Виктория Холт - Passage to Pontefract

Happy days – but past. So many of the children dead and herself nothing but a mass of unwanted flesh that encumbered her like a prison from which she longed to escape.

Life was ironical. Some lived too long. Others were taken before they had had a chance to live at all. Oh my sweet Joanna, dying of plague in a foreign land. My dear Lionel who left us in the prime of his manhood. Mary and Margaret smitten down so suddenly. And all the little babies.

Such tragedies! And yet such joys! That was life; and none could escape what fate had in store be they kings or queens.

There was little time left.

She said to those about her bed: ‘It is time to send for the King.’

He came at once, hurrying into her apartment and throwing himself on his knees by her bed. Edward, her King. Instead of the ageing man he had become, she saw the bright-eyed flaxen-haired boy, so handsome, so vital, a leader in every way.

Oh it was sad that youth must fade, that ideals be lost, that will o’ the wisps must be pursued when the wise know they can only lead to danger. It was sad that lives must be spent in making war in hopeless causes.

Oh my Edward, she thought, if only you had been content to be but King of England. Why did you have to fight these hopeless battles for a crown which could never be yours?

But it was all over … for her. Death was calling her away. She had played her part in the drama. She must leave it to others to finish.

‘Philippa … my love … my Queen …’

His voice seemed to be coming to her from over the years.

She said: ‘We have been happy together, husband.’

‘Happy,’ he echoed. ‘So happy …’

There were tears in his eyes, tears of remorse. She was dying. He might have remained faithful to the very end. Yet he had seen that witch Alice and had been tempted, and unable to resist.

‘Philippa,’ he murmured, ‘you must not go. You must not leave me. How can I live without you?’

She smiled and did not answer him.

Her youngest son, Thomas, had come to her bedside. Such a boy, she thought sadly. He will need his mother yet. He was only fourteen years old.

‘Edward,’ she said, ‘care for Thomas.’

‘I will care for our son, my dearest.’

‘I must speak to you, Edward. I have three requests.’

‘They shall be granted, dear lady. Only name them.’

All she wanted was that he should see that her obligations were fulfilled – all the gifts and legacies for her servants paid.

‘And when you die, Edward, I would that you should lie beside me in the cloisters of Westminster Abbey.’

‘It shall be. It shall be.’

She was fast failing and William of Wykeham, the Bishop of Winchester, had arrived at her bedside.

She asked to be left alone with the Bishop for a short while and her wish was granted. At the time there was thought to be nothing strange in this. It was natural that she should want to confess her sins and be alone with the Bishop before she died. But it was to be remembered later and then seemed to be of great significance.

The King came back to the chamber of death and knelt beside her bed. She placed her hand in his and thus she died.

* * *

Blanche had left the children at Windsor in the care of Catherine Swynford and had set out for Bolingbroke Castle. In due course they should all follow her there. Blanche had felt a need to be alone for a while where she might mourn in solitude for the dead Queen.

Philippa had been almost a mother to her; she had loved her dearly. Nothing would be quite the same without her to confide in; there would be no more of those calm judgements to be given, that innocence which was closer to wisdom than most men of the world possess.

Yes, thought Blanche, she had done with life. She had lived long and happily – at least she had been happy until illness had affected her, and it was only of late that there had been an Alice Perrers in her life.

Riding through the countryside she was shocked when one of her servants said they must not enter a certain village.

‘No, my lady, there are red crosses on the doors. The plague is with us again.’

She said then they must change their route to Bolingbroke. The plague would not survive in the fresh country air.

They continued their journey and at length came to the castle of Bolingbroke which would always be one of her favourite castles because little Henry had been born there and she could never think of the place without remembering the joy of coming out of her exhaustion to hear the glad news that she had given birth to a boy.

Bolingbroke lay before them – looking less grim than usual because of the September sunshine.

She rode into the courtyard. Grooms came running forward to take the horses. She alighted and went into the castle.

She was tired and made her way straight to her apartments and had food brought to her there. In the morning she would make plans for the children to come to her. She was glad to think of them in the care of Catherine Swynford. She was sorry that John had seemed to take a dislike to her. It could only be because he had imagined someone homely like the good Philippa Chaucer.

She ate a little and was soon asleep.

When she awoke next morning a sudden foreboding came to her. She could hear no sounds of activity in the castle. She arose and went into the antechamber where her personal attendants should be sleeping.

The room was empty.

Puzzled she went out to the head of the great staircase and looked down into the hall. A group of serving men and women stood there, strangely whispering.

They stopped when they saw her and stood as though turned to stone, gazing at her.

‘What means this?’ she demanded.

One of the stewards stepped to the foot of the stairs.

‘My lady, two of the serving-men have been stricken. They are in the castle … now. We do not know what we should do.’

‘Stricken,’ she echoed. ‘The … plague?’

‘’Tis so, my lady.’

‘Have any of you been near them?’

‘Yes, my lady.’

She stood looking down on them and as she did so she saw one of the women creep into a corner and lie there.

‘A red cross must be put at the castle gates,’ she said. ‘No one must go out. No one must come in. We must wait awhile.’

There was a deep silence in the hall. Then it was broken by the sound of someone sobbing in another part of the castle.

The plague had come to Bolingbroke.

* * *

Death was in the castle.

Blanche thought: ‘Thank God the children are not here.’

Three days had passed and she knew that several were already dead.

‘We must pray,’ she had said; and they had prayed; but they all remembered that when the plague entered a dwelling be it cottage or castle there was little hope of survival for its inhabitants.

On the fourth day Blanche discovered the fatal swelling under her arms. In the space of a few hours the loathsome spots began to appear.

Oh God, she thought. This is the end then.

She lay on her bed and when one of her women came in she called to her ‘Go away. You must not enter this room.’

The girl understood at once and shrank away in horror.

Blanche lay back on her bed. She was fast losing consciousness. She thought she saw the phantom hare close to her bed. He appeared, did he not, when death had come to Bolingbroke.

He has come for me, she thought. Oh John, I am leaving this life and you are not beside me to say farewell. Where are you, dearest husband? What of my children? My girls … my baby Henry. Dear children, you will have no mother now …

This was not the way in which a great lady should die … her husband far away, her servants afraid to come to her bedside. But this was the plague, that cruel scourge which took its victims where it would. Cottage or castle, it cared nothing for that. But it was merciful in one way. Its victims did not suffer long.

The news was carried through the castle.

The Lady Blanche is dead.

When the Black Prince returned to Bordeaux after his victory at Nájara his wife Joan was greatly disturbed by his appearance.

She knew that that long stay in the heat of Valladolid had affected many of his followers and there had been deaths from dysentery; but the Prince had always been a strong man, one who was able to take the rigours of battle as they came and throw off any ill effects they might leave. She remembered the recent death of Lionel in Italy and this did nothing to ease her anxiety.

‘Now you are home I shall look after you,’ she announced. ‘There shall be no more going off to battle until you are well.’

The Prince smiled at her fondly. Joan had never behaved in a royal manner. She was a woman who would go her own way. It was a relief to know that she was there and that he could comfortably allow her to tell him what must be done until he was ready to go off again.

He should retire to his bed, said Joan. No, she would hear no protests. She knew the very posset to cure him. At least they must be thankful that this wretched matter was at an end. It had been a folly from the start to finish.

His servants smiled to see the great Black Prince ordered by his wife but they knew his nature. If he had made up his mind at that moment to leave the castle and take up arms no one – not even the masterful Joan – would have been able to stop him.

‘You should have been a commander in my armies, Jeanette,’ he told her fondly.

‘My lord, I am the commander in our castle.’

That made him smile.

‘I am happy to be home with you and the children,’ he told her.

‘Then you must prove your words by not going off again to fight senseless battles for ungrateful people.’

‘A waste, Jeanette … a waste of blood and money …’

‘And squandering of health. But enough of that. I’ll soon have you well again.’

She kept him to his bed and none might see him without her permission. The Prince was happy to lie back comfortably and allow her to rule him. The comfort of his bed, the assurance of her devotion, these were what he needed.

A ruler must have his failures, and what seemed the greatest triumph could in time be seen to have been an empty victory. So with Nájara.

Joan was right. If she had her way, there would be no battles. She would say: ‘You are the King’s eldest son. One day England will be yours and our little Edward will follow you. Be content with that. In any case it is one man’s work to govern England.’

His mother had felt the same, only she did not say it as forcefully as Joan did. He was sure that John’s wife Blanche would have agreed with them. It was a woman’s outlook.

There were times like this when he wondered whether they were right. How far had they advanced with the war in France? How much nearer to the French crown was his father than when the whole matter had started?

No farther after years of struggle, bloodshed and squandering of treasure! And if this ambition had never come to his father, if he had never decided that he had a claim to the crown of France …

This was no way for a soldier to think, particularly one who was reckoned to be the greatest soldier in Christendom. Jeanette’s influence, he thought wryly.

And there she was standing by his bed with yet another of her potions.

‘I believe you are a witch,’ he said. ‘You want to keep me to my bed so that I can never leave you.’

Joan laughed. She had the gayest laughter he had ever heard.

‘You put ideas into my head, my Prince. Ever since the day I forced you to marry me I have been wondering how I could keep you at my side.’

‘Jeanette,’ he said softly. ‘Oh Jeanette, did you have to use much force?’

‘You know full well,’ she retorted. ‘We could have been married years ago but for you.’

‘You were dallying with Salisbury and Holland then.’

‘Only in the hope of arousing some jealousy in your sluggish breast.’

‘Was that indeed the truth?’

‘You know it. You were for me and I for you but I could not ask you, could I? Some foolish law says that it is the man who must ask for the hand of the lady not she for his. It is a law that should be changed. When you are King, my love, that must be your first consideration.’