Chapter 20 Port of Bayonne, Gascony, May 1370
Standing on the dockside at Bayonne, Tom stroked Alys’s face, committing each feature to his memory. They had been waiting for the tide to turn and for the cog on which she was to travel home to finish loading. The portents were good for embarkation with a calm sea and a light but steady breeze.
‘I will think of you every day,’ he said. ‘Send word how you are faring.’
‘Of course I will.’ Alys touched his face too in reply. ‘And do not let your eyes stray in the meantime.’
‘They will not, I swear it!’
‘Men always make such promises,’ she answered, but she was smiling.
‘On my life, I swear.’
She pulled back from him. ‘Do not say that!’
‘But I do. I vow to keep the faith.’ He kissed her, knowing he was going to miss her so much. He had never thought to harbour such tender feelings for another person, but she had become the half that made him whole.
She had conceived in January; it was now late May, and their unborn child was starting to curve beneath her girdle.
Given the increasing difficulties in Aquitaine and the prospect of a long, hot summer, everyone had deemed it best that she return to the safety of England to bear the child.
She was going to her mother at Arundel and staying there for her lying-in and to await Tom’s arrival.
John of Lancaster was on his way to Aquitaine with troops, and once he arrived, Edward was considering handing over to him and returning to England to recuperate.
The tide had turned, and the ship was ready; there could be no more delay. Tom escorted Alys on board and stood with her on the gently swaying deck while the sailors made final adjustments to the rigging.
‘Until I come to you, then, and I shall have two of you to greet,’ Tom said. ‘God keep you safe, I shall miss you every day.’
‘As I shall miss you, but you should go, or else your mother will think I have abducted you!’
‘Certainly, you have stolen my heart,’ he said, and she gave him a nudge. ‘But you may have it freely.’
The crew was ready to cast off and he had no time left unless he wanted to swim to shore. He kissed Alys a final, lingering time, stroked her belly in farewell to their child, and turned to the gangplank.
Standing on the dockside, he waved until he could no longer see her figure on the deck and the ship was gone, then walked over to Roger and the waiting escort.
The July sun beat down upon the walls of Angoulême, so hot that it bleached the sky of colour. The English banners drooped on the battlements without a stir of breeze; everything was caught in an enervating limbo.
Throughout the stultifying heat, Jeanette had been preparing for the arrival of Edward’s brother John, who was bringing an army from Bordeaux to Angoulême.
Not that he was staying for long. A muster was planned at Cognac in preparation to move against French incursions which had been happening for months, and were an increasing, festering sore.
The Duc de Berri and his forces were threatening Limoges, two days’ ride from Angoulême.
Jeanette sat in the shade of the garden fig trees while her ladies sewed and chattered as though it was an ordinary day without a cloud on the horizon.
The children were splashing and squealing in their favourite fountain, wearing only their shirts, not a care in the world – exactly as childhood should be.
Edward was resting in the cool of his chamber with the shutters closed, hoarding his energy. He had insisted that she join the ladies and enjoy the garden for a while. She suspected that he desired his own company, and she was content to let him rest, and not disturb him.
Fortune’s wheel had continued to slip them from the pinnacle in a series of steep lurches, and death had been their constant companion, sitting on the spoke beside them as they struggled.
Queen Philippa had succumbed to her longstanding ailments and died, catapulting England into deep mourning for a beloved queen who had ruled beside her husband for almost forty years and borne him thirteen children.
To all except the most ancient folk, she was the only queen they had known.
Edward had been inconsolable for several days, finally appearing from his chamber red-eyed and grim-faced to pick up the reins with gritty determination, but no joy.
Her demise brought Jeanette a step closer to being England’s queen, a fate she regarded with trepidation.
Nevertheless, she would do her duty. She would don her armour and deal with whatever arose, protecting her sons and her husband as best she could.
Soon after the news of Philippa’s death, John Chandos, best and closest of Edward’s friends, had been killed while skirmishing with the French.
His death had been a terrible blow to Edward and had thrown the household into further deep mourning – and created chaos.
His sound advice and his military ability had been a major prop of Edward’s failing regime.
Everything was fragmenting into smaller, razored shards.
Her chamber attendant Hannekyn arrived unobtrusively at her side and murmured to her that the Lancaster entourage had been sighted.
Jeanette thanked him and called her ladies to gather up their sewing.
She bade the nurses take Edward and Richard inside and have them dried and arrayed in suitable clothing.
Richard had a shrieking tantrum about how unfair it was, but Mundina cozened him out of it by offering a sweetmeat, and the promise of more if he would be a good boy.
Edward was already in the hall when Jeanette arrived.
His red silk robe reflected colour into his face, and a soft velvet cap covered his much-thinned hair.
He had been in reasonable health of late, although these days that meant being seen out of his chamber, walking the grounds and dining in the hall, rather than anything as ambitious as riding a horse, even a plodding ambler.
His armourer had been making him new equipment although he could not bear the weight of it for long periods, but at least it fitted him.
His older equipment from his prime had been set aside because it was no longer fit for purpose to clad limbs wasted from lack of use.
Jeanette came to his side, and he gallantly kissed her hand.
‘Are you feeling rested now?’ she asked.
‘Of a certainty – I am ready for anything.’ His smile was superficial.
To a fanfare of trumpets, his brother John entered the hall, strode vigorously to greet Edward, and knelt at his feet.
The sight of his vital, strong body was an arrow in Jeanette’s breast. This was how Edward should look, with a firm step and a bright eye.
If Edward’s eyes were bright these days, it was usually from hectic exhaustion.
Among the Lancaster retinue she saw her son, Johan.
He had grown again and broadened out into young manhood.
He was even sporting a full moustache of bronze whiskers that men in their twenties might envy.
Edward raised John to his feet, and the brothers clasped with warmth.
‘By Christ, brother, I am pleased to see you.’ Edward’s voice cracked with emotion.
‘As I am overjoyed to see you,’ John replied, ‘and that you are on your feet.’ He looked him up and down.
‘I am overjoyed to be on my feet too!’ Edward declared with a short laugh. ‘I would run and leap if I could, but let such actions wait.’
The brothers went off to make plans and discuss their tactics, and the buoyancy of the moment caused Edward to find a spare reserve of energy.
Later, when everyone had eaten and most had retired, including Edward, Jeanette lingered to talk to John as by mutual agreement they climbed the stairs to star-gaze from the battlements – alone and with no one to overhear.
‘I too am glad you are here,’ she said quietly, ‘and Edward is relieved.’
‘I had not expected him to be so frail,’ John admitted, grimacing. ‘We had heard how sick he was, but I had not realised the extent of it. Our father is not a well man either – you would notice a great change in him if you were to return to England.’
‘Your mother’s death must have caused him great grief.’
‘It did.’ John looked away. ‘Her passing has left him holowed out. That is what grief can do to a man despite his best intentions – tear him to pieces inside.’
Jeanette realised he was talking about more than just his father. ‘Your Blanche was a great lady, and a beautiful woman. I know how much you loved her – and your beloved mother too.’
Creases deepened in his cheeks and jaw, showing where age lines would eventually seam his taut skin.
‘I should have been a better husband,’ he said.
‘I cannot be one now for she has gone beyond me for ever.’ He gave her a piercing look.
‘I want no soft words of comfort. Do not say you understand and that it is God’s will and all will be well.
I am sick of being offered platitudes like sweetmeats on a plate. ’
She heard his irritation and defensiveness.
‘Then I shall not do so,’ she replied calmly.
‘You do not need sweetmeats when your plate is already piled with worms of guilt. Adding honey to such a dish is pointless. You will deal with that plate in your own time – or perhaps you will not deal with it, but it is yours to find your way. And I do understand, because of my Thomas.’
He shook his head. ‘I went to a dark and starless place when Blanche died, darker than you know, but I have recovered enough to glimpse the sky. I have vowed to be buried at her side in St Paul’s Cathedral when my time comes.’
He paused and gazed upwards. Jeanette waited beside him.
‘But you will remarry,’ she said, ‘for dynasty and diplomacy if nothing else. You are still a young man and—’
‘And there is Constanza of Castile,’ he finished, turning to look at her again, his mouth twisting. ‘That is perhaps not what you were going to say, but let us cut to the chase, for it is the obvious thing, is it not?’