The Vow on the Heron

THE JOUST AT WINDSOR

THERE was a sadness in the palace of the Tower of London. Philippa had given birth to a little girl. They had christened her Blanche but it was said of her that she had hardly time to open her eyes before she was dead.

A great depression had seized Philippa. She had several beautiful children but she could never bear to lose one. And this was a little girl. Edward loved girls.

There had been uneasy rumours which had disturbed her. No one had told her of course, but she had caught whispered words; she had seen furtive looks; and she could not help knowing that Edward had conceived a passion for the Countess of Salisbury and that the Countess was a virtuous woman who had repulsed his advances, and only because of this the affair had come to nothing. But it had changed everything. Often she had marvelled at his devotion to her. She had always realized that she was not a beautiful woman, and child-bearing had not improved her figure. In the last years she had grown over plump and she had always had a tendency to put on flesh. It was a characteristic of her race. Edward himself was very handsome. Not as tall as his grandfather, Edward Longshanks, had been but well over medium height; blue-eyed, fair-haired, and with his love of finery he always presented a magnificent figure to the world. Moreover there was that aura of royalty about him which many women would find irresistible. The Countess of Salisbury apparently had not.

Edward, great king that he was, often seemed to her a child. His enthusiasms, his impulsiveness—the manner in which Robert of Artois had goaded him into the struggle for the French crown was an example of this—his love of pageantry, his delight in the joust when he wanted everyone to see him as the champion ... all that seemed to her the actions of a lovable child. And this desire of Catharine Mountacute was part of the pattern. She was one of the most beautiful women in England, Philippa had heard. Well, Edward’s Queen was certainly not that.

Poor Edward, he had been disappointed of his prize!

To her he was like one of her children, and her nature was such that she looked for the fault in herself rather than in him. She had failed him. Failed him by not being beautiful like Catharine de Montacute.

She forgave him, but it was the first time he had strayed—or tried to stray—and it seemed to her like the end of a certain pattern in their relationship.

And now she had lost her baby.

Edward had arrived at the palace.

It was the first time she had seen him since the relief of Wark Castle.

He came and knelt by her bed and kissed her hands fervently.

‘You must not fret, my love,’ he said. And she wondered whether he was referring to the loss of the baby or his unrequited love.

‘A little girl,’ he said. ‘Dear Philippa, I have been so anxious for you.’

That was real concern in his eyes. Remorse, of course. She wanted to comfort him. To tell him to forget what had happened. They had been too happy one with the other, and together too long for anything to spoil what had gone before.

He talked of the child they had lost. ‘We’ll have more, Philippa. And how blessed we are in those we have already.’

They talked awhile of the children and she knew that he was telling her that he would always love her. Even though he had seen the most beautiful woman in England and would never forget her, it could make no difference to his love for Philippa.

Baby Blanche was buried in the chapel of St Peter in Westminster Abbey. All the family were present at the ceremony—Edward Prince of Wales, Isabella, Joanna, Lionel, John and Edmund.

Cloth of gold tissue was laid on her tomb and prayers were offered up for the reception of her soul in heaven.

Edward remained with his family for a while. He was anxious for Philippa to know how he esteemed her.

Philippa had been right when she had guessed that there was some reason why her sister-in-law had not written from Gueldres.

Eleanor had, at first, been very happy in Gueldres. There had been some doubts about her marriage because her husband had been a widower at that time and much older than herself; but Eleanor had found him a kind and considerate husband, and when her sons were born she had been completely content.

After her somewhat desolate childhood when there had been whispers and innuendoes in the nursery she had not been very happy and then her sister Joanna at a very early age had been sent away to Scotland to marry David the Bruce. Life had scarcely been very happy for them. So that when she came to Gueldres she had enjoyed a contentment which she had not known before.

And when the elder of her sons, little Raynald, had been born there had been great satisfaction for the Duke’s children by his first marriage had all been girls. She had been only sixteen at that time, for it was eight years ago; and since then she had given birth to another boy.

All was well until suddenly she developed a strange skin complaint which turned her very pale skin into an extremely highly coloured one. She could not understand what had happened and none of the ointments or unguents she used had any effect.

Then she noticed a coolness in her husband’s attitude towards her. She rarely saw him and when she did it was only briefly in the day time.

One day she was out riding when her attendants asked her to look at a house some distance from the ducal palace.

For what purpose?’ she asked, and she could tell by the unhappy looks of her attendants that she had asked an embarrassing question.

The Duke’s chamberlain, who had joined the party, explained to her: ‘It is the wish of the Duke that you take up residence here, my lady.’

‘Take up residence here! My place is in the palace.’ “That is the Duke’s wish ... the Duke’s order, my lady.’ She was nonplussed and overcome with fear.

‘And my children?’ she asked.

‘They are to join you here.’

She could not understand what this meant, nor was she allowed to see her husband to ask him what his intentions were. She did not write to Philippa and Edward as she had been wont to do. She would not know what to tell them, for she had no idea what crime she was supposed to have committed.

She had never taken lovers so there could be no question of infidelity. She had always been a loving wife. It was incomprehensible.

The slight skin infection which had changed her colouring had now disappeared and her skin was as white and perfect as it had ever been. She had grown thin with anxiety, and her only comfort was in her children.

Her faithful attendants could not make up their minds whether it would be wise to tell her of the rumours about her relationship with the Duke or to let her remain in ignorance. But one of them, considering what was involved decided to tell her.

‘My lady, you must not let this happen.’

She wanted to know what.

They say that the Duke plans to divorce you and disinherit your sons. He will take a new wife and hope to get sons by her.’

‘This cannot be true. Why does he not tell me himself that he has ceased to love me?’

‘It does not seem that he has. It is said that what he must do he does sadly.’

‘Perhaps I should write to my brother. I do not understand. The Duke and I have never quarrelled. He seemed contented with our union. And my boys. You say they are to be disinherited?’

‘There have been a lot of rumours, my lady. You know how leprosy is dreaded.’

‘Leprosy!’

‘Yes, my lady. They were convinced that you were suffering from this disease. It began with change in the colour of the skin. The Duke wished to be separated from you before it had too big a hold and became contagious. They say too that a mother passes it on to her sons and for that reason the Duke wants a divorce and sons from a mother who can give him healthy ones to carry on the line.’

‘So that is what it is all about. Why wasn’t I told? Leprosy! Do I look leprous?’

‘Not now, my lady. Your skin is as fair and clear as it ever was.’

‘What I had was a mild disorder. I finally cleared it up with herbs and lotions. It has completely gone. I must ask the Duke to come and see me.’

The woman looked dubious but Eleanor was undeterred. She sent a message to the Duke but he would not receive it, so great was his fear of infection.

‘So,’ cried Eleanor, ‘I am to be discarded without a chance to show the truth.’

It seemed this was so.

She had no friends in Gueldres, only her attendants but at least through them she understood what was at the root of her troubles.

The Duke, her husband, had been a keen supporter of Edward’s claim to the throne of France but there were many nobles in Gueldres who inclined to the French. If they could rid the Duke of his English wife who was actually a sister of Edward, they could arrange a marriage with a bride put forward by the King of France and thus bring about what so many of them sought: to break the link with England and forge a new one with France.

It was imperative that she must stop this. How dared they insist that she suffered from leprosy! They had alarmed the Duke to such an extent that he had refused to see her. That did point to the fact that his love for her was not very strong. But she believed she could revive that if only she could see him.

She realized that if she appealed to Edward it could have the reverse effect of what she wanted. Now she alone must do what had to be done for the sake of her children, herself, and her brother.

She had heard that there was to be a meeting of the nobles in the palace the following week and accordingly she laid her plans.

On the day when the meeting was to take place she put on a light tunic which exposed most of her body; over this she wrapped a cloak and taking her two sons with her set out for the palace.

No one attempted to stop her so taken by surprise were they to see their Duchess and she went through to the council hall where the nobles were assembled. The Duke was seated on his throne-like chair and holding a child by each hand she went to him and throwing off her cloak and exposing much of her fair, delicate and perfect skin, she cried: ‘Oh, my lord, I have come to you to show you that the stories of my leprous condition are entirely false. If I were in that condition would it not be clear for all to see? Look at me, my lord. Look at me, you nobles, some of whom have spread these tales about me. I am whole and in good health. I insist that your doctors examine me. Here are your children, my lord. You cannot doubt that they are yours. They look like you. If you allow these calumnies to obscure the truth then, my lord, I will tell you this: you will regret our divorce and you will see the failure of your line.’

There was silence in the hall. All eyes were on the Duchess, who wearing nothing but her tunic, displayed an utter denial of the rumours of leprosy.

The Duke rose and going to her placed his hands on her shoulders. Then he picked up her cloak and wrapped it round her.

‘My lady,’ he said, ‘you are right that I have been listening to calumnies. I feared leprosy and what effect it would have on you and your sons. I dared not risk infection. But they were lies ... I do not wish for divorce. I thought it was my duty, for I must provide heirs.’

‘You have your heirs,’ she cried. ‘And here they are.’

‘It’s true. This meeting is over,’ he said addressing the company. ‘I will take my wife to our apartment.’

He then led her and her children out of the hall and as they mounted the stairs he told her how pleased he was that she was back, how he had deplored the need to divorce her which so many of his nobles had forced him to consider.

There were many questions that she might have asked but she did not wish to. It was good enough that the nightmare was over. She was back in the palace and the Duke could not do enough to show her how delighted he was that the trouble was over.

Now Eleanor could sit down and write to Philippa and tell her of the strange episode which had now ended happily.

Poor Eleanor, thought Philippa. And she chided herself for feeling that inner resentment because Edward had briefly preferred another woman.

Edward showed clearly that he did not wish to be separated from Philippa. He took great pains to display his devotion to her which she found very touching. She had never mentioned to him that she knew of his feelings for the Countess of Salisbury and he never spoke of that lady to her. Everywhere he went he wanted her beside him; and he always insisted that she was as magnificently attired as he was—and since he took very great delight in fine clothes they made a splendid pair indeed.

He decided that he would hold a great tournament at Windsor and to this would be invited all the champions of Europe. He hoped that among these would be included the French knights; and it amused him to contemplate King Philip’s chagrin in knowing that his greatest nobles were competing on an English field.

Edward, like his grandfather, had always felt a great interest in the legends of King Arthur and his knights, and he decided that for this occasion there should be a round table and that there the fairest ladies of the land, led by the Queen, should be seated with their knights whose object should be the exercise of chivalry.

Safe conducts were given for all knights no matter whence they came and this applied in particular to the French. They began to arrive from all over Europe.

This was going to be the most magnificent joust of all times. The Princesses Isabella and Joanna were to be present and there was great excitement in their apartments as they were fitted for the glittering garments they would wear. They were to be seated with the Queen in the ladies’ gallery and from there they would select the knights they most admired and perhaps one of them would wear a favour from one of them which would proclaim the lady whom he honoured.

Their father’s cousin Joan was with them. The fact that she was twelve years old—four years Isabella’s senior—gave her a certain authority and she seemed very knowledgeable to the two Princesses. There was an aura of romance about Joan. In the first place she was outstandingly pretty. Isabella had noticed with dismay that whenever Joan was present people looked at her, smiled at her, were ready to indulge her. That irritated Isabella for even her father had a fondness for the girl because she was so pretty.

In fact she was called the Fair Maid of Kent. Another reason why she seemed so romantic was because of her father, the Duke of Kent, who was royal by birth being the son of Edward the First, had been executed before he was thirty years old at the order of the old Queen and Mortimer. Joan herself did not remember him for she was only two years old at the time—but this fact and her beauty made her an outstanding personality.

Joan was very much aware of her charms and already she had admirers. One was William de Montacute, eldest son of the Earl of Salisbury, but when in his household she had made the acquaintance of Sir Thomas Holland, his father’s steward, and she was not sure which one she preferred.

‘My sister Joanna has been betrothed and almost married,’ Isabella reminded Joan, ‘and there have been arrangements for me.’

Joan tossed back her beautiful fair hair and smiled tolerantly at them. ‘Poor little Princesses,’ she said, ‘you will have to marry Princes who are chosen for you. You will have to go away to their countries and be very docile. I shall never be that, I assure you.’

She had no need to assure them. It was clear that Joan would have her own way.

She then told them about William de Montacute whose father was a prisoner of the French and whose mother was said to be one of the handsomest women in the country. ‘Of course she is old,’ added Joan complacently.

She was not sure whom she would marry, she told the Princesses. If she married William de Montacute she would be Countess of Salisbury when his father died and life in a French prison was not the sort of condition to prolong life was it? On the other hand she had Sir Thomas Holland, and he could be very rich. So the Princess would see it was a hard choice for her. On the whole she thought she preferred Thomas and being as royal as they were the title of Countess meant little to her.

Isabella was a little disconcerted that Joan’s affair should be the main topic of conversation. It was annoying that when Joan tried on her glittering garments she looked so much more attractive than they did. Joan was well aware of this and could not resist calling attention to her own charms.

Isabella whispered to her sisters that she did not believe these stories about Joan and her lovers. She would have to marry where she was told—as they would—and there would be no choice for her in the matter.

But when their brother came to their apartments he was immediately attracted to Joan and sat on a window seat with her talking and laughing where she behaved as though she greatly honoured him for allowing him to speak with her.

‘What airs she gives herself,’ said Isabella. ‘One would think she were a king’s daughter.’

Young Edward, however, seemed to find her very atractive and when they rode out it was true that she had three attendants—the Prince himself. William de Montacute and Thomas Holland.

There could be no doubt that Joan, the Fair Maid of Kent, was a very fascinating creature.

There was a new arrival at the joust. He came straight to the King and when Edward saw him he was overcome with emotion.

‘William! ‘ he cried and embraced his friend.

The Earl of Salisbury said that he thought he should lose no time in presenting himself to his sovereign lord who, he knew, had made such efforts on his behalf.

‘I waited only to see my family and hearing that my son had already left for the joust I knew that you, my lord, would wish me to join you.’

‘You are welcome, William. It does me good to see you.’ The King hesitated. ‘Tell me, is the Countess with you?’

‘My lord, she begs your indulgence. An indisposition.’

‘Nothing serious?’

‘Nay, my lord. She assures me of that. But she felt unfit to make the journey.’

The King did not know whether he was bitterly disappointed or relieved. She had done the right thing he was sure—as her tact and discretion would always insist. He longed to see her and yet had she come it would have been embarrassing with her husband just returned from captivity and the gossip which he guessed existed although none would dare let it reach his ears.

‘Come,’ he said, ‘you must show yourself to the Queen. She has been greatly concerned about your imprisonment. Then you must let us know how you were treated. Not too ill, I would guess, by your looks.’

‘No. Philip gave instructions that I was to be well treated. But you know I have had to swear not to take up arms against him again.’

‘I know. It was part of the terms. We will talk of it later. Now let us go to the Queen.’

There had never been such a joust as this one.

It was January and there was a sharp frost in the air. The Queen with her daughters and her ladies seated in the gallery was a sparkling figure, her gown decorated with pearls and jewels, her velvet cloak edged with finest fur. The King beside her was in red velvet and the entire company glittered.

It was Edward himself who must be the brightest star. He must be the champion of the joust. None should surpass him; nor would it be easy to for he had made himself a master of the field.

The emphasis on this occasion was chivalry. As his grandfather had, he wanted to return to those days when knighthood meant chivalry. And nowhere was this more stressed than in the legendary tales of King Arthur and his Round Table. True knights he proclaimed must respect pity and defend all weaker than themselves and that meant a glorification of that sex which was said to be the weaker. Each knight liked to carry a lady’s favour into the fight. A true knight must believe in and defend the Church. He must show strict obedience to his overlord except where this could conflict against his duty to God. He must always fight the forces of evil.

Edward would wear the Queen’s favour and wear it ostentatiously so that all the whispers about him might be suppressed and he could convey to the company that it ill pleased him that there should be calumnies concerning his relationship with the Countess of Salisbury.

How the people cheered his victory! How he enjoyed riding round the field and coming to rest at the royal balcony and there making his bow to the Queen. Philippa, smiling tenderly, knew what this meant. Contrition. He might stray in his thoughts but she was his Queen, the mother of his children and he loved her dearly.

He kept the Earl of Salisbury by his side and it was clear that he considered him to be his very dear friend. This did not surprise William de Montacute because he had always considered himself to be very close to the King; they had shared so many adventures together, and it seemed natural that having so recently returned from captivity in the King’s service Edward should show his appreciation.

In due course William made his appearance in the lists. It may have been that he was weakened from his imprisonment but to the King’s dismay he was felled by his opponent.

A deep silence was on the assembly and many hurried forward to offer succour to the fallen Earl.

The King ordered that he should be carried into the castle and his own royal doctors should attend him. There was a strange tension in the air. It was not unusual for such accidents to happen on such occasions—and they could result in death—but that at this time the victim should be the Earl of Salisbury seemed somehow like an act of fate.

The Earl was not dead, but badly bruised and certain bones were broken.The doctors said that if he rested there was a faint hope that he might recover.

The King said: ‘He is not old’—he was in fact forty-three years of age— ‘certainly he will recover.’

It had been the most magnificent joust he remembered and his pleasure in it was increased because Philip of France was furious because many of his knights had attended it. Philip had endeavoured to have a similar entertainment at his Court at the same time—which had turned out to be a failure. This was inevitable because many of the French champions having been given safe conduct to Windsor had been present there.

‘But for Salisbury’s accident,’ he said to Philippa, ‘it would have been perfect.’

‘Poor man,’ replied the Queen. ‘Perhaps we should send for his wife.’

Edward did not meet her eye. ‘Oh that will not be necessary,’ he said quickly, ‘he will be about in a week or so ... none the worse for this. It was nothing but a fall.’

He really was contrite, thought Philippa. And he did not think Catharine should be here to tempt him. He was very young and guileless and she loved him dearly. She longed to comfort him, to ease his conscience and to tell him that she knew she lacked the fascination of women like Catharine of Salisbury and she understood his admiration and desire for them. He must not fret. She would love him the more because he had resisted temptation for her sake. Or was that true? Was it the high morals of the Countess which had saved him from infidelity or his own stern conscience? She did not know. Nor did she want to.

‘I am going to make this an annual occasion,’ said the King. ‘I shall send for carpenters and builders and I will build a round table at which two hundred may sit and it shall be here at Windsor in commemoration of this occasion.’

The Queen thought it would be an excellent idea. Chivalry should be encouraged. It was good to remind the people of those glorious legendary days of King Arthur when the task of the strong was to defend the weak.

‘Nothing but good can come of it,’ she declared.

The work was immediately set in progress and a great Round Tower was begun at Windsor.

The King threw himself into the project with enthusiasm, It was a joy to be able to plan something other than war. The Queen agreed with him. A truce with France, a truce with Scotland. It was a satisfactory state of affairs. There should be a Round Table once a year, declared the King; and he would command all knights to attend. No one else should set up a tournament while the Round Table was in progress, so that none could have an excuse for not attending.

The whole court was excited about the project. Then it was realized that the Earl of Salisbury’s injuries were more serious than had been realized.

He became very ill and in a few days died, as the doctors said, ‘from his bruises.’

So the beautiful Catharine was now a widow. Edward thought of her often and let himself imagine that now she was free she would not be breaking her marriage vows. But he knew in his heart that such was her moral code she would never be a partner in adultery.

Philippa had become pregnant again and he spent a great deal of time with her. He could not remember a period in their lives when he had been able to be so frequently with his family.

He was so eager that Philippa should be well cared for and that she should not believe for one instant that his deepest concern was not for her.

It had occurred to him that if she died he might, now that Salisbury was dead, marry Catharine and he let himself wonder what the country’s reaction would be if he did. But to think of life without Philippa was intolerable. No, not for anything, would he want her not to be beside him. He did not forget for one moment what he owed to her and if some thought her simple then it must be the simplicity of wisdom for he had never known anyone so capable of being happy and making others happy as his Queen; and surely happiness was at the heart of success.

Perhaps that was no way for a king to think. But it was the truth.

Robert of Artois had been severely wounded in France and had been brought home to England to die. He was buried with much ceremony in St Paul’s and the King was deeply grieved. Robert had been dissatisfied from birth; he had always believed that fate was against him; he had been a stirrer up of trouble yet he had had great charm and the King had enjoyed his company. Edward often thought that but for Robert he would never have embarked on this immense task of taking the crown of France. Sometimes when he thought of it he could see warfare stretching on through the century bringing no definite conclusion. Many lives would be lost in the struggle and what would be the end? Success for England would mean a changing of crowns. Success for France retaining it.

This year he had remained in England. He had had his family around him and it had been one of the happiest and most prosperous years he had ever known.

October came. The Queen had retired to Waltham near Winchester there to await the birth of her child.

In due course the child arrived. There was great rejoicing for it was a healthy child and after the brief appearance and exit of little Blanche there had been certain apprehensions.

The King was delighted to have a daughter and the Queen rejoiced with him.

They christened her Mary.

It was a wonderful day when the rest of the children came to their mother’s bedchamber to inspect their new sister. Even two-year-old Edmund was there to gaze in wonder at the new baby. They now had seven healthy children and had lost only two—little William and Blanche.

It was a goodly tally, said Edward.

He was well content with his family and union with the Countess of Salisbury was just an impossible dream.