The Vow on the Heron

THE MARRIAGE OF THE BLACK PRINCE

THE Princess Isabella declared that she had made up her mind not to marry and her father, indulgent as ever, seemed content that this should be so. She was twenty-seven years old and so it seemed that she really meant what she said. She had vindicated herself by cruelly jilting Bernard Ezi and she liked to hear the story repeated of how broken-heartedly he had given up everything in life. Then she could forget how Louis of Flanders had insulted her.

If she ever thought of Louis it was to congratulate herself on her escape, for his marriage with Margaret of Brabant had been far from felicitous. Margaret had died horribly and there were rumours that it was her husband’s doing. The story was that while he was away from Court Margaret had discovered that a particularly beautiful peasant girl had been his mistress and was to bear his child. In a fury of jealousy Margaret had had the girl seized, her nose and lips were cut off and she was imprisoned in a damp cell and left to die which she very quickly did. When Louis returned and sought his beautiful mistress and was told what had happened he was overcome by such fury that he put his wife into a dungeon similar to the one in which she had imprisoned his mistress. There was no window in this dungeon, only a hole through which bread and water were pushed daily. Either she was still there or she had died. Louis it seemed had no intention of setting her free.

‘Of course he is mad,’ said Isabella. And that seemed a good enough reason for jilting her.

Why should she, the beloved daughter of the King, whom everyone knew he loved more than anyone else in the world, want to exchange her comfortable existence for marriage.

Then take the case of her sister Joanna who had died of the plague near Bordeaux. Some said that she had met a happier fate than she could possibly have done had she married Pedro of Castile, who had already earned the name of Pedro the Cruel. He had neglected his wife and when she had died it was said he had poisoned her. He undoubtedly poisoned his father’s mistress Eleanor de Guzman and there were many others whom he had killed by extremely cruel methods.

No! Who would marry and take such chances?

The Princess Isabella was very happy in the state she had chosen—and so was her father. How often had he said to her that he was content to keep her near him.

Her sisters Mary and Margaret did not share her views. Moreover their father knew that he could not allow all his daughters to remain unmarried. Margaret was enamoured of John Hastings, Earl of Pembroke. John’s father had died when he was a year old and he had become a ward of the King. Consequently he had been brought up in the royal nursery and from an early age he and Margaret had always shared secrets and taken a great delight in each other’s company.

‘When I grow up,’ Margaret had said, ‘I am going to marry John Hastings.’

Isabella had laughed. ‘He is not good enough for a princess,’ she had told her haughtily.

‘John is good enough for anybody,’ Margaret had retorted. ‘Even you,’ she had added rather maliciously for Isabella’s overweening vanity was often commented on among her sisters.

Isabella replied that if he was not good enough for Margaret he certainly was not for her elder sister. But it was never wise to indulge in arguments with Margaret for Margaret could always get the better of anyone in that field. She was admittedly the cleverest of them all and she and John Hastings used to get together over their books and nothing could draw them away from them. At this time a young man who was a page in the household of Margaret’s brother, Lionel, Duke of Clarence, had caught their attention. His name was Geoffrey Chaucer and he was very interested in literature, a subject which intrigued Margaret. She had written poetry herself and she and John had read certain things written by this Geoffrey.

Isabella could not concern herself with a mere page so she knew very little about the young man but she did wonder what would be the outcome of Margaret’s infatuation with John Hastings. Mary was betrothed to another John, the Earl de Montfort, who had a claim to the Duchy of Brittany. His position at this time was not very secure and it was for this reason that there had been a delay in the marriage for Mary who was two years older than Margaret was of a marriageable age.

Isabella thought that if she had wanted to marry the Earl of Pembroke she would have done so. It would not have taken her very long to wring her father’s consent from him. Of course Margaret was not Isabella and everyone knew that the King could deny his eldest daughter nothing at all.

But Margaret was well aware of her father’s fondness for his children and even if Isabella was his favourite he dearly loved them all and particularly his girls.

She chose her moment well. For it was necessary to approach him when he was in the right mood, and as he was always glad and ready to see his daughters she had no difficulty in talking to him alone.

She took his hand and kissed it; then raised her eyes wistfully to his. She told him how she and John had always been inseparable in the nursery, how their interests were the same, how they wanted to be together for the rest of their lives.

‘Pembroke,’ said Edward rather teasingly, ‘not a very grand title for one of my daughters.’

‘It is the one I would rather have than any other.’

‘Bah, you are a love sick child.’

‘I am not a child, Father. I do know what I want, and that is to marry John and to live in England so that I may never be separated from you and my mother.’

It was inevitable. His eyes were glazed with affection. These dear girls of his! He could no longer bear to lose them than they could him.

He was a foolish old man, a doting father. Men would marvel at his weakness. But how could he refuse her?

She was smothered with kisses. It was a moment such as he loved.

‘Now,’ he said, ‘you must go to your mother and tell her what you have decided. I have had no say in the matter.’

‘Dearest dearest Father,’ cried Margaret sincerely, ‘it is you who decide everything for us. If I did not know that you were happy with this I could not be either.’

‘It shall be a grand wedding, eh. I will show you that your father is not beyond dancing a measure with his daughter.

Philippa was delighted because she knew it was what Margaret wanted and she recognized that this, the cleverest of her children, needed a husband who was of her own kind. Margaret would be near her all her life and that was what she wanted. All her children should marry for love as she herself had. When she thought of the fate of poor sad Joanna of Scotland she rejoiced in her own marriage. Then there was her own daughter Joanna who had died it seemed fortunately of the plague. It was horrible to contemplate that a daughter of hers was better off dead than married to a monster—and one whom her parents had chosen for her.

She said to Edward: ‘I want to see them all make happy marriages. That is all I ask.’

‘You are a sentimental creature,’ said Edward, and she smiled at him. He knew what she meant. None could be more sentimental than he was ... but only where his family was concerned.

So Margaret was married and the King gave her a coronet mainly of pearls which he said was suitable on account of her name.

It seemed that marriages were in the air because a few months later her brother John of Gaunt was married to Blanche of Lancaster. John was nineteen years old, the most forceful of all the brothers next to the Black Prince. There were many speculations about the latter for he showed no sign of wanting to marry. Some said that he had wanted Joan of Kent about whom there had been a scandal when it was discovered that she had been living with Thomas Holland. And since she had left England for the Continent as the wife of another man the Prince had lost interest in matrimony. None was sure though, for he confided in no one, not even John Chandos.

The Black Prince’s life seemed to be dedicated to war and he was with every year taking on the mantle of his father. The same aura of invincibility which had been the First Edward’s and which now surrounded his father was without doubt inherited by him too; and what was so gratifying was that the father and son were in complete accord with each other. Brilliant warrior that he was the Prince never sought to usurp his father’s power and although he was in every way preparing himself to be King he showed himself in no way eager to inherit the crown before that time when it should come naturally to him. Apart from the fact that he declined to marry and give the country an heir, he was the perfect prince.

As David of Scotland was showing himself completely unworthy to wear the crown of Scotland and it seemed unlikely that there would be any trouble from that quarter, and as the truce with France had come to an end it seemed that the time was ripe to begin another invasion in the hope of gaining complete victory and possession of what Edward regarded as his rights.

He left England and once more Philippa was filled with misgiving. However Edward did not engage in battle because the Dauphin Charles refused to meet him and before he could be forced to do so a strange event occurred which appeared to be both to Edward and his army a sign of supernatural interference.

It was Easter time and the weather had turned suddenly so cold that many of the English soldiers died because of it, collapsing and falling from their horses while riding. Nothing like it had ever been known.

It was the Monday after Easter Day when the storm broke. It came upon them suddenly; the air was full of darkness at midday and the hail rained down on the army. Then the sky was rent with such sound and fury as none of them had ever known before. Lightning streaked across the sky to be followed by utter darkness and the violent sound of the thunder.

Many of the soldiers believed that the world was coming to an end; many of the horses and men were struck by the lightning, and hailstones the size of eggs began to shower down on them.

This appeared without doubt to be a sign of divine anger and why should God visit his fury on Edward’s army? There was one answer to that and it was that God did not like the claim to the French crown and he was not going to allow the King of England’s efforts to be successful.

Edward was dismayed. Six thousand of his finest horses had been killed by lightning. One thousand of his men had suffered the same plight. The soldiers had turned to him expecting him to act.

But what could even the greatest soldier in the world do against the acts of God?

Edward saw only one way. He leaped from his horse and bare-headed with the hail beating down on him and the hideous lightning illuminating his face cried out: ‘Oh God, take away this storm. If I have incurred your wrath I will make amends. Let my army survive this day and I will make reasonable terms with the King of France. I will release him from bondage. I give my word on this.’

There was silence all about him. He lifted his eyes to the sky and it seemed that the lightning was less fierce, that the thunder was growing more distant.

The storm was passing. His vow remained, and it was not as a promise given to another King. This one he had made to God and he must keep it.

When he told his men that they were returning to England without delay there was a great shout of joy. Every man among them had had enough of war and the sign that God was not with them would have undermined any feeling they might have had for it.

Edward was fully aware of this. That was why he knew that he must abandon the fight.

Philippa received him with the utmost joy and King Jean was informed that he was to be released on payment of a smaller ransom. Edward stressed though that his sons would be requested to come to England as hostages until the sum was paid.

Jean left for France conducted there by the Black Prince and the Duke of Lancaster; and Philippa, delighted with this outcome of affairs in France, settled comfortably to enjoy having her family with her and for the moment at least out of imminent danger.

Joan of Kent had returned to Court, a widow. Her husband, Thomas Holland, had just died in Normandy where he had been on the King’s service, so there was nothing for Joan to do but return with her children to England.

Her arrival coincided with that of the Prince of Wales who had just returned from France whither he had been escorting King Jean.

The Prince appeared very pleased to see his cousin again. She was no longer young being thirty-three years old and the mother of three children but as soon as she returned to England he sent a silver beaker to remind her of him; and with it was a note welcoming his Cousin Jeanette back to England.

Joan was equally pleased to see him. She had found Thomas Holland a satisfactory husband and had been physically attracted to him but in her youth her secret ambition had been to marry the Prince of Wales.

It seemed strange to her that he had never married for she was sure some pressure to do so must have been brought on him. But Edward and Philippa had ever—contrary to royal custom—concerned themselves with the happiness of their children. And doubtless Edward had been firm in his inclination not to marry. Moreover there were other sons so the matter was not as pressing as it would otherwise have been.

Joan had no intention of remaining a widow and having married a man considered to be far beneath her socially she was now determined to pick the highest in the land. She had always been wily and if she was slightly less beautiful than she had been in her youth she made up for that by an increased astuteness.

She contrived to put herself in the Prince’s path and as he made no effort to evade her they were together often. He was two years younger than she was and to her dismay he seemed to have made up his mind that he would never marry. She was hurt and angry when he talked to her of the possibility of her doing so.

‘Oh, I shall not marry again,’ she answered and added untruthfully, ‘I have no wish to.’

‘Holland is so recently dead,’ replied the Prince. ‘You will change your mind later, I swear it.’

‘You do not know me, cousin,’ she answered.

‘Dear Jeanette, there are few I know better. We have grown up together.’

That was the trouble, she thought. He saw her as his cousin, the companion of nursery days. He was such a strange man. It was true that no one could understand what he really felt.

Still she was going to show him. He was not indifferent to women and clearly he liked her company. She was handsome enough still to be known as the Fair Maid of Kent. If she had grown a little plump it was becomingly so. She had always been the most beautiful woman at Court and refused to believe that she had moved in the slightest degree from that position.

Matters came to a head when Sir Bernard de Brocas, a very worthy and wealthy knight of Gascony, asked the King’s permission to marry her.

The King talked over the matter with the Prince because he knew of the friendliness between his son and Joan.

‘A good match,’ said the King. ‘Sir Bernard has served me well and I should like to reward him. The marriage would be a great one for him. She will bring him the family estates and I shall feel that I have rewarded him for his good service.’

The Prince nodded. As the only surviving member of her family the Kent title and estates had come to her. She was indeed a great heiress.

‘Of course,’ said the Prince, ‘she is a widow and will doubtless wish to have her say.’

‘We may trust Joan for that,’ replied Edward. ‘But it shall be known that I am agreeable to the match and it is only for her to agree to it. Perhaps, my son, you would speak to her and tell her my wishes.’

The Prince said he would do so and at the earliest opportunity sought out Joan.

He asked if he might speak to her in private.

Her heart was beginning to beat so wildly that she wondered if he would be aware of her excitement. Was this the moment? Had he at last made up his mind?

‘You are a widow, Jeanette,’ he said, ‘rich and by no means old. My father thinks you should marry again.’

She dared not look at him but she said quietly : ‘And you, Cousin. What think you?’

‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘I think you should.’

She closed her eyes. Her dream was coming true. He was going to suggest marriage. Princess of Wales, Queen in the not too far future.

‘As a matter of fact there has been an offer for you.’ ‘An ... offer I ‘

‘Sir Bernard de Brocas loves you dearly. He has spoken to the King.’

She stared at him blankly, angrily.

‘And the King,’ she said shortly, ‘what says he?’

‘He says that he would wish to reward Sir Bernard and this would be a way of doing so.’

‘So ... I am to be a ... reward! ‘

‘You are an excellent match, Cousin.’

‘My family’s estates, yes. A good reward for a faithful servant.’

‘And you are very beautiful, Cousin.’

‘I had not thought you had noticed.’

‘You know full well how much I admire you.’

‘You have never deemed it fitting to tell me so.’

‘Why should I tell you what you know already?’

‘The answer is that I should have liked to hear it.’

‘Well then, ‘tis so, Cousin. I repeat you are a beautiful woman and a rich one. But I do not believe it is your estates alone that he considers. What is your answer?’

‘What would you have me do?’ she asked almost plaintively.

‘I would have you consider the offer.’

‘Then let me tell you this,’ she said. ‘I shall never marry again.’

He was surprised. ‘You do not mean that,’ he protested. ‘You are too young ... too beautiful to remain unmarried. I know that you have had many suitors.’

‘None that I would take,’ she said. ‘I hope the King does not plan to force me into this.’

‘Indeed he would not. He would only advise you.’

She turned to him and lifting her beautiful eyes to his cried: ‘You advise me.’

He took her hand and held it fast. ‘Sir Bernard de Brocas is a very worthy knight,’ he said.

‘Stop it! ‘ she cried. ‘Don’t say it. I will not listen.’ Then she sat on a stool and covered her face with her hands.

He stared down at her in amazement; then he knelt down beside her and drew her hands away from her face. Her eyes were feverish with excitement.

‘Dearest Jeanette, what is wrong with you? You must know that de Brocas is one of the most chivalrous knights in my father’s service.’

‘I will never marry him ... as long as I live. I cannot because ...’

‘You are in love with someone else!’ cried the Prince.

She did not deny it. She cried out: ‘You tell me Bernard de Brocas is a chivalrous knight. I am in love with the most chivalrous knight in the world. How can you ask me to take something less.’

‘Then perhaps ...’

She shook her head. ‘Nay,’ she said. ‘I cannot marry this man so I shall take no other.’

‘He has made you unhappy ... this knight. That does not seem to me a chivalrous act.’

She smiled wanly. ‘Nay, he knows not the extent of my love for him. It has ever been so and he unaware of it.’

‘Tell me his name.’

‘You know it well.’

He stood up and she rose and stood beside him.

‘I could never bring myself to tell you,’ she said.

‘Jeanette,’ he said, ‘you shall tell me. I must know. I want to do everything I can to make you happy.’

She laughed. ‘Oh, Edward, surely you know. Is it not clear? Who is the most chivalrous knight in the world? Who was the companion of my childhood? Whom did I love always? Surely you know.’

He looked at her incredulously.

‘The Black Prince,’ she said. ‘There has never been one to compare with him nor ever shall be and as I will take only the best I shall remain unmarried all the rest of my life.’

He continued to stare at her and the joy suddenly showed in his face. She had made up his mind for him. Jeanette! Of course it was Jeanette. The most beautiful woman at Court. She was the one he had been waiting for.

He kissed her hands fervently.

‘So all the time ... I was the one ...’

‘All the time,’ she said fervently. ‘Since I was small and you were small ... Even then it was only you.’

‘Yet you married Holland.’

‘Because I despaired. I would not take Salisbury whom I disliked. I thought it was no use waiting for you. There now, I have betrayed myself and you will despise me.’

‘I vow to God,’ said the Prince earnestly, ‘that I will not take any to be my wife but you—my dearest cousin, my Jeanette.’

She was triumphant. Why had she not done this before? It was so easy. This strange man whose thoughts were so wrapped up in military glory had only needed a woman to make up his mind for him.

She was alert to danger. What would the King and Queen say to the proposed match? Before she had married Thomas Holland they would have agreed to it; but she was no longer a favourite of the Queen. Philippa had not approved of the somewhat shady match with Holland when Joan had disclosed that she had already lived with him as his wife while pretend- ing she was going to marry Salisbury. Moreover Philippa had noticed the King’s eyes on the beauty. There was that incident of the garter. Philippa would not want her eldest son to marry a scheming woman. And the King. How could he feel about accepting as his daughter-in-law a woman whom he had once desired—for Joan knew well enough that he had and because he was the King she had given him several promising glances knowing full well that the high moral code he set upon himself would prevent their relationship straying beyond the boundary of flirtation.

They would both regard her as something of an adventuress and that was not the woman they would want as future Queen of England.

They would want someone like Philippa—stern, always aware of her duty.

And how determined was Edward? A short while ago he had been ready to offer her to Bernard de Brocas.

‘My dearest Edward,’ she said quickly. ‘I am bewildered by my happiness. So precious are you to me, for I have waited all these years never believing that my dreams would be fulfilled, that now I am afraid.’

‘You must never be afraid of anything with me beside you.’ ‘I am afraid they will try to stop our marriage.’

‘Nay, they never would.’

‘To please me, Edward. Do not tell anyone yet ... not until we have made our plans. Not until we can go to the King and tell him that we are set for marriage, that the plans are made and there can be no delay.’

To humour her, he agreed.

When Edward and Philippa heard that the Black Prince was going to marry Joan of Kent they were dismayed.

‘A widow ‘ cried the King. ‘A woman older than yourself.’

‘By two years,’ replied the Prince, ‘and I am not too old to beget sons, nor is she.’

‘The relationship is very close,’ put in Philippa.

‘I have already sent to Rome for a dispensation,’ answered the Prince. ‘There will be no difficulty in acquiring it, I am sure.’

Philippa was thinking: Will he be happy with her? It had really been disgraceful the manner in which she had pretended to be unmarried when all the time she had lived with Holland. Philippa would have liked her son to marry a gentle young virgin, someone who looked up to him and adored him—not an experienced woman, older than himself, full of wiles and who had already borne three children.

As for the King he thought: She will be a disturbing daughter-in-law ... She made him uneasy. There was flaunting sexuality about her, a quality which bothered him in women even more so than in the past. Philippa had aged more quickly than he had and she was so fat that she could not move about without difficulty. As he was getting older temptation came more often. No, he did not want a woman like Joan of Kent in the family.

But both of them saw that the Black Prince, after holding back for so long, was now all eagerness and was going to conduct his marriage like a military campaign. It was clear that nothing was going to deter him. He was no longer a boy and it appeared that he must have been waiting for his cousin as before he had shown clearly his lack of desire to marry and settle down.

Edward and Philippa discussed the matter together and they both agreed that they must accept the marriage.

News came from Rome that the dispensation was granted and would be sent to England. However, the Prince and Joan decided that they could not wait for it.

They were married in the Chapel at Windsor. The King was not present. Somehow he could not bring himself to see his son marry a woman who aroused such desires in himself. He felt too uneasy and it was better for him to stay away.

Joan guessed the real reason but she was content to let it be believed that the King was not entirely pleased with the marriage. What care I for that! she thought. Poor old Edward! He looked magnificent still, of course, but he was ageing a little. There was a good deal of white in the once golden hair. He was a little jealous of his son for having chosen such a voluptuous bride. She knew it, and she could understand it. Pious old Philippa was scarcely a siren these days.

They left Court soon after the ceremony for one of the Prince’s residences in Berkhamstead and as the King had granted his son all his dominions in Aquitaine and Gascony, the newly married pair left England and in a short time had set up a splendid Court which was sometimes in Aquitaine but more often in Bordeaux.

The whole family rejoiced when in due course, Joan gave birth to a son. He was called Edward, which seemed appropriate as he was in direct line to the throne.