The star of Lancaster

THE LORD HARRY

For more than three years Mary lived with her mother during which time Henry visited her whenever it was possible for him to do so. Her mother explained to her that when one married a man who was of such high rank one must be prepared for him to have many duties outside his domestic life to claim him.

Mary was resigned. She eagerly learned how to manage a large household; she spent long hours in the still room; she studied the various herbs and spices and how to garnish dishes with them; she could brew ale to perfection; her mother allowed her to instruct the servants on those occasions when important visitors were expected and the Countess insisted that they all realized that in spite of her youth, Mary was the Countess of Hereford and wife of the son of the great John of Gaunt. Nor was she allowed to neglect the finer pursuits. She must learn the latest songs and dances which were fashionable at Court and she played the guitar and sang to guests. The finest materials were sent to the castle for her to choose which she preferred and the Countess insisted that she pay special attention to her appearance.

Those were the waiting years and Mary knew now without a doubt how wrong it would have been had she allowed herself to be forced into the convent. Henry had saved her from that and she would always be grateful to him. She was intended to be what he would make her: a wife and a mother.

Providing a happy well managed home for her husband and children was her true mission in life and during those waiting years she longed for the time when she would be old enough to go to Henry.

Often she thought of him, wondering what he was doing at that time. During the day she was busy; her mother saw that she was well occupied; but at night she would lie in her bed, watching the flickering shadows on the walls, for after the fashion of the day she burned a small lamp in her bedchamber. It was a small metal cup filled with oil with a wick in it; and it was a comfort during the darkness when certain fears came to her.

She was always apprehensive lest something happened and she not be told of it. During the time when she and Henry had lived together and she had been pregnant terrible things had been happening and she had known nothing of them. The peasants had risen and the whole country had been in danger; as for Henry he had been with the King at the time in the Tower of London and had come near to losing his life. She had been—and still was—so appalled at the second near calamity that she could give little thought to the first.

It was only after the tragic birth of her stillborn child that she had heard the truth and she would never forget as long as she lived the day Henry had sat with her and told her about it.

"A man called Wat Tyler was at their head," he had said. "The story is that the collector who had gone to gather the poll tax had insulted his daughter and the tyler killed the tax collector and the peasants rallied round him. They marched to London eventually. They wanted to rule the country themselves; they wanted to take all the riches of the land and divide it between them. They were looting everything as they went. They have destroyed my father's palace of the Savoy."

She had listened wide-eyed, her heart beating furiously to think that while that was happening she had been living quietly in the country expecting her baby and knowing nothing of it. And Henry had been there in London ... with the King.

"They came into London, that seething rabble," Henry went on. "The King went out to meet them ... first at Black-heath and then at Smithfield. He showed great courage — everyone said so—and it has to be remembered that he saved the day. When he was at Blackheath I was left in the Tower and the mob broke in."

She felt sick with fear, and he had laughed at her.

"It's all over now. It came out all right. Richard talked to them ... promised to give them what they wanted ... not that he can ... but he promised them and Wat Tyler was killed. They were without a leader. They broke up and disappeared ... and afterwards the ring leaders were caught and punished.

"And you were in the Tower," she had murmured.

"I was lucky. Oh Mary, you nearly lost your husband on that day. They would have put an end to me because they hated my father. Everywhere you go, Mary, you hear them murmuring against him. You know all the lies they tell against him."

"Why do they hate him so?" she had asked.

Henry had shrugged his shoulders. Then he had said, his eyes glowing with pride: "Because he is the greatest man in England. He should have been the first-born so that he could have had the crown. He was meant to be a king."

Mary had begged him to tell her about his lucky escape.

"It was like a miracle, Mary. There I was expecting them to burst in on me at any moment. I was thinking of you. I thought: My poor little Mary, her heart will be broken. And it would have been would it not?"

She had only been able to nod, being too full of emotion for speech.

"And then," he had gone on, "the door flew open and there was one of them; he had a billhook in his hand and I thought he had come to kill me. He called me "My lord" and spoke urgently and told me that he had come to conduct me to safety for my life was in great danger. He told me what to do, and I put on some rough clothes which he gave me. He had a wooden stick for me and he bade me follow him shouting abuse on the rich and so did I and we ran out of the Tower and through the streets of London shouting ail the while until we came to the Wardrobe which is the royal offices in Carter Lane and there I joined the Queen Mother and others who had managed to escape from the Tower."

She had only been able to cling to him and marvel with horror that while this had been happening she had been calmly sitting at her needlework with no hint of the tragedy which had nearly ruined her life.

"I shall be grateful to that man who saved you for the rest of my life," she said fervently.

"And so shall I" Henry had replied. "His name is John Ferrour and he is from Southwark. He has been well rewarded. He must have done it out of love for my father for I had never heard of him. But there is no doubt that but for him there would have been the end of Henry of Bolingbroke."

Later she had heard much of the Peasants' Revolt and the young King's bravery and everyone said that Richard would be a great king like his grandfather. The Peasants' Revolt had been Richard's triumph, so it seemed at first; but as she saw it he had won by false pretences. He had promised to give them what they wanted and what they had received was cruel death for their leaders and their grievances had remained.

Henry had tried to explain to her that there could have been no other solution. The revolution had to be stopped and Richard stopped it; and the only way it could be done was by promising them what it was impossible to give.

"We were fortunate," said Henry. "It could have been the end of England, the end of us all."

But what lived on in her memory was the danger that could beset her husband; and it was impossible to know real peace except when he was with her.

She was avid for news from Court. Henry gave it on his visits and those were the highlights of her existence. When she heard visitors arriving her heart would leap with joy. Alas, often she suffered bitter disappointment. But those occasions when he came were wonderful. She longed for the time to pass that she might reach that stage when she would be considered old enough for marriage.

Henry longed for it too. That was another anxiety. What if he were to love someone else? His father was married to Constanza of Castile but everyone knew that he loved Lady Swynford. Marriage was no certainty of love.

When the young King was married there was great excitement throughout the country. It was said that Anne of Bohemia was not very beautiful and what good looks she had were marred by the hideous horned head-dress she wore; but the King liked her and very soon horned head-dresses were the fashion in the highest circles. You must have one" said her mother.

Henry spent a great deal of time with his father and it was clear to Mary that to Henry no one could ever quite compare with John of Gaunt. There was a great bond between them which pleased her and she knew that Henry was very fond of Lady Swynford, who was treated by all—on pain of the Duke's displeasure—as the Duchess of Lancaster. It would not be long, said Henry, before they were together. As soon as she reached her fifteenth birthday he was going to overrule her mother's objections; and his father would help him, he knew.

Meanwhile he brought news of the outside world. The King was devoted to the Queen and she was friendly with his friend Robert de Vere, whom, some said, Richard loved more than anyone, so that it was suspected that he had inherited certain traits of character from his great great grandfather Edward the Second. But the Queen made it all very cosy and the trio were always together. It was foolish said Henry because Richard was paying too much attention to his favourite not only privately but in State matters and that was a great mistake.

"Richard has outgrown the glory of Blackheath and Smith-field and if he goes on like this he will have to take care," said Henry ominously and there was a certain gleam in his eyes which vaguely disturbed Mary.

Later he told her that John Wycliffe, who had caused so much controversy with his ideas on religion, had died of apoplexy while assisting at mass.

"But this is not the end of John Wycliffe," prophesied Henry.

There was more trouble when John Holland, the King's half-brother, murdered the Earl of Stafford's son and was banished from the country.

"The Queen Mother is distraught," Henry explained. "She is trying to persuade Richard to acquit him but I don't see how he can. This will just about kill her. Her health is not good and she is getting old."

And it did kill her for she died soon after.

But by this time Mary had reached her fifteenth birthday and one day John of Gaunt sent word that he was coming to see them.

There must be great preparations for such an important visitor and the Countess with Mary beside her ordered that beef and mutton, capon, venison with herons and swans and peacocks be made ready for the honoured guest. The smell of baking pervaded the kitchens for there must be pies and tarts of all descriptions to be worthy of such a guest and the retinue he would certainly bring with him.

Henry was to accompany him and Mary guessed what the object of this visit was. So did her mother for she watched her daughter anxiously.

"My lady," Mary reminded the Countess, "I have passed my fifteenth birthday and am no longer a child."

The Countess sighed. She would have liked to keep her daughter with her a little longer.

From one of the turret windows Mary watched the arrival of the great John of Gaunt, resplendent with banners displaying the lions and the leopards. Beside the great Duke of Lancaster rode his son, Henry of Bolingbroke.

How noble they were—these Plantagenets, and how similar in looks! There could be no doubt of their origins; they bore themselves—all of them—like Kings.

The Countess was waiting to greet them, with Mary beside her. John of Gaunt took Mary in his arms, when she would have curtsied to him.

"And how fares my dear daughter?" he asked. She replied that she was well and trusted he was also.

Her mother looked on with pride as she must to contemplate this brilliant marriage of her daughter's; and the fact that Mary and Henry so clearly loved each other was great balm to her motherly heart.

Henry was watching Mary with glistening eyes and when he embraced her she sensed the joy in him; so she knew that the waiting would soon be over.

There was an air of festivity at supper that evening as the dishes which had caused such a flurry of activity in the kitchen were set before the honoured guests. In addition to the meats and pies there were dried fruits preserved in sugar—almonds, raisins and fancy marchpane with every delicacy that had ever been thought of.

"Your daughter grows apace," said John of Gaunt to the Countess. "And her beauty increases. She is no longer a child. Do you agree?"

The Countess reluctantly admitted that this was so; and then there could no longer be any doubt of the reason for the visit.

Mary and Henry danced together; she played the guitar and he sang with her; and while they watched them the Duke of Lancaster explained to the Countess that he was shortly leaving the country for Castile where he would try to win the crown to which he had a claim through his wife Constanza; he was leaving his son in charge of his estates.

"He is a man now," he added.

The Countess was thoughtful. She did not greatly care for John of Gaunt; he was too formidable for comfort. Moreover she knew how ambitious he was and that he longed for a crown. He had married Constanza of Castile in the hope of being King of Castile since he could not be King of England, though he did not live with his lawful wife but with his mistress Catherine Swynford. And he had married his son to Mary because of Mary's fortune.

Now he was telling her that it was time Mary left her mother and became a wife to Henry.

It must be, she saw that.

Meanwhile Henry was explaining to Mary. "The waiting is over," he said. "You are coming away with me."

She clasped her hands together and closed her eyes; she was overcome with joy.

"Does that mean you are pleased?" asked Henry.

She nodded.

"I am nearly twenty" he said. "My father says it is time I had a wife. Oh, Mary, the waiting has been so long."

"For me, also. I am sorry I was so young."

That made him laugh.

"Listen," he said. "When I go from here, you will come with me. My father is going to Castile."

"Oh Henry ... you ..."

"No, I am not going with him. There must be someone here to look after the estates. I shall doubtless travel with him to the coast. Perhaps you will come with us, Mary."

She put her hand in his.

"Henry, I am so happy," she said.

Those were busy days that followed. The great John of Gaunt must be entertained and she must prepare herself to leave with Henry. Her mother watched her with a certain sadness.

"I am pleased that you are happy in your marriage" she said, "but sorry that you are going away. If you are ever in need of me, you have but to send word, my child, and I shall be with you"

Mary said solemnly: "Was there any girl more fortunate than I? I have the best husband and the best mother in the world"

Mary was indeed a wife and it was not long before she was expecting to become a mother. She and Henry had gone to their favourite castle in Monmouthshire and there they had spent a few ecstatic weeks during which Mary had become pregnant. Life was so wonderful if she could but forget that parting could come at any moment. Henry was deeply involved in politics and that meant uneasy living. He did not like his cousin, the King. He called him a fool in private; he said he was futile, riding for disaster.

"He lost his slipper at his coronation," he once said, "and if he is not careful, ere long he will lose his throne."

Mary hated to think how deeply Henry was being embroiled. She could have wished they could have lived quietly in Monmouth Castle happily from day to day.

She was so happy when he played his recorder and she played her guitar and then sang and danced; or when they played chess with the beautiful silver chessmen which were Henry's father's gift to them, or they rode together in the forest as they had when they had first met.

But this idyllic existence could not last. Sometimes she thought—but secretly—how happy she could have been had he been the son of a humble squire. She dared not hint of her feelings for the fact that he was the son of his father was one of his proudest boasts.

As the months passed her discomfort increased; it was a difficult pregnancy as it had been with her first child. Henry was a kind and thoughtful husband, but she sensed his restlessness. She could no longer ride with him; she could not dance; and sometimes she was so tired that she could not even concentrate on a game of chess.

She was realizing that she had married a very ambitious man. It was hardly to be expected that the son of John of Gaunt would be otherwise, and while he dallied with her in the castle she sensed that his thoughts were far away. The political situation was growing rather tense; when he talked to her about it his eyes glowed and his voice trembled with excitement; she quickly understood that he would rather be at Court than with her; it saddened her and yet she understood. She was only a part of his life; she must not expect him to share her desire for this cosy domesticity; and now, pregnant as she was and often feeling ill, she could not be the lively companion he needed. She must face facts; the idyll was over; it was changing rapidly into sensible marriage. He loved her still but how could she expect the same wholehearted devotion from him which she was prepared to give.

There came a day when his uncle—Mary's brother-in-law —Thomas of Gloucester came to the castle. Mary was apprehensive about the visit for she knew that Thomas would never forgive her for leaving Pleshy and marrying Henry. Eleanor had been very cool towards her on the few occasions when they had met.

Thomas however greeted her with a brotherly affection and when she asked after Eleanor he said she was well and so were the children. Eleanor now had a son and that seemed to have given her and her husband a great deal of pleasure. He had been named Humphrey which was a favourite name in the de Bohun family.

The boy was strong and healthy, Thomas told her with pride and he trusted she would honour them with a visit.

This was offering the olive branch without doubt and having learned something of her brother-in-law's nature when she was living at Pleshy, Mary thought that it could only mean that he had some project in mind which had made the loss of half of the de Bohun fortune seem less significant than it once had.

He and Henry spent a great deal of time alone together and she became apprehensive for she was aware of the excitement these talks had engendered in her husband.

When they were alone that night she ventured to ask him what Thomas's motive was in visiting them.

At first he had been disinclined to tell her, which was hurtful.

"He is my uncle," he said, "and now my father is away no doubt he feels he must keep an eye on me. He was riding this way so naturally he would call on us. Moreover he is your brother-in-law. I dare swear Eleanor wants news of you"

"Why, Henry" she replied, "your uncle has not been very pleasant with your father and that means with you, since you were given the Garter in place of him and since you married me when he and my sister wanted me to go into a convent so that my part of the family inheritance should go to them, it is hardly likely that they feel much affection for us"

Then he decided to tell her. "That is in the past" he said. "They were petty differences. I can tell you that something of the utmost importance is afoot."

Her heart seemed to miss a beat. "What is it, Henry?"

"You know that for some time the King's behaviour has not pleased certain men in the country. His besotted attitude towards de Vere gives great offence. That man is a menace to the peace of the country. He plotted against my father. It is time the King learned that there are men in this country who will endure this state of affairs no longer."

She said faintly: "And you are one of those who stand against him?"

"I am in good company," he replied.

"Who else?" she asked faintly.

"My uncle Gloucester, Arundel, Nottingham and Warwick."

"Five of you then."

"We are the leaders and we are well supported."

"Oh, Henry, I am afraid of these quarrels. You could find yourself in danger."

"My dear little Mary, these are matters which you do not understand. We have to rid the country of those men who are ruining it."

"You mean ... the King."

"The King if need be."

"But he is the true heir to the throne. The son of the Black Prince..."

"Unfortunately yes," said Henry with a note of anger in his voice and she knew that he was thinking: Why was my father not the King's eldest son?

"Henry, don't do it ..."

He laughed at her and stroked her hair.

"I shouldn't have told you," he said. He touched her stomach lightly. "You have other matters to think of."

"It is my concern what becomes of you," she answered.

"Have no fear then. Richard is weak. He is a fool. He resembles his great-grandfather. He lost his throne .. "

She shuddered. "And his life ... most barbarically"

"Richard should remember that."

She turned to him and hid her face against him. She knew it was no use protesting, no use trying to persuade him. He was an ambitious man; and though neither of them mentioned this, he was fascinated by a golden crown.

She wanted to shout to him: "It can never be yours. It is Richard's by right. Richard may have a son." Oh God, send Richard a son. That would put an end to these wild ambitious dreams. But even if Richard did not have a son, there were others before John of Gaunt. There was Lionel's daughter Philippa to come before him for there was no Salic law in England and women could inherit the throne. If Richard were ever deposed and John of Gaunt took the crown then his heir was Henry. Henry could not forget it, remote possibility though it was. It was like a canker in his mind; he was becoming more and more obsessed by it and it frightened her.

Now he was joining with those four other ambitious men to stand against the King. They wanted Richard out of the way, and Richard was the rightful King.

"Now," said Henry, "you distress yourself. We shall show Richard that he must rule for the benefit of the people not for that of his favourites. If he is wise, he'll see that; if not, well then he should go."

"There will be war," she said.

"Nay," he corrected her. "Richard would never fight. He would give way. There is no fighting spirit in him. Sometimes I wonder whether he is the son of his father. His mother was a flighty woman. She lived with Holland before she married him, you know."

"Oh Henry have a care. What if some servant overheard!"

"My little Mary, you are too nervous. It is your state. Never mind. Very soon we shall have our boy, eh?"

"And when shall you leave with your uncle?"

"Tomorrow. There is little time to lose."

"And when shall you come back?"

"So much depends on Richard," he said. "But I shall see you are safe and well looked after. That is why I chose Monmouth for you. It is a little remote. You can forget everything here but the coming baby."

"Do you think I should ever forget you, Henry?"

"I trust not, my love. But you are my wife and you must obey me. My commands are that you should rest quietly, be at peace, not fret, and in due course you will be delivered of our child."

"You set me impossible tasks," she replied. "How can I rest quietly while I know you are involved in plots against the King."

"Not against the King, my love. For the King. Everything we do shall be for his good ... if he is wise enough to realize it."

There was nothing more she could say. She must accept the fact that she was married to a very ambitious man who could see the crown glittering only a few steps away and if it seemed unlikely that he could ever take those steps, he was optimistic and determined to lose no opportunity which might arise.

The next day he left with his uncle Thomas.

It was impossible for her to settle comfortably. She fretted; she suffered sleepless nights; she was constantly watching for messengers who would bring dreaded bad news.

August had come; the days were hot and sultry; she could not move from room to room without a great deal of discomfort.

"You must rest, my lady," said her women.

Rest was no good to her, they knew. She wanted peace of mind.

Her pains had started; all through the day they continued. She was in agony. Her women were growing anxious. They were reminded of that other occasion when she had given birth to a stillborn child.

"It will break her heart if she loses this child too," said one of them.

"And small wonder," added another. "She has been sick with anxiety since my lord went away."

"She is frail for childbearing and it did her no good that she should have a child when she was so young."

"God help us. I fear for her. Is there no sign of the child yet then?"

No sign.

Mary could think of nothing but the pain. It came and went and came again. She tried to stifle her cries.

She was glad Henry was not there.

"Please God," she prayed, "help me. Help me and give me a boy"

She was unconscious when the child was born.

The midwife took it.

"A boy," she said. "She's got her boy. A puny little thing. No life in it."

Then she cried out. "Oh no. He does not breathe. He is dead. This will kill her ..."

She laid the little naked body across her knees and began slapping its purple exterior with a vigour which alarmed those who looked on.

"This is no fault of the child.. " said someone.

But the midwife paused suddenly, listening. Then a smile of triumph illuminated her features. "He breathes," she cried. "It has worked the miracle. I have slapped life into him. A weakling ... but a live baby. Thank God ... for her blessed sake."

She laid the child aside and went to look at the mother.

Mary was breathing with difficulty.

"Send a message to my lord," she said. "He will be waiting for it. He should come without delay. Let him be told that he has a son."

Henry was on his way to Monmouth when he heard that his son was born. He had been determined to be close by so that he could go to Mary and see their child as soon as it arrived. He had been so preoccupied with his allies that he had had little time to brood on what was happening at Monmouth. He was in a quandary. All the time he was aware of the overwhelming ambition of his uncle Thomas. There was no affection between them; they were allies only for the sake of expediency. Henry knew that Thomas would like to see Richard deposed and himself take the crown. That was something which must be avoided at all costs. If Richard was to relinquish the crown it should not go to Gloucester. He was the youngest of the sons of Edward the Third. No. It must go to John of Gaunt because only then could it come to Henry. But John of Gaunt was out of the country trying to win the crown of Castile and if this revolt came to anything it would be Thomas of Gloucester who was on the spot. But of course Lionel's offspring should come before him. Then John of Gaunt. Then Edmund of Langley, now Duke of York. But Henry could well imagine how Thomas would dispose of their claims. Lionel's daughter I A girl on the throne. What they wanted was a strong man, and with John of Gaunt out of the country pursuing the crown of Castile, and Edmund Duke of York having no desire for the crown, Thomas came next.

No, never, thought Henry. Richard must not be deposed until my father is here to take the crown!

These were his thoughts as he rode towards Monmouth.

At Ross on Wye he was stopped by a ferryman, who cried out: "Goodmorrow to you, my lord." And recognizing the lions and leopards he added: "And God's blessing on your bonny son."

"Why do you say that?" asked Henry.

"Because I know you for Henry of Bolingbroke and your lady has borne you a son I have heard."

Henry was overcome with joy. For a while he forgot the inadequacies of Richard and the devious ways of his uncle Thomas; he even forgot his own ambitions.

He threw the man a purse of gold, and not waiting to receive his thanks shouted to his followers: "All speed to Monmouth."

Arriving at the castle his delight was decidedly dampened. He was shown a puny infant—a boy it was true, but only just alive.

"He'll need special care, this one, my lord," said the midwife.

He looked at the child in dismay. This tiny scrap of red and wrinkled flesh, the son he had so longed for! It did not bawl as he would have liked to hear it. It just lay still in its nurse's arms.

"He'll need a wet nurse, my lord. My lady is in no state to feed the child."

"My lady .. ."

He went at once to her bedside. Oh God, he thought, is this Mary? This pale, wan little creature looking so small in the big bed, her hair falling about her; her eyes sunken and yet lighting with joy at the sight of him.

"Mary," he cried, and knelt by her bed.

"Henry," she said quietly, "we have the boy. You are pleased?"

He nodded. "But you must get well."

"I will. I will. I must. There is the boy ... and you ..."

"He ... he's a fine boy" lied Henry.

"They will not bring him to me. They say I am too tired. I must rest. But I have seen him. He is a fine boy ... Henry"

"A fine boy" repeated Henry.

"He is to be called after you."

"Then there'll be two of us."

"He shall be Harry ... Harry of Monmouth."

"So be it" said Henry.

She closed her eyes and he turned away to the midwife. "Are the doctors here?"

"Yes, my lord, they are waiting to see you."

He talked long with them. The Countess was exhausted. She needed rest ... and peace. As for the child, they hoped they would keep him alive. His first need was a strong and healthy wet nurse.

Henry had one purpose now. He must save the child for if he were lost he feared that Mary would die. It was the thought of the child that was keeping her alive. The child must live.

"Find a nurse at once" he commanded. "There must be a strong and healthy girl near by."

He paced up and down the room. He heard the baby whimper. He prayed for God's help; and suddenly an idea came to him.

He went down to the stables and commanded the grooms to saddle his horse. Then he rode six miles to Welsh Bicknow, the home of his friend John Montacute who was the second son of the Earl of Salisbury. A few weeks previously John's wife Margaret had given birth to a lusty baby and some instinct told him that here he would find the help he needed.

It had been an inspiration. Margaret was feeding her child. She had milk to spare.

"Will you come and help our little Harry?" begged Henry.

Of course she would. She would deem it an honour.

Within a short time Margaret Montacute was in Monmouth and young Harry was suckling contentedly at her breasts.

After that he began to thrive, although, warned the midwife, he would not be a robust child and they might have difficulty in rearing him. However, his life was temporarily saved and Mary was able to hold her precious child in her arms. A terrible fear had come to her that he was dead and when she was given proof of his existence she began to recover.

It was not a speedy recovery but she was getting better every day and as for young Harry who had shown such reluctance to accept the world, he began to grow lively with the help of Margaret Montacute's milk and gave promise of remaining in it.

Rather to the surprise of those about her Mary recovered and if Harry was not exactly brimming over with good health he survived, although his nurses insisted he was a child whose health would have to be watched.

One day there came to the castle a young woman, big-bosomed and wide-hipped, who asked that she might see the Countess of Hereford.

Mary received her and discovered that her name was Joan Waring and that she lived in a village near Monmouth.

"My lady," she said, "I hear that there is a baby here in the castle who is not as strong as he should be. I love little babies. I have raised my own. They were born strong and healthy but if you would give me the chance I would like to care for this little one."

Mary was not so surprised as might have been expected; she knew there was a great deal of talk about young Harry's birth. The midwife had boasted that she had saved his life by smacking his bottom hard and forcing him to cry so that he brought the air into his lungs. It was often found expedient to get a good strong village girl to care for a baby of high rank and as Margaret Montacute could not be expected to remain for ever as Harry's nurse, it seemed a good idea to give the woman a chance.

She was obviously eager for the task and when young Harry was brought out and she took him into her arms, he seemed to take to her immediately. He ceased whimpering and lying against her soft sturdy breasts he seemed to find comfort.

Mary decided that she would engage Joan Waring. She did so and for some reason from that moment Harry's health began to improve.

They were anxious months. Mary was not sure whether she wanted to hear the news from Court or to shut herself away from it. She lived in constant terror that some ill would befall Henry. There was trouble and he was in the thick of it.

He had linked himself with the four who were now called the Lords Appellant. They had gathered together an army and had confronted Richard, arm in arm to show their solidarity, and forced him to dismiss those ministers whom they considered to be giving him evil counsel and they had set up the Merciless Parliament who forced the King's submission.

She had waited in trepidation for something terrible to happen. Nothing did. The country appeared to have settled down; the King was on the throne and he seemed to have profited from recent events. The country had moved into a peaceful stage, and this was confirmed when Henry came to Monmouth once more.

"You see" he told Mary, "your fears were without foundation."

"There might have been serious trouble. You might have been in danger," she retorted.

"Well, you see me here, safe and well. And how fares young Harry of Monmouth?"

She was able to tell him that young Harry was faring well. She had found an excellent nurse in a village woman named Joan Waring. Harry was devoted to her and she to him.

"These village women make good nurses," was his comment; and his joy when he beheld young Harry was obvious. The child had changed from the feeble little scrap of humanity which had filled him with such misgivings a few months earlier.

"Now," he said, "there is no longer the need for you to remain here in Monmouth. "I am going to take you away from here to London and then, Mary, you will not be so far from me. Do you like the idea?"

She did like it very much and preparations were set in motion to leave young Harry's birthplace. They were to go to London for a while and as the Palace of the Savoy had been destroyed by the mob during the Peasants' Revolt they took up residence at Cole Harbour, one of the de Bohun mansions.

It was a cold and draughty house and Joan Waring expressed her fervent disapproval of it. The dirty streets, the noise and all those people were not good for her baby, she declared. What he wanted was some fresh country air.

As little Harry seemed to agree with this verdict it was soon decided that London was not the place to bring up the child and on Henry's suggestion they retired to Kenilworth.

By this time Mary was once more pregnant.

Kenilworth! How beautiful it was with its massive Keep and its strong stone walls. Here Mary felt secure and because Henry stayed with her for a while she was happy.

In due course the time arrived for her child to be born. Perhaps because she felt at peace if only temporarily, because Henry was with her and perhaps because she had already shown that she could bear a son, this confinement passed off with moderate ease and to the delight of both parents another boy was born to them. He was strong and lusty and they called him Thomas.

There was great rejoicing in Kenilworth when news arrived there that John of Gaunt had returned from Castile, and so eager was he to see his grandsons that he was setting out at once for the castle with his mistress Lady Swynford.

Joan Waring was determined to show off her charges at their best at the same time declaring that there was not to be too much excitement for that would not be good for her babies—particularly the Lord Harry who was naughty enough without that. She was more concerned about him than she was about Baby Thomas. Lord Harry was what she called a Pickle and could be relied upon to make some sort of trouble no matter where he was. Moreover his delicacy persisted and she had to keep a special eye on him.

"We must see that he is not allowed to disgrace himself before his grandfather, Joan," said Mary.

When the great man arrived accompanied by his beautiful mistress, he embraced his son and Mary warmly, studying Mary a little anxiously for he had had word of the illness which had almost ended her life at the time of Harry's birth. She looked frail still but her skin glowed with health and her eyes were bright.

"And my grandson?" cried the Duke. "So this is young Harry, eh."

He lifted up the child and the two regarded each other steadily until Harry's attention was caught by the lions and leopards emblazoned on his grandfather's surcoat and he clearly found them more interesting than their owner.

"He looks to me like a young fellow who will have his way" said the Duke.

"My lord, you speak truth there" replied Mary. "He is the despair of his nurse."

"Well, we do not want a boy who is afraid of his shadow, do we. So we'll not complain."

He put down Harry who made no secret of the fact that he relished being released.

The baby was brought to him and he took the child in his arms.

"Thomas is a good baby," said his mother. "He smiles a great deal, cries very little and seems contented with his lot."

"Let us hope he remains so" said the Duke. "You have a fine family, Mary. May God bless you and keep you and them."

She thanked him and left him with Henry while she took Lady Swynford to the room she would share with the Duke and talked to her about the children and household matters.

Lady Swynford, having borne the Duke four children and being the mother of two by her first husband, was knowledgeable and ready to impart this knowledge and advice.

She had a friendly personality and her devotion to the Duke and his to her, made Mary warm towards her. Because she refused to consider there was anything shameful in the relationship based as it was on selfless love, there seemed to be none; and Mary was happy to welcome Lady Swynford with the respect she would have shown to Constanza Duchess of Lancaster and, she was sure, with a good deal more affection.

The two women found undoubted pleasure in each other's company. Mary could talk of her anxieties about Harry's health and his wayward nature and Catherine could imply her own anxiety for her Beaufort family, those three sons and one daughter who were the Duke's and who were illegitimate, for however much their parents loved them the stigma was there and the rest of the world would not pretend it was not.

However, they were philosophical and both happy with their lot.

Catherine could interest herself in the trivia of domesticity as deeply as Mary could. She could admire Mary's handsome popinjay in its beautiful cage and declare that, although many of the fashionable ladies possessed them, she had never seen a finer bird than Mary's. She could laugh at the antics of Mary's dogs and compliment her on the decorated collars of silk in green and white check, which she herself had had made for them. All this she could do as any woman might and yet she had a deep awareness of political matters which she could discuss with a lucidity Mary had discovered in no one else and consequently she could more clearly picture what was happening. Moreover Catherine shared Mary's fears of what their men might be led into; and they felt similarly about the futility of war and any sort of conflict. Thus they found great pleasure in each other's company.

Meanwhile the Duke was in earnest conclave with his son. He knew of course what had happened in his absence, how Henry with the other four Lords Appellant had faced the King and forced the Merciless Parliament on him.

"Dangerous," commented the Duke. "And your Uncle Thomas is not to be trusted."

"Well I know that," replied Henry, "but our action bore fruit."

"Do not underestimate Richard," insisted his father. "He acts foolishly I admit but he has flashes of wisdom. You see he has extricated himself from a very difficult position, accepts the restrictions imposed on him and now that he is not hedged in by his favourites, rules moderately well."

"Yet it was necessary to act as he did."

"That I do not deny. But be wary, Henry. Richard is not likely to forget you five, and he is one who bears grudges. It might well be that he will seek some revenge."

"But he must realize that affairs run more smoothly now. He should be grateful to us."

"Do you think a king, no matter who he was, would ever forget being confronted by five of his subjects who threaten to take his crown if he does not behave as they think fit. Nay, Henry. Walk warily. My advice to you is to stay in the country for a while. Keep out of politics. It is a course I have had to follow from time to time and always did so with advantage."

Henry did see the point of this and decided he would try it for a while but, as he pointed out to his father, he could not be content for ever with the life of a country squire.

"There is to be a great joust at St Inglebert near Calais. Why do you not go and show them your skill? Your brother John should go with you. I doubt there are two knights in France or England who could compare with you two."

The Duke spoke with pride. He was always trying to bring forward the Beaufort bastards, the sons of Catherine, and he liked Henry to be on good terms with his half-brothers.

It would keep you busy for a while," went on the Duke, "and one can never be sure what is going to happen next. There might come a time when it would be necessary for you to take some part in shaping affairs. But this is not the time. Richard has regained some popularity since de Vere went. The people do not want trouble. Wait, Henry. Go carefully, but keep your image before the people. They like you better than they ever liked me. It would be wise for you to let it remain so."

"You ever gave me good advice," said Henry.

"My dear son, you are my hope. Everything I dreamed of for myself, I want for you. My affairs in Castile are settled now. Constanza's girl—and mine—has married the heir to the throne and will be Queen of the Asturias. That settles that matter. Constanza is pleased. She will not have the crown nor shall I, but our daughter will wear it. Your sister Philippa has married the King of Portugal. I feel I need no longer take an active part in State affairs. I have not achieved what I set out to, but who does? I must now live through my children. Henry, one day, who knows what will be yours ... Be ready for it. Richard is unstable ... the day may come ... But I will say no more. It is unwise to dream too much. But be ready ... It is a stormy path to greatness; so many fall through a false step. We are set fair. You have two fine sons. I am proud of you."

"You are right in all you say. Father," said Henry; and they were silent, both looking into the future and there were dreams of greatness in their eyes.

Before John of Gaunt's visit was over Henry had made up his mind to join the joust at St Inglebert; and by the time he left Kenilworth Mary was once more pregnant.

The two brothers set out for France and threw themselves whole-heartedly into the task of upholding English honour against the French.

They were friends, having known each other well throughout their childhood. Their father had never wished to segregate his legitimate children by Blanche of Lancaster from those who were illegitimate by Catherine Swynford. His daughter Catherine by Constanza of Castile had always lived with her mother; but the rest of the family had been together a good deal, often under the care of Lady Swynford.

John was a young man with his eye to his own advantage. He was a little younger than Henry, though not much, he being the eldest of the Beaufort boys. He was handsome, showing more than a trace or two of his Plantagenet origins and he had inherited a little of his mother's unusual beauty. He was quick, clever, and a pleasant companion; and, although he had ambitions of his own, he never for one moment forgot that Henry was the heir of Lancaster, that he had the tremendous advantage of being the legitimate son and John knew that all the blessings which his mother, brothers and sisters had enjoyed had flowed from John of Gaunt, and when that benefactor was removed—and death only would remove him —they would have to come from Henry who then would be the new Duke of Lancaster.

John had a great admiration for royalty. It had been bred in him; it was his boast that he had royal blood in his veins —even though it had been injected on the wrong side of the blanket—and therefore he doubly admired Henry, for that blood had come to him not only through his father but also through his mother.

Henry was descended from Henry the Third on both sides, for his mother and father were that king's great great grandchildren and their great grandfathers Edward the First and Edmund Duke of Lancaster had been brothers.

There was complete harmony between the brothers—John being determined to please Henry and Henry enjoying the obvious respect of his half-brother. Moreover it was not merely paternal pride when John of Gaunt had declared them to be two of the finest exponents of the joust in England and France. They had received the best possible instruction in their childhood and both being of a nature which longed to excel they had turned into truly formidable opponents for any who challenged them.

It was a glittering occasion, and a happy one, for it was such a pleasure to go into combat against the French in a joust d, Plaisance, and it transpired that the two champions were Henry of Bolingbroke and his half-brother John Beaufort. Honour was done to them and they were cheered and feted.

Louis de Clermont, Duke de Bourbon, who was among the knights present, was greatly impressed by their prowess and he invited them to come to his tent where he promised to entertain them royally.

Many of the French nobles were gathered there and the guests were served with special delicacies and fine wine such as the French produced better than any other nation; and during the feast Louis de Clermont talked at great length about an expedition he was going to launch.

"I have had a deputation sent to me from the rich merchants of Genoa," he explained to Henry and John. "It appears they are plagued by Barbary pirates who waylay their ships and rob them of their merchandise. They say the menace grows and they plead for help."

"What do you propose to do?" asked Henry.

It would be profitable for all those who took part," went on Louis. "It would be a great adventure. We should be helping to promote trade. The merchants are doing good work. But they cannot go on if this wicked piracy continues. You ask what I propose, my friend. It is to take out a band of brave and adventurous men and attack El Mahadia, the home of the corsairs. They sail from there; they have their homes there. Mahadia grows richer as Genoa grows poorer. The robbers are winning the battle against honest traders."

It sounds a worthy project," said John Beaufort.

It is, indeed it is. What I need is men who know how to handle a sword. They are desperate men, these corsairs. It would be a fine adventure. We should recapture the spoils which have been stolen from the merchants and let me tell you, the merchants would be so grateful to see the end of the corsairs that the goods would be our reward."

"Are you inviting us to join your expedition?" asked Henry.

"I should be glad of your company," was the answer.

John Beaufort's eyes were gleaming. The thought of that treasure was very attractive to him.

Henry was more cautious. "Let us think about it," he said. "It is not a matter to be lightly decided."

Louis de Clermont agreed. He was pleased; he felt certain that these two young men, who certainly knew how to handle a sword, would be members of his party.

When they were alone in their tent Henry and John discussed the proposition and John listened with the utmost respect to what his half-brother had to say.

"Our father thinks that I should not become embroiled in politics," said Henry. It might be a good plan to go to El Mahadia, particularly if there are good profits to be made."

John enthusiastically agreed.

"We have given a good account of ourselves at the joust," he said. "Why should we not do the same and reap some profit with it?"

"Then let us go," cried Henry.

"Together," echoed John.

"We should return to England with all speed. We shall need to equip ourselves and that will take a little time."

"We could leave for England tomorrow."

"Then let us do it."

Louis de Clermont was overjoyed at their promise to join his expedition and as soon as the tide permitted they set sail for Dover.

Henry was back in England in time for the birth of his third son. He was named John. So now he and Mary had three boys and their grandfather was delighted to have this one named after him. Young Harry was three years old and showing a decidedly rebellious character. The fact that he still had a tendency to be delicate meant that he was spoilt a little by Joan Waring who rarely let him out of her sight. He was undoubtedly the king of the nursery, which was understandable on account of his seniority, but there was that about Master Harry which implied that nothing would deter him in the business of getting his own way.

Mary was disturbed when Henry told her that he was going to attack the Barbary pirates. She had been pleased for him to go to the joust at St Inglebert. He had stressed that it had been a Plaisance and she had thought, It is just a game really, jousting with blunted lances or those fitted with special heads which rendered them harmless. Why could they not always fight like that—if fight they must? But the Barbary pirates were different. They were desperate men. There was real danger there.

Henry tried to soothe her; he gave her an account of the jousts at St Inglebert and stressed his own success and that of his half-brother, in the hope of implying that they would know how they would defend themselves. But Mary could not be comforted and was very uneasy, although she tried to hide this.

While Henry was mustering the knights he would take with him and giving instructions to Richard Kyngeston, the man whom he called his "treasurer of war', as to what weapons and stores would be needed, he did manage to spend a little time with his family.

He delighted in his sons and in particular in Harry. This eldest son of his was so bright, a boy to be proud of. The fact that he was constantly in some kind of mischief amused his father. Of course the child being of a quick and lively mind, had already grasped his importance. Joan Waring might scold and even deliver the occasional slap but she was always ready to follow that with a cuddle and an assurance that naughty as he was he was her very special Lord Harry.

He would climb onto his father's knee and Henry told him about the joust, and how he had tilted his lance at his opponent and thundered to meet him.

Harry listened, brown eyes alight with excitement. He was dark for a Plantagenet, but handsome none the less, with an oval-shaped face and a nose which was long and straight. He was too thin but Joan Waring had reported that he was the most lively agile child she had ever encountered and it was her opinion that he would grow out of his childhood delicacy.

"Go on. Go on!" Harry would shout if his father paused and even went so far as to thump him on the chest if he were not quick enough, which should have brought a reproof but Henry was so pleased to see his son excited that he let that pass and obeyed him.

"We scored a great victory over the French. We were honoured throughout the country. I and your uncle John Beaufort were the heroes of the hour."

Harry did not take his eyes from his father's face and Henry wondered how much of what he was told he understood. He had a notion that Harry just liked to be seated on his father's knee because his father was the most important person in the castle—apart from Harry himself of course—and Harry liked to be made much of by him.

His father watched him ride his little pony, on a leading reign naturally. There must be no risk to the heir of Lancaster even though he had two sturdy young brothers. Henry, like everyone else in the household, felt that there was something rather special about young Harry.

His father went down to the field to watch him ride with his riding-master. Round and round the field they went. Harry was flushed with excitement and every time he rode past his father he looked at him sharply to see whether his full attention was given to the marvellous prowess of his son.

One day Henry was standing with one or two of his men watching the riding lesson when Richard Kyngeston came out to speak to him. There had been a hold up of some of the supplies and they would not be leaving for Dover for a week.

Henry turned aside to discuss this with Kyngeston just as Harry rode by and seeing that his father's attention was not on him, Harry suddenly, by some trick which he had obviously learned, disengaged himself from the riding-master, and broke into a gallop.

The riding-master cried out in great alarm as he went after the boy, and Henry immediately forgot Kyngeston as he saw his son making straight for the hedge.

"Oh God help us," he cried. "The boy will be killed."

Harry was still ahead of the riding-master. Henry started to run. The boy had reached the hedge and turning and slackening speed began to canter across the field. He was smiling triumphantly as the riding-master caught up with him.

Henry said coldly: "You are a wicked boy."

Harry looked defiant and still pleased with himself.

"You know you are forbidden to do that." The boy just regarded him rather insolently, Henry thought. "Do you not?" he shouted.

Harry nodded.

"Answer me when I speak to you."

Harry paused. He was a little afraid of the coldness in his father's voice and eyes.

"Yes, I know."

"And yet you deliberately disobeyed. You defied orders. Do you know what happens to people who defy their masters?"

Harry was silent.

"So you do not know, eh. They are punished. Get down from your horse. Go to your room and wait there."

Harry dismounted and went into the castle.

Henry was far from as calm as he seemed. He had been deeply shaken by the sight of his son in danger; that had passed and he was confronted by another danger. This boy was rebellious by nature and that rebellion had to be curbed. He must be beaten. And who would administer the punishment? Joan Waring? She would never do it. She would never be able to forget that this was her precious charge. He must not be hurt, she would say, he is too delicate. Mary? Mary would be quite incapable of inflicting a beating. He knew that he would have to do it himself. Soon the boy should have a tutor and he would have to perform these unpleasant duties— for it seemed likely that there would be the need for chastisement in the future.

He took a stout stick and went to the nursery. Harry was there sitting on Joan Waring's lap telling her a woeful story of his cruel father.

Joan was horrified and trembling with agitation.

It is time, thought Henry, that the boy was taken away from a parcel of women.

Joan stood up when he came in and Harry clung to her skirts burying his head in them.

"Leave us," said Henry curtly to Joan.

Harry turned and glared balefully at his father as Joan gently prised his hands away from her skirt.

"No," cried Harry. "Don't listen to him, Joannie. Don't go."

"Leave us at once," commanded Henry.

Joan murmured as she passed: "My lord, he is so young ... and remember he is delicate."

Harry's eyes were on the stick, and Henry felt his heart quail. He loved this boy. The child would never understand that this was no less painful to him than it was going to be to Harry himself.

"You were a wicked boy," he said trying to force a cold note into his voice for he was secretly full of admiration for the manner in which the child had managed the horse and it was obvious that he had been quite fearless. "You have to learn obedience."

"Why?" asked Harry defiantly.

"Because we all have to."

"You don't," he said.

"Of course I do."

"Whom do you obey?"

"Those above me"

"Nobody's above you ... except the King. Do you obey the King?"

For a moment Henry thought of himself standing before Richard with the other four Lords Appellant. The boy was making him uncomfortable, instead of the other way round.

"Enough," he said. "Come here."

He tried to make him lie across a stool. Harry wriggled so fiercely that there was only one thing to do and that was pick him up and put him across his knee. He felt like a foolish old man. Nevertheless he brought down the stick and it was effective to judge by Harry's yells.

He was glad he could not see his face.

Not too much, he thought, just enough to teach him a lesson. He threw down the stick and pushed Harry off his knees.

The child glared at him. There were no tears, he noticed, though the little face was scarlet with rage.

Henry said: "That will teach you a lesson."

The fine brown eyes were narrowed. Never had hatred been so obvious as that which Henry saw in the face of his son.

Mary was upset that Henry had been obliged to chastise Harry.

"It had to be, my dear," Henry explained to her. "He is too wilful. We shall have trouble with him later unless a firm hand is taken."

"I trust you did not beat him too hard. Joan said his screams were terrible."

"He was screaming with rage. He did not shed a tear," he added with pride.

"He is not four years old yet."

"He cannot learn discipline too young. I want him to go to Oxford when he is a little older. His uncle Henry Beaufort will look after him."

"I do not want him to leave me too soon," said Mary. "Let me keep my babies for a while."

"Of course, of course," soothed Henry. "But not too much coddling of the child. Joan pampers him."

"She is very good with him. He is so fond of her."

"I don't doubt it when he twists her round his little finger."

"Oh come, she can be severe. She will slap him if he needs it"

" He is a child who is in constant need of correction. Well, he has now had something which will remind him for some time to come."

The following day Harry was riding round the meadow but his father did not go to watch him. Instead he spent the time with his wife and younger sons. Harry seemed to take this philosophically though when Henry went into the nursery the child eyed his father with caution, but in a moment or two he seemed to have forgotten the beating and was intent on drawing his father's attention from his brothers to himself by asking about the Barbary pirates.

Within a short time Henry said good-bye to his family and set out for the coast. Mary took Harry and Thomas up to the topmost turret to watch him go.

"I want to go too," declared Harry. "I want to go and fight the pirates."

"You must wait until you're older," replied his mother.

"I don't want to wait. I want to go now."

Tittle boys don't go and fight pirates."

"Yes, they do."

"Now, Harry dear, don't be silly."

Harry stamped his foot and narrowed his eyes in the way he did when he was angry.

He snatched his hand out of hers and ran round the spiral staircase ahead of her.

He went into the bedchamber which she shared with his father. He was not allowed to go there unless especially summoned but there was no one to stop him now. His father had gone to fight Barbary pirates and had not taken him with him. He touched his buttocks. He could still feel the effects of the stick. It made him angry, not so much because it hurt his body as his pride. He hated to think that he. Lord Harry —his mother's darling, Joan's little precious mite—had to be at the mercy of a strong arm. He was not sure whether he hated his father or not. He did sometimes. At others he wanted to be like him particularly if it meant fighting the Barbary pirates.

But they wouldn't take him and they were all saying how clever his father was and they were not taking enough notice of Lord Harry.

He saw the popinjay in its cage. How pretty it was with its brightly coloured feathers. Sometimes his mother let him talk to it and put the seeds into the cage.

Harry was suddenly angry because they were all making a fuss about his father, and they wouldn't let him go and fight the pirates.

On a sudden impulse he opened the cage.

"Come out, pretty bird," he said. "Come and see Harry."

The bird flew out. He watched it fluttering round the room. Then it went out through the door.

"Come back," he called. "Come back."

But the popinjay took no notice. It flew on ... down the staircase to the hall and out through the open door and away.