Виктория Холт - The Vow on the Heron

‘I call it love,’ he answered.

‘It is not love that comes in a few moments,’ she answered. ‘Not that true love such as I have for my husband and you have for your wife.’

‘I tell you this. There was never one who affected me as deeply as you do.’

‘Nay, my lord. I am a woman like others. You like my face and form. That is all. Of me, the true woman, you know little.’

‘I know that you are as brave as a lion and as stubborn as a mule.’

‘Then, my lord, I beg of you, turn your thoughts from me.’

‘I could take you if I wished. You might protest never so much and none would heed you if it were the King’s pleasure that they did not.’

‘That is true,’ she said, ‘but I know that you never would.’

‘It seems you know as little of me as you say I know of you.’

‘I see in your eyes, my lord, that though you would break your marriage vows and ask me to do the same, you would not violate a woman. You would respect her will for you know full well that gratification you seek would never be yours if you did so and all you would know would be shame.’

‘You are bold, Countess,’ he said.

‘As you are, my lord.’

He took her hand and pressed his lips to it. ‘Methinks I love you more with every passing minute,’ he said.

‘My lord, I will wish you good night. It is better so. You will agree with me. I shall pray to God to preserve you and drive from your noble heart those villainous thoughts which have temporarily possessed it. I am ever ready to serve you as your faithful subject, but only in that which is consistent with your honour and mine.’

She withdrew her hands and opening the door went out. She went to the room which she had selected. She drew the bolt and lay down on the bed. She was exhausted but no longer so fearful.

He would never take her by force so she had nothing to fear. For she would never break her marriage vows.

* * *

Edward left for Berwick next morning.

He was silent and it was clear that his thoughts were far away from the war with Scotland.

He would never be contented again, he told himself. How could he be when Catharine was the wife of another man and he was married to Philippa?

His disloyalty struck him forcibly. He wished that he could stop thinking of Philippa. He could not. She was so much a part of his life, the mother of his beloved children. Yet he would have dismissed her, their children and their life together for Catharine Montacute.

It would not have been like that. He and Catharine could have been lovers and Philippa need never have known anything about it.

The thought made him smile wryly. How many people in Wark last night had slyly noted his obsession? They would be talking of it, whispering of it, nodding their heads over it. They had always marvelled at his fidelity to Philippa.

How noble Catharine had been ! She was the sort of woman who would die for her beliefs and she believed it wrong that he and she should break their marriage vows.

She was not only beautiful, she was peerless. The arch of her eyebrows, the pure line of her profile, the way she held her head ... all this he could see quite clearly and would remember for ever.

If she were his Queen he would be the happiest man on earth.

Philippa seemed to stand before him—her calm eyes sorrowful. She would understand of course. Philippa had always understood. Poor Philippa, she had never really been a beauty. He realized that more than ever when he compared her with the incomparable Catherine—plump Philippa, with her shining rosy cheeks and the goodness which was apparent in her very expression! He had always thought he had the best wife in the world ... but now he had seen Catherine.

And so it went on.

He was wretched. He had no heart for the fight. He was tired of the Scottish war. He wanted to go south, to put as much distance between himself and temptation as possible. He would go to France. Fight for his crown there. Sometimes he felt the Scots would never be subdued. They could always retire to their stronghold in the mountains and the strife could go on indefinitely.

There was news from Philippa. She was pregnant again. He should rejoice for he loved his children and could not have too many of them. But the thought of Philippa so disturbed his conscience that he felt more uneasy than ever.

Philippa reminded him that she had heard nothing for some time from their dear sister Eleanor, the wife of the Duke of Gueldres, and as Eleanor had corresponded frequently with her she hoped that was not a bad sign.

It was a relief to let his thoughts stray momentarily from his own affairs. Raynald of Gueldres, his sister’s husband, had been his firm ally in France. It was eight years since Eleanor had married him and she now had two healthy sons and had always appeared to be happy. Of course his sisters had had a very different childhood from that of his children. Perhaps memories of his early days had made him especially tender with his own children. How different his parents had been from himself and Philippa! His father had not been unkind but never interested in them and his mother had cared nothing at all for the girls and only for himself and his brother because of the importance they could be to her. So when Eleanor had gone to Gueldres she had been prepared to adjust herself. She had never been indulged as his own daughters had—particularly Isabella.

There must be some simple reason why she had not written. He was sure all was well in Gueldres.

Philippa’s news had steadied him a little, reminded him of the felicity of his family life so far. Catharine was right. It would have been wrong to disrupt it. Many of his ancestors had had mistresses and it had been considered quite a natural state of affairs. There had even once been a breath of scandal about the Conqueror. His grandfather had been a faithful husband and so had his great grandfather. They had set an example to the family. His own father had disgraced it, but even he had been faithful to his lovers.

As the days passed he began to see that Catharine had been right. Neither he nor she were the kind to indulge in a light love affair. Theirs would have been too deep a passion for that. And Philippa, how she would have grieved!

He made a decision. The first thing he would do would be to bring Catharine’s husband back to her. That would show her the nature of his devotion.

He had made several attempts to bring his friend out of captivity but the price demanded by Philip had been too high.

He immediately sent messengers to France to ask Philip which prisoner he would like in exchange for the Earl of Salisbury.

Philip asked for the Earl of Moray, whom Edward had captured a short while before with great elation for Moray was reckoned to be one of the finest Scottish leaders, a man who would be a great asset to young David the Bruce.

Philip would naturally ask a great price.

Edward agreed to it.

The Earl of Salisbury is one of my greatest friends,’ he said.

And when he thought of how he had attempted to seduce his wife he was ashamed. But his desire for the beautiful Countess burned as strongly as ever.

The Earl returned to England and Edward made a truce with the Scots and marched south.

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.