Виктория Холт - Passage to Pontefract

They were not really surprised when one day when they went to call her she told them that she was feeling too unwell to rise.

Within the week she was dead.

* * *

John of Gaunt was free, and his feelings were mingled. He was relieved that he should not have to see Constanza again. Her existence had been a continual reproach to him. On the other hand it placed him in a quandary as far as Catherine was concerned.

He had always maintained that if he were free he would marry Catherine, yet he had to consider what such a marriage would mean to him.

Catherine was beautiful still; she was discreet and he loved her dearly. He had never glanced at another woman seriously since he had known her. But on the other hand she was not of the nobility and their relationship had been far from discreet so that the whole country knew that she had been his mistress.

Could he marry her? Would it be an act of unprecedented folly to do so?

A man in his position must consider these matters.

In any case nothing could be done until after a suitable period and he rather welcomed the need to go to Aquitaine to take charge of his duties there.

So he sailed away and he vowed to himself that he would look facts squarely in the face and when he returned he would have the solution.

The months began to pass and he found life in Bordeaux intolerable. All the time he was longing to be with Catherine. He wondered what she was thinking. He fancied that she was resigned, telling herself that what she had always longed for could never come to pass.

He reviewed his life. His ambition had availed him little. All the wishing in the world could not make him King of England. And who in his right senses would want such an unenviable lot? The people had never liked him; they would never have accepted him. To rule, a King must have his people’s love and approval.

The only happy times he had known were with Catherine. That was not quite true. He had been happy with Blanche. Theirs had been a good union. But it had not equalled his relationship with Catherine. There could never be anything to rival that.

He came back to England at the end of the year 1395.

Richard had returned from Ireland where he had conducted a not unsuccessful campaign. It seemed the Irish had been so overwhelmed by Richard’s magnificent array and general splendour that they had made no resistance. However the expedition had been costly in money if not in lives.

Flushed with success and feeling his power as a ruler, Richard was not inclined to give a very warm welcome to his uncle.

John left Court quickly and went at once to Kettlethorpe in Lincolnshire.

* * *

Catherine was about the business of her household when the herald arrived. She recognised his livery at once – the blue and the grey and the Lancastrian arms embroidered on his tabard.

Her heart beat uncertainly. He was coming. She had waited long for him and she had tried to convince herself that she would never see him again. It was true he had talked to her of what he would do if he were free – but did she believe him? Did she not know that some project must present itself, some thing which would further his ambitions. How could he possibly marry a woman such as herself who had been criticised by so many for what would be termed her loose behaviour?

No, it had been pleasant talk, lovers’ talk of what should be, when it was believed it was impossible.

She went swiftly about the house giving orders here and there.

‘Make ready, my lord Duke of Lancaster will soon be with us.’

She stood in the hall waiting to greet him – alone. First she must see him alone.

He strode towards her, looking a little older than when she had last seen him. There were flecks of white in his tawny gold hair and new lines about his fine Plantagenet eyes. He was no longer young. He was fifty-five years of age and she was only ten years younger. They had first been lovers twenty years before.

‘Catherine,’ he cried, taking her hands. He held them firmly in his and looked into her face. ‘As beautiful as ever,’ he said.

She laughed and shook her head but he just drew her to him and held her fast.

‘Never to be parted again,’ he said, ‘for such time as is left to us.’

‘My lord …’ she began.

‘Nay,’ he said, ‘call me husband for I am going to marry you, Catherine.’

She felt dizzy with joy; but even then she would not believe it.

She answered: ‘My lord, have you thought …’

‘Of nothing else,’ he said, ‘since Constanza died.’

‘It is not possible.’

‘I will show you how possible. All we need is a priest.’

‘You are sure?’

‘Never more sure of anything. What is it, Catherine?’ He had seized her shoulders and drawn back to look at her more intently. ‘Is this marriage distasteful to you?’

She laughed in the way he remembered so well.

‘It is something I sometimes dreamed of.’

‘Then you need dream no more.’

‘It is wrong,’ she said.

‘It is right,’ he answered.

‘Our children …’

‘Our Beauforts shall be my legitimate children. Catherine, will you marry me?’

‘Never have I done anything in my life with a thousandth part of the joy with which I shall do that.’

‘So it is settled. We will lose no time. From this day forth, my love, you are my Duchess of Lancaster.’

* * *

Anne was dead and Richard would mourn her for the rest of his life, but he was reminded by his ministers that he was a King and must marry.

Gloucester was back at Court, suave and placating, trying to pretend that there had never been any trouble between him and the King. He would know of course that Richard was one never to forget a slight; all the same Gloucester’s mind was so full of plans that he was not going to let a little matter like the King’s enmity come between him and his ambition.

It was Gloucester who broached the matter of the King’s marriage.

It had been suggested to him, the King replied, but at the time he could think of nothing but his adored Queen Anne and the thought of replacing her did not appeal to him.

‘I understand, my dear nephew,’ said Gloucester, but Richard looked at him contemptuously. How could Gloucester understand? Married to the not very attractive Eleanor Bohun for the great fortune she could bring him! How could Gloucester compare his marriage with the bliss Richard and Anne had shared.

‘The fact is,’ went on Gloucester, ‘you should choose a bride and I am of the opinion that the people would like someone from our own country.’

‘Tell me whom?’ asked Richard.

‘My daughter Anne is recently widowed as you know. Poor Stafford! He was young to die. My daughter is beautiful and experienced. She is royal … as royal as you yourself. You share the same grandfather. I can think of no better match.’

‘I can think of none more likely to cause complaint,’ retorted Richard.

‘And why so? Anne is a very desirable young lady, I can tell you.’

‘She happens to be my first cousin. The blood tie is far too close.’

‘Bah! Popes can help very much in such instances. All we have to do is make it worthwhile.’

‘I consider the tie too close.’

‘Oh my dear nephew, you have yet to grow up.’

There could be nothing more maddening than this persistence that he was a boy and unable to arrange his own affairs as well as those of the country.

‘Do you realise,’ he said, ‘that I am thirty years of age?’

‘Oh not yet …’

‘I shall soon be thirty and if I were not I would have you remember that I am the King.’

It was true what his brother John said, thought Gloucester, he and the King could not be together for more than a few minutes before a storm arose.

Richard went on: ‘I have already discussed this matter of my marriage with those whom it concerns.’

‘Your happiness concerns me as a subject and as your uncle.’

‘Then you will be very pleased that I have found a wife.’

Gloucester’s brow darkened.

‘Who … may I ask?’

‘You may. I have chosen the daughter of the King of France. It has always been my ambition to bring about a peaceful settlement of these continental affrays in France which absorb our wealth and bring us little gain. This marriage will please both the King and myself. It will make us friends.’

‘The eldest daughter of the King of France is but seven years of age … if that.’

‘An enchanting child, they tell me.’

‘You need a wife …’

‘It is what I intend to have.’

‘This child is far too young. Why even in five or six years’ time she will scarcely have reached the proper age for a wife.’

‘Every day will remedy the deficiency in her age. Moreover her youth is one of my reasons for choosing her. I wish her to be educated here and brought up in our ways. I want her to be English in manners and customs and her way of thinking. That is what the people will like. As for myself I am not so old that I cannot wait for her.’

Gloucester asked leave to retire. He was fuming with rage which he could not keep to himself much longer.

So the King had already entered into negotiations to marry Isabella of Valois, daughter of the King of France.

There had been an air of great excitement in the Hotel de St Pol ever since the embassy had arrived from England; and there was none more aware of this than the little girl who was the cause of it.

Isabelle de Valois, although but eight years old, was very much aware of her beauty and importance. She was clever too and had always believed that as the daughter of the King of France a bright future lay ahead of her.

‘Many people will want to marry me,’ she told her maids who clustered around her, dressing her in soft silk gowns and curling her beautiful dark hair. ‘I wonder who will be the lucky one?’

They smiled at her; secretly they said: ‘The Lady Isabelle has a good conceit of herself. She is too pretty, that one. But she will have her own way, that is a certainty.’

If Isabelle had heard them, she would have agreed. Yes, certainly she had a good conceit of herself. Why not? Was she not very pretty? Were her little ways not quite fascinating? Was she not alert of mind? And in addition to all this she was the daughter of the King of France.

Life at the Hotel de St Pol circulated about her. Her mother, who was beautiful – Isabelle was very like her – doted on her child. So did her father. He and his Court were at the Louvre, but he often slipped over to the Hotel de St Pol to see his family. She looked forward to his visits, but there was a strangeness about him and sometimes he disappeared and was not at the Louvre and although she was told he was travelling about the country there was something in the looks of the people which made her wonder what he was really doing. Lately she had discovered that he suffered from some mysterious illness which attacked him now and then, so that he acted in a strange manner and had to be hidden away.

Her mother was gay and beautiful; she liked to dance and surround herself with admirers. Isabelle thought that her mother must have a very pleasant life … much better than her father who was always surrounded by dull ministers and had his bouts of illness to contend with.

Then came this exciting day when the English embassy arrived in Paris. Her attendants talked of nothing else. She listened avidly. It was sometimes better to listen than to ask questions for grown-up people always seemed to have so much they wanted to hold back and to question them made them cautious. So she listened.

‘They say the streets of Paris are crowded with them.’

‘There are at least five hundred.’

‘It is rare that we have the English in Paris!’

‘No, but it is where they would like to be.’

‘I doubt it not. Well, this should put a stop to this foolish war.’

‘Who knows? They are lodged near the Croix du Tiroir, I have heard.’

‘Yes, there and all the streets close by.’

‘It won’t be long now.’

No, thought Isabelle, it won’t be long. She was right. The very day after the conversation her father came to the Hotel de St Pol. Her mother was with him and they summoned their daughter to them.