Виктория Холт - The star of Lancaster

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.

The children were now in the charge of Mary Hervey and Joan Waring and they lived mainly at Kenilworth and when that castle needed sweetening, they moved for a while to Tut-bury. Life went on for them very much in the same way as before their mother's death, but they missed her sorely. Blanche could not remember her of course, but all the boys did, even three year old Humphrey. As for Harry he was sobered for a while. He was seven and old for his years. He felt that in the absence of his father he was head of the family and his ascendancy over his brothers seemed stronger than ever.

He missed her more than Mary and Joan would have believed; and at times he was quiet and rather sad thinking of her. He remembered what she had said to him and he realized that she knew then that she was dying. He promised himself he would try to do what she wanted and in consequence took up a protective attitude towards his brothers.

In the winter of the following year he caught a chill and became so ill that everyone thought he was going to die. His father in an agony of apprehension had the best doctors sent down from London and very soon Harry was surprising them by his determination to live. His health began to improve and he would lie in his bed listening to the songs of Wilkin.

Walkin, the minstrel whom their father had sent to them to teach them to sing. They were fond of music because their mother had always seen that there was plenty of it in the household. There were lessons with Mary Hervey and games with his brothers; he commanded them and tolerated his sisters and so life passed during the first year after his mother's death but none knew more than Harry that it would not remain as it was.

Henry was becoming more and more preoccupied with the country's affairs. Moreover, the King had gone to Ireland to attempt to sort out the troubles there and John of Gaunt went to Aquitaine with the same purpose in mind. This threw responsibilities on Henry, for the King had made him a member of the Council which ruled during his absence; and as his father was out of the country it was Henry's task to look after the Lancastrian estates.

Richard and John of Gaunt returned to England; and that year, the second after Mary's death, two important marriages took place in England.

John of Gaunt snapped his fingers at convention and did what he had wanted to do for a long time and that was marry Catherine Swynford. There were some members of the nobility who were horrified at this, but there were many who applauded it and thought the better of John of Gaunt for making Catherine his wife.

The King was one who approved of the match. He had always liked Catherine; moreover he was completely reconciled to his uncle Lancaster and as he relied on the advice the latter gave him, he was eager to please him. So not only did he show his approval of the match by receiving Catherine as the new Duchess, but he set his seal on it and won her eternal gratitude by legitimizing her children, the Beauforts, which next to marriage with the Duke was her dearest wish.