The star of Lancaster

THE CHILD WIFE

Lancaster could not await to acquaint the Earl and Countess with the good news.

It has worked perfectly" cried Lancaster. "Henry has played his part to perfection. He knew what I wanted and it seems that when he saw the pretty child he wanted the same thing himself."

"It is a pleasure to have such a dutiful son" replied Arundel.

"They make a charming pair" said the Countess. "I think Henry is a very lucky boy and I am so glad our little Mary has escaped from that sister of hers. I wonder what Thomas is going to say when he hears the news. I should love to be present when it first comes to his ears."

"He will rant and rave" said the Earl. "And try to prevent it."

"That is what we must beware of" added Lancaster. "I do not think it wise for Mary to return to Pleshy."

"No indeed" agreed the Earl. "Eleanor would be capable of anything. She might lock the child up until she promises to go into a convent. She'll be furious—particularly as this has happened while Thomas is away."

"He could not have refused to let Mary come to Arundel" pointed out Lancaster.

"He would have tried to if he had known you and Henry were coming here" said the Earl.

"He would not have thought of this ... in view of Mary's youth."

"Mary's youth!" mused the Countess. "She is young for marriage."

"Oh let them live together," said Lancaster. "They will act according to nature and that is the best way. I want to see them married and I intend that the ceremony shall take place with all speed."

"And you want her to remain here right up to the time when it shall take place?"

"I think it best. And we should keep quiet about the proposed marriage. Then it shall take place at the Savoy. I doubt my brother—if he has returned which I hope he will not—or his wife will be among the wedding guests."

Eleanor had begun to realize how long her sister had been away, but she was not unduly disturbed. The weather was bad and it was not easy to travel in the winter. Her aunt had given the impression that she believed a convent life would be good for Mary and if the girl came back convinced of her vocation Eleanor would be delighted.

Pregnancy was irksome to one of her vitality. It was a necessity of course if she was to breed; and she must produce sons. She hoped she would have one to show Thomas when he returned from France. Even so they would have to busy themselves in getting another.

She sat disconsolately among her women who talked continually of the baby and sometimes they would mention the Lady Mary and wonder if she missed the convent.

"Of course she does," retorted Eleanor firmly. "Her life is with the nuns. Dear child, she has a saintly nature. It is clear where her destiny lies."

The ladies murmured agreement. It was always wise to agree with Eleanor and it was impossible to be in this household and not know the urgent wish of its master and mistress.

On a snowy afternoon her pains started. Everything was in readiness and within a day the child had made its appearance.

It was a great disappointment to the countess that it should be another girl.

She lay disconsolately in her bed and listened to the wind buffeting the walls of Pleshy. How frustrated Thomas would be. But the child was healthy enough and she decided to call her Joan. Before long she would be once more pregnant she supposed and would have to go through the wearisome months of waiting and then produce ... not another girl. No, that would be too unfortunate. But it had happened to others. Lancaster had got girls and a stillborn son before young Henry had been born at Bolingbroke.

While she was brooding a messenger arrived. It was strange that he should have come from Lancaster when the Duke had just been in her thoughts.

"A messenger from my lord of Lancaster" she cried. "What news from him, I wonder."

The messenger was brought to her bedchamber and the letters were handed to her.

She did not hasten to read them, but questioned the messenger whence he had come and when she heard that he came from Arundel the first quiver of concern came to her. She sent the messenger down to the kitchens to be refreshed in the accepted manner, and broke the seals.

What she read almost made her leap from her bed, weak though she was.

The Duke was delighted to inform her that his son Henry, Earl of Derby, had fallen in love with her sister Mary. There was no one he would rather see married to his son. He had therefore given his consent to the marriage, for he could see no reason why the young people should be denied their happiness. Thomas was away but he hoped she would make all speed to his Palace of the Savoy where the marriage was to be celebrated without delay.

She could not believe this. It was impossible. It was a nightmare. She was dreaming!

Mary to be married! The child was not yet eleven years old. How could she marry at such an age! Of course it was Mary's fortune Lancaster wanted. The avaricious scheming rogue!

Mary was too young for marriage. She was going to protest. Oh, why was not Thomas here!

Yet what could Thomas do if he were here? Lancaster was Mary's guardian. Lancaster was the elder brother. It was said that Lancaster was the most powerful man in the country for poor King Richard counted for little. And he had taken advantage of the fact that Mary was away from Pleshy.

"The scheming devil ! " she cried.

She was helpless. Unable to leave her bed.

They had planned this. Was Arundel in it? Thomas would never forgive them. There would be murder between those brothers one day.

She should never have let Mary go to Arundel. She should have seen what was coming. She might have known ...

She read the letter again. Henry and Mary in love! She sneered in fury. Henry was in love indeed and so was Lancaster. In love with Mary's fortune.

That was at the root of the matter. It was Mary's money they wanted. It was Mary's money they all wanted.

"Oh Mary, you little fool," she cried, "why did you not go into your convent?"

Clenching and unclenching her fists she lay in her bed.

The midwife came in and shook her head. "My lady, you need rest. You must be calm. It is necessary to your good health."

She felt limp and exhausted.

She had gained a child—a girl child and lost a fortune.

Mary was bewildered. There was no time to think very much about anything but the approaching wedding. She was in a state of blissful happiness, but the rapidity with which everything was happening could not fail to make her feel somewhat bemused. She had expected betrothal but not this hurried wedding. It was not that she had any doubts about her love for Henry. She wanted to marry him; but she had naturally thought that in view of their ages they would wait for a year at least.

But no, said the Duke of Lancaster. They would have this happy matter settled without delay. Henry wanted it. She wanted it. And the Duke wanted their happiness.

In the circumstances he thought it wise that the ceremony should take place at his Palace of the Savoy. It would be simpler than having it at Cole Harbour which he believed was an uncomfortable draughty place.

Mary confirmed that this was so. "There is Pleshy," she suggested.

The Duke said hastily that he thought the Savoy would be more suitable.

"It is one of our homes," he said, "and one particularly dear to me. After the ceremony you and Henry can go to Hertford or Leicester or perhaps Kenilworth. I think Henry will want to show you Kenilworth. I believe it to be his favourite of all our castles."

Mary said she would be pleased to go wherever Henry wished, which made the great Duke take her hand, kiss it and declare that Henry was indeed lucky to have found such a bride.

They were wonderful days. She and Henry rode together through the forest. He told her of how he hoped to stand beside his father and bring glory back to England. He seemed to her so knowledgeable of the world. He was on intimate terms with the King. "We're cousins," he said, "and of an age. Three years ago we received the Order of the Garter together. That was when the old King was alive. It was just before he died. He was a sick old man then. I remember him as little else, but people say that when he was young he was goodly to look on. Then he was a faithful husband and a strong King."

She loved to hear of these matters many of which she had heard discussed at Pleshy but they seemed more colourful and exciting coming from Henry. Or it may have been that as his wife she would have her part to play in them.

He talked of Alice Ferrers, the loose woman of whom the old King had become enamoured. She had bewitched him and robbed him and had even started to do so before Good Queen Philippa died.

"I shall be faithful to you for ever, sweet Mary" vowed Henry.

She swore that she would be true to him.

They were idyllic days.

But there was one small fear which had started in her mind. She had overheard women talking as women will—and all the talk at Arundel was of the coming marriage.

"Oh "tis a wonderful marriage. The best for the little Lady Mary. Why young Henry is the cousin of the King and the grandson of great Edward and the son of the great John of Gaunt. How much higher could she go than that... lest it was the King himself?"

"But she is so young. Are they going to put them to bed together ... Two children like that."

"The Earl of Derby is not so young. He's rising fifteen. I have known boys of that age give a good account of themselves and I'll swear young Henry is no exception."

"I was thinking of the Lady Mary"

Talk like that disturbed her; and it was not once that she was aware of these allusions.

Henry noticed that she was disturbed and she told him why.

He was all concern. Yes, there was that side to marriage but she need not fear. He knew what must be done and she could leave it to him. "You see, because of who I am we have to get children. We want sons."

"I always wanted children," she told him. "That was one of the reasons why I hesitated about going into the convent."

"Always remember that I saved you from that." He laughed at her fears. "Nay, there is nothing to fear. You will like well what must be done. I promise you that. We'll have lusty sons. How will you like that?"

She would like it very well, she told him. And she wondered why the women had tut-tutted and looked grave.

Whatever she had to do with Henry would be good, she was sure.

They sang together; they played chess; and she was fitted for the most splendid garments she had ever had. It was exhilarating until the messenger came from Pleshy with a letter from Eleanor. It was clearly written in a rage. Eleanor could not understand what had happened to her little sister whom she had always thought to be a saint in the making. How mistaken she had been for it was now disclosed that Mary was deceitful in the extreme. She had pretended to want the religious life, when all the time she was nothing more than a wanton. She had betrothed herself to Henry of Derby without consulting her sister. "After all we have done for you, Thomas and I," wrote Eleanor, "you treat us like this. I am deeply wounded. I beg of you stop this folly and come back to Pleshy. Here we will talk out these matters. We will see what it means. Why do you think John of Lancaster is so eager for this match? If you had been some girl without a fortune do you think Henry of Bolingbroke would have been so eager to marry you ... ?"

Mary paused and thought: Had I been I should never have met him in this way. It was because I was staying at Arundel with my uncle and aunt that I did.

"It is clear to me that it is your fortune which makes this marriage into the house of Lancaster so attractive to them," went on Eleanor's letter.

And, thought Mary, it is my fortune that makes you so eager for me to go into a convent that I may resign my share for you. Oh dear! How I wish I were indeed a penniless girl!

That was foolish. Eleanor was right. John of Gaunt was pleased because of her fortune. It was different with Henry. She was sure he would have loved her whoever she was. But the marriage was welcomed because of the money. She was not so unworldly that she did not know that.

"Come back to Pleshy without delay," commanded Eleanor. "We will talk of this matter. We will put our heads together and decide what is best for you."

She wrote back and asked Eleanor to come to Arundel. She was so caught up with the arrangements for the wedding that she could not travel. Eleanor would have recovered from the birth of dear little Joan now. But perhaps she would rather wait and join the celebrations at the Savoy.

Eleanor was not one to give up. Mary must come back. Out of gratitude she must come. The Abbess was desolate. She was sure it was wrong for Mary to marry so hastily and while she was so young. Let her return to Pleshy. Let her talk with her sister. Let her remember all that Eleanor and her brother-in-law Thomas had done for her.

Mary showed Eleanor's letters to Henry. She wanted there to be no secrets between them, she said.

Henry read the letters and said: "There is an angry woman. Sister though she may be to you, I would not let you go near her. Why she might lock you up and starve you into submission."

"Oh she is not such an ogre as that."

"I am protecting you from now on, Mary."

She was consoled. She was always so happy with Henry; she had even ceased to worry about the matter of the marriage bed.

A few days before they were due to leave for the Savoy Mary's mother the Countess of Hereford arrived at Arundel.

She had of course been informed of the coming marriage of her younger daughter and she was somewhat uneasy about it.

She would have preferred Mary to have remained in her care but in accordance with the custom, as Mary was a great heiress, she must become a ward of some person of high standing. There was no one of higher standing under the King than John of Gaunt and as Eleanor was already married to his brother Thomas of Woodstock, the Countess had no alternative but to let her daughter go.

She could not of course complain about the husband selected for her. The eldest son of John of Gaunt, heir to the Lancastrian estates, a few years older than Mary, healthy, already a Knight of the Garter—there could not have been a more satisfactory match. But what concerned the Countess was the youth of her daughter.

Mary was a child, as yet unready for marriage in the Countess's view, and she should not marry until she was at least fourteen.

She embraced her daughter warmly and looked searchingly into her face.

She was certain there had been no coercion. The child looked very happy.

She sought an early opportunity of speaking with the Duke of Lancaster.

"I am happy about the marriage," she said, "apart from one aspect of it."

The Duke looked haughty as though wondering what aspect could possibly be displeasing about a marriage with his son.

"It is the youth of my daughter"

"She is just eleven years old."

"It is too young for marriage."

"They are both young."

"Too young, my lord. Let them be betrothed and many ... say in two years' time."

Lancaster appeared to consider that although he had no intention of doing so. Wait two years? Let Thomas and his harridan of a wife get to work on the girl? They would have her packed into a convent by some devious means in no time.

"Poor Mary," he said, "she would be so unhappy. Wait until you see them together. They are so delighted to be in each other's company. No I could not allow that. They shall live together ... naturally like two children ..."

"I do not think girls of that age should have children."

"Children! They won't have children for years. They are so innocent. You should hear them singing in harmony. They ride; they dance; they play chess. It is such a joy to see them. No, my dear Countess, they must marry. I understand a mother's feelings, but let me assure you that there is no need for the slightest apprehension."

"I will have a talk with my daughter," said the Countess.

John of Gaunt was uneasy. He wished the Countess had not come to Arundel but it had naturally been necessary to tell her what was planned for her daughter. She was a shrewd woman. She would understand why Eleanor was trying to force the girl into a convent. But at the same time she would do all she could to keep Mary unmarried until she reached what she would consider a suitable age.

The Countess talked to Mary.

"My dear child," she said, "you are very young for marriage."

"Others have said that, my lady," replied her daughter. "But Henry and I love each other and are so happy together. He does not mind that I am young."

"You must understand that there are obligations."

"I know what you mean. It is the marriage bed, is it not?"

The Countess was a little taken aback.

"What do you know of these matters?"

"That there is nothing to fear ... if one loves."

She was quoting Henry. The Countess guessed that. There was no doubt that John of Gaunt was right when he said they loved each other.

"I have asked the Duke to put off the wedding. At least for a year. Then we could consider again when it should be."

Mary looked very woebegone.

"And will he do that?"

The Countess put an arm about her daughter and held her firmly against her. She thought: No, he will not. He wants your fortune for his son. Dear child, what did she know of the ways of the world?

At least she could console herself. The child was happy. So many girls in her position were forced into marriages which were distasteful to them. None could say that of Mary.

The Countess knew the determination of John of Gaunt. No matter how she protested, the marriage would take place.

She must resign herself to the fact that it was what Mary wanted.

So they were married and there was great rejoicing in John of Gaunt's Palace of the Savoy, which was to be expected as this was the marriage of his son and heir. Mary was made to feel that she was marrying into the greatest family in the land and that her marriage was even more brilliant than that of Eleanor. Eleanor was not present. She had declined the invitation from her false sister; and Thomas was still in France.

This breach created a mild sadness in the bride's heart but she did not dwell on it. Henry had made her see that Eleanor was in fact more interested in the de Bohun fortune than the happiness of her younger sister, and Mary was beginning to look to Henry and to accept what interpretation he put on all matters, and as Henry was always only too delighted to tell her and she to listen, they grew fonder of each other every day.

Now she was the Countess of Derby, and the imposing man who sat at the head of the table was her new father-in-law and there in the great hall of the Savoy Palace tables had been set up on their trestles, for all the nobility of the land must be present at the marriage of John of Gaunt's son. Mary herself on the right hand of the great Duke with Henry beside her was at the high table. Her mother was there so were her new sisters-in-law Philippa and Elizabeth. Also present was a very beautiful woman whose presence caused a few titters among the guests. It was characteristic of the great Duke that he should insist that his mistress not only be present but be treated with all the deference which would normally be bestowed on his Duchess.

Henry pressed Mary's hand and she smiled at him. It was comforting to believe that while he was at her side all would be well.

He selected the best parts of the food and fed them to her and happily she munched the delicate morsels, although she was not really hungry. But the guests revelled in the banquet, declared that they had rarely seen such large boars' heads, such joints of beef and mutton, such pestles of pork, such sucking pigs which made the mouth water to behold. There was mallard, pheasant, chicken, teals, woodcocks, snipes, peacocks and partridges, as well as that delectable dish called the leche which was made of pounded raw pork, eggs, sugar, raisins and dates all mixed with spices and put in a bladder to be boiled; and then there were those pastry concoctions which were known as raffyolys and flampoyntes. Everything that could have been thought of to make this a feast to outdo all feasts had been provided.

There would be a joust the next day but this one was given up to feasting and indoor merriment.

The mummers trooped into the hall in their masks, some of these so strange that they looked like spectral figures and sent shivers of horror down the backs of the spectators. They wore horned animals' heads and those of goats and creatures who could never have existed outside the imagination of the mask maker. Some of them wore masks of beautiful women which sat oddly on their square masculine bodies. But they were calculated to bring laughter to the lips of all who beheld them and this they undoubtedly did although some might have been overawed.

It was wonderful to see them dance and play their scenes in mime. The company applauded with gusto and then the dancing began. Henry led out Mary and others fell in behind them. Lancaster danced with the beautiful Catherine Swynford; the company held its breath watching them and many thought—though they dared not give voice to such thoughts —that there was not a man in the kingdom now who would dare behave as John of Gaunt did. The old King had done it with his mistress Alice Ferrers. It was a King's privilege he would have said; but the people did not like him for it. In some way it was different with John of Gaunt. There was true love between those two and that being so obvious was something which must command respect wherever it was.

Then John of Gaunt took Mary's hand and danced with her while Henry danced with Lady Swynford. Her new father told Mary that he regarded this as one of the happiest days of his life. He wanted her to regard it as such also.

The torches guttered and the evening was passing. It was time for Henry to lead Mary away. His father restrained the people who would have attempted to carry out some of the old customs. "They are young and innocent," he said. "I would not harry them. Let nature take its course with them."

In the great bedchamber which had been assigned to them, nature was taking its course.

Henry was advanced for his years. He was in love with his bride and because she was intelligent beyond her age it did not occur to him to consider that she might not be physically mature.

He was glad that there had been no ribald jokes; Mary would not have understood them and they might have alarmed her. As it was she was entirely his to teach as he could, he beheved, so comfortably do.

Henry helped her remove the wedding garments, which jewel encrusted as they were were heavily uncomfortable, and it was a relief to be free of them.

She stood before him—a child in her simplicity. He himself took the loose nightgown and put it over her head.

Then he led her to the bridal bed; she lay down while he divested himself of his garments.

Then he joined her.

Gently with tender explanation he initiated her into the mysteries of procreation which for such as themselves, who had the continuance of great families to consider, was the primary function of marriage.

They set out for Kenilworth, for, as his father had said, Henry loved that best of all the Lancaster estates which would one day be his.

Mary was very happy journeying with Henry; he was kindly, loving and gentle and she had not believed there was so much contentment in the world. If she could but forget Eleanor she could be completely happy.

The sight of Kenilworth was breathtaking. They had travelled some way, for the castle was situated between Warwick and Coventry, being about five miles from each. It consisted of a magnificent structure of castellated buildings which owed their charm to the fact that they had been added to over the years, for Kenilworth had been nothing but a manor in the days of the first Henry who had bestowed it on one of his nobles and it was this noble who had begun the task of turning the manor into a castle. The keep was massive and was known as Caesar after that of the same name in the Tower of London. Kenilworth had the distinction of once belonging to Simon de Montfort and on his death it was bestowed by the King on his youngest son Edmund, Earl of Lancaster. Thus, like the Savoy, it had come to John of Gaunt through his marriage with Henry's mother, Blanche of Lancaster.

Henry told Mary that his father, who had taken a great fancy to the place since it had been in his possession, had extended it even more than those who had owned it before, and to prove this Henry pointed out to her the magnificent extension which was known as the Lancaster Building.

Kenilworth was a fairy tale palace ideally suited to a pair of young people who were realizing the joys of getting to know each other.

Mary would remember those days to the end of her life. She was completely happy and it did not occur to her in the full lush of her happiness to question its transience. She did not look to the future; if she had she would have known that a man in Henry's exalted position could not revel in the joys of newly married bliss in the castle of Kenilworth for ever.

They rode through the forest together—not hunting, for he had confessed to him that she hated to see animals killed and always hoped the deer and the boars would escape. Henry laughed at her but loved her more for her gentleness and he aid that as she did not care for the hunt they would look for he signs of the spring and not for the spoor of animals.

She did not care for hawking either; she liked to watch the birds flying free. She would stand and admire Henry when he practised archery and happily applauded when he excelled hose in competition with him. She thought how fine he looked when he shot at the target with his bow which was the ame height as he was and his arrow was one full yard long, their attendants played games with them. There was great hilarity over Ragman's Roll which was the preliminary to a nime. One of them would bring out a parchment roll on which were written couplets describing certain characters; and attached to these verses were strings with seals at the end. Each player must take a seal and pull the string and then play ;he character whose description he had picked. There were shrieks of laughter when this game was played for it always seemed that people chose the characters least like themselves. Mien they tired of mimes they would play Hot Cockles in which one player was blindfolded and knelt with hands behind the back. The other players would strike those hands and :he kneeling blindfolded player must guess who was the striker before being released. Mary much preferred the games >f chess when she and Henry would retire to a quiet corner and pit their wits one against the other, or when Henry suggested she should bring out her guitar and they sang and played together.

They were happy days indeed as the spring passed into summer but they could not go on for ever and one day a messenger from the Duke of Lancaster came riding to the castle with the command that Henry was to join his father.

It would only be for a short time, he told Mary. As soon as he could he would return or if that were not possible he would send for her to come to him.

She knew that she must accept this. She watched him ride away and desolation overcame her. She must try to be brave she knew. It was what happened to all wives. Their husbands could not stay with them for ever.

It was shortly after Henry's departure that she knew she was to have a child.

She was delighted, although she overheard her women discussing the matter in private and she knew that they shook their heads and melancholy looks came into their eyes.

One of them said: "She's too young I tell you. It's not right for one so young."

"They say," said another, "that if a woman can conceive she's ripe for child bearing."

"She's little more than a baby herself. They should have waited."

She did not want to hear more. Such talk frightened her.

There came a day when the Earl and Countess of Buckingham were passing Kenilworth. They stayed for a night, and that was very unpleasant.

Eleanor was cold; Thomas was hotly indignant.

"By God's ears," he said. "I'll never like brother John again. He planned this, he did. He waited until I went away."

"It was not so," she cried.

"Married!" cried Eleanor. "At your age. It shocks me deeply."

"You were going to send me into a convent," retorted Mary. "I was old enough you considered to make up my mind about that."

"How could you have been so deceitful. The nuns are heartbroken."

"The Abbess was most concerned that I should be sure I was doing what was best."

"I wonder you are not ashamed" cried Eleanor. "To go off like that and the next thing we knew was that you were betrothed!"

It so happened that Henry was at Arundel.. "

"So happened!" snapped Eleanor. "It was arranged. And why do you think it was arranged? Because you happened to be an heiress, that's why. Do you think the high and mighty Duke of Lancaster and his romantic son would have been so eager to take you without your fortune?"

"Is that why Thomas took you?" retorted Mary.

"You wicked girl! You give yourself airs. How dare you talk to me thus. Oh I am so disappointed. After all we did. We went to Pleshy because you were so interested in the convent there."

Thomas shouted, "Stop bickering. The evil is done. Would to God I had not been out of the country at the time. I would have taken up arms against Lancaster. I would ..."

He spluttered on in his rage. It was all so ridiculous, thought Mary. He would not have dared to take up arms against his brother over such a matter. But perhaps he would. He was known throughout the country as a man who acted on impulse however foolishly.

She was glad when they departed. It was very upsetting.

Occasionally Henry visited her but he was in attendance on the King and could not be with her as often as he wished. She liked to hear about the King whom she suspected Henry despised a little. He was not as clever as Henry at any of the outdoor sports; Henry would always triumph over him.

"Does he mind?" asked Mary.

"Not he. He cares more about his books; and he will talk of his fine clothes for hours. He is very particular about his food. Not that he eats a great deal; but it must be served in the most delicate manner. To tell you the truth, Mary, he is not what one thinks of as a king."

Henry was often wistful when he talked of the King. Mary understood why when he said to her one day: "Do you know, if my father had been the first of his father's sons, I should have been the King."

"Would you have liked that, Henry?" she asked.

"It is not a matter of liking it," was his reply, "but of accepting the fact and moulding oneself accordingly. You see Richard was not meant to be King. If his elder brother had lived he would have taken the crown; and then his father died and there he was aged about nine years old, King of England."

A faint resentment was in Henry's voice.

She did not say so, but she was glad his father had not been the eldest for then she would in due course have been Queen and she knew that would have been rather alarming.

Henry's visits were so brief and she was left much to herself. She did a great deal of needlework, played her guitar, learned new songs to sing for Henry and awaited the birth of her child with some impatience.

She heard scraps of gossip from the women. She could get a picture of what was happening in the outside world from them. She discovered that there was a murmuring of discontent throughout the country. Some said the peasants were getting too big for their boots because of the land laws which enabled them to cultivate for their own use a portion of the land belonging to the lord of the manor and to pay for it by working for him. They complained that the lord took the best of their time and their own crops were spoilt because they could not deal with them in an emergency since at such a time the lord's own lands would need all their attention. They were slaves. They were bound to the land and so were their children. But the greatest grievance of all was the poll tax which was levied on every man, woman and child over fifteen.

She heard the name of John Ball which was mentioned frequently. He had been, she gathered, a "hedge priest" which meant that he had had no church and no home of his own, but had wandered about the countryside preaching and accepting bed and board where he could find it. He had preached to the people on village greens at one time but when he began to be noticed by people in authority these meetings had been held in woods at night.

Not only had he been preaching religion, it had been said, but he was preaching revolution for he was urging the peasants to rise against their masters, to throw off slavery, and demand what he had called their rights.

It was not to be wondered at that a man who preached such fiery doctrines should be considered dangerous, and John Ball had been seized and put into the Archbishop's prison of Maidstone.

And now there was all this talk about the peasants' unrest; but no one took it very seriously.

Certainly not the household at Kenilworth where all were concerned with the coming birth.

It began one early evening when Mary sat with her ladies. She was playing the guitar while they stitched at their tapestry. The child was due in a few weeks and Mary was suffering acute discomfort. It was all very natural, said her women; it was the fate of all in her condition and all the inconvenience of the last months would have been worth while when her child was born.

Her pains began suddenly and they were so acute that her women took her to her bed immediately and sent for the doctors.

She was lost now in mists of pain; she had never believed there could be such agony. Vaguely she heard a voice saying: "But she is only a child herself ... too young ... immature ..."

She had lost count of time. She just lay waiting for the waves of pain to sweep over her, to subside, to flow away and then flow back. It seemed as though it would never end. She lost consciousness and when she awoke the pain had gone. She felt completely exhausted and for some time was unsure of what had happened. And when she remembered her first thoughts were for the child.

"My baby ..." she murmured.

There was silence. She tried to struggle up but she was too tired. "Where is my baby?" she asked shrilly.

One of her women came to the bed and knelt down. She was about to speak and then she bowed her head and covered her face with her hands.

"Tell me," said Mary stonily.

"My lady," said the woman, and there was a sob in her voice, "the child was born ... a beautiful child ... perfect in limb .. ."

"Yes, yes. Where is it?"

"It was born dead, my lady."

Mary sank back on her bed. She closed her eyes. All the months of waiting ... all the hopes and plans ... gone. The baby was born dead.

"There will be more ... later," went on the woman. "You have come through, praise be to God. You are going to get strong again and then, and then .. ."

Mary was not listening. Henry I she thought. Oh Henry, I have disappointed you.

She was unable to leave her bed. She lay listless wondering where Henry was, what he was doing now. He would come to her room, she was sure. She would not be able to bear his disappointment.

She was right. As soon as the news was taken to him he got leave of the King to ride to Kenilworth.

He knelt by the bed. He took her hands and kissed them. She must not fret, he said. They would have a son in time ...

He did a great deal to comfort her. Think how young they were, both of them. They had the whole of their lives before them. They must not fret because they had lost this child. He sat by her bed and he talked to her of the future and how happy they were going to be and in time they would have as many children as his grandfather King Edward and his grandmother Queen Philippa had had. She would see.

She began to recover, but she was still weak.

A few days after Henry arrived there was another visitor to Kenilworth. This was Mary's mother, the Countess of Hereford.

She went at once to her daughter, embraced her and then declared that she had come to nurse her. Joanna de Bohun was a woman of great strength of character; she was devoted to her daughters and in particular to Mary because she was the younger of the two. Eleanor, she believed, was able to take care of herself.

Joanna had always resented the fact that the custom of the land demanded that her daughter be removed from her care and that she should become the ward of John of Gaunt, in order, so she said, that that mighty Duke should have the prize money which went with such appointments.

She, Mary's mother, was better fitted to look after the child than anyone; and in view of what had happened she had now come to assert that right.

Mary was delighted to see her mother.

The Countess studied her daughter and hid the concern she felt. The child was too thin. What a terrible ordeal for a girl not yet twelve years of age to pass through. Some girls developed earlier than others and then early childbearing might be permissible; but Mary herself was still too childlike and delicate.

There shall be no more of this, thought the Countess grimly. If I have to fight John of Gaunt himself I'll do so.

"Dearest Mother," said Mary. "I am so happy to see you."

"God bless you, my child. It is natural that when my daughter is ill her mother should be the one to look after her. You are going to be well in a week. I shall see to that."

Mary smiled. "We always had to obey you, my lady," she said. "So I must do so now."

"Indeed you must and shall."

Henry had come into the sick room and the Countess was aware of the manner in which Mary's face lit up at the sight of him. A fine boy, she thought, and indeed a worthy husband for a de Bohun, but they were too young ... far too young, and there was going to be no more of this.

Henry welcomed her gallantly and was clearly delighted that she had come for he was apprehensive about his young wife's health and she liked him for it. She told him she would soon have Mary well.

"No one understands a daughter like her own mother," she announced.

She took charge of the invalid. She had a bed brought into the room which she would occupy. She would be with Mary day and night. She made possets and special broths for her daughter which under the stern eye of her mother Mary dared not refuse.

She felt a great sense of security which she had missed in the days of Pleshy. To be here with Henry and her mother made her very happy and she began to grow away from her sorrow at the loss of the baby.

"You have your whole life before you," said her mother. There was one matter which she had not discussed with Mary yet, but she intended to when she considered the time ripe.

She blamed herself for not being firm enough in the first place. When she became a widow she should have refused to allow her younger daughter to be taken out of her care.

The King had given the wardship to John of Gaunt as a consolation prize for something else, and she had been obliged to let her daughter go because of the royal command. Her husband, Humphrey de Bohun, Earl of Hereford and Essex, had been one of the richest men in the country and so had a vast fortune to leave, and it was that fortune which had led to this situation when Mary might have lost her life.

She was now putting her foot down firmly and taking matters into her own hands.

She broached the subject to Henry first.

"Henry," she said, "I am going to talk to you very seriously. I am deeply concerned about Mary"

He looked alarmed. "I thought she was getting better."

"She is. But you know, do you not, that she has come near to losing her life."

"I know she has been very ill."

"The plain fact is that she is too young to bear children. Her body is not vet fully formed. She needs another two years at least in which to grow up."

Henry looked shamefaced and the Countess went on hurriedly: "I do not blame you. It is the fault of those who put you together at such an early age."

Henry flushed hotly. His father was a hero in his eyes.

"Oh, men do not always understand these matters," said the Countess hastily, realizing that if she were to have her own way in this matter she must not antagonize John of Gaunt.

She believed she knew how to handle this, but she would have to be tactful; and she knew that John of Gaunt's great desire had been to get the marriage celebrated and Mary's fortune secure. That had been done and he would be prepared to postpone the begetting of children for a few years.

"What do you want me to do?" asked Henry.

"There must be no marital relations between you for at least two years. You must see the reason for this. There must not be any more children ... yet."

"Have you told Mary?"

"I will explain to her. She will understand. In fact I am sure she does not want to endure again what she has so recently come through. What I am going to suggest is that I take Mary back with me. I shall look after her and you will know that she is safe in her mother's care. You will be welcome at my castle whenever you wish to come on the understanding that there is to be no lovemaking until she is of a suitable age."

Henry was ready to swear to agree to these terms. He had been very very anxious about Marv and had felt a terrible sense of guilt. But now she was well again and he could see that they must wait a few years before they lived together. Yes, he could do nothing but agree.

The Countess was triumphant. John of Gaunt was absent in Scotland on the King's business so he could raise no objections. Eleanor and her husband were no longer interested now that her share of the de Bohun fortune was lost to them.

She had only to tell Mary and as soon as the girl was well enough to travel they would leave.

Mary listened attentively to her mother.

"My dearest child," said the Countess, "I was very sad when you left me to go to your sister. It was no wish of mine, you know."

"I do know," said Mary fervently.

"It is so wrong when a child is taken from her rightful place just because she happens to have a fortune. Oh that fortune I I could wish that your father had been a much poorer man. Your sister coveted it... and so did her husband. They would have had you in a convent for the sake of it."

"I was fortunate to meet Henry," put in Mary. "He does not care for my fortune."

The Countess was silent. Did he not? She would be surprised if this were so. In any case there was one who cared deeply and that was Henry's father, John of Gaunt.

Thank God he was in Scotland and could not interfere. And would the King? He had given the wardship to his uncle John. No, she had nothing to fear from Richard. He was only a boy. If need be she would see him and explain; she was sure she could touch his pity for a mother who was concerned about her child.

"My dear," went on the Countess, "you know very well that you have been very ill. There was a day when your life was despaired of. The fact, daughter, is that you are too young as yet to bear children. Henry agrees with me that you must wait for a year or so."

"Wait ... what do you mean?"

"You and Henry will be as betrothed ... There will be no more marital relations between you."

"I must ask Henry ..."

"I have already spoken to Henry. He sees the point. He agrees with me."

She looked relieved. Then she said in alarm: "Do you mean I shall not see Henry?"

"Of course you will see Henry. He will come to Leicester to visit us. He will stay and you will sing your songs and play your guitar together. You'll pit your wits at chess. It is simply that you will be as betrothed ... as though the actual ceremony of marriage has not yet taken place."

She was silent. And her mother burst out: "You shall not be submitted to that pain again. You are too young to bear children as yet. Your body is not ready for it. All I ask is for you to wait for a year ... for two years perhaps. In fact I am going to insist."

"As long as Henry agrees ... and I shall see him."

"But of course you shall. Dear child, understand all I ever want is what is best for you."

So it was arranged and when Mary was well enough, the Countess left Kenilworth with her daughter.