‘And you are here to care for my children. I am pleased at that, Lady Swynford.’
She bowed her head, and when she raised it her eyes were brilliant. It was almost as though some message passed between them.
He turned to the children, but he hardly noticed them. He was so deeply aware of her.
He left the nursery because he felt a need to get away.
He went to his apartments and said that he would be alone until the Duchess returned from her visit to the Queen.
He kept thinking of the governess. Catherine Swynford, he murmured. Ridiculous name. And married to Hugh! He supposed he was worthy enough but he was uncouth and she … she was a magnificent creature, there was no question of that.
It was absurd to have allowed her to make such an impression on him. Had he not seen attractive women in his life before! But never one quite like this woman. What was it? Beauty certainly. But he had known many beautiful women. Many would say she was not as beautiful as Blanche his wife. Blanche was a poet’s beauty. Young Chaucer was aware of that. Aloof, to be admired from afar. Not so this Catherine Swynford. One would not wish to remain far from her. There must be an urge in all men when they beheld her to take her … to possess her … even those who were most satisfactorily married …
This was ridiculous. He had not felt like this before. He was not by nature a promiscuous man. And yet in the presence of the governess he had felt an almost irresistible urge to throw aside those standards to which, since his marriage to Blanche, he had strictly adhered.
When Blanche came into the apartment, he rose quickly, took her hands and held her in his arms. He was reminded momentarily of his father playing the uxorious husband after one of his sessions with Alice Perrers.
‘My dearest,’ he said, ‘what is it? You look sad.’
‘It is the Queen,’ she replied. ‘I fear she grows worse; every time I see her there is a change.’
‘If only they could find some cure.’
‘She is fretting … about the King …’
‘That horrible woman. How I hate her! I believe she flaunts her newly acquired jewels before my mother.’
‘And the Queen is too gentle, too eager not to hurt the King to complain about her.’
John spoke fiercely against Alice Perrers. He had never hated her so much as at this moment.
He led Blanche to a window seat and they sat there together, his arm about her. ‘I have to go away, Blanche.’
She turned to him and buried her face against him.
‘I fear so, my love,’ he went on. ‘Edward needs me and my father thinks I should go.’
Blanche said nothing.
‘Perhaps it will not be for long,’ he went on.
‘You will be fighting.’
‘There is always fighting. It is a man’s lot, it seems.’
‘When must you go?’
‘As soon as I am prepared.’
She was silent and he said slowly: ‘I went to the nursery and saw the new governess.’
‘What thought you of her?’
‘That the children looked well and as full of high spirits as ever.’
‘They are in good health, I thank God. But I meant what thought you of Catherine Swynford?’
He hesitated.
‘You do not like her?’ she asked quickly.
‘I am not sure. I had not thought she would be so young.’
‘She is serious minded.’
‘I was thinking that Swynford’s wife would be different. When he comes back to England she could be sent back to the country, I suppose.’
‘I am sorry you do not like her. The children are fond of her already.’
‘I would not say I did not like her. I thought she might be … perhaps a little flighty.’
‘Men’s eyes follow her. She is good looking and … something more …’
‘Perhaps,’ he said.
‘The Queen is pleased at the appointment. She remembers the girl’s father. Philippa Chaucer is her sister, you know.’
‘It is a pity she is not more like Philippa Chaucer.’
‘The children seem very fond of her. I notice they like pretty people around them. Henry is already devoted to her.’
‘I hope that is not an indication of events to come.’
‘You mean …’
‘I hope he will not be too obsessed with pretty women.’
‘I dare swear our son will be a normal man. In any case he is already fond of Catherine Swynford. Of course if you would like me to send her away …’
‘Oh no, no. Give the woman a chance. I cannot judge her. I was in the nursery only for a few minutes. We have to think of my departure. Would you like me to take letters from you to Joan?’
He was glad to be alone, and although he tried to dismiss Catherine Swynford from his mind her face kept presenting itself to him.
That night he dreamed that he awakened and saw her standing by his bed, her red hair loose and her red lips smiling. She came in beside him and he put his arms about her.
She said in that dream: ‘This has to be. You know it, John of Gaunt and so do I, Catherine Swynford.’
A disturbing dream and it showed clearly what effect she had had on him.
He was almost glad that he was going away.
Before he left there was more news from his brother.
Pedro had become so unpopular in Castile where he was known as The Cruel that his half-brother, Henry of Trastamare, had been welcomed back by the people and when he had returned he had confronted Pedro and stabbed him to death.
Nothing had been gained by the English from the battle of Nájara, that resounding victory which had seemed so glorious. Many English soldiers had died of dysentery and it seemed that the health of the Black Prince was impaired for ever; the money Pedro had promised to pay the English armies would never be paid now; Biscay which was to be the Prince’s reward for his help had not come into his hands and if he wanted it he would have to fight a fresh battle for it.
It was disaster.
And the King of France was rubbing his hands with glee.
Yes, the Black Prince needed his brother John who must take his leave of his devoted wife, of his anxious father and his ailing mother.
‘I shall be back ere long,’ John promised Blanche. And he thought: I wonder if, when I return, Catherine Swynford will still be in the nurseries?
The Queen knew that she was dying. Steadily over the last two years she had become more enfeebled. Her body was now so swollen with dropsy that it was a burden to her and she could feel no great sorrow at leaving a world which had lost its charm for her.
As she lay in bed she thought of the past when she had been so happy. So vividly that it seemed like only yesterday did she recall the day Edward’s envoys had come to Hainault to choose a bride for him and how fearful she had been that they might select one of her sisters. And how they had laughed when he told her that he warned his ambassadors that it would be more than their lives were worth to bring him any but Philippa. So happy they had been, so much in love – a boy and a girl no more. And when they grew up, the love between them grew stronger and they had had a wonderful family to prove it to the world.
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.