She was thirty-three years of age – young enough of course to marry again. She was still beautiful, though she had lost her willowy figure and was a plump matron now, but it seemed she was as fascinating as ever.
John received the news from the Queen who was half delighted, half apprehensive.
‘Your brother has married,’ she told John. ‘It has surprised us all.’
‘Married. Which … brother?’
‘Edward of course. I think he was always attracted by her and now she has overcome his objections to marriage and it has already taken place in secret if you please.’
‘My dear lady mother, pray tell me of whom you speak.’
‘I speak of the Prince of Wales and his wife of Kent.’
‘Joan! She is so recently widowed.’
‘I know but she was never one to let the grass grow under her feet.’
‘I thought there was talk of her marrying Sir Bernard de Brocas, that knight of Gascony. He is deeply enamoured of her, I believe, and it seemed most suitable.’
‘Suitable indeed but not good enough for Joan. Edward approached her about de Brocas and she made it very clear that she would take none but himself and then he realised that that was what he wanted and was the reason for his remaining unmarried all this time. They are deeply in love.’
‘And what says the King?’
‘He was uneasy at first. He thinks Joan over flighty and of course – though pray God it will be many years yet – she will be the next Queen of England.’
John was silent. Dreams were disintegrating before his eyes. They will have children, he thought. She has already shown herself fertile with Holland. There will be her sons to stand between me and the crown. And first Edward himself. Who would have believed that life could deal him such blows! After making him a rich man it had then made well nigh impossible the greatest dream of all.
There was nothing to do but accept the position. The Black Prince was married at last and to his sweetheart of years ago. Neither of them was in their first youth but there were a few years ahead for childbearing. How could fate be so cruel!
Of course there was some delay. But Joan and the Prince snapped their fingers at ceremonies. At least Joan did and Edward followed her. But in due course the papal dispensation arrived and in October the espousals were celebrated at Lambeth by the Archbishop of Canterbury. That Christmas Joan and Edward entertained the entire royal family at their home in Berkhamsted; and the people from the surrounding country joined in the festivities. It was a great occasion, the marriage of the Black Prince, which was all the more to be enjoyed because it had been delayed so long.
After Christmas great preparations were afoot for the Prince and his family to leave for France. The King had made him Prince of Aquitaine and Gascony and he was to set out with his wife and entourage for Bordeaux.
During that very month when Edward and Joan sailed for Bordeaux, Matilda, Blanche’s sister, arrived in England to take possession of her inheritance.
She had not been more than a few weeks in England when she caught the plague and within a day or so was dead.
Blanche was now her father’s sole heiress and the entire Lancastrian fortune, by courtesy of her marriage, was in the hands of John of Gaunt.
He reflected with Isolda on the strangeness of fate which seemed determined to shower blessings on him with one hand and take them away with the other.
So there he was rich beyond his dreams but his path to the throne it seemed blocked for ever by Edward’s marriage to the lusty Joan.
He considered the situation with Isolda. Joan was two years older than her husband; but she had already borne five children and could bear Edward sons. Once she did that – one or two boys … that would be the death knell of his hopes.
‘The greatest man in the kingdom …’ crooned Isolda.
‘Next to the King and my brother of Wales. There is also Lionel.’
He was in possession of the earldom of Richmond, of Derby, Leicester and of course Lancaster. His father, delighted at the turn of events, rejoicing in his foresight in arranging the match with Blanche of Lancaster, decided to make him a Duke, and one dull November day John knelt before his father and was girded with the sword, and the cap was set on his head while he was proclaimed a Duke – Duke of Lancaster.
More than ever he longed for a son but when Blanche was next brought to bed, she was delivered of a daughter. He could have wept with mortification, though he kept his disappointment from Blanche.
They called the girl Elizabeth and he loved her even as he loved her elder sister Philippa, but he went on longing for a boy.
His bitterness was great when news came from Aquitaine that Joan had produced a fine boy. There was great rejoicing throughout the court and the country. It was fitting that the Black Prince should give the country an heir who would be exactly like himself. They christened the boy Edward. There was a feeling that that was a kingly name. People forgot that there had been one Edward – the Second – who had been slightly less than kingly. The Prince was there to step into his father’s shoes, already loved and revered by the people – and he had not disappointed them. There was another Edward and a little one in his cradle to grow up in the light of his father’s wisdom – a little king in the making.
John curbed his disappointment. He would have hated Blanche to know his feelings. His love for her was idealised, as was hers for him.
He could talk to Isolda about the new turn of events, but she continued to look wise – almost as though she were some soothsayer who could see into the future. He half believed that she feigned this for his pleasure; but sometimes he felt that she had some insight and she continued to insist that there was a crown close to him.
Blanche was once more pregnant. So was Joan of Kent.
The King was in close conversation with his son and on the table before him lay letters from Bordeaux.
‘Your brother is eager that you should join him,’ said Edward, ‘and I am sure when you know the reason you will be eager to do so. The King of Castile is at Bordeaux.’
John knew that there was trouble in Castile, because Henry of Trastamare, Pedro’s bastard brother, had for some time believed he had a right to the throne and would rule better than Pedro.
‘Henry of Trastamare now reigns in Castile and Pedro is asking our help to regain his throne,’ went on the King.
‘Is it any quarrel of ours?’ asked John.
‘Your brother believes and I with him that it is no good thing for bastards to depose legitimate heirs. Moreover Pedro has promised to make little Edward King of Galicia and to reward well those who help him.’
‘If he can be trusted that seems fair enough.’
‘I am sure your brother agrees with that. He asks that you join him there. My dear son, it is my wish that you make preparations to leave without delay.’
John bowed his head. He was not averse to the adventure and it was true that legitimate sons could not stand aside and allow bastards to triumph. It was a dangerous precedent.
Blanche was apprehensive when he told her he must prepare to leave, but as the Queen pointed out to her women in their positions must learn to accept these separations.
Bravely Blanche said her farewells. ‘And when you come back,’ she added, ‘I trust I shall have a fine son to show you.’
‘We’ll have him yet,’ replied John. ‘Never fear. Isolda swears it and she is a wise woman.’
So he left her and sailed for Brittany and when he reached the shores of that country, a message awaited him from his brother.
‘On the morning of Twelfth Day Joan bore me another son. The child was born in the Abbey of Bordeaux. A boy. God be praised. A brother for little Edward. Truly I am pleased in my marriage. There is great rejoicing here at the coming of Richard of Bordeaux.’