The Star of Lancaster (7 page)

She felt limp and exhausted.

She had gained a child – a
girl
child and lost a fortune.

Mary was bewildered. There was no time to think very much about anything but the approaching wedding. She was in a state of blissful happiness, but the rapidity with which everything was happening could not fail to make her feel somewhat bemused. She had expected betrothal but not this hurried wedding. It was not that she had any doubts about her love for Henry. She wanted to marry him; but she had naturally thought that in view of their ages they would wait for a year at least.

But no, said the Duke of Lancaster. They would have this happy matter settled without delay. Henry wanted it. She wanted it. And the Duke wanted their happiness.

In the circumstances he thought it wise that the ceremony should take place at his palace of the Savoy. It would be simpler than having it at Cole Harbour which he believed was an uncomfortable draughty place.

Mary confirmed that this was so. ‘There is Pleshy,’ she suggested.

The Duke said hastily that he thought the Savoy would be more suitable.

‘It is one of our homes,’ he said, ‘and one particularly dear to me. After the ceremony you and Henry can go to Hertford or Leicester or perhaps Kenilworth. I think Henry will want to show you Kenilworth. I believe it to be his favourite of all our castles.’

Mary said she would be pleased to go wherever Henry wished, which made the great Duke take her hand, kiss it and declare that Henry was indeed lucky to have found such a bride.

They were wonderful days. She and Henry rode together through the forest. He told her of how he hoped to stand beside his father and bring glory back to England. He seemed to her so knowledgeable of the world. He was on intimate terms with the King. ‘We’re cousins,’ he said, ‘and of an age. Three years ago we received the Order of the Garter together. That was when the old King was alive. It was just before he died. He was a sick old man then. I remember him as little else, but people say that when he was young he was goodly to look on. Then he was a faithful husband and a strong King.’

She loved to hear of these matters many of which she had heard discussed at Pleshy but they seemed more colourful and exciting coming from Henry. Or it may have been that as his wife she would have her part to play in them.

He talked of Alice Perrers, the loose woman of whom the old King had become enamoured. She had bewitched him and robbed him and had even started to do so before Good Queen Philippa died.

‘I shall be faithful to you for ever, sweet Mary,’ vowed Henry.

She swore that she would be true to him.

They were idyllic days.

But there was one small fear which had started in her mind. She had overheard women talking as women will – and all the talk at Arundel was of the coming marriage.

‘Oh ’tis a wonderful marriage. The best for the little Lady Mary. Why young Henry is the cousin of the King and the grandson of great Edward and the son of the great John of Gaunt. How much higher could she go than that . . . lest it was the King himself?’

‘But she is so young. Are they going to put them to bed together . . . Two children like that.’

‘The Earl of Derby is not so young. He’s rising fifteen. I have known boys of that age give a good account of themselves and I’ll swear young Henry is no exception.’

‘I was thinking of the Lady Mary.’

Talk like that disturbed her; and it was not once that she was aware of these allusions.

Henry noticed that she was disturbed and she told him why.

He was all concern. Yes, there was that side to marriage but she need not fear. He knew what must be done and she could leave it to him. ‘You see, because of who I am we have to get children. We want sons.’

‘I always wanted children,’ she told him. ‘That was one of the reasons why I hesitated about going into the convent.’

‘Always remember that I saved you from that.’ He laughed at her fears. ‘Nay, there is nothing to fear. You will like well what must be done. I promise you that. We’ll have lusty sons. How will you like that?’

She would like it very well, she told him. And she wondered why the women had tut-tutted and looked grave.

Whatever she had to do with Henry would be good, she was sure.

They sang together; they played chess; and she was fitted for the most splendid garments she had ever had. It was exhilarating until the messenger came from Pleshy with a letter from Eleanor. It was clearly written in a rage. Eleanor could not understand what had happened to her little sister whom she had always thought to be a saint in the making. How mistaken she had been for it was now disclosed that Mary was deceitful in the extreme. She had pretended to want the religious life, when all the time she was nothing more than a wanton. She had betrothed herself to Henry of Derby without consulting her sister. ‘After all we have done for you, Thomas and I,’ wrote Eleanor, ‘you treat us like this. I am deeply wounded. I beg of you stop this folly and come back to Pleshy. Here we will talk out these matters. We will see what it means. Why do you think John of Lancaster is so eager for this match? If you had been some girl without a fortune do you think Henry of Bolingbroke would have been so eager to marry you . . .?’

Mary paused and thought: Had I been I should never have met him in this way. It was because I was staying at Arundel with my uncle and aunt that I did.

‘It is clear to me that it is your fortune which makes this marriage into the house of Lancaster so attractive to them,’ went on Eleanor’s letter.

And, thought Mary, it is my fortune that makes you so eager for me to go into a convent that I may resign my share for you. Oh dear! How I wish I were indeed a penniless girl!

That was foolish. Eleanor was right. John of Gaunt was
pleased because of her fortune. It was different with Henry. She was sure he would have loved her whoever she was. But the marriage was welcomed because of the money. She was not so unworldly that she did not know that.

‘Come back to Pleshy without delay,’ commanded Eleanor. ‘We will talk of this matter. We will put our heads together and decide what is best for you.’

She wrote back and asked Eleanor to come to Arundel. She was so caught up with the arrangements for the wedding that she could not travel. Eleanor would have recovered from the birth of dear little Joan now. But perhaps she would rather wait and join the celebrations at the Savoy.

Eleanor was not one to give up. Mary
must
come back. Out of gratitude she must come. The Abbess was desolate. She was sure it was wrong for Mary to marry so hastily and while she was so young. Let her return to Pleshy. Let her talk with her sister. Let her remember all that Eleanor and her brother-in-law Thomas had done for her.

Mary showed Eleanor’s letters to Henry. She wanted there to be no secrets between them, she said.

Henry read the letters and said: ‘There is an angry woman. Sister though she may be to you, I would not let you go near her. Why she might lock you up and starve you into submission.’

‘Oh she is not such an ogre as that.’

‘
I
am protecting you from now on, Mary.’

She was consoled. She was always so happy with Henry; she had even ceased to worry about the matter of the marriage bed.

A few days before they were due to leave for the Savoy Mary’s mother the Countess of Hereford arrived at Arundel.

She had of course been informed of the coming marriage of her younger daughter and she was somewhat uneasy about it.

She would have preferred Mary to have remained in her care but in accordance with the custom, as Mary was a great heiress, she must become a ward of some person of high standing. There was no one of higher standing under the King than John of Gaunt and as Eleanor was already married to his brother Thomas of Woodstock, the Countess had no alternative but to let her daughter go.

She could not of course complain about the husband selected for her. The eldest son of John of Gaunt, heir to the Lancastrian estates, a few years older than Mary, healthy, already a Knight of the Garter – there could not have been a more satisfactory match. But what concerned the Countess was the youth of her daughter.

Mary was a child, as yet unready for marriage in the Countess’s view, and she should not marry until she was at least fourteen.

She embraced her daughter warmly and looked searchingly into her face.

She was certain there had been no coercion. The child looked very happy.

She sought an early opportunity of speaking with the Duke of Lancaster.

‘I am happy about the marriage,’ she said, ‘apart from one aspect of it.’

The Duke looked haughty as though wondering what aspect could possibly be displeasing about a marriage with
his
son.

‘It is the youth of my daughter.’

‘She is just eleven years old.’

‘It is too young for marriage.’

‘They are both young.’

‘Too young, my lord. Let them be betrothed and marry . . . say in two years’ time.’

Lancaster appeared to consider that although he had no intention of doing so. Wait two years? Let Thomas and his harridan of a wife get to work on the girl? They would have her packed into a convent by some devious means in no time.

‘Poor Mary,’ he said, ‘she would be so unhappy. Wait until you see them together. They are so delighted to be in each other’s company. No I could not allow that. They shall live together . . . naturally like two children . . .’

‘I do not think girls of that age should have children.’

‘Children! They won’t have children for years. They are so innocent. You should hear them singing in harmony. They ride; they dance; they play chess. It is such a joy to see them. No, my dear Countess; they must marry. I understand a mother’s feelings, but let me assure you that there is no need for the slightest apprehension.’

‘I will have a talk with my daughter,’ said the Countess.

John of Gaunt was uneasy. He wished the Countess had not come to Arundel but it had naturally been necessary to tell her what was planned for her daughter. She was a shrewd woman. She would understand why Eleanor was trying to force the girl into a convent. But at the same time she would do all she could to keep Mary unmarried until she reached what she would consider a suitable age.

The Countess talked to Mary.

‘My dear child,’ she said, ‘you are very young for marriage.’

‘Others have said that, my lady,’ replied her daughter. ‘But Henry and I love each other and are so happy together. He does not mind that I am young.’

‘You must understand that there are obligations.’

‘I know what you mean. It is the marriage bed, is it not?’

The Countess was a little taken aback.

‘What do you know of these matters?’

‘That there is nothing to fear . . . if one loves.’

She was quoting Henry. The Countess guessed that. There was no doubt that John of Gaunt was right when he said they loved each other.

‘I have asked the Duke to put off the wedding. At least for a year. Then we could consider again when it should be.’

Mary looked very woebegone.

‘And will he do that?’

The Countess put an arm about her daughter and held her firmly against her. She thought: No, he will not. He wants your fortune for his son. Dear child, what did she know of the ways of the world?

At least she could console herself. The child was happy. So many girls in her position were forced into marriages which were distasteful to them. None could say that of Mary.

The Countess knew the determination of John of Gaunt. No matter how she protested, the marriage would take place.

She must resign herself to the fact that it was what Mary wanted.

So they were married and there was great rejoicing in John of Gaunt’s palace of the Savoy, which was to be expected as this was the marriage of his son and heir. Mary was made to feel that she was marrying into the greatest family in the land and that her marriage was even more brilliant than that of Eleanor. Eleanor was not present. She had declined the invitation from her false sister; and Thomas was still in France.

This breach created a mild sadness in the bride’s heart but she did not dwell on it. Henry had made her see that Eleanor was in fact more interested in the de Bohun fortune than the happiness of her younger sister, and Mary was beginning to look to Henry and to accept what interpretation he put on all matters, and as Henry was always only too delighted to tell her and she to listen, they grew fonder of each other every day.