Виктория Холт: Epitaph for Three Women

He put his hand over hers and held it tightly. ‘Then we go ahead, eh … without delay.’

She was gazing before her, smiling, seeing herself riding back through Hainault, Holland and Zealand, a strong husband beside her.

Humphrey smiled with her, seeing much the same; but the saucy serving-girl crossed his vision again. He was thinking: She will be a girl of some experience.

It was growing late. There was much to be done. They would ride off together tomorrow and the marriage should take place without delay. He retired to the chamber which had been prepared for him and wrapping his bed-robe round himself he sat on his bed thinking of the future. He had dismissed his servants.

He thought of Jacqueline and wondered whether she was expecting him.

Perhaps it would have been a loving gesture. He imagined himself taking her into his arms. ‘I could not wait for the ceremony, my love, so great was my need of you.’

No. It would not ring true. Jacqueline was too clever.

There was that other. A certain excitement was rising at the thought of her. It would be easy. He could send one of his servants to find her. They had performed missions like that for him often enough and would do so with discreet efficiency. If he wished it within fifteen minutes he would have the girl in his bed.

He was about to summon his servant. Then he hesitated. No. Perhaps it would not be wise. His brother John had said to him time and time again, ‘You’re too impulsive Humphrey. One day that impulsiveness will lead you into trouble.’

Why think of John now? Hardly the time to think of the good elder brother, the noble one, Henry’s favourite. John was not going to be overpleased by this marriage with Jacqueline. Yes, even John would lose his calm when he heard of that.

Still, perhaps it would be a mistake to send for the girl. Jacqueline might discover. And if she did … who knew. He thought he understood Jacqueline but he had had a great deal to do with women, and knowing them well, the one fact he was certain of was that one could never be sure of them.

He, who had lived through so many erotic adventures, could surely spend one night without one. I will, he told himself, for the sake of Hainault, Holland and Zealand.

John, Duke of Bedford, was a very uneasy man. There was scarcely a moment of the day when he did not bitterly regret the passing of his brother Henry. John was the one who had lived more closely in his brother’s shadow than any of the others. Henry and he had worked together, trusted each other, understood each other. It was as though part of him had died when Henry went, thought John, and the better part.

Sometimes it seemed to him that there was a blight on the family. Could it have been the result of their father’s taking the throne from Richard? There were some who believed such actions could bring a curse on a whole family. Not long after his accession their father, King Henry IV, had died of a loathsome disease. He had never enjoyed the power he had fought so hard to win. In fact John was sure that at times he longed for those days when he had been plain Bolingbroke. Crowns brought fearful responsibilities and it was only such as Henry – born to be King if ever a man was – who could carry them with ease and the certain knowledge of success.

But Henry had died – cut off in his prime. He would never have believed that was possible. In the old days they had jousted together, played jokes on each other, dreamed of the future. And how differently it had turned out! There had been four of them, Henry, Thomas, himself and Humphrey. And now only two of them left. Thomas had died only a year before Henry. But his death was more understandable because he had been slain in battle.

Henry had loved him dearly. John clearly remembered the tragedy of Thomas’s death.

Henry had made him Captain of Normandy and Lieutenant of France. Poor Thomas, how proud he had been. But he was impetuous … always in a hurry. It will be his downfall, Henry had said; and how right he had been! If only he had waited; if only he had curbed his impatience. But Thomas wanted as glorious a victory as Agincourt. Henry would never have allowed it to happen the way it did – and consequently it cost poor Thomas his life. The Dauphin’s forces had advanced to Beaufort-en-Vallée and got as far as Beaugé. When the news was brought to Thomas he was eager to go into the attack. Henry would have warned him to wait until he could muster the main force; but being Thomas he could never wait for anything. So with a few chosen knights he rode into the attack and was slain.

Poor Thomas, he had yearned so for glory. He wanted to be as great as Henry. But alas, he was not. The tragedy is, thought John, that none of us is.

The Earl of Salisbury had recovered Thomas’s body from the battlefield and it had been brought to England and buried with great pomp at Canterbury, where the English paid homage to him, believing him to be almost as great a soldier as his brother.

And after Thomas the big tragedy: the death of Henry.

Only two of us boys left, thought John. Humphrey and myself.

The thought worried him and he wondered how much he could rely on Humphrey.

And now the King of France was dead. It was a calamity although not unexpected. When he had lived Henry had longed for it, for on the death of the King of France, Henry was to have been proclaimed that country’s king. That would have been a great and glorious occasion. But now there was only a baby boy where a strong man should have been. Moreover there was a Dauphin who would now call himself King of France and the English invaders must inevitably find themselves surrounded by a hostile people. None understood more than John that a proud people like the French would never submit to a foreign invader and accept a foreigner as their King.

A great deal depended on Burgundy. Henry had always said: ‘We need Burgundy.’ In fact the downfall of France was in a great measure due to the warring factions in the heart of her country. The long-standing feud between Orléans and Burgundy had weakened France to such an extent that the conquest had been more easily accomplished than it could possibly have been if the French had been united against the common enemy.

Henry had made John aware of the importance of Burgundy. Even on his death bed his thoughts had been of the Duke. He had gripped John’s hand and talked to him very earnestly and had said: ‘I leave the government of France in your hands, brother. But if Burgundy has a mind to undertake it, leave it to him. Above all things, I tell you to have no dissension with Burgundy. If that should happen – and may God preserve you from it – the affairs of France with which we have progressed so favourably would become bad … for us.’

They were words which were engraved on John’s mind because he had come to realise the wisdom of them. He was not likely to forget the importance of keeping the peace with Burgundy.

France was in turmoil. While mad Charles had still borne the name of King of France there was a respite. The French could go on believing that a usurper had not taken the throne. But now Charles was dead and action must be taken to bring the French to reality, so after the burial of Charles VI at St Denis, John had no alternative but to have the baby Henry VI declared King of France. This proclamation must take place in Paris and as the time grew nearer the more uneasy John became.

The body of the King of France was taken to St Denis and there with appropriate ceremony laid to rest, The only Prince to attend was John, Duke of Bedford. He had hoped that Burgundy would be there, but clearly Burgundy would have no desire to pay homage to the Duke of Bedford. He could not expect that.

So far so good. The ceremony had progressed without incident. Now came the testing point. He must ride back to Paris and there proclaim his nephew King of France.