is the cousin of theKing and the grandson of

great Edward and the son ofthegreatJohnofGaunt.Howmuch higher could she gothan that . . . lest it was theKinghimself?’

‘Butsheissoyoung.Aretheygoingtoputthemtobedtogether . . . Two childrenlikethat.’

‘TheEarlofDerby isnotsoyoung.He’s risingfifteen.Ihaveknownboysofthatagegive a good account of

themselves and I’ll swearyoung Henry is noexception.’

‘I was thinking of theLadyMary.’

Talk like that disturbedher; and itwas not once thatshe was aware of theseallusions.

Henry noticed that shewas disturbed and she toldhimwhy.

Hewas all concern. Yes,

there was that side tomarriage but she need notfear. He knewwhat must bedoneandshecouldleaveittohim. ‘You see, because ofwho I am we have to getchildren.Wewantsons.’

‘I always wantedchildren,’shetoldhim.‘ThatwasoneofthereasonswhyIhesitatedaboutgoingintotheconvent.’

‘Always remember that I

saved you from that.’ Helaughed at her fears. ‘Nay,there is nothing to fear. Youwill like well what must bedone. I promise you that.We’ll have lusty sons. Howwillyoulikethat?’

She would like it verywell, she told him. And shewondered why the womenhad tut-tutted and lookedgrave.

Whatever she had to do

with Henry would be good,shewassure.

They sang together; theyplayed chess; and she wasfitted for the most splendidgarmentsshehadeverhad.Itwas exhilarating until themessenger came fromPleshywith a letter fromEleanor. Itwasclearlywritten ina rage.Eleanor couldnotunderstandwhat had happened to herlittle sister whom she had

always thought to be a saintinthemaking.Howmistakenshe had been for it was nowdisclosed that Mary wasdeceitful in the extreme. Shehad pretended to want thereligious life, when all thetime she was nothing morethan a wanton. She hadbetrothedherself toHenryofDerbywithout consultinghersister.‘Afterallwehavedoneforyou,ThomasandI,’wrote

Eleanor, ‘you treat us likethis. I amdeeplywounded. Ibegofyoustopthisfollyandcome back to Pleshy. Herewewilltalkoutthesematters.We will see what it means.Why do you think John ofLancaster is so eager for thismatch?Ifyouhadbeensomegirlwithouta fortunedoyouthink Henry of Bolingbrokewould have been so eager tomarryyou...?’

Marypausedandthought:Had I been I should neverhavemet him in thisway. Itwasbecause Iwas staying atArundel with my uncle andauntthatIdid.

‘Itiscleartomethatitisyour fortune which makesthis marriage into the houseof Lancaster so attractive tothem,’ went on Eleanor’sletter.

And, thought Mary, it is

myfortunethatmakesyousoeager for me to go into aconventthatImayresignmyshareforyou.Ohdear!HowIwish I were indeed apennilessgirl!

Thatwasfoolish.Eleanorwasright.JohnofGauntwaspleased because of herfortune. Itwas differentwithHenry. She was sure hewould have loved herwhoever she was. But the

marriage was welcomedbecause of the money. Shewasnotsounworldlythatshedidnotknowthat.

‘Come back to Pleshywithout delay,’ commandedEleanor.‘Wewilltalkofthismatter.Wewillputourheadstogether and decide what isbestforyou.’

ShewrotebackandaskedEleanor to come to Arundel.She was so caught up with

the arrangements for thewedding that she could nottravel. Eleanor would haverecovered from the birth ofdear little Joan now. Butperhapsshewouldratherwaitand join the celebrations attheSavoy.

Eleanor was not one togive up. Mary must comeback. Out of gratitude shemust come. The Abbess wasdesolate.Shewassureitwas

wrong forMary to marry sohastily andwhile shewas soyoung. Let her return toPleshy. Let her talkwith hersister. Let her remember allthat Eleanor and her brother-in-law Thomas had done forher.

Mary showed Eleanor’sletters to Henry. She wantedtheretobenosecretsbetweenthem,shesaid.

Henryreadthelettersand

said: ‘There is an angrywoman. Sister though shemaybetoyou,Iwouldnotletyou go near her. Why shemight lockyouupandstarveyouintosubmission.’

‘Oh she is not such anogreasthat.’

‘Iamprotectingyoufromnowon,Mary.’

She was consoled. Shewas always so happy withHenry; she had even ceased

to worry about the matter ofthemarriagebed.

A few days before theywere due to leave for theSavoy Mary’s mother theCountess ofHereford arrivedatArundel.

She had of course beeninformed of the comingmarriage of her youngerdaughter and she wassomewhatuneasyaboutit.

Shewouldhavepreferred

Marytohaveremainedinhercare but in accordance withthe custom, as Mary was agreat heiress, she mustbecome a ward of someperson of high standing.There was no one of higherstandingunder theKing thanJohnofGauntandasEleanorwas already married to hisbrother Thomas ofWoodstock,theCountesshadno alternative but to let her

daughtergo.She could not of course

complain about the husbandselected for her. The eldestsonofJohnofGaunt,heir totheLancastrianestates,afewyears older than Mary,healthy, already a Knight ofthe Garter – there could nothavebeenamoresatisfactorymatch. But what concernedtheCountesswastheyouthofherdaughter.

Mary was a child, as yetunready for marriage in theCountess’s view, and sheshould not marry until shewasatleastfourteen.

She embraced herdaughter warmly and lookedsearchinglyintoherface.

Shewascertaintherehadbeen no coercion. The childlookedveryhappy.

She sought an earlyopportunity of speaking with

theDukeofLancaster.‘I am happy about the

marriage,’ she said, ‘apartfromoneaspectofit.’

TheDukelookedhaughtyas though wondering whataspect could possibly bedispleasing about a marriagewithhisson.

‘It is the youth of mydaughter.’

‘She is just eleven yearsold.’

‘It is too young formarriage.’

‘Theyarebothyoung.’‘Tooyoung,my lord.Let

thembebetrothedandmarry...sayintwoyears’time.’

Lancaster appeared toconsiderthatalthoughhehadnointentionofdoingso.Waittwo years? Let Thomas andhis harridan of a wife get toworkonthegirl?Theywouldhave her packed into a

convent by some deviousmeansinnotime.

‘PoorMary,’hesaid,‘shewould be so unhappy. Waituntil you see them together.Theyaresodelightedtobeineach other’s company. No Icould not allow that. Theyshall live together . . .naturally like twochildren . ..’

‘I do not think girls ofthat age should have

children.’‘Children! They won’t

havechildrenforyears.Theyare so innocent. You shouldhear them singing inharmony. They ride; theydance; they play chess. It issuch a joy to see them. No,mydearCountess; theymustmarry. I understand amother’s feelings, but letmeassure you that there is noneed for the slightest

apprehension.’‘I will have a talk with

my daughter,’ said theCountess.

John of Gaunt wasuneasy. He wished theCountess had not come toArundel but it had naturallybeen necessary to tell herwhat was planned for herdaughter. She was a shrewdwoman. She wouldunderstand why Eleanor was

trying to force thegirl into aconvent.Butatthesametimeshewoulddoallshecouldtokeep Mary unmarried untilshe reached what she wouldconsiderasuitableage.

The Countess talked toMary.

‘Mydearchild,’shesaid,‘you are very young formarriage.’

‘Othershavesaidthat,mylady,’ replied her daughter.

‘But Henry and I love eachother and are so happytogether. He does not mindthatIamyoung.’

‘You must understandthatthereareobligations.’

‘I know what you mean.It is the marriage bed, is itnot?’

TheCountesswas a littletakenaback.

‘What do you know ofthesematters?’

‘That there is nothing tofear...ifoneloves.’

She was quoting Henry.The Countess guessed that.TherewasnodoubtthatJohnof Gaunt was right when hesaidtheylovedeachother.

‘IhaveaskedtheDuketoput off thewedding.At leastfor a year. Then we couldconsideragainwhenitshouldbe.’

Mary looked very

woebegone.‘Andwillhedothat?’TheCountess put an arm

about her daughter and heldher firmly against her. Shethought: No, he will not. Hewants your fortune for hisson.Dearchild,whatdidsheknow of the ways of theworld?

Atleastshecouldconsoleherself.Thechildwashappy.Somanygirls inherposition

were forced into marriageswhich were distasteful tothem.Nonecould say thatofMary.

The Countess knew thedetermination of John ofGaunt. No matter how sheprotested,themarriagewouldtakeplace.

ShemustresignherselftothefactthatitwaswhatMarywanted.

Sotheyweremarriedandthere was great rejoicing inJohnofGaunt’spalaceoftheSavoy, which was to beexpected as this was themarriage of his son and heir.Mary was made to feel thatshe was marrying into thegreatest family in the landand that her marriage waseven more brilliant than thatof Eleanor. Eleanor was notpresent.Shehaddeclined the

invitation from her falsesister; and Thomas was stillinFrance.

This breach created amild sadness in the bride’sheartbutshedidnotdwellonit. Henry had made her seethatEleanorwasinfactmoreinterested in the de Bohunfortune than thehappinessofher younger sister, andMarywas beginning to look toHenry and to accept what

interpretation he put on allmatters, and as Henry wasalways only too delighted totellherandshetolisten,theygrew fonder of each othereveryday.

Now she was theCountess of Derby, and theimposingmanwho sat at theheadofthetablewashernewfather-in-lawand there in thegreathalloftheSavoyPalacetables had been set up on

their trestles, for all thenobility of the land must bepresent at the marriage ofJohn of Gaunt’s son. Maryherself on the right hand ofthe great Duke with Henrybeside her was at the hightable. Her mother was thereso were her new sisters-in-law Philippa and Elizabeth.Also present was a verybeautiful woman whosepresence caused a few titters

among the guests. It wascharacteristic of the greatDuke that he should insistthat his mistress not only bepresentbutbetreatedwithallthe deference which wouldnormally be bestowed on hisDuchess.

Henry pressed Mary’shandandshesmiledathim.Itwas comforting to believethatwhile hewas at her sideallwouldbewell.

Heselected thebestpartsof the food and fed them toherandhappilyshemunchedthedelicatemorsels,althoughshe was not really hungry.But theguestsrevelledinthebanquet, declared that theyhad rarely seen such largeboars’ heads, such joints ofbeefandmutton,suchpestlesof pork, such sucking pigswhichmade themouthwatertobehold.Therewasmallard,

pheasant, chicken, teals,woodcocks, snipes, peacocksandpartridges,aswellasthatdelectable dish called theleche which was made ofpounded raw pork, eggs,sugar, raisins and dates allmixedwith spices andput ina bladder to be boiled; andthen there were those pastryconcoctions which wereknown as raffyolys andflampoyntes. Everything that

couldhavebeenthoughtoftomake thisa feast tooutdoallfeastshadbeenprovided.

There would be a joustthenextdaybutthisonewasgiven up to feasting andindoormerriment.

The mummers troopedinto the hall in their masks,someof these so strange thatthey looked like spectralfigures and sent shivers ofhorrordown thebacksof the

spectators.Theyworehornedanimals’ heads and those ofgoats and creatures whocould never have existedoutsidetheimaginationofthemask maker. Some of themwore masks of beautifulwomen which sat oddly ontheir square masculinebodies. But they werecalculatedtobringlaughtertothe lips of all who beheldthem and this they

undoubtedly did althoughsome might have beenoverawed.

It was wonderful to seethem dance and play theirscenes in mime. Thecompany applauded withgusto and then the dancingbegan. Henry led out Maryand others fell in behindthem. Lancaster danced withthe beautiful CatherineSwynford; the company held

its breathwatching them andmany thought – though theydared not give voice to suchthoughts– that therewasnota man in the kingdom nowwho would dare behave asJohn of Gaunt did. The oldKing had done it with hismistressAlicePerrers. Itwasa King’s privilege he wouldhave said; but thepeopledidnot like him for it. In someway it was different with

John of Gaunt. There wastrue love between those twoandthatbeingsoobviouswassomething which mustcommandrespectwherever itwas.

Then John ofGaunt tookMary’shandanddancedwithherwhileHenrydancedwithLady Swynford. Her newfather told Mary that heregarded this as one of thehappiest days of his life. He

wanted her to regard it assuchalso.

The torches guttered andthe evening was passing. Itwas time for Henry to leadMary away. His fatherrestrained the people whowould have attempted tocarry out some of the oldcustoms.‘Theyareyoungandinnocent,’ he said. ‘I wouldnot harry them. Let naturetakeitscoursewiththem.’

In the great bedchamberwhich had been assigned tothem, nature was taking itscourse.

Henry was advanced forhisyears.Hewasinlovewithhisbrideandbecauseshewasintelligent beyond her age itdid not occur to him toconsiderthatshemightnotbephysicallymature.

He was glad that therehad been no ribald jokes;

Mary would not haveunderstood them and theymighthavealarmedher.Asitwas she was entirely his toteach as he could, hebelieved,socomfortablydo.

Henry helped her removetheweddinggarments,whichjewel encrusted as theywerewere heavily uncomfortable,and itwas a relief to be freeofthem.

She stoodbeforehim– a

child in her simplicity. Hehimself took the loosenightgownandputitoverherhead.

Then he led her to thebridal bed; she lay downwhile he divested himself ofhisgarments.

Thenhejoinedher.Gently with tender

explanation he initiated herinto the mysteries ofprocreationwhichforsuchas

themselves, who had thecontinuance of great familiesto consider, was the primaryfunctionofmarriage.

They set out forKenilworth, for, as his fatherhad said, Henry loved thatbest of all the Lancasterestateswhichwould one daybehis.

Mary was very happyjourneying with Henry; he

waskindly,lovingandgentleand she had not believedthere was so muchcontentment in the world. Ifshe could but forget Eleanorshe could be completelyhappy.

The sight of Kenilworthwas breathtaking. They hadtravelled some way, for thecastle was situated betweenWarwickandCoventry,beingaboutfivemilesfromeach.It

consisted of a magnificentstructure of castellatedbuildings which owed theircharm to the fact that theyhad been added to over theyears, for Kenilworth hadbeen nothing but a manor inthe days of the first Henrywho had bestowed it on oneof his nobles and it was thisnoblewhohadbegunthetaskof turning the manor into acastle.Thekeepwasmassive

and was known as Caesarafterthatofthesamenameinthe Tower of London.Kenilworth had thedistinction of once belongingtoSimondeMontfortandonhisdeath itwasbestowedbytheKingonhisyoungestsonEdmund, Earl of Lancaster.Thus, like the Savoy, it hadcome to John of Gauntthrough his marriage withHenry’s mother, Blanche of

Lancaster.Henry toldMary that his

father,whohadtakenagreatfancytotheplacesinceithadbeen in his possession, hadextended it even more thanthose who had owned itbefore, and to prove thisHenry pointed out to her themagnificent extension whichwas known as the LancasterBuilding.

Kenilworth was a fairy

talepalace ideallysuited toapair of young people whowere realising the joys ofgettingtoknoweachother.

Mary would rememberthose days to the end of herlife. She was completelyhappyand itdidnotoccur toher in the full flush of herhappiness to question itstransience. She did not lookto the future; if she had shewouldhaveknownthataman

in Henry’s exalted positioncouldnot revel in the joysofnewly married bliss in thecastleofKenilworthforever.

They rode through theforest together–nothunting,for shehadconfessed tohimthat she hated to see animalskilled and always hoped thedeer and the boars wouldescape.Henry laughed at herbut loved her more for hergentlenessandhesaidthatas

she did not care for the hunttheywouldlookforthesignsof the spring and not for thespoorofanimals.

She did not care forhawking either; she liked towatch the birds flying free.She would stand and admireHenry when he practisedarchery and happilyapplauded when he excelledthose in competition withhim.Shethoughthowfinehe

looked when he shot at thetarget with his bow whichwas the same height as hewas and his arrow was onefull yard long. Theirattendantsplayedgameswiththem.Therewasgreathilarityover Ragman’s Roll whichwas the preliminary to amime. One of them wouldbringoutaparchmentrollonwhich were written coupletsdescribing certain characters;

and attached to these verseswerestringswith sealsat theend.Eachplayermust take aseal and pull the string andthenplaythecharacterwhosedescription he had picked.There were shrieks oflaughterwhen thisgamewasplayed for it always seemedthat people chose thecharacters least likethemselves. When they tiredof mimes they would play

Hot Cockles in which oneplayer was blindfolded andknelt with hands behind theback. The other playerswould strike thosehandsandthe kneeling blindfoldedplayer must guess who wasthe striker before beingreleased. Mary muchpreferred the games of chesswhen she and Henry wouldretiretoaquietcornerandpittheir wits one against the

other, or when Henrysuggested she should bringout her guitar and they sangandplayedtogether.

They were happy daysindeed as the spring passedinto summer but they couldnot go on for ever and oneday a messenger from theDuke of Lancaster cameriding to the castle with thecommand that Henry was tojoinhisfather.

It would only be for ashort time, he toldMary. Assoon as he could he wouldreturn or if that were notpossible he would send forhertocometohim.

She knew that she mustaccept this.Shewatchedhimride away and desolationovercameher.Shemusttrytobe brave she knew. It waswhat happened to all wives.Theirhusbandscouldnotstay

withthemforever.It was shortly after

Henry’s departure that sheknewshewastohaveachild.

She was delighted,although she overheard herwomen discussing thematterin private and she knew thatthey shook their heads andmelancholy looks came intotheireyes.

One of them said: ‘She’s

too young I tell you. It’s notrightforonesoyoung.’

‘They say,’ said another,‘thatifawomancanconceiveshe’sripeforchildbearing.’

‘She’s little more than ababy herself. They shouldhavewaited.’

She did not want to hearmore. Such talk frightenedher.

There came a day whenthe Earl and Countess of

Buckingham were passingKenilworth.Theystayedforanight, and that was veryunpleasant.

Eleanor was cold;Thomaswashotlyindignant.

‘ByGod’s ears,’ he said.‘I’ll never like brother Johnagain. He planned this, hedid. He waited until I wentaway.’

‘Itwasnotso,’shecried.‘Married!’ cried Eleanor.

‘At your age. It shocks medeeply.’

‘You were going to sendme into a convent,’ retortedMary.‘Iwasoldenoughyouconsidered to make up mymindaboutthat.’

‘How could you havebeen so deceitful. The nunsareheartbroken.’

‘The Abbess was mostconcerned that I should besure I was doing what was

best.’‘I wonder you are not

ashamed,’ cried Eleanor. ‘Togo off like that and the nextthing we knew was that youwerebetrothed!’

‘It so happened thatHenrywasatArundel...’

‘So happened!’ snappedEleanor. ‘It was arranged.Andwhydoyouthinkitwasarranged? Because youhappened to be an heiress,

that’swhy.Doyou think thehigh and mighty Duke ofLancaster and his romanticsonwouldhavebeensoeagerto take you without yourfortune?’

‘IsthatwhyThomastookyou?’retortedMary.

‘You wicked girl! Yougive yourself airs. How dareyoutalk tomethus.OhIamso disappointed.After allwedid. We went to Pleshy

because you were sointerested in the conventthere.’

Thomas shouted, ‘Stopbickering. The evil is done.WouldtoGodIhadnotbeenoutofthecountryatthetime.I would have taken up armsagainstLancaster. Iwould . ..’

He spluttered on in hisrage. Itwasall so ridiculous,thoughtMary. Hewould not

have dared to take up armsagainst his brother over sucha matter. But perhaps hewould. He was knownthroughout the country as aman who acted on impulsehoweverfoolishly.

She was glad when theydeparted. It was veryupsetting.

Occasionally Henryvisited her but he was in

attendance on the King andcouldnotbewithherasoftenas he wished. She liked tohear about the King whomshesuspectedHenrydespiseda little.Hewas not as cleveras Henry at any of theoutdoor sports; Henry wouldalwaystriumphoverhim.

‘Does he mind?’ askedMary.

‘Not he. He cares moreabout his books; and he will

talk of his fine clothes forhours. He is very particularabout his food. Not that heeats a great deal; but itmustbeservedinthemostdelicatemanner.Totellyouthetruth,Mary, he is not what onethinksofasaking.’

Henry was often wistfulwhen he talked of the King.Mary understood why whenhe said to her one day: ‘Doyou know, if my father had

been the first of his father’ssons, I should have been theKing.’

‘Would you have likedthat,Henry?’sheasked.

‘Itisnotamatteroflikingit,’ was his reply, ‘but ofaccepting the fact andmoulding oneselfaccordingly.YouseeRichardwasnotmeant tobeKing. Ifhiselderbrotherhadlivedhewould have taken the crown;

and then his father died andtherehewasagedaboutnineyearsold,KingofEngland.’

AfaintresentmentwasinHenry’svoice.

She did not say so, butshe was glad his father hadnot been the eldest for thenshewouldinduecoursehavebeen Queen and she knewthat would have been ratheralarming.

Henry’s visits were so

briefandshewasleftmuchtoherself. She did a great dealof needlework, played herguitar, learned new songs tosing for Henry and awaitedthe birth of her child withsomeimpatience.

She heard scraps ofgossip from the women. Shecould get a picture of whatwashappening in theoutsideworld from them. Shediscovered that there was a

murmuring of discontentthroughoutthecountry.Somesaidthepeasantsweregettingtoo big for their bootsbecause of the land lawswhich enabled them tocultivate for their own use aportionof the landbelongingto the lord of themanor andto pay for it by working forhim. They complained thatthelordtookthebestoftheirtime and their own crops

were spoilt because theycould not deal with them inanemergencysinceatsuchatime the lord’s own landswouldneedalltheirattention.Theywereslaves.Theywereboundtothelandandsoweretheir children. But thegreatest grievance of all wasthepolltaxwhichwasleviedon every man, woman andchildoverfifteen.

She heard the name of

John Ball which wasmentionedfrequently.Hehadbeen, she gathered, a ‘hedgepriest’ which meant that hehad had no church and nohome of his own, but hadwandered about thecountryside preaching andaccepting bed and boardwhere he could find it. Hehadpreachedtothepeopleonvillagegreensatonetimebutwhenhe began to be noticed

by people in authority, thesemeetings had been held inwoodsatnight.

Not only had he beenpreaching religion, it hadbeen said, but he waspreaching revolution for hewas urging the peasants torise against their masters, tothrow off slavery, anddemand what he had calledtheirrights.

Itwasnottobewondered

at that a man who preachedsuchfierydoctrinesshouldbeconsidered dangerous, andJohnBallhadbeenseizedandput into the Archbishop’sprisonofMaidstone.

And now there was allthis talk about the peasants’unrest;butnoonetookitveryseriously.

Certainly not thehousehold at Kenilworthwhere all were concerned

withthecomingbirth.It began one early

evening whenMary sat withher ladies. She was playingtheguitarwhile they stitchedat their tapestry. The childwas due in a fewweeks andMary was suffering acutediscomfort. It was all verynatural, said her women; itwas the fate of all in hercondition and all theinconvenience of the last

months would have beenworthwhile when her childwasborn.

Herpainsbegansuddenlyand they were so acute thather women took her to herbed immediatelyandsent forthedoctors.

Shewaslostnowinmistsof pain; she had neverbelieved there could be suchagony. Vaguely she heard avoicesaying:‘Butsheisonly

achildherself...tooyoung...immature...’

She had lost count oftime.Shejust laywaitingforthe waves of pain to sweepover her, to subside, to flowaway and then flow back. Itseemed as though it wouldnever end. She lostconsciousness and when sheawokethepainhadgone.Shefeltcompletelyexhaustedandfor some timewas unsure of

what had happened. Andwhen she remembered herfirst thoughts were for thechild.

‘My baby . . .’ shemurmured.

There was silence. Shetried to struggle up but shewas too tired. ‘Where is mybaby?’sheaskedshrilly.

One of her women cameto the bed and knelt down.She was about to speak and

thenshebowedherheadandcovered her face with herhands.

‘Tell me,’ said Marystonily.

‘My lady,’ said thewoman, and there was a sobin her voice, ‘the child wasborn...abeautifulchild...perfectinlimb...’

‘Yes,yes.Whereisit?’‘It was born dead, my

lady.’

Mary sank back on herbed.Sheclosedhereyes.Allthemonthsofwaiting. . .allthehopesandplans...gone.Thebabywasborndead.

‘There will be more . . .later,’ went on the woman.‘You have come through,praise be to God. You aregoingtogetstrongagainandthen,andthen...’

Mary was not listening.Henry! she thought. Oh

Henry, I have disappointedyou.

She was unable to leaveher bed. She lay listlesswonderingwhereHenrywas,what he was doing now. Hewouldcometoherroom,shewas sure. She would not beable to bear hisdisappointment.

Shewasright.Assoonasthenewswastakentohimhe

got leave of theKing to ridetoKenilworth.

He knelt by the bed. Hetook her hands and kissedthem. She must not fret, hesaid. Theywould have a sonintime...

He did a great deal tocomfort her. Think howyoung they were, both ofthem.Theyhad thewholeoftheir live’ before them.Theymust not fret because they

had lost this child.He satbyher bed and he talked to herof the future and how happytheyweregoing tobeand intime they would have asmany children as hisgrandfatherKingEdwardandhis grandmother QueenPhilippa had had. Shewouldsee.

Shebegan to recover,butshewasstillweak.

A few days after Henry

arrived there was anothervisitor to Kenilworth. Thiswas Mary’s mother, theCountessofHereford.

She went at once to herdaughter, embraced her andthen declared that she hadcometonurseher.JoannadeBohunwasawomanofgreatstrengthofcharacter;shewasdevoted to her daughters andinparticulartoMarybecauseshe was the younger of the

two. Eleanor, she believed,was able to take care ofherself.

Joanna had alwaysresented the fact that thecustomofthelanddemandedthatherdaughterberemovedfrom her care and that sheshould become the ward ofJohn of Gaunt, in order, soshe said, that that mightyDuke should have the prizemoneywhichwentwithsuch

appointments.She, Mary’s mother, was

better fitted to look after thechild than anyone; and inview of what had happenedshe had now come to assertthatright.

Marywasdelightedtoseehermother.

TheCountess studied herdaughterandhid theconcernshe felt. The child was toothin. What a terrible ordeal

foragirlnotyettwelveyearsofagetopassthrough.Somegirls developed earlier thanothers and then earlychildbearing might bepermissible;butMaryherselfwas still too childlike anddelicate.

Thereshallbenomoreofthis, thought the Countessgrimly.IfIhavetofightJohnofGaunthimselfI’lldoso.

‘Dearest Mother,’ said

Mary. ‘I am so happy to seeyou.’

‘Godblessyou,mychild.It is natural that when mydaughter is ill her mothershould be the one to lookafterher.Youaregoingtobewell inaweek. I shall see tothat.’

Marysmiled.‘Wealwayshad to obey you, my lady,’she said. ‘So I must do sonow.’

‘Indeed you must andshall.’

Henry had come into thesick room and the Countesswas aware of the manner inwhich Mary’s face lit up atthe sight of him.A fineboy,she thought, and indeed aworthy husband for a deBohun, but they were tooyoung...fartooyoung,andthere was going to be nomoreofthis.

Henry welcomed hergallantly and was clearlydelighted that she had comefor he was apprehensiveabouthisyoungwife’shealthand she liked him for it. ShetoldhimshewouldsoonhaveMarywell.

‘No one understands adaughter like her ownmother,’sheannounced.

She took charge of theinvalid. She had a bed

brought into the roomwhichshewouldoccupy.ShewouldbewithMary day and night.Shemadepossetsandspecialbrothsforherdaughterwhichunder the stern eye of hermother Mary dared notrefuse.

She felt a great sense ofsecurity which she hadmissedinthedaysofPleshy.To be here with Henry andher mother made her very

happyandshebegantogrowaway from her sorrow at thelossofthebaby.

‘Youhaveyourwholelifebeforeyou,’ saidhermother.There was one matter whichshe had not discussed withMaryyet,butsheintendedtowhensheconsideredthetimeripe.

She blamed herself fornot being firm enough in thefirstplace.Whenshebecame

a widow she should haverefused to allow her youngerdaughter to be taken out ofhercare.

The King had given thewardshiptoJohnofGauntasa consolation prize forsomething else, and she hadbeen obliged to let herdaughter go because of theroyalcommand.Herhusband,HumphreydeBohun,EarlofHerefordandEssex,hadbeen

oneof the richestmen in thecountry and so had a vastfortune to leave, and it wasthat fortunewhichhad led tothis situation when Marymighthavelostherlife.

She was now putting herfoot down firmly and takingmattersintoherownhands.

She broached the subjecttoHenryfirst.

‘Henry,’ she said, ‘I amgoing to talk to you very

seriously. I am deeplyconcernedaboutMary.’

He looked alarmed. ‘Ithought she was gettingbetter.’

‘Sheis.Butyouknow,doyou not, that she has comeneartolosingherlife.’

‘Iknowshehasbeenveryill.’

‘Theplainfact is thatsheistooyoungtobearchildren.Her body is not yet fully

formed. She needs anothertwoyearsatleastinwhichtogrowup.’

Henrylookedshamefacedand the Countess went onhurriedly: ‘I do not blameyou. It is the fault of thosewhoputyou togetheratsuchanearlyage.’

Henry flushed hotly. Hisfatherwasaheroinhiseyes.

‘Oh, men do not alwaysunderstand these matters,’

said the Countess hastily,realising that if she were tohave her own way in thismatter she must notantagoniseJohnofGaunt.

She believed she knewhow to handle this, but shewouldhavetobetactful;andshe knew that John ofGaunt’sgreatdesirehadbeentogetthemarriagecelebratedand Mary’s fortune secure.That had been done and he

would be prepared topostpone the begetting ofchildrenforafewyears.

‘Whatdoyouwantmetodo?’askedHenry.

‘Theremustbenomaritalrelations between you for atleasttwoyears.Youmustseethe reason for this. Theremust not be any morechildren...yet.’

‘HaveyoutoldMary?’‘Iwillexplaintoher.She

will understand. In fact I amsure she does not want toendureagainwhatshehassorecently come through.WhatIamgoingtosuggestisthatItake Mary back with me. Ishall look after her and youwill know that she is safe inher mother’s care. You willbe welcome at my castlewhenever you wish to comeon the understanding thatthere is to be no lovemaking

untilsheisofasuitableage.’Henrywasreadytoswear

to agree to these terms. Hehad been very very anxiousabout Mary and had felt aterrible sense of guilt. Butnow she was well again andhe could see that they mustwait a few years before theylived together.Yes, he coulddonothingbutagree.

The Countess wastriumphant. John of Gaunt

wasabsentinScotlandontheKing’s business so he couldraise no objections. Eleanorand her husband were nolongerinterestednowthathershareofthedeBohunfortunewaslosttothem.

ShehadonlytotellMaryand as soon as the girl waswell enough to travel theywouldleave.

Mary listened attentivelytohermother.

‘My dearest child,’ saidtheCountess,‘Iwasverysadwhen you left me to go toyoursister.Itwasnowishofmine,youknow.’

‘I do know,’ said Maryfervently.

‘It is so wrong when achild is taken from herrightfulplacejustbecauseshehappenstohaveafortune.Ohthatfortune!Icouldwishthatyour father had been amuch

poorer man. Your sistercoveted it . . .andsodidherhusband. They would havehad you in a convent for thesakeofit.’

‘I was fortunate to meetHenry,’ put in Mary. ‘Hedoesnotcareformyfortune.’

The Countess was silent.Did he not? She would besurprised if this were so. Inany case there was one whocared deeply and that was

Henry’s father, John ofGaunt.

Thank God he was inScotland and could notinterfere. And would theKing? He had given thewardship to his uncle John.No, she had nothing to fearfromRichard.Hewasonlyaboy.Ifneedbeshewouldseehimandexplain;shewassureshecouldtouchhispityforamother who was concerned

aboutherchild.‘My dear,’ went on the

Countess, ‘you know verywell thatyouhavebeenveryill. There was a day whenyour life was despaired of.Thefact,daughter,isthatyouare too young as yet to bearchildren. Henry agrees withme that you must wait for ayearorso.’

‘Wait . . . what do youmean?’

‘YouandHenrywillbeasbetrothed . . . There will beno more marital relationsbetweenyou.’

‘ImustaskHenry...’‘Ihavealreadyspoken to

Henry.Hesees thepoint.Heagreeswithme.’

Shelookedrelieved.Thenshe said in alarm: ‘Do youmeanIshallnotseeHenry?’

‘Of course you will seeHenry. He will come to

Leicester to visit us. Hewillstay and you will sing yoursongs and play your guitartogether.You’llpityourwitsatchess.Itissimplythatyouwill be as betrothed . . . asthough the actual ceremonyofmarriagehasnotyet takenplace.’

She was silent. And hermother burst out: ‘You shallnot be submitted to that painagain. You are too young to

bear children as yet. Yourbodyisnotreadyforit.AllIask is for you to wait for ayear . . . for two yearsperhaps.InfactIamgoingtoinsist.’

‘As longasHenryagrees...andIshallseehim.’

‘But of course you shall.Dear child, understand all Ieverwant iswhat is best foryou.’

So it was arranged and

whenMarywaswellenough,the Countess left Kenilworthwithherdaughter.

ChapterIII

THELORDHARRY

For more than threeyears Mary lived with hermother during which timeHenryvisitedherwheneveritwaspossibleforhimtodoso.Her mother explained to herthatwhenonemarriedaman

who was of such high rankonemustbepreparedforhimto have many duties outsidehis domestic life to claimhim.

Mary was resigned. Sheeagerly learned how tomanage a large household;she spent long hours in thestill room; she studied thevarious herbs and spices andhow to garnish dishes withthem; she could brew ale to

perfection; her motherallowed her to instruct theservants on those occasionswhen important visitorswereexpected and the Countessinsisted that they all realisedthat in spite of her youth,Mary was the Countess ofHerefordandwifeof the sonof the great John of Gaunt.Nor was she allowed toneglectthefinerpursuits.Shemust learn the latest songs

and dances which werefashionable at Court and sheplayed theguitarandsang toguests. The finest materialsweresenttothecastleforhertochoosewhichshepreferredandtheCountessinsistedthatshe pay special attention toherappearance.

Those were the waitingyears and Mary knew nowwithoutadoubthowwrongitwould have been had she

allowed herself to be forcedinto the convent. Henry hadsaved her from that and shewould always be grateful tohim. Shewas intended to bewhat he would make her: awifeandamother.Providinga happy well-managed homefor her husband and childrenwas her true mission in lifeand during those waitingyearsshe longedfor the timewhen she would be old

enoughtogotoHenry.Oftenshethoughtofhim,

wonderingwhathewasdoingat that time. During the dayshewasbusy;hermothersawthat she was well occupied;but at night shewould lie inher bed, watching theflickering shadows on thewalls,forafter thefashionofthe day she burned a smalllamp in her bedchamber. Itwas a small metal cup filled

withoilwithawickinit;andit was a comfort during thedarkness when certain fearscametoher.

She was alwaysapprehensive lest somethinghappenedandshenotbetoldof it. During the time whenshe and Henry had livedtogether and she had beenpregnant terrible things hadbeen happening and she hadknown nothing of them. The

peasants had risen and thewhole country had been indanger; as for Henry he hadbeen with the King at thetime in theTowerofLondonand had come near to losinghis life. She had been – andstillwas – so appalled at thesecondnearcalamitythatshecouldgivelittlethoughttothefirst.

Itwasonlyafterthetragicbirthofherstillbornchildthat

she had heard the truth andshe would never forget aslong as she lived the dayHenry had sat with her andtoldheraboutit.

‘Aman calledWat Tylerwas at their head,’ he hadsaid. ‘The story is that thecollector who had gone togather the poll tax hadinsulted his daughter and thetyler killed the tax collectorandthepeasantsralliedround

him. They marched toLondon eventually. Theywanted to rule the countrythemselves; they wanted totakeall therichesof thelandand divide it between them.Theywerelootingeverythingas they went. They havedestroyed my father’s palaceoftheSavoy.’

She had listened wide-eyed, her heart beatingfuriously to think that while

that was happening she hadbeen living quietly in thecountry expecting her babyand knowing nothing of it.AndHenryhadbeen there inLondon...withtheKing.

‘They came intoLondon,that seething rabble,’ Henrywenton. ‘TheKingwentoutto meet them . . . first atBlackheath and then atSmithfield. He showed greatcourage–everyonesaidso–

and it has to be rememberedthat he saved the day.Whenhe was at Blackheath I wasleftintheTowerandthemobbrokein.’

She felt sick with fear,andhehadlaughedather.

‘It’sallovernow.Itcameoutallright.Richardtalkedtothem . . . promised to givethem what they wanted . . .not that he can . . . but hepromisedthemandWatTyler

was killed. They werewithout a leader. They brokeup and disappeared . . . andafterwards the ring leaderswerecaughtandpunished.’

‘And you were in theTower,’shehadmurmured.

‘I was lucky. Oh Mary,younearly lostyourhusbandonthatday.Theywouldhaveputanendtomebecausetheyhatedmy father. Everywhereyougo,Mary,youhear them

murmuring against him.Youknow all the lies they tellagainsthim.’

‘Why do they hate himso?’shehadasked.

Henry had shrugged hisshoulders. Then he had said,his eyes glowing with pride:‘Because he is the greatestman in England. He shouldhave been the first-born sothat he could have had thecrown.Hewasmeanttobea

king.’Mary had begged him to

tell her about his luckyescape.

‘It was like a miracle,Mary. There Iwas expectingthemtoburstinonmeatanymoment. I was thinking ofyou.Ithought:MypoorlittleMary, her heart will bebroken. And it would havebeenwoulditnot?’

Shehadonlybeenableto

nod,beingtoofullofemotionforspeech.

‘And then,’ he had goneon, ‘the door flew open andtherewasoneofthem;hehada billhook in his hand and Ithought he had come to killme.He calledme “My lord”and spoke urgently and toldme that he had come toconduct me to safety for mylife was in great danger. Hetoldmewhattodo,andIput

onsomeroughclotheswhichhegaveme.Hehadawoodenstick forme and he bademefollowhimshoutingabuseonthe rich and so did I andweran out of the Tower andthroughthestreetsofLondonshouting all the while untilwe came to the Wardrobewhich is the royal offices inCarterLaneandthereIjoinedtheQueenMotherandotherswho had managed to escape

fromtheTower.’Shehadonlybeenableto

cling tohimandmarvelwithhorror that while this hadbeenhappeningshehadbeencalmly sitting at herneedlework with no hint ofthe tragedywhichhadnearlyruinedherlife.

‘Ishallbegrateful to thatman who saved you for therest of my life,’ she saidfervently.

‘And so shall I,’ Henryhad replied. ‘His name isJohn Ferrour and he is fromSouthwark.Hehasbeenwellrewarded.HemusthavedoneitoutofloveformyfatherforIhadneverheardofhim.Butthere isnodoubt thatbut forhim there would have beenthe end of Henry ofBolingbroke.’

Latershehadheardmuchof the Peasants’ Revolt and

theyoungKing’sbraveryandeveryone said that Richardwouldbeagreatkinglikehisgrandfather. The Peasants’Revolt had been Richard’striumph,soitseemedatfirst;butasshesawithehadwonby false pretences. He hadpromised to give them whatthey wanted and what theyhad receivedwas cruel deathfor their leaders and theirgrievanceshadremained.

Henryhadtriedtoexplainto her that there could havebeen no other solution. Therevolution had to be stoppedand Richard stopped it; andtheonlywayitcouldbedonewas by promising themwhatitwasimpossibletogive.

‘Wewere fortunate,’ saidHenry. ‘It could have beentheendofEngland,theendofusall.’

But what lived on in her

memory was the danger thatcouldbesetherhusband;andit was impossible to knowreal peace except when hewaswithher.

She was avid for newsfromCourt.Henrygaveitonhis visits and those were thehighlights of her existence.When she heard visitorsarrivingherheartwould leapwith joy. Alas, often shesuffered bitter

disappointment. But thoseoccasionswhenhecamewerewonderful.Shelongedforthetime to pass that she mightreach that stage when shewould be considered oldenoughformarriage.

Henry longed for it too.That was another anxiety.What if he were to lovesomeoneelse?Hisfatherwasmarried to Constanza ofCastile but everyone knew

thathelovedLadySwynford.Marriagewas no certainty oflove.

When the young Kingwas married there was greatexcitement throughout thecountry.ItwassaidthatAnneof Bohemia was not verybeautiful and what goodlooksshehadweremarredbythe hideous horned head-dress shewore; but theKingliked her and very soon

hornedhead-dresseswere thefashion in thehighestcircles.‘Youmusthaveone,’saidhermother.

Henry spent a great dealof timewithhis father and itwas clear to Mary that toHenry no one could everquite compare with John ofGaunt. There was a greatbond between them whichpleasedherandsheknewthatHenrywasveryfondofLady

Swynford, who was treatedbyall–onpainoftheDuke’sdispleasure – as the DuchessofLancaster. Itwouldnotbelong,saidHenry,before theyweretogether.Assoonasshereachedherfifteenthbirthdayhewas going to overrule hermother’s objections; and hisfather would help him, heknew.

Meanwhile he broughtnews of the outside world.

TheKingwasdevoted to theQueen and she was friendlywith his friend Robert deVere, whom, some said,Richard loved more thananyone, so that it wassuspected that he hadinherited certain traits ofcharacter from his great-great-grandfather Edward theSecond.But theQueenmadeit all very cosy and the triowere always together. It was

foolish said Henry becauseRichardwaspayingtoomuchattention to his favourite notonly privately but in statematters and that was a greatmistake.

‘Richard has outgrownthe glory of Blackheath andSmithfield and if he goes onlike this hewill have to takecare,’ said Henry ominouslyandtherewasacertaingleamin his eyes which vaguely

disturbedMary.LaterhetoldherthatJohn

Wycliffe,whohad caused somuch controversy with hisideasonreligion,haddiedofapoplexy while assisting atmass.

‘ButthisisnottheendofJohn Wycliffe,’ prophesiedHenry.

There was more troublewhen John Holland, theKing’shalf-brother,murdered

theEarlofStafford’ssonandwas banished from thecountry.

‘The Queen Mother isdistraught,’ Henry explained.‘She is trying to persuadeRichard to acquit him but Idon’t see how he can. Thiswill just about kill her. Herhealth is not good and she isgettingold.’

Anditdidkillherforshediedsoonafter.

ButbythistimeMaryhadreachedherfifteenthbirthdayand one day John of Gauntsentwordthathewascomingtoseethem.

There must be greatpreparations for such animportant visitor and theCountess with Mary besideher ordered that beef andmutton, capon, venison withherons and swans andpeacocks be made ready for

thehonouredguest.Thesmellof baking pervaded thekitchens for there must bepies and tarts of alldescriptions to be worthy ofsuch a guest and the retinuehewouldcertainlybringwithhim.

Henrywas to accompanyhim and Mary guessed whattheobjectofthisvisitwas.Sodid her mother for shewatched her daughter

anxiously.‘My lady,’ Mary

reminded the Countess, ‘Ihave passed my fifteenthbirthday and am no longer achild.’

TheCountesssighed.Shewouldhave liked tokeepherdaughter with her a littlelonger.

From one of the turretwindows Mary watched thearrival of the great John of

Gaunt, resplendent withbanners displaying the lionsand the leopards. Beside thegreatDukeofLancaster rodehis son, Henry ofBolingbroke.

How noble they were –these Plantagenets, and howsimilar in looks!Therecouldbe no doubt of their origins;theybore themselves–allofthem–likeKings.

TheCountesswaswaiting

to greet them, with Marybeside her. John of GaunttookMary inhis arms,whenshe would have curtsied tohim.

‘And how fares my deardaughter?’ he asked. Shereplied thatshewaswellandtrustedhewasalso.

Her mother looked onwith pride as she must tocontemplate this brilliantmarriage of her daughter’s;

and the fact that Mary andHenry so clearly loved eachother was great balm to hermotherlyheart.

Henry was watchingMary with glistening eyesand when he embraced hershesensed the joy inhim;soshe knew that the waitingwouldsoonbeover.

There was an air offestivity at supper thatevening as the dishes which

had caused such a flurry ofactivity in the kitchen wereset before the honouredguests. In addition to themeats and pies there weredriedfruitspreservedinsugar– almonds, raisins and fancymarchpane with everydelicacy that had ever beenthoughtof.

‘Your daughter growsapace,’saidJohnofGaunttothe Countess. ‘And her

beauty increases. She is nolonger a child. Do youagree?’

The Countess reluctantlyadmittedthatthiswasso;andthentherecouldnolongerbeany doubt of the reason forthevisit.

Mary and Henry dancedtogether; she played theguitar and he sang with her;andwhiletheywatchedthemthe Duke of Lancaster

explainedtotheCountessthathe was shortly leaving thecountry for Castile where hewouldtrytowinthecrowntowhichhehadaclaimthroughhis wife Constanza; he wasleaving his son in charge ofhisestates.

‘He is a man now,’ headded.

The Countess wasthoughtful. She did notgreatly care for John of

Gaunt;hewastooformidablefor comfort. Moreover sheknew how ambitious he wasand that he longed for acrown. He had marriedConstanza of Castile in thehopeofbeingKingofCastilesincehecouldnotbeKingofEngland, though he did notlive with his lawful wife butwith his mistress CatherineSwynford. And he hadmarried his son to Mary

becauseofMary’sfortune.Now he was telling her

thatitwastimeMarylefthermotherandbecameawife toHenry.

Itmustbe,shesawthat.Meanwhile Henry was

explaining to Mary. ‘Thewaiting is over,’ he said.‘You are coming away withme.’

She clasped her handstogetherandclosedhereyes;

shewasovercomewithjoy.‘Does that mean you are

pleased?’askedHenry.Shenodded.‘I am nearly twenty,’ he

said. ‘My father says it istime Ihadawife.Oh,Mary,thewaitinghasbeensolong.’

‘Forme,also.IamsorryIwassoyoung.’

Thatmadehimlaugh.‘Listen,’hesaid.‘WhenI

go from here, youwill come

with me.My father is goingtoCastile.’

‘OhHenry...you...’‘No, I amnot goingwith

him.Theremust be someoneheretolookaftertheestates.Ishall doubtless travel withhimtothecoast.Perhapsyouwillcomewithus,Mary.’

Sheputherhandinhis.‘Henry, I am so happy,’

shesaid.Those were busy days

thatfollowed.ThegreatJohnofGauntmustbeentertainedand shemust prepare herselfto leave with Henry. Hermother watched her with acertainsadness.

‘Iampleasedthatyouarehappy in yourmarriage,’ shesaid, ‘but sorry that you aregoingaway.Ifyouareeverinneed ofme, you have but tosend word, my child, and Ishallbewithyou.’

Marysaidsolemnly:‘Wasthere any girlmore fortunatethan I? I have the besthusband and the best motherintheworld.’

Mary was indeed a wifeanditwasnotlongbeforeshewas expecting to become amother. She and Henry hadgone to their favourite castlein Monmouthshire and theretheyhad spent a fewecstatic

weeks during which Maryhad become pregnant. Lifewassowonderfulifshecouldbut forget that parting couldcome at any moment. Henrywas deeply involved inpolitics and that meantuneasyliving.Hedidnotlikehis cousin, the King. Hecalled him a fool in private;he said he was futile, ridingfordisaster.

‘He lost his slipper at his

coronation,’ he once said,‘and if he is not careful, erelonghewilllosehisthrone.’

Mary hated to think howdeeply Henry was beingembroiled. She could havewished theycouldhave livedquietly in Monmouth Castlehappilyfromdaytoday.

She was so happy whenhe played his recorder andsheplayedherguitarandthensang and danced; or when

they played chess with thebeautiful silver chessmenwhich were Henry’s father’sgift to them, or they rodetogether in the forest as theyhadwhentheyhadfirstmet.

But this idyllic existencecouldnotlast.Sometimesshethought – but secretly – howhappy she could have beenhad he been the son of ahumblesquire.Shedarednothint of her feelings for the

factthathewasthesonofhisfatherwasoneofhisproudestboasts.

Asthemonthspassedherdiscomfortincreased;itwasadifficult pregnancy as it hadbeen with her first child.Henry was a kind andthoughtful husband, but shesensed his restlessness. Shecould no longer ride withhim;shecouldnotdance;andsometimes she was so tired

that she could not evenconcentrate on a game ofchess.

Shewasrealisingthatshehadmarriedaveryambitiousman. It was hardly to beexpectedthat thesonofJohnofGauntwouldbeotherwise,andwhilehedalliedwithherin the castle she sensed thathis thoughts were far away.The political situation wasgrowing rather tense; when

he talked to her about it hiseyes glowed and his voicetrembledwithexcitement;shequickly understood that hewouldratherbeatCourtthanwithher; it saddenedherandyet she understood. She wasonly a part of his life; shemustnotexpecthim to shareher desire for this cosydomesticity; and now,pregnantasshewasandoftenfeeling ill, she could not be

the lively companion heneeded. She must face facts;the idyll was over; it waschangingrapidlyintosensiblemarriage. He loved her stillbuthowcouldsheexpect thesame wholehearted devotionfrom him which she waspreparedtogive.

There came a day whenhisuncle–Mary’sbrother-in-law – Thomas of Gloucestercametothecastle.Marywas

apprehensive about the visitfor she knew that Thomaswould never forgive her forleaving Pleshy and marryingHenry.Eleanorhadbeenverycool towards her on the fewoccasionswhentheyhadmet.

Thomas however greetedherwithabrotherlyaffectionand when she asked afterEleanorhe said shewaswelland so were the children.Eleanor now had a son and

thatseemedtohavegivenherand her husband a great dealof pleasure. He had beennamedHumphreywhichwasa favourite name in the deBohunfamily.

The boy was strong andhealthy,Thomastoldherwithpride and he trusted shewould honour them with avisit.

This was offering theolive branch without doubt

andhavinglearnedsomethingofherbrother-in-law’snaturewhen she was living atPleshy, Mary thought that itcould onlymean that he hadsome project in mind whichhadmade the loss of half ofthe de Bohun fortune seemless significant than it oncehad.

He and Henry spent agreat deal of time alonetogether and she became

apprehensive for she wasawareoftheexcitementthesetalks had engendered in herhusband.

When they were alonethatnightsheventuredtoaskhim what Thomas’s motivewasinvisitingthem.

At first he had beendisinclined to tell her, whichwashurtful.

‘Heismyuncle,’hesaid,‘and now my father is away

no doubt he feels he mustkeep an eye on me. He wasriding this way so naturallyhe would call on us.Moreoverhe isyourbrother-in-law. I dare swear Eleanorwantsnewsofyou.’

‘Why, Henry,’ shereplied, ‘your uncle has notbeen very pleasantwith yourfather and that means withyou,sinceyouweregiventheGarter in place of him and

since you married me whenhe and my sister wanted meto go into a convent so thatmy part of the familyinheritance should go tothem, it is hardly likely thatthey feel much affection forus.’

Then he decided to tellher. ‘That is in the past,’ hesaid. ‘They were pettydifferences.Icantellyouthatsomething of the utmost

importanceisafoot.’Herheart seemed tomiss

abeat.‘Whatisit,Henry?’‘Youknow that for some

timetheKing’sbehaviourhasnotpleasedcertainmeninthecountry.Hisbesottedattitudetowards de Vere gives greatoffence. That man is amenace to the peace of thecountry. He plotted againstmyfather.ItistimetheKinglearned that there aremen in

this countrywhowill endurethisstateofaffairsnolonger.’

Shesaidfaintly:‘Andyouare one of those who standagainsthim?’

‘I am in good company,’hereplied.

‘Who else?’ she askedfaintly.

‘My uncle Gloucester,Arundel, Nottingham andWarwick.’

‘Fiveofyouthen.’

‘We are the leaders andwearewellsupported.’

‘Oh,Henry,Iamafraidofthesequarrels.Youcouldfindyourselfindanger.’

‘My dear little Mary,these are matters which youdo not understand. We haveto rid the country of thosemenwhoareruiningit.’

‘Youmean...theKing.’‘TheKingifneedbe.’‘Buthe is the trueheir to

the throne. The son of theBlackPrince...’

‘Unfortunately yes,’ saidHenrywithanoteofangerinhis voice and she knew thathe was thinking: Why wasmy father not the King’seldestson?

‘Henry,don’tdoit...’He laughed at her and

strokedherhair.‘I shouldn’t have told

you,’hesaid.Hetouchedher

stomach lightly. ‘You haveothermatterstothinkof.’

‘It is my concern whatbecomes of you,’ sheanswered.

‘Have no fear then.Richardisweak.Heisafool.He resembles his great-grandfather. He lost histhrone...’

She shuddered. ‘And hislife...mostbarbarically.’

‘Richard should

rememberthat.’Sheturnedtohimandhid

her face against him. Sheknew it was no useprotesting, no use trying topersuade him. He was anambitious man; and thoughneither of them mentionedthis, he was fascinated by agoldencrown.

She wanted to shout tohim:‘Itcanneverbeyours.ItisRichard’sbyright.Richard

may have a son.’ Oh God,send Richard a son. Thatwould put an end to thesewild ambitious dreams. ButevenifRicharddidnothaveason, therewereothers beforeJohn of Gaunt. There was ’sdaughter Philippa to comebefore him for there was noSalic law in England andwomen could inherit thethrone. If Richard were everdeposed and John of Gaunt

took the crown then his heirwas Henry. Henry could notforget it, remote possibilitythough it was. It was like acanker in his mind; he wasbecoming more and moreobsessed by it and itfrightenedher.

Nowhewas joiningwiththose four other ambitiousmen to stand against theKing. They wanted Richardout of the way, and Richard

wastherightfulKing.‘Now,’ said Henry, ‘you

distress yourself. We shallshow Richard that he mustrule for the benefit of thepeople not for that of hisfavourites.Ifheiswise,he’llsee that; if not, well then heshouldgo.’

‘There will be war,’ shesaid.

‘Nay,’ he corrected her.‘Richard would never fight.

Hewouldgiveway.There isno fighting spirit in him.Sometimes Iwonderwhetherheisthesonofhisfather.Hismotherwasa flightywoman.ShelivedwithHollandbeforeshemarriedhim,youknow.’

‘Oh, Henry have a care.What if some servantoverheard!’

‘My little Mary, you aretoo nervous. It is your state.Never mind. Very soon we

shallhaveourboy,eh?’‘And when shall you

leavewithyouruncle?’‘Tomorrow.Thereislittle

timetolose.’‘And when shall you

comeback?’‘So much depends on

Richard,’hesaid.‘ButIshallsee you are safe and welllooked after. That is why Ichose Monmouth for you. Itis a little remote. You can

forgeteverythingherebutthecomingbaby.’

‘Do you think I shouldeverforgetyou,Henry?’

‘I trust not,my love.Butyou are my wife and youmustobeyme.Mycommandsare that you should restquietly, be at peace, not fret,andinduecourseyouwillbedeliveredofourchild.’

‘You set me impossibletasks,’ she replied. ‘Howcan

I rest quietly while I knowyou are involved in plotsagainsttheKing.’

‘NotagainsttheKing,mylove. For the King.Everythingwedoshallbeforhis good . . . if he is wiseenoughtorealiseit.’

There was nothing moreshe could say. She mustaccept the fact that she wasmarried to a very ambitiousmanwhocouldseethecrown

glittering only a few stepsaway and if it seemedunlikely that he could evertake those steps, he wasoptimistic and determined tolose no opportunity whichmightarise.

Thenextdayhe leftwithhisuncleThomas.

It was impossible for herto settle comfortably. Shefretted;shesufferedsleepless

nights; she was constantlywatchingformessengerswhowould bring dreaded badnews.

August had come; thedayswerehotandsultry;shecouldnotmovefromroomtoroomwithout a great deal ofdiscomfort.

‘Youmustrest,mylady,’saidherwomen.

Restwas no good to her,theyknew.Shewantedpeace

ofmind.Her pains had started; all

through the day theycontinued.Shewasinagony.Her women were growinganxious.Theywereremindedof that other occasion whenshe had given birth to astillbornchild.

‘Itwill break her heart ifshe loses this child too,’ saidoneofthem.

‘And small wonder,’

addedanother. ‘Shehasbeensick with anxiety since mylordwentaway.’

‘She is frail forchildbearinganditdidhernogood that she should have achild when she was soyoung.’

‘God help us. I fear forher. Is there no sign of thechildyetthen?’

Nosign.Mary could think of

nothingbut thepain. It cameand went and came again.Shetriedtostiflehercries.

She was glad Henry wasnotthere.

‘PleaseGod,’ sheprayed,‘help me. Help me and givemeaboy.’

She was unconsciouswhenthechildwasborn.

Themidwifetookit.‘A boy,’ she said. ‘She’s

got her boy. A puny little

thing.Nolifeinit.’Then she cried out. ‘Oh

no.Hedoesnotbreathe.Heisdead.Thiswillkillher...’

She laid the little nakedbody across her knees andbegan slapping its purpleexterior with a vigour whichalarmedthosewholookedon.

‘This is no fault of thechild...’saidsomeone.

But the midwife pausedsuddenly, listening. Then a

smile of triumph illuminatedher features. ‘He breathes,’she cried. ‘It hasworked themiracle. I have slapped lifeintohim.Aweakling.. .buta live baby. Thank God . . .forherblessedsake.’

She laid the child asideand went to look at themother.

Mary was breathing withdifficulty.

‘Send a message to my

lord,’ she said. ‘He will bewaiting for it. He shouldcomewithout delay. Let himbetoldthathehasason.’

Henrywas on hisway toMonmouth when he heardthathissonwasborn.Hehadbeen determined to be closeby so that he could go toMary and see their child assoon as it arrived. He hadbeensopreoccupiedwithhis

allies that he had had littletime to brood on what washappening at Monmouth. Hewas in a quandary. All thetime he was aware of theoverwhelmingambitionofhisuncleThomas. Therewas noaffection between them; theywere allies only for the sakeof expediency. Henry knewthatThomaswouldliketoseeRichard deposed and himselftake the crown. That was

something which must beavoided at all costs. IfRichardwastorelinquishthecrown it should not go toGloucester. He was theyoungest of the sons ofEdwardtheThird.No.Itmustgo to John ofGaunt becauseonly then could it come toHenry. But John of Gauntwasoutof thecountry tryingto win the crown of Castileand if this revolt came to

anythingitwouldbeThomasofGloucesterwhowasonthespot. But of course Lionel’soffspringshouldcomebeforehim. Then John of Gaunt.Then Edmund of Langley,now Duke of York. ButHenry could well imaginehow Thomas would disposeof their claims. Lionel’sdaughter! A girl on thethrone. What they wantedwas a strong man, and with

John of Gaunt out of thecountry pursuing the crownofCastile,andEdmundDukeofYork having no desire forthe crown, Thomas camenext.

No,never,thoughtHenry.Richardmustnotbedeposeduntilmyfatherisheretotakethecrown!

These were his thoughtsas he rode towardsMonmouth.

At Ross on Wye he wasstopped by a ferryman, whocried out: ‘Goodmorrow toyou, my lord.’ Andrecognising the lions andleopards he added: ‘AndGod’sblessingonyourbonnyson.’

‘Why do you say that?’askedHenry.

‘Because I know you forHenry of Bolingbroke andyourladyhasborneyouason

Ihaveheard.’Henrywasovercomewith

joy.Forawhileheforgottheinadequacies of Richard andthedeviouswaysofhisuncleThomas; he even forgot hisownambitions.

Hethrewthemanapurseof gold, and not waiting toreceive his thanks shouted tohis followers: ‘All speed toMonmouth.’

Arriving at the castle his

delight was decidedlydampened. He was shown apuny infant – a boy it wastrue,butonlyjustalive.

‘He’ll need special care,this one, my lord,’ said themidwife.

He looked at the child indismay.Thistinyscrapofredandwrinkledflesh,thesonhehad so longed for! It did notbawl as hewould have likedtohearit.Itjustlaystillinits

nurse’sarms.‘He’ll need a wet nurse,

my lord. My lady is in nostatetofeedthechild.’

‘Mylady...’He went at once to her

bedside.OhGod,hethought,is thisMary? This pale,wanlittle creature looking sosmall in thebigbed,herhairfalling about her; her eyessunken and yet lighting withjoyatthesightofhim.

‘Mary,’ he cried, andkneltbyherbed.

‘Henry,’ she said quietly,‘we have the boy. You arepleased?’

Henodded.‘Butyoumustgetwell.’

‘I will. I will. I must.Thereistheboy...andyou...’

‘He . . . he’s a fineboy,’liedHenry.

‘They will not bring him

to me. They say I am tootired. Imust rest. But I haveseenhim.Heisafineboy...Henry.’

‘A fine boy,’ repeatedHenry.

‘He is to be called afteryou.’

‘Then there’ll be two ofus.’

‘He shall be Harry . . .HarryofMonmouth.’

‘Sobeit,’saidHenry.

She closed her eyes andhe turned away to themidwife. ‘Are the doctorshere?’

‘Yes, my lord, they arewaitingtoseeyou.’

Hetalkedlongwiththem.TheCountesswasexhausted.She needed rest . . . andpeace. As for the child, theyhoped they would keep himalive. His first need was astrongandhealthywetnurse.

Henry had one purposenow.Hemust save the childfor if he were lost he fearedthat Mary would die. It wasthe thought of the child thatwas keeping her alive. Thechildmustlive.

‘Findanurseatonce,’hecommanded. ‘There must beastrongandhealthygirlnearby.’

He paced up and downthe room.He heard the baby

whimper. He prayed forGod’s help; and suddenly anideacametohim.

He went down to thestables and commanded thegrooms to saddle his horse.Then he rode six miles toWelshBicknow, thehomeofhis friend John Montacutewho was the second son ofthe Earl of Salisbury. A fewweekspreviouslyJohn’swifeMargarethadgivenbirthtoa

lusty baby and some instincttold him that here he wouldfind the help he needed. Ithad been an inspiration.Margaret was feeding herchild.Shehadmilktospare.

‘Will you come and helpour little Harry?’ beggedHenry.

Ofcourseshewould.Shewould deem it an honour.Withinashort timeMargaretMontacutewasinMonmouth

and young Harry wassuckling contentedly at herbreasts.

After that he began tothrive, although, warned themidwife, he would not be arobust child and they mighthavedifficultyinrearinghim.However, his life wastemporarily saved and Marywasabletoholdherpreciouschild in her arms. A terriblefear had come to her that he

was dead and when she wasgiven proof of his existenceshebegantorecover.

It was not a speedyrecovery but she was gettingbetter every day and as foryoungHarrywhohad shownsuch reluctance to accept theworld, he began to growlively with the help ofMargaret Montacute’s milkand gave promise ofremaininginit.

Rather to the surprise ofthose about her Maryrecovered and if Harry wasnot exactly brimming overwithgoodhealthhesurvived,although his nurses insistedhe was a child whose healthwouldhavetobewatched.

Onedaytherecametothecastle a young woman, big-bosomed and wide-hipped,whoaskedthatshemightsee

theCountessofHereford.Mary received her and

discoveredthathernamewasJoan Waring and that shelived in a village nearMonmouth.

‘My lady,’ she said, ‘Ihear that there isababyherein the castle who is not asstrongasheshouldbe.Ilovelittlebabies.Ihaveraisedmyown. They were born strongandhealthybut ifyouwould

give me the chance I wouldliketocareforthislittleone.’

Marywasnotsosurprisedasmighthavebeenexpected;she knew there was a greatdeal of talk about youngHarry’s birth. The midwifehad boasted that she hadsavedhislifebysmackinghisbottom hard and forcing himto cry so that he brought theairintohislungs.Itwasoftenfoundexpedienttogetagood

strongvillagegirl to care fora baby of high rank and asMargaret Montacute couldnotbeexpectedtoremainforever as Harry’s nurse, itseemed a good idea to givethewomanachance.

She was obviously eagerfor the task andwhen youngHarry was brought out andshe took him into her arms,he seemed to take to herimmediately. He ceased

whimperingandlyingagainsther soft sturdy breasts heseemedtofindcomfort.

Mary decided that shewould engage Joan Waring.She did so and for somereason from that momentHarry’s health began toimprove.

They were anxiousmonths. Mary was not surewhether she wanted to hearthe news from Court or to

shutherselfawayfromit.Shelived in constant terror thatsome ill would befallHenry.Therewastroubleandhewasinthethickofit.

He had linked himselfwith the four whowere nowcalled the Lords Appellant.They had gathered togetheran army and had confrontedRichard, arm in arm to showtheir solidarity, and forcedhim to dismiss those

ministers whom theyconsidered to be giving himevilcounseland theyhadsetup the Merciless Parliamentwho forced the King’ssubmission.

She had waited intrepidation for somethingterrible to happen. Nothingdid. The country appeared tohave settled down; the Kingwas on the throne and heseemedtohaveprofitedfrom

recent events. The countryhad moved into a peacefulstage,andthiswasconfirmedwhen Henry came toMonmouthoncemore.

‘You see,’ he told Mary,‘your fears were withoutfoundation.’

‘There might have beenserious trouble. You mighthave been in danger,’ sheretorted.

‘Well, you see me here,

safeandwell.AndhowfaresyoungHarryofMonmouth?’

She was able to tell himthat young Harry was faringwell. She had found anexcellent nurse in a villagewoman named Joan Waring.Harrywasdevotedtoherandshetohim.

‘These village womenmake good nurses,’ was hiscomment; and his joy whenhe beheld young Harry was

obvious. The child hadchangedfromthefeeblelittlescrapofhumanitywhichhadfilled him with suchmisgivings a few monthsearlier.

‘Now,’ he said, ‘there isnolongertheneedforyoutoremain here in Monmouth. Iam going to take you awayfrom here to London andthen,Mary,youwillnotbesofar fromme.Doyou like the

idea?’Shedid like itverymuch

and preparations were set inmotion to leave youngHarry’sbirthplace.Theywereto go to London for a whileand as the palace of theSavoyhadbeendestroyedbythemobduring thePeasants’Revolttheytookupresidenceat Cole Harbour, one of thedeBohunmansions.

Itwasacoldanddraughty

house and Joan Waringexpressed her ferventdisapproval of it. The dirtystreets,thenoiseandallthosepeoplewerenotgoodforherbaby, she declared. What hewanted was some freshcountryair.

As littleHarry seemed toagreewith thisverdict itwassoon decided that Londonwasnot theplacetobringupthe child and on Henry’s

suggestion they retired toKenilworth.

By this time Mary wasoncemorepregnant.

Kenilworth! Howbeautiful it was with itsmassive keep and its strongstone walls. Here Mary feltsecure and because Henrystayed with her for a whileshewashappy.

In due course the timearrived for her child to be

born.Perhapsbecauseshefeltat peace if only temporarily,because Henry was with herand perhaps because she hadalreadyshown that shecouldbear a son, this confinementpassedoffwithmoderateeaseand to the delight of bothparentsanotherboywasbornto them. He was strong andlusty and they called himThomas.

Therewas great rejoicingin Kenilworth when newsarrived there that John ofGaunt had returned fromCastile, and so eager was heto see his grandsons that hewassettingoutatonceforthecastlewith hismistressLadySwynford.

Joan Waring wasdetermined to show off hercharges at their best at thesametimedeclaringthatthere

was not to be too muchexcitementforthatwouldnotbe good for her babies –particularly the Lord Harrywho was naughty enoughwithout that. She was moreconcernedabouthimthanshewas about baby Thomas.Lord Harry was what shecalled a Pickle and could bereliedupontomakesomesortoftroublenomatterwherehewas. Moreover his delicacy

persistedandshehadtokeepaspecialeyeonhim.

‘We must see that he isnot allowed to disgracehimself before hisgrandfather,Joan,’saidMary.

When the great manarrived accompanied by hisbeautiful mistress, heembraced his son and Marywarmly, studying Mary alittleanxiouslyforhehadhadwordoftheillnesswhichhad

almost ended her life at thetime of Harry’s birth. Shelooked frail still but her skinglowed with health and hereyeswerebright.

‘Andmygrandson?’criedthe Duke. ‘So this is youngHarry,eh.’

Heliftedupthechildandthe two regarded each othersteadily until Harry’sattention was caught by thelions and leopards

emblazoned on hisgrandfather’s surcoat and heclearly found them moreinterestingthantheirowner.

‘He looks to me like ayoung fellow who will havehisway,’saidtheDuke.

‘Mylord,youspeaktruththere,’ replied Mary. ‘He isthedespairofhisnurse.’

‘Well, we do not want aboy who is afraid of hisshadow, dowe. Sowe’ll not

complain.’He put down Harry who

madenosecretofthefactthatherelishedbeingreleased.

The babywas brought tohim and he took the child inhisarms.

‘Thomas isagoodbaby,’saidhismother.‘Hesmilesagreatdeal,criesverylittleandseemscontentedwithhislot.’

‘Let us hope he remainsso,’saidtheDuke.‘Youhave

afinefamily,Mary.MayGodbless you and keep you andthem.’

She thanked him and lefthim with Henry while shetook Lady Swynford to theroom she would share withthe Duke and talked to herabout the children andhouseholdmatters.

Lady Swynford, havingborne theDuke fourchildrenand being themother of two

by her first husband, wasknowledgeable and ready toimpart this knowledge andadvice.

She had a friendlypersonality and her devotionto the Duke and his to her,made Mary warm towardsher. Because she refused toconsider there was anythingshameful in the relationshipbased as it was on selflesslove, there seemed to be

none;andMarywashappytowelcome Lady Swynfordwith the respect she wouldhave shown to ConstanzaDuchess of Lancaster and,she was sure, with a gooddealmoreaffection.

The two women foundundoubted pleasure in eachother’scompany.Marycouldtalk of her anxieties aboutHarry’s health and hiswayward nature and

Catherine could imply herownanxiety forherBeaufortfamily, those three sons andone daughter who were theDuke’s and who wereillegitimate, for howevermuch their parents lovedthem the stigma was thereand the rest of the worldwouldnotpretenditwasnot.

However, they werephilosophicalandbothhappywiththeirlot.

Catherine could interestherself in the trivia ofdomesticity as deeply asMary could. She couldadmire Mary’s handsomepopinjay in itsbeautiful cageand declare that, althoughmany of the fashionableladies possessed them, shehad never seen a finer birdthanMary’s.Shecouldlaughat the antics of Mary’s dogsand compliment her on the

decorated collars of silk ingreenandwhitecheck,whichsheherselfhadhadmade forthem.Allthisshecoulddoasanywomanmightandyetshehad a deep awareness ofpolitical matters which shecould discuss with a lucidityMary had discovered in nooneelseandconsequentlyshecould more clearly picturewhat was happening.Moreover Catherine shared

Mary’s fears of what theirmen might be led into; andthey felt similarly about thefutilityofwarandanysortofconflict. Thus they foundgreatpleasureineachother’scompany.

Meanwhile theDukewasin earnest conclave with hisson.Heknewofcoursewhathadhappened inhisabsence,how Henry with the otherfour Lords Appellant had

facedtheKingandforcedtheMercilessParliamentonhim.

‘Dangerous,’ commentedthe Duke. ‘And your uncleThomasisnottobetrusted.’

‘Well I know that,’repliedHenry,‘butouractionborefruit.’

‘Do not underestimateRichard,’ insisted his father.‘HeactsfoolishlyIadmitbuthe has flashes of wisdom.You see he has extricated

himself from a very difficultposition, accepts therestrictions imposed on himandnowthatheisnothedgedin by his favourites, rulesmoderatelywell.’

‘Yet it was necessary toactashedid.’

‘That I do not deny. Butbe wary, Henry. Richard isnot likely to forget you five,and he is one who bearsgrudges.Itmightwellbethat

hewillseeksomerevenge.’‘But he must realise that

affairs run more smoothlynow.Heshouldbegratefultous.’

‘Do you think a king, nomatter who he was, wouldever forget being confrontedby five of his subjects whothreaten to take his crown ifhe does not behave as theythink fit. Nay, Henry. Walkwarily.Myadvicetoyouisto

stay in the country for awhile.Keepoutofpolitics.Itis a course I have had tofollowfromtime to timeandalways did so withadvantage.’

Henrydidseethepointofthisanddecidedhewouldtryit for a while but, as hepointed out to his father, hecouldnotbecontent foreverwith the life of a countrysquire.

‘There is to be a greatjoust at St Inglebert nearCalais. Why do you not goand show them your skill?Your brother John should gowith you. I doubt there aretwo knights in France orEngland who could comparewithyoutwo.’

The Duke spoke withpride. He was always tryingtobringforwardtheBeaufortbastards, the sons of

Catherine,andhelikedHenrytobeongood termswithhishalf-brothers.

‘It would keep you busyfor a while,’ went on theDuke, ‘and one can never besurewhat is going tohappennext. There might come atime when it would benecessary for you to takesome part in shaping affairs.But this is not the time.Richard has regained some

popularity since de Verewent.Thepeopledonotwanttrouble. Wait, Henry. Gocarefully, but keep yourimage before the people.Theylikeyoubetterthantheyever liked me. It would bewise for you to let it remainso.’

‘You ever gave me goodadvice,’saidHenry.

‘Mydearson,youaremyhope. Everything I dreamed

offormyself,Iwantforyou.My affairs in Castile aresettled now.Constanza’s girl–andmine–hasmarriedtheheir to thethroneandwillbeQueen of the Asturias. Thatsettles thatmatter.Constanzais pleased. Shewill not havethecrownnorshallI,butourdaughter will wear it. Yoursister Philippa has marriedtheKingofPortugal. I feel Ineednolongertakeanactive

partinstateaffairs.IhavenotachievedwhatIsetoutto,butwho does? I must now livethrough my children. Henry,one day, who knows whatwillbeyours...Bereadyforit.Richardisunstable...thedaymaycome. . .ButIwillsay no more. It is unwise todream too much. But beready . . . It isa stormy pathto greatness; so many fallthrough a false step.We are

set fair. You have two finesons.Iamproudofyou.’

‘You are right in all yousay, Father,’ saidHenry; andtheyweresilent,bothlookingintothefutureandthereweredreams of greatness in theireyes.

Before John of Gaunt’svisit was over Henry hadmadeuphismind to join thejoust at St Inglebert; and bythe time he left Kenilworth

Mary was once morepregnant.

The two brothers set outfor France and threwthemselves wholeheartedlyinto the task of upholdingEnglish honour against theFrench.

Theywerefriends,havingknown each other wellthroughout their childhood.Theirfatherhadneverwished

to segregate his legitimatechildren by Blanche ofLancaster from those whowere illegitimate byCatherine Swynford. Hisdaughter Catherine byConstanza of Castile hadalwayslivedwithhermother;but therestof thefamilyhadbeen together a good deal,often under the care of LadySwynford.

John was a young man

with his eye to his ownadvantage. He was a littleyounger than Henry, thoughnotmuch,hebeingtheeldestoftheBeaufortboys.Hewashandsome, showing morethan a trace or two of hisPlantagenet origins and hehad inherited a little of hismother’s unusual beauty. Hewas quick, clever, and apleasant companion; and,althoughhehadambitionsof

his own, he never for onemoment forgot that HenrywastheheirofLancaster,thathe had the tremendousadvantage of being thelegitimatesonandJohnknewthat all the blessings whichhis mother, brothers andsisters had enjoyed hadflowed from John of Gaunt,andwhenthatbenefactorwasremoved – and death onlywould remove him – they

would have to come fromHenrywhothenwouldbethenewDukeofLancaster.

John had a greatadmiration for royalty. Ithadbeen bred in him; it was hisboast thathehadroyalbloodin his veins – even though ithad been injected on thewrong side of the blanket –and therefore he doublyadmiredHenry,forthatbloodhad come to him not only

through his father but alsothroughhismother.

Henry was descendedfromHenrytheThirdonbothsides, for his mother andfatherwere thatking’sgreat-great-grandchildren and theirgreatgrandfathersEdwardtheFirst and Edmund Duke ofLancasterhadbeenbrothers.

There was completeharmony between thebrothers – John being

determined to please Henryand Henry enjoying theobvious respect of his half-brother.Moreover it was notmerely paternal pride whenJohn of Gaunt had declaredthem to be two of the finestexponents of the joust inEngland and France. Theyhadreceivedthebestpossibleinstruction in their childhoodand both being of a naturewhich longed to excel they

had turned into trulyformidableopponentsforanywhochallengedthem.

It was a glitteringoccasion, and a happy one,for it was such a pleasure togo into combat against theFrenchinajoustàPlaisance,and it transpired that the twochampions were Henry ofBolingbroke and his half-brother John Beaufort.Honourwasdonetothemand

theywerecheeredandfêted.Louis deClermont,Duke

deBourbon,whowasamongthe knights present, wasgreatly impressed by theirprowess and he invited themto come to his tentwhere hepromised to entertain themroyally.

Many of the Frenchnobles were gathered thereand the guests were servedwith special delicacies and

finewine such as theFrenchproduced better than anyother nation; and during thefeast Louis de Clermonttalkedatgreatlengthaboutanexpedition he was going tolaunch.

‘I have had a deputationsent to me from the richmerchants of Genoa,’ heexplainedtoHenryandJohn.‘It appears they are plaguedby Barbary pirates who

waylay their ships and robthem of their merchandise.They say the menace growsandtheypleadforhelp.’

‘What do you propose todo?’askedHenry.

‘Itwouldbeprofitableforallthosewhotookpart,’wentonLouis.‘Itwouldbeagreatadventure. We should behelpingtopromotetrade.Themerchants are doing goodwork.But they cannot go on

if this wicked piracycontinues. You ask what Ipropose, my friend. It is totakeout a bandof brave andadventurous men and attackElMahadia, the home of thecorsairs.Theysailfromthere;they have their homes there.Mahadia grows richer asGenoa grows poorer. Therobbersarewinningthebattleagainsthonesttraders.’

‘It sounds a worthy

project,’saidJohnBeaufort.‘It is, indeed it is.What I

need is men who know howto handle a sword. They aredesperatemen,thesecorsairs.Itwouldbe a fine adventure.We should recapture thespoilswhichhavebeenstolenfrom the merchants and letme tell you, the merchantswould be so grateful to seetheendofthecorsairsthatthegoodswouldbeourreward.’

‘Are you inviting us tojoin your expedition?’ askedHenry.

‘I should be glad of yourcompany,’wastheanswer.

JohnBeaufort’seyesweregleaming.Thethoughtofthattreasurewasveryattractivetohim.

Henrywasmorecautious.‘Let us think about it,’ hesaid. ‘It is not amatter tobelightlydecided.’

Louis de Clermontagreed. He was pleased; hefelt certain that these twoyoung men, who certainlyknewhowtohandleasword,would be members of hisparty.

When theywere alone intheir tent Henry and JohndiscussedthepropositionandJohnlistenedwiththeutmostrespect to what his half-brotherhadtosay.

‘Our father thinks that Ishouldnotbecomeembroiledin politics,’ said Henry. ‘ItmightbeagoodplantogotoEl Mahadia, particularly ifthere are good profits to bemade.’

John enthusiasticallyagreed.

‘We have given a goodaccount of ourselves at thejoust,’ he said. ‘Why shouldwenotdo the sameand reap

someprofitwithit?’‘Then let us go,’ cried

Henry.‘Together,’echoedJohn.‘We should return to

England with all speed. Weshall need to equip ourselvesand that will take a littletime.’

‘We could leave forEnglandtomorrow.’

‘Thenletusdoit.’Louis de Clermont was

overjoyed at their promise tojoin his expedition and assoon as the tide permittedtheysetsailforDover.

Henry was back inEngland in time for the birthof his third son. He wasnamed John. So now he andMaryhadthreeboysandtheirgrandfather was delighted tohave this one named afterhim. YoungHarry was three

years old and showing adecidedly rebelliouscharacter. The fact that hestill had a tendency to bedelicate meant that he wasspoilta littlebyJoanWaringwhorarely lethimoutofhersight. He was undoubtedlythekingofthenursery,whichwas understandable onaccount of his seniority, butthere was that about MasterHarry which implied that

nothing would deter him inthe business of getting hisownway.

MarywasdisturbedwhenHenry told her that he wasgoing to attack the Barbarypirates.ShehadbeenpleasedforhimtogotothejoustatStInglebert. He had stressedthat it had been á Plaisanceandshehadthought,Itisjusta game really, jousting withblunted lances or those fitted

with special heads whichrenderedthemharmless.Whycould they not always fightlikethat–iffighttheymust?But theBarbary piratesweredifferent. They weredesperate men. There wasrealdangerthere.

Henrytriedtosootheher;hegaveheranaccountofthejousts at St Inglebert andstressed his own success andthatofhishalf-brother,inthe

hope of implying that theywouldknowhowtheywoulddefend themselves.ButMarycould not be comforted andwas very uneasy, althoughshetriedtohidethis.

While Henry wasmustering the knights hewould take with him andgivinginstructionstoRichardKyngeston,themanwhomhecalled his ‘treasurer of war’,astowhatweaponsandstores

would be needed, he didmanage to spenda little timewithhisfamily.

He delighted in his sonsand in particular in Harry.Thiseldest sonofhiswassobright, a boy to be proud of.The fact that he wasconstantly in some kind ofmischief amused his father.Of course the child, being ofa quick and livelymind, hadalready grasped his

importance. Joan Waringmight scold and even deliverthe occasional slap but shewas always ready to followthat with a cuddle and anassurance that naughty as hewas he was her very specialLordHarry.

He would climb onto hisfather’s knee andHenry toldhimabout thejoust,andhowhe had tilted his lance at hisopponent and thundered to

meethim.Harry listened, brown

eyes alight with excitement.He was dark for aPlantagenet, but handsomenone the less, with an oval-shapedfaceandanosewhichwaslongandstraight.HewastoothinbutJoanWaringhadreportedthathewasthemostlivelyagilechildshehadeverencountered and it was heropinion that he would grow

outofhischildhooddelicacy.‘Go on. Go on!’ Harry

would shout if his fatherpaused and evenwent so faras to thumphimon thechestif hewere not quick enough,which shouldhavebrought areproof but Henry was sopleasedtoseehissonexcitedthat he let that pass andobeyedhim.

‘We scored a greatvictory over the French. We

werehonouredthroughoutthecountry. I and your uncleJohn Beaufort were theheroesofthehour.’

Harry did not take hiseyes from his father’s faceand Henry wondered howmuchofwhathewas toldheunderstood. He had a notionthat Harry just liked to beseated on his father’s kneebecause his father was themost important person in the

castle – apart from Harryhimselfofcourse–andHarryliked tobemademuchofbyhim.

His father watched himride his little pony, on aleading rein naturally. TheremustbenorisktotheheirofLancastereventhoughhehadtwo sturdy young brothers.Henry, like everyone else inthe household, felt that therewas something rather special

aboutyoungHarry.His father went down to

the field to watch him ridewithhisriding-master.Roundandroundthefieldtheywent.Harry was flushed withexcitementandeverytimeherodepasthisfatherhelookedathimsharplytoseewhetherhisfullattentionwasgiventothemarvellousprowessofhisson.

One day Henry was

standing with one or two ofhis men watching the ridinglesson when RichardKyngestoncameouttospeaktohim.Therehadbeenaholdup of some of the suppliesandtheywouldnotbeleavingforDoverforaweek.

Henry turned aside todiscuss this with Kyngestonjust as Harry rode by andseeing that his father’sattention was not on him,

Harry suddenly, by sometrickwhichhehadobviouslylearned, disengaged himselffrom the riding-master, andbrokeintoagallop.

The riding-master criedout ingreatalarmashewentafter the boy, and Henryimmediately forgotKyngestonashe sawhis sonmakingstraightforthehedge.

‘Oh God help us,’ hecried. ‘The boy will be

killed.’Harry was still ahead of

the riding-master. Henrystarted to run. The boy hadreachedthehedgeandturningand slackening speed beganto canter across the field.Hewas smiling triumphantly asthe riding-master caught upwithhim.

Henry said coldly: ‘Youareawickedboy.’

Harry looked defiant and

stillpleasedwithhimself.‘You know you are

forbiddentodothat.’Theboyjust regarded him ratherinsolently, Henry thought.‘Doyounot?’heshouted.

Harrynodded.‘AnswermewhenIspeak

toyou.’Harry paused. He was a

littleafraidofthecoldnessinhisfather’svoiceandeyes.

‘Yes,Iknow.’

‘Andyetyoudeliberatelydisobeyed.Youdefiedorders.Do you know what happensto people who defy theirmasters?’

Harrywassilent.‘Soyoudonotknow,eh.

Theyarepunished.Getdownfrom your horse. Go to yourroomandwaitthere.’

Harry dismounted andwentintothecastle.

Henry was far from as

calm as he seemed. He hadbeen deeply shaken by thesight of his son in danger;that had passed and he wasconfrontedbyanotherdanger.This boy was rebellious bynature and that rebellion hadto be curbed. He must bebeaten. And who wouldadminister the punishment?Joan Waring? She wouldneverdo it.Shewouldneverbeabletoforgetthatthiswas

herpreciouscharge.Hemustnotbehurt,shewouldsay,heis too delicate. Mary? Marywould be quite incapable ofinflictingabeating.Heknewthat he would have to do ithimself.Soon theboyshouldhave a tutor and he wouldhave to perform theseunpleasant duties – for itseemed likely that therewould be the need forchastisementinthefuture.

He took a stout stick andwent to the nursery. Harrywas there sitting on JoanWaring’s lap telling her awoeful story of his cruelfather.

Joan was horrified andtremblingwithagitation.

It is time, thoughtHenry,that the boywas taken awayfromaparcelofwomen.

Joan stood up when hecame in and Harry clung to

herskirtsburyinghisheadinthem.

‘Leave us,’ said HenrycurtlytoJoan.

Harry turned and glaredbalefullyathisfatherasJoangently prised his hands awayfromherskirt.

‘No,’ criedHarry. ‘Don’tlisten to him, Joannie. Don’tgo.’

‘Leave us at once,’commandedHenry.

Joan murmured as shepassed: ‘My lord, he is soyoung . . . and remember heisdelicate.’

Harry’s eyeswere on thestick,andHenryfelthisheartquail.Helovedthisboy.Thechildwouldneverunderstandthat this was no less painfultohimthanitwasgoingtobetoHarryhimself.

‘Youwereawickedboy,’hesaid trying to forceacold

noteintohisvoiceforhewassecretlyfullofadmirationforthemannerinwhichthechildhadmanagedthehorseanditwasobviousthathehadbeenquite fearless. ‘You have tolearnobedience.’

‘Why?’ asked Harrydefiantly.

‘Becauseweallhaveto.’‘Youdon’t,’hesaid.‘OfcourseIdo.’‘Whomdoyouobey?’

‘Thoseaboveme.’‘Nobody’saboveyou. . .

excepttheKing.DoyouobeytheKing?’

For a moment Henrythought of himself standingbeforeRichardwiththeotherfour Lords Appellant. Theboy was making himuncomfortable, insteadof theotherwayround.

‘Enough,’hesaid. ‘Comehere.’

He tried to make him lieacrossastool.Harrywriggledsofiercelythattherewasonlyone thing to do and thatwaspick him up and put himacrosshisknee.Hefeltlikeafoolisholdman.Neverthelesshebroughtdownthestickandit was effective to judge byHarry’syells.

Hewasgladhecouldnotseehisface.

Nottoomuch,hethought,

just enough to teach him alesson. He threw down thestickandpushedHarryoffhisknees.

The child glared at him.There were no tears, henoticed, though the little facewasscarletwithrage.

Henry said: ‘That willteachyoualesson.’

Thefinebrowneyeswerenarrowed. Never had hatredbeensoobviousasthatwhich

Henry saw in the face of hisson.

Mary was upset thatHenry had been obliged tochastiseHarry.

‘It had to be, my dear,’Henry explained to her. ‘Heis too wilful. We shall havetrouble with him later unlessafirmhandistaken.’

‘I trust you did not beathim too hard. Joan said his

screamswereterrible.’‘He was screaming with

rage.Hedidnotsheda tear,’headdedwithpride.

‘He is not four years oldyet.’

‘He cannot learndiscipline too young. I wanthimtogotoOxfordwhenheis a little older. His uncleHenry Beaufort will lookafterhim.’

‘I do not want him to

leave me too soon,’ saidMary. ‘Let me keep mybabiesforawhile.’

‘Of course, of course,’soothed Henry. ‘But not toomuch coddling of the child.Joanpampershim.’

‘She is very good withhim.Heissofondofher.’

‘I don’t doubt itwhenhetwists her round his littlefinger.’

‘Oh come, she can be

severe.Shewillslaphimifheneedsit.’

‘He is a child who is inconstant need of correction.Well, he has now hadsomethingwhichwill remindhimforsometimetocome.’

The following day Harrywasridingroundthemeadowbut his father did not go towatch him. Instead he spentthe time with his wife andyounger sons. Harry seemed

to take this philosophicallythoughwhenHenrywentintothenurserythechildeyedhisfather with caution, but in amomentor twoheseemed tohave forgotten the beatingandwasintentondrawinghisfather’s attention from hisbrothers tohimselfbyaskingabouttheBarbarypirates.

WithinashorttimeHenrysaid good-bye to his familyand set out for the coast.

Mary took Harry and.Thomas up to the topmostturrettowatchhimgo.

‘I want to go too,’declaredHarry.‘Iwant togoandfightthepirates.’

‘You must wait untilyou’re older,’ replied hismother.

‘I don’t want to wait. Iwanttogonow.’

‘Little boys don’t go andfightpirates.’

‘Yes,theydo.’‘Now, Harry dear, don’t

besilly.’Harry stamped his foot

and narrowedhis eyes in theway he did when he wasangry.

He snatchedhis handoutof hers and ran round thespiralstaircaseaheadofher.

He went into thebedchamberwhichshesharedwith his father. He was not

allowed to go there unlessespecially summoned buttherewasnoone tostophimnow. His father had gone tofightBarbarypiratesandhadnot taken him with him. Hetouched his buttocks. Hecould still feel the effects ofthe stick. Itmadehimangry,not so much because it hurthis body as his pride. Hehated to think that he, LordHarry–hismother’sdarling,

Joan’s little precious mite –had to be at the mercy of astrong arm. He was not surewhetherhehatedhisfatherornot. He did sometimes. Atothers he wanted to be likehim particularly if it meantfightingtheBarbarypirates.

But they wouldn’t takehimand theywereall sayinghowcleverhisfatherwasandthey were not taking enoughnoticeofLordHarry.

Hesawthepopinjayinitscage.Howpretty itwaswithitsbrightlycolouredfeathers.Sometimeshismotherlethimtalk to it and put the seedsintothecage.

Harrywassuddenlyangrybecausetheywereallmakinga fuss about his father, andtheywouldn’t lethimgoandfightthepirates.

On a sudden impulse heopenedthecage.

‘Come out, pretty bird,’he said. ‘Come and seeHarry.’

The bird flew out. Hewatched it fluttering roundthe room. Then it went outthroughthedoor.

‘Come back,’ he called.‘Comeback.’

But the popinjay took nonotice. It flew on . . . downthe staircase to the hall andoutthroughtheopendoorand

away.

ChapterIV

THELASTFAREWELL

Henry met JohnBeaufort at Calais. They hadreceived permission from theKing of France to cross hiscountryas theywerebentona mission which would

benefit the merchants ofFrance as well as those ofGenoa. While they were atCalais theywere joined by aknightwhowasonhiswaytoLithuania to fight with theTeutonicknights.

‘We are going to ElMahadia, the lair of theBarbary pirates,’ Henry toldhim. ‘Weplan to destroy theplace.’

‘Aworthycause,’ replied

theknight,‘butIameagertocrusade. I shall be fightingthe infidel. You may returnricher men but I shall haveexpiated my sins and havestruck a blow for Christ andChristendom.’

Henry was silent. It wastrue. Suddenly he had madeuphismind.

He sought out John andtold him that he had decidednottogotoElMahadiabutto

join the Teutonic knights inLithuania.

Johnwasastounded. ‘Mylord, you have come so far,’he protested. ‘Can youchangenow?’

‘Ican,’saidHenry,‘andIwill.Itisbetterformetowinhonour in fighting what istantamount to a crusade thantowin riches fromagangofpirates.’

John’s face fell. He had

been looking forward to thespoils which he was surewouldcomehisway.

Henryputhishandonhishalf-brother’s shoulder. ‘Youmustgoon,’hesaid.‘Oneofusmust. Take yourmen andthe equipment and travelacrossFrancetoMarseilles.IwillreturntoEngland.Ishallneed different equipment forLithuania and shall certainlynotsailfromCalais.’

‘Whatshallyoudothen?’asked the bewildered JohnBeaufort.

‘Return. Raise moremoneyandsetoutafresh.ButJohn,youmustgo.It iswhatour father would wish. Gowith his blessing and mineandmayGodgowithyou.’

Sothetwobrotherspartedand Henry returned toEngland.

Marywasdelightedtosee

him; but alarmed when sheheard that the new plan wasto go to Lithuania. Shebelieved this would be evenmore dangerous thanattacking the pirates. But atleasthewashomeforanotherbriefspell.

She was relieved that hewas so concerned with hispreparations that he couldgive little attention to youngHarry who seemed to grow

more and more wilful everyday. He had blatantlyadmitted to setting her petpopinjay free and when shehad asked himwhy, he said,‘Hewantedtogo.Hedidnotlikebeinginacage.’

Heshowednorepentancefor what he had done butwhen she told him thatpopinjays must learn to liketheircagesbecausetheywereunfit to live wild, he was

thoughtful and she thought alittlecontrite.

In her heart she guessedthathehadletthebirdgofreebecausehewantedtoturntheattentionof thehouseholdonhimself. The matter of greatconcern to everyone at thattime had been the departureof Henry and Harry haddoubtless felt himselfoverlooked.

She did worry about

Harry – but therewere otherthings to concern herselfwith. For instance Henry’sburning desire for adventure.Ofcourseshehadknownthatit would be impossible tokeephimwithher,thatinhisposition hemust take part inthe country’s affairs, but thiswasnot thecountry’saffairs.This was adventure for thesake of adventure, the desiretobesomewhereotherthanin

hisownhome.Thetruthwasthatthelovethatwasbetweenthem and the family theywere rearingwas not enoughforhim.Hesoughtadventureabroad.

The thought made hersad. She was foolish, sheknew. Her sister Eleanorwould laugh at her and tellher shedidnotbehave likealady of high rank but likesomepeasant,clinging toher

husband and her family. Shemust keep her thoughts toherself. Moreover theprospectofmorechildbearingfrightenedheralittle.Thelastconfinement had beenagonising. Joan Waring saidthat she thought her husbandshould know how shesuffered.

‘There are some ladieswho can bear children withease,’ said Joan, ‘and there

are some who cannot. Mylord and ladyhave three fineboys.For your health’s sake,my lady, that should beenough.’

She was right, Maryknew.ButhowcouldshetellHenrythat?

In due course he left forLithuania and the crusadewhich would wash away allhissins.

He had not been gone

very long when shediscovered that shewasoncemorepregnant.

After having landed atRixhöftHenryhastenedontoDanzig at which port themain body of his force hadlanded with their equipment.Within ten days they hadjoined up with the Teutonicknights andwere soon in thethick of battle ofAltKowno

whichwasknownlaterastheBattleofthePagans.

Henry and his allies wonan undoubted victory withfew casualties, andimmediately advanced onVilna and laid siege to thattown. It seemed as thoughvictory would be certain butthe inhabitantsofVilnawereastubbornandstoicalpeople;theywouldnotgivewayandas supplies were running out

for the besiegers it wasnecessary to call off theattack and return toKonigsberg.

By this time the winterhadcomeandactivitiesmustbepostponed.Henrysetupinquartersinthetownandtriedto fill in the time beforefightingcouldberesumed.

Thiswas not difficult forthe Teutonic knights weredelighted to have him with

them;hehad foughthard fortheircauseandtheywishedtoshowtheirgratitude,andtheyarranged that there shouldbegood hunting in the forestsand in the evenings feastingandmerriment.

OnedaywhenhereturnedfromahuntingpartyitwastofindanEnglishsailorwaitingforhim.

The man had come fromEngland he said for the

purpose of bringing him amessagefromtheLadyMary.

‘My lord,’ said the man,‘I am to tell you that yourlady was delivered of a fineboy.Shesays thatas the lastwas named for his paternalgrandfather this child shouldbe named for his maternalone.HeisHumphrey.’

Henry was so delightedthathegave themessenger apurseofgold.Fourboys!His

father would be pleased. Hehad done better than he hadforheonlyhadonelegitimateson. One could not reallycount the Beaufort boys.Harry, Thomas, John andnow Humphrey. Dear Mary,shehadplayedherpartwell.Nomancould everhavehadabetterwife.Maryhadgivenhim somuch, a fortune, foursons and docility andadmiration.She lookedup to

himandthoughthewasrightinall things.Hewasahappyman. If only his father hadbeen his father’s first-bornand was the son of a kinginstead of the grandson ofone, hewould be completelycontentwithlife.

As it was he had a greatdeal to be thankful for andnow there was a birth to becelebrated.

Christmaswould soon be

hereandonTwelfthNightheproposed that as he hadaccepted somuch hospitalityhe would now entertain hishosts. There should be abanquet in the Englishmanner with mummers,minstrelsandperhapsajoust.

Hethrewhimself intothepreparations. He had a newson, he kept remindinghimself. He could not stoptalking about his sons. Four

of them and he was youngyet. He would rival hisgrandfather for begettingchildren. Edward andPhilippahadhad twelve, andhesawnoreasonwhyheandMary should not equal thatnumber.

At his feast he receivedthe congratulations of hisallies. The health of hischildren was drunk withspecial mention of the

newcomerHumphreyandhiseldestHarrytheheir.

Rich presents werebroughttohim.Silks,velvetsand jewels; and from one ofthe Teutons three bears. ‘Toamuse those fine boys,’ saidthegiveroftheanimals.

ItwasagloriousoccasionandHenry thought howwisehe had been to indulge insuch an adventure whichcould bring him so much

pleasure while at the sametimeitwashedawayhissins.

Thewinter began to passand still hostilities were notresumed.At thebeginningofMarch he began to wonderwhether they would ever be,for the Teutons had beenunable to raise the moneynecessarytocarryonthewar,and it seemed as though itwasgoingtopeterout.

Henry began to consider

that it was time he returnedhome. After all he had notintended to stay away solong,soheorderedtwoshipsto be made by two Prussianship-builders,and,assoonastheywereready,tobeloadedthat he might set out on hisjourney home. The threebearswerecagedandbroughton board. It was not easy totake them with him but hecouldnotoffendthegiverby

leaving them behind and hesmiled to himself wonderingwhattheboyswouldthinkofthem.

Then they set sail andfinallytheycameintotheportof Hull where Henrydisembarked thoughmany ofthe party sailed down toBoston in Lincolnshire withthebaggage.

Henry had sent wordahead that he was coming

home and he wished thefamily to be at Bolingbrokewherehewouldcomewithallspeed.

Mary and the childrenwere awaiting his arrival.Johncouldnot rememberhisfather.Thomaswasnotreallysure whether he could; butHarry remembered. Heremembered his standingbeforehimwithastickinhishand. Strangely enough he

did not feel fear at thethoughtofhisfather’sreturn,only a kind of stimulation ashe would later when he wasgoingintobattle.

Mary’sfeelings,too,weremixed.Inonewayshelongedto see Henry and she wasthankfulthathewassafe;shewanted to hear of hisadventures;butatthebackofhermindwasthefearthattheresult of his return would be

another pregnancy for thatseemed inevitable wheneverHenrywashome.

During Humphrey’s birthshe had suffered intensely,andJoanWaringhadbecomeeven more concerned. Herrelief when Mary recoveredmade it obvious that she hadfeared the consequencesmight have been disastrous.‘Now there shouldn’t be anymore, my lady,’ she said.

‘Four fine boys! My lordcannot ask for more thanthat.’

Buthedid,ofcourse.Hewanted to rival hisgrandfather. Poor QueenPhilippa! Mary had neverknownherandsheheardthatshe had children easily, butshe had grown very fat andunabletomoveattheend.‘Itwas no sooner up fromchildbed with one than she

was preparing for another,’one of her women had said.‘Now that’s not good. Awoman needs a rest . . . agoodlongrestbetween.’

Shecouldagreewiththat.ButwhenHenrycame ridinginto the courtyard, his eyesshiningwith joy to see themall assembled there,when heembracedherandshefelthiswarmkissonhermouth, shethought: How could I tell

him? She could not. Lifemusttakeitscourse.

It was a joyful reunion.He must admire babyHumphrey.Hemust seehowJohnandThomashadgrown.And there was Harry too –justthesame–slendertothepoint of thinness, with thatoval faceandsharpeyes thatmissednothing–smoothdarkhairrareamongthefaircurlyPlantagenets.

Hehadchanged little.Hewas demanding attention asclearly as though he actuallyasked for it. He stood therelegsapart,fearingnothingbutthat somuch attentionmightbe given to the returningadventurer that peoplewouldforgetLordHarry.

There was greatexcitementwhenthebaggagearrived and Henry unpackedthe rich exotic things he had

brought for them. Thebeautiful silks delighted allthewomen;hehadbroughtaparrotforMary.

‘Something to make thatpopinjayofyoursjealous,’hetoldher.

Therewas a brief silencewhile Harry looked at hismother almost challengingly.He could almost hear thewhacksofthestickasitcamethroughtheair.

‘He escaped from hiscage,’saidMaryatlength.

‘Silly creature!’commented Henry. ‘Whatchance would it haveoutside?’

The thought of thepopinjay being set upon byfierce birds . . . eagles andhawks . . . disturbed Harryeven more than the memoryofthestick.

He said nothing. He

wouldneverletabirdoutofacage again. His mother hadexplained to him whathappened to cherished littlebirds when they fell amongthewildfowl.

It had made a deepimpressiononhimandMarybelieved that he had hadenough of a lesson. Shewould not tell Henry of themany scrapes in which theirfirst-born had been involved.

Shecouldnotbeartothinkofhis being beaten. Shebelieved there were otherwaysofteachinghim.

When Henry told thechildren about the bears theywereovercomewithaweandwonder. Harry could notrestrain his joy; he talked ofnothing else. Their fatherordered that a pit should bedug for them and there their

antics could amuse thechildren, but theremust be akeeper for them and thechildren must remember thatthey might be dangerousanimals.

The thought of dangermade Harry’s eyes sparkle.He was very anxious foreveryonetoknowthathewasnot afraid of anything.Thomas might be frightenedin the dark; Harry jeered at

that. When he heard theservants talking about thehare of Bolingbroke helistened intently; hefrightened Thomas with hisaccountofitandThomashadnightmares andwould awakecrying out that the hare wasin the room so that Joan hadto take him into her bed andassure him that therewas nosuchthing.

‘There is, there is,’

Thomas insisted. ‘Harry saysso.’

‘That wicked limb ofSatan,’ murmured Joan. ‘Ifthehare came for anybody itwouldbeforhim.’

Then she crossed herselfforshefearedshemighthaveillwishedherpreciousHarry.

Harry cared nothing. Heboasted that he wished thehare would come out andhe’dcatchit,hewould.He’d

catch and boil it in a pot fordinner.

‘You mustn’t say suchthings,’ said Joan. ‘If thishare is the shape some poortormentedsoulhastakenyoucouldn’t boil it in a pot andeatit.’

‘Icould,’boastedHarry.‘That boy frightens the

life out of me,’ Joan toldMistress Mary Hervey, anewcomertothecastlewhom

the Countess had engaged toact as a governess to thechildren.

Mary Hervey said thatHarry was a bold andimaginative boy, by far themost interesting child it hadeverbeenher lot to teach,soit was clear that she too hadfallenunderhisspell.

Mary Hervey taught thetwoelderboysandwhentheygrew older the others would

come under her care. Harrywasabrightchild,goodathislessons when he wasinterested in them and shehad hopes of making ascholarofhim.

In the meantime he wasobsessed with the bears andwhen they arrived, he wasalmostwildwithexcitement.

The keeper was going toteach them tricks and HarryandThomaswere allowed to

watch. The bears were in adeep pit from which theycould not escape. Only thekeeper went down to them.Everyone else, decreedHenry,mustwatchthemfromabove.

Every day for an hourHarry and Thomas wereallowedtowatchthem.Harrywouldbecomesoexcited;hewould shout to them. Heloved all three but the

smallest of them delightedhim most. He longed to godown and tell this bear thatone day he would rescue itfrom its pit and they wouldgo travelling together. Theywould have the mostwonderful adventures. Theywould go and joust with theFrench knights; then theywould go and fight with theTeutonic knights; and theywould always be together.

When his enemies weresurrounding him the bearwould come and drive themall away; and when somewickedmen tried to take thebearawayandputhimintoaring to be baited by wilddogs, Harry would leap intothering,killall thedogsandemerge triumphant with hisdeardearbear.

Itwasgallingthathewasneverevenallowedtogointo

thepit.The bear had become so

much a part of his days andhe half believed theadventures he had imaginedwere true. One afternoonwhenthehouseholdwasquiethe slipped down to the pit.The bears were sleeping.Around the top of the pitthere were iron spikes toprevent thebearsgettingout.Itwas not difficult forHarry

toslipbetweenthese.Nowhecould scramble down to thebears.

It was not as easy as hehad imagined.The slopewassteep. He made his waycautiously;heslippedalittle,regained his footing andcontinuedtoclamber.Nowhewasrightdowninthepit.Thebearslookedverybigsocloseandhecouldnothelpfeelingverysmall.Theywereasleep

– all of them, even his ownspecialbear.

What would havehappenedtoHarryinthebearpitwasneverknownbecausethe keeper happened to passby at that moment andglancingdownintothepit,hecould not believe his owneyes. When he had assuredhimselfthatitwasindeedtheLord Harry who was downthere, he was horrified. The

bears were sleeping and ifthey were disturbed theycouldbebad-tempered.Whatmight happen then, he darednot think. He could not slipthrough the spikes as Harryhad been able to, but in thepitwasahutwhichheusedtoprepare the bears’ food andstore other things he neededfor thecareof them,andthiswasreachedbystepsfromtheoutside and into the pit. He

unlockedthegatetothestepsand within a short time hewas in the pit. Harry wasstanding by the smallest ofthe bears and talking to it.The bear had awakened andwas sniffing the child. ThekeepersnatchedupHarryandcarriedhimintothehut.

‘How did you get downhere?’hedemanded.

‘I got through the spikesandclimbeddown.’

‘You have been told nottodosuchathing.’

‘No I have not,’ saidHarry. ‘I have not been toldnot to go through the spikesanddownintothepit.’

‘But you knew the bearscouldbedangerous.’

Yes, Harry had knownthat, but no one had said hemust not get through thespikes.

Ofcoursehehadnotbeen

toldpreciselythatbecausenoonehadthoughthewoulddoso.

‘IshallhavetotellwhereIfoundyou,’saidthekeeper.

‘Why?’askedHarry.‘Because youmight have

beenkilled.’‘My bear would never

have killed me. If the othershad tried to he would havesavedme.’

The keeper was

exasperated. He would haveto tell Harry’s father for iftherewasanaccidentlaterhewould be blamed. He couldnot risk that. The boy had tobestopped.

Mary was with Henrywhen the keeper asked to beseen.Harrywaswithhimandhe explained where he hadfoundhim.

‘He was quite fearless,my lord. There in the bears’

pit. Why, they could haveturnedonhim.’

‘Oh Harry!’ cried hismotherreproachfully.

But it was at his fatherthatHarrywaslooking.

Henry regarded his sonsternly. ‘Go to your room atonce,’hesaid.

Harryliftedhisheadhighand gave his father thatdefiantlookwhichHenryhadseen before. But he obeyed

andwentfromtheroom.‘He had worked his way

through the spikes, my lord.Hehadscrambleddown.He’sso fond of the bears,especially the smallest one.He was talking to it when Ifoundhim.Icouldseehewasgoing to touch it at anyminute.My heart was inmymouthasIsnatchedhimup.’

‘You did well,’ saidHenry.‘Putmorespikesinso

that not even the smallestchild can get through. I shallremember what you havedonetoday.’

The keeper went outgratified andMary said: ‘OhHenry,heisonlyachildyouknow.’

‘What I don’t know iswhatwearegoingtodowithhim.’

‘Henry, you won’t beathim too hard. He is really

delicate, you know, althoughit’shardtobelieve.’

‘He doesn’t seem to beafraidofanything.’

‘Itisadmirableinaway.’Henry smiled slowly.

‘You’re right,’ he said.‘Whenhelooksatmein thatdefiantway I thinkhewouldliketokillme.’

‘OhHenry,don’tsaysuchthings.You’rehishero.Inthegamesheplays it isallabout

what you are doing. HepretendstojoustandfighttheLithuanians. And he alwaystakesyourpart.He isalwaysyou. Poor Thomas has to bewhateverHarry decides. It isjust that he has unboundedenergy and he does get intosuchmischief.’

‘He is a grand boy, I’llgrant you. But he needsdiscipline.I’llgotohim.’

‘Henry.’ She laid her

handonhisarmpleadingly.‘Rest assured,’ he said

softly, ‘Iwilldowhat isbestforhim.’

Harry was waiting forhim,sullenanddefiant.

‘Harry,’ said Henrysittingdown,‘Iwishtospeaktoyou.Comehere.’

Harry went. He waslooking for the stick. Hecouldnotunderstandwhyhisfatherhadnotbroughtit.

Henry drew the boy tohim. ‘Why are you sodisobedient?’heasked.

‘Iwasonly talking tomybear.’

‘You know you are notsupposedtogodownintothebearpit.’

Harrywassilent.‘Didyouknowit?’‘Nobodysaid.’‘Youknew it though, did

younot?’

‘IknewThomasmustnotgo.’

‘And you thought youmight?’

Harrydrewhimselfup tohis full height. ‘I knew theywouldn’thurtme.’

‘Soyouwerenotafraid?’‘If theothershad tried to

bite me we’d have foughtthem.’

‘Whowould?’‘MybearandI.’

Henry thought: It isuseless. I should be proud ofhim. I could never haveendured a weakling. He isfearless. He is a boy anyfatherwouldbeproudof.

‘Harry,’ he said, ‘youknow your grandfather is averygreatman.’

‘He’s John of Gaunt,Duke of Lancaster,’ saidHarrypromptly.

‘That’sright,andbecause

he is who he is you mustlearn to be worthy to be hisgrandson.Youmust bebold;you must fear nothing butwhatisevil.’

‘I’m not afraid of evil,’boastedHarry.

His father smiled.‘Harry,’ he said, ‘I am notgoingtobeatyouthistime.Itwaswrong togo into thepit.Youmighthavebeenmauledby the bears, perhaps even

killed.Youmustthinkbeforeyouact.Ilikeitwellthatyoushould not be afraid but youmust be more thoughtful forothers.Thinkofhowsadyourmother and I would be, andyourbrotherstoo, ifanythinghappenedtoyou.’

Harrywasshockedbythethought. Then he said:‘Thomas and John wouldn’tmind and Humphreywouldn’tknow.’

Henry said: ‘And I andyourmother...?’

‘You don’t likeme,’ saidHarry. ‘You don’t like mewhenIdobadthings...andIdoalotofbadthings.’

‘Harry, will you promisemeonething?Ishallgoawaysoon.Iwantyoutolookafteryour mother and yourbrotherstillIcomeback.’

Harry looked pleased attheprospect.

‘You,’ saidHenry, layinga hand on his shoulder, ‘willbe the head of the housewhileIamaway.Mysonandheir. Who else should guardmy home? But of course ifyou are going to do foolishthings . . . a little boymightdo...wellthenitisuseless.’

Harry cried: ‘I won’t dosillythings.I’llbeheadofthehouse.’ Henry drew him tohimandheldhimfast.Itwas

rare for him to demonstratehisaffection.

Perhaps thiswas thewayto deal with this son of his.He was thanking God forhim. He was at heart veryproudofHarryandwouldnothave had him other than hewas.

John of Gaunt came toBolingbroke to see thefamily. This was a great

occasion. The children werevery much in awe of him,even Harry in spite of hispretencenot tobe–but theywere fondofLadySwynfordwho always accompaniedhim.

He inspected the bearsandtheparrotandthefalconsand the dogs, and heard anaccount of young Harry’sdescent into the bear pitwhichamusedhimandwhich

he applauded as showing adaringspirit.

There was no doubt thatHarry was the one whoaroused themost interestandHarry was deeply aware ofthis.

But theDuke’smotive invisiting his sonwas not onlytoseethechildren.

AshetoldHenry,whileitwas wise to hold aloof fromdangerous factions he must

not lose thehighplace in thekingdomwhichwashis rightashisfather’sheir.

‘We must have peacewith France,’ said the Duke.‘There will be no prosperityuntilwedo.Richardseesthis,I think, I am sure that hewishes that this claim to thecrown of France had neverbeen raised. He agrees withmethatweshouldtrytobringabout some sort of

settlement.’‘You mean you are

proposingtotakeanembassytoFrance?’

‘I mean just that,’ saidJohn of Gaunt, ‘and youshouldbeapartofit.’

Catherine Swynfordtalked with Mary about theproposed mission which theDuke had discussed at greatlengthwithher.

‘It will take them away

again,’ she said, ‘but at leastit will be on a peacefulmission.’

Mary toyedwith the ideaoftellingCatherineaboutthefears that came to her andhowaftereachpregnancyshefelt a little weaker. Butsomehowshecouldnotbringherself to do so. Catherinelooked so full of healthalthough she was so mucholder and she had borne the

Duke four children and herhusband twowith, it seemed,theutmostease.

Mary felt ashamed ofherself for being so weak.After all it was a woman’smissioninlifetobeamother.

So she said nothing andinstead discussed theprospects of peace withFrance.

Induecoursetheembassyleft and by this time Mary

wasoncemorepregnant.The terrible foreboding

cametoher.Shefeltillasthemonths passed. I must tellHenry, she promised herself.Theremustbeanendtothis.We have four sons and nowthereisthisotherchild.

Thatmustbeenough.She had the feeling that

she must get away fromBolingbroke. Perhaps a stayin pleasant Peterborough

would do her good. In anycaseachangeofscenewouldbe beneficial. There wasexcitement in moving fromcastle to castle. After hisadventure in the bear pitHarry had lost some of hisdevotiontothebears.Hewasmore interested in a falconwhich he had had given tohim. The children wouldenjoyamove.

So they travelled to

Peterborough.Strangely enough Mary’s

health improved.Themonthspassedquicklyand therewasnews from France.Everywhere theEnglishwenttheyweretreatedwithhonourand courtesy by the French;there were tournaments andbanquets at which as usualeach tried to outdo the otherinsplendour.

Henry excelled as always

at the joust and there hemetthose on pilgrimages to theHolyLand.Itoccurredtohimthen that that was somethinghe would like to undertake.The truthwas thatheneededadventure. When he hadjoined with the LordsAppellant there had beenplenty of that, but now thatthe King had settled downand the Queen was besidehim to keep a steadying

influence on him, life hadchanged in England; andtherewasnotenoughtokeepamanlikeHenryoccupied.

He fancied going on apilgrimage and discussed itwith his father, who thoughtitagoodidea.

He had heard fromMarythat she was once againpregnant. She seemed to behaving a child almost everyyear which was very

commendable. The more hisfamily grew, the happierHenry was. Boys to standbeside him and support himin his quarrels, girls tomakegood alliances and bringmore strength to his house.They were young yet. Marywasnowtwenty-two;shehadyears of childbearing beforeher. Yes, theywere going torivalEdwardandPhilippa.

Meanwhile Mary waited

inPeterborough.She was aware of the

anxiouslooksofJoanWaringandMary Hervey; she knewthattheywhisperedaboutherandfearedtheworst.

Joan was indignant.Ladieshadmoretodoin lifethan bear child after child.This was for gipsies and thepoor, my lord shouldunderstand this.Ofcoursehedid not knowwhat toll these

pregnancies tookof theLadyMary. When he came hometherewasababysmiling–oryelling–in itscradleandhisladywifesmilingasthoughithad all been as easy as shecouldhavewishedittobe.

Itwasspringandthebudswere opening and the birdswere going wild with joywhenMary’spainsstarted.Acold fear took possession ofherasherwomenhelpedher

tobed.‘Let me come through

this,’ she prayed. ‘What ofthechildrenifIdonot?Theyneed their mother. Oh God,letmeliveandletthisbethelast.’

It seemed as though herprayers were answered for itwas an easier birth than theothers; the baby was smallbutperfectlyformed.

Alittlegirl.

It was a change after thefour boys. She marvelled atthedaintycreatureandinthatmomentshethoughtitwasallworthwhile. She had fivewonderfulchildren.Shemustnotcomplainbecauseshehadhad topayacertainprice forthem. The painful birth . . .thedeteriorationofhealth...theycouldbeforgottenwhileshe held her baby girl in herarms.

WouldHenrybepleased?She believed so. After alltheyhadtheirfourboys.

Shethoughtofanameforthe child. She should benamed after Henry’s mother.Blanche, that was a goodfamily name. So Blanche itshouldbe.

The little girl thrived andMary was delighted that sheshould feel so much betterthansheusuallydidafterher

confinements.Henrywasasdelightedas

Mary had known he wouldbe. He was pleased that sheshould be called after hismother whom the poetChaucer had extolled in hisversesbutwhomHenrycouldnot remember. He sent silksfrom Champagne andFlanders to decorate the fontin Peterborough Cathedraland there Mary’s fifth child

wasbaptised.

Henry returned toEngland but almostimmediatelysetoutagain.Hewas going to travel acrossEuropetotheHolyLand.OnthewaytheKingwishedhimtocallontheQueen’sbrotherWenceslas who was also theHoly Roman Emperor. Hewastopayhisrespectsandtolet Wenceslas know how

devoted Richard was to hisQueen. Indeed there was noneedbecause thedevotionoftheroyalpairwaswellknownthroughoutEurope.However,it was a friendly gesture andone which Henry wasdelightedtomake.

FromBohemiahewenttoVenice where he arrangedthatashipwascommissionedand when it was built andfilledwiththerequisitestores

hesetoutforPalestinewhichhe reached induecourse.Hepaid a visit to theChurch ofthe Holy Sepulchre at theMountofOlivesandglowingwith righteousness he beganto journey home. He stayedfor a while on the island ofCyprus where he wasentertained by its King andwhen he had watched theperformingbearshecouldnotresisttellingthestoryofhow

his firstborn had fearlesslydescendedintothepittoplaywith the bear. The boy’svalour was applauded andwhen he was leaving, theKing presented him with aleopard.

‘To amuse the youngLord Harry,’ was thecomment, ‘but tell him hemust not come too close tothisone.’

‘Which,’ replied Henry,

‘would be the way in whichtomakehimdoso!’

‘Oh he is a bold bravePrince, that one,’ was thelaughingreplyandacagewasfound for the leopard so thatit might accompany HenrywhenhereturnedtoEngland.

John of Gaunt sent amessage to him. It was timehe came back. A newsituation was arising in thecountry.TheEarlofArundel,

one of the five LordsAppellantwho had faced theKing with Henry, wascirculating rumours aboutJohn of Gaunt, doubting hisloyaltytotheKing.

The Duke was soon ableto deal with these and sostrongly had he won theKing’s confidence thatRichard commandedArundeltoapologisetohisuncle.

Richard had come to

believe that John of Gauntwashismost trustedally.Hewas too old now towant thecrown for himself, moreoverit was understood thatRichardwas undoubtedly thetrueheirtothecrownandthatitwouldbefollytoattempttoshift it from his head. Thesewereuneasydayswhenthoseabout the throne must takecarehowtheywalked.

HenryreturnedandMary,

toherdismay,discoveredthatshewasoncemorepregnant.Her spirits drooped for thistimeshefeltreallyill.

Theremust be an end tothis incessant childbearing.Shewouldhave totellHenryhow she dreaded it. He wasnaturally not aware of thisbecause he was generally ifnot out of the country awayfrom the family circle. Soonafter she had made this

alarmingdiscoverynewswasbrought to the castle of thedeath ofHenry’s stepmother,Constanza of Castile. Maryhad met Constanza onlyrarely and she had alwaysseemed remote, for Henry’sstepmother was entirelySpanish and had never fittedinto the English way of life.She and her husband hadrarely lived together andsince they had returned from

Castile after arranging themarriage of their daughterCatherinewiththeheirofthatcountry, Constanza seemedeven more like a stranger tothem all. The Duke’s wifewas in all but legalityCatherine Swynford and itwasCatherinewho interestedherself in family affairs andwhom the children loved.Still it was a shock as deathmust always be and Henry,

whocameback to thefamilyforabriefspell,expressedhiscuriosity as to what wouldhappennow.

The Duke was free ofConstanzabutcouldhemarryCatherine Swynford? If hewerenotthesonofakingheundoubtedly would. But hemust always remember thathe was King Edward’s son.‘Of one thing we can besure,’ Mary pointed out,

‘Lady Swynford will notattempttoinfluencehim.’

‘He cannot marry her,’saidHenryemphatically.‘Hisrankistoohighandsheistoohumble.’

Marysighed.‘Thereisnowoman in the country moreworthy to be the Duchess ofLancaster.’

‘In all ways but one,’agreed Henry. ‘Her humblebirthcanneverbeforgotten.’

‘Can it not?’ askedMaryalmostwonderingly.

Then she said that shewould like togo toLeicesterforachange.Shewanted thenewchildtobebornthere.

A terrible tragedy hadstruck theKing.His belovedwife, who was knownthroughout the country asGood Queen Anne, caughttheprevailingsicknessandin

afewweekswasdead.The King’s grief

maddened him and he wasinconsolable. Anne had beenhis constant companion andhad grown ever closer sincethe passing of his friendRobertdeVere.Hecouldnotcontemplate life without herandwas filledwith rage thatfatecouldhavebeensocruelas to take from him thisbelovedQueen.

In his uncontrollableangerheslashedthehangingsin the room where she haddied and declared that henever wanted to see Sheenagain.

Then his morbid ragetookpossessionofhimsothathe was unable to control it.He broke up the furniture inthat room; he destroyed itutterly. Never could he beartolookonthatroomagain.

There is death in the air,thoughtMary.

The time was growingnear. JoanWaring andMaryHervey were growing moreandmoreuneasy.

‘Thereisnotimebetweenforher to recover,’grumbledJoan.‘Itisamercymylordisaway on his travels or theintervals would be evenshorterI’dswear.’

‘If he were here perhapshewouldbeawareofthetollitistakingofher.’

‘Men!’ snapped Joan.‘Whatdo theyknowof thesematters. All they think of istheir own pleasure andgettingchildrentobringthemhonour and glory. My lordwill have to be spoken toafter this one and if no oneelsewilldoitIwill.’

‘Better leave it to my

lady.’‘She, poor soul, does

nothingbutsubmit.’‘Sheisagreatlady.’‘Thebestintheland.But

thatwon’t bringher through.Ifearforher,Mary.Ifearforher.’

‘You have always fearedyetsherecovers.’

‘Yes, in time for thenextone. It will not continue, Iknowthat.’

‘You fret too much,Joan,’ Mary Hervey said.‘Blanche’swasaneasybirth.’

Joan said nothing. Shepursed her lips to expressdisapproval.

The weeks passed andMary was so tired that shespentmostofhertimeinbed.She was glad Henry wasaway. She would have hatedhimtoseeherso indisposed.Thousands of women were

havingbabieseveryday.Andshehadonlyfive.Itwasnotagreatnumber.Itwasjustthattheyhadseemedtofollowsoquicklyononeanother.

Perhaps when this childwas born, she would try toexplaintoHenry...

Summer had come. Shethought of Constanza andwondered what her life hadbeenwithahusbandwhohadmadenosecretofthefactthat

he had married her for thesake of her crown. Henrywould never have beenallowed to marry her, shereasoned, if it had not beenfor her fortune, but they hadmet romantically and theyhad been lovers. Yet he hadknownfromthefirstwhoshewas and had no doubt beenadvisedbyhisfather tocourther.

Perhaps it was better not

to probe into motives tooclosely. Suffice it she hadbeen happy – completelyhappy in those first yearsbefore the fearsome task ofbearingchildrenhadbegun.

It is my weakness, sheadmonished herself. Otherwomen do the same withoutcomplaint.

She thought often of theKing and his grief. She hadheard how he had destroyed

the room at Sheen in whichthe Queen had died becausehe would never be able tobear to look at it again.Andtheirshadbeenamarriageofconvenience, arranged bystatesandtheyhadneverseeneach other until Anne hadcomefromBohemiatomarryhim.

Poor, poor Richard.Unhappy King; who hadcometooyoungtothethrone

but had found a wife whomhe could love and then hadlosther.

Butshemustnotbroodondeath. There was a lifestirring within her. And shelovedherchildren.Shelovedthem dearly. Once they hadarrivedandshehadrecoveredfrom the ordeal she washappy...untilthetimecametogivebirthagain.

I am a coward, she

thought.And then:Butoh, ifHenry only knew the pain Isuffer!

Leicester was amagnificentcastlesituatedonthe right bank of the RiverSoar,justoutsidethecitybutclose to the wall which theRomans had built when theycalled the townRatae.Whenthenamehadchangedshedidnot know but the town andthecastle,whichhadbeenof

great importance both to theSaxons and the Danes, hadcome into the possession oftheHouse ofLancastermorethanahundredyearsagoandJohn of Gaunt had restoredand beautified it in themanner he liked to employwith so many of hisproperties.

Junewasalmostoverandthebirthwasimminent.Marylayonherbedwaitingforher

painstostart.Her labour was long and

arduous.All through the dayand night it persisted. Thepain grew more intense andneverbeforeeveninhermostgruellingexperienceshadsheknownsuchagony.

Whenatlastthechildwasbornshewastooexhaustedtoask its sex and if it werehealthyineveryway.

Her doctors said above

everything she must rest.They gave her a soothingpotionandsettwowomenbyherbedsidetowatchoverher.

The child was a healthygirl. As soon as Joan heardher lusty cries she was theretoseehernewcharge.Afinegirl!

‘Bless you,’ shemurmured, ‘let us hope yourcominghasnot costmy ladytoomuchstrength.’

It seemed that it had costa great deal for Maryremained exhausted throughthe days that followed, butwhenthebabywasbroughttoher and laid in her arms shewascontentwithit.

‘Ihavegivenmylordsixchildren,’shesaid. ‘That isafair number – four boys andtwogirls–isitnot?’

Her women assured herthatitwas.

‘Iamtwenty-fouryearsofage,’shesaid.‘Howlongcana woman expect to go onbearingchildren?Anothertenyears?’ She smiled wanly.‘Not forme, I think.Not forme.’

Joan saidquickly: ‘Six isagoodlynumber.Itisenoughfor any parents, no matterwhotheybe.’

‘Queen Philippa boretwelve,’shesaid.

‘Itistoomany,’mumbledJoan.

‘I shall call this childPhilippa after that GoodQueen,’saidMary.

They took the baby fromher for she was so easilytired.

During the next day alassitude came over her andshe lay listlessly in her bed.Shekeptdrifting intosleep–though it did not seem like

sleep but almost as thoughshe had escaped from thepresentintothepast.ShewasintheconventandtheAbbesswas with her. ‘You must besure if this is the life youwant,Mary.’Ohthepeaceofthe life – lived by bells, shehadalwaysthought.Bellsfornones,bellsforcompline...working in the herb garden,baking thebread, tending thepoor, living in a bare cell

chilled to the bone in thewinterbutsomehowhappyintheserviceofGod.

Shehadturnedawayfromit. Henry had made her turnandfromthemomentshehadmethimintheforestshehadhadnolongeranydesiretobea nun. Her future had beenplannedsheknew.ShewasapawninthehandsofthegreatJohn of Gaunt as she wouldhavebeeninthehandsofher

sisterandEleanor’sambitioushusband.

But it hadcomeabout sonaturally and nomatterwhathappened she would neverwant to be without herchildren. Beloved children.Harry the rebellious,Thomaswholikedtoimitatehiselderbrother;Johnwhowasagoodboy, and little Humphrey.ThensweetBlancheandnowPhilippa. No, they were her

life, though soon the boyswould be taken away fromher, but at present she hadthem.

She asked thatHarry andThomasbesenttoher.

They came and stood byher bed, rather overawed,whichwas strange forHarry,but he realised there wassomething momentous aboutthisoccasion.

Her eyes rested onHarry

– seven years old now, withmore of a look of de Bohunthan Plantagenet. Thatsmooth dark hair and browneyes and oval face, the veryslenderlittlebody.Helackedthe tawny lion-like looks ofhis paternal antecedents. Thebrown eyes were curiousnow, alert with speculation,but at the same time he wasclearly disturbed to see hismother looking so unlike

herself.‘Harry,’ she said, ‘come

near the bed.’ She took hishand.‘AndThomas.Cometotheotherside.There,Ihaveasononeithersideofme.Youwould guard me, would younot?’

‘What against?’ askedHarry.‘Noonewillharmyouhere.’

She thought: AgainstDeath.Death is in the castle,

myson.Ifeelhimclose.She laughed and said:

‘No, but I like to have youwithme.’

‘Noenemyofmyfather’scould come into the castle, Iwould stop him,’ boastedHarry.

‘So would I,’ addedThomas.

‘God bless you both, mysons. I know you would. Iwant you always to be

friends. Will you promisethat?’

The boys lookedbewildered, and Mary wenton. ‘I knowyouquarrel nowand then in the schoolroom.But you forget yourdifferences after a while,don’t you? And if anyonetriedtoharmThomas,Harry,you would go to his rescuewouldn’tyou?’

‘Isanybodygoing tohurt

him?’ asked Harry, his eyessparkling.

‘No,no.ButIjustsaidif...’

‘People do not say ifunless they think it mayhappen,’ replied Harrysagely.

She thought: I must notalarm them. Harry is toosharp and Thomas iswondering what is going tohappentohim.

‘I just want you toremember it is my wish thatyou should always befriends.’

‘You don’t want me togive him my new falcon?’askedHarrysuspiciously.

‘Iwant it,’ cried Thomashopefully.

‘No, no,’ replied theirmother. ‘Justbegoodfriendsalways . . . and never let aquarrelbetweenyoulast.’

The two boys weresurveying each other acrossthe bed with intensity andMarysaidquickly,‘Youhaveanewsister.’

‘We have one,’ saidThomas.

‘We did not really wantanother,’ added Harry ratherreproachfully.‘Andyouweresoillbringingher.’

‘You mustn’t hold thatagainsther.’

‘Whenwillyoubeup?’‘Soon.’‘And shall we have a

feast? And will my fathercome?’

‘Yes, we shall and hewill.’

She closed her eyes.Harry beckoned his brotherand at that moment Joancamein.

‘Come,’ she said, ‘yourmotheristired.’

AssheledthemoutHarryturned to her and said: ‘Ithinkshewastryingtotellusthatsheisgoingaway.’

Therewasagloominthecastle and a terriblepremonitionofdisaster.

Men and women walkedabout on tiptoe and spoke inwhispers. The Countess wasinafever.

In the nursery the new

babythrived.Awetnursehadbeenfoundforheranditwasnot the baby who showedsigns of her difficult entryintotheworld.

Thequestionwaswhethera message should be sent totheEarl ofDerby to tell himthatthehealthofhisCountesswas causing grave anxietyandthatsincethebirthoftheLady Philippa gravesymptoms were beginning to

show themselves. Theyhesitated, but as the dayspassed itwasconsidered thathemustbetold.

Henry was alarmed. HecameatoncetoLeicester.

Inhishearthehadknownthat Mary dreaded childbirthbut he had looked upon it asoneof the inevitablepatternsoflife.

Children were the veryreason for marriage and he

haddelighted in the fact thathehadsixandwashopingformore.

And now Mary was ill.Theafter-effectsofchildbirth,he assured himself. It wasnothing.Thosewomen abouther fussed too much. Theyencouragedherfears.

Neverthelessherodewithallspeedandwhenhearrivedat the castle, a terribledepressioncametohim.

He went at once to hiswife’s bedchamber. The palewan figure lying on the bedwas scarcely recognisable.Her dark hair hung lank andlimp about her emaciatedfeatures; only her eyesseemed the same; loving,earnest,eagertoplease.

‘Henry,youcame.’‘My love,’he said, ‘what

ailsyou?’‘Itwastoomuch,Henry.

..toomuch.’‘Thechildiswell.’‘ThankGod,sheisafine

child. It is your poor Marywhohaschanged,Henry.’

‘You will soon get well.We’ll have six more yet,Mary.Yousee.’

She smiled wanly, andshookherhead.

‘Well,’ said Henry, ‘wehaveoursix.OhMary,Ihatetoseeyoulikethis.’

‘I know. I did not wishyou to see me so, but theywouldsendforyou.’

‘I am happy to be withyou.’

‘I have not disappointedyou?’

‘My dearest, you havemade me so happy. I haveneverceasedtoloveyoufromthe day we first met in theforest.Doyouremember?’

‘It is something I shall

never forget. I treasure thememory...andIhavegivenyousixchildren,haveInot?Ididmydutyasawife...’

‘Oh speak not of duty. Ithasbeenforlovehasitnot?’

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘for love.Always remember that,Henry.Forlove.’

He sat long by her bedandshemadehimtalkof thepast,ofthosedaysatArundeland then the birth of Harry

and how they had been sohappy in the early days oftheirmarriage.

Afterwards he had beenaway so much and she hadseen him rarely, just oftenenough to become pregnantand start the exhaustingbusiness of bringing anotherchildintotheworld.

Buttheywereherbelovedfamily and blessings had tobepaidfor.

Afterawhilehe saw thatshewassleepingandhecreptawayandlefther.

Soon after his arrival itbecame clear that she wasveryill.Thefinestdoctors inthe country were at herbedside, but there wasnothing they could do. Shewas exhausted, worn out bytoo much childbearing. Shewassmallandfragileandnotmeant for such an arduous

life.Henry was bewildered.

The stark fact faced him. Itneed not have happened. Ifshe had stopped in time thiswouldnothavehappened.

The progress of the feverwas rapid and a few daysafter his arrival Henry knewthatthiswastheend.Hekneltby her bedside, for sheseemed comforted to havehim close. She was at peace

now. A woman with hertravailover.Shedidnotsendfor the children for she didnotwishthemtoseeherthus.

‘Itwillfrightenthem,’shesaid.‘LetthemremembermeasIwas.Iamleavingthemtoyou,Henry.Youwillcareforthem. Do not be harsh withHarry. I want him to loveyou. I want them all to loveeach other. No deadlyquarrels. They must always

worktogether.That iswhatIwant...’

‘It shall be,’ said Henry.‘AllthatyouaskIwilldo.’

‘Staywithmethen.Itwillnotbelongnow.’

Hewaswithherwhenshedied.

He sat at her bedside,stunnedwithdisbelief.

But he must rousehimself.Marywasdead.Shewastwenty-fouryearsofage.

Too young to die. But shewasdead. Itwas theYearofDeath – Constanza, theQueen and now Mary, andboththeQueenandMaryhadbeen struck down in theflower of their youth. Hecouldunderstandhiscousin’sgriefwhichhadobsessedhimand driven him mad for thetime.

Sometimes he thoughtthat his fate was entwined

with that of his cousin. Hehad always thought that butfor that quirk of fate heshould have been inRichard’s place. They hadbeen born in the same year.They had been happilymarried and within a fewweeksofeachother theyhadlosttheirbelovedpartners.

He felt lost, bewildered.Although during the lastyearshehadspentmoretime

abroad than with her, heknew he was going to misshersorely.

Shemusthaveasplendidfuneral. Her mother wouldinsist on that. She should belaid to rest with the deBohunsforthatwaswhatshehadwanted.

It tookhismind fromhisdesolation to plan the grandfuneral she should have, justas it had Richard’s when he

buriedhisQueen.Whenitwasoverhemust

givethoughttohisfamily.Thechildrenhadallbeen

together, cared for by theirlovingmother.Now hemustmake other plans for theirfuture. He would be withthem when he could but thepolitical situation was suchthat itdemandedhisconstantattention.

He was considering very

carefully what must be donefor the motherless boys andgirls.

ChapterV

THEFORGET-ME-NOT

The children were nowinthechargeofMaryHerveyand Joan Waring and theylived mainly at Kenilworthand when that castle neededsweetening,theymovedfora

while to Tutbury. Life wentonforthemverymuchinthesame way as before theirmother’s death, but theymissed her sorely. Blanchecould not remember her ofcourse, but all the boys did,even three-year-oldHumphrey. As for Harry hewas sobered for a while. Hewas seven and old for hisyears. He felt that in theabsence of his father he was

head of the family and hisascendancy over his brothersseemedstrongerthanever.

Hemissed hermore thanMary and Joan would havebelieved;andattimeshewasquiet and rather sad thinkingof her.He rememberedwhatshe had said to him and herealised that she knew thenthat she was dying. Hepromised himself he wouldtrytodowhatshewantedand

in consequence took up aprotectiveattitudetowardshisbrothers.

In the winter of thefollowing year he caught achill and became so ill thateveryone thought he wasgoing todie.His father inanagony of apprehension hadthe best doctors sent downfrom London and very soonHarrywassurprisingthembyhisdetermination to live.His

health began to improve andhe would lie in his bedlistening to the songs ofWilkin Walkin, the minstrelwhomtheirfatherhadsenttothem to teach them to sing.They were fond of musicbecause their mother hadalways seen that there wasplentyof it in thehousehold.There were lessons withMaryHerveyandgameswithhis brothers; he commanded

themand toleratedhis sistersand so life passed during thefirst year after his mother’sdeath but none knew morethan Harry that it would notremainasitwas.

Henry was becomingmore and more preoccupiedwith the country’s affairs.Moreover,theKinghadgoneto Ireland to attempt to sortout the troubles there andJohn of Gaunt went to

Aquitaine with the samepurpose in mind. This threwresponsibilitiesonHenry, forthe King had made him amemberoftheCouncilwhichruledduringhisabsence;andas his father was out of thecountryitwasHenry’stasktolook after the Lancastrianestates.

Richard and John ofGaunt returned to England;andthatyear,thesecondafter

Mary’s death, two importantmarriages took place inEngland.

John of Gaunt snappedhis fingers at convention anddidwhathehadwantedtodofor a long time and thatwasmarry Catherine Swynford.Thereweresomemembersofthe nobility who werehorrified at this, but thereweremanywho applauded itandthoughtthebetterofJohn

of Gaunt for makingCatherinehiswife.

The King was one whoapproved of the match. Hehad always liked Catherine;moreover he was completelyreconciled to his uncleLancasterandashereliedontheadvicethelattergavehim,he was eager to please him.So not only did he show hisapproval of the match byreceiving Catherine as the

new Duchess, but he set hissealonitandwonhereternalgratitude by legitimising herchildren,theBeauforts,whichnext to marriage with theDukewasherdearestwish.

Henry was pleased. Hehad always looked uponCatherine as his stepmotherand the Beauforts as hisbrothers. Now they werelegallyso.

The other marriage was

that of Richard himself.Dearlyashehad lovedAnnehe wanted to please hiscounsellors by marryingagain, but he chose Isabella,the daughter of the King ofFrance, much to theconsternation of those abouthim, for Isabellawas a childnot quite ten years old.Perfectwifeasshehadbeen,Anne had failed in onerespect.Shehadnotprovided

an heir to the throne. Itseemed the utmost follytherefore for Richard, themain purpose of whosemarriage should be thebegetting of children, tomarryachildwhowouldnotbe ready for childbearing forsome four years at theearliest.

The inference was thatRichard did not greatly carefor women, and he did not

want to replace Anne; andthat the thought of a childwifewhocouldbebroughtupinEnglishwaysandmakenomarital demands suited himverywell.

Both John of Gaunt andHenryaccompanied theKingto France for the royalmarriage. As Duchess ofLancaster CatherineSwynford was one of theladies who would attend the

new Queen, as were Mary’ssister Eleanor and theCountess of Arundel. ThisCountess was Philippa,daughteroftheEarlofMarchand therefore granddaughterof John of Gaunt’s elderbrotherLionel.Shewasveryconscious of her royal bloodand wished everyone abouthertobe.

Eleanor and Philippacreated a sensation by their

rudeness to Catherine andalthoughthelatterbehavedasthough she had failed tonotice their bad manners,John of Gaunt was furiousanddeterminedtomakethempay at some time for theinsult.

There were howevermatters tooccupy themotherthan this, and Lancaster wasveryeagerthathissonshouldunderstandthesignificanceof

whatwashappening.‘What can this marriage

of Richard’s mean?’ heasked. ‘Obviously that therecan be no heir to the throneforyears.Annecouldnotgetone either. The fault mayhave lain with Richard. Thefact that he has chosen thismarriagemaybeakeytothesituation. But think what itmeans,Henry.When he dieswhowillfollowhim?’

‘Lionel’sheirs...’John of Gaunt snapped

his fingers. ‘Too remote,’ hesaid. ‘Youstandwell in line,Henry.’

‘I am the same age asRichardandheseemsingoodhealth.’

‘He is unpredictable. Atone time he showed signs ofbecoming a great King. Hestood up to the rebels atBlackheath and Smithfield.

He was a hero then. Butwhere is the hero now? Hefaced the rebels because hedidnotrealisewhatdangerhewasin.Hewasachildthen.Itworked, but it might easilynot have done and theninstead of a heroic act itwould have been judged asoneoffolly.Iseegreateventslooming, Henry, and I wantyoutobepreparedwhentheycome. No more travels. You

must stay near home. Youmustdefendourestates.Youmust see that when the timecomesyouareathand.’

Sowhen they returned toEnglandHenryabandonedallthought of further travel andkept a watchful eye on whatwas happening about theKing. There was peace withFrance but instead of easingthe situation this seemed toaggravateit.Thepeoplewere

still complaining about theheavy taxes which wereleviedonthem;andnowthattherewaspeacewithFrance–ifonly temporary – forwhatreason did the exchequerneed so much money? Theanswerwasclear.TheirKinglived most extravagantly; hewas constantly giving lavishbanquets and entertainmentsto his friends; large sumswere spent on his clothes

which were bedecked withvaluable jewels; the factwasthatthepeoplewereexpectedtopayheavilyfortheupkeepofaCourtwhichwas far tooluxurious to be paid forwithouttheirsupport.

Would Richard neverlearn? wondered John ofGaunt. There was troublebrewing.

Richard was aware thatrevoltwasintheair;heknew

that theleadersof itwerehisuncle Thomas of Gloucester,and theEarlsofArundelandWarwick. He decided to actandforoncedidsopromptly.He invited them all to abanquet, his intention beingto arrest them when theycame. Gloucester andArundel scented danger anddid not appear. Warwickcame and was arrested. ButWarwick was of less

importancethantheothertwoandhewassenttotheTowerwhere he remained. ArundelwasluredtoLondon,arrestedon a charge of treason andJohn of Gaunt, as Seneschalof England, presided at histrial and sentenced him todeathwith some relish as heremembered the insults hehadthrownatCatherine.

There remainedGloucester who was

eventually captured and sentto Calais where he diedmysteriouslyinaninn,saidtohave been smothered byfeather beds being presseduponhim.

John of Gaunt was verydisturbed. Thomas was afterall his brother. There hadnever been great friendshipbetween them even whenthey were young but whenJohnhadarrangedforhisson

to get the coveted Garteraward by oustingThomas hehad aroused his vitriolicbrother’s enmity; and evenmore so when he hadsnatched Mary from hiscontrol and married herfortunetohissonHenry.

Stillhewasabrotherand,as he confided to Henry, itwas interesting to note thatthe three who had beenpursuedsorelentlesslybythe

King – Gloucester, ArundelandWarwick–werethreeofthefiveLordsAppellantwhohad some years beforeconfronted the King armslinked to showsolidarityandwrungconcessionsfromhim.

The other two wereThomasMowbrayandHenryhimself.

‘You see,’ said the wiseDuke of Lancaster, ‘it isnecessary to tread very

warily. Richard does notforgetwhatheconsiderstobean insult. You andMowbrayshouldbewatchful.’

Richard, however,seemed to be fond of hiscousin.HemadehimaDukeandHenrywasnowDukeofHereford and ThomasMowbray was Duke ofNorfolk, so it seemed thatlong-ago incident wasforgotten.

When he had bestowedthe honour, Richard showedhis friendship towardsHenryby asking about his familyand condoling with him onthedeathofhiswife.

‘We share a misfortune,’hesaid,andwenton toextolthe virtues of his belovedAnne. It was true he had alittleQueenofwhomhewasalreadyfond.Achildmerely;but he was going to cherish

her and bring her up to loveEnglandandtobeitsQueen.

‘In some ways you aremore fortunate than I,’ saidthe King. ‘You have yourboys and girls.Howmany isitnow?Fourboys,Ihear.’

‘Yes,Ihavefourandtwogirls.’

‘Andhowoldisyourheir–youngHarryofMonmouthisitnot?’

‘Heistenyearsold.’

‘Andbright forhis age, Ihear.IwanttomeetHarryofMonmouth.I’lltellyouwhat,cousin, he shall come toCourt.’

‘Iamoverwhelmedbythehonour,’saidHenry,tryingtohide his uneasiness. ‘He isnowatOxford in the care ofmy half-brother HenryBeaufort.HeisChancelloroftheUniversity, as you know,anditisgoodforHarrytobe

underhistuition.’‘He would learn more at

Court,cousin.’‘You are too kind to the

boy, my lord. He is overyoungtobeacourtier.’

‘I am determined to havehim here. I hear he issomethingofarogue.’

‘My lord, he is but achild.’

‘But able to give a goodaccountofhimself. I like the

sound of young Harry ofMonmouth. Iwill sendwordthatheistocometoCourt.’

It was clear that Richardwas determined, and with asinking heart Henry went tohisfathertotellhimwhathadtakenplacebetweenhimandRichard.

Lancaster was at firstdisturbed by the news andthenhe said: ‘Itmaywellbethat Richard wishes to show

friendship.He hasmade youaDuke.He reliesonmeandhascome to trustme. I thinkheisperhapsmerelyshowingfavourtomygrandson.’

‘In any case,’ repliedHenry. ‘There is nothing wecandoaboutit.’

Harry was not sorry toleave Oxford for the Court.TheKingreceivedhimwithashow of affection. ‘My good

uncle’s grandson,’ he said.‘Youarewelcome,Harry.’

Harry responded withgenuine pleasure. He likedthis good-looking,sumptuouslyattiredmanwiththe delicate hands and thepink and white skin whichcoloured so pleasantly whenhe showed excitement, withthe glittering garments anddelicate perfumewhich hungabouthim.

And he is the King,thoughtHarry; and from thatmoment he wanted to be akinghimself.

Therewassomuchtoseeat Court. He first went toElthamwheretheKingwasatthat time and he wasenchantedbytheplace.Itwasvery different from gloomyTutburyandevenKenilworthsuffered by comparison.Richard, about whom

everything must be elegantand in what he consideredperfect taste which meant areflection of his own delightinthecombinationsofcolourand patterns, was amused toseehowoverawedhis youngkinsmanwas and for awhilekepthimclosetohim.

He showed him therebuilding he had done atEltham–thenewbathhouse.‘Never neglect to bathe,

Harry,’hesaid.‘Thepracticegives pleasure to yourself aswell as those about you. Iabhor unsavoury odours.’ Itwas a practice the Kingcarried out regularly. Hispersonwas always exquisite.He gave as much thought tothe cut of his long-sleevedcoats, the new houpelandes,his high collars, the paddedshoulders of his jackets, hisskin-tight hose and his long

pointed shoes as he did tomatters of state. There wasalso thepaintedchamberandthedancingchamber–fortheKinglovedtodance–andhehadmadenewgardensforhisrecreation and alfrescoentertainments.

It was a new world forHarry. He had been given acotehardiedecoratedwiththebadgeofthewhitehartwhichshowedhewasof theKing’s

household; and when theCourt travelled he travelledwithit.

His days were full. Helongedtobeaknightandtakepart in the jousts but hewasten years old and others didnot forget it if he did. Hemust attend his lessons withothers of his age, for therewere boys like himself fromnoble households at Court;thenhemustlearntorideand

use his sword, practisearcherysothatwhenthetimecameforhimtowinhisspurshe would be able to give agoodaccountofhimself.

Itwasaverydifferentlifefrom that he had lived underhismother’scareorwhenhehad been at Oxford. Harryabsorbed what was going onaround him and it excitedhim.LifeattheKing’sCourtwasthelifeforhim.

After he had been atCourt for a week or so theKing lost interest in him andhe was just one of the boyswho was being brought upthere.Hedidnotmind.Therewas enough to absorb himandhewasmoreinterestedinthe outdoor life than thebooks and music and fineclothes which the King setsuchstoreby.

The Court had moved to

WindsorandtheKingwasingood spirits. It was becausethe little Queen was thereHarry was told, and Richardvery much enjoyed thecompanyofthelittlegirl.

Harry was interested inthe Queen because she wasabouthis age andhe thoughthowwonderful it must be tobesoimportant.

Sometimes he would seethe riders going off into the

forest led by the King andbeside him would ride themostbeautifulgirlHarryhadever seen.Shewasvivaciousand added gesticulations toher persistent chatter. Herdark long hair hung looseabout her shoulders and sheworethemostelegantclotheswhichHarrylearnedhadbeenchosenbytheKing.

One day when he washaving a dancing lesson,

which he was obliged totolerate, she came into theroom to watch. There weretwoother girls and twoboysas well as himself and hispartner and they werepractising the newest Courtdances. He felt moreawkward than ever for thosesparkling dark eyes hadselected him for her specialattention and it did not helpmatters when the dancing

instructorpointedoutanotherfalsestephehadmade.

Then the littleQueen ranto him and taking his handcried:‘Come,dancewithme,clumsy boy. Iwill show youtheway.’

He was overcome withembarrassment and dislikedher in spite of her beautywhich excited him andmadehim want to keep looking ather.

‘Idonotwishit,Madam,’hesaidwithahaughtybow.

‘My lord,’ said theinstructor. ‘The Queenhonoursyou.’

Harry said: ‘I am nothonoured.’

Shebegantolaugh.‘He has no grace, this

one,’ she said in ratherhaltingEnglish.

‘The Queen commandsyou to dance with her,’ said

the instructor glaring at himand trying to convey somemessage.

‘No,no,’criedIsabella.‘Ido not command. If he doesnot wish . . .’ She lifted hershouldersandsetherfeaturesin an expression of mocktragedy.Sheturnedtooneofthe other boys and took hishand, as she said, ‘Music,please.’

The musicians began to

play. Harry refused to danceand his partner and the girlwhohaddancedwiththeboywhom Isabella had chosen,danced together while Harrystoodbysullenlywatching.

There was no doubt thattheQueendancedbeautifully.She had a special grace allher own. Now and then sheglanced Harry’s way andcaught his eyes on her. Thatseemedtopleaseher.

Whenthedancewasover,sheseemedtoloseinterestinthe incidentand laughingranout of the room but notwithout first throwing amocking glance in Harry’sdirection.

As soon as she had gonethe instructor cried at Harry:‘You are a fool. I never sawsuchbehaviourinallmylife.This could cost me mypositionandyouyourplaceat

Court.Am I not supposed tobe teaching you courtlymanners as well as dancingand have I not just seen theworstdisplayofbadmannersthat have ever been seen atCourt? Do you realise she istheQueen?’

‘I knew she was theQueen, of course,’ mutteredHarry.

‘And you refused todancewith herwhen she did

you the honour of selectingyou!’

‘Shewaslaughingatme.’‘You refused to dance

withtheQueen!Restassured,mylord,thisisnottheendofthe matter. She will tell theKing and you will be sentback to the country whereyoubelong.’

‘Idonotcare,’saidHarrycontemptuously.

But he did care. He very

much enjoyed Court life. Hecould not bear to think ofgoing back to the country tothe care of Mary Hervey orreturn to Oxford to workunder the stern eye of uncleBeaufort.

He kept thinking abouther. She gave herself airs.Well,whyshouldn’tshe?Shewas theQueen.And shewasvery beautiful. He had neverseenanyonesobeautiful.Her

way of speaking wasfascinating, as was hermanner.

Hehadmadeherangry–although she had pretendednot to be. Shewould tell theKing and everyone said thatthe King denied her nothingfor he loved her dearly andtreatedherlikesomepreciouslittle pet. She would onlyhave to say I want that ill-mannered Harry of

Monmouth sent away fromCourt and he would bedismissed.

All through the day hekept realising how much heenjoyed Court life. Henoticed too how elegant andcharmingsomeofthewomenwere. None of them had thestyleof theQueenof course,although she was only achild. But she had changedhim in some way. She had

made him aware of thingswhich he had never noticedbefore.

He was desolate, callinghimself stupid to haveantagonised her. At anymoment the dismissal wouldcome. His father would beangry with him; hisgrandfather would despisehim. What hope would hehaveofrisingifhewasgoingto let his silly pride govern

hisactions?He should have danced

with the Queen; he shouldhave flatteredher.He shouldhave made her like him. Hecould see it clearly, now thatitwastoolate.

The summons did notcome,however, and ina fewweeks he ceased to expect italthoughhedidnotforgettheQueen and whenever hecouldhetooktheopportunity

of watching her, though shenevernoticedhimagain.

Everyone at Court wastalking about the combatwhich was to take placebetween the Dukes ofHereford andNorfolk and astheDukeofHerefordwasthetitlewhich had recently beenbestowed on Harry’s fatherthis matter was of especialinteresttohim.

As far as Harry couldunderstand, ThomasMowbray, recently createdDuke of Norfolk – at thesame time as Henry ofLancaster had been madeDukeofHereford–hadmadea suggestion to Herefordwhich the latter construed astreasonandwhichhehadlaidbeforetheKing.

Norfolk had retaliated bydeclaring that he was no

traitor and thatHerefordwasbringing the accusation tocover up his own nefariousintentions.

The outcome of thematterwas that theKinghadagreed that the two menshouldmeetincombat.Therewas a great deal ofwhispering at Court andHarry hadwhat JoanWaringhadcalledlongears.Ifoneofthesemenwasatraitor,itwas

asked,whatwas the point inhaving a combat to settle it?A traitor might be the victorandaninnocentmankilled.Itwas all very strange.But theexcitement grew as the dayspassed.TheCourthadmovedto Coventry, a fair citysurrounded by thick wallsmounted by thirty-twotowers. There were twelvegates into the city and itwasconsequently one of the

strongest fortifications in thecountry.

Outside the city wallstherewasgreatactivitywhilepavilionswereerected.Harrywatchedtheworkwithmixedfeelings for his father wouldbe one of the chief actors inthis drama which was abouttobeplayedonthisglitteringfieldandifhisfatherweretodie...

The thought bewildered

him. He saw little of hisfather and he had found himstern and undemonstrative –very different from hismother who although longsince dead lingered on in hismemory. He would neverforget the beatings his fatherhad given him. For his owngood, his mother had toldhim; but he had always feltthat he would have beenbetterwithoutthem,forwhen

he felt the urge to dosomethingwhichwouldincurpunishment he never stoppedto thinkof theconsequences.Thatcameafter. In thecastlethey were gambling on thelife or death of theDukes ofHereford and Norfolk – forthiswasno joustàPlaisancebuttheculminationofabitterquarrel, which would meantheendofoneofthem.

His grandfather arrived.

Harry noticed withsatisfaction that his pavilion,flying its pennants and lionsand leopards, was almost asfine as the King’s. Theywould be his emblem oneday. His grandfathersummoned him to hispresence. He was a very oldman and he seemed to haveaged since Harry had lastseenhim.

‘Your fatherwill triumph

over the traitor Norfolk,’ hetoldHarry.

‘Of a certainty,’ repliedHarryloyally.

But he could see that hisgrandfatherwasnomoresureofthisthanhewas.

‘You will sit with theDuchess and myself,’ saidJohnofGaunt.‘Itiswellthatyou will be here to see thisday.’

He is afraid, thought

Harry; and he is remindingmethatifmyfatheriskilledIshall be my grandfather’sheir.Heisaveryoldman.Itcould not be long before Iwould be head of the HouseofLancaster.

ButHarrywas not yet tobe head of the House ofLancaster. It was the mostextraordinary gathering thathadeverbeen.

Harry saw his father ride

out. He looked magnificenton his big white horsecaparisonedingreenandbluevelvet decorated with goldswans and antelopes. Hisarmour,Harryhadheard,hadbeen made in Milan wherethebestarmourwasmade.

Then came the Duke ofNorfolk who looked almostas splendid; his colourswerered and the velvet wasembroidered with lions and

mulberrytrees.Then the strangest thing

happened. The heralds onorders from the Kingsuddenly dashed forwardshouting: ‘Ho! Ho!’ whichmeant that a halt was to becalledtotheproceedings.

The King disappearedfromhispavilion.

‘Where has he gone?’whisperedHarry.

His grandfather said:

‘This is a strange business. Ithink he is going to stop thecombat.’

Harry could hear therelief in his grandfather’svoice. He knew then howfrightenedhehadbeen.

Therewasgreattensioninthe crowd of spectators whofelt they were about towitnessunusual events.Theyhad come to see a life anddeathstrugglebetweentwoof

the highest in the land, butwhatever was going tohappennowcouldbeequallyexciting.

Two hours passed beforeone of the King’s adviserscame out to announce to thecrowd,thattherewouldbenocombat. The King and hiscounsellors had decided theissue could not be settled inthis way, and it had beenagreed that since therewas a

doubt of the loyalty of bothcontestants they would beexiled from the country.Herefordwouldnotreturnforten years; Norfolk wouldneverreturn.

A hushed silence fell onthecrowd.Harrysawthathisgrandfather’s facehad turneda greyish colour. He grippedhis seat and whispered: ‘OhGod help us. Not this. Notthis.’

Everyone was talkingabout the exiles and Harrynoticed that when heappeared therewasanabrupttermination of theconversation. As son of oneof the leading players in thedrama,carehadtobetakenasto what was said in hishearing.

His father was goingaway.Hewouldbe away for

ten years. I shall be twentywhenhecomesback!thoughtHenry.Would theKing sendhimaway?Wasthefamilyindisgrace?Itmustbeso if theKing suspected his father oftreachery and was sendinghimoutofthecountry.

The twoDukes had beengivenfifteendaysinwhichtomake their preparations andleave the country. After thattimetheywouldbearrestedif

theyremained.Aharsh sentencewas the

comment.‘Do you wonder?’ Harry

overheard someone say.‘ThesearethelasttwooftheLords Appellant. The otherthree are taken care of.Nowexile for these two. Richardnever forgets an insult.Depend upon it he has beenwaitingtotakehisrevengeonthesetwo.’

‘He seemed to havetrusted both Mowbray andBolingbroke.’

‘Seemed to. But Richardneverforgets.’

Harry knew about theLords Appellant. He learnedsuch matters with absoluteease because they concernedhisfatherandfamilyandthatmeanthimself.

He heard that his fatherwas coming to say good-bye

to him before he left thecountry and he steeledhimselfforthefarewell.

His grandfather arrivedwith his father. They werebothverysober.

His father embraced himand told him that he mustgrow quickly now. He mustrememberthat intheabsenceofhisfatherhemust takehisplace. ‘Thank God yourgrandfather is here to protect

you,’hesaid.‘You will be leaving

Court and coming with me,’went on the great Duke.‘Your father and I think thatbest. TheDuchess is lookingforward to welcoming you.WeshallgotoLeicesterafterwe have accompanied yourfathertothecoast.’

‘Yes,’saidHarryquietly.‘I think Harry is old

enough to understand,’ went

on the Duke. ‘Your fatherwill not be allowed to comebacktothiscountry,andyoumust learn how to look afterour interests. That is what Ishall teach you. And if youare thinking that I amanoldman, you are right. I am. Icoulddieatany timeandwemust be prepared for that. Ihave seen the King and hehasagreedthatwhenIdiemyestates will not be

confiscated. The Lancastrianinheritance will be for yourfather and in due course foryou,Harry.Youunderstand?’

‘Yes,’repeatedHarry.‘Thisisasorrymatterfor

our family but we standtogether and never fear ordoubt that we shall emergetriumphantintheend.’

While they were talkingtheKingcamein.

They were all startled

because it was rarely that hewas seen without attendants.Theyweretherenow. . .butwaitingoutsidetheroom.

‘Youaresayinggood-byetotheboy,’saidRichard.

Hisfatherandgrandfatherstoodbackuncertainly.

‘You need have no fearforyourson,cousin,’saidtheKing.

‘He will be well caredfor,’ said his grandfather. ‘I

shall takehimwithmewhenIleave.’

The King smiled slowly.‘IhavegrownfondofHarry.You know that don’t you,boy?’

Harry murmured that hisgood lord had always beengracioustohim.

‘SomuchsothatIcannotpartwithhim.’

Harry heard hisgrandfather catch his breath

andsawhimputouthishandto touch a chair to steadyhimself.

‘It is good of you to sayso,’ said his father, ‘but inviewofmysadstateyouwillwishtoberidofhim.’

‘There you are wrong,cousin. I have interestedmyself in Harry. I like himwell. In fact he interests meso much that I have decidedtokeephimwithme.’

‘He is young,’ said hisgrandfather in a quiet voice.‘He needs to be with hisfamily.’

‘Well he is to somemeasure. Are you not myuncle and is he not yourgrandson?AtCourthecanbewith his King and hiskinsman.’ The next wordswere ominous. ‘It is what Iwant and I shall not changemy mind. Come, Harry, say

good-bye toyour father.Youshall be at my table thisnight.’

TheKingturnedandwentoutoftheroom.

Harry looked from hiswhite-faced father to hisstricken grandfather. Heunderstood.Hehadbecomeahostage.

Harry did not see hisgrandfather again. Four

monthsafterhissonhadbeenexiled John ofGaunt died inLeicester Castle. He wasnearly sixtyyearsold andhehadledafullandadventurouslife. His great ambition hadbeen towearacrownandhehad never achieved it,although his daughter byConstanzaofCastilewasnowaQueenandthesonBlancheof Lancaster had borne andthose of Catherine Swynford

would, he was sure, maketheirmarkintheworld.

But he would not see it;and he died, with his son inexile and his grandson a boywho would not be twelveyearsolduntilthesummer.

His body was carriedfromLeicestertoLondonandthe cavalcade stopped onenight to rest at St Albanswhere that other son, HenryBeaufort, now Bishop of

Lincoln,celebratedarequiemforhisfather.

The name of John ofGauntwasoneverylip.Nowthat he was dead it wasforgottenthathehadbeenthemost unpopular man in thecountry and only good wasrememberedofhim.

WhentheKingseizedhisestates, a number of peoplewere shocked, for it wasknown that Richard had

promised that the estatesshouldgo to the rightful heireven thoughhewasanexile.Solemnly the King hadpromised this to John ofGaunt.Itwasunwisetobreakpromisesgiventothedead.

‘No good will come ofthis,’ was the prophecy.‘Richardshouldtakecare.’

Henry of Bolingbroke,Duke of Hereford, exiled

from his native land, arriveddisconsolate in France andmadeuphismindthathehadno alternative but to throwhimself on the mercy of theKing of France, hoping thatsince Richard had sent himaway he might find somefavourinthatquarter.

Even this wasquestionable for Charles’sdaughter Isabella was nowthe wife of Richard and the

two countries were at peace.All the same it would benaive to assume that therewas true friendship betweenthem and it was almostcertain that the King ofFrance would be ready toreceive a notable exile fromEngland,ifonlytolearnwhatwas happening in thatcountry.

Henry was right. NosoonerhadhearrivedinParis

than King Charles expressedhis willingness to receivehim, and did so with such ashow of friendship thatHenry’s spirits rose,especially when the Kingpresented him with the veryfineHôtelClissonwhichwasto be his while he stayed inFrance.

Hewas receivedatCourtpresided over by QueenIsabeau, one of the most

beautifulwomenhehadeverseen and, if rumour wascorrect, oneof themost evil.In spite of the outwardappearance of elegance andwealth there was a distinctuneasiness throughout theCourt and it was not longbefore Henry heard of thosemental aberrations which theKing suffered and whichrobbed him of reason. Theselasted for varying periods of

time – none could be surehow long – and when theyendedtheKingwouldemergerememberingnothingorverylittle of what had happenedduringhisperiodsofinsanity.

Henry began to fret.Richard had, under pressurefrom John ofGaunt, reducedthe sentence of ten years tosix.But six years away fromhome! How could he endurethat! His father was ageing,

young Harry was but a boy,and exile was the mostdisastrous thing that couldhave happened. Moreover,althoughhehadbeenwarmlywelcomed at the FrenchCourt, he knew how quicklyenthusiasm for men in hisposition waned. He wasthrownintomelancholy.

One day, however, therewere visitors at the HôtelClisson who were to cheer

himconsiderably.Hecouldscarcelybelieve

his eyes when the two menarrived asking for audiencewith the Duke of Hereford.He received them withcaution for the elder of themen was Thomas ofCanterbury and the youngerthe Earl of Arundel whosefather had been executed fortreason.

It was natural that exiles

should work together againstacommonenemybutthefirstthoughtthatstruckHenrywasthat his father JohnofGauntas Seneschal of England hadbeen the one to pronouncesentence on the unfortunateEarl of Arundel – and howcould he guess what theArundels’ feelings would betowards the son of John ofGaunt.

It soon became clear that

past grievances must beforgotten. After all, althoughHenryhadbeenamemberofthe court which hadcondemned the Earl ofArundel, he himself, had notactually passed the fatalsentence; now they were allexilesfromEnglandandmustjoin against the commonenemy,RichardtheKing.

So Henry could drawcomfort from the arrival of

these two and in Paris theycould discuss the fate whichhad overtaken them, throughthe misgovernment ofRichard, and ponder as towhatcouldbedoneaboutit.

TheArchbishophadcomefrom Rome where he hadexhorted the Pope to requestRichard to allow him toreturn,alastonoavail.

‘One day,’ he said, ‘Ishall return. I am the

Archbishop no matter whomtheKingshouldsetupinmyplace.’

Henry agreed. It wascomforting to haveEnglishmen of standing tosharehisfate.Ohyesindeed,letbygonesbebygones.Theyhadthefuturetothinkof.

Young Thomas Fitzalanthe Earl of Arundel was theonly surviving son of theexecuted Earl. He had been

only sixteen when his fatherhaddied;itwasnotverylongago and he remembered itvividly.Howcouldheforget?Not only had he lost hisfather, but theway of life towhich he had beenaccustomed was drasticallychanged.

He told Henry what hadhappenedtohim.Ithadmadehimverybitter.

‘My father’s estateswere

confiscated.Ihadnothing...nothing at all. The greatestmisfortune of all was to behandedovertoJohnHolland.Duke of Exeter now! He isgreatly enriched but notthrough merit, simplybecauseheistheKing’shalf-brother.HowIhatethatman!He takes pleasure inhumiliating those better thanhimself. Richard knows thisandyethegoesonhonouring

him. He is unfit to move innoble circles. How hedelighted in humiliating me.“Youwouldcallyourselfmylord Earl, would you?” hesaidtome.“Nowyourfatherhas lost his head you wouldtake his place, eh? Have acare that you do not followtoo closely in his footsteps,my young brave.” Then hetookoffhisboots,threwthemat me and bade me clean

them. I was treated as aservant, I tell you. I’ll havemy revenge on Holland oneday.’

Yes, it was comfortingtalk, and each day the exiledArchbishop cast aside moreof his grievances against theHouseofLancaster.Thethreeof them talked often andearnestly about events inEngland. They could donothing as yet, but when the

opportunity came theywouldbeready.

OnedaythegreatDucdeBerri, uncle of the King,called at the Hôtel Clisson.He was affable and showedsigns of friendship towardsHenry. He too talked ofaffairsinEngland.Hehadhisspies in that country and heknewthattheKing’sconductwas finding less and lessfavourwithhispeople.

‘The English have a wayof chastising their kings ifthey do not please them, isthat not so?’ The Duclaughed.‘MonDieu,Englandcame very near to having aKingfromFranceinthereignof John, remember? HenrytheThird,EdwardtheSecond...theyhadtheirtroubles.Itcould well be the same withRichard. And then . . . Ah,butwelooktoofarahead.’

Such talk created greatexcitement in Henry; but hehad learned not to betray hisfeelings. At what was Berrihinting? That Richard mightfallandthen...andthen...

His next words made histhoughtsquiteclear.‘Youarea widower. You lost yourgood Countess. You are tooyoung a man to remainunmarried eh?Particularly inviewofyourposition. Ihave

a daughter.Marie is a prettygirl.Well,perhapsyouwouldconsider this. If you wereagreeable, I should raise noobjections.’

He was decidedlyagreeable. He felt exultant.Berri could only believe thatRichard’s throne wastottering and – ohintoxicatingthought–thathe,Henry of Lancaster, had achance of attaining it. Only

such a hope and a goodchance of its becoming acertainty could have broughtBerritothis.

Henry repliedquietly, forhe was determined not toappeartooeageranditmightbe dangerous to utter awordwhich could be used againsthim, that he had not thoughtof remarrying as yet.He hadbeendevotedtohisCountess;her death had been a great

shockfromwhichhehadnotyet recovered. He had fourfine boys and two daughtersso he need not worry at thisstage about his heirs. But heappreciated the honour donetohimandiftheDucdeBerriwouldgivehimalittletime...

‘Alittle,myfriend,’criedtheDuc,‘butnottoomuch.Agirl such asmydaughter hasmany suitors as you can

imagine. You will let meknowyouranswerwithin theweek.’

When he had left Henryconsideredthis.Marriageintothe royal house of France.Richard would be deeplydisturbed and Henry wouldbe delighted to put Richardintothatstate.

He discussed the matterwith the Archbishop and theEarlofArundel.

‘It can only mean onething,’ said the Archbishop.‘They know something ofwhat is happening inEngland. Richard’s crown isbecoming more and moreinsecurely fixed on his head.It may well be that we shallnot be long exiled from ournativeland.’

‘Then you think I shouldaccept this offer of Berri’sdaughter?’

‘Undoubtedlyyes.’‘Iwillappeartohesitate.I

donotwanthimtothinkIamover-eager.’

TheArundels agreed thatthis was the best way andthey were excited guessingwhat events had come to theearsoftheDucdeBerri.

A few days later JohnMontacute, Earl of SalisburyarrivedinParis.Hehadcomeon an embassy fromRichard

andspentagooddealoftimewiththeKingandtheDucdeBerri.

Hedidnotvisit theHôtelClissonwhichwasperhapstobe expected asHenrywas inexile andMontacute was theKing’smessenger.

Henry meanwhile haddecided to agree to thesuggestedmarriage butwhenhecalledontheDucdeBerrihe was told that it was

impossibleforhimtohaveanaudience. As the Duc hadadvised him that there mustbenodelayinagreeingtothemarriage with his daughterandhemusthaveknownthatthis was the reason forHenry’s call, this wasdecidedlyodd.

During the weeks whichfollowed the Duc wasextremely cool to Henrywhose pride forbade him to

demandanexplanation.Eventuallyhedidgetone,

though not from the Duc deBerri.

Berri had decided that heno longer wished to receiveHenry intohis family andhehad come to this conclusionafterthearrivalfromEnglandof the Earl of Salisbury. Itwas obvious. Richard hadheard of the suggestedmarriage, had determined to

stopit,andhadsentSalisburyto Paris for that purpose.Nodoubt he had given the Ducde Berri an account of theshortcomings of Henry ofBolingbroke, and done so sosuccessfully that Berri nolonger sought the alliance. Itmight have been that hewasso impressed by Richard’spromptactionthathethoughtitwouldbenoeasymattertopushhimfromhisthroneand

if that was the case, of whatuse was the marriage of hisdaughter,toapretendertothecrownofEngland?

Henry was despondentand was to be even more sofor the King of Francehimself sent for him andwhen he stood before himbadehimbeseatedforhewasforced to say somethingwhich was very painful tohim.

‘Asyouknow,’hesaid,‘Ihave a great regard for theHouseofLancasterandhavebeen happy to welcome youatmyCourt.However,Ihaveheard word from KingRichard that he regards myhospitality to you as anunfriendly act towardshimself.He says that hewillbeverydisturbedunlessIaskyoutoleave.’

‘Does thismean that you

are asking me to leave?’demandedHenry.

‘Iamafraidthatisso.’Following on the affair

with the Duc de Berri thiswasindeedablow.Hishopeshadbeen toohigh.Nowtheyhadcomecrashingtoearth.

He raised his headhaughtily. ‘You may restassured, sire, that I shall losenotimeinleavingParis.’

The King looked

mournful but he could nothide his relief. It appearedthatRichardwasasfirmlyonhis throne as ever and whathope had a poor exile ofreturning to his country letalonetobeitsKing!

With his few attendantsHenryrodedisconsolatelyoutofParis.Wherecouldhego?Hedidnotknow.Itwouldbethe same story everywhere.Hewouldbereceivedat first

and then if he became toocomfortable Richard wouldshow his disapproval and hewould have to go wanderingagain.

He was making his waytowards Brittany. Duke Johnofthatlandwasbynomeansyoung but was noted for hisvalour – he was known asJohn the Valiant – and hisviolent temper. His Duchesswas his third wife andmany

years younger than he was;shewas Joanna, thedaughterof Charles d’Albret, King ofNavarre, whose reputationwas so bad that he wasknown as Charles the Bad.Charles was related to theroyalhouseofFrancethroughhismotherwhohadbeen theonly child of Louis X. Hecouldnotofcourseinheritthethrone because of the Saliclaw which prevailed in

Francebut,aswasinevitable,Charles the Bad longed toattain that crown, a desirewhich had led to perpetualtrouble.

Henry had no wish toarrive in Brittany to be toldthat Richard objected to hisbeing there, so before heentered the Duke’s land hesent a messenger on to askhim if hewould bewelcomeifhecame.

When the messengerarrived, the Duke burst outalmostangrily:‘Whydoeshethink it necessary to ask? Ihave always been onexcellent terms with theHouse of Lancaster. Rideback and tell him he mayexpectaheartywelcome.’

Henry was overjoyed toreceivethenews.Itsolvedhisproblem for the time being.Even so he could not rid

himself of his melancholy.Am I always going to be anexilewanderingoverthefaceof Europe, never sure of myreception, knowing that Ihave vast estates in Englandwhich I can never see? heaskedhimself.

The Duke of Brittanydetermined to live up to hispromiseandrodeouttomeethim.ThiswasagreathonourandHenryexpressedhisdeep

appreciationofit.The Duke was very old

but he still retained a certainvitality. Not for nothing hadhe been called the Valiant,and Henry returned hisgreeting with a warmth tomatch the Duke’s. And thenhe was aware of a verybeautiful woman who rodebesidetheDuke.

She was young; sheglowed with health and she

wassmilingathim.‘MyDuchess would give

you aswarmawelcomeas Igive you myself,’ the Duketoldhim.

‘Welcome to Brittany,’said the Duchess. ‘We shalldo our best to make youhappy while you stay withus.’

The old Duke looked athis glowing youngwifewithdoting tenderness and Henry

wascharmednotonlybyhiswelcome but by thefascinating Duchess Joanna;and during the weeks thatfollowed,whenbanquets andjousts were given in hishonour, he did not have topretend that hewas enjoyinghis stay in Brittany and thiswas not only because for aman in his position it wasgood to have a sanctuary. Itwas something more. He

found the society of theDuchess Joanna verydelightfulindeed.

Joanna was a woman ofgreat strength of character.Perhaps a childhood such ashers had helped to developthis. Because of her father’srecklessness and his attemptstoclaimthe throneofFrancethe family had lived inconstantdanger.

Her grandmother,daughter and only child ofLouis X, had married theCountofEvreuxandthroughhimhadcomethekingdomofNavarre which her fatherCharles had inherited. Butwhat was the kingdom ofNavarre when but for thisSaliclawhewouldhavebeenthe King of France. Charleshad married Joanna, thedaughter of King John of

France, and to them wereborn two boys, Charles andPierre, and the girl who wasJoanna.

The children had had astormy childhood all threehaving spent some time ashostages for their father’sbehaviour. They had beenheldbytheregentsofFrance,the Ducs de Berri andBurgundy;andtheyhadbeenin great peril when their

reckless father made anattempt to poison theircaptors. This was foiled andCharles’s agent wasdiscovered and put to death.Charles himself, however,escaped punishment. Itseemedpossiblethenthat theretaliation demanded wouldbe the death of the hostagesbut theDucs had nowish tobe revenged on children. Allthe same they had been in a

desperatesituation.WhenJoannawassixteen

she had been married to theold Duke of Brittany. TheDucs of Berri and Burgundyhadthoughtthisadvisablefortheir great dread at that timehadbeenthattheDukemightmake an alliance withEngland and this seemed agoodusetowhichtheycouldput their hostage. So Joannawasdulypresentedtotheold

Duke who immediately fellvictim to her youthfulcharms. Joanna was notdispleased. Itwascomfortingto be made to feel soimportant as she was and tohave gifts showered on herand fine jewel-encrustedclothes to wear. She wasdetermined to enjoy beingDuchess ofBrittany and if itmeanttakingtheoldDukeaswell, as longashecontinued

to dote on her she couldendurethat.

Then it had seemed thatJoannawassettled,herfuturesecure. The old Duke wasmore and more devoted andwheneverhewaspartedfromhis bride he was restive andeagertoreturntoher.

Herfatherwaspleasedbythe match but he had nointention of paying theenormous dowry which he

hadpromised.‘TheoldDukeis so infatuated by mydaughterhewon’tmissafewpieces of gold,’ he reasoned.And he was right, for theDukewasindeedsodelightedwith his marriage that hemade light of the missingdowry.

Charles seemed almostdisappointed. He so muchenjoyedaquarrelandthelastthing he wanted was a

peaceful existence. He hadforsomeyearsbeensufferingfrom a distressing complaintwhichstiffenedhislimbsandgave him considerable painandtheonlywayinwhichhecould takehismind fromhissuffering was to createalarming situations thatcausedothersstress.

Being amused by theDuke’s devotion to hisdaughter,hethoughtitwould

be fun to prod the self-confidence of the uxorioushusband.

There was one knight athisCourtofwhomDukeJohnhad once been particularlyfond. This was Oliver deClisson, a great noblemanwho had brought honour toBrittany through his chivalryand bravery both on thebattlefield and in the jousts.He was of tall stature and

exceedingly handsome inspite of the fact that he hadlost an eye in battle in theDuke’s cause. At that timethere was a certain restraintbetween the Duke andClissonwhichwasduetotheDuke’s tendency towardsfriendship with England,whileClisson felt that itwasbetter for Brittany to supportFrance.RecentlyClissonhadbeentoParistodiscussplans

for a possible invasion ofEngland should theopportunity arise and theDuke was displeased that hehaddonethis.

It seemed to his wickedfather-in-law, Charles theBad, that now was theopportunity to play anamusing game. The Duke ofBrittany was turning fromClissononpoliticalissues,soCharles thought he would

introduce an element ofmysteryandromanceintothesituation.

Itwas easy.He talked ofhisdaughter to theDukeandthere was no subject whichpleasedtheDukemore.

‘It delights me,’ saidCharles,‘toseeyourfondnessforthegirl.Sheishandsome,wouldyousay?’

‘I would indeed,’ repliedthe complacent husband. ‘I

wouldgofurther.I’dsayyouwould not find a morehandsome lady if yousearchedthewholebreadthofFrance aye and of Englandtoo.’

‘Itisgoodtoseeamansopleased with his marriage. Ihope it may remain so. Aye,thatismyearnestprayer.’

‘I thank you,’ said theDuke. ‘I intend to see that itdoesremainso.’

‘It is always well tohope,’ repliedCharleswith ahint of warning in his voicewhich startled theDuke as itwasmeantto.

‘Whydoyouspeakso?’‘Well, my friend, she is

young and lusty I’ll warrant.She is of my family and Iknowwhatweare.Youareafinemanforyourage...foryourage,mylordDuke.’

Now the Duke was

beginning to be reallyalarmed. ‘You knowsomething. What are youtrying to tell me?’ hedemanded.

‘Well, perhaps I shouldsaynothing . . . It is justoutoffriendship...’

TheDuke,whocouldlosehis temper, began to do sonow. ‘Tell me what youknow!’hecriedandhefacedthe King of Navarre with an

expression which clearlyindicated he would do himsome mischief if he did notspeakquickly.

‘I hasten to say mydaughterisentirelyinnocent.’

‘What!’ screamed theDuke.

‘But there is no doubt inmy mind how Clisson feelstowards her. He is a boldfellow. He is capable ofanything.Whyhemighteven

trytoabducther.It’scleartoseewhatapassionhehasforher.’

TheDukewas so furiousthathe couldhave struck theKingdownthereandthen.

Charlesmovedawaywitha helpless shrug of theshoulders. It was no useblaming him for themisdemeanours of thesubjects of the dukedom.Perhapshehadbeenwrongto

betray Clisson. He hadthoughtinhisfriendship...

‘Youdidrighttotellme,’snapped the Duke; andCharles left him with hisanger.

He was determined tocurb his rage. He wanted toplan calmly. Clisson wasalreadyoutoffavourbecauseof his policies and the factthattherehadoncebeengreataccord between them only

strengthened the Duke’sanger.

He invited Clisson withtwogreatfriendsofhis,LavalandBeaumanoir,todinewithhim at the Château de laMotte. They cameunsuspecting and after themeal, atwhich theDuke hadimpressed them all with hisaffability, he told them thathewantedtoshowthemsomealterationhehadmade to the

palace for thepleasureofhisbride.

They expressed greatinterest.

‘I particularly wish toshowyou the tower,’ he saidand when they reached anarrow spiral staircase he letClisson go ahead. The Dukewas immediately behind andhe paused to point out somedelicate piece of tracery onthe wall to Laval and

Beaumanoir.As he did so therewas a

shoutfromabove.Guardshademerged to seize and fetterClisson.

Both Laval andBeaumanoir wereimmediately aware that theyhad walked into a trap. ‘ForGod’s sake, my lord Duke,’cried Laval, ‘do not useviolenceagainstClisson.’

‘Youwoulddowell togo

to your home while you aresafe,’retortedtheDuke.

Beaumanoir protested:‘What are you doing toClisson?Heisyourguest.’

‘Do you wish to be likehim?’demandedtheDuke.

‘He is a great man,’ wasBeaumanoir’s answer. ‘Ishouldbehonouredtobelikehim.

The Duke drew a daggerandheldittohisface.‘Then,’

hecriedvenomously, ‘Imustputoutoneofyoureyes.’

Beaumanoirdrewback inalarm.HeandLavalsawthatthey were caught. If theyattempted to rescue Clisson,they would find themselvestheDuke’sprisonersalso.Allthe same Beaumanoir stoodfirmlyanddemandedtoknowonwhatgroundsClissonwasarrested.

In a burst of fury the

Duke shouted for guards tocome and take Beaumanoirwhich they did. MeanwhileLaval slipped quietly awayandoutofthecastle.

The Duke went to hisprivate apartments and, stillenraged, sent for the SieurBazvalen, a man who hadserved him well through theyears and whose loyalty waswithoutquestion.

‘Bazvalen, my good

friend,’ he said, ‘I wantClisson to die at once, and Iwant you to see that this isdone.’

Bazvalen drew back inhorror.HeknewClissonwell.Thisdemandwastoomuchtoask.Hewasnomurderer.Hehad killed men in battle, itwas true, but this wasdifferent.

‘Mylord...’hebegan.But the Duke waved his

hand imperiously. ‘Let himbe taken to a dungeon. Killhim, I care not by whatmeans,andthenopenthetrapdoorand lethisbodygo intothemoat.’

Bazvalencouldseethatitwas no use arguing with theDuke in his presentmood orhe would find himself indanger, but he wasdetermined not to have thedeath of Clisson on his

conscience so he went toClisson and warned him ofwhat he had been ordered todoandplannedthathewouldreturn to the Duke and tellhim that Clisson was deadand his body in themoat. Inthe meantime they wouldplan some means of gettingClissonoutofthecastle.

But when Bazvalenreported to the Duke he wasovercome by remorse. His

anger faded and he realisedthat he had condemnedClisson without proving hisguilt. ‘You are withoutblame, Bazvalen,’ he cried.‘You but obeyed orders. Thesin is on my conscience. IhavemurderedClisson.’

He would not eat. Hewould never sleep in peaceagain, he said, and when hedeclared that he would giveanything to have another

chance, Bazvalen could holdback the truth no longer andconfessed that he had beenunabletomurderClissonwhostill lived. The Duke thenthrew his arms aboutBazvalen’s neck. ‘My goodgood servant,’ he cried, ‘youknew me better than I knewmyself.’

The Duke’s anger hadfadedbuthewas alwaysoneto seek an advantage. His

mischievous father-in-lawhad made evil suggestionswhich might be false butClisson had been workingwiththeFrenchandthereforehecouldnotbereleaseduntilcertain conditions had beenfilled. The Duke demandedthesurrenderofseveraltownswhich were in Clisson’spossession as well as ahundredthousandflorins.

Clisson, delighted to

escapewithhislife,wasonlytoo pleased to pay what wasdemandedandsobringabouthisrelease.

Joanna was annoyedwhen she heard that herhusband had suspectedClisson of wishing to be herlover, especially as she wasnow pregnant, a fact whichmadeherevenmoreattractivein the eyes of theDuke. Shewascooltohimandwhenhe

humbly asked the cause ofherdispleasure,shecried:

‘You have suspected meof infidelity with Clisson.This has made me verydisturbedata timewhenyoushould do everything for mycomfort.’

He was beside himselfwith grief. ‘Never for onemoment did I doubt you,mylove,’heassuredher.‘Iknowyoutobeperfect...inevery

wayperfect.Youaremyveryreason for living. Withoutyou I would die tomorrowand gladly. And the thoughtofthat...that...monster...’

‘You think I would beattracted by a one-eyedvarlet.’

‘They say he is veryattractivetowomen...’

‘So you would comparemewith...women.’

‘Never!Never!Youstandabove them all. I will giveanything...anythingIhave...’

Joanna smiled at him. Itwas good to render himhumble.

‘I know it . . .’ sheanswered. ‘But I beg of youdo not again insult me bylinking me with such asClisson. I am theDuchessofBrittany. My great-

grandfather was the King ofFrance.’

‘My love . . . how can Iwinyourforgiveness?’

She smiled sweetly. ‘Iknow it is all themeasureofyour love for me,’ she toldhim.

She knew too that nowthere would be even richerpresentsthanbefore.

Her child was born soonafter that, a daughter who

died after a few weeks. TheDuke was desolate. Hewondered whether theClisson affair wasresponsible.

CharlestheBad,thecauseof the trouble, suffered afurther bout of his painfulillness. One of his doctorsproduced a remedy whichgave him a little relief.Bandages were soaked in asolution of wine and sulphur

and itwas the taskofoneofhisservantstowraphislimbsinthemandsewthebandagestogethertokeepthemsecure.When this was done helooked as though his bodywaswrappedinashroud.

One night when a newman was sewing thebandages, which was adifficult task for Charlesdisliked being trussed up, hebecame even more irritable

than usual for the manfumbled and the moreCharles roared the morenervoushebecame.‘Iamlikeapigbeingtrussedupfortheroasting spit!’ he cried infury. Little did he realise theaptness of his simile. Theservant became more andmore clumsy and when hecame to sever the thread hefound he had mislaid theknife he needed to cut it.

Charles was growingexasperated and indesperation the servantpickedupa lightedcandle toburnthethreadandsoreleasethe needle. The effect wasinstantaneous and disastrous.The wine ignited and verysoonCharleswaswrappedinacocoonoffire.Hescreamedin agony as servants rushedin. He was rolled in his bedand smothered with heavy

bedcoverings,andintimethefire was put out, but notbefore Charles was so badlyburned that it seemedunlikely that he wouldsurvive. He died a few dayslater.

It cannot be said that hewas greatly mourned andwhen his son, Charles,became the King of Navarrethere was general rejoicingfor Charles had not been

known as the Bad fornothing; andhis son, anotherCharles, having shared hissister’s harsh childhoodshowed every sign of beingthe exact opposite of hisfather.

Joanna who had becomepregnant immediately afterthe death of her first childgave birth to a sonwhowasbaptisedPierreandthisbirth,to the delight of the parents,

was quickly followed by thearrival of a girl child, littleMarie.

The Duke was besidehimselfwith joy.He thoughtJoanna more wonderful thanever.Notonlywassheyoungand beautiful but she wasfertile too and for a man ofhis age that meant a gooddeal. He could scarcely tearhimselfawayfromherandnosooner was one child born

than she was pregnant withanother.There followedafterPierre who since he was theheir had become known asJohn Marie, Arthur, Gilles,Richard, Blanche andMargaret. Eight children inall,countinglittleJoannawhohaddiedsoonafterherbirth.

This was the happy stateofaffairswhenHenryarrivedattheCourtofBrittany.

There the Duke was

determined to show hispleasure in his guest. Onethinghewished todowas tostress his contempt not onlyfor the King of England butfor the King of France aswell.

He delighted too inHenry’s admiration for theDuchess.

Joannawasverydifferentfrom little Mary de Bohunand perhaps for that reason

Henry found her attractive.Her conversation was lively;she was a woman of strongcharacter;intruthshewasthemain reason for making hisstayinBrittanysodelightful.

If shehadbeenawidow,he being a widower theywould have made a perfectmatch. They were neither ofthem too old, nor were theyimmature, and they both hada largish family. Her

intelligence on the state ofaffairs in Europe, and thatincluded England, wasremarkable. Henry could seethat she advised the Dukewith a wisdom which theDukehimselfdidnotpossess.

Yes, Joanna was anadmirablewoman.

He did not exactlymention his feelings toJoanna, but she was a verysensibleandsensitivewoman

and she was aware of them;andshesawnoreasontohidethefact thatshefoundHenryattractive.Therewas nothingshe liked better than to sitalonewith him and talk.Notentirely alone of course, thatwould have been indiscreetand there was nothingindiscreet about Joanna.There would be attendantsbut Joanna could always seethattheywerenottooclose.

She told him about theaffair of Clisson. It was acautionarytale.TheDukehada fiery temper and he wascapable of very rash actswhen it took possession ofhim.

Joannalikedtohearabouthis children and his accountsof them seemed to bedominated by the amusingand very lively Lord Harry.He was concerned about

Harry who was at the Courtof King Richard. ‘I wishedmy father to take him,’ saidHenry, ‘but the King wouldnotlethimgo.’

Thatmadehimfearful,headmitted. The boy was intruthahostage.

To her he could explain,howhefeltshutoutfromhiscountry. It was sad to be anexile even when one wasoffered such hospitality as

thatwhichhehadreceivedinBrittany.

‘Itwillnotalwaysbeso,’she soothed. ‘I have anotionthat Richard will not longremain on his throne. Andthen...’

‘Andthen...yes...?’‘Well,youwillno longer

be an exile, will you? Youwill go away from us, and itwouldnot surpriseme if . . .ButItalktoomuch.’

‘Sometimes it is good totalk of one’s dreams,’ saidHenry.

‘They can be dangerous.’She looked at him withglowing eyes. ‘Who can besure of what will happen?YoumaybeaKingerelong,HenryofLancaster.’

He said almostbreathlessly, ‘There is apossibility.’

‘And I . . . What shall I

be? My husband is not ingoodhealthyouknow.’

They were both silent.They felt the air was heavywithsuggestion.

‘Ithinkaboutit,’shesaid.‘He was an old man when Imarriedhim.Hehadhadtwowives and outlived them. Iwasgiven tohim.Therewasnochoiceforme.Buthehasalwaysbeengoodtome.’

‘Youhavemadehimvery

happy.’‘I have borne him

children and he has alwaystreatedmewithgreatcareandaffection.’

‘Soshouldhedo.’‘Buthecannotlivelong,I

know.’Hishandhadplaceditself

overhers.‘Who knows what the

futuremayhold?’hesaid.It was almost like a

declaration.She spoke in a louder

voice, saying: ‘This son ofyours, thisHarry, he needs awife.’

‘He will have one erelong.’

‘What of my daughter?That would link our familiesinawaywhichwouldbeveryagreeabletome.’

‘My son . . . yourdaughter...Yes.Itwouldbe

...abeginning.’She looked at him

intently, her eyes sparkling.Yes, there was indeed anunderstandingbetweenthem.

The Duke was agreeablethat their daughter Marieshould be betrothed toHarryof Monmouth, for as heconfidedtoJoannawhentheywerealonehewascertainthattherewasdeepdissatisfaction

in Englandwith the reigningKing.

‘Richard will be off thethrone before long. Youwillsee,mydear.Andthen...itisuptoLancaster.’

‘There is another beforehim.Mortimer...’

The Duke snapped hisfingers. ‘A strong arm and asteady head will decide. Ithink Henry is the one withthose.’

He pressed her arm. ‘Wehave donewell tomake himourfriend.WewillstrengthenouralliancebybetrothingourgirltotheyoungLordHarry.Sheshallhaveadowryofonehundred and fifty thousandfrancs.’

Preparations went ahead.The nuptials were to becelebrated in the castle ofBrest which should be a giftto the bride and bridegroom.

It was doubtful whetherHarry would be allowed tocometoFrance.Indeeditwasmost unlikely since he hadnotbeenallowedtogotohisgrandfather. However, themarriage could take place byproxy.

While these preparationswere in progress therewas amessage from the King ofFrance who wished for animmediate meeting with the

Duke of Brittany concerninga matter of importance tothem both. Duke John wasnowsomewhatinfirm;hedidnotwant tobecome involvedin trouble, and he could notdisobey theKing’s summonsunless he wanted to create adangerousincident.

Sohewent.Hewassoonback.TheKingofFrancedidnot approve of Marie’smarriage to Harry. He had

another bridegroom for her.He had offered the heir ofAlençon, and to marry thisnobleprince theDukewouldnotbeaskedfornearlysuchalarge dowry as the Englishwereasking.

‘I could do nothing butaccept,’ said the Dukemorosely, therebyproclaiming that he felt hisagesadlyforearlierhewouldneverhaveallowedanyoneto

force him into such asituation.

Itwasaboutthistimethata messenger arrived inBrittanyfromtheDuchessofLancaster. The Duke haddied, and Henry had nowinheritedthetitleandestates;hewasheadof theHouseofLancaster and one of therichestmeninEngland.

‘Howthismustmakeyou

chafe against exile,’ saidJoanna.

Butitwasnotlongbeforetherewasanothermessenger.The King had waived asidethe promise he had made toJohn of Gaunt and hadconfiscated the Lancasterestates.

‘It is treachery!’ criedHenrywhenheheard. ‘Iwillneveracceptthis.’

Richardwasacheatanda

liar. He was unworthy togovern. He had given hissolemn oath that the estatesshould come to Henry ofLancaster on his father’sdeath. That was a promiseJohn of Gaunt had insistedon.

Henry talked the matterover with Joanna and theDuke of Brittany, as well aswith the Arundels who hadbeenhisclosecompanionsin

exile.Theyweretensedaysthat

followed.Was Henry going to lose

his inheritance? There wasonly oneway of regaining itandthatwouldbebygoingtoEnglandandwrestingitfromRichard. He grew excited atthe prospect for he guessedthatitwouldbemorethantheLancaster estates which hewould take from Richard. It

was clear to him that thoseabout him were expectinghim to make some decision.He had been given anopportunity. Richard hadbrokenhisword.WhyshouldHenrybeexpectedtokeeptohis? He knew that the timewas drawing near when hemust return to England toclaimhisestates.

The Duke was full ofadvice. He was too old to

campaignforhimselfnowbuthe could be interested inenterprisessuchasthisone.

‘Richard will be on thealert,’ he said. ‘He will bewonderingwhat youwill do.Put up a pretence. Makebelieve that you are soengaged on your rounds ofpleasure that you have noenergyforafight.’

‘That makes sense,’ saidJoanna;andHenryagreed.

But the excitement grew.Day and night he thought oflittleelse.

The Duke, prompted byJoanna, said he would dowhat he could to raise anarmy. Henry was thoughtful.Attractive as that propositionwas,hedecidedagainstit.

Itwouldbefollytotakeaforeign army onto Englishsoil. He knew his fellowcountrymen.Theywouldrise

up against the foreigner. No.If what he heard was true –andbothheandtheArundelshadtheirspiesinEnglandandmessengers were constantlytravelling to and fro –Richard was growingincreasingly unpopular. He,Henry, would return toEngland, yes, but he wouldgoonthepretextofregaininghisrights.Thereshouldbenohint that itwas the crownhe

sought.HewouldlandquietlyinEngland.

‘NoonemustknowthatIam coming,’ he said and theArundelsagreedwithhim.

It was Joanna whosuggested that they shouldpretend to plan a visit toSpain. Let them travel toParisandletitbeknownthatthey were there; and whentheylefttheyshouldgoafewmilessouth,andthenturnand

go with all speed toBoulogne. The Duke ofBrittany would put thenecessary ships at theirdisposal and they could slipquietlyacrosstheChannel.

It appeared that the rusewas effective for soon theyheard that Roger Mortimer,Earl of March, who waslooking after affairs inIreland, had been killed nearKells in the county of

Kilkenny. Richard himselfdecided that he must go outtheretocontinuethestruggle,whichhecertainlywouldnothave done if he had had aninkling of Henry’s plans.Roger Mortimer – grandsonof Lionel Duke of Clarence,sonofEdward theThird andPhilippa, elder brother ofJohn of Gaunt – had beennamed heir to the throne intheeventofRichard’shaving

no children. So before he setout for Ireland RichardnamedEdmund,Roger’sson,as his successor. Edmund,however, was a boy of eightand the people would notwant a child as their king.They had had a taste of thatwhen Richard came to thethrone. Edmund was anobstacle,forofcoursehedidcome before the son of JohnofGaunt,butHenrywassure

that Edmund’s youth wasagainsthimandthatifitwereproved that the people hadhad enough of Richard, theywould look to the son ofGaunt,noneotherthanHenryof Bolingbroke, Duke ofHereford, head of the HouseofLancaster.

It was a comfortingthought.

Joanna showed a littlesadness at the parting

although he knew that shewas eager for him to win acrown. There was a farawaylook in her eyes which hethoughtheunderstood.

They took a last walktogether in the small gardenwithin the precincts of thecastle.

‘I have been so happy inBrittany,’ said Henry, ‘that Ialmost forgot my reason forbeinghere.’

‘I am glad you came tous,’shetoldhim.

‘HowcanIrepayyouforyour goodness to me?’ heasked.

‘Perhaps,’ she said, ‘bynotforgettingus.’

He stooped and picked alittle blue flower and held itinthepalmofhishands.

‘Doyouknowwhatitis?’heasked.

‘It is called myosotis

arvensis,’sheanswered.‘It is beautiful, is it not?

WhenIsee it Ishall thinkofyou. I shall have itembroidered on my emblem,and henceforth it shall beknownastheforget-me-not.’

A few days later he leftthe Court of Brittany. Hefound an opportunity ofgiving Joanna the little blueflower which she pressedbetween the pages of a book

and often she looked at it inthemonthstocome...

Harry was becomingincreasingly conscious of hissomewhat invidious positionat Court. He was closelyrelated to the King buteveryoneknewthathisfatherwas in exile and that hispresence at Court wasregarded as a safeguard forhisfather’sgoodbehaviour.It

wasnotverypleasantforoneofHarry’sdispositiontobeacaptive.

Heknewverywellthatifhe asked permission to visithisbrothersandsistersorhisstep-grandmother or hisBeaufortrelations,permissionwould not be granted. No.The King wanted Harrywherehecouldseizehimatamoment’s notice if the needshouldarise.

Richard was alwaysaffablewithHarry.He reallydid like the boy. He wasamused byHarry –whowasso different from himself.Harry was impatient withsuch preoccupations as dressand jewels and epicureanmeals.He chafed against lifeat Court. He wantedadventure.

Moreoverhewasanxiousabout his father, particularly

since his grandfather haddied.

HiscousinHumphreywasatCourt.Hewasnotinaveryhappy position either. Theywere very closely related forHumphrey’s father had beenthe Duke of Gloucester whohad been smothered byfeatherbedsinasleazyCalaisinn (doubtless on the King’sorders)andtheDukewasthebrother of Harry’s

grandfather, John of Gaunt,and as his mother wasEleanor de Bohun, sister ofHenry’s mother, it was adoublerelationship.

Ithadbeenbroughthometo both boys that their safetywassomewhatprecarious,forthefateoftheirfatherswasaconstantwarningtothemthatanythingcouldhappenatanymoment.

Theykept theirearsopen

fornewsandtalkedinsecret.Harrywassurethathisfatherwouldcomeback toEnglandnow that the King hadconfiscated the Lancasterestates.

‘When he does,’ he said,‘therewillbemanywhowillhelp him regain them. Thenoblesdonotlikeoneoftheirkind to suffer such forfeiturebecause they say if it canhappen to one it can happen

toothers.’‘He will have to take

care,’saidHumphrey.‘My father was always

one to take care.Hewas notrecklesslikeyours.’

Humphrey was silentthinking of that terrible daywhen he had heard that hisfather had been taken. It hadbeenunbelievable.ThomasofGloucesterhadalwaysbeenablustering reckless man,

certain of his power tosucceed. He would neverforget how his forthrightmother, who had neverseemedtobeatalossbefore,suddenly collapsed andbecame a sad, silent woman.She had been so sure ofherself; she had believed socompletely that her husbandwould achieve all hisambitionsandthatshewouldrise with him; and then

suddenly it was all finished.His father had been takenaway. How had he died?What did it feel like to havetwo or three strong menpressing a feather bed downupon you until you weregasping for breath . . . andthencouldbreathenomore?

Hemustnotthinkofthesethings.HemustbelikeHarry,wholaughedagreatdealandfollowedtheservingwenches

with lustful eyes and evenallowed himself to commenton the charms – or lack ofthem – of the ladies of theCourt.

Now they were playingwith thecards that fascinatedthem both. These had beeninvented a few years beforefor the amusement of theKing of France, and werebecomingveryfashionableinEngland. Many people at

Court played with them andwith their kings, queens,jacks and aces, they seemedsuitedtoCourtlife.

Harry was smiling at thefanlikearrayinhishandsandlooking slyly across atHumphrey. One never knewwhat cards Harry held,thoughtHumphrey.Heputonafacetobemuseone.

But before the gamebegan one of the King’s

attendants came to them totell them that their presencewas required in the royalchamber, so they laid downtheir cards and went at oncetoobeytheKing’scommand.

Richard was lounging inhis chair rather informallywithhisfavouritegreyhound,Math, at his feet. The dogwatched the boyssuspiciously as theyapproached.

Harry had tried to enticethe dog to come to him butMath gave him nothing butdisdain. It was almost asthough he was saying, I amtheKing’s dog, Iwill acceptnone but a King as mymaster.

‘Ah, my cousins,’ saidRichard, smiling at them, ‘Ihavenewsforyou.’

He watched them withnarrowed eyes. Harry was

going tobeawildfellow,hecould see that. He would beeverything that he, Richard,wasnot.Yethelikedtheboy.ItgratifiedhimtokeephimatCourt and within callingdistance.Thatwashowitwasgoingtoremain.

Thesetwoboyswerebothsons of men whom he hadhated–closelyrelatedtohimthough theywere.HumphreywasnowDukeofGloucester

and Richard had hated hisfathermore than anyone. Hehad been one of the uncleswho had made his life sofraught with irritation whenhe was very young. He hadliked John ofGaunt,Harry’sgrandfather,oncetheoldmanhad accepted his age andgivenuphisfruitlessstruggleforacrownofsomesort.ButHarry’s father, Henry ofBolingbroke, he would

alwaysbesuspiciousof.He would never forget

those five Lords Appellantstanding before him armslinkedtoshowthattheycametogether and were againsthim. No, he had determinedon revenge from themomenttheyhad stood there.Andhehad it. Gloucester dead,smothered by feathers,Arundel beheaded, Warwickin prison, Norfolk and

Hereford exiled. So theyshould remain. And ifHereford decided to maketroublehehadyoungHarryinhisgrasp.Harrythehostage.

‘You will be wonderingwhy I sent for you,’ he said.‘Isthatso?’

‘My lord, you haveguessed aright,’ repliedHarry.Therewas justa traceof insolence in the youngvoice but the smile was

disarming. One could neverbesurewithHarry.

‘’Twas no greatconundrum,’ said the Kingshortly. ‘You are to preparetoleaveforIreland.’

‘Ireland, my lord!’ criedHarry.

‘I said Ireland,’ repliedthe King. ‘The death of theEarl of March has made itnecessary for me to take anarmy there.Youwillbewith

us.’The boys heard the news

with mixed feelings. Theylikedthethoughtofadventure– but Ireland! They wouldrather have gone to France.Harry’s fatherwas inFrance.Suppose...

The King was saying,‘Youwillwishtomakesomepreparations, I do not doubt.You will be instructed whenwearetoleave.’

Math watched themsleepily while they bowedandretired.

‘To Ireland,’ murmuredHumphrey.‘Iwonderwhywearegoing.’

‘Because the King willnot letme out of his sight, Iamahostage formy father’sgood conduct towards him.ThatiswhyIamgoing.’

‘ButwhyamI?’‘Because he does not

wish tomake the fact ofmygoingtoopointed.Ifwebothgo . . .well thenwearepartof the Court retinue. I see itclearly,cousinHumphrey.’

‘Yes,’saidHumphrey,‘sodo I. Iwonderhow longyouwillgoonbeingahostage?’

Harrywas thoughtful.Heknew the King hadconfiscated his father’sestates.

He thoughtsuchanevent

mightmakeadifference.

Thetwoboysenjoyedtheexcitement of making thejourney to Ireland. Theboisterousseacrossingwhichsomanyfounddistressingdidnot affect them. They pacedthedecksinthedrizzlingrainand felt that theywere reallymennowgoingintobattle.

‘Of course it is only theIrish,’ said Harry

disconsolately.‘IwishitweretheFrench.’

Ireland was adisappointment. Thereseemed to be little but milesof bog land which could betreacherous; there were starkmountains,sullenpeoplewholived very poorly, and aboveallrain,perpetualrain.

Richardattheheadofhisarmies looked very splendidindeed and he created a

certain wonder among theIrish which was not withoutits effect. Harry noticed this.Richard had no real qualitiesasaleaderbuthehadanauraof royalty which served himin a certain way. Harry hadoften heard of themanner inwhich he had faced therebellious peasants atBlackheath and Smithfieldand he understood why hehad been able to quell them.

He was extraordinarilyhandsome; so fair and light-skinned with an almostethereal air.Hewas themantorideoutamonghissubjectsandwinthemwithhischarm;but he was not the King toleadthemintobattle.If therewas no real fightingRichard’scampaignmightbesuccessful. If there was itwould fail. Harry waslearning a good deal about

leadership.Onedayhewouldhave his own men and hewould know how to leadthemthen.

Thearmygrewmoreandmore disgruntled. There wasnodiing more calculated tosapthespiritsofsoldiersthaninaction and perpetual rain.They were homesick; theyhated Ireland. There was noreal fighting to excite themandnobooty in thispoverty-

stricken land to make theirjourneyworthwhile.

Back home in EnglandEdmundofLangley,DukeofYork, was acting as Regent.Although he was the son ofEdward III he was quitewithout ambition and askedonly for aquiet andpeacefullife. Perhaps that was whyRichardhadappointedhimasRegent.TheKinghadchosenfour men to help him,

William Scrope, Earl ofWiltshire,SirWilliamBagot,Sir John Bushby and SirHenry Green. He could nothave chosen four moreunpopularmen.Young as hewas,HarrywasamazedatthecarelessnessoftheKing.

It was a wretchedcampaignmadeevenmoresobytheweather.Thehighseasmade it impossible for storestocross thewater so linesof

communication were cut off.The men were weary of thestruggle, and although theIrish could not put up anarmy they had otherways ofharassing the invaders. Theydestroyedeventhelittletherewould have been to leavebehindthemastheyfledfromthe enemy and by the timeRichard reached Dublin hisarmy had one thought andthat was to get back to their

firesides as quickly aspossible. They had hadenough of senseless warswhichbroughtthemnoprofit.

There were messengersawaiting Richard in Dublinand the news they broughtwas catastrophic. Henry ofLancaster had landed inEngland; he had come toregain his inheritance, andmen were rallying to hisbanner.

Richard had always beenafraid of his cousin. He sawthenthathehadmadeamajormistake. First by exilingHenry and then byconfiscating the Lancasterestates.

Itwastoolatenowtoturnback.

He had two alternatives;tostayinIrelandandconducta campaign against Henryfromthatcountryortoreturn

and face him. He must, ofcourse,returntoEngland,butthere would necessarily besome delay. He sent JohnMontacute, Earl of Salisburyback toEngland immediatelyto raise the people of Walesagainst Lancaster. He wouldfollowat theearliestpossiblemoment when he had madesome arrangements here inIreland.

Then he remembered

Harry of Monmouth, son ofthe invader, who was in hishands.

Heshouldbeable to turnthattoadvantage.

He laughed aloud at thethought. The son and heir oftheenemyinhishands!

He sent for youngHarry,whocame,alittletruculently,havingheard thenewsofhisfather’slandingofcourse.Hehad to admire the boy. He

was in a dangerous positionandheknewit.

‘So you are the son of atraitor,eh?’saidRichard.

‘No,mylord,indeedIamnot.Myfatherisnotraitor.’

‘Have you heard that hehas landed in Englandalthough I have put him inexile?’

‘He comes to regain hisestates I doubt not,’ saidHarry. ‘Those which you

promised my grandfathershouldnotbeforfeit.’

‘You make bold, myyoungbantam.Iholdyoumyprisoner,youknow.’

‘I know I have been andstillamahostage.’

‘For your father’s goodbehaviour.’

‘Then I have nothing tofear for my father does notactasatraitor.Hecomesbutto take the estates which are

hisbyrightofinheritance.’‘Youwillhavetolearnto

curbyourtongue,Harry.’‘Andlie...asothersdo.’Richard flushed. ‘You’re

ayoungfool,’hesaid.‘Betterthatthanaknave,’

retortedHarry.Richardcried:‘Getoutof

my sight, or I’ll have thatsaucy tongue of yours cutout.’

InwardlyHarryquailedat

thethought,butheshowednofear.Hebowedandretired.

Richardburiedhisfaceinhis hands.A thousand cursesonHenryBolingbroke!Whatafoolhehadbeen to let thatman live, to have sent himabroad to plot with hisenemies, to have taken hisestates. He had brought thisonhimself.

YoungHarryknewit.Hewas a shrewd, clever boy.

Richard hated violence. Thatwaswhyhewassolothtogotowar.Whycouldnotpeopleall enjoy the things that hedid – music, literature, art,goodfoodinmoderation,finewines, sweet perfumes, richclothes, sparkling jewels, acleanandbeautifulbody...?They thought him unkinglybecause he cared for thesethings. And now Lancasterwas forcing a war on him;

and Harry, his son, wasdefiant, almost insolentbecauseheknew inhisheartthat to harm him would beloathsome to Richard whoabhorred violence. What todowithHarry?

He summoned twoof hisguards. ‘Let the Lord HarryofMonmouthbetakentothecastle of Trim and with himhis cousin Gloucester. TheretheyshallremainuntilIhave

settled this matter with thetraitorLancaster.’

Sothetwoboysweresentto Trim Castle, there to fretaway the days playing chessand games they contrivedwith their playing cards,while they waited for newsfromEngland.

Henry had decided tomake for that part of thecountry which he expected

would be most loyal to him,soinsteadoflandingatDoveror Folkestone as he wouldhavebeenexpectedto,hesetanortherlycourseandfinallyarrived at Bridlington. Hewas amazed at the numberswho flocked to his banner.They were welcoming himbecause they were tired ofRichard. He made his owncastle of Pickering histemporary headquarters and

from there he marched toDoncaster, his followinggrowing more numerouseveryday.

At Doncaster he wasjoined by the Earl ofWestmorland, and HenryPercy, Earl ofNorthumberlandwith his sonSir Henry Percy known asHotspur. The Percys were apowerful family who helpedtokeepwatchontheScottish

border for any troublewhichmight flare up. They werelike kings of the northernprovinces. With them theyhad brought the Lords ofGreystockandWilloughby,aformidableforce.

The Earl ofNorthumberland calledtogether a council which heasked Henry to attend andwhen they were allassembled, he said, ‘It is

important toknowwhatyourintentions are, and why youhavereturnedtoEngland.’

Henry replied promptlythat his intentions were toregain his estates which hadbeen unjustly forfeited. Hehadnootherintentions.

The company wasrelieved. They implied thattheyhadnodesiretotakepartin a campaign to take thecrown from Richard and put

it on his cousin’s head. Butbeing men of propertythemselves they had verystrong views about theseizure of estates. The Kinghad acted foolishly inbreakinghis promise to JohnofGauntandtheyagreedthatthere had been only onecourse open to Henry ofLancaster. He must come toEngland and take back whatwashis.

Sothesepowerfulearlsofthe North joined with Henryof Lancaster in a righteouscourse.

The next week saw thecomplete débâcle. Richard’sfollowers deserted him oneby one, and they flocked toHenry’s banner. The Kingwas at first bewildered, thenresigned.Whathehadalwaysfearedhadcometopass.The

peopleweretiredofhim;theynolongerlovedthebrightandhandsome boy they hadcheered so wildly atBlackheath and Smithfield.Theyhadhadenoughofhimand they thought that Henryof Lancaster would servethembetter.

When Richard was leftwith but six loyal men heknewthatitwasonlyamatterof days before he was

captured. He wandered fromcastle to castleuntil he cameto Conway and there herested for he had no heart tocontinuethefutilestruggle.

His old enemyArchbishop Arundel came tohim thereandextracted fromhimapromise togiveup thecrown.

He did so, almost withalacrity. He was tired of thecrown, tired of his life. He

didregret thoughthathewaspartedfromhislittleQueen.

The young Isabella hadbrought him what he hadlacked in his life since thedeath of Queen Anne. Hewanted to loveandbe loved;and this exquisite little girlwho adored him and whomhe could regard as a belovedchild – wife though she wastohim–hadsuppliedthat.

Poor sweet Isabella what

wouldbecomeofhernow!As for Henry he had

succeededbeyondhiswildestexpectations.

He had seen thatRichardmustgiveupthethronefromhis own desire to do so.Henry did not want troublewhich would be inevitable ifRichard were forced toabdicate.Henrywanted tobepersuaded to take that whichhishandshad itched tograsp

formanyyears.Richard was obstinate at

first when the irrevocablestep had to be taken buteventuallyhegavein.

TherewasanewKingonthe throne. Henry ofBolingbroke, Duke ofLancaster had become KingHenrytheFourthofEngland.

ChapterVI

THEPRINCEANDTHEVIRGINWIDOW

Harry was becomingvery restless in Trim Castle,forontheordersoftheKing,a close watch was kept on

him and Humphrey. Theywere not allowed to ride outwhich was a hardshipscarcely to be endured. Theyplayedgamesuntil theyweretiredofthem;Harrymadeallsorts of plans for escapewhich Humphrey dismissedas impossible. Harry knewthistoobutithelpedalittletoplan.

Then one day when theysat idly in a corner of the

room they shared, theyheardthesoundoffootstepscomingup the steep spiral staircase;the footsteps stopped at theirdoor and they heard theclanking of keys as the doorwasbeingunlocked.

Two of the guards cameinto the room. They werelooking at Harry and therewasadistinctchangeintheirdemeanour.Notthattheyhadbeen cruel. Richard would

never have wanted that. Butnow therewas respect in thebow they gave in Harry’sdirection and then inHumphrey’s.

‘Great news, my lord,’said the guard lookingstraight at Harry who wasbeginningtofeelalittlelight-headed with the possibilitywhichhadoccurredtohim.

‘Yes, yes,’ cried Harry,impatientandimperious.

‘We have a new King,God save him. King HenryIVofEngland.

‘My . . . my father!’gaspedHarry.

‘Your noble father, mylord,Godsavehim.’

‘ThenRichard...’‘Has abdicated, my lord.

He knew himself to bebeaten.’

Harry smiled to himself.This was the biggest thing

that had ever happened.YesterdayhehadbeenHarryof Monmouth, son of anexile, a hostage in the handsof the King. Today he wasPrince Harry, heir to thethrone.

He wanted to go home.He wanted to share in thetriumph.Thiswas the endofthisdull andpointless life.Awild exultation took hold ofhim. Everyone was showing

respect,evenHumphrey.Heirtothethrone.Thewordskeptringinginhisears.

‘What news ofmy fathertheKing?’heasked.

‘Orders,mylord,thatyouand Duke Humphrey are toleave at once for England,’wastheanswer.

‘Come,Humphrey,’ criedHarry.‘Letuslosenotime.’

Nordidthey.Theywouldleaveatonce.Therewouldbe

a ship waiting for them. Hisfather had seen to that. Hewantedhisheirwithhimwithall speed.HewouldbemadethePrinceofWales,thatwascertain. A glorious life laybeforehim.

Humphrey was morecautiousandverythoughtful.

Poor old Humphrey, itwould make little differenceto him. He was already theDuke of Gloucester and he

could not go much higherthanthat.Still,hewouldhavethe distinction of havingshared exile with the PrinceofWales.

When they were aloneHumphreysaid:‘Harry,don’thopefortoomuch.’

‘What do you mean?Hope for toomuch! I’mheirtothethrone,amInot?’

‘It must be very insecureasyet.’

‘Insecure! Depend uponit,myfatherhadmadeitverysecure.’

‘For one thing youngEdmundMortimer is the trueheir.’

‘That’s not a seriousclaim.’

‘Youhavetoseethingsasthey are, Harry. Edmund isdescended from Lionel whowas older than yourgrandfather.’

‘Iknow.Iknow.Buthe’sonlyachild.’

‘Age makes nodifference.’

‘Ohyesitdoes.Myfatherhas the people behind him.Heistheonetheywant.Theywantnomorechildkings.’

‘Not even if they are therightfulheirs?’

‘Enough, Humphrey.Remember...’

‘To whom I speak. The

heir to the tottering throne.Don’t hope for too much,Harry.’

‘Willyoustopitor...or...’

‘You’ll send me to theTower and have me lay myheadon theblock?You’llbea vindictive king, Harry, butyou won’t last long if youdon’t look the truth right inthefaceandacceptitforwhatitis.’

Harry seized him and thetwoofthemwrestledtogetheronthefloorofthechamberastheylovedtodo.Harryoftenscored in these boutsalthoughhewasseveralyearsyoungerthanHumphrey.

The tussle ended up inlaughter as it always did andHarry cried: ‘What are wedoing, wasting our time?Come,wemust return to thesceneofactionwithallspeed.

I am no longer a hostage,Humphrey.Thinkofthat.’

‘Icanthinkofnothingbuthow glad I am to leave thisdampunfriendlyland.’

‘Come, then, let usmakeready.ToEngland.’

Within a few days theyleftIreland.Thecrossingwasrough and during itHumphrey became ill. Harrychaffed him and told him hewas a poor sailor and

commented that it was amercy they were not goingintobattle.Humphrey smiledwanly and said he couldnever remember feeling sostrange.

‘You’ll be well again assoon as you set foot on dryland,’Harrypromisedhim.

But this was not so andthecrossingwassoroughthatit seemed at one time thattheywould nevermake it. It

was a great relief when theywere able to land inAnglesey. Oddly enoughHumphreywas no better andit soon became clear that hismalady had nothing to dowiththesea.

He was in a fever andwandering in hismind.Theyhad come to an inn whichwasnearesttothespotwherethey had landed and Harryhad thought that after a brief

rest there Humphrey wouldbehimselfagain.

Humphrey was ramblingabout his father. He thoughthe was himself in an inn inCalais instead of Angleseyand thatwhat had been donetohisfatherwouldbedonetohim.

‘Nonsense,’ cried Harry.‘I’m here with you,Humphrey.We’reinWales... soon we shall be with my

father.We are not Richard’sprisonersanymore.’

Humphrey was soothedbut he did not improve. Infact he was growing worseand a cold fear suddenlytouchedHarry.

Was this some sort of aplaguewhichhadattackedhiscompanion?

He should ride on. Hisfather was impatientlyawaitinghim,buthewasnot

goingtoleaveHumphrey.That was to prove a sad

homecoming for Harry inspite of the glory whichawaited him. Within a fewdays of their landingHumphrey had died of themysterious illness which hadattackedhimsosuddenly.

When the Duchess ofGloucesterheardofthedeathof her only son she was

overcomewithmelancholy.It was difficult to

recognise in this grief-stricken lady the forcefulEleanor de Bohun who hadonce been so pleased withherselfwhenshehadmarriedThomas of Woodstock, andtogether they had planned toget their hands on the entirefortuneleftbyherfather.

Thenshehadhaddreamsofgreatness.Becoming royal

throughmarriagewithoneofthesonsofEdwardtheThirdshe had been so proud. Andwhen her son had been bornand he had been given thatgood old de Bohun name ofHumphrey she had doted onhim.

Her only son! HerHumphrey! She had knownwhat it meant to lovesomething other than richesandpowerwhenhehadbeen

born, although shehadneverceased to value those thingsand wanted them forHumphrey.

When her husband hadbeenmurdered that had beenthe end of her ambition forhim and she had turned herthoughts more and more tothispreciousson.

He had accompanied hiscousinHarrytoIrelandatthecommand of Richard but it

had not occurred to her thatany harm could come to herson.

And now this news hadshattered her. She had beenrobbedof thatwhichwas themeaning of life to her. Shehad three daughters; but ithad been on Humphrey thather love and devotion wascentred.

She went about Pleshysilent-footed and mournful.

Her attendants watched heranxiously.

‘Shewill die of a brokenheart,’theysaid.

She would sit in thewindow seat and look outacross the country to wherethegreywallsof theconventroseandshethoughtofthosedayslongbeforeHumphrey’sbirth when her sister Marywas here and had made herjourneys to and from the

convent.Howtheyhadurgedher to take up the life of thenun. And she might havedone so had it not been forthat meeting with HenryBolingbroke – contrived ofcourse by John of Gaunt.They had wanted Mary’sfortune...wellsohadshe.

How different everythingwouldhavebeenifMaryhadenteredtheconvent.HarryofMonmouthwouldneverhave

beenborn.‘Oh Humphrey,’ she

mourned, ‘never to see youagain...Humphrey,myson,myboy...’

Shewastiredinbodyandinmind.Shehadnothingnowtolivefor.

Then she saw again thegreywallsoftheconventandit seemed to her that theyoffered peace. Could it bethat she, Eleanor Duchess of

Gloucester, who for yearsbefore had tried so hard topersuade her sister to enterthat convent, should now beconsidering ending her ownlifethere?

Itwasstrangewhatpeacethe thought brought her. Shecould almost hear her ownarguments with which shehad bombarded Mary. Thequiet. The peace. The lifelivedtoapatternofserviceto

others.Therewascomfortinit.It was ironical that the

Duchess,whohadthoughttheconvent life so suitable forhersister,shouldnowwanttoembraceitherself.

As the days passed themore firm became thedecision and finally she tookthestep.

Shedidnotlivelong.Shefound that she must mourn

her son within the conventwallsasbitterlyasshehadinthecastle.

She died very soon afterentering the convent. Of abrokenheart,itwassaid.

Harry realised thatHumphrey had been rightwhenhehadtalkedabouttheinsecurity of the new King’sposition; and nonewasmoreaware of this than Henry

himself.He was delighted to

receivehissonandtoseethathewasingoodhealth,thoughsomewhat melancholy stillowing to thesuddendeathofhiscousin.

There were other matterswith which to concernthemselves, Henry remindedhis son, and because Harrywas next in importance tohimself he discussed matters

candidlywithhim.‘Donotimagine,’saidthe

newKing,‘thatweareassafeon the throne as if it hadcome to us through straightinheritance.RichardhasbeencrownedKing.He still lives.The people have shown theyhave had enough of him andhehasagreedtoabdicate,butitisadangerousposition.’

‘Richard’s reign is over,’cried Harry. ‘Should we

concern,ourselveswithhim?’‘Ofacertaintyweshould,

myson.Itellyouthis,Ishallnot rest easy while he lives.There is Edmund deMortimer – that child. Hedoes not add tomy peace ofmind. Harry, we must treadwith the greatest care. Yougive yourself airs.Donot doso.Behavewithmodesty.Letitbeasitwasbefore.’

‘Did I ever behave with

modesty?’ asked Harry,grinning.

‘This is a serious matter.So much will depend on thenext few weeks. I have notwon the crown by conquest,for there has been scarcelyany fighting. It is rather byelection.’

‘Isthatnotagoodthing?’‘Yes, but Iwant tomake

itfirm.Iwantnowandintheyears to come people to say

ofme, “There is a trueKingand ruler.” Ifwe do not takecare we shall have risings.There will be those ready tosupport Richard . . . till hedies . . . Edmund deMortimer’sadherents...’

‘’Twould be safer if wecouldproveinsomewaythatyouweretherightfulheir.’

‘Well, there is the storyyou know, that Henry theThird’s eldest son was not

EdwardwhobecametheFirstof that name, but Edmund,Earl of Lancaster, he whomtheycalledCrouch-back, andfrom whom we are directlydescended.Butbecauseofthelatter’s weakness theysubstituted Edward thesecond son for the first-bornand so hewas brought up astheheir.’

‘Willanybelievethat,mylord?’

‘I think very few would,butitwouldsaveagreatdealof trouble if they could bepersuadedto.’

‘Why do you not claimthe throne because you havewonit?’

‘Claim it ismine throughconquest! A dangeroussituation, Harry. Someoneone day might be taking itfrom me . . . claiming it byconquest. Chief Justice

Thyrnynge has warned meagainst that. But perhaps Icould be said to have agreater claim because I amdescended on both sides ofthe family from Henry theThird.Yousee thatkingwasmy father’s great-great-grandfather andmymother’sgreat-great-grandfather also.Edmund de Mortimer couldnotclaimthat.’

‘Mylord,’saidHarry,‘as

I see it, you have the power;youhavetheriches;youhavethecrowninyourhands.Thatmakes you King. All youmustconcernyourselfwithiskeeping that crown, until itcomestomeandrestassured,my lord, that when it does Ishall clamp it to my headwithbarsofiron.’

Henry could not helpsmilingathisson.Assoonashe possibly could he would

createhimPrinceofWales.

The new King rodethroughtheteemingrainfromthe Tower on the traditionaljourney to Westminster forthenextdaywouldbethatofhiscoronation.

Thewaterstreameddownhis face, soaking his fineclothes but he laughed at itand so did the crowds ofpeople who had come out in

spite of the weather towelcomehim.

With him rode his foursons, Harry who was to becreated Prince of Waleswithinthenextfewdays,justpast his twelfth birthday,Thomas who was ten, Johnnine, and Humphrey eight.Thesightoftheboyswarmedthepeople’shearts.Herewasa man to rule them and hewasstrongandclever,theson

of wily John of Gaunt, andalready he had given proofthat he could provide strongheirs to the throne. YoungHarry’s affable smiles andmanner towards the crowddelighted all; and noweverythingwouldbedifferentfrom the reign of Richardwhen they had been taxed topay for his fine friends andgeneral extravagancesandhehadshownthemquiteclearly

that he was either unable ordisinclined to produce anheir.

Harry thought the mostmagical sound in the worldwas that of the people’scheers and the words ‘GodSave the King’. It wasparticularly exhilarating tothinkthat thiswouldonedaybehappeningtohim.

He was almost sorry toreach the dry comfort of

Westminster Palace wherethey would lodge for thenight in preparation for thenextday’sevent.

His father had said: ‘Ishall be uneasy until thecoronation is over. When aman is crownedKing peoplearelessinclinedtotopplehimfromhisthrone.’

Harry was beginning tothink that his father worriedtoomuch andwas not going

to be uneasy merely till thecoronation was over butwould go on being so forever. He should forget howthe crown had come to him.Hemust put the imageof animprisoned Richard and thechild Edmund Mortimer outofhismind.Richardhadbeendeposedandnobodywantedachildonthethrone.

Harry awoke early oncoronationday.

In his own chamber theKing prayed that nothingwould go wrong. It did notoccur to Harry that anythingcould.

Fortunately the rain hadstopped.Thepeoplehadbeenin the streets since earlymorning and had assembledin their thousandsaround thepalaceandtheabbey.

There were wild cheerswhentheprocessionemerged

led by Henry Percy, Earl ofNorthumberland carrying inhis hand the sword ofLancaster which Henry hadsaid should always bepreserved,ashehadcarrieditwhen he landed in England.Northumberland wasConstable of England and itwas for this reason that hetooksuchaprominentpartinthe coronation; moreover hereckoned that he and his son

Hotspurhadmade itpossiblefor Henry to gain the throneby offering their supportwhenhearrived,withoutanyarmyorthemeanstoconducta campaign the object ofwhich at that time had beenmerely the regaining of theLancasterestates.

Harry was entranced toplayanimportantpartinsuchaspectacle.Itwashistasktocarry the curtana, that sword

without a point which wasalways carried at coronationsasasymbolofmercy.

He walked immediatelybehind his father who,dressed entirely in white,walked beneath a blue silkcanopywhichwascarriedbythe barons of the CinquePorts.

It was one of the mostimpressive ceremonies everseenandifallthetimeHenry

was uneasy wonderingwhether at the last momentsome would protest that thecountry had a King alreadyand thismanwhowas beingcrownedwasan impostor,hedidnotshowit.

Nothing of the sorthappened.Itappearedthatthecountry was well satisfiedwith its new King. ButHenry’suneasinesscontinuedall through the splendid

banquet that followed andwhen Sir Thomas Dymoke,the traditional challenger,rode into the hall to demandthat if any man present didnot accept Henry as therighful King of England hemustenterintosinglecombatwith Sir Thomas, Henryhimselfanswered.

‘If the need arises, SirThomas,’ he said in a clearvoice,‘Iwillmyselftakethis

officefromyou.’Itwaswellspokenthough

it betrayed a departure fromtradition–as indeedwasthisoccasion. It was rare that aKing was crowned while acrownedKinglivedandtherewas one other closer to thethrone.

A moment’s silencefollowed and then thecheeringburstout.

There was no doubt that

HenrytheFourthwasKingofEngland by will of thepeople.

A few days later HarrywascreatedPrinceofWales.

It was inevitable thatthere should be some voicesof dissent. Henry was wary;andwhentherewasaplantoseize and kill him and hisfamily and put Richard backon the throne he took firm

action.He crushed the revoltbut it was absolutelynecessary that Richard mustdie. At Pontefract CastleHenryputhimunderthecareofSirThomasSwynford, thesonofCatherinetheDuchessof Lancaster. Thomas hadrisen in the world and heowed his advancement to hismother’s connectionwith thehouse of Lancaster. IfHenryfailed Thomas’s fortunes

would wane. Thomas was amanwhomhecouldtrust,hewasashrewdmanwhoknewwherehisownadvantagelay;he was aware that therewould be rebellions andrisings as long as Richardlived.ItwasuptoThomastoseethatRicharddidnotlive.

Nor did he. He died inPontefract.Somesaidhehadbeen starved to death;Thomas Swynford’s story

wasthathehadrefusedtoeat.Therewasrumourthathehadbeen attacked and had dieddefending himself. But thestory which worried Henrymost was that he was notdead at all and that a priestwho bore a strikingresemblancetohimhadtakenhis place in the castle whileRichardescaped.

That was a story whichmust be denied at once.

Richardmustbeshowntobedead, and Henry acted withhis usual promptness. ThelateKingmustbeaccordedaburialworthy of his rank, hedeclared.Truehehadbecomemerely Sir Richard ofBordeaux, but he had oncebeenaking;andhewasafterallfirstcousintothereigningmonarch.

Henry gave orders thatRichard’s body should be

placedonalitterandcoveredwith black cloth. Thereshould be a canopy over thelitterofthesameblackcloth.Four horses should beharnessed to the carriage-litter and they also must becaparisonedinblack.Groomsshould ride the horses whichdrew the litter and fourknightsshouldfollowitonitsjourney. Their demeanourmustmatchtheirgarmentsof

mourningfor itmustbe seenthat all due respect was paidto the late King. His faceshouldbeexposedso thatallmight seewho the deadmanwas that there might be nomore tiresomerumoursabouthisnotbeingdead. In all thetowns and villages throughwhich the cortège passed thelitter was to be left in themarket square or some suchpublic place where all might

see it and satisfy themselvesthat it was indeed Richardwholaythere.

InduecourseitarrivedinLondonanditproceededataslowpace through the streetsuntil it came to Cheapsideand there it rested for twohours.

Twentythousandmenandwomen came to see it andgaze mournfully at the deadfacewhichwasall thatcould

beseenoftheKing.When the funeral litter

left Cheapside it travelled toLangley and there Richardwasburied.

Harry of Monmouth,Prince of Wales, was ridingout to Havering Bower. Hewas ingood spirits.Lifewasturning out to be veryinteresting indeed. Whowould have believed it could

have changed so quickly! Itseemedonlyaweekorsoagothat he and Humphrey hadbeen playing and fightingtogether, captives in TrimCastle, and his father hadbeenanexilewith littlehopeof returning to England foryears. He did not wish tothink too much of TrimCastle for that brought backthoughtsofHumphreywhichmade him sad. If only

Humphreyhadbeenherenowhow he would have enjoyedboasting to him. ButHumphrey was dead andHarry was Prince of WaleswithaKingforafather.

It was too exciting aprospect for him to entertainmelancholyforlong.

Andhewasalmostaman.He chuckled too,contemplatinghismission.

His father had come

straight to the point in hiscustomarymanner.

‘Harry, you’re growingup. Moreover you are thePrinceofWales.Itistimeweconsidered a marriage foryou.’

Marriage! The thoughtexcitedHarry.Hehadalreadyshown a certain fondness forwomen – and so far hisattentions had been mainlyfor serving girls. They liked

himandwerereadytoaccepthisattentionwithagiggleandaratherpatronisingairwhichreminded him that he was‘onlyaboy’.

Marriage would bedifferent.

‘Well, you will soon bethirteen and not over-youngfor your years,’ went on hisfather. ‘I think there need belittle delay. I see no reasonwhy themarriage should not

takeplaceassoonaswehavearranged all that will benecessary.’

‘Who is tobemybride?’askedHarry.

His father smiled at him.‘One you have already metand I believe are inclined toadmire. She is of the highestbirth– in factaqueen.Whatdo you think of that?’ AsHarry looked puzzled, hisfatherwent on: ‘Why, young

Isabellaofcourse.’‘Richard’sQueen!’‘Awidownow–avirgin

widow. Just about your age,Harry.’

‘Isabella!’‘Ah, I see the idea does

notdispleaseyou.’‘She is the prettiest girl I

eversaw.’‘That isexactlywhatyou

should say about your futurewife.’

‘WhenshallImarryher?’‘Notquitesomuchhaste,

please.Sheisthedaughterofthe King of France. I don’twant to let her go for he issure to demand her dowryback,soitseemsanexcellentsolutionforyoutomarryher.In due time she should bereigning Queen of Englandagain.’

‘Ithinkshewilllikethat.’‘What is most important

at themoment,Harry, is thatsheshouldlikeyou.’

‘Oh she will like me,’boastedHarry. ‘Iwillgoandseeher.’

His father had thoughtthat would be an excellentidea. Isabella was animperious young person andasshehadbeenfartoomuchindulgedbyherlatehusband,she would need a certainamount of wooing, reasoned

the King. He wanted themarriage to be acceptable toher.

Harry had no doubtwhatsoever that he wascarrying good news toIsabella and he arrived atHaveringingoodspirits.

Whensheheardwhohadcome to see her Isabellawasat first amazed and thenangry. She was in a state ofgreat melancholy mourning

Richard. From the momentshe had seen him she hadloved him; he was sobeautifulwithhisgoldenhair,blue eyes and delicate skin.He had always been soexquisitely dressed andperfumedandhehadbeenasdelightedwithherasshewaswith him. She had beenlongingfor thedaywhenshewould be old enough to livewithhimashiswifeandnow

here she was nearly twelveyears old and reaching thatgoal,andtheyhadkilledhim.

She was certain they hadkilled him. She did notbelieve that he had starvedhimself to death. He hadtalked so glowingly of whattheir life would be togetherwhen she was grown up. Hewould never have killedhimself.Afterallshewashiswife andeven if they robbed

him of his crown and calledhimSirRichardofBordeauxinsteadofwhathereallywas,King Richard, she was stillhiswife.

Andnowhewasdeadandshewasaloneandshedidnotknowwhatwouldbecomeofher–yet inhergrief shedidnotcare.

‘I shall not see thisbraggart Harry,’ she said.‘Whyshouldhecomehereto

seeme?’Hermaids,Simonetteand

Marianne, whom she hadbroughtwithherfromFranceand whom Richard hadindulgently allowed her tokeep,flutteredroundher,onebrushing her long dark hairand the other putting on hershoes.

‘Itisimportant,mylady,’said Simonette. ‘He is thePrince of Wales now, this

Harry.’‘He is not the Prince of

Wales,’criedIsabella.‘Thereis no Prince ofWales. He isthesonoftheusurper.’

‘Hush, hush, my lady,’warned Marianne. ‘Peoplelisten. They say the King isveryharshwiththosewhogoagainsthim.’

‘Let him be harsh withme.Lethimkillmeashehaskilled my dear Richard. My

father will come and fighthim and perhaps kill himwhich would please memuch,Itellyou.’

The two chambermaidsshook theirheadsand lookedsadly at each other. It washardlylikelythat theKingofFrance would come toEngland to rescue hisdaughter.Hewasatthistimein one of his lost periods,whichmeantthathewaskept

shut away from the world,until his affliction left himandhewassaneagain.

ThelittleQueenhadbeenso indulged by her husbandthat she believed that thewhole world would be readytograntherwhims.

‘She has much to learn,that one,’ was Simonette’scommenttoMarianne.

Isabella could not refuseto see the Prince of Wales

andnow she did notwant tobecause her hatred for hisrather – and that hatredextended to him – was sooverpoweringthatshewantedtogiveventtoit.

She was dressed all inwhite formourning andwithher cheeks ablaze and hereyes alight with passion shemade a very pretty pictureandHarry’sheartleapedwithpleasure at the sight of her.

She was indeed the loveliestcreaturehehadevermet.Thedaughter of the King ofFrance, a Queen already!What luck that she wasworthyofhim.

He bowed in his bestmanner while she regardedhimwithhaughtydisdain.

‘Well met, my lady,’ hesaid. ‘It is long since I haveknown such pleasure as thismeeting between us gives

me.’Sheremainedsilent.Wait

tillsheknows,thoughtHarry.Pretty little Isabella, she is aprisoner here.Shemust havebeen wondering what willhappentoher.Ihavecometorescueher.Howshewilllovemewhensheknows.

‘I have a matter of thegreatestimportancetodiscusswithyou,’hewenton.

Shesaidcoolly: ‘Idonot

know what you and I couldhavetodiscuss.’

‘You will, sweet lady.You will. Such good news Ibring to you that I willwithholditnolonger.Istheresomewhere where we couldbequietthatwemaytalk?’

‘State your business hereand now, my lord,’ saidIsabella. ‘You have a longjourney back toWestminster.’

Her manner made Harrylaugh. Of course, she stillthought of herself as theQueen.ShehadforgottenthatRichardwasdead,thathehadbeendethroned.Still,shestillbore the title of Queen andshe was the daughter of theKing of France, madmanthoughhemightbe.

‘Ishallgobackwithgoodnews for my father, I doubtnot. Come sit withme and I

will tell you why I havecome.’

With reluctance sheallowedhimtoconducthertothewindowseat.

Then he took her handandsaid, ‘Isabella,my fatherhas created me Prince ofWales.Thatmeans I amheirto the throne. You neverreigned with Richard. Howwould you like to do so onedaywithme?’

Sherefusedtobelievetheimplication.

‘I do not understand, mylord,’ she said. ‘I know thatthetrueKingisdeadandthatthere is a usurper on thethrone. Youmean that if thetrueKing’s loyal subjects donot displace this usurper youwillonedaybeKing.’

‘There is no usurper.Myfather reigns by the will ofthe people because Richard

proved himself unable to doso. My father is thedescendant of Kings on bothsides of his family. Englandwill be happier under himthan it ever was underRichard. My father, KingHenry, has given his consenttoourmatchandIcomeheretogiveyouthisgoodnews.’

‘Our...match!’‘Isabella, my beautiful

little Isabella, I love you. I

want you to bemywife . . .myQueenoneday.Myfather...’

She had sprung to herfeet;herhandswereclenchedathersides;hereyesstony.

‘You . . . the son of myhusband’smurderer . . .Youdare to come here and saythistome!’

‘Isabella, you aremistaken. Richard was notmurdered. He chose to die.

He knew hewas useless andhe gave up the throne of hisown free will. You were hisbride . . . his childbride . . .you were never his wife inanythingbutname.’

‘Please do not speak ofhim.Idonotwishtohearhisname on your lips. Yourfatherisamurderer,HarryofMonmouth. You have killedmyhusband.Youmakeyourcrime worse by suggesting

that Iwouldmarryyou.’Hervoice had risen. ‘I hate you,Harry of Monmouth. I hateyou.Ihateyou.’

‘Well,’ saidHarrywith agrin, ‘that need not preventyourmarryingme.’

‘Go away. Never let meseeyouagain.’

‘Now that is asking toomuch. A wife must see herhusband now and then youknow. How else are they

going to get the heirs thecountrywillexpectofthem?’

Shetriedtopushpasthimbutheheldherfast.

‘Youare like awild cat,’hesaid.‘Imusttameyou.’

‘I shall send to myfather,’ she cried. ‘I will tellhim how you insult me. Hewillmakewaronyou.’

‘Sweet Isabella, dearchild.Kingsdonotmakewarbecause of naughty little

daughters. Your father willwelcome this match as minedoes. Come Isabella, I am afine fellow really, and I amreadytoproveittoyou.’

‘Let me alone. Go away.Never talk to me like thisagain.’

With that shegavehimapushwhich sent himback tothewindow seat and she ranas fast as she could up thestairstoherbedchamber.

Harry looked after herruefully. Shewould get usedtotheidea.

In her bedchamberIsabellafoundtheDuchessofIreland whom Richard hadput in charge of her. TheDuchess who had beenEleanor Holland before shemarried Roger de Mortimerhad little cause to love thenew self-styledKing, for herson was Edmund de

Mortimer whom many saidwas the true heir to thethrone.TheDuchesswasstillmourning the death of herhusbandwhohaddiedofhiswoundsinIrelandjustbeforeRichard had begun hiscampaignthere.

Isabellaturnedthelockinthe door and stood against itfacingtheDuchess.

‘Whatdoyouthinkhehasdared say?’ she demanded.

‘This . . . this boy . . . whocalls himself the Prince ofWales. He says his fatherwishesmetomarryhim.’

‘Oh, my child!’ Therewas a bitter twist to theDuchess’s lips. ‘He wasteslittletime,doeshe,thisHenryofLancaster.’

‘Eleanor, I refuse. I toldhimIhatedhim.Iwillnever.. .never marry him. Oh whydid they kill Richard? I love

Richard . . . I’ll always lovehim. Being dead doesn’tmakeanydifference.’

‘Mydear lady,he isonlyaboyobeyinghisfather.’

‘I hate him. He’s just asbadashisfather.Ihate themboth. Iwon’tmarry him. I’llrunaway.I’llgotomyfather.Eleanor, I want to sendmessengers tohimatonce . ..’

The Duchess stroked

Isabella’shair.Poor child, she thought,

sheisjustacounterinagameto them all . . . to bemovedthis way and that as pleasesthembest.

Whatever the youngQueen felt about herunwelcome visitor he couldnot be churlishly refusedhospitality. He was after allthesonoftheKingandmust

be treated as such. EveryoneatHavering knew that his orher present position wasprecarious and that Isabellawould not remain long atHavering. It had beenbelieved thatshewouldmostlikelyreturntoFrancebutthearrivalofthePrinceofWalespresentedanewandexcitingpossibility for it was quicklylearnedwhathispurposewasincoming.

When Isabella recoveredfrom the shock of Harry’sproposal she was a littlecalmer and her attitudetowardshimwasoneofcolddisdain.

At first this amused him.Hewould not have cared foran easy conquest; and themore aloof Isabella becamethe more he decided that hewantedtomarryher.

He contrived to be with

herasoftenaspossiblebutasshe was determined to avoidhim he was not alwayssuccessful.

In exasperation she triedto explain to him. ‘I willnevermarryyou,’shesaid.‘Ihave been married once. Iloved my husband, the trueKing, and I shall never loveanyoneelse.’

Harrytriedtoreasonwithher. ‘That is nonsense,’ he

insisted. ‘Richard was neveryourhusband.Hewaslikeanindulgentfatherandyouwerehis little pet . . . like one ofhisdogs.’

‘I hate you, MonmouthHarry,’shemurmured.

‘Youwereneverawifetohim.Youdon’tknowwhat itmeanstobeawife.’

‘Andyouwouldteachmewhatitmeans?’

His eyes glowed in

anticipation.‘ThatwouldIdorightgladly.’

‘Youneverwill.’‘Come, give me your

promise.’‘I will promise you one

thing: I will never be yourwife.’

‘I amnot onewho easilygivesup.’

‘It takes two to make abargainlikethis.’

‘Not always,’ he

answered. ‘In fact royalmarriagesarearrangedforus.My father is very willing.Whatifyourfatheristoo?’

Shewascoldwithhorror.She escaped from him assoonasshecouldandseekingout the Duchess she told herthat she was sending amessagetoherfatherwithoutdelay.Hemustsaveherfromthe odious Harry and hismurderingfather.

The message was sent toFrance and at the same timean embassy arrived fromHenryproposingthemarriageofhissontoIsabella.CharlestheKingofFrancewasatthetimesufferingfromoneofhisbouts of madness and hisbrother, Louis of Orléans,received the message. Hecertainlydidnotwishfor themarriage. For one thingHenry was scarcely firm on

thethrone.Therewouldbeallkinds of murmurings againsthim, he was sure; moreoverLouishadasonanditseemedtohimthatIsabellawouldbea very suitable bride foryoungCharlesofAngoulêmewhowasayearorsoyoungerthanshewas.

Louis was pleased thatIsabella had no wish for thematchwithHarryalthoughofcourse if it had been

expedient her feelings wouldnot have been of paramountimportance.

Louis’s reply to Henrywas that theKingwas at themoment suffering from oneof his bouts of illness and itwasimpossiblefortheKing’seldest daughter to be givenaway without consulting theKing. Therefore no answercouldbegivenatthistime.

When Isabella heard she

was grateful for a littlerespite; she believed that herfather who had always beenaffectionate to her wouldlistentoherpleas.

ForsomeweeksafterthatIsabella lived quietlyundisturbed by the visits ofher would-be suitor. Hisfather had decided that asIsabellafeltsostronglyaboutthe marriage it was better toleave it for awhile. Ina few

months it would beconsidered that she hadreached a marriageable ageand then itmightbepossibleto perform the ceremony inspiteofherobjections.AsyetitwastoosoonandRichard’sdeathtoorecent.

TheKingofFrancecameoutofhismadnessashehaddone on other occasions andas soon as his mentalaberrations ceased he was

quite normal again. His firstthought was for his daughterandwhenheheardwhatwasproposedforherandknewofher abhorrence for thematchhedecided tosend theCountd’Albret with an embassy toEngland to see Henry andIsabella and discover whatshould be done. Isabella hadgone to England with amagnificent dowry. If shereturned to France that must

come back with her and theKing, like Louis of Orléans,felt that Henry’s hold on thecrown might not be verysecure.

Isabella meanwhile hadcontinuedinsometrepidationat Havering. Harry paidanother visit during whichshe had remained cooltowardshimandavoidedhimasmuchaspossible.Hewas,however, unabashed because

he had thought that Isabellawould relent in time, but hewas beginning to realise thatwhat he had at first regardedas an amusing game was amore serious matter whichmight end in defeat for him,for Isabella truly hated him,and was amazingly loyal toRichard.Therewasnodoubtthat she was a person ofdetermination and unless theFrench were very eager for

the match it might well nottakeplace.

When theCount d’Albretarrived in England andpresented himself, KingHenry entertained himlavishlyatEltham.TheCountsaidthathewishedtoseetheyoungQueentowhichHenryreplied: ‘Youwill findher ina melancholy state. Shemourns the late King. Ishouldnotwishyoutospeak

ofhimwhenyouseeher.’‘Howcanthatbeavoided,

mylord?’‘If shementionshimyou

must indeed answer, but Iinsist though that you mustnot introduce thesubject,normust you discuss hisabdicationanddeathwithher.I would need your oath onthis.’

TheCountrepliedthathehad not come here to talk of

what was past. It was thefuture with which he wasconcerned, and he gave hispromise.

TheKingthensentoneofhis guards to Isabella toextract the same promisefrom her. ‘The King isallowing the Count d’Albretto visit you,’ she was told,‘onconditionthatyoudonotmention the late King tohim.’

Isabellawasaghast.‘Howcan Inot speakof somethingthat is in my thoughts nightandday?’

The guard replied:‘Unlessyougivethispromisethe Count will not see you.He has given his promise totheKing.’

Isabella was silent for amoment. She was a prisonerof the men she hated. Therewas nothing for her here –

nothing but memories of herbelovedRichard.Shemustgohome. It was the only placewhereshecouldfindpeaceofmind and escape from theodious attentions of Henryandhisson.

Shegaveherpromise.The Count arrived at

Havering where he wasreceived by Isabella in thecompany of the Duchess ofIreland and a few other

ladies.Isabella plied the visitor

with questions about herparents. Her father was wellnow, she was told; and sowere Dauphin Louis and histwoyoungerbrothersandhersister.

‘I long to see them,’ saidIsabella,hertonemeaningful.

‘It seems, my lady, thatyouwilldosoerelong,’wastheanswer.

Itwasan implication thattheKingwasnoteager to lethis daughter marry intoEngland.

The embassy returned toFrance but not until it hadbeenmadecleartoHenrythatthere should be nomarriage.TheKingofFrancewishedtoreceive his daughter back athis Court. He would, ofcourse,requirethatthejewelsshe had brought to England

shouldbereturned toFrance.She was young yet but atsome time it might benecessary to provide anotherdowry for her. Charleswanted his daughter’svaluablejewellery.

Henry was not verypleasedby the turnof eventsbuthewantednotroublewithFrance.Isabellawasyoung.Itmight be better for her toreturn to France and a

marriage between her andHarrycouldwellbearrangedatalaterdate.Butwhatofthejewellerywhichmustgowithher? Henry had distributedthat between themembers ofhis family. He could onlypromise to return it andinformed the French that hehad commanded his childrento send it to him. Heintimatedtothemthathehadnot told the French that the

jewellery would be returnedbut only that he hadcommandedittobe;andtheywerenottohurrytosendittohim. In themeantime certainotheritemswereputtogether– silver drinking cups anddishes and tapestries whichshe had brought with her –andthesecouldbesentinherbaggage. Now there was nodoubtthatIsabellawasgoingtoreturntoFrance.

It was a beautiful Maymorningwhenshesetoutonher way to Doveraccompanied by theDuchessofIrelandandtheCountessesofHerefordandMarch,LadyMowbrayandafewothersofslightly lower rank. Isabellalookedwith someemotionatthecountrysidewhichwasatits most beautiful now, alivewith the promise of summer.The fieldswere sogreenand

thebanksblueandwhitewithgermander speedwell andground-ivy, stitchwort andmeadow-sweet. As shepassed woods she caught aglimpse of misty bluebellswaving under trees and shethought of the first day shehadsetfootonthisland.Sheremembered her trepidation,her homesickness . . . andthenherfirstsightofRichard.

She must not go on

thinking of him. But howcould she help it, and sheknew she would never behappyagain.

Henry had determinedthat she should be treatedwith the utmost honour andshe was met on the way bythe Bishops of Durham andHereford and the Earl ofSomerset, who was theKing’s half-brother, one oftheBeaufort sons of John of

Gaunt and CatherineSwynford.

Isabellawas insensibleofthe honour. She wasbemused.Shedidnotwanttostay in England, nor did shewishtogotoFrance.Allshewanted was to go back intimetothedaywhenshehadfirstcomeandseenRichard.Iwould protect him, shethought angrily andillogically. I would never

have allowed him to bemurdered.Ishouldhavebeenwithhim.But itwasallsuchnonsense. He was dead andshe was alone, floating inlimbo not wanting to lookforward,hatingtostaywhereshewas;allshecoulddowaslookbacktotheblissshehadsharedwithRichard.

At Hackney she wasmetby Prince Thomas, Harry’sbrother, who was a year

younger than he was andloathed by her because hewasthesonofhisfather.Butat least he did not pester heras his brother did. Shereceivedhimcoldly.

The Lord Mayor and thealdermen had come out ofLondon to greet her and toguardherassherodeintothecity.Theydidnot forget thatshewasQueenandtheyweregracious toherandreminded

her of the tumultuouswelcome she had receivedwhenshehadenteredthiscitywith Richard, but shedespised them all. They hadstoodbyandallowedRichardto be murdered; they hadaccepted the usurper andcalledhimKing.

She was lodged in theTower of London and thereshe stayed for a few daysbeforemaking the journey to

thecoast,anditwaslateJunebefore she set out. In duecourse she reached Dover;andwhenshehadcrossedtheChannel in the company ofSirThomasPercy, amemberof that family which hadplayed such a big part inputting Henry on the throne,shewas escorted to the littletown of Leulinghen whichwasinbetweenBoulogneandCalais and there she was

ceremoniouslyhandedovertothe Count St Pol to beconducted to her father’sCourt.

When she reached Parisher family awaited her. Herparentsembracedherwarmlywhile her brothers and littlesisterregardedherwithfrankappraisal.

Her father she noticed atonce was different from theman she remembered. He

looked haggard, which shesupposed was natural afterthe illnesshehadundergone.Buthewaskindandcalmandshowednosignofthementalstresses he must havesuffered.Hermother toowasdifferent. Her beauty wasbreathtaking. Isabella hadnever seen anyone morebeautiful. It was a glitteringbeauty, which made itimpossible forpeople to stop

looking at her. Her brothersand sisterwere just children,not so experienced of theworld as she was. Had theybeen to England; had theybeen married and widowedand almost forced intohideous union with someonethey hated! No, they wereyoung, innocent, unmarkedbytime.

She soon discovered thatthere was something strange

going on. She was aware ofcovertlooks;ofthemannerinwhich her mother and theKing’s brother, Louis ofOrléans,lookedateachother.She was aware of manywatching eyes; and it soonbecame clear to her that anadulterousintriguewasgoingon between her mother andheruncle.

Louis of Orléans wasaffable. He gave himself the

airs of a King. Isabellarecoiled because she couldnot stop thinkingofherpoorfather with his bouts ofmadnessandhowhermotherandheruncleweredeceivinghim and the aura of intriguewhichsurroundedtheCourt.

HeruncleLouiswasverymuchawareofhersheknew.He was planning something.Sowas hermother. And shefeltafraid.

Uncle Louis said to heronedaysoonafterherreturn:‘How good it is to have youwith us, sweet child.We aregoing to keep you with us.We shall find a husbandworthyofyou,neverfear.’

Shewantedtoshout:‘Itiswhat I do fear. I had onehusband. I shall never forgethim.Iwantnomore.’

Thenshebegantowonderwhether she would be any

happier in France than inEngland. She longed to be achild again, with the beliefthateverythingwasgoodandbeautiful and made for herpleasure. How sad that shemust grow up and learn thetruth. She had wanted toleave the English scenebecause to her itwas stainedred with the blood of herhusband and had becomehatefulbecauseoftheblatant

usurpationofthethrone.Andnow she was in France andbecause she was older, moreexperienced, she could feeltragedy here, as intense asthatwhichshehadsufferedinEngland.

What would become ofher poor fatherwho for longperiods of time lost hissanity?Whatwerehermotherand Uncle Louis planningtogether? When would they

forcehertomarrythemanoftheir choice? Could she beany happier in France thanshehadbeeninEngland?Buthow could she be happyanywhere now that Richardwasdead.

ChapterVII

HOTSPUR

It had quickly becomeclear to theKing that thoughhe had won his crown withcomparative ease, he wasgoing to find it a moredifficulttasktoholdit.

Richard’s mysterious

deathandtheknowledgethatthe priest Maudelyn hadborne an almost uncannyresemblance to him made agood foundation for rumour.Henryfearedthatforyearstocome there would be thosewho declared Richard stilllived and the body they hadseen paraded through thestreets had been that of thepriest. Another cause ofconcernwas the existence of

Edmund Mortimer whoseclaim came before that ofHenry.Noneknewmorethanhe that the crownwhich hadbeen put on his head withsuch ready hands was veryprecariouslybalancedthere.

Thefirstrealtroublecamefrom Wales and there hediscovered a formidableenemyinamancalledOwainab Gruffydd, lord ofGlyndyvrdwy or as he was

becoming known throughoutEngland,OwenGlendower.

Owen had been a studentof English law atWestminster and at one timewas squire to the Earl ofArundel who had estates inWales. When Arundel tooksideswithHenryofLancasterOwenwaswithhim,althoughWales in general supportedRichard and there wasmurmuring throughout that

country when Harry wascreatedPrinceofWales.

The trouble really startedwhen Owen quarrelled withReginald Lord Grey ofRuthin over certain landswhichtheybothclaimed,andOwen came to Westminsterfor the casebetween them tobetried.Therehewastreatedwith a certain amount ofcontempt but he managed toget the case brought before

the King and Parliament.‘The man is bent on gettingwhat he calls justice,’ theKing was told. Henryimpatientlywaved thematteron one side. ‘What care wefor these barefooted scrubs,’hecriedcontemptuously.TheKing’s words were reportedto Owen who went fumingbacktoWales.

Henry had made anenemyforlife.

When a ScottishexpeditionwasplannedOwenshould have been a memberofit,butoutofrevengeGreyofRuthinfailedtodeliverthesummonsuntilitwastoolatefor Glendower to comply,and, as he did not join theexpedition, Grey denouncedhimasatraitor.ThiswastoomuchforamanlikeOwentotolerate and if he could notget satisfaction at

Westminster over the matterof his lands, what justicecould he hope for now. Hedecided to take the law intohisownhands.Hemadewaragainst Grey, plundered hislands, killed some membersofhishouseholdanddeclaredpubliclythattheWelshwouldnever receive justice, thatthey were treated withcontempt by the English andif any Welshman would

march under his banner theywoulddosomethingaboutit.

Henry heard the newswith dismay and at firstthought this was but a localrising but he was soon tolearnhismistake.TheWelshwere on the march. The crywas Liberty andIndependence. Not only didtheinhabitantsofWalesrallytoOwenGlendower’sbanner,butWelshmeninEnglandleft

their homes to travel toWales.

Itwasnecessarytoputanend to this rebellion andHenry marched in person tothe Welsh border. OwenGlendowermighthaveralliedagreatforcebutitwouldnotstand out long against thetrained bands of Englisharchers.Therehewaswrong,forOwenGlendowerwastoocunning to meet Henry’s

army in a confrontation.Instead he and his menretreated to the mountainswhere it was impossible tofollow them. They kneweveryrockandcrevice.

Those mountains wereimpassable and had defeatedothers before Henry. Theyprovided the perfectstronghold. Moreover theweather was treacherous andthe Welsh had their

successes, the chief ofwhichwasthecaptureofLordGreyand Sir Edmund Mortimer,theuncleandguardianof theyoung Earl of March whomso many believed had moreright to the throne thanHenry. It was simply notpossible to bring the conflictto a speedy end. The Welshcould not be conquered aseasilyas thatandwhatcouldhavebeensettledby law– if

Owen Glendower had beentreated with justice –developed into a war whichneither side could bring to asatisfactoryconclusion.

Henry left a company inWales and went to Oxfordwherehesawhisson.

Harry had been sent tostudy under his uncle,HenryBeaufort, who wasChancellor of theUniversity,but he was tired of Queen’s

College and chafed againsthis youth, therefore when heheard what his father had tosayhewasdelighted.

Harry noticed his fatherhad lost some of his healthycolour. Being a King had itsresponsibilities, that wasobvious, but Henry wasclearly delighted with hisson’s appearance. Harry hadgrownandhewasapictureofglowinghealth.

When they had embracedHenry said: ‘I have come totalk to you very seriously,Harry. I think it is time yougave up Oxford. There isworkforyoutodo.’

Harry’seyes shoneat theprospect. ‘Right gladlywill IleaveOxford,’he said. ‘Iamno scholar, my lord, andnothingwill makeme one. Iwanttofightbesideyou.’

‘That is exactly what I

want you to do, Harry.’ TheKing touchedhis forehead inawearygesture. ‘There is somuch trouble everywhere.TheWelsh...theScots.AndcanweevertrusttheFrench?’

‘Itisnotimeformetobeporingoverbooksincollege,’agreedHarry.

‘That is aviewwe share,my son. The truth is I needyou.WouldtoGodyouwerealittleolder.’

‘I am fifteen now,Father.’

‘Fifteen. God’s truth,Harry, you look three yearsolder.’

Harry beamed withpleasure. ‘Where would youhavemego?’

‘To the Welsh border.Perhaps later to Scotland.You have to learn, Harry.Youhavetolearnfast.’

‘Never fear, my lord. I

havelearnedmuchalready.’‘Youhavetolearnhowto

defend us. We have to holdwhat we have. My God,Harry,we shall have to holdontoitfirmly.’

‘Ihavealwaysknownit.Ishall be ready, never fear. Ishallleaveatonce.’

The King held up hishand. ‘Not quite so fast.Rememberyouaretheheirtothethrone.Iwillspeaktothe

Chancellor. He willunderstand.Youwill have todo with what education youhave. Your task now is tolearntobeasoldier.’

‘I am ready, my lord,’saidHarry.

Yes,hewas.Andasontobeproudof. I thankGod forhim, thought Henry. Wouldhewereolder.

He hesitated. Should hetell Harry of the strange

malady which he fearedmightbethreateninghim?Hedecidednot.Hedidnotwanttoshowhimthediscolorationof his skin and thanked Godthathecouldsofarhideit.Itcame and went and when itwas there a terrible lassitudecameoverhim.

Hehopeditwasnotsomedreadeddisease.

Harrymustbeprepared.

When Harry arrived inNorth Wales he was greetedbySirHenryPercy,knownasHotspur and a man sometwenty years his senior withone of the most formidablereputationsinthecountry.Hehad in fact been born in thesame year as those twoKings, Henry the reigningone and Richard the deadone, and his attitude towardsyoung Harry was inclined to

be paternal. A great soldierhimself Hotspur recognisedthose qualities in Harry; butHarryhadmuch to learn.Nomatter,hewouldlearn.

Hotspur’s home was inthe north.His fatherwas thegreatEarlofNorthumberlandand his family looked uponthemselvesasthelordsoftheNorth and of no lessimportance than the King.They were very much aware

that it had been their powerwhich had put Henry on thethrone; and they weredeterminedthatHenryshouldrememberit.

Harry recognisedHotspur’s qualities and wasreadytolearnfromhim.Thiswas the life for him.Hewasborn tobea soldier.Hewonimmediatepopularitywiththemen, his manners were freeand easy and while he

retained a certain dignity hecouldtalkwiththemonequalterms; he had an affabilitywhichhisfatherlacked,yetatthe same time there was inhim that which suggested itwould be unwise to takeadvantageofhisnatureorhisyouth.Hotspur recognised inhimthegiftofleadership;andthispleasedhim.

There was another manwho was attracted by the

character of the Prince andHarry himself could not helpliking thisman;consequentlythey would often findthemselves in each other’scompany. They made asomewhat incongruouspair–Harry the young PrincefifteenyearsoldandSirJohnOldcastle who was thirtyyears his senior – the freshyoungboyandthecynicaloldwarrior had no sooner met

thantheywerefriends.They would sit together

while Sir John talked of hisadventures, of which he hadhad many. His conversationwasracyandilluminatinganditgaveHarryafreshglimpseintosoldiering.

‘It is not all glory, myPrince,’ Sir John told him.‘There’sbloodtoo...plentyofit.Nousebeingsqueamishin war, my young lord.

You’vegottogetinfirstandskewer the guts of yourenemy before he gets yours.Alwaysbeonestepahead...that’s war. But there’sanother side to it.’ Sir Johnnudged Harry. ‘Oh yes, mylittle lordling, there’s anotherside to it. Spoils . . . there’swine and good meat andthere’s something better still.Canyouguesswhatitis?It’swomen.’

Harry was already veryinterested in women and SirJohnknewit.

‘I can see you’re anothersuch as myself,’ hecommented comfortably. ‘Icouldn’t get along withoutthem . . .norwillyou.Well,’tisagoodandnoblesport... pleasuring here andpleasuring there and alwayswithaneye for thenextone.Always on the lookout.

There’ll be all sorts to yourtaste,Idon’tdoubt.Thedarkand the fair . . . and notforgetting the redheads. Iknewaredheadonce . . . thebest I ever knew. Warm-natured, redheads are.You’llknow that one day, my lord,for you’re like old JohnOldcastle,you’vegotawarmand loving nature. And it’sthesortthat’llnotbewasted.’

Harry greatly enjoyed

these conversations. Theywere in contrast with hisassociationwithHenryPercy.Percy was very much thegreat nobleman, as proud ofhisnameasakingmightbe.In fact, Harry thought,Hotspur looked upon himselfas a king. He expected torule; he could endure nointerference. He had oncesaid the Northumberlandswere the Kings of the North

andnoKingofEnglandcouldrule without them. If anyonefailed to show the respect heconsideredhisdue,Hotspur’sfury could be roused. Themen went in fear of himwhile at the same timerespecting him for theexcellentleaderhewas.

Harryfoundthathecouldwork well with Hotspur andlearn from him, because inHarry there was a certain

military instinct which herecognised, and so didHotspur and Oldcastle. ThePrince could enjoy thecompany of these men anddraw enlightenment fromboth of them. From Hotspurhe learned how to conduct acampaign while Oldcastlemadehimseetheneedsofthemenandtounderstandhowtotreatthem.

Thus Harry applied

himself to learning the art ofwar with more enthusiasmthanhehadbeenabletogivetohisstudiesatOxford.

Hotspur had beenappointed Constable of thecastles of Chester, Flint,Conway and Caernarvon; hewas also justiciary ofCheshire and Sheriff ofFlintshireinadditiontoallhiscommitments inNorthumberland which were

his natural heritage. Hewanted to settle the Welshtroubles as quickly aspossible so that he couldreturn to his native countryandheappliedhisenergiestothis; however even such anenergetic warrior as Hotspurcould not be everywhere atonce and one day – it was aGood Friday – he wasdismayed to learn thatConway Castle, one of the

strongest fortresses in hiscare, had been captured byRhysandGwilymabTudor.

Hotspur immediatelycalled a conference overwhich Harry presided as hewas,inname,theheadoftheEnglish in Wales althoughnone knew better than Harrythatthiswasbutatitle.

‘We must immediatelyregain this stronghold,’declared Hotspur. ‘It is too

importantaplacetobeletgolightly. I suggest,my lord . ..’ he had turned in deferencetoHarry...‘thatwesendanarmed force to surround thecastle. When we haveregained it we will showleniency and promise thereshall be no recriminations. Itismyfirmopinionthatthisisthe way to deal with thematter.’

‘My lord Percy, you are

right,’ agreed Harry. ‘Let usact in this way, and thesooner we get Conway backintoourhands,thebetter.’

‘Then the matter isagreed,’ said Hotspur. ‘Itremains now to put this planintoaction.’

Sir John Oldcastle toldHarrythatHotspurwasright.‘Now there is a man,’ hecommented, ‘who willinvariably be right in his

judgements, but he’s gotflaws. But then, my lord,you’llsayandwhohasn’tgotflaws?Which one of us, eh?And you’ll be right. ButPercy is hot in the head aswell as the spurs and thoughhis judgement in battle isheaven-sent there’s the devilat his elbow reminding himwhenhe’snotgettingall thata Percy should. He’d neverforget a slight, our Hotspur,

and to get even he’d risk hishead. That’s not calmjudgement, is it, for where’sthesenseinavengingaslightif itcostsyourheadtodoit?Youcan’tenjoyyourprideifyou have no head to do itwith.’

‘We’ll take Conway in aweek, I’ll warrant,’ criedHarry.

‘And I’ll not be one todeny it, my young bantam.

Whywith you there to crowus to victory and Percy tospur us on, it’s in our handsbeforewestart.’

Oldcastle was right.Withinaveryshorttimetheyhad regained the castle; andtheyputintoactiontheirplanto show leniency to thosewho had given way to theWelsh.

While they werecongratulating themselves on

their success they received adespatchfromtheKing.

Herejoicedthatthecastlehad been regained butconsidered that it shouldnever have been lost in thefirst place. Moreover he didnot believe in showingleniency to thosewhohadsoeasilygivenoverthecastletothe enemy. ‘Ifmen are to berewarded for betraying uswhenwe, at some cost, have

recoveredwhatwaslost,theywill take this easy coursewhen besieged again,’ washiscomment.

Hotspur was angry. Hecould not endure criticism.Hehadplannedtheoperationwith great care andconsiderable skill. Thesuggestionthathisnegligencehadlostthemthecastleinthefirst place was unfair.Moreover he was reminded

that he had not receivedmoney from the King whichwas due to him and in orderto carry out the recentoperationhehadbeenobligedto provide much of theexpenseshimself.

Anger smouldered inHotspur’s mind and Harrywas disturbed by thisresentment which he knewHotspur bore towards hisfather. He wished that he

could explain to the Kingwhat a great commanderHotspur was and how in hisopinion itwasunwise tocastcriticism on what, had theKing been present, he musthaveseentobeaveryskilfuloperation.

John Oldcastle talked toHarryaboutthematterandhetalkedrecklesslyandasHarryknew this he liked him themoreforit,becauseitshowed

that there was trust betweenthem.

‘Hotspur is falling out oflove with your royal fatherand falling fast, my youngPrince,’washiscomment.

‘I want to tell my fatherwhatagreatleaderheis.He’sthe bestwe have, you know,Sir John. My father cannotafford to offend such asHotspur.’

‘Yourfathercannotafford

these wars but he makesthem,mylord.’

‘He has to. But he doesnothavetomakeanenemyofHotspur. He should send themoneythatHotspurhasspenton these campaigns. Thesoldiers on the Scottishborder have not been paideither.’

‘Ah,war,war...mattersof state.’ Oldcastle put hisfaceclose to thePrince’s. ‘A

notion occurs to me. Yourfatherisawilyman.Helikesnot the power of the Percys,I’ll warrant. No great kingwants little kings in hiskingdom. Wise kings find ameans to curb the power ofthose little rulers. And yourfather is a wise king, methinks.’

‘Doyoumean,oldfellow,that he’s trying to curb thePercys’power?’

‘Whynot?Whynot?Andhow better than by makingthem pay for his wars, eh?Now that’s what one wouldexpectfromacleverking.’

Oldcastle gave thePrincea sharp nudge in the ribs.Harry nodded. He liked tothink that his father wasshrewd and wily. All thesamehedidnotbelievethatafine soldier like Hotspurshouldbesoexploited.

Hotspur meanwhilenursedhisgrievances.

Hewasgrowingmoreandmore disillusioned with theKingandtiredofwagingwaron theWelsh. He wanted tobe backwith his ownpeopleinNorthumberland.Thatwashis landandhewanted tobewithhis father anddefend it.The quarrel with the WelshwastheKing’squarrelandiftheKingcouldnotappreciate

what was done for him thenwhy should Henry Percybothertodoit.

Therewasanothermatter.Sir Edmund Mortimer hadbeen captured by the WelshandHotspur wanted to bringabout his release. He had asentimental reason for this.Sir Edmund was the brotherof Hotspur’s wife and heknew she was anxious abouthim.Hewanted to go to tell

herthathehadbroughtabouther brother’s release. SirEdmundwasaveryimportantprisoner. He was the uncleand guardian of the Earl ofMarch who many said wasthetrueheirtothethrone.

Hotspur therefore wishedtotreatwiththeWelshforthereturn of Mortimer, and toHotspur’s fury the Kingwouldhavenoneofit.

Hotspurraged.

‘Was notMortimer takenin the King’s business?’ heraged. And then he cried:‘No, of a surety Henry ofBolingbroke does not wantthereturnofMortimerfortheMortimersstandclosertothethronethanhedoeshimself!’

When Harry heard whathad been said he wasapprehensive. Hotspur wasplacing himself on the otherside,for theriftbetweenhim

and the King was growingfast.

Hotspur declared that hewould no longer stay inWales. He had doneeverything possible but hisservices had never beenunderstoodorappreciatedandhehadhadenoughofWales.

Hewasgoingbacktothestronghold ofNorthumberland.

Beforehelefthereceivedamessageto theeffect thatahigh-ranking Welshmanwishedtospeakwithhimandifhewould receivehim theymight come to some termsamicable to themboth.Percyagreed and a tall manwrappedinacloakwhichwasconcealing his identity wasbroughtintohistent.

Percywas ready.Hewasin armour and prepared for

treachery. Great was hissurprise when his visitorrevealed himself as OwenGlendower.

‘I come in peace,’ saidGlendower. ‘Put away yoursword,mylord.YouseeIamunarmed.’

Percy saw this and laiddownhissword.

‘Why have you come tome?’ asked Percy. ‘What doyouwanttosay?’

‘That we are fighting asenseless war. There willneverbepeaceifyouEnglishwish to subdue Wales. Themountainsareourallies.Givemebackthelandswhichhavebeentakenfrommeandtherecouldbepeace.Therecanbeno satisfactory ending to thiswar.’

Percy was silent. WhatGlendower was saying wastrue. They could never

completelysubdue theWelshand even if they did so for atime there would always beoutbreaksoftrouble.

He himselfwasweary oftheWelshwar; he hadmadeuphismindtoleaveandinafewdayshewouldbegone.

‘I can put your proposaltotheKing,’saidPercy.

‘The King?’ criedGlendowe, ‘The usurper youmean. The man who calls

himselfKing.’Percy was taken aback

and said nothing; but hewasnot ill pleased to hear thevenominGlendower’svoice.He himselfwas feelingmoreand more antagonistictowardsHenryBolingbroke.

‘ThereistalkthatRicharddid not die, that he was notmurdered at the usurper’scommand.’

‘Heisdead.Ifeelcertain

of it,’ said Hotspur. ‘If hewere not Henry would neverhave tried to marry youngHarrytoRichard’sQueen.Hewould not want a string ofbastards calling themselvesheirs to the Lancastrianestates.’

‘Then if Richard is dead,theEarl ofMarch is the trueKing.’

‘There is some truth inthat.’

‘It may well be that ifHenrywillnotreturnthelandwhich has been taken fromme,ifhedoesnotmakepeacewithWales,weshallworktoput him from his throne andsetuptherightfulkinginhisplace.’Owen looked intentlyatHotspur. ‘Itmightwell bethat some inEnglandwill beoflikemindandjoinus.’

Hotspur was thoughtful.Then he said: ‘There is one

matter which is close to myheart. You have as yourprisoner my brother-in-law,SirEdmundMortimer.Henryhas refused to discuss hisransom.Iwanthimreleased.’

Owensmiledslowly.‘Areyou sure my lord that hewishestobereleased?’

Hotspur stared inastonishment, and Owencontinued: ‘He has fallen inlove with my daughter

Catherine. I see no reason tooppose the match. I do notthinkhewillwant to takeuparms against his father-in-law. And naturally he wouldlike to see his nephew in hisrightfulplaceonthethrone.’

Hotspurwasastounded.He saw that Henry was

goingtohaveaverydifficulttaskinholdingthecrownandhewas not displeased. Servehim right. If he did not

appreciate theNorthumberlands he shouldbe deposed. Moreover thenew King would be hisnephewthroughmarriageandthat seemed a fairly brightprospect.

Of course Henry wouldnotrelinquishthecrownwithease. But this was aninteresting situation to gohometobroodon.

He said: ‘I will put your

proposals for the return ofyourlandandthetrucebeforethe King. But I hold littlehopeofhisaccepting.’

‘NordoI,’repliedOwen.‘But if he does not,we shallknow how to act, eh, mygoodlord?’

Hotspur was silent. Hesaid good-bye to OwenGlendower and was verythoughtful as he made hiswaytoNorthumberland.

Fuming against Hotspur,Henry arrived at Worcester.TherehewasjoinedbyHarryand he learned about thedifficulties ofmaking war inWales.

‘The country is againstus,’ Harry explained. ‘TheWelsh know every hill andvalley,andwedon’t.’

Henry, however, was notsure of this and he was

determined to show theWelsh that they could notflout him; but, when othersjoined their voices with thatof Harry and insisted that toattackinthemountainswasahazardousproposition,hehadtolisten.

It was at this time that aWelshman appeared at thecamp,askingforanaudiencewith the King and assuringthe guards that he came in

peace.Theyexaminedhimtoascertain that he carried noweaponsandHenryagreedtoseehim.

His name he said wasLlywelyn ap Gruffydd. Hewelcomed the English, hesaid. His two sons werefighting with the rebels andhe wanted them back. IfHenrywouldrestorehissonstohimhewouldundertaketoshow him and his army the

way through the mountainpassesandconducthimtotheWelshcamp.

Henry accepted his offerandinduecoursesetoutwithLlywelyn apGruffydd ridingbetween him and Harry.Under the guidance of theWelshmantheypenetratedfarintotheWelshmountainsbutone morning they awoke tofind that their guide wasmissing. Then they realised

what a trickhadbeenplayedon them.TheywerenowherenearGlendower’s army; theyhad come several hard days’marchesintodifficultcountrywhere there were noprovisionsandnowmustfindtheirwayout.

Henry was furious. Hewasfindingitdifficulttofeedhis armyand they could findnothing in this poverty-strickenlandtohelpthem.He

must find his way back to atownwherehismencouldeatandrestincomfort.

His fury was increasedwhenheheard thatLlywelynwas boasting about how hehaddeceivedtheEnglishandthe Welsh made mattersworse by writing balladsabouttheincident.

Henrymadehiswaybackto the town of Llandovery,vowing vengeance on

Llywelyn ap Gruffydd. ‘If Ican laymy hands on him hewill not live long to regret. Ipray God he will not keepthismanfromme.’

Godansweredhisprayersfor one day Llywelynventured into a tavern in thetown and was recognised bysome of Henry’s soldiers ashe was singing the ballad ofHenry’s discomfiture for theentertainment of the rest of

thecompany.In a short while he was

standingbeforeHenry...The last months had

wrought a change in theKing. Before the crown hadbeen his he had been a calmman, who prided himself onhisshrewdjudgements.Now,with so many threats to hisposition and an almostoverpowering responsibilitybesideagnawinganxietythat

there was something wrongwith his health, he hadbecomevindictive.Hewouldspare no one in hisdetermination to hold thecrown; and he wanted tomakeanexampleofallthosewhowerehisenemies.

With savage pleasure hecondemned the Welsh jokerto the barbaric death ofhanging, drawing andquartering and he

commanded that his sons sitbeside him while theywitnessed the terriblesentencebeingcarriedout.

Harrywasdisturbedbyit.Themanshouldbepunished,yes,but thesentencewastooharsh. Llywelynwas a braveman and if he had workedagainst the English it wasnatural for him to do so,because they were theenemiesofhiscountry.

However he could notremonstrate while his fatherwas in thismood; but hedidmarvel at the change in himand hewonderedwhether hewasashappywithhiscrownashehadbeenwithoutit.

After the execution theyleftLlandoveryandmadeforthe Cistercian Abbey ofStrata Florida whichcontained the tombs ofseveral Welsh Princes. The

Kingorderedhismentosacktheplace.

A lesson, said Henry, toallthosewhoopposeme.

He sent for his son andlooked at him intently.Perhaps sooner than herealises, he thought, thecrownwillpasstohim.

Noonemustknowofhisfears of what was happeningto him. He had signs of a

dreaddisease.CouldhehavecaughtitintheHolyLand,inFamagusta perhaps, Venice,Corfu . . . somehot and aridland where unheard-ofdiseasesflourished?Sofarhecould keep his afflictionsecret. None could see theeruptionsonhisskinbecauseby good fortune they werewhere they could be hiddenby his clothes; and he couldforgetthemwhentheydidnot

plaguehimwiththeirburningirritation. But sometimes hefeared what they meant andhe wondered whether itwouldgrowworse.

He must hold the crownuntil Harry grew up andHarry must do that quickly.He had never thought that itwouldbesodifficult tohold;and he could not haveforeseen how determined hewouldbetoclingtoit.

‘Harry,’ he said, ‘thenews is not good.Northumberland withHotspur are on the marchagainst us. They are joiningwiththeWelsh.’

‘That is impossible.HotspurfoughttheWelsh.’

‘His brother-in-law hasmarried Glendower’sdaughter.Youknowwhatthismeans. Northumberland andGlendower are joining forces

againstus.’‘Onwhatgrounds?’‘Readthis,’saidHenry.Itwas a documentwhich

had been prepared by thePercys to present not only tothe King but to all leadingnoblemen in the country. Itwas a call to arms. Theywanted Henry deposedbecause as they set out hehad:

Sworn to them at

Doncaster when hereturned to Englandthathewishednothingmore than to restorehis inheritance andthat of his wife. Yethe had imprisonedRichard his sovereignand compelled him toresign the crown andhad himself taken onthestyleandauthorityofkingship.

Hehadswornthatas long as Richardshould live he shouldenjoy every royalprerogativeandyethehad caused thatPrince,inthecastleofPontefract, afterfifteen days to die ofhunger,thirstandcoldandthusbemurdered.

Because ofRichard’s death he

hadkeptpossessionofthe crown whichbelongedtotheyoungEarl of March, whowas the next anddirectheir.

He had sworn togovern according tolawandhadnot doneso.He had refused topermit the liberationof Sir Edmund deMortimer who had

been taken whenfighting for him andhe had looked on thePercys as traitorsbecause they hadnegotiated withGlendower. Becauseof this we defy theeand we intend toprove it by force ofarms and AlmightyGod.When Harry finished

reading the document helooked at his father indismay.

‘Sotheycomeagainstus!TheNorthumberlands...andGlendower...’

‘AndtheFrenchhavesentacompanytoharassme.’

‘YoumaytrusttheFrenchto seize every opportunity,’criedHarry.

‘Never fear, my son.Weshalldefeatthem.’

‘Aye,’ cried Harry. ‘Thatweshalldo.’

All the same he wishedthat the enemy was notHotspur.

It was a long march oftwo hundred and fifty milesfrom Northumberland toShrewsbury –Hotspur’smenwere eager to fight but theywere tired and hungry; andtheyneededrestfirst.

The battle would be forShrewsbury, for if he tookthat townHenry could blockHotspur’spassagetoWales.

HotspurthoughtofyoungHarry for whom he hadcherished a certain affection.Aboyoffifteen,butonewhoshowed promise. He hopedthe boy would come to noharm this day. Would youwere with me, Harry ofMonmouth, he thought.

You’d be a better ally thanyourslyfather,Idoubtnot.

But naturally the boywould be beside his father.Howcoulditbeotherwise?

The two armies facedeach other. Hotspur saw apriest break from the ranksandcomeridingtowardshim.He was Thomas Prestbury,theAbbotofShrewsbury,andhe had a message forHotspur. Itwas this:Lethim

puthimselfatHenry’smercyand the battle should becalledoff.

Hotspur sent his uncle,Thomas Percy, Earl ofWorcester, back to the Kingwithhisreply.

Henry said: ‘Come,Worcester, do you wantinnocentbloodtobeshedthisday?’

‘We seek justice, mylord,’repliedWorcester.

‘Put yourself on mygrace.’

‘Itrustnotinyourgrace,’wastheanswer.

‘Then go to it,’ criedHenry. ‘I pray God that youmay have to answer for theblood that is spilt this day,andnotI.’

Shortly after thatencounterthebattlebegan.Astrong discharge of arrowscame fromboth sides. Itwas

a fierce fight. An arrowstruck Harry in the face buthewentonfighting.

‘St George! St George!’cried Harry. The blood wasstreaming down his face buthe ignored it. Excitementgripped him. Men werefalling all about him and hewasinthethickofthefight.

Hotspur was determinedonvictory.HewantedtoslaytheKingwithhisownhands

and with thirty or so of hismost valiant knights he rodefull tilt into the companyabout Henry. But the Kingandhismenwereamatchforthem and they were drivenback.

It seemed then that thevictorywasgoingtoHotspur.Shouts for him filled the air.Harry stood firm. This wasbattle and he knew he wasmeant for it. He could

scarcely feel the wound onhisface.

He rallied his men abouthimandallforgotthathewasbutfifteenyearsold.

Hotspur was certain ofvictory. He was going todethrone Henry. He wasgoing to see the rightful heiron the throne; he was goingtoavengeRichard’sdeath.

‘Hotspur!’ shouted thetriumphantvoicesabouthim.

Then it happened.Flushed with imminentvictoryashewas,hedidnotsee the arrow until it struckhim. It pierced his brain andhe fell from his horse a –deadman.

He did not hear thetriumphant cry from theKing’sforces.

Hotspurwasdeadandhisdeathdecidedtheday.

It was the end of the

battleandtriumphforHenry.

TheDukeofBrittanywasdying. The Duchess Joannanursedhimherselfbutasshedid so she could not preventher thoughts straying toHenry of Lancaster andwonderinghowhewasfaringinEngland.

She had pressed the littleblueflowerhehadgivenher.Forget-me-not. That was

whathehadcalleditandsheneverwouldforgethim.

He had on severaloccasions indicated thewarmth of his feelingstowards her and implied thathad she not been thewife ofthe Duke there might havebeen a match between them.HewasKingnow.Well, shewas the daughter of a Kingand hermother had been thedaughter of the King of

France. There could be noquestionofherworthiness tobecomeQueenofEngland.

Newscamenowandthento Brittany of what washappening overseas. Sheknew that Henry had notmarried again. His time hadbeen taken up first withseizing the throne and thenholding it; and this shebelievedhewasdoingnow.

There had been rumours

about Richard’s death. Somesaid he had been murdered.Oneversionwasthatmenhadentered his cell and killedhim.Anotherwasthathehadbeenstarvedtodeath.Butthemurderer in both cases hadbeen named as Henry, forthough, it was said, he maynot have done the deedhimself, he would haveorderedotherstodoit.

It would have been

necessary,arguedJoanna.Shewonderedwhetherhe

ever thought of her orwhether his mind wascompletely takenupwith thestirringeventsabouthim.

Suppose he sent for her,would she have been able togo to him? It would not bepossibleatthisstage.Shewasforgettingheryoungson,nowthe Duke of Brittany and aminor. She could not leave

him.She feared Clisson; she

knew that he had a veryambitious daughter, the wifeof the Count of Penthievres,who believed that throughhimshehadagreaterclaimtothe throne of Brittany thanJoanna’sson.

Glisson was anhonourable man, andalthoughtherivalclaimanttothe throne had married his

daughterhehad regarded thelate Duke as the true heir toBrittany.Joannabelievedshecouldtreatwithhim.

In this she was provedright. She would promiseconcessions to Clisson; shewould remain Regent andwith his help rule theDuchyuntilhersonwasinapositionto do so. The Duke ofBurgundy,whowasJoanna’suncle,andtheKingofFrance

were tohaveguardianshipofthe Duchy and the youngmembers of the family untiltheycameofage.

Joannahad in fact showngreat shrewdness in bringingabout this reconciliation forthe power, wealth andpopularity of Clisson if usedagainsthercouldhaverobbedhersonofhisinheritance.

But once Clisson hadgivenhiswordandsignedthe

treaty he was as strong asupporterofthelittleDukeasJoanna could wish, whichwas proved when hisdaughter Marguerite, whohadwanted theDukedomforher husband, went to herfather in a state of greatagitation and asked himwhyhe worked against his ownfamily. ‘So much coulddepend on you,’ she said.‘You could give us Brittany.

It is my children’sinheritance.’

‘You ask too much,’Clisson had replied. ‘TheDukeofBurgundy iscominghere. It may be he will takethe children with him to theFrench Court. He is one oftheirguardiansnow.’

‘Father,’ cried theambitious Marguerite, ‘thereisstilltimetoremovethem.’

‘Remove them?’ he

answered.‘Areyoumad?’‘You could have them

killed. If theywere nomore,ourpathwouldbeclear.’

Clissonwas so overcomewithhorror thathecriedout:‘What a wicked woman youare!Youaskme tokill theseinnocent children. I wouldratherkillyou.’Andsogreatwas his disgust thatmomentarily hemeant it anddrewhissword.

She,seeingthepurposeinhis eyes, turned and fled andin doing so fell headlongdown a flight of stairs. Shewasalways to remember thatencounter for she broke herthigh bone which neverhealedproperlyandmadeherlamefortherestofherlife.

The Duke of Burgundyarrived in Brittany andtwelve-year-old Pierre whowas now called John was

investedwiththeducalhabit,circlet and sword and in thesame ceremony his youngerbrothers Arthur and Juleswereknighted.

Now that her son hadbeenproclaimedDukeandhehad the powerful Duke ofBurgundyandKingofFranceas his guardians, and OliverClisson had sworn to upholdhim,Joannafeltherself tobefree.

IfHenryweretosendforher she could go to him; butthe Pope would never agreetothemarriagesheknewandhowtobringitaboutwithoutthatapproval?

The fact was that thepapalschismnowexistedandEngland supported Bonifacewhowascalled theanti-popeby those who gave theirallegiance to Benedict asBrittanydid.

But Joanna was not of anaturetoacceptobstacles.

Henry had not yetsuggested marriage and onlyheandshewereawareofthefeelings they had aroused ineachother.Shehitonaplanto ask the Pope’s permissiontomarryanyoneofherchoicewithin the fourth degree ofconsanguinity. She had notverylongbeenwidowed;shewasquiteyoungsoitseemed

reasonable topredict thatshemight wish to marry again.So carefully was her plea tothePopeworded that he sawno reasonwhyhe shouldnotgive his consent and this hedid, having no notion at allthat the bridegroom she hadinmindwasthatKingwhomBenedictwouldcallarebel.

Joanna was amused byherowncleverness.

When she sent word to

Henry to tell him what shehad done, he respondedwithalacrity.Let thembemarriedby proxy without delay.Joanna then sent one of hersquires, a certain AntoineRiczi,toEnglandandthereinthe palace of Eltham theproxymarriagetookplace.

Itwas impossible tokeepsecret for long suchan eventasthemarriageoftheKingofEngland and the widowed

Duchess of Brittany and thePapalCourtatAvignonheardword and immediately sentwordtoJoannathatinbeingapartytothismarriageshehadcommitted a deadly sin. Shehad promised to live inmatrimony with a supporterofBoniface.

Joanna however was notgoing to allow such a decreetostophermarrying themanof her choice and when she

made this clear Benedict,realising that he might loseher support, gave hispermission for her to livewithHenryaslongasshedidnot swerve in her allegianceto himself, the true Pope. Itmight well be that she couldturn her husband from theerror of his ways and bringhimbackintothefold.

Joanna herself wasdelighted with this show of

friendship–cleverwomantohave got the better of thePope.

The Duke of Burgundyhad arrived in France withrichgiftsfortheDuchessandherfamily.Shehadshownbyherforcefulacts thatshewasawomantobereckonedwithand it was disconcerting tocontemplate that she wasgoing to be allied with thatoldenemyHenryofEngland.

Joannafelt thatshecouldwithagoodconscienceleaveher sons in the guardianshipof the powerful Duke ofBurgundy.

She said good-bye to hersons and watched theirdeparture to the Court ofFranceknowingthattheKingof France would keep thepeace of Brittany andpreserve the Duchy for herson. Her two daughters,

Blanche and Marguerite,should travel with her toEngland.

It was a rough crossingand at one time Joannathought she would never seeEngland; the intention hadbeen to landatSouthampton,but so strong was the galethat their vessel was blownalong the coast. They werelucky to be able to land atFalmouth.

At the head of her partyshe rode inland and atWinchester she had thepleasure of seeing Henrywho,when he heard that shehadlandedatFalmouth,cametomeetherwithallspeed.

Itwas amomentofgreatjoy for her when they werefacetoface.

He took her hand andkissedit.

‘It seems long since we

lastmet,’hesaid.Sheanswered:‘ButIkept

the flower you gave me. Doyouremember?’

‘You may be sure I do.Forget me not was itsmessage.’

‘Thenallisasitwas...’‘And shall be as long as

wetwolive.’They rode side by side

intothecity;andthenextdaytheir marriage was