‘So she, too, will be alone.’
‘It is the way our lives go. I must not stay. They will miss me.’
‘She will miss you,’ she murmured.
‘Marie. Before I go. The child …’
She rose. ‘She is sleeping.’
‘Let me see her.’
She led the way into a room, where lying on a pallet was a child a little over a year old.
‘How lovely she is,’ he said.
‘She has a look of you. The same tawny hair … the blue eyes. I shall have her to remind me.’
‘She shall never want. Nor shall you.’
‘I know it,’ said Marie. ‘She must never want, because she is your daughter.’
‘You may trust me to make all arrangements. It is to assure you of this that I came.’
He knelt by the pallet and bending kissed the child. She smiled in her sleep.
They went back to the table; he drank a little of the wine and ate one of the wine cakes. He explained what arrangements would be made for her and the child.
Then he took his farewell. They stood facing each other, both deeply moved. She had meant so much to him; he had trusted her. Here in the dark room when he had lain beside her after making love he had talked of his dreams, of how he resented being born the fourth son instead of the first, of how he longed to be a king. He could talk to Marie as freely as he could talk to Isolda and no one else. ‘I have the blood of kings in my veins,’ he had said. ‘I was born to rule, but born too late.’
And she listened as Isolda had listened; and she commiserated and soothed him and understood.
It was over now. They had always known it must be some day. Once he had thought Marie would always be there in his life and so she would have been if they had married him to anyone but Blanche.
Blanche filled his thoughts. There was something in her which appealed to his manhood. Soft and white and vulnerable. That was it. Heiress as she was, stem of a royal tree, she needed to be protected.
He said goodbye to Marie and he chided himself because he felt less sad than he should. Marie and her child should always be cared for. But he was in love with Blanche.
Those summer days passed delightfully for the young married pair. Each day it seemed they were more and more in love. The King and the Queen watched with pleasure and continued to sigh because the Prince of Wales still avoided the same happy state.
It was with great joy that Blanche at length discovered that she was pregnant.
John was exultant. In an unguarded moment he cried, ‘If this child is a boy, he may one day be King of England.’
Blanche was a little shaken. ‘Oh, my dear husband, there are many before him.’
‘Many,’ agreed John. ‘But who can see into the future?’
She said nothing, but she knew of his great ambition and it gave her a certain apprehension. She accepted the fact that he was bold and ambitious but her father had taught her that duty and honour were greater blessings than titles and lands and she knew her father was right. There had been a strong bond between them, because she supposed she was the only child who was near him, Matilda being far away.
She prayed each night that her child would be a boy, for she could not bear to disappoint her husband.
In October of that year John went to France with his father. The truce which had been made two years before with the capture of the King of France was coming to an end and as the Dauphin of France refused to recognise the treaty his father had agreed to in captivity it was clear that Edward would have to attempt to enforce it. Preparations had been going on during the summer months and the King, in accordance with the custom at such times, had made a tour of the holy shrines accompanied by members of his family with their households.
The great cavalcade made its way through the country and it was cheered wherever it went. The people were certain that great Edward could not fail and soon these wretched wars with France would be over and Edward would attain the crown which for so long he had made such determined efforts to get. It was true all had thought the war was over when the King of France had ridden into England with his captor the Black Prince; but now it seemed there was a wicked Dauphin who was determined to cling to the crown for himself.
So it was war again.
In the household of Lionel and his wife Elizabeth was a young man who interested Blanche. He was about the same age as her husband – bright-eyed, intelligent; seeming different from other pages. He was in favour with Elizabeth and Lionel and looked quite elegant in his parti-coloured breeches of red and black – the fashionable colours at the moment. He even had a silk paltok, the new kind of coat which was very elegant.
Blanche would find his eyes on her whenever he was near. She was amused and asked him why he stared at her.
He told her that he had never in his life seen anyone as beautiful as she was.
Such a comment might have been impertinent from one in his lowly position but it was given with an air of dignity and Blanche graciously accepted it.
She asked her sister-in-law who the young page was and Elizabeth laughed and said, ‘Oh, he is an interesting boy. He writes clever verses. Both Lionel and I encourage him. He is the son of a vintner who distinguished himself in the wars. His name is Geoffrey Chaucer.’
Blanche found herself watching for the young man and she always had a smile for him when they met.
His admiration gratified her. There were plenty to admire her of course, but there was something rather unusual about the young page.
In due course the army left and Blanche must say farewell to her husband.
The Queen was sad. She hated these wars. ‘Would to God the King had never got it into his head that he had a claim to the throne of France,’ she confided to Blanche. ‘How much happier we should all be if there were not this continual fighting. I never sleep peacefully when the King is away because when he is he is always engaged in battle. My dear Blanche, you will condole with me for alas, John is with him.’
They were great friends and had been all Blanche’s life for Blanche had spent a large part of her early life in Philippa’s household. Children loved the Queen; she was the natural mother and even those who were not her own children had a share of her affection.
‘When they go away,’ Philippa mourned, ‘we can never be sure when they will come back. It may be a year or more.’
‘I hope by the time John returns that our child will be born and oh how fervently I hope that it will be a boy.’
‘My dear child, you must not hope too much. It is better to wait patiently and see what God sends you. If it is a girl don’t fret. You are both so young. You have time to get boys.’
‘John longs for a boy.’
‘John would. I sometimes think he is the most ambitious of my sons. And Lionel is the happiest because he is content with his lot. He was born in Antwerp. You see his father had started the war against France even then and I was with him. Oh this war, will it never end! But let us talk of happier things than war. I trust you are resting when you feel tired. I have some fine silk which I will give you for some of the baby’s garments.’
The company of Queen Philippa was certainly comforting. Blanche needed that comfort when her child was born, for the longed-for son was denied her. It was a little girl they brought and laid in her arms.
For herself she would have been content. But she thought what John’s disappointment would be when he heard that she had not given him the boy he longed for.
Blanche wanted to call her Philippa after the Queen and Philippa was delighted that the child should be so named.