He wondered whether she would find someone to help her. Some ambitious man might, for the sake of the title of King, he supposed. It would be a good gamble, and a throne was an ever enticing goal.
While he talked with her the children came riding in – sturdy Edward, delicate Richard and with them their two half-brothers, those noisy Holland young men, the result of Joan’s misalliance with Sir Thomas Holland. The elder Holland must be about twenty years old, the other two years younger; but there was no doubt that the little boys looked up to their brothers and the Hollands made the most of it.
John’s eyes rested on young Edward. A King to be, and another Edward. That seemed to be a name the people loved. Whereas John … They should never have named him John because people still remembered that wicked ancestor of his, the King John who had made the signing of Magna Carta necessary.
He turned away from the window. He was beginning to think that he would never wear a crown.
A few days later, news came from England. He could not believe it. Blanche dead … of plague at Bolingbroke, that castle which they had both loved so much since it was the birthplace of their son.
He was stunned. He thought of her gentleness, her nobility. He was bowed down with grief.
He must leave at once for England. Edward would understand that he must go.
That the plague should have struck her down! All that beauty made loathsome by the fearful enemy which stalked the towns and villages of the world in search of victims. Blanche … not beautiful, noble Blanche!
Downstairs he could hear the sounds of music. The musicians were practising for the evening. Joan was anxious to fill the castle with rejoicing because she was sure that the Black Prince was recovering from his sickness.
Constanza and Isabella would be there.
Constanza who wanted a husband to help her gain the throne of Castile.
That husband would be King of Castile.
Blanche had been buried near the High Altar in St Paul’s, and John had ordered that a magnificent alabaster tomb be erected on which was an effigy of his wife.
He was overwhelmed by his sadness. He had loved her dearly, and he was ashamed of the fact that there were two women who would come into his mind even while he mourned for her. One was Constanza, the heiress of Castile, the other was Catherine Swynford, the wife of his squire Sir Hugh who was with one of the armies in France. One promised a crown, the other such sensual delight as he felt he had never known yet.
But nevertheless he mourned for Blanche. He knew that there would never be one who loved him so devotedly, so selflessly, as Blanche had. Blanche would always be enshrined in his heart – the most beautiful of ladies, the most perfect of wives, the mother of his children, his beloved daughters and the one he loved above all others because in him was enshrined his ambition – Henry of Bolingbroke.
Geoffrey Chaucer had presented himself to him. He was deeply affected. Once John had laughed at Chaucer’s devotion to Blanche. He had teased her saying that the little poet loved her and it was well that his devotion was of the soul and not of the body otherwise he would have been jealous and have cut off the head of the presumptuous fellow.
As it was he had been amused and liked the poet for it.
He received him with friendliness and was touched when Chaucer produced what he called his Book of the Duchess.
John read it with emotion. It extolled the beauty and virtue of Blanche, setting it down in such a way that would immortalise her. It told of his own love for the incomparable Blanche.
He was deeply moved to read those words:‘My lady brightWhich I have loved with all my mightIs from me dead.’
Those simple words, which Chaucer in his poet’s sensitivity had attributed to him, putting himself in his place no doubt, writing what he would have felt had he been John of Gaunt, conveyed so much more than flowery speech could have done. Chaucer had gone on:‘Alas, of death, what aileth theeThat thou wouldst not have taken meWhen that thou took my lady sweetThat was so fair, so fresh, so freeSo good that men may well it seeOf all goodness she had no mete.’
He would not forget Chaucer, nor his wife … nor his sister-in-law.
He must go to the children. Poor motherless ones. They would be bowed down with sorrow.
It was his duty to go to them.
They were installed in the Palace of the Savoy in the care of their governess, and it was with strange emotions that he made his way there. He was wondering how he would find his children; they were over young perhaps to realise what this meant. Their governess would have talked to them.
Their governess! He was not really thinking of his children, he found, but of their governess.
He sent for them and waited for their arrival, his heart beating fast. He wondered what she would look like now. Perhaps she had grown over fat; some of these women did when they came to the palace. Perhaps he had endowed her, in his imaginings, with qualities she did not possess. She had become a kind of dream woman, a fantasy possessed of charms beyond all human knowledge.
The door had opened. Philippa came in. She ran to him and threw herself into his arms.
‘My child, my child,’ he said overcome with emotion.
Then there was Elizabeth. His younger daughter was six years old now, old enough to mourn.
‘She went to Bolingbroke and we were to join her there. We never saw her again.’ Philippa was looking at him sternly as though there was some explanation that he could give.
‘Alas of death what aileth thee …’ he thought. Why take Blanche … dear good Blanche, who had never harmed anyone and who was so sadly missed?
‘And where is your brother?’
‘Catherine told us to come first. She will bring him when you have seen us. He is only three you know.’
As if he needed to be reminded!
‘Does the boy miss his mother?’
‘Not as we do. He forgets sometimes that she is dead. He says he will show her something and that makes us cry and then he says “Oh, she is dead. I forgot.” He does not know what it means. He thinks she has gone away for a while … like going to Kenilworth … or Windsor or somewhere like that.’
‘And you, my darling daughters, you know what this sadness means?’
‘It means she will never come back again,’ said Philippa seriously.
‘It is fate, my daughters. It is life. It is something we must accept. It happens to us all … in time.’
Elizabeth looked alarmed. ‘You are not going to die too?’ she asked.
‘Oh no, no, my daughter. Not for years I think.’
‘If you did,’ said Elizabeth, ‘we should be real orphans! Who would look after us then? The Queen couldn’t. She is dead too.’
‘I know,’ said Philippa. ‘We would go and live with our cousins in France. Henry is the same age as Cousin Richard.’
‘My children, my children, I am not going to die. There is no need to wonder what will become of you for I am here and while I am you will always be my concern. Ah … here is my son.’
They had come into the room. He was holding her hand. John scarcely saw the boy. He could see nothing but her.
No. He had not exaggerated. It was there … the voluptuous overwhelming attractiveness … just as he had imagined it.
She curtsied to him. Henry made a little bow … obviously taught by her.
‘Rise, Lady Swynford,’ he heard himself say. ‘I see you have taken good care of my children. Henry …’
Henry ran forward and threw himself at his father’s knees.
He lifted him up. The boy glowed with health. ‘That was a fine bow you gave me,’ said John.
‘Catherine said I must,’ replied Henry.