Виктория Холт - Passage to Pontefract

John ground his teeth in envy. Another boy. Another to stand between him and the throne.

Whatever Isolda said fate was mocking him.

Blanche had decided that her child should be born in the Lancastrian castle of Bolingbroke. This had been one of her father’s castles which was now in the hands of her husband. She had always had a fancy for the place although many of the servants believed that it was haunted. A very strange kind of ghost was this one. It was said to be the spirit of some tormented soul which took the shape of a hare which had been seen running through the castle and some swore they had been thrown by it as it passed swiftly between their legs.

Blanche remembered her father’s telling how a pantler of the castle who had once tripped while carrying wine had blamed the hare, but it seemed more likely that he had been indulging too freely in the cellars.

There was an old story that once some bold spirits had gathered together a pack of hounds to hunt the hare. They had pursued it through the rooms of the castle down the spiral staircases to the cellars. Then the hounds had come dashing out, mad to escape, their hair on end, their eyes wild and none of them would enter the castle again.

In all her sojourns at the castle Blanche had never seen the hare and as the fancy had come to her to visit Bolingbroke, hither she had come and decided that it should be the birthplace of her child.

Here she awaited the event and thought constantly of John, praying to God and the saints to bring him safely through the battle.

She sent for Isolda who was a great comfort to her, for she believed that Isolda had some rare gift of looking into the future. Isolda was sure that her beloved John was coming home safely. She was sure too that this time there was going to be a healthy boy.

So while the winter days grew a little longer and the signs of spring increased with passing time, Blanche waited at the Castle of Bolingbroke for the birth of her child.

On the battle field of Nájara the Black Prince with his brother John of Gaunt was ready to fight the cause of Pedro of Castile.

Against them was the army of Henry of Trastamare. ‘This day,’ the Prince had said to Pedro, ‘we shall decide whether or not you are to have your throne.’

He had begun to doubt Pedro. Henry of Trastamare had written to him in a manner which seemed frank and plausible. Pedro was known throughout Castile as The Cruel. He had shed much innocent blood. Legitimate he might be but Castile suffered under him and the people of Castile would be overjoyed to see him deposed. The great Black Prince had no notion of the man he was dealing with. If he really knew Pedro the Cruel he would recognise him as a false friend.

‘Ha,’ said the Prince, ‘it is clear that Bastard Henry has no stomach for the conflict. The battle is as good as won.’

So they rode forward and there was not a man in Henry of Trastamare’s ranks who was not aware that that military legend the Black Prince came against them and in their hearts they knew that the hero of Crécy and Poitiers was undefeatable.

They saw him there, at the head of his army, his black armour making him easily identifiable.

From the moment they heard his shout: ‘Advance, banner in the name of God and St George. And God defend our right!’ the result was a foregone conclusion. All knew that the Black Prince was the greatest soldier in the world next to his father and his great-grandfather; and the former was growing old and the latter was dead. He had gathered under his banner the flower of English chivalry and there was not a man who did not regard it as the greatest honour to serve under him.

The battle was over. Henry of Trastamare had fled the field. The Black Prince had given Pedro the Cruel his kingdom. He had shown the world that even for a King of questionable worth he would fight rather than a bastard should usurp his right.

They rode back to Bordeaux. The Black Prince looked weary as John had never seen him look before. There was a faint yellowish tinge in his usually fresh-coloured face.

‘You are unwell, Edward,’ said John.

‘I confess to certain disorders,’ admitted Edward. ‘Of late I have been aware of them. I pray you do not mention this to Joan. She would have me in bed and be acting the nurse to me.’

John nodded but he thought, Joan will have only to look at you, brother, to see that all is not well.

When they reached the castle, there were letters from England.

Great waves of exultation swept over John.

Blanche had been safely delivered of a son.

She had christened him Henry. ‘Henry of Bolingbroke, they are calling him, for, my husband, I decided that he should be born in our castle of that name. He is well formed, lusty, perfect in every way. I long to show him to you.’

A son, Henry of Bolingbroke! Born three months after Richard of Bordeaux.

It was the greater victory.

At last … a son.

Queen Philippa, suffering as she was from a dropsical complaint, was scarcely able to move. Her women helped her from her bed to her chair where she would sit with her needlework and dream of the past.

She was always delighted to see members of her family, and that included her daughter-in-law Blanche of Lancaster who contrived to spend much time with her.

During this year the Queen had come to Windsor Castle, one of her favourite residences and there she found it expedient to remain for the progress from palace to palace was too exhausting to be undertaken unless there was some important reason why she should do so.

In spite of her sufferings she was amiable and was always interested in the activities of those around her, ready to share in their triumphs and commiserate in their tribulations.

Blanche was a great favourite with her. There was a similarity in their characters. They were both capable of deep affection; and ready to forget themselves in their service to the loved one. Neither of them was of a complaining nature. They did mention however when their husbands were absent that they missed them, but both of them accepted these partings philosophically and the similarity of their lives was an added factor which drew them closer together.

Philippa would sit with her women at one end of the apartment stitching at garments for the poor or working on an altar cloth while Blanche sat close beside her where they could talk intimately. Philippa’s hands would be busy and so would Blanche’s. The Queen had never approved of idleness.

It pleased her very much to know that Blanche was pregnant once more.

‘It is good that John is home again,’ she said. ‘I trust my dear that it will be long ere he has to go to war again. I’ll swear you are hoping for another boy.’

‘It is what John wants.’

‘Your young Henry is a rascal I’ll be bound.’

Blanche’s face betrayed her pride and joy in her only son.

‘My lady, I know all mothers think their children are the best in the world, but Henry …’

‘Henry really is the most beautiful and clever child that ever was born.’ The Queen smiled. ‘I understand, dear Blanche. I was so with mine. Every one of them filled me with wonder. If you could have seen Edward as a baby! Of course he was the first-born. And Lionel. He was big from the start. And dear John. Such an imperious young gentleman. Then Edmund and Thomas. And the girls of course. They were just as dear to me. I had my sadnesses. Death has taken its toll. But when I look at my fine sons I can rejoice. Oh Blanche, if you are as happy in your family as I am in mine you will be a fortunate woman. But we must remember that while God gives with one hand, He takes away with the other; and He has always his reason for doing so and that, dear daughter, we must accept.’