Виктория Холт - The star of Lancaster

Charles came to her. He did not seem so young now. She herself was twenty-one—not so very much older than he was yet she felt old in experience.

He talked of the child. He wanted a boy who would become a future Duc d'Orleans. She wondered how often he thought of his murdered father. He never spoke of him. Like her he was looking forward; there was only sadness in looking back.

The thought of the child was always with her. It will be a new life, she thought. And she shut out the memory of the violent happenings about her. Her mother did not come to see her. She was too involved in her intrigues. She must not brood on what might be to come. She had had enough of trouble and wanted peace.

September had come. She had carried the child through the hottest months; now she was grateful that the weather was a little cooler.

Her pains started early in the morning. Her labour was long and arduous. She was only half aware of the figures round her bed. There was nothing now but the agony.

She fell into unconsciousness... and when at last she heard the cry of a child, she was not sure where she was. She was riding in the country. It was England and Richard was coming to meet her. They were looking at each other, in a kind of bewilderment. He was the most beautiful creature she had ever seen with his golden hair waving in the breeze and his blue eyes alight with admiration for her and a faint flush on his delicate skin. And for him she was the most beautiful little girl in the world. She could hear his voice telling her so.

"Oh Richard ... Richard ... dear Richard ... I am coming to you now .. "

How had she known? It was some premonition. She had a new life to lead but she was not going to start it. Her happiness had been Richard. There was nothing that could replace that.

They put the child in her arms. A little girl.

Charles, Duc d'Orleans since the murder of his father, was kneeling at her bedside. She could see his anxious eyes. She put out her hand and touched his face. It was wet with tears.

Why did he weep? But she knew.

She was twenty-one years old. It was young to die. But she was ready.

Within a few days after the birth of her child Isabella was dead.

The Queen of England was thoughtful as her women dressed her. She was beautiful, everyone had agreed with that; but she had to grow accustomed to the fact that the people did not like her. She was not very sure that they liked the King himself. They called her the Foreigner and some whispered of him: Usurper. Coming to the throne as he had would naturally mean that there would always be some to raise their voices against him.

Her hair hung in thick curls; and her close-fitting gown accentuated the excellence of her figure. She did not look as if she had had several children. Her women placed the tall Syrian cap on her head. It became her. She would have changed the fashion if it had not done so; she herself arranged the transparent veil.

Life had not been quite what she had expected in England. She supposed that after her arranged marriage to the ageing Duke of Brittany it had seemed romantic when Henry of Lancaster had come to the Court—an exile needing comfort and help, and with a throne to win. And a far ofE lover ... that had been very romantic. Both of them waiting on fate. And when fate had worked in their favour it had seemed like a miracle.

Well, the reality was somehow different.

Kings and Queens could not expect life to run smoothly for them. They were neither of them in their first flush of youth; she was thirty-three years old, Henry four years older; both had known other marriages—fruitful ones. She had her daughters here with her. More important perhaps was the existence of her sons, and their interests, closely allied with France, might not always be the same as those of Henry.

Henry's daughter Blanche was married to Louis, son and heir of the Duke of Bavaria and Elector Palatine of the Rhine. The child had already left England when Joanna arrived. His second daughter, Philippa, would soon be departing for her marriage with Eric of Sweden, and Joanna's own daughters would have to marry sooner or later.

There were too many cares in their lives for romance.

She was fortunate in having been able to form a friendly relationship with the Prince of Wales and she had been greeted warmly by other members of the family.

There was one in particular. She smiled at the thought of him. Joanna liked admiration—who does not?—and coming from such a person as the royal Duke of York it was very welcome.

Henry was deeply immersed in the affairs of the country. He had a great deal to occupy and worry him, and he was often morose. There was a reason for this which she had soon discovered.

It had alarmed her.

She remembered the scene in their bedchamber when he dismissed the servants and would not allow them to assist in his disrobing.

He had had to confess to her for she might easily discover his affliction for herself.

"Joanna," he said, "a terrible misfortune has come upon me."

His face had turned grey as he talked to her and that made more noticeable the marks on his skin which she had thought till then were due to cold winds or sitting too close to the fire, and that they would pass with the aid of balmy weather and unguents.

"I am afflicted by a disease. I know not what it is. I had thought it would pass. But it does not. It affects my skin and at times I feel as though I have been doused in fire. The irritation is sometimes unbearable. Once it showed itself on my face ..." He touched his wrinkled skin. "It disappeared ... or almost did. But I dread its return and it never goes completely away."

She had looked at the marks on his body with growing uneasiness and tried to comfort him. She would consult the keeper of her stillroom. She believed there were ointments which could cure such afflictions.

But she was disturbed and so was Henry.

This man with the fear of a horrible disease which was advancing on him was very different from the romantic lover who had given her a forget-me-not to remember him by.

She had found unguents but they had no effect on him. A terrible thought kept occurring to her. Could it be leprosy?

As she mused one of her women thrust a paper into her hands.

"The Duke of York himself gave it to me," whispered the woman. "He would have me swear to deliver it to no one but you."

"Oh, he becomes too foolish," said Joanna.

"And reckless, too, my lady," giggled the woman. " 'Tis to be hoped this does not come to the King's ears."

Joanna gave the woman a sharp push. "There is no need to fear that," she said sharply. "I may show it to the King myself. There is nothing wrong, my good woman, in writing a verse to a lady of the Court, which is what the Duke has done. In the Courts of Provence and such places it was the natural order of the day."

"Yes, my lady," said the woman quietly.

Joanna looked at the paper.

It was verses, as she had expected it would be, and from that foolish young man. She must warn him. It was gallant of him to find her so beautiful that he sighed for her love, but he must remember that she was the wife of the King and such writing could be dangerous.

She would warn him when next she saw him, not to write so to her again.

She left her women and went to join the King. They would sit side by side in the royal box and watch the jousts. Young Harry would give a good account of himself she doubted not and the people would shout for him. There was something about the boy which won cheers wherever he went.

Henry's face was grey beneath the velvet cap looped up at the side with a fleur de lys. His furred velvet mantle hung loosely on him. Joanna dared not ask him whether more spots had appeared on his skin. She could see a redness on his neck and she wondered what would happen when his face began to be really disfigured.

"I see you looking in good health" he said.

She smiled warmly and heartily wished she could say the same for him.

"Have you seen Harry?" he asked.

"No, but I look forward to his performance. I am sure he will be the champion."

"No doubt of it. The boy gives me cause for alarm, Joanna."

"Has he been in further trouble?"

"I hear stories. They think they ought to tell me. I know he will be the champion. I know that he can lead an army. But there is more to kingship than that."

"He can win the applause of the people," Joanna reminded him. "They love him."

"The people love today and hate tomorrow," said the King ruefully. "Not that they have ever shown much adulation for me. I always had my enemies. I came to the throne through a back door you might say. That is never good for a king."

"You came because the people wanted you. They were tired of Richard. And you were the next..."

"There was the young Earl of March, remember."

"A boy I They wanted you, Henry. You were King by election. You have done well for them."

"They do not like me. Perhaps they will like Harry better ... that is if he mends his ways."

"What have you heard now?"

"That he visits the taverns of London. That he spends hours in the company of low people. That he throws off his royalty and is one of them. It will not serve him well, Joanna."

"Have you spoken to him?"

"I have in the past. There is an insolence about him. He is the Prince of Wales. He has the people with him. He implies that he does not need me. I believe he would be ready to take the throne from me."