This plot must not be allowed to reach fruition.
At Hertford John of Gaunt received the summons to attend the Council.
He stood in the great hall with the letter in his hand, long after the messengers had retired to the kitchens to be refreshed.
Catherine found him there, and noticed at once that something was wrong. Their affection had not waned with the passing of the years. She was installed here in his house as the one who meant a great deal to him. He needed Catherine and she knew it and revelled in the knowledge.
Hers was a beauty which did not diminish with age. It was true that it had changed; and instead of the flames of passion which had flared between them in their youth there now burned a steady light which was more important to him than anything else.
It astonished him more than it astonished her.
He was to her her lover and her child. She often marvelled to think of this great man and herself. Who was she, the daughter of a humble man who had managed to get a knighthood on a battlefield, the widow of another knight, a simple country woman, to be the companion of the great John of Gaunt? But such was love, and theirs was enduring.
It was a life of thrills and terrors she had chosen. She knew that he was in constant danger and when she was not with him she was full of fear for his safety. Every time a messenger arrived she was afraid he was bringing some bad news. She longed for messengers to bring her news of him but always she feared what it might be.
And the happy times were when he was with her. They were the high peaks of her life, but she knew she had to pay for them and she spent most of her days in the valleys of fear.
Recently there had been this terrible affair of the Carmelite who had brought charges against him. She thanked God that was over.
She slipped her arm through his. ‘What news?’ she asked fearfully.
‘A summons to the Council at Waltham.’
Her heart missed a beat.
‘What is it, sweetheart?’ he asked.
She answered: ‘I felt as though someone was walking over my grave.’
‘Ah, Catherine, you have these fears now and then, my love.’
‘I fear greatly for you, John.’
‘You must not. Do you doubt that I can give a good account of myself?’
‘I doubt it not, but there are evil men who would do you ill. I can never trust de Vere.’
‘Who does? Except the King and he is besotted. Catherine, sometimes I think my nephew is going to be my grandfather all over again. People are already comparing de Vere with Gaveston.’
‘It cannot be so. What of the Queen?’
‘The Queen knows of this friendship and joins in it. She appears to find de Vere’s company diverting.’
Catherine shook her head. ‘Their ménage does not concern me. Let them live as they will as long as you are safe. What of this summons to Waltham?’
‘I must go. I shall be needed there. I am the King’s first counsellor whatever de Vere may think.’
‘I like it not.’
‘Oh Catherine, you fear too much.’
‘Methinks I love too much,’ she answered.
‘Nay that is something you can never do. Rest easy, sweetheart. I am as good a match for them as they for me … aye better.’
‘That Carmelite affair … It could so easily have …’
‘No, no, no. I can handle my nephew. He is a boy, nothing more … a weak boy.’
‘Which makes it all the more easy for wicked men to handle him. There is a warning in my heart, John. You must not go to Waltham.’
He tried to soothe her. There was nothing he would rather do than stay here with her in peace. But there was no peace. His life had brought him along a strange path. Sometimes he was unworldly enough to wish that on the death of Blanche he had married Catherine. Impossible. He could well imagine what an outcry there would have been. The King’s son and the widow of a man of no importance! And she had gone up in the social scale by marrying Swynford. No, he had to marry Constanza and the marriage had been a failure from the start, although it would bring him the crown of Castile one day he was sure. He and Constanza did not live together. He had done his duty and they had one daughter. There was an end of it. But his claim to Castile remained. One day he would be a king in truth.
The desire for a crown! It had haunted his life. And he might have had the crown of England too if he had been born earlier. He was born too late. That was the theme of his life. Too late.
Too late he had realised that he would have been a happier man if he had married Catherine and lived the life of a nobleman – adviser to the King yes, but not for ever dogged by this accursed ambition.
Now he had to soothe her. She was obsessed by this council at Waltham.
He talked to her a great deal – when they walked in the gardens, when they were alone indoors, when she lay beside him at night and they both marvelled in the wonder of their relationship which they knew would go on until one or the other died.
‘Don’t go,’ were the last words she said that night but his answer was: ‘I must.’
He was preparing to leave. Whatever was in store – and Catherine’s apprehension had communicated itself to him – he must go.
She would watch him ride away and then she would go to the topmost tower so that she might see the last of him; and he would turn and wave to her and his heart would be sick with longing to stay with her.
But he must go. He could not say good-bye to ambition now. He could not say: I, John of Gaunt, will no longer fight for the crown of Castile. I will stay on my estates and live in comfort for the rest of my life beside my mistress.
There were sounds of arrival in the courtyard.
He hurried down to the hall. A man was there. He was talking to some of the startled guards.
‘Take me at once to the Duke.’
John cried out in amazement for the man who stood there was Michael de la Pole.
‘What has happened?’ asked John.
De la Pole looked around him.
‘Come with me,’ said John, and took him to a private chamber. Catherine came in, her eyes fearful.
John took her arm and said to de la Pole, ‘You may speak before Lady Swynford.’
De la Pole said: ‘You must not go to Waltham.’
‘Why so?’
‘They are planning to arrest you before the Council and bring you to trial for plotting against the King.’
‘What nonsense! They could never prove a thing against me … for nothing exists.’
‘They will prove something, my lord Duke. They have made up their minds to prove something.’
‘You mean a bench of judges
‘Picked men, my lord. All your sworn enemies. De Vere failed with his Carmelite but he is determined to try again.’
Catherine had turned white and was clutching at the table to steady herself. John thought she was going to faint. She said nothing. She was too wise to attempt to advise him in the presence of others.
‘There is only one thing to be done, my lord,’ said de la Pole, ‘and that is to feign illness.’
Then Catherine spoke. ‘Yes,’ she said quietly, ‘yes.’
‘I beg you, my lord, send a message at once,’ went on de la Pole. ‘You are too ill to attend the Council.’
John was silent for a moment. He could see how it would work. Speed was the answer. A quick arrest, trial and then execution before it could be realised what was happening. He must remember what had happened to another Lancaster – Earl Thomas who had been murdered in the same way as was being planned for him – and that to avenge the royal favourite Gaveston.
He said: ‘My thanks to you, de la Pole, for this timely warning. I see you are right. I shall not attend the Council.’