It might have been that he was unlucky in war; it might have been that his heart was not in the fight; it was very likely that he longed to be in Beaufort Castle; in any case his campaign was far from successful. He marched through Artois and Champagne to Troyes and into Burgundy and Bourbonnois to the mountains of Auvergne. The winter had come and it was severe; it was hard to find food for the soldiers. He had to keep on the move and at the end of December he arrived at Bordeaux. The campaign had been disastrous. His losses had been great and nothing was achieved.
He was utterly depressed until a messenger came from Beaufort with a letter from Catherine with news of herself and little John. She was pregnant once more and she was longing for the birth of their second child.
How he yearned to be with her. He must see her.
There was nothing to be done, he assured himself, during the winter months. So he rode to Beaufort and he was comforted by her presence; but he could not stay for long and must go back to Bordeaux. He wanted to know immediately when the child was born.
In due course he heard. Another boy. ‘I am naming him Henry,’ she wrote. ‘You have one son Henry but this little one will be Henry Beaufort and I believe you will love him as much as you do his brother.’
He had to see her so once more he made the journey. She had lost none of her attraction and seemed more desirable than ever. She was meant to be a mother. She glowed with health and pride in her two Beaufort boys as she called them. She had never felt like this about Thomas or Blanche Swynford, and although she had been fond of the children, she had been able to leave them to the care of nurses.
‘It is because these boys are your sons,’ she told John. ‘It is because of you that they mean so much to me.’
Reluctantly he tore himself away. The winter was passing and he would have to go into action again. Messengers kept arriving at Bordeaux with impatient messages from the Black Prince who was firmly convinced that if he had been on the scene there would be a different story to tell.
Perhaps that would have been so, thought John. He is a general; he was born to command an army. It is different with me. I believe I was meant to rule but to rule through diplomacy and thoughtful scheming. I would hold my place not with arms but with subtle actions.
A messenger from the Duke of Anjou proposed that his army should meet that of the Duke of Lancaster at Moissac and until that time there should be a truce between them.
To this John agreed with alacrity. A truce would enable him to spend time with Catherine. News came from home that the King was growing almost senile, and it seemed that he could not live very long. The Prince’s health had deteriorated too; before long there must be a new King of England and it would not be an Edward.
A boy of eight or nine! He would need guidance. There would have to be a Regent. A Regent, of course, had the power of a ruler.
If there was to be a king who was a minor the natural regent would be his uncle. John knew that it was imperative for him to be in England.
He talked of this with Catherine. She understood perfectly. She would be ready to leave when he wished to go.
But he wanted her to remain for a while at Beaufort. If the situation was now as he believed it might be, he would have to come out again so he thought it was better for her to remain at Beaufort, particularly as she was once more pregnant. If he were going to stay in England he would send for her; if not he would soon be with her again.
John and his army left for England. He had forgotten his arrangement to meet Anjou at Moissac.
April came. This, said the French, was a breach of faith and there was no reason why they should not march into Aquitaine.
With the exception of Bayonne and Bordeaux the whole of Aquitaine passed into the hands of the French.
The campaign had been an utter disaster.
Catherine gave birth to another boy. This was Thomas. John had two Henrys; she would have two Thomases. The joys of motherhood had settled on her and she intended to make up to Thomas and Blanche Swynford for her neglect of them when she was back in England.
In Beaufort Castle she settled down to wait for the return of John.
There was a growing tension in the streets of London. In the fields beyond Clerkenwell and Holborn, in the meadows of Marylebone and on Hampstead Heath and Tyburn Fields people gathered to listen to those who had made themselves spokesmen for there was not a man or woman who was not aware of the change that was coming.
Within the City walls where merchants and their apprentices shouted the virtues of their wares as they stood beside their stalls in Cheapside under the big signs which proclaimed their trade, there were whispers. Eyes turned towards that Palace of Westminster set among the fields and marshes outside the City and they asked themselves how long the King could last.
And what then? Who would have believed a few years ago that it could have come to this.
They had had a great and glorious King but he had been seduced by a harpy; they had had a Prince who had seemed like a god come down to serve them. And what had happened? He had become a sick man who was clearly fighting now to stave off death.
The heir to the throne was a slender young boy – his father’s son, possessed of the Plantagenet handsome looks but lacking the robustness which was a feature of the race; and overshadowing him was his uncle, John of Gaunt.
John of Gaunt! That was the name which was whispered in the streets and the meadows. ‘He seeks to rule us,’ it was murmured. ‘He is waiting for his brother to die. Then he will attempt to take the crown from little Richard and there will be war.’
John of Gaunt! His very name proclaimed his foreign birth. What had he done? He had conducted an unsuccessful campaign in France which had resulted in great losses and they had paid taxes that this campaign might be carried out.
Rumour had it that he kept his mistress over there. Catherine Swynford, the wife – widow now – of one of his men. They were raising a little family of Beauforts. Three boys and a girl. And his wife the poor Queen of Castile was ignored. He had married her for her crown but before she could gain it it had to be won and they would be expected to pay for his adventures. John of Gaunt was not noted for his generalship. He was not like the hero of Crécy and Poitiers. Oh, what an ill fate for England when the great Black Prince had been stricken with sickness! The only hope for the country was that he would live a little longer, or that the King himself would not die for a while.
But the King had disappointed them. He appeared in public with that harlot Alice Perrers beside him, decked in fine satins and velvets and wearing the royal jewels. Those who remembered good Queen Philippa cursed her. No good could come of a family which flaunted its immorality, openly defying the laws of Holy Church. The King could be forgiven by some. He was old, he was senile, they said; he had once been great and England had loved him. There had rarely been a King who had been so loved as Edward the Third. Yes, they could find it in their hearts to overlook his lapse from virtue. But John of Gaunt, with his harlot Catherine Swynford, no! London did not want this man. They would not tolerate his rule.
He had returned to England after the disastrous campaign and he had been going back and forth to France for the last two years, staying in Ghent and Bruges and attempting to persuade the French to agree to a truce. On his knees almost to the French! They had come a long way from Poitiers when the Black Prince had returned with the King of France as his captive.
Sad days had come to England and at such times it was natural to look for a scapegoat. The people had looked and found one. His name was John of Gaunt.