Chapter 31
At Havering, the King lay in his bed, propped up on a bank of pillows.
A white turban covered his hair and gave his complexion a waxen, sallow cast, making him look lifeless already.
Red fever spots burned on either cheekbone, like thumbprints of paint on an effigy.
He had caught a bad cold that had settled on his chest, and a spluttering wet cough ripped at his lungs.
His counsellors, men of the Church and family gathered around his bed. Jeanette was convinced she was looking at a dying man and could understand why the messengers had sped to Canterbury to recall them from the Prince’s funeral.
A moment ago they had all agreed that Richard should inherit the throne when his grandfather died, and that the country would be governed by representatives until he came of age.
‘It is a pity the lad is still so young,’ the King wheezed, ‘so far away from siring heirs of his own, for who shall rule in his stead during his minority? Who shall succeed him should he die before he begets an heir?’ He coughed phlegm into a cloth and was assisted to sip from a cup of tisane before sagging back against his pillows and closing his eyes.
A long silence filled the room, but at last Simon Sudbury, Archbishop of Canterbury, cleared his throat.
‘Your grace, if it follows down the line of your next son, it would be Prince Lionel, but since he is in his grave, his heir is your granddaughter Princess Isabelle, and from her, your grandson Roger, who is but two years old. You ask our advice, and I say that choosing him as Prince Richard’s heir is imprudent.
One is a child, and the other still taking suck from his wet nurse. ’
Jeanette cleared her throat and stepped forward.
As the mother of the future king she had a right to speak.
‘My thought is that if something happened to my son, which God preserve him will not, then your third son, the Duke of Lancaster, should take the reins. He has worked tirelessly on your behalf and my dear lord husband’s at Westminster and has deputised for both of you.
No one is more suited. Whoever comes into power must have strength and honour and the will to carry matters forward. ’
Murmurs of general assent ensued, although Jeanette noticed some dark looks being exchanged in the background.
Edmund Mortimer, the young father of the two-year-old second claimant, was scowling, for the practical decision to appoint the Lancaster line would deprive his own line of regnal honour and power.
The King wafted a limp hand. ‘We shall think on it,’ he croaked.
‘For now, do not carry it beyond this room. Let Richard be my heir. Let him take the titles of Duke of Cornwall and Prince of Wales in full and let him be given an income of four thousand marks to maintain him in his estate as my heir apparent.’ He closed his eyes.
‘And now I want you all to leave. I am tired, so very tired.’
Later that day, Jeanette was dictating letters to her scribe in her chamber when John came to see her. He had remained at his father’s bedside for several hours despite the dismissal, and looked exhausted, although still on his feet.
Jeanette dismissed the scribe and waited until he had closed the door.
‘How is the King?’ she asked, dreading his answer.
John raked one hand through his hair. ‘Holding his own. I do not think he will progress to a stage of full health, but he may rally. I think he is suffering from an autumn fever and cough made worse by melancholy – Edward’s death lies heavy on his heart.
He is hiding from it, but it has found him nevertheless. ’
‘So you think he will improve, that his time has not yet come?’
He grimaced. ‘I do not know. I do not believe he will die in the next few days unless he declines further. He keeps asking me to restore Alice Perrers to his side.’
She looked at him in alarm. ‘Surely you have told him no?’
‘I have repeated to him that the funds from Parliament were conditional on him giving her up, as well he knows, but he continues to protest.’
‘Does he know about her meetings with William de Wyndsore?’
John shook his head. ‘What would I say to him? I have no proof so far that they have been more intimate than friends, and my father knows their acquaintance is of long standing. It would serve no purpose, and anyway, he would not believe it. He has still not accepted the reasons for her banishment.’
Jeanette frowned, but before she could say anything further, John changed the subject. ‘I wanted to talk to you about certain rumours coming out of the taverns recently that my spies have reported, rumours about my parentage. Have you heard anything?’
Jeanette shook her head. ‘What manner of rumours?’
‘Gossip is being spread abroad that I am not my father’s true son but common born of a Flemish butcher’s family.’ His lips curled in disgust. ‘Where do they find people to say such things?’
‘What?’ Jeanette looked at him horrified. ‘That is vile!’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘No such rumours have yet come to my door, but doubtless they will,’ she said, frowning. ‘Do you know who is responsible?’
He shrugged. ‘My very position breeds enemies. Perhaps the French, perhaps the long reach of Trastamara from Castile, or perhaps even rivals in England who do not want to see me rise, and who can make a scurrilous tale believable.’
‘Lord Mortimer, you mean?’ Jeanette said. ‘He wishes his own son to be Richard’s heir. He wants that power for himself.’
‘He will not have it, nor do I think he will make an open challenge. He is bold, but not that bold, but he will fuel the rumours to suit his purpose and make my road difficult if he perceives a chink of weakness.’
‘I was there. I saw you being born. I held you in my arms even as you were swaddled. I know the truth and I will attest it far and wide.’
‘And I thank you for it.’
‘It is the truth, and the least I can do for my own ally. But you will make even more enemies now the succession has been decided and until Richard begets heirs of his own. We should be careful of Lord Mortimer, but we should not make him our enemy, especially when there is no proof the rumours come from him. As you say, they could as easily be French or Castilian.’
John nodded. ‘For my part I shall hold true to my course. What Mortimer does with his own course is his business, and a moot point for now.’ He gave a snort of exasperation.
‘My father will not engage with the Commons except through me, and my brother is a saint who would have fixed everything had he lived, or so everyone seems to believe. I receive the blame whichever way I turn.’
Jeanette did not resent his remark for it was true.
People had loved her husband because of his military prowess and his chivalry.
With the King incapacitated, John was bearing the brunt of the complaint and unrest. ‘You have the strength and the ability to govern, even if you are not destined to be king of this country,’ she said.
A humourless smile twisted his mouth. ‘Strange, is it not, that the King of Castile is also the uncrowned King of England, and as matters stand he will probably never be king of either.’
The King, having terrified everyone into thinking they would be burying him within weeks of his firstborn son, slowly began to rally, and Jeanette returned to Kennington.
Richard continued with his lessons under Master Burley but with an air of increased urgency, for his grandfather’s time was running through the sandglass at an ever-increasing rate.
Jeanette busied herself cultivating ties with the London merchants, with the mayor and men of influence.
She invited them to dine with her at Kennington, forging links of mutual interest and friendship.
She attended sermons at the cathedral and ensured that Richard was at her side and seen everywhere.
At the end of October, Jeanette revisited Havering where the King was still recuperating and brought Richard, for it was essential he maintained a rapport with his grandsire.
From Kennington to Havering was a day’s journey and it was late afternoon by the time they approached the palace.
The King had been forewarned of their arrival, and they were saluted through the gates by the royal guards.
Richard threw pennies into the crowd waiting by the entrance for alms and smiled and waved as he received cheers and blessings.
In the courtyard, Jeanette shook out her skirts and noticed how busy the area was with retainers and servants. A groom was rubbing down a beautiful dappled-grey mare.
‘The King has visitors?’ she addressed the usher preparing to escort her and Richard into the palace.
The man bowed his head, avoiding her gaze. ‘Madam. Mistress Perrers is here to care for the King and will be staying at his side.’
Jeanette almost stopped walking but somehow kept a neutral expression and paced forward again.
Her first thought was to leave immediately, but she dismissed it.
The men and horses would be hungry and thirsty, and she had to know just what had been happening and how Alice had managed to get herself reinstated at the King’s side.
‘It was by the order of the Duke of Lancaster, madam,’ the usher volunteered, his voice expressionless.
Jeanette set her teeth, said nothing and followed him into the palace and up the stairs to the royal apartments. Alice Perrers! What was John thinking?
The King was sitting up in bed, leaning against a mound of pillows while Alice perched on his coverlet, her ample cleavage displayed to his gaze as she spooned broth into his mouth and dabbed his lips with an embroidered napkin.
She looked up as Jeanette entered and set the bowl on a side table.
Rising to her feet, she swept a curtsey so deep that it was close to mockery.
Her gown shimmered with thread of gold and rings flashed on her long fingers.