The star of Lancaster

ENCOUNTER IN THE FOREST

The walls of the convent rose serene and beautiful among the green meadows. Close by were the grey walls of Pleshy Castle, the home of the little girl who was seated at the table her lesson book spread out before her. How quiet it was in the convent ! she was thinking. There was a peacefulness here which she found very comforting, the more so because she had become aware of a certain turmoil in the castle.

Mary had always been a little in awe of Eleanor, her elder sister, and perhaps more so of Thomas, Eleanor's husband. He was a very important man, of course; and Eleanor was proud to be his wife. She was constantly reminding her little sister that her children would be royal because Thomas was the King's son.

It was true. Thomas of Woodstock, as people called him because of the place where he was born, was in fact the Earl of Buckingham and the youngest son of King Edward the Third and Queen Philippa. Mary could remember when he and Eleanor were married. Her father had been alive then and there had been great rejoicing at the castle, for it was a brilliant match for the de Bohuns, even though Humphrey de Bohun was a very rich man owning as well as Pleshy Castle those of Monmouth and Leicester and a mansion in the City of London; and, although it was because of his immense wealth that the marriage had been approved by the royal family, the de Bohuns had been well aware of the honour done to them.

Then everything had changed because her father—Humphrey de Bohun to give him his full title—had died and his vast fortune was to be divided between his two daughters for there was no male heir. Thus Eleanor, wife of royal Thomas, and ten-year-old Mary became the richest heiresses in England.

Eleanor was delighted about that; so was Thomas; Mary was amazed at their excitement. What difference did it make to them? she wondered. They had been very rich before. What more could they want?

When she asked this, she was sharply told by Eleanor not to be foolish and she was subdued for she had always been very conscious of Eleanor's seniority. Eleanor had always made her aware of it, even before their father's death. She was much older, Eleanor had pointed out, and Mary was only a child. She must do as she was told by those of superior knowledge and that naturally meant an elder sister.

Brooding now over those days as she sat within the peaceful walls of the convent her books lying neglected before her, she was thinking of all that had happened since her father's death and the attitude of Eleanor and her husband towards her. It was almost as though they were planning something.

The thought made her feel slightly uneasy and she was more than ever aware how pleasant it was to be in the convent among the gentle nuns. Presently one of them would come and look at her work. If it was good, little would be said, for it was implied that they expected it to be good; if it was carelessly done or betrayed an ignorance of the subjects set there would be a gentle reproof which strangely enough hurt her more than anger and contempt would have done.

Mary liked the nuns; she liked the convent; the atmosphere fascinated her. The Abbess had told her that the Poor Clares lived only to serve. They moved about the convent like grey silent ghosts for if they wished to speak to each other they must first receive permission to do so from the Abbess. They slept on hard boards; they fasted; they followed strict laws of poverty; and it was their duty to forget their own needs and devote their time to the care of the sick and the poor.

Often she compared their lives with those who lived in her castle home. Eleanor liked luxury and so indeed did Thomas. He had been accustomed to it all his life, for his father had kept an extravagant court and King Richard's it was said was even more luxurious. Yet here within the convent walls, the Poor Clares slept on their hard boards, denied themselves food, taking only that which was necessary to sustain them that they might continue with their work, and Mary often thought how strange it was that there could be such differences in people's lives.

Eleanor loved rich clothes and her seamstresses were working constantly on new garments for her. She would spend hours discussing which two colours harmonized—for all her gowns were two-coloured now in accordance with the fashion —and fine silks would be placed together and matched. Her cote hardies were very splendid indeed and often decorated with gems. Her hanging sleeves grew longer with every fresh gown and she was happy to hide her hair—which was straight and not very abundant—under a very elaborate head-dress.

Mary often thought what the nuns could have done with the money which her sister spent so freely on adorning herself. She often compared her with the nuns in their grey gowns, shapeless and loose, held in at the waist with their linen cords which were tied with four knots to represent, and to remind them of, their four vows. She compared the serenity of the nuns with the restless activity of her sister and it seemed clear to her which of them found life more satisfactory.

It was not one of the nuns who came to her but the Abbess herself. Mary was overcome with awe and she felt that such a visitation must be of some portent.

The Abbess said: "Well, my child, you have done your lessons for the day." She took the books and glanced at them; then her piercing eyes were on the girl.

A beautiful child, she thought. She had inherited more than her share of the family's good looks. The de Bohuns had been benefactors of the convent for years and it was natural that this little girl should have been given over to them that they might educate her. It happened to many children of high birth and they must welcome it. Noble families were their life blood. They needed the patronage of those who in so many cases thought to expiate their sins by endowing a convent and by supporting it throughout their lives. It was ironical that such holy places were so largely dependent on sinners and doubly so that the greater the sins committed the more munificent were the gifts likely to be.

Now she was responsible for the education of this young girl; but she knew that ambitious Thomas of Woodstock and his equally ambitious wife had sent her here for a purpose.

It would be good for the convent if that purpose was successful; but the Abbess did not wish it to be so unless it was the best thing for the girl. With her dark hair and her gentle rather doe-like eyes, her heart-shaped face and her delicate features she showed signs of real beauty. Her nature was gentle but alert; she would be steadfast but the fact was that the Abbess was unsure.

As yet, she thought, she is too young to decide.

"It is a fine day," she said briskly. "Let us walk awhile in the gardens."

This was strange. The Abbess had never walked in the gardens with her before, but one thing Mary had learned in the convent was not to ask questions so she shut her books immediately and rose.

She followed the Abbess through the stone corridors. They passed silent-footed nuns, who, preserving their silence, did not speak. In the gardens, where vegetables and herbs were grown, three nuns were working: they did not look up. In the bakery it would be the same, as in the wash-house and the ale house. They were all working steadily away and in silence as they would be in the still rooms where the herbs were being made into medicines for the use of the poor.

"You see, my child," said the Abbess, "that here we are working for others. It is our mission in life to serve God through His unfortunate children."

"Yes, my lady Abbess, I have long been aware of that."

"And you think it a worthy vocation?"

"Oh yes, my lady. I do."

"There are some who take their vows perhaps too early and later regret that they have done so. The world is an alluring place my child."

"It is full of wickedness, my lady."

"And what do you know of that wickedness? Tell me that."

Mary was silent and the Abbess smiled.

"You know nothing of the world save that which you have heard. But you have seen something of what a nun's life is like. And you think it a good life?"

"Oh I do, my lady"

They walked in silence for some moments then the Abbess said, "How old are you?"

"I am ten years old"

"It is too young to make decisions which would affect the whole of your life"

"What decisions, my lady?"

"My lord the Earl has said that if you should wish to join us here he would not stand in your way"

"To ... join you here"

"To become one of us. What do you think, Mary?"

The girl was silent. To live the life of a nun! To work for the poor! To speak only when given permission to do so! She did not know what to say. When she entered the calm of the convent she had felt a happiness envelop her. That was because Eleanor had said something that she had felt to be unkind; and she was aware of the friction at Pleshy. Her brother-in-law was often angry about something. He and her sister were constantly discussing some grievance and assuring themselves that the day would come when they would be avenged. It made her uneasy; and for that reason she liked to get away. But to live here always ... never to know what was really happening in the world ...

The Abbess said: "My dear child, do not look alarmed. It would be years before anything was done. The Duke of Lancaster is your guardian and he would have to give his consent of course. His plans might differ from those of your brother-in-law and sister. But a great deal depends on your own wishes for we would not want you to be here against your will. The decision is yours, remember that, but there is talk of its being a suitable life for you and I thought I would tell you this that you can be more watchful of us and our ways. I think it is never too soon to think of these matters."

"Thank you, my lady. I will think of them."

"That is well. I believe your groom is waiting at the stables to take you to Pleshy."

The Abbess went into the convent and Mary made her way to the stables where her horse was ready for her.

In the solarium at Pleshy, Mary was embroidering an altar cloth for the chapel when her sister joined her. Eleanor was pregnant; she was hoping for a son; she already had one little girl about a year old and she thought herself rather ill used by life because her first-born had not been a son.

She sat beside Mary and said: "You look so happy. But you always do when you return from the convent. I believe you love that place."

"I do. It is very pleasant there and the nuns are so gentle. They are very good, you know, Eleanor."

"I do know it. There are no more worthy people in the world. Some of us have duties in other directions." She sighed as though she deplored having to be a great lady, go to Court, wear magnificent clothes, and would have counted it a great privilege if she had been allowed to put on the grey robe of the Poor Clares and devote herself to the needy.

Now that was too much for Mary to accept. Eleanor thoroughly enjoyed her worldly life, but she had been planning something for some time and Mary was beginning to understand what it was. Eleanor wanted her to go into a convent; in fact she was trying to persuade her to. Her next words confirmed this.

"Oh Mary, I am beginning to think you are more fortunate than I.I do believe God is giving you a chance to lead a very worthy life."

"You mean go into a convent? Become a nun?"

"I see you are full of joy at the thought."

"No, Eleanor. That is not entirely true. I do think the nuns are good and I should like to be as they are .. "

"Well then, sister, is that not what I said?"

"But there are other joys in the world. When I play with little Anne I think how fortunate you are to have her and then there is the new one who is coming. I do love the peace of the convent but I should love to be a mother too ... to have babies like Anne."

"What nonsense!" said Eleanor sharply. "Having a baby is by no means pleasant I can assure you."

"I know it is an ordeal but the reward is great. Sometimes I think the most wonderful thing in the world must be to have a child."

"You are speaking of matters of which you know nothing," said Eleanor sharply. "I think you should begin to consider going into the convent. I could speak to the Abbess."

"Eleanor, have you already spoken to the Abbess?"

"We have talked of your future, of course."

"And our mother?"

"She has not given an opinion but I am sure that she would be happy for you to take up the holy life"

"I think she would respect my wishes in that" said Mary with spirit.

Eleanor opened her eyes very wide. "But is that not what we all wish to do?" she demanded.

"If that is so" replied Mary gravely, "it is for me to decide and I have some time yet to think about my future."

"Of a certainty you have" retorted Eleanor. "But I think you would be very happy to feel you had settled it."

Mary was silent. Eleanor would be very happy, she was sure, if it was settled that her young sister should become a nun.

Thomas Woodstock, Earl of Buckingham, rode out to Pleshy to say good-bye to his wife before he left for France. He was not displeased to be going for he was of an adventurous nature and had the Plantagenet desire to do battle. He was fresh from the triumph he had enjoyed when just before Christmas he had captured eight Spanish ships off Brest. Egotistical, impulsive, inclined to recklessness, Thomas yearned to be in the centre of events.

Eleanor understood well. She shared his ambitions. She greeted him warmly and immediately commanded that the finest dinner should be served and the minstrels give of their best. She had always insisted that they should have the newest songs from Court and as they were not far from London and Westminster she usually succeeded in her endeavours.

Eleanor had married into royalty and she could not forget it nor allow anyone else to.

It was a good marriage from the point of view of both husband and wife. Thomas enjoyed her ambition and approval in all his endeavours and it gratified him that she should be so conscious of the royalty he had bestowed on her.

In their apartments he told her of his successes at sea— avoiding that part in which the squadron of which he had been in charge had been scattered by a storm.

"I am going out to aid the Duke of Brittany" he explained. "He is handing over the Castle of Brest to us for as long as the war shall last. But the French will take it unless I get there in time to hold it."

"You will do that," she said. "I trust Richard is grateful for all you do for him."

"Grateful! He takes everything as his right and knows little of affairs. He's nothing but a boy. A boy King of England I"

"There should have been a Regency," said Eleanor.

"Ah my dear, you speak truth there."

"Though Lancaster would have been in command you may be sure."

"He would have tried to be. I should have stopped that."

Eleanor nodded sagely. There was little love between the two brothers. John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster was as ambitious as his brother. Both bitterly resented the fact that they had not been the eldest of Edward's sons. It would have been different if the Black Prince had lived. He would have stepped naturally onto the throne and there would have been no question of his right to be there. But his son, this young boy —delicate and effeminate—was quite unsuited to the destiny thrust upon him; and it was particularly galling that it should be so when Edward the Third had had other sons than the Black Prince. John of Gaunt and Thomas of Woodstock believed that they were more suited to take the crown. As for the third brother, Edmund of Langley, he was not ambitious, preferring to live quietly in the country. But John and Thomas were constantly jostling for power and it was galling to both of them to have to accept their puny nephew as their King.

Thomas was a man who brooded on his wrongs; he could never forget nor forgive a slight; and when John of Gaunt had put forward his own son Henry of Bolingbroke for the Order of the Garter and their late father Edward the Third had bestowed it on him, Thomas had been consumed by hatred of his brother—for there had been two candidates for the Order, Thomas himself and Henry of Bolingbroke and to get it for his son, John of Gaunt had had to push aside his brother.

No, that was something which would never be forgiven.

"Well, my dear," he said, "my stay here is a brief one. By the time I return our little one will be born."

"You shall have news as soon as the child arrives," Eleanor promised. "How I hope that this time it will be a boy!"

"If not, there is plenty of time for us. Take care of yourself, my dear. And Mary ... has she given any indication yet?"

"I am hopeful that she will soon do so. She is happy in the convent. But the Abbess thinks she should wait awhile and not make a hasty decision."

"The Abbess should be about her own business."

"It may be that she would consider Mary's taking her vows as her business."

"Once she has taken them, yes. The girl must be persuaded."

"I am doing my best. She is young yet, and if we can only persuade her before ..."

Eleanor frowned and Thomas said: "You are thinking of fortune hunters. My dear wife, none could marry her without consulting us."

"You have forgotten your brother. He is her guardian."

"He is occupied with other matters. He spends a great deal of time with his mistress. I wonder what it is this Catherine Swynford has to cast such a spell on him. There is no doubt that he is bewitched by the woman."

"You think she is a witch ..."

Thomas shrugged his shoulders. "If she had been she would have made him marry her doubtless. He knew her when Blanche died. But he married Constanza, did he not?"

"Because he hoped for the crown of Castile."

"Yes, John has matters to occupy him. I doubt he gives much thought to little Mary de Bohun."

"Then it is really just a matter of persuading Mary."

"The day will come," prophesied Thomas, "when she enters her convent and then everything will be ours, my dear."

His eyes glistened at the thought. So did Eleanor's.

She would persuade Mary in time. She had always persuaded Mary.

Thomas left for France. Mary returned to her lessons at the convent. She had become very much aware of everything around her, and she was beginning to believe that the peace of the convent would be very desirable.

John of Gaunt had come to Arundel Castle where he was being entertained by his good friends, the Earl and Countess. John had recently returned from Scotland where he had negotiated peace with the Scots and he had taken with him his eldest son Henry of Bolingbroke. Henry was some fourteen years of age, a good-looking sturdy boy and his father was proud of him.

Soon, he had thought, I must find a suitable bride for him. It would be someone who could bring him wealth. That was necessary. The richer a man was the more power he had. His brother Thomas had done very well for himself with the Bohun heiress. Those Bohun girls would be two of the richest in the kingdom. It was small wonder that Thomas had become very smug since his marriage.

John was very well aware of the extent of the Bohun fortune, the younger girl being his ward. The King had bestowed this gift on him—for gift it was, as the wardship carried with it a grant of five thousand marks and Richard had given it to him as compensation for some payments which were due to him. Thomas had been displeased about that. John smiled grimly at the memory of Thomas's disquiet. No doubt he did not want his brother to know too much about the de Bohun inheritance. Moreover it gave John a command over Mary's future.

As he rode up the high circular knoll on which the castle stood, his thoughts were on his brother and he wondered what mischief he was concocting now. Across the drawbridge under the portcullis into the castle he went where the Earl was waiting to greet him. John of Gaunt was the most powerful man in the land—under the King; and Richard as yet was but a boy.

It was the Countess who had brought up the subject of the de Bohun girls. She was their aunt and she was very interested in their future because she had heard a rumour that the younger was thinking of going into a convent.

They had eaten dinner and the minstrels were playing in the gallery; much good wine had been drunk and the conversation was of a desultory nature.

"You are my niece's guardian, my lord Lancaster," said the Countess. "I doubt not you would have been informed if Mary had made her decision to take the veil."

"I have heard nothing of it," replied John. "And I think the girl is too young to make such a decision."

"I doubt not," put in the Earl, "that she is being gently persuaded that the convent life is for her."

"Persuaded !" cried the Countess.

"Well," said the Earl, "look what Buckingham would gain by such a measure. Not a half of the de Bohun estates but the whole would fall to Eleanor. She is a lady with her wits about her, so I have heard. And Thomas has a nose for money. But, my lord Lancaster, she would need your consent."

"I should not give it unless it was the girl's own wish," John replied.

"I am glad to hear you say that," said the Countess. "She is ten years old. Girls of that age can be filled with ideals. They can make a decision before they understand what it is all about, particularly if they are discreetly jostled into it."

"I shall go and visit her," said John. "I shall see for myself what it is all about."

"I believe Eleanor is a very forceful young woman," explained the Countess. "When she sets her mind to something she works hard to get it. Mary is gentle—the beauty of the family. Such a pretty little thing. I confess I should hate to see her shut away with the Poor Clares. And think of all that money I"

"I am thinking of it," said John. "That is why I shall go to see her."

"It would be easier if it were not known that you were sounding her," said the Countess. "I have an idea. Would you like to hear it?"

"We are all ears," said the Earl. "Is that not so, my lord Lancaster?"

John nodded, smiling.

"Why should I not ask Mary to Arundel? That will arouse little comment. I shall tell her we all want to see our nieces. There is no reason why I should not bring her to see her Uncle Richard. I will ride to Pleshy and bring her back with me. We shall have some merriment here in Arundel and we shall see whether Mary really wishes to give up the world for the veil. What think you of this plan?"

"It seems to me fair enough," said her husband. "What think you, my lord?"

John was thoughtful. An idea had come to him. He did not speak for a moment, and the Countess prompted: "Well, my lord Lancaster?"

"I like this plan," he said. "It would be a weight off my mind to know that she was not being forced into the life. I wish to see the girl ... away from her sister and the influence of Thomas. I want to judge for myself what is best for her"

"Then I will go to Pleshy and when Mary is here, my lord, I will send you word"

John was smiling. He liked the idea. He liked it very much.

Eleanor received her aunt with a certain gracious dignity.

She gives herself airs since she married into royalty, thought the Countess, smiling inwardly. She did not like Eleanor. The girl was too proud, too ambitious. Mary was quite different, charming and pretty. The Countess was glad young Mary had managed to acquire all the good looks.

"My dear Eleanor," she cried, "it is long since I saw you. Marriage suits you, my dear. One baby in the nursery and another on the way. I'll vow Thomas wants a boy this time"

"We are hoping for a boy," replied Eleanor.

"Is there news of Thomas?"

"None. You know how difficult it is to get news from France."

"Doubtless the child will be born by the time he returns. A reward for his services to the King."

"He is not likely to get any other."

"Oh come, Richard is grateful to his uncles."

"Not to Thomas."

The Countess laughed lightly. "It is a pleasure to see you so contented with your marriage. And Mary, how is she?"

"She is devoted to the nuns. It was so fortunate that the convent is so close to the castle. It means that we have her with us and she can at the same time indulge in her pleasure to be within the convent."

"It was most convenient that you chose to come to Pleshy," commented the Countess. "It might have been one of your castles or that draughty house that was your father's in the Dowgate Ward of London."

"You mean Cole Harbour. Yes, Pleshy is just the right place for Mary, and I am ready to stay here for that reason. I like to see my little sister contented."

"As she is, I believe."

"Oh very. People are fortunate when they are almost born with the knowledge of what they want in life."

"You mean the convent for Mary. I agree with you. It is very fortunate. I look forward to seeing Mary while I am here."

"Of a certainty you will."

I am determined on it, thought the Countess, for it is the object of my visit.

Later that day she did see Mary.

She thought: The child is truly a beauty. It would be a pity if she were shut away in a convent just because her greedy sister and her avaricious brother-in-law want her share of the de Bohun fortune.

She was very cautious, being eager to give no sign to Eleanor that she was in the slightest degree averse to Mary's future in the convent.

She mentioned more than once the great admiration she had for the Poor Clares and the wonderful work they were doing.

Mary spoke glowingly of them and Eleanor purred like a contented cat.

The Countess said: "Your uncle Richard was saying that he should so like to see you. I told him that I would persuade you to come back to Arundel with me for a short visit. He said: I so long to see my dear nieces."

"I am scarcely in a condition to travel" Eleanor pointed out.

"Alas, that is so" agreed the Countess. "Mary could come though."

Mary cried: "I should so much like that."

Eleanor looked a little taken aback but before she could speak the Countess said firmly: "Then so it shall be. We will set out tomorrow."

Eleanor said: "Mary, you will not wish to leave your studies"

"But Eleanor, it will only be for a short visit. I long to go."

"Then you shall, dear niece," said the Countess quickly. "Later on, when you have the baby, Eleanor, you will come to see your uncle I know."

"Cannot he come here, my lady?"

"He will, of a certainty he will. But he has asked me so particularly to take you both back with me. He did not think that you would be unfit to travel. Men do not understand these things. I must take one of you back. Mary, we must leave early. It is a long journey and I wish for an early start."

Mary was clearly excited at the prospect of the visit and Eleanor could only shrug her shoulders.

It would be but for a few days and their aunt was clearly in favour of Mary's taking the veil. Perhaps she would help to persuade her.

There was no need to worry.

It was exciting riding to Arundel with her aunt. Mary had forgotten how beautiful the Sussex countryside was. She could smell the sea and she remembered that the castle was only a short distance from the coast. The Countess had been talking about the pleasures of Arundel and the new dances and songs of which Mary had some knowledge because none could enjoy social life more than Eleanor and Thomas. There were often visitors at Arundel, explained her aunt. It was a great pleasure when they came with news of what was happening in Court. Not that she was ignorant of that, she was quick to add. Your uncle is in constant attendance on the King.

Mary did notice that, although while they were at Pleshy her aunt had talked a great deal about the Convent of the Poor Clares, stressing the good life led by the nuns, during the journey her conversation had changed considerably; and she seemed to be extolling the pleasures of life outside convent walls.

As the drawbridge was lowered and they rode under the portcullis and into the courtyard, the Countess said: "What joy there is in coming home. I always wonder when I return what will have been happening to the place while I have been away, what visitors we have had or who will be awaiting us. One of the best things in life is coming home."

She looked sideways at Mary on whose face was an expression of understanding and shared excitement.

It will not be the convent life for her! thought the Countess. Lancaster will see to that.

Into the castle went Mary, to the chamber which had been made ready, there to wash off the stains of the journey and to prepare herself to go down to the great hall where the appetizing smells which pervaded the castle proclaimed that food would soon be served.

One of the women of the household arrived to say that on the instructions of my lady she had come to help her dress.

My lady had set out a gown for her as her own would not yet be unpacked.

Mary was astonished at the splendour of the garment. The surcoat was of fine blue silk and delicately embroidered with birds and flowers. Under the surcoat was a less loosely fitting gown in a delicate shade of green; the sleeves of the garment made it in the height of fashion for from the elbow they hung almost to her knees.

Mary was not used to wearing such fine clothes although she had seen Eleanor in them. "You like the colours of your nuns," Eleanor had said; and she had not cared enough to protest.

The serving girl brushed her dark hair and let it fall about her shoulders, saying:

"My lady said not for you the wimple or the dorelet. Your hair is too pretty to be hidden."

Mary felt like a stranger to herself when the Countess came to her chamber to see the effect and to conduct her down to the hall.

It was clear that her aunt was pleased by the transformation.

In the hall was the Earl who bade her welcome to the castle, and with him were his daughters Elizabeth and Joan.

Mary was glad that they were there. The boys were away from home—as was the custom with boys who always seemed to be brought up in someone else's home. But it was pleasant to meet her cousins.

The warmth of her welcome was heartening and she could not help feeling glad to have escaped from Eleanor who would have been highly critical of her and that would have spoilt her pleasure.

Mary was placed at the high table in between the Earl and the Countess and they talked to her about life at Pleshy and naturally the convent of the Poor Clares was mentioned.

"The nuns are the best people possible to give a girl a good education," declared the Countess. "Poor creatures, what sad lives they lead."

"They are not in the least sad, my lady," said Mary hastily. "They serve God through the unfortunate and that brings them great happiness."

The Countess laid her hand on that of her niece. "Indeed they do. I am sorry for them because they will never know the joy of having children. I speak as a mother, dear child. I wonder how many of them ever regret the life they have chosen when they hear children chattering and laughing together."

Mary was silent.

This was a special occasion, whispered her uncle. They were so delighted, he and her aunt, that she had come. He was going to lead her into the dance when they had eaten. What did she think of that? Did she like to dance?

Oh yes, she loved to dance.

And music? Did she enjoy that?

She liked to sing. She played the guitar accompanying her-»self.

"We must hear you," said the Earl. "Do you sing to your sister and her husband? It would be no use singing to the nuns, I'll warrant."

"Oh no," she said with a little laugh.

"This venison is to your taste, I hope," went on the Earl. "I swear you'd not taste better at the King's table. He has a fine palate, our King. Do you know he interests himself in the actual cooking of the food which is served at his table?"

"The King has very unusual tastes for a king."

The Countess laughed. "You are right," she said. "One could not imagine his father or his grandfather caring how much honey in proportion to mulberries was put into a moree."

"Does the King care about such matters then?" asked Mary.

"Indeed he does," replied the Earl. "He concerns himself not only with his cooks but with his tailors. He spends hours in consultations with these fellows who are, they say, getting a grand idea of their worth. He'll be bestowing the Garter on one of them soon, some say, because he has produced some delicate recipe or a particularly magnificent cote bardie."

There was laughter at the table. And then while the sotil-tees were being served the minstrels and the mummers arrived.

It was a wonderful entertainment, more amusing than anything she had seen at Pleshy. The mummers danced and pirouetted in the most agile manner; in their grotesque masks they looked like beings from another world. Mary laughed a great deal and the Earl and Countess were delighted at her pleasure. They were determined that by the time she left Arundel she was going to have changed her mind about this wish to join the Poor Clares.

She slept soundly that night and arose feeling fresh and full of vitality the next morning. She could not help being pleased that Eleanor had been unable to accompany them, for she was realizing that Eleanor had a way of damping down her pleasure and implying that it was sinful for Mary to indulge in that of which she, Eleanor, could not have enough.

Her cousins showed her their horses and they crossed the drawbridge, ran down the incline and walked as far as the forest. How she had enjoyed standing under the trees and inhaling the scent of earth and pines. She loved the forest and longed to be there alone free of her cousins' chatter. She felt she had so much to think about. They believed they had been very bold to cross the drawbridge but said Elizabeth: "It is all right because there are three of us."

She felt much older than they were, though she was not really so; she supposed it was due to her upbringing with the nuns. It seemed that during the last days she had grown up suddenly; she was presented with a problem which could affect her whole life and she needed solitude to think of it. How she would love to wander alone among these beautiful trees and think of the future. She was thoughtful as they returned to the castle.

It was after dinner and the household was very quiet. Mary knew that her cousins were with their mother before she took her rest. An irresistible urge came over her to get out into the forest. She wanted to be absolutely alone and she could not feel that within the castle walls.

On impulse she put on her cloak and went to the drawbridge. It was down and there were no guards on duty. She crossed it and felt free. She ran down the incline and turned towards the fringe of the forest.

It was greatly daring. Her uncle and her aunt would be horrified if they knew she were out alone. I shall only venture into the edge, she promised herself, and shall keep the castle in sight. I must be alone to think.

The grass was green and springy under her feet. There had been much rain of late. How beautiful it was! There was a tang in the air which made her cheeks tingle but it was not really cold for January. She liked the winter; she thought the trees raising their stark branches to the sky made a more intricate and delicate pattern than could be produced with needle on silk and the ever-green pines were as resplendent now as in the height of summer. She stood listening to the call of a skylark; she filled her lungs with the sharp fresh air and gratefully smelt the scent of grass and foliage. She looked up at the grey sky and the pale wintry sun and thought the world was a beautiful place. There was so much to discover and if one were shut away in the convent one would learn so little about it. She was deep in thought as she walked through the glades, pausing every now and then to look closer at the tassels of the hazels and to see whether the blossoms were beginning to show on the ancient yews, as she inhaled the fresh air.

She began to smile, suddenly thinking of the mummers she had seen last evening. How excited she had been when her uncle had led her in the dance! It had been a great honour; she wondered why he and the Countess had taken such pains to make her feel so important. She was, after all, only just past ten years old.

Her uncle had talked about her going to Court. That would be much later of course but he had made it sound exciting. Richard would be pleased to receive her he had said. How would she like that? It must always be a pleasure to be received by a king, she had replied.

It was so different here at Arundel from Pleshy. Was it because Eleanor always made her feel that she was destined for the convent and must never forget it for it would be sinful to turn her back on her destiny.

But was it her destiny? Since she had come to Arundel she was unsure.

She stood listening. She could hear the sound of horses' hoofs. There must be arrivals at the castle. There was nothing unusual in that. Travellers were constantly calling. They came often to Pleshy. They were never turned away unless, of course, there was some reason for doing so.

The incident had reminded her where she was and what she was doing. She was disobeying rules which was not very good of her since she had been treated so affectionately by her aunt and uncle at the castle. Because they had behaved as though she were much older, with the honours they had bestowed on her, she had felt grown up. Perhaps it was for that reason that she had ventured into the forest.

She should return at once.

She started to walk back the way she thought she had come, but after she had gone some little distance and expected to emerge from the forest to see the castle before her, she did not do so.

The trees hedged her in and with dismay she realized that she was not sure of the direction in which she should go. It was nothing to be alarmed at. She had not really penetrated the forest; she had just skirted the edge. She must emerge from the trees and see the castle soon.

But alas, it was not so simple. She had been so deep in thought that she had not noted any landmark which might have helped her. All the trees looked alike. She paused uncertainly and tried to work out which way to go.

She must not panic. This was a situation she had never had to face before. It was the first time she had been away from her home alone. What had she been thinking of to come into the forest? The treatment given her by her relations had made her feel she was no longer a child.

How foolish she had been and here she was alone, lost in the forest.

This was nonsense. She would find her way. She stood quite still and as she did so she thought she heard a rustling in the undergrowth.

Was someone else in this part of the forest?

Her first thought was of relief. If some woodman was there he could show her the way back to the castle. Then she thought of robbers. She heard that they abounded on the roads. During the early days of the reign of the late King there had been strict laws against them and the roads had been comparatively safe; but, when the old King had grown senile and paid more attention to his mistress Alice Ferrers than to the affairs of the country, laws had become lax and the robbers multiplied. Richard was young yet and it was not known what his rule would be but it seemed clear that his laws would not be as strict as those of his grandfather in his heyday.

Her hands went to the girdle at her waist. It was not over elaborate, not to be compared with the kind Eleanor wore— but it would have great value in the eyes of some needy vagrant.

There was another sound. There was no doubt now. Someone was coming nearer. She walked on, quickening her pace.

Whoever it was quickened pace also. So she was being followed.

She was now really afraid.

She started to run. Was she going in the right direction? So many trees, so many bushes, that looked alike and she had been too absorbed in her thoughts to notice landmarks.

Could she be sure that she was going the way she had come, that the trees would be less dense in a few moments and she would be able to glimpse the grey walls of the castle?

Whoever was following her was running now.

"Wait!" called a voice.

She ran on.

Someone was immediately behind her, and a hand was laid on her arm. She started violently as a voice said: "Good day to you, my lady."

She turned sharply. It was a boy—a few years older than herself, tawny-haired, blue-eyed and fairly tall.

"Why do you run from me?" he asked. "You are quite breathless."

"What do you want?" she asked and instinctively her hands went to her girdle.

He stood back a pace and bowed low. "To serve you," he said and there was a slightly mocking look in his eyes.

"Then show me the way to the castle."

"You have not come far."

"Am I on the right path?"

He shook his head. "You will need my help."

"You will want payment for it, I see. Never fear. Take me back to the castle and you will be rewarded."

"How did you come to lose your way?"

"No matter, I have lost it. Are you going to show me the right path?"

"Follow me," he said.

She was relieved for a moment. He walked ahead of her. She noticed his well shaped head and how his tawny hair curled softly; he held himself proudly. She thought he might be the son of some neighbouring squire.

After a few minutes she said: "I do not remember coming this way."

He turned to smile at her and there was a hint of mischief in the smile. "Ah, but you lost your way."

"Are you sure this is the way back to the castle?"

"I swear that I will show you the way."

They had come to a clearing in the trees.

"I did not see this before."

"It is a pleasant spot," he said.

She had become very frightened. He was not leading her to the castle. It seemed rather that he was taking her away from it.

"Please show me the way at once," she said.

"You are tired," he answered soothingly. "Rest awhile. Then I promise you that I will show you the way back."

"I have no desire to rest."

"I think you have. You are flushed with exertion and alarm. Sit for a few moments. Look, there is a pleasant spot under the trees there."

"I have no wish to. Good day to you."

He had thrown himself down under a tree and looked up at her smiling. She thought: How insolent he is, this son of a squire! My uncle would punish him severely for this.

She turned away and immediately asked herself which way to go.

She hesitated and she heard his voice. "You will go farther into the forest. Better wait for me."

She came back to him. "If you will take me back now, I will pay you well."

"Later," he said. "Later."

He indicated the spot beside him. She hesitated for a second and seeing that she needed his help she sat down beside him.

"You must know how eager I am," she said. "It is not very gallant to behave as you do. You should study the manners of knighthood, even though you may not be of noble birth."

"You ask too much of one ... not of noble birth. You are, indeed. I guess that. You are a guest at the castle."

"The Earl of Arundel is my uncle. He would be displeased if he knew of your conduct."

"I wonder what my punishment would be. Perhaps I shall find out when you betray me."

"I will say nothing of this if you take me back to the castle without delay. Indeed I shall see that you receive a good meal and some reward."

"I am overcome with gratitude."

She leaped to her feet. "Then, show me the way back, now"

He did not rise but lay back smiling at her lazily.

"Very soon," he said. "I promise you. You have not told me your name but I believe you are the Lady Mary de Bohun who is at this time visiting her aunt and uncle at Arundel"

"How did you know this?"

"We humble folk discover these matters concerning the great ones."

"Then as you know who I am you will realize the need not to offend me ... or my uncle."

"It is a great need," he said. "You have not asked my name."

"It is of no importance to me."

"That was scarcely friendly. Then I will tell you. My name is Henry."

"Then Henry, it is time we left this place."

"Such a pleasant place" he murmured. "It has been a happy adventure for me."

"If you will not show me the way back I shall attempt to find the way myself. And rest assured I shall tell of your knavish behaviour to me. You will regret it."

"You are not often angry are you, my lady?"

She turned away.

"But you are angry now because you are frightened. Please do not be, Lady Mary. I want you to like me."

"I shall not do that after your behaviour. Take me back at once."

He stood up meekly and said: "It was only a game. Come. It is here. You will be surprised how close you were to the castle. The trees grow so thickly and the bushes so high that even in winter weather it is easy to lose the way."

She walked beside him uncertainly. From time to time he glanced at her almost appealingly as though begging her to forgive him; and strangely enough because he was rather handsome and seemed really contrite and was after all only a boy, she found she could, particularly when she saw the castle a little way ahead.

At the edge of the wood she paused to bid him good-bye and thank him.

"You shall be rewarded," she told him. "I will tell my uncle."

"I shall come to the castle for my reward," he said.

She hesitated. Perhaps that was the best way. He could go to the kitchens and be refreshed there and be satisfied.

They came to the drawbridge. There were men-at-arms there now and they bowed both to her and her companion.

Together they passed under the portcullis and into the courtyard.

He was preparing to accompany her into the hall and she said to him: "You must go through that alley there. You will come to the kitchens. You may tell them I sent you"

"I prefer to enter by way of the hall"

"But you do not understand."

He raised his eyebrows. He was a most unusual boy. He had, she noticed now, an air of arrogance which implied that he thought himself equal to anyone.

"My uncle ..." she began.

And at that moment her uncle came into the hall and with him was the Duke of Lancaster himself. Even at such a moment she could not help but be overawed by her guardian.

He was a tall man, commanding in appearance. His deep-set eyes were a vivid blue and his hair tawny as a lion. He had the long nose and narrow cheeks of the Plantagenets, and on his tunic was emblazoned his emblem of the lilies of France and the leopards of England.

Beside him her uncle looked insignificant.

For a moment she forgot the boy at her side and then she was afraid for him. It was one thing for him to venture into the hall of the castle but to come face to face with her uncle and the great Duke of Lancaster was another.

"It is Mary herself," said the Earl.

She walked forward and to her astonishment so did the boy.

He stood beside the great Duke who did not display any surprise at this strange behaviour.

Apprehensively she curtseyed, wondering how she was going to explain.

The Duke lifted her up in his arms and said: "Why, Mary, you have grown since we last met. You have already made the acquaintance of Henry."

Henry!

The boy was smiling at her.

"We met outside the castle, my lord father," he said. "So ... we came in together."

It was bewildering. The boy whom she had thought to be some humble squire was in fact the son of the great John of Gaunt—more noble than she was. She was overcome with shame. What had she said to him!

It was all something of a joke now. He had come to the castle with his father who had been anxious to see his ward and to discover how she was getting on at Pleshy.

The Countess said: "When my lord Lancaster heard that you were coming here he thought it would be an easy way of assuring himself that you were well and happy. It was so much easier than going to Pleshy." She lowered her voice. "And you know he and his brother are not on the most amicable of terms."

It is a pity when there is conflict in families," said Mary.

"But always inevitable. This young Henry of ours is a fine young sprig of the royal branch, do you not think? He was the cause of the trouble between the brothers. Knight of the Garter and already Earl of Derby! I am not surprised that his father dotes on him. He will be a good companion for you while you are with us, Mary."

"I have my cousins."

"Yes, but I am sure you will find Henry more amusing."

It was true, she did.

At first she had reproached him for the way he had behaved in the forest.

"It was but a game," he said. "I could not resist it. I saw you as we arrived. You were just entering the forest—which was forbidden, I am sure. I came to guard you."

"It was deceitful not to say who you were," she retorted.

"Oh dear. I had forgotten they are going to make a nun of you, are they not?"

"They will not make anything of me if I do not wish it."

"Then I'll tell you something. You are not going to be a nun."

"How do you know?"

"Because you will never agree to shut yourself away from the world. You like it too much."

"My future is not yet decided."

"It will be soon," he told her, and there was laughter in his eyes.

He wanted always to be with her.

"You neglect my cousins sorely" she reprimanded.

"They do not mind. They are but children"

"And how old are you?"

"Soon to be fifteen"

It was indeed a few years older than she was, but he never seemed to notice that difference.

She could play as good a game of chess as he could. They would often be seated together in a corner of the great hall, their heads bent over the chess board. Sometimes the great Duke himself would stand by watching the game—applauding a good move. He seemed very contented to see them together.

She would sing to him, playing her guitar as accompaniment. His voice would join with hers; they were in perfect harmony.

The Countess said they must sing together for the company after supper and when they did so, she noticed the eyes of the great John of Gaunt glazed with emotion. He clearly had a great affection for his son and she could understand it for she was discovering that she had too.

The days passed too quickly. She knew that she would have to go back to Pleshy very soon and when she thought of returning to the old way of life she felt depressed. Perhaps Henry would come to see her at Pleshy; but if she became a nun they would not be able to meet very often.

They rode out together with a party but Henry always contrived that he and she escaped. She fancied that their elders realized this and were amused rather than displeased by it.

Then one day when they had escaped from the party and were riding in the forest they came to the clearing where they had sat on that first occasion.

Henry suggested that they tether the horses and sit in the same spot for a while as he had something to say to her.

"You will soon be going back to Pleshy," he began.

She sighed. "Alas yes. My stay here has been longer already than I thought it would be. I shall be returning soon, I am sure."

"I too shall be leaving here with my father."

"It has been such a happy time."

Tor us both," said Henry. "Mary, you will not go into a convent, will you?"

"I am unsure .. "

He turned to her passionately, and putting his arms about her held her close to him. "Oh Mary," he whispered, "you can't do that. Promise you will not."

"Why should it mean ... so much to you?" she asked rather breathlessly.

"Because I want to marry you."

"To marry me. Oh Henry .. "

"Does that please you?"

She looked about her at the stark branches of the trees which she loved and she thought the forest of Arundel was the most beautiful place in the world.

"You have answered," he said. "It does please you."

"So much," she said. "I have never in my life been so happy as I have since you came."

"Then it is settled."

"What is settled? I shall have to go away from here and so will you."

"We shall be married," he said.

"Married. How can we be? I cannot marry ... just like that."

"Why not?"

"It would never be allowed."

"I can tell you that my father will not forbid it and he is your guardian."

"How can you know that?"

"He has told me."

"So ... you have talked with him."

"Only because I was so eager. I felt if I could get his consent that would be all we needed."

"And ... he has given it."

"He loves you. He says you have been his ward and now you will be his daughter."

"Is this truly so?"

"It is indeed. He has been delighted by the way in which we have grown to love each other. He says he sees no reason why we should not marry ... soon."

"Henry I am not yet eleven years old."

"That is a very pleasant age. I am fourteen. You see there is not much difference between us."

"They would never let us marry yet. We should have to wait."

"There could be a ceremony ... so that none could keep us apart. What say you, Mary?"

She clasped her hands together and was silent. It was too much to take in. It was not so long ago that she had sat here, lost in the forest, uncertain of the way she must go back to the castle, uncertain of her way in life too.

Henry had taken her hand and kissed it. "You want to marry me, Mary. You know you do. Think how you have enjoyed these last days. It would be like that for the rest of our lives."

She contemplated it and it seemed to her too wonderful to be true. Not to have to live at Pleshy; to give up her studies at the convent. How could she ever have thought she wanted to become a nun?

"Yes, Henry," she cried. "I do want it. I want to marry you. I want to have many children. I want to be a wife and a mother and live like this for ever."

Henry was laughing. He embraced her fervently. He told her that he had never been so happy in his life.

"Let us go back to the castle and tell them."

She did not want to go yet. She wanted to linger in the forest. For all he said, she feared their disapproval. Although they had seemed content to see her and Henry together and had not stopped their being alone, which in itself was strange, she still felt that her extreme youth would be stressed and while they would be kind, might let them become betrothed, that would be as far as this matter would go for the time. They might be married in say three years' time ...

But she was wrong.

When they returned to the castle Henry took her immediately to his father.

"My lord," he cried, "Mary has promised to marry me."

Mary was astonished by the expression on the Duke's handsome face. His eyes looked more fiercely blue than ever and a smile of delight spread across his face.

"But, my dear children ... this news moves me and delights me. Nothing could please me more."

He took Mary into his arms and held her tightly so that she felt she would suffocate against the lilies and the leopards. Then he released her and embraced Henry.

"It is what I hoped for," he said. "It has delighted me to see you two grow to love each other. Love is the best foundation for marriage." He was too emotional to speak for a moment.

He meant what he said. His ambitious marriage with Constanza of Castile had been undertaken for love of a crown which was love of another sort and often he had wondered whether he should not have been recklessly romantic and married Catherine Swynford, the woman he loved. Marriage for love. What a blessing. But when there was great wealth as well as love, then there could be no doubt that the marriage was an ideal one.

He smiled benignly on Mary. "So, my child, you have decided the convent life is not for you, eh. You have chosen wisely, and most happily for this son of mine. You shall be betrothed."

"We are anxious, my lord, that we should be married," said Henry. "We do not wish for a long delay."

"You see what an impatient man you are to marry, Mary," retorted the Duke. "Well, it is a measure of his love for you. I tell you sincerely, nothing shall stand in the way of your wishes." Mary could not believe she heard aright. The great man seemed as happy about the union as she and Henry were.