The King's Mistress (67 page)

He, of course, did not know the truth of our loveless marriage.

“And now you have been grievously insulted—and I know you will worry about my losing the de Orby lands.”

Those extensive lands Edward had urged on me, Mary Percy’s inheritance. I had invested a great sum in them to make up for years of poor management.

“They would have brought you considerable income,” I said, “but you already have enough. Your father provided a goodly estate for you. Has Lancaster said aught about Mary’s petition or your inheritance?”

“As far as I am aware, my half brothers have no quarrel with my inheritance. Sir William assured me that the Duke of Lancaster is pleased with all he hears of me. As, of course, he must be to accept me in his service.”

The last statement was said in a rush as John tried to distract me from his comment about William. But it was precisely what I had been listening for.

“Sir William?”

John ducked his head, suddenly commenting on the state of the mews, which we were approaching.

“John, when did you speak to William?”

His shrug made my heart race.

“John!”

He stopped and turned to me, his blue eyes imploring. “I saw him at the duke’s residences when I was included in Lord Henry’s party. Sir William counseled me to say nothing to you, fearing you might be jealous. He believed you were not welcome in court circles.”

Of course I was not. I was an embarrassment to them, the scapegoat who should be safely in exile where I might fade from their notice.

I gently touched his forearm, looking into his eyes. “I am glad to be free from court; you know that, John. What troubles me is this secrecy. I would that you had spoken to me of it. We must have no secrets from one another.”

He pecked me on the forehead. “No more. I am glad it does not trouble you.”

We resumed our walk.

“How often have you seen him?” I asked.

“Several times a year.”

I worked hard to hide my distress. “What do you talk about?”

“Nothing that should worry you.”

“John, why are you so uncomfortable about this?”

“Because I was not to speak of it. I promised.”

I relented at that moment, too stunned and angry to pursue my son further. But over the next few days he grew more talkative, eventually confiding in me that the only complaint William made of me was my obsession with his will and dislike of his nephew.

“That seems an area of deep distrust between you,” he said.

“Is it any wonder, John? As my husband, William seeks to restore my properties to himself, not me, and has not rewritten his will to include Joan and Jane. The properties I accrued for the future comfort of your sisters will otherwise go to a lying, scheming nephew who despises me.”

John had begun to look sullen. “He claims Joan and Jane are the daughters of Robert Broun, and that Robert should provide for them.”

For a moment I forgot how to breathe.

“Mother?” John touched my forearm. “Are you unwell?”

I found a bench and sank down onto it. “It is a lie! I never betrayed your father. Never. You’ve only to look at Joan to see that she—like you—is pure Plantagenet. Jane looks more like me, true, but they are both your full sisters. Both!”

John sank down beside me. “I did not want to believe you had betrayed Father.”

“William tried hard to lure me into his bed while your father lived. He, of all people, should know how fiercely faithful I was to Edward.”

John put his arms around me and held me close. “I will try to change his heart in this, Mother, I promise.”

It was a loving gesture, and I abandoned my ire as best I could so that I might enjoy this precious moment with my son, now so grown that I could rest my head on his shoulder. But I knew full well William would not relent.

“I beg you, John, do not let him poison our affections for one another.”

“No, Mother, never,” John said.

My years at court had trained me well in the art of hiding my feelings. For the remainder of my son’s visit I struggled to keep my outrage to myself. I was too grateful to know now of the secret liaison, too relieved that John had relented and confided in me, and that he seemed to believe that I had been faithful to his father.

Though I held my tongue in an effort to keep the peace, a procession of family and friends tried to dissuade my son from military service, but he was adamant.

We had one additional, difficult conversation.

“I want you to know that I would never have believed what Sir William said about Robert had I not known of your love for him, and his for you,” John said one afternoon.

It was my turn to blush. “It was Robert who comforted me when your father died. You are old enough now to know the truth, John.” I explained to him how I had come to wed William, that our marriage was a façade. But I did not tell him the whole truth about Robert and me. I did not dare let down my guard, even to my beloved son.

We had been reviewing items he might wish to take with him. At that moment we were in the stables looking at Janyn’s fine saddle, one that male guests often used. As I had spoken about Lancaster’s ultimatum and how it had dashed my hopes of happiness with Robert, John had run his hands over the leather again and again. He had neither looked at me nor spoken. When I had finished, the silence lengthened. I could see that I’d failed to move him.

“Italian leather, very finely worked and tooled,” I remarked to ease the tension.

“Sir William said you were bitter toward him. That you would say cruel things to turn me against him.”

I gently touched my son’s chin, drawing it up so that his eyes were level with mine. “John, I’ve told you nothing but the truth.”

“He is a good man. But for him, I would be stuck with the Bishop of Exeter.”

“Oh, John, that is not true. The duke is your half brother. You’d but to ask him yourself for anything you wished.”

I saw a flicker of doubt in my son’s eyes, but he was young and confused, and doubted himself most of all. He simply shrugged.

“How do you know about Robert? We tried to be so careful.”

John grunted. “How could you hope to hide anything with Mary Percy living under your roof?”

Without Robert’s solid and loving presence, what I had learned from John might have inspired reckless behavior—an attempt to annul my marriage to William on the grounds of my prior betrothal to Robert, or something equally risky to my family. But he steadied me. I would do nothing to provoke exile—though I held my breath when I considered what William was waiting for. If he truly believed Joan and Jane were Robert’s daughters, why then had he not exposed us? I wished I might safely ask John how much he knew, but could not risk his reporting to William that I was anxious.

My longed-for peace was shattered.

I
N LATE
winter of the following year John announced that he was to take up arms under the command of Edmund of Langley, my Edward’s second youngest son, on a mission to Portugal. Lancaster still sought to recover the Castilian throne. The Portuguese were his greatest supporters in the region, but were now beset by the forces of the usurper, Enrique of Trastámara. Remembering the catastrophic consequences of the late Prince Edward’s campaign in the region, I feared for my son. But I knew his father would have been proud of him.

In the weeks before joining Langley, John begged me for tales of his father. Joan and Jane also loved it when I described my life with Edward, especially while the girls and I hawked or rode through the countryside, knowing these were some of the king’s favorite activities. On those winter evenings my children and I sat by the fire, and I regaled them with descriptions of the glories of Edward’s court, his prowess in arms and the hunt, his way with the falcons, the heady joy of dancing with him, his magnificent singing voice.

One evening, after the girls had gone to bed, I gave John his father’s signet ring, which I’d retrieved from Robert earlier.

“It is time you had this, my son.”

He slipped it on his finger, wondered at how well it fit him.

“A little wax will keep it secure,” I said.

His eyes shone with pride. “I shall wear it with honor, Mother.”

“I know that you will.”

John’s properties provided sufficient income for him to be smartly fitted for the expedition, and I was grateful that he welcomed and appreciated my advice and assistance in planning. We had become close again, though neither of us mentioned William.

But William would soon return, and he would be in an even fouler temper than usual, for the Brittany expedition had proved an embarrassing failure. He erupted into our sweet household like a sudden squall on a quiet day. Robert departed, and Gwen gave instructions to Betys to keep Joan and Jane away from William as much as possible. He was furious to have thrown good money—albeit not his but mine and my friends’—after the incompetent Buckingham. This unfortunately rendered him ripe for a temper tantrum. When he discovered Mary Percy gone and learned that the marriage would very likely be annulled, he flew into a fury and swore that he would make it right. He would petition King Richard for his support.

Now quite happy at the prospect of finding a more suitable mate, John said he was content. I watched his puzzlement as William ignored him and ranted and raved until drink silenced him.

When John returned from carrying him to his bedchamber, he asked me how to prevent such interference.

“The king has far too much on his mind to become involved in this case, John. Be at peace. William will find no remedy. Your father would have left such a petition to his trusted clerics. So will King Richard.” I had found that advice couched thus, in terms of how his father might have acted, carried much authority and usually reassured John.

Joan and Jane were fascinated by his accumulated gear—the armor, the horses, the weapons. But when the day came for his departure, Jane was dismayed to overhear a servant wishing him God’s protection in battle.

“Battle?” she asked, her little hands fluttering as if she might fend off the possibility. “No, John, you must not fight!”

Her elder sister took her aside, quietly explaining what it meant to be a knight. Jane was inconsolable for days afterward. So was I.

My only comfort was that the day after John rode from the yard, William departed for his own home in London.

• • •

I
N SPRING
all the countryside was alive with rumors of an uprising gathering in Essex. King Richard and the parliament had so overwhelmed the people with the poll tax of the previous year, following close on one a year earlier, that the money had proved exceedingly difficult to collect. Thousands of taxpayers had evaded the collectors. Now, a year later, new commissioners were sent out into the shires, intent on finding the tax evaders and collecting from them by whatever means they saw fit. My old friend William Wykeham, Bishop of Winchester, sent a message advising me to move the household to a manor near Winchester.

I invited my siblings and their families, but Mary and John chose to stay and protect their homes and businesses. Richard Lyons refused to be intimidated also. Geoffrey’s family had already departed for Lincolnshire, leaving him, apparently happily, in the city, where he intended to stay. All of them relayed tales of William’s drunkenness and whoring there, and assured me he showed no sign of wishing to flee the city.

The violence quickly spread from Essex through the southeast, moving toward London. As the number of rebels swelled, so did their anger. They blamed not only the commissioners but the Lord Chancellor and others on the king’s council, particularly clerics, who to them represented the greed of the Church; but it seemed they blamed Lancaster most of all. The duke was held responsible for all that had gone wrong with the French wars as well. Knowing from experience the danger he faced, having seen the damage the rabble had inflicted on his palace of the Savoy a little over four years earlier, Lancaster fled to Scotland.

Had it not been for my fear for my friends and family in London, I might have felt relieved—Lancaster would forget me for the nonce.

As the uprising spread into Kent, closer and closer to London, King Richard and his mother, Joan, as well as many barons, withdrew into the Tower of London. The mob were committing vicious acts—beheadings, hangings, the desecration of churches and abbeys.

All my household listened in awe to a report of young King Richard’s courage. He rode out to meet the rebels and calmly inquired what they sought. They demanded the heads of Lancaster and an assortment of others they had decided were to blame. He did not capitulate and the rebels swarmed into London, freeing the inmates of the Marshalsea prison and this time not stopping at damaging Lancaster’s Palace of the Savoy but razing it, and destroying much else in their path.
Eventually they reached the Tower and accosted those within. When it was over, the chancellor and one of the council had been dragged out and beheaded. Nothing like this had happened in Edward’s time. But I remembered the hatred on the faces of the Londoners who had beheld me as the Lady of the Sun. I had not doubted that a crowd moved by such festering hatred might erupt into madness, and now they did.

One morning Wykeham rode into the yard and joined Robert and me as we walked toward the stables. He was unshaven and haggard, his color so chalky beneath the flush from his exertions that I feared he might be ill.

“My lady, I bring terrible tidings. Our friend Richard Lyons …” His voice broke.

Robert put his arm around me as I grasped Wykeham’s hand. “Dead?” I whispered.

“Executed. Three dozen Flemings have been brutally murdered. Richard—he was dragged from his home, beaten, and beheaded.”

“Beheaded?” I cried out. “Why? Why Richard?”

“May God grant him rest.” Robert bowed his head and crossed himself with his free hand, with the other pulling me close.

But I broke away and knelt to Wykeham, pressing my head to his ring, weeping and praying for Richard’s soul. My good and loyal friend …

Later, as the three of us shared a flagon of brandywine, I broke the mournful silence. “Why had he not fled?” I asked of no one in particular.