The star of Lancaster

THE LAST FAREWELL

Henry met John Beaufort at Calais. They had received permission from the King of France to cross his country as they were bent on a mission which would benefit the merchants of France as well as those of Genoa. While they were at Calais they were joined by a knight who was on his way to Lithuania to fight with the Teutonic Knights.

"We are going to El Mahadia, the lair of the Barbary pirates" Henry told him. "We plan to destroy the place"

"A worthy cause" replied the Knight, "but I am eager to crusade. I shall be fighting the infidel. You may return richer men but I shall have expiated my sins and have struck a blow for Christ and Christendom."

Henry was silent. It was true. Suddenly he had made up his mind.

He sought out John and told him that he had decided not to go to El Mahadia but to join the Teutonic Knights in Lithuania.

John was astounded. "My lord, you have come so far," he protested. "Can you change now?"

"I can," said Henry, "and I will. It is better for me to win honour in fighting what is tantamount to a crusade than to win riches from a gang of pirates."

John's face fell. He had been looking forward to the spoils which he was sure would come his way.

Henry put his hand on his half-brother's shoulder. "You must go on" he said. "One of us must. Take your men and the equipment and travel across France to Marseilles. I will return to England. I shall need different equipment for Lithuania and shall certainly not sail from Calais."

"What shall you do then?" asked the bewildered John Beaufort.

"Return. Raise more money and set out afresh. But John, you must go. It is what our father would wish. Go with his blessing and mine and may God go with you."

So the two brothers parted and Henry returned to England.

Mary was delighted to see him; but alarmed when she heard that the new plan was to go to Lithuania. She believed this would be even more dangerous than attacking the pirates. But at least he was home for another brief spell.

She was relieved that he was so concerned with his preparations that he could give little attention to young Harry who seemed to grow more and more wilful every day. He had blatantly admitted to setting her pet popinjay free and when she had asked him why, he said, "He wanted to go. He did not like being in a cage."

He showed no repentance for what he had done but when she told him that popinjays must learn to like their cages because they were unfit to live wild, he was thoughtful and she thought a little contrite.

In her heart she guessed that he had let the bird go free because he wanted to turn the attention of the household on himself. The matter of great concern to everyone at that time had been the departure of Henry and Harry had doubtless felt himself overlooked.

She did worry about Harry—but there were other things to concern herself with. For instance Henry's burning desire for adventure. Of course she had known that it would be impossible to keep him with her, that in his position he must take part in the country's affairs, but this was not the country's affairs. This was adventure for the sake of adventure, the desire to be somewhere other than in his own home. The truth was that the love that was between them and the family they were rearing was not enough for him. He sought adventure abroad.

The thought made her sad. She was foolish, she knew. Her sister Eleanor would laugh at her and tell her she did not behave like a lady of high rank but like some peasant, clinging to her husband and her family. She must keep her thoughts to herself. Moreover the prospect of more childbearing frightened her a little. The last confinement had been agonizing. Joan Waring said that she thought her husband should know how she suffered.

"There are some ladies who can bear children with ease" said Joan, "and there are some who cannot. My lord and lady have three fine boys. For your health's sake, my lady, that should be enough."

She was right, Mary knew. But how could she tell Henry that?

In due course he left for Lithuania and the crusade which would wash away all his sins.

He had not been gone very long when she discovered that she was once more pregnant.

After having landed at Rixhoft Henry hastened on to Danzig at which port the main body of his force had landed with their equipment. Within ten days they had joined up with the Teutonic Knights and were soon in the thick of battle of Alt Kowno which was known later as the Battle of the Pagans.

Henry and his allies won an undoubted victory with few casualties, and immediately advanced on Vilna and laid siege to that town. It seemed as though victory would be certain but the inhabitants of Vilna were a stubborn and stoical people; they would not give way and as supplies were running out for the besiegers it was necessary to call off the attack and return to Konigsberg.

By this time the winter had come and activities must be postponed. Henry set up in quarters in the town and tried to fill in the time before fighting could be resumed.

This was not difficult for the Teutonic Knights were delighted to have him with them; he had fought hard for their cause and they wished to show their gratitude, and they arranged that there should be good hunting in the forests and in the evenings feasting and merriment.

One day when he returned from a hunting party it was to find an English sailor waiting for him.

The man had come from England he said for the purpose of bringing him a message from the Lady Mary.

"My lord," said the man, "I am to tell you that your lady was delivered of a fine boy. She says that as the last was named for his paternal grandfather this child should be named for his maternal one. He is Humphrey."

Henry was so delighted that he gave the messenger a purse of gold. Four boys! His father would be pleased. He had done better than he had for he only had one legitimate son. One could not really count the Beaufort boys. Harry, Thomas, John and now Humphrey. Dear Mary, she had played her part well. No man could ever have had a better wife. Mary had given him so much, a fortune, four sons and docility and admiration. She looked up to him and thought he was right in all things. He was a happy man. If only his father had been his father's first-born and was the son of a king instead of the grandson of one, he would be completely content with life.

As it was he had a great deal to be thankful for and now there was a birth to be celebrated.

Christmas would soon be here and on Twelfth Night he proposed that as he had accepted so much hospitality he would now entertain his hosts. There should be a banquet in the English manner with mummers, minstrels and perhaps a joust.

He threw himself into the preparations. He had a new son, he kept reminding himself. He could not stop talking about his sons. Four of them and he was young yet. He would rival his grandfather for begetting children. Edward and Philippa had had twelve, and he saw no reason why he and Mary should not equal that number.

At his feast he received the congratulations of his allies. The health of his children was drunk with special mention of the newcomer Humphrey and his eldest Harry the heir.

Rich presents were brought to him. Silks, velvets and jewels; and from one of the Teutons three bears. "To amuse those fine boys," said the giver of the animals.

It was a glorious occasion and Henry thought how wise he had been to indulge in such an adventure which could bring him so much pleasure while at the same time it washed away his sins.

The winter began to pass and still hostilities were not resumed. At the beginning of March he began to wonder whether they would ever be, for the Teutons had been unable to raise the money necessary to carry on the war, and it seemed as though it was going to peter out.

Henry began to consider that it was time he returned home. After all he had not intended to stay away so long, so he ordered two ships to be made by two Prussian ship-builders, and, as soon as they were ready, to be loaded that he might set out on his journey home. The three bears were caged and brought on board. It was not easy to take them with him but he could not offend the giver by leaving them behind and he smiled to himself wondering what the boys would think of them.

Then they set sail and finally they came into the port of Hull where Henry disembarked though many of the party sailed down to Boston in Lincolnshire with the baggage.

Henry had sent word ahead that he was coming home and he wished the family to be at Bolingbroke where he would come with all speed.

Mary and the children were awaiting his arrival. John could not remember his father. Thomas was not really sure whether he could; but Harry remembered. He remembered his standing before him with a stick in his hand. Strangely enough he did not feel fear at the thought of his father's return, only a kind of stimulation as he would later when he was going into battle.

Mary's feelings, too, were mixed. In one way she longed to see Henry and she was thankful that he was safe; she wanted to hear of his adventures; but at the back of her mind was the fear that the result of his return would be another pregnancy for that seemed inevitable whenever Henry was home.

During Humphrey's birth she had suffered intensely, and Joan Waring had become even more concerned. Her relief when Mary recovered made it obvious that she had feared the consequences might have been disastrous. "Now there shouldn't be any more, my lady," she said. Tour fine boys! My lord cannot ask for more than that."

But he did, of course. He wanted to rival his grandfather. Poor Queen Philippa! Mary had never known her and she heard that she had children easily, but she had grown very fat and unable to move at the end. It was no sooner up from childbed with one than she was preparing for another," one of her women had said. "Now that's not good. A woman needs a rest... a good long rest between."

She could agree with that. But when Henry came riding into the courtyard, his eyes shining with joy to see them all assembled there, when he embraced her and she felt his warm kiss on her mouth, she thought: How could I tell him? She could not. Life must take its course.

It was a joyful reunion. He must admire Baby Humphrey. He must see how John and Thomas had grown. And there was Harry too—just the same—slender to the point of thinness, with that oval face and sharp eyes that missed nothing— smooth dark hair rare among the fair curly Plantagenets.

He had changed little. He was demanding attention as clearly as though he actually asked for it. He stood there legs apart, fearing nothing but that so much attention might be given to the returning adventurer that people would forget Lord Harry.

There was great excitement when the baggage arrived and Henry unpacked the rich exotic things he had brought for them. The beautiful silks delighted all the women; he had brought a parrot for Mary.

"Something to make that popinjay of yours jealous," he told her.

There was a brief silence while Harry looked at his mother almost challengingly. He could almost hear the whacks of the stick as it came through the air.

"He escaped from his cage," said Mary at length.

"Silly creature! " commented Henry. "What chance would it have outside?"

The thought of the popinjay being set upon by fierce birds ... eagles and hawks ... disturbed Harry even more than the memory of the stick.

He said nothing. He would never let a bird out of a cage again. His mother had explained to him what happened to cherished little birds when they fell among the wild fowl.

It had made a deep impression on him and Mary believed that he had had enough of a lesson. She would not tell Henry of the many scrapes in which their first-born had been involved. She could not bear to think of his being beaten. She believed there were other ways of teaching him.

When Henry told the children about the bears they were overcome with awe and wonder. Harry could not restrain his joy; he talked of nothing else. Their father ordered that a pit should be dug for them and there their antics could amuse the children, but there must be a keeper for them and the children must remember that they might be dangerous animals.

The thought of danger made Harry's eyes sparkle. He was very anxious for everyone to know that he was not afraid of anything. Thomas might be frightened in the dark; Harry jeered at that. When he heard the servants talking about the hare of Bolingbroke he listened intently; he frightened Thomas with his account of it and Thomas had nightmares and would awake crying out that the hare was in the room so that Joan had to take him into her bed and assure him that there was no such thing.

"There is, there is," Thomas insisted. "Harry says so"

"That wicked limb of Satan," murmured Joan. If the hare came for anybody it would be for him."

Then she crossed herself for she feared she might have ill wished her precious Harry.

Harry cared nothing. He boasted that he wished the hare would come out and he'd catch it, he would. He'd catch and boil it in a pot for dinner.

"You mustn't say such things," said Joan. "If this hare is the shape some poor tormented soul has taken you couldn't boil it in a pot and eat it."

"I could," boasted Harry.

"That boy frightens the life out of me," Joan told Mistress Mary Hervey, a newcomer to the castle whom the Countess had engaged to act as a governess to the children.

Mary Hervey said that Harry was a bold and imaginative boy, by far the most interesting child it had ever been her lot to teach, so it was clear that she too had fallen under his spell.

Mary Hervey taught the two elder boys and when they grew older the others would come under her care. Harry was a bright child, good at his lessons when he was interested in them and she had hopes of making a scholar of him.

In the meantime he was obsessed with the bears and when they arrived, he was almost wild with excitement.

The keeper was going to teach them tricks and Harry and Thomas were allowed to watch. The bears were in a deep pit from which they could not escape. Only the keeper went down to them. Everyone else, decreed Henry, must watch them from above.

Every day for an hour Harry and Thomas were allowed to watch them. Harry would become so excited; he would shout to them. He loved all three but the smallest of them delighted him most. He longed to go down and tell this bear that one day he would rescue it from its pit and they would go travelling together. They would have the most wonderful adventures. They would go and joust with the French knights; then they would go and fight with the Teutonic knights; and they would always be together. When his enemies were surrounding him the bear would come and drive them all away; and when some wicked men tried to take the bear away and put him into a ring to be baited by wild dogs, Harry would leap into the ring, kill all the dogs and emerge triumphant with his dear dear bear.

It was galling that he was never even allowed to go into the pit.

The bear had become so much a part of his days and he half believed the adventures he had imagined were true. One afternoon when the household was quiet he slipped down to the pit. The bears were sleeping. Around the top of the pit there were iron spikes to prevent the bears getting out. It was not difficult for Harry to slip between these. Now he could scramble down to the bears.

It was not as easy as he had imagined. The slope was steep. He made his way cautiously; he slipped a little, regained his footing and continued to clamber. Now he was right down in the pit. The bears looked very big so close and he could not help feeling very small. They were asleep—all of them, even his own special bear.

What would have happened to Harry in the bear pit was never known because the keeper happened to pass by at that moment and glancing down into the pit, he could not believe his own eyes. When he had assured himself that it was indeed the Lord Harry who was down there, he was horrified. The bears were sleeping and if they were disturbed they could be bad tempered. What might happen then, he dared not think. He could not slip through the spikes as Harry had been able to, but in the pit was a hut which he used to prepare the bears, food and store other things he needed for the care of them, and this was reached by steps from the outside and into the pit. He unlocked the gate to the steps and within a short time he was in the pit. Harry was standing by the smallest of the bears and talking to it. The bear had awakened and was sniffing the child. The keeper snatched up Harry and carried him into the hut.

"How did you get down here?" he demanded.

"I got through the spikes and climbed down."

"You have been told not to do such a thing."

"No I have not," said Harry. "I have not been told not to go through the spikes and down into the pit."

"But you knew the bears could be dangerous."

Yes, Harry had known that, but no one had said he must not get through the spikes.

Of course he had not been told precisely that because no one had thought he would do so.

"I shall have to tell where I found you," said the keeper.

"Why?" asked Harry.

"Because you might have been killed."

"My bear would never have killed me. If the others had tried to he would have saved me."

The keeper was exasperated. He would have to tell Harry's father for if there was an accident later he would be blamed. He could not risk that. The boy had to be stopped.

Mary was with Henry when the keeper asked to be seen. Harry was with him and he explained where he had found him.

"He was quite fearless, my lord. There in the bears' pit. Why, they could have turned on him."

"Oh Harry!" cried his mother reproachfully.

But it was at his father that Harry was looking.

Henry regarded his son sternly. "Go to your room at once," he said.

Harry lifted his head high and gave his father that defiant look which Henry had seen before. But he obeyed and went from the room.

"He had worked his way through the spikes, my lord. He had scrambled down. He's so fond of the bears, especially the smallest one. He was talking to it when I found him. I could see he was going to touch it at any minute. My heart was in my mouth as I snatched him up."

"You did well," said Henry. "Put more spikes in so that not even the smallest child can get through. I shall remember what you have done today."

The keeper went out gratified and Mary said: "Oh Henry, he is only a child you know."

"What I don't know is what we are going to do with him."

"Henry, you won't beat him too hard. He is really delicate, you know, although it's hard to believe."

"He doesn't seem to be afraid of anything"

"It is admirable in a way."

Henry smiled slowly. "You're right," he said. "When he looks at me in that defiant way I think he would like to kill me."

"Oh Henry, don't say such things. You're his hero. In the games he plays it is all about what you are doing. He pretends to joust and fight the Lithuanians. And he always takes your part. He is always you. Poor Thomas has to be whatever Harry decides. It is just that he has unbounded energy and he does get into such mischief."

"He is a grand boy, I'll grant you. But he needs discipline. I'll go to him."

"Henry." She laid her hand on his arm pleadingly.

"Rest assured," he said softly, "I will do what is best for him."

Harry was waiting for him, sullen and defiant.

"Harry," said Henry sitting down, "I wish to speak to you. Come here."

Harry went. He was looking for the stick. He could not understand why his father had not brought it.

Henry drew the boy to him. "Why are you so disobedient?" he asked.

"I was only talking to my bear."

"You know you are not supposed to go down into the bear pit."

Harry was silent. "Did you know it?"

"Nobody said."

"You knew it though, did you not?"

"I knew Thomas must not go."

"And you thought you might?"

Harry drew himself up to his full height. "I knew they wouldn't hurt me."

"So you were not afraid?"

"If the others had tried to bite me we'd have fought them."

"Who would?"

"My bear and I."

Henry thought: It is useless. I should be proud of him.

I could never have endured a weakling. He is fearless. He is a boy any father would be proud of.

"Harry," he said, "you know your grandfather is a very great man."

"He's John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster," said Harry promptly.

"That's right, and because he is who he is you must learn to be worthy to be his grandson. You must be bold; you must fear nothing but what is evil."

"I'm not afraid of evil," boasted Harry.

His father smiled. "Harry," he said, "I am not going to beat you this time. It was wrong to go into the pit. You might have been mauled by the bears, perhaps even killed. You must think before you act. I like it well that you should not be afraid but you must be more thoughtful for others. Think of how sad your mother and I would be, and your brothers too, if anything happened to you."

Harry was shocked by the thought. Then he said: "Thomas and John wouldn't mind and Humphrey wouldn't know."

Henry said: "And I and your mother ... ?"

"You don't like me," said Harry. "You don't like me when I do bad things ... and I do a lot of bad things."

"Harry, will you promise me one thing? I shall go away soon. I want you to look after your mother and your brothers till I come back."

Harry looked pleased at the prospect.

"You," said Henry laying a hand on his shoulder, "will be the head of the house while I am away. My son and heir. Who else should guard my home? But of course if you are going to do foolish things ... a little boy might do ... well then it is useless."

Harry cried: "I won't do silly things. I'll be head of the house."

Henry drew him to him and held him fast. It was rare for him to demonstrate his affection.

Perhaps this was the way to deal with this son of his. He was thanking God for him. He was at heart very proud of Harry and would not have had him other than he was.

John of Gaunt came to Bolingbroke to see the family. This was a great occasion. The children were very much in awe of him, even Harry in spite of his pretence not to be—but they were fond of Lady Swynford who always accompanied him.

He inspected the bears and the parrot and the falcons and the dogs, and heard an account of young Harry's descent into the bear pit which amused him and which he applauded as showing a daring spirit.

There was no doubt that Harry was the one who aroused the most interest and Harry was deeply aware of this.

But the Duke's motive in visiting his son was not only to see the children.

As he told Henry, while it was wise to hold aloof from dangerous factions he must not lose the high place in the kingdom which was his right as his father's heir.

"We must have peace with France," said the Duke. "There will be no prosperity until we do. Richard sees this, I think, I am sure that he wishes that this claim to the crown of France had never been raised. He agrees with me that we should try to bring about some sort of settlement."

"You mean you are proposing to take an embassy to France?"

"I mean just that," said John of Gaunt, "and you should be a part of it."

Catherine Swynford talked with Mary about the proposed mission which the Duke had discussed at great length with her.

"It will take them away again," she said, "but at least it will be on a peaceful mission,"

Mary toyed with the idea of telling Catherine about the fears that came to her and how after each pregnancy she felt a little weaker. But somehow she could not bring herself to do so. Catherine looked so full of health although she was so much older and she had borne the Duke four children and her husband two with, it seemed, the utmost ease.

Mary felt ashamed of herself for being so weak. After all it was a woman's mission in life to be a mother.

So she said nothing and instead discussed the prospects of peace with France.

In due course the embassy left and by this time Mary was once more pregnant.

The terrible foreboding came to her. She felt ill as the months passed. I must tell Henry, she promised herself. There must be an end to this. We have four sons and now there is this other child.

That must be enough.

She had the feeling that she must get away from Bolingbroke. Perhaps a stay in pleasant Peterborough would do her good. In any case a change of scene would be beneficial. There was excitement in moving from castle to castle. After his adventure in the bear pit Harry had lost some of his devotion to the bears. He was more interested in a falcon which he had had given to him. The children would enjoy a move.

So they travelled to Peterborough.

Strangely enough Mary's health improved. The months passed quickly and there was news from France. Everywhere the English went they were treated with honour and courtesy by the French; there were tournaments and banquets at which as usual each tried to outdo the other in splendour.

Henry excelled as always at the joust and there he met those on pilgrimages to the Holy Land. It occurred to him then that that was something he would like to undertake. The truth was that he needed adventure. hen he had joined with the Lords Appellant there had been plenty of that, but now that the King had settled down and the Queen was beside him to keep a steadying influence on him, life had changed in England; and there was not enough to keep a man like Henry occupied.

He fancied going on a pilgrimage and discussed it with his father, who thought it a good idea.

He had heard from Mary that she was once again pregnant. She seemed to be having a child almost every year which was very commendable. The more his family grew, the happier Henry was. Boys to stand beside him and support him in his quarrels, girls to make good alliances and bring more strength to his house. They were young yet. Mary was now twenty-two; she had years of childbearing before her. Yes, they were going to rival Edward and Philippa.

Meanwhile Mary waited in Peterborough.

She was aware of the anxious looks of Joan Waring and Mary Hervey; she knew that they whispered about her and feared the worst.

Joan was indignant. Ladies had more to do in life than bear child after child. This was for gipsies and the poor, My lord should understand this. Of course he did not know what toll these pregnancies took of the Lady Mary. When he came home there was a baby smiling—or yelling—in its cradle and his lady wife smiling as though it had all been as easy as she could have wished it to be.

It was spring and the buds were opening and the birds were going wild with joy when Mary's pains started. A cold fear took possession of her as her women helped her to bed.

Tet me come through this," she prayed. "What of the children if I do not? They need their mother. Oh God, let me live and let this be the last."

It seemed as though her prayers were answered for it was an easier birth than the others; the baby was small but perfectly formed.

A little girl.

It was a change after the four boys. She marvelled at the dainty creature and in that moment she thought it was all worthwhile. She had five wonderful children. She must not complain because she had had to pay a certain price for them. The painful birth ... the deterioration of health ... they could be forgotten while she held her baby girl in her arms.

Would Henry be pleased? She believed so. After all they had their four boys.

She thought of a name for the child. She should be named after Henry's mother. Blanche, that was a good family name. So Blanche it should be.

The little girl thrived and Mary was delighted that she should feel so much better than she usually did after her confinements.

Henry was as delighted as Mary had known he would be. He was pleased that she should be called after his mother whom the poet Chaucer had extolled in his verses but whom Henry could not remember. He sent silks from Champagne and Flanders to decorate the font in Peterborough Cathedral and there Mary's fifth child was baptized.

Henry returned to England but almost immediately set out again. He was going to travel across Europe to the Holy Land. On the way the King wished him to call on the Queen's brother Wenceslas who was also the Holy Roman Emperor. He was to pay his respects and to let Wenceslas know how devoted Richard was to his Queen. Indeed there was no need because the devotion of the royal pair was well known throughout Europe. However it was a friendly gesture and one which Henry was delighted to make.

From Bohemia he went to Venice where he arranged that a ship was commissioned and when it was built and filled width the requisite stores he set out for Palestine which he reached in due course. He paid a visit to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre at the Mount of Olives and glowing with righteousness he began to journey home. He stayed for a while on the island of Cyprus where he was entertained by its King and when he had watched the performing bears he could not resist telling the story of how his first-born had fearlessly descended into the pit to play with the bear. The boy's valour was applauded and when he was leaving, the King presented him with a leopard.

"To amuse the young Lord Harry" was the comment, "but tell him he must not come too close to this one."

"Which," replied Henry, "would be the way in which to make him do so!"

"Oh he is a bold brave Prince, that one," was the laughing reply and a cage was found for the leopard so that it might accompany Henry when he returned to England.

John of Gaunt sent a message to him. It was time he came back. A new situation was arising in the country. The Earl of Arundel, one of the five Lords Appellant who had faced the King with Henry, was circulating rumours about John of Gaunt, doubting his loyalty to the King.

The Duke was soon able to deal with these and so strongly had he won the King's confidence that Richard commanded Arundel to apologize to his uncle.

Richard had come to believe that John of Gaunt was his most trusted ally. He was too old now to want the crown for himself, moreover it was understood that Richard was undoubtedly the true heir to the crown and that it would be folly to attempt to shift it from his head. These were uneasy days when those about the throne must take care how they walked.

Henry returned and Mary, to her dismay, discovered that she was once more pregnant. Her spirits drooped for this time she felt really ill.

There must be an end to this incessant childbearing. She would have to tell Henry how she dreaded it. He was naturally not aware of this because he was generally if not out of the country away from the family circle. Soon after she had made this alarming discovery news was brought to the castle of the death of Henry's stepmother, Constanza of Castile. Mary had met Constanza only rarely and she had always seemed remote, for Henry's stepmother was entirely Spanish and had never fitted into the English way of life. She and her husband had rarely lived together and since they had returned from Castile after arranging the marriage of their daughter Catherine with the heir of that country, Constanza seemed even more like a stranger to them all. The Duke's wife was in all but legality Catherine Swynford and it was Catherine who interested herself in family affairs and whom the children loved. Still it was a shock as death must always be and Henry, who came back to the family for a brief spell, expressed his curiosity as to what would happen now.

The Duke was free of Constanza but could he marry Catherine Swynford? If he were not the son of a king he undoubtedly would. But he must always remember that he was King Edward's son. "Of one thing we can be sure," Mary pointed out, "Lady Swynford will not attempt to influence him."

"He cannot marry her," said Henry emphatically. "His rank is too high and she is too humble."

Mary sighed. "There is no woman in the country more worthy to be the Duchess of Lancaster."

"In all ways but one," agreed Henry. "Her humble birth can never be forgotten."

"Can it not?" asked Mary almost wonderingly.

Then she said that she would like to go to Leicester for a change. She wanted the new child to be born there.

A terrible tragedy had struck the King. His beloved wife, who was known throughout the country as Good Queen Anne, caught the prevailing sickness and in a few weeks was dead.

The King's grief maddened him and he was inconsolable. Anne had been his constant companion and had grown ever closer since the passing of his friend Robert de Vere. He could not contemplate life without her and was filled with rage that fate could have been so cruel as to take from him this beloved Queen.

In his uncontrollable anger he slashed the hangings in the room where she had died and declared that he never wanted to see Sheen again.

Then his morbid rage took possession of him so that he was unable to control it. He broke up the furniture in that room; he destroyed it utterly. Never could he bear to look on that room again.

There is death in the air, thought Mary.

The time was growing near. Joan Waring and Mary Hervey were growing more and more uneasy.

"There is no time between for her to recover," grumbled Joan. "It is a mercy my lord is away on his travels or the intervals would be even shorter I'd swear."

"If he were here perhaps he would be aware of the toll it is taking of her."

"Men!" snapped Joan. "What do they know of these matters. All they think of is their own pleasure and getting children to bring them honour and glory. My lord will have to be spoken to after this one and if no one else will do it I will."

"Better leave it to my lady."

"She, poor soul, does nothing but submit."

"She is a great lady."

"The best in the land. But that won't bring her through. I fear for her, Mary. I fear for her."

"You have always feared yet she recovers."

"Yes, in time for the next one. It will not continue, I know that."

"You fret too much, Joan," Mary Hervey said. "Blanche's was an easy birth."

Joan said nothing. She pursed her lips to express disapproval.

The weeks passed and Mary was so tired that she spent most of her time in bed. She was glad Henry was away. She would have hated him to see her so indisposed. Thousands of women were having babies every day. And she had only five. It was not a great number. It was just that they had seemed to follow so quickly on one another.

Perhaps when this child was born, she would try to explain to Henry ...

Summer had come. She thought of Constanza and wondered what her life had been with a husband who had made no secret of the fact that he had married her for the sake of her crown. Henry would never have been allowed to marry her, she reasoned, if it had not been for her fortune, but they had met romantically and they had been lovers. Yet he had known from the first who she was and had no doubt been advised by his father to court her.

Perhaps it was better not to probe into motives too closely. Suffice it she had been happy—completely happy in those first years before the fearsome task of bearing children had begun.

It is my weakness, she admonished herself. Other women do the same without complaint.

She thought often of the King and his grief. She had heard how he had destroyed the room at Sheen in which the Queen had died because he would never be able to bear to look at it again. And theirs had been a marriage of convenience, arranged by states and they had never seen each other until Anne had come from Bohemia to marry him.

Poor, poor Richard. Unhappy King; who had come too young to the throne but had found a wife whom he could love and then had lost her.

But she must not brood on death. There was a life stirring within her. And she loved her children. She loved them dearly. Once they had arrived and she had recovered from the ordeal she was happy ... until the time came to give birth again.

I am a coward, she thought. And then: But oh, if Henry only knew the pain I suffer!

Leicester was a magnificent castle situated on the right bank of the River Soar, just outside the city but close to the wall which the Romans had built when they called the town Ratae. When the name had changed she did not know but the town and the castle, which had been of great importance both to the Saxons and the Danes, had come into the possession of the House of Lancaster more than a hundred years ago and John of Gaunt had restored and beautified it in the manner he liked to employ with so many of his properties.

June was almost over and the birth was imminent. Mary lay on her bed waiting for her pains to start.

Her labour was long and arduous. All through the day and night it persisted. The pain grew more intense and never before even in her most gruelling experiences had she known such agony.

When at last the child was born she was too exhausted to ask its sex and if it were healthy in every way.

Her doctors said above everything she must rest. They gave her a soothing potion and set two women by her bedside to watch over her.

The child was a healthy girl. As soon as Joan heard her lusty cries she was there to see her new charge. A fine girl!

"Bless you," she murmured, "let us hope your coming has not cost my lady too much strength."

It seemed that it had cost a great deal for Mary remained exhausted through the days that followed, but when the baby was brought to her and laid in her arms she was content with it.

"I have given my lord six children," she said. "That is a fair number—four boys and two girls—is it not?"

Her women assured her that it was.

"I am twenty-four years of age," she said. "How long can a woman expect to go on bearing children? Another ten years?" She smiled wanly. "Not for me, I think. Not for me."

Joan said quickly: "Six is a goodly number. It is enough for any parents, no matter who they be."

"Queen Philippa bore twelve," she said.

"It is too many," mumbled Joan.

"I shall call this child Philippa after that Good Queen," said Mary.

They took the baby from her for she was so easily tired.

During the next day a lassitude came over her and she lay listlessly in her bed. She kept drifting into sleep—though it did not seem like sleep but almost as though she had escaped from the present into the past. She was in the convent and the Abbess was with her. "You must be sure if this is the life you want, Mary." Oh the peace of the life—lived by bells, she had always thought. Bells for nones, bells for compline ... working in the herb garden, baking the bread, tending the poor, living in a bare cell chilled to the bone in the winter but somehow happy in the service of God.

She had turned away from it. Henry had made her turn and from the moment she had met him in the forest she had had no longer any desire to be a nun. Her future had been planned she knew. She v;as a pawn in the hands of the great John of Gaunt as she would have been in the hands of her sister and Eleanor's ambitious husband.

But it had come about so naturally and no matter what happened she would never want to be without her children. Beloved children. Harry the rebellious, Thomas who liked to imitate his elder brother; John who was a good boy, and little Humphrey. Then sweet Blanche and now Philippa. No, they were her life, though soon the boys would be taken away from her, but at present she had them.

She asked that Harry and Thomas be sent to her.

They came and stood by her bed, rather overawed, which was strange for Harry, but he realized there was something momentous about this occasion.

Her eyes rested on Harry—seven years old now, with more of a look of de Bohun than Plantagenet. That smooth dark hair and brown eyes and oval face, the very slender little body. He lacked the tawny lion-like looks of his paternal antecedents. The brown eyes were curious now, alert with speculation, but at the same time he was clearly disturbed to see his mother looking so unlike herself.

"Harry," she said, "come near the bed." She took his hand. "And Thomas. Come to the other side. There, I have a son on either side of me. You would guard me, would you not?"

"What against?" asked Harry. "No one will harm you here."

She thought: Against Death. Death is in the castle, my son. I feel him close.

She laughed and said: "No, but I like to have you with me."

"No enemy of my father's could come into the castle, I would stop him," boasted Harry.

"So would I," added Thomas.

"God bless you both, my sons. I know you would. I want you always to be friends. Will you promise that?"

The boys looked bewildered, and Mary went on. "I know you quarrel now and then in the schoolroom. But you forget your differences after a while, don't you? And if anyone tried to harm Thomas, Harry, you would go to his rescue wouldn't you?"

"Is anybody going to hurt him?" asked Harry, his eyes sparkling.

"No, no. But I just said if .. ."

"People do not say if unless they think it may happen" replied Harry sagely.

She thought: I must not alarm them. Harry is too sharp and Thomas is wondering what is going to happen to him.

"I just want you to remember it is my wish that you should always be friends."

"You don't want me to give him my new falcon?" asked Harry suspiciously.

"I want it," cried Thomas hopefully.

"No, no," replied their mother. "Just be good friends always ... and never let a quarrel between you last."

The two boys were surveying each other across the bed with intensity and Mary said quickly, "You have a new sister."

"We have one," said Thomas.

"We did not really want another," added Harry rather reproachfully. "And you were so ill bringing her."

"You mustn't hold that against her."

"When will you be up?"

"Soon."

"And shall we have a feast? And will my father come?"

"Yes, we shall and he will."

She closed her eyes. Harry beckoned his brother and at that moment Joan came in.

"Come," she said, "your mother is tired."

As she led them out Harry turned to her and said: "I think she was trying to tell us that she is going away."

There was a gloom in the castle and a terrible premonition of disaster.

Men and women walked about on tiptoe and spoke in whispers. The Countess was in a fever.

In the nursery the new baby thrived. A wet nurse had been found for her and it was not the baby who showed signs of her difficult entry into the world.

The question was whether a message should be sent to the Earl of Derby to tell him that the health of his Countess was causing grave anxiety and that since the birth of the Lady Philippa grave symptoms were beginning to show themselves. They hesitated, but as the days passed it was considered that he must be told.

Henry was alarmed. He came at once to Leicester.

In his heart he had known that Mary dreaded childbirth but he had looked upon it as one of the inevitable patterns of life.

Children were the very reason for marriage and he had delighted in the fact that he had six and was hoping for more.

And now Mary was ill. The after effects of childbirth, he assured himself. It was nothing. Those women about her fussed too much. They encouraged her fears.

Nevertheless he rode with all speed and when he arrived at the castle, a terrible depression came to him.

He went at once to his wife's bedchamber. The pale wan figure lying on the bed was scarcely recognizable. Her dark hair hung lank and limp about her emaciated features; only her eyes seemed the same; loving, earnest, eager to please.

"Henry, you came."

"My love," he said, "what ails you?"

"It was too much, Henry ... too much."

"The child is well."

"Thank God, she is a fine child. It is your poor Mary who has changed, Henry."

"You will soon get well. We'll have six more yet, Mary. You see."

She smiled wanly, and shook her head.

"Well," said Henry, "we have our six. Oh Mary, I hate to see you like this."

"I know. I did not wish you to see me so, but they would send for you."

"I am happy to be with you."

"I have not disappointed you?"

"My dearest, you have made me so happy. I have never ceased to love you from the day we first met in the forest. Do you remember?"

"It is something I shall never forget. I treasure the memory ... and I have given you six children, have I not? I did my duty as a wife ..."

"Oh speak not of duty. It has been for love has it not?"

"Yes," she said, "for love. Always remember that, Henry. For love."

He sat long by her bed and she made him talk of the past, of those days at Arundel and then the birth of Harry and how they had been so happy in the early days of their marriage.

Afterwards he had been away so much and she had seen him rarely, just often enough to become pregnant and start the exhausting business of bringing another child into the world.

But they were her beloved family and blessings had to be paid for.

After a while he saw that she was sleeping and he crept away and left her.

Soon after his arrival it became clear that she was very ill. The finest doctors in the country were at her bedside, but there was nothing they could do. She was exhausted, worn out by too much childbearing. She was small and fragile and not meant for such an arduous life.

Henry was bewildered. The stark fact faced him. It need not have happened. If she had stopped in time this would not have happened.

The progress of the fever was rapid and a few days after his arrival Henry knew that this was the end.

He knelt by her bedside, for she seemed comforted to have him close. She was at peace now. A woman with her travail over. She did not send for the children for she did not wish them to see her thus.

"It will frighten them," she said. "Let them remember me as I was. I am leaving them to you, Henry. You will care for them. Do not be harsh with Harry. I want him to love you. I want them all to love each other. No deadly quarrels. They must always work together. That is what I want .. "

"It shall be," said Henry. "All that you ask I will do."

"Stay with me then. It will not be long now."

He was with her when she died.

He sat at her bedside, stunned with disbelief.

But he must rouse himself. Mary was dead. She was twenty-four years of age. Too young to die. But she was dead. It was the Year of Death—Constanza, the Queen and now Mary, and both the Queen and Mary had been struck down in the flower of their youth. He could understand his cousin's grief which had obsessed him and driven him mad for the time.

Sometimes he thought that his fate was entwined with that of his cousin. He had always thought that but for that quirk of fate he should have been in Richard's place. They had been born in the same year. They had been happily married and within a few weeks of each other they had lost their beloved partners.

He felt lost, bewildered. Although during the last years he had spent more time abroad than with her, he knew he was going to miss her sorely.

She must have a splendid funeral. Her mother would insist on that. She should be laid to rest with the de Bohuns for that was what she had wanted.

It took his mind from his desolation to plan the grand funeral she should have, just as it had Richard's when he buried his Queen.

When it was over he must give thought to his family.

The children had all been together, cared for by their loving mother. Now he must make other plans for their future. He would be with them when he could but the political situation was such that it demanded his constant attention.

He was considering very carefully what must be done for the motherless boys and girls.