“Then I am happy.”
Henry, Bishop of Winchester, called to see me.
The visit of such a man must necessarily alarm me. I was constantly wondering whether my relationship with Owen had been discovered beyond my intimate circle, and what the consequences would be, so I received him with a good deal of trepidation.
He was gracious, very dignified, very much aware of his royalty and position in the country. He made me feel that it was an honor for him to visit me.
I hoped I did not show my anxiety, but if I did, I supposed he would attribute it to my realization of the honor he did me.
Henry had thought very highly of him. He had said to me once: “My uncle has enough dignity to balance his illegitimacy, for although my father most wisely legitimized him, the fact does remain that he was born before his parents’ union was sanctified by the Church. He cannot forget this, and it irks him, so we must forgive him that little extra dignity he has to exercise to remind us all that he is equal with the highest in the land.”
I thought that summed up Henry Beaufort exactly.
Henry had said he was a good man to have working for him; he was exceptionally intelligent; he knew that allegiance to the Crown would serve his best interests, and therefore he was loyal to the Crown. “But I trust Beaufort,” Henry had said, “and I have always known he was a good man to have on my side.”
Beaufort was a man who would stand up for what he considered best for the country, while making sure, if it were possible, that what was done was profitable for himself.
His recent quarrel with Gloucester had shown that Gloucester held great power, particularly while his brother Bedford was in France acting as Regent there for young Henry. Yet Beaufort had made no secret of his disapproval of Gloucester’s marriage to Jacqueline of Hainault because he knew it would be detrimental to the alliance with Burgundy, which was all-important to England, even though this created great antagonism between the two men and could be harmful to him.
I told him that I was well and said I trusted he was in the same happy state.
He assured me that he was and then came to the point of his visit.
“Your Grace will be aware that His Highness the Duke of Gloucester is causing some dismay abroad.”
“I know he has gone to Hainault to regain his wife’s estates.”
“His wife!” said Beaufort. “There is some doubt that she is that.”
“Did not the Pope grant her a divorce?”
“The Duke of Brabant does not accept that. There are many who say she is still married to him and that the alliance with the Duke of Gloucester is no marriage at all.”
“But he has gone …”
“I regret to say that the actions of the Duke have been…quite dangerous…to me…to the whole country…and perhaps in particular to his brother the Duke of Bedford who is striving to consolidate the great victories won for England by the late King.”
“I have heard of this,” I said, great relief sweeping over me, for I realized he had not come to talk of my affairs. I had been in terrible fear that he might have come because he had heard something about Owen and me.
“I have done all in my power to stop his leaving for the Continent,” went on the Bishop, “but I have not been successful in doing so.”
I was wondering why he should be telling me all this, for I was sure that, like most of his kind, he would think the opinion of a woman not worth having.
He went on: “The Duke of Gloucester has taken Hainault. There was no opposition. The Duke of Brabant was unable to prevent this. Hainault has now recognized Gloucester as its ruler.”
“Then there will be no fighting,” I said.
He looked at me with faint contempt. “The Duke of Burgundy will certainly not allow this to pass unchallenged. He is hurrying to the assistance of his kinsman. You misunderstand the gravity of this situation. In order to go to Brabant’s assistance it was necessary for Burgundy to conclude a truce with France. You can guess what that means.”
“The English are losing their ally.”
He was silent for a moment. Then he said: “Now I come to the point of my visit. The Duke of Burgundy has challenged the Duke of Gloucester to single combat…a duel between the two of them to settle the dispute.”
“Surely not!”
“But indeed it is so, and the Duke of Gloucester has accepted the challenge. I know it seems incredible, but it is so. That duel must not take place. If it does, one or the other will be killed. You can guess the consequences. If Gloucester kills Burgundy, the Burgundians will be in revolt against him; and if Burgundy kills Gloucester, it will be the same from the other side. One thing is certain: it will be the end of the alliance between Burgundy and England. And that alliance is of the greatest importance to our success in France.”
“I realize that.”
“This duel must be stopped. And you may help in some small way…but we cannot afford to neglect any means…however small…to bring an end to this folly.”
“What do you expect me to do?”
“Philip of Burgundy is married to your sister. He is devoted to her and she to him. If she could be persuaded to beg him not to continue with this ridiculous gesture, it could be a help.”
“It is long since I saw my sister.”
“Nevertheless, she is your sister. What we wish you to do is write to her…tell her exactly what this would mean…a rift between us…further trouble for France…the prolonging of the war. You could help perhaps.”
“Do you think the great Duke of Burgundy would listen to me?”
“No. But he might listen to his wife.”
“I see.”
“We are asking the Queen, your mother, to do her best in the matter,” he went on. “We are determined to try anything…just anything…to prevent this disaster. Write immediately. I will take your letter and see that it is delivered to your sister by special courier. You must do this for the sake of your son, the King.”
Writing to Michelle was an emotional experience. I could only see her as the poor frightened little girl in the Hôtel de St.-Paul. Although she had been slightly older than I, I had always felt I had to protect her. Our sister Marie had had her unfaltering faith to sustain her. Poor little Michelle had suffered with the rest of us, but she had seemed weaker than I. She always seemed to be colder and more hungry. It was difficult to imagine that shivering little mite as the Duchess of Burgundy.
She had always seemed rather simple, less able to cope with our desperate situation than the rest of us. Yet she had married the great Duke and he cared for her. Even when her brother had been involved with the men who had murdered his father, he had not turned against her.
He must truly love her, and because of that these men, who made it their business to know what was going on, thought she could influence him.
I wrote to her, trying to eliminate from my mind the image of that shivering little girl as I did so. What could I say. “Dear Michelle, you are the Duchess of Burgundy, I am the Queen of England…my little son is King and now I am the Queen Mother. I have lost my husband. Do not lose yours. Please try to stop this duel. Persuade your husband that it is not worthwhile. Beg him not to risk his life. You must not become a widow…as I have.”
I went on in that strain. And all the time I was thinking of those days when my father was alive and we children were living in poverty and neglect while our mother sported with her lovers.
And what of her? What would she write to Michelle? We had all hated her. No. No, hatred was too strong a word. We had all feared her, and we had always known that no good would come to us through her.
The Bishop was pleased with my efforts; he took my letter and rode off.
· · ·
Guillemote came to me one day and said: “The Duke of Gloucester is back in England.”