Виктория Холт - Passage to Pontefract

Be reasonable, he admonished himself. Be sensible. Marry Constanza.

He sought her out without delay lest he should change his mind.

‘Constanza,’ he said. ‘If you marry me I will fight to regain your crown.’

Her joy was reflected in her face. She held out her hands and he seized them.

He drew her to him and kissed her.

He felt nothing for her, only a great sickness of heart because she was not Catherine.

* * *

It was springtime when the two brothers returned to England with their brides.

John and Constanza went to the Palace of the Savoy, riding through the streets and the people came out to see them.

There were mild cheers for the King and Queen of Castile as they were calling themselves.

Along by the river they rode and into the palace which had delighted John ever since it had come into his possession through his marriage to Blanche. Now he was thinking not so much of the grandeur of that magnificent pile of stones as to what he would find within.

Constanza was amused at his eagerness. She thought it was to see his children. It was not that he would not be delighted to see how they had grown during his absence; but what put that flush in his cheeks and shine in his eyes was the prospect of seeing Catherine again.

In the great hall those who served him in the palace were lined up to greet him and pay homage to the new Duchess of Lancaster who was also the self-styled Queen of Castile; and there were his children. He dared not look just yet at the tall graceful woman who stood holding young Henry’s hand.

Philippa had grown almost beyond recognition. Elizabeth too. And young Henry was a sturdy five-year-old.

John lifted his eyes from the children and looked at Catherine. She smiled serenely.

He felt a great impulse then to take her in his arms, to hold her to him … there before them all. She knew it and her smile was confident. Nothing could change the overwhelming attraction between them. Certainly not this dark-eyed bride from Castile.

‘And how are my son and daughters?’ asked John.

He was not looking at her but at the children but he was seeing her – the soft skin, the thick red hair which sprang so vitally from the smooth white forehead. He knew the texture of that skin and he longed to touch it.

‘We have seen the King,’ said Philippa.

‘Alice Perrers was with him,’ added Elizabeth; she was more outspoken than her sister.

‘Hush,’ said Philippa. ‘We are not supposed to talk of her.’

‘Must you talk of others when your father has just returned? And what has my son to say for himself?’

Henry told his father that he went hunting last week. ‘We caught a fine deer.’

‘Nothing has changed much since I have been away,’ said John. ‘You must meet the new Duchess. Constanza …’

The children were presented to their stepmother. The girls regarded her with suspicion, young Henry with interest.

‘May I present to you, Lady Swynford, their governess?’

Catherine curtseyed and Constanza gave her a cold nod.

Then John with Henry’s hand in his and the girls on the other side of him passed on.

At the earliest possible moment he sent for her.

When she came to his apartments, he was shaking with emotion.

‘I wished to see you, Lady Swynford, to hear from your lips how my children have fared during my absence.’

‘All is well with them, my lord,’ she answered calmly. ‘They are in good health, as you see, and progress at their lessons. Henry’s riding masters will give you a good account of his conduct I am sure …’

He was not listening. He was watching her intently.

‘I have longed to see you,’ he said quietly. ‘You have changed little. It has been so long.’

She lowered her eyes.

‘I must see you … alone … where we can be together.’

She lifted her eyes to his. ‘Is it possible, my lord, now?’

Of course it had been different before. Blanche had been dead. He was a widower then. Now he was just returned with a new bride.

‘I married for state reasons,’ he said. And was amazed at himself. Why should he, the son of the King, explain his reasons to a governess?

‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘I know it.’

‘You have a husband,’ he said, as though excusing himself for not marrying her. What did she do to him? She made a different man of him. She unnerved him; she bewitched him. He believed that had she been free he would have married her.

If he had what bliss that would have been. No subterfuge, they could have been together night and day.

‘I must see you,’ he said.

‘When, my lord?’

‘You must come to my bedchamber.’

‘And the Duchess?’

‘I know not … but I will arrange something … I must. I yearn for you. I have ever since I left. There is no one like you, Catherine, no one … seeing you again, I know.’

She answered: ‘I know too.’

‘Then we must …’

‘But how, my lord? It will not be easy.’

‘But it must be. It must.’

* * *

She was right when she said it was not easy, but he contrived it. He had to. There was a small room in a part of the palace which was infrequently used. They met there.

There was a bed on which they made ecstatic love.

He thought of Constanza and the necessity to get her with child. He wished he had never let his ambition lead him into this marriage. The King of Castile. It was an empty title. It was one which Henry of Trastamare would never allow him to have.

It had been a reckless marriage. He should have remained free.

Suppose he had done so. Suppose Hugh Swynford died … Soldiers did die. They died like flies in hot countries. If it was not in battle it was in the fight with disease. Suppose he had married Catherine. How beautiful she would have looked in the robes of a duchess! How proud he would have been, and all the time they would have been together.

What mad dreams to come to an ambitious man. He could imagine the astonished fury of his father and of Edward. Edmund and Thomas would have been amused, though they did not count.

But he had married Constanza; he had become the King of Castile – and it might be a title that had some meaning some day; and these were wild foolish dreams which came to him only because he was in the thrall of an enchantress.

She was whispering to him now. ‘It will be necessary to be very careful.’

‘Careful. How can I be careful? I betray my feelings for you all the time.’

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘you do.’

‘Then what am I to do?’

‘Go to Castile?’ she suggested.

‘Wherever I go,’ he said, ‘there must you be. I will not be without you so long again.’

And he lay there, knowing that his absence would be noticed; that hers would be too.

Surely it was only necessary to see them together to recognise this flame of passion which seemed as though it would consume them both.

The Black Prince came up from Berkhamsted to confer with the King. The Prince’s health had improved a little since his return to England but the periodic bouts of fever remained and when they came they were as debilitating as ever. He would lie in his bed frustrated and bitter. He had never really recovered from the death of his elder son and he worried continuously about Richard’s future.

At this time he was in one of his more healthy bouts and in spite of Joan’s attempts to dissuade him he insisted on going to Windsor.

The sight of the King shocked him as it did each time he saw him. Edward was growing a little more feeble every day, a little more doting on the ubiquitous Alice, and the image of the great King who had won the love and admiration of his people was becoming more and more dimmed.

The Prince thought: If he goes on like this the people will depose him. How much longer will they tolerate Alice Perrers? She behaves as though she is his chief minister and some inspired statesman instead of a rapacious woman, a harpy, just clinging to him for what she can get.

At the moment Aquitaine was the Prince’s concern.

‘I should never have left,’ he said. ‘John has made a great mistake.’

‘Well, he is King of Castile now.’

‘King of Castile,’ said the Prince contemptuously. ‘An empty title! How near is he to ever becoming the true King of Castile? What has this marriage done but brought Henry of Trastamare and the King of France closer together? They are allies now. Far from John’s reigning over Castile we shall find the French taking Poitou and Saintogne.’

‘You take too gloomy a view, my lord,’ said Alice.

The Prince felt ready to explode with fury. He deliberately ignored her and turned to his father. ‘It will be necessary to prepare ourselves. I can assure you that an attack will come before long. The French are not going to lose this advantage. I should have stayed.’

‘You were in no fit state to stay,’ said the King. ‘You are recovering now. You must wait until you are well.’

‘Yes,’ said the Prince bitterly, ‘wait until the French have robbed us of everything we possess. We must act without delay.’

‘The King will not go to France,’ said Alice sharply.

‘That is for the King to decide, Madam,’ retorted the Prince coldly. ‘My lord,’ he continued, turning to the King, ‘this is a matter of great importance. I think we should discuss it in private.’