The Star of Lancaster - Plaidy Jean - Страница 27

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She asked that Harry and Thomas be sent to her.

They came and stood by her bed, rather overawed, which was strange for Harry, but he realized there was something momentous about this occasion.

Her eyes rested on Harry—seven years old now, with more of a look of de Bohun than Plantagenet. That smooth dark hair and brown eyes and oval face, the very slender little body. He lacked the tawny lion-like looks of his paternal antecedents. The brown eyes were curious now, alert with speculation, but at the same time he was clearly disturbed to see his mother looking so unlike herself.

*Harry,' she said, 'come near the bed.' She took his hand. *And Thomas. Come to the other side. There, I have a son on either side of me. You would guard me, would you not?'

'What against?' asked Harry. *No one will harm you here.'

She thought: Against Death. Death is in the castle, my son. I feel him close.

She laughed and said: *No, but I like to have you with me.*

*No enemy of my father's could come into the castle, I would stop him,' boasted Harry.

*So would I,' added Thomas.

*God bless you both, my sons. I know you would. I want you always to be friends. Will you promise that?'

The boys looked bewildered, and Mary went on. 1 know you quarrel now and then in the schoolroom. But you forget your differences after a while, don't you? And if anyone tried to harm Thomas, Harry, you would go to his rescue wouldn't you?'

*Is anybody going to hurt him?' asked Harry, his eyes sparkling.

*No, no. But I just said if .. .*

Teople do not say if unless they think it may happen/ replied Harry sagely.

She thought: I must not alarm them. Harry is too sharp and Thomas is wondering what is going to happen to him.

1 just want you to remember it is my wish that you should

always be friends.'

Tou don't want me to give him my new falcon?' asked Harry suspiciously.

1 want it,' cried Thomas hopefully.

'No, no,' replied their mother. 'Just be good friends always ... and never let a quarrel between you last.'

The two boys were surveying each other across the bed with intensity and Mary said quickly, 'You have a new sister.'

'We have one,' said Thomas.

'We did not really want another,' added Harry rather reproachfully. 'And you were so ill bringing her.'

'You mustn't hold that against her.'

'When will you be up?'

'Soon.'

'And shall we have a feast? And will my father come?*

'Yes, we shall and he will.'

She closed her eyes. Harry beckoned his brother and at that moment Joan came in.

'Come,' she said, 'your mother is tired.'

As she led them out Harry turned to her and said: 'I think she was trying to tell us that she is going away.'

There was a gloom in the castle and a terrible premonition of disaster.

Men and women walked about on tiptoe and spoke in whispers. The Countess was in a fever.

In the nursery the new baby thrived. A wet nurse had been found for her and it was not the baby who showed signs of her difficult entry into the world.

The question was whether a message should be sent to the Earl of Derby to tell him that the health of his Countess was causing grave anxiety and that since the birth of the Lady Philippa grave symptoms were beginning to show themselves. They hesitated, but as the days passed it was considered that he must be told.

Henry was alarmed. He came at once to Leicester.

In his heart he had known that Mary dreaded childbirth but he had looked upon it as one of the inevitable patterns of life.

Children were the very reason for marriage and he had delighted in the fact that he had six and w^as hoping for more.

And now Mary was ill. The after effects of childbirth, he assured himself. It was nothing. Those women about her fussed too much. They encouraged her fears.

Nevertheless he rode with all speed and when he arrived at the castle, a terrible depression came to him.

He went at once to his wife's bedchamber. The pale wan figure lying on the bed was scarcely recognizable. Her dark hair hung lank and limp about her emaciated features; only her eyes seemed the same; loving, earnest, eager to please.

'Henry, you came.'

*My love,' he said, 'what ails you?'

'It was too much, Henry ... too much.'

'The child is well.'

'Thank God, she is a fine child. It is your poor Mary who has changed, Henry.'

'You will soon get well. We'll have six more yet, Mary. You see.'

She smiled wanly, and shook her head.

'Well,' said Henry, 'we have our six. Oh Mary, I hate to see you like this.'

'I know. I did not wish you to see me so, but they would send for you.'

'I am happy to be with you.'

*I have not disappointed you?*

'My dearest, you have made me so happy. I have never ceased to love you from the day we first met in the forest. Do you remember?'

'It is something I shall never forget. I treasure the memory ... and I have given you six children, have I not? I did my duty as a wife ...'

'Oh speak not of duty. It has been for love has it not?'

'Yes,' she said, 'for love. Always remember that, Henry. For love.'

He sat long by her bed and she made him talk of the past, of those days at Arundel and then the birth of Harry and how they had been so happy in the early days of their marriage.

Afterwards he had been away so much and she had seen him rarely, just often enough to become pregnant and start the exhausting business of bringing another child into the world.

But they were her beloved family and blessings had to be paid for.

After a while he saw that she was sleeping and he crept away and left her.

Soon after his arrival it became clear that she was very ill. The finest doctors in the country were at her bedside, but there was nothing they could do. She was exhausted, worn out by too much childbearing. She was small and fragile and not meant for such an arduous life.

Henry was bewildered. The stark fact faced him. It need not have happened. If she had stopped in time this would not have happened.

The progress of the fever was rapid and a few days after his arrival Henry knew that this was the end.

He knelt by her bedside, for she seemed comforted to have him close. She was at peace now. A woman with her travail over. She did not send for the children for she did not wish them to see her thus.

'It will frighten them,' she said. *Let them remember me as I was. I am leaving them to you, Henry. You will care for them. Do not be harsh with Harry. I want him to love you. I want them all to love each other. No deadly quarrels. They must always work together. That is what I want .. /

*It shall be,' said Henry. *A11 that you ask I will do.'

*Stay with me then. It will not be long now.'

He was with her when she died.

He sat at her bedside, stunned with disbelief.

But he must rouse himself. Mary was dead. She was twenty-four years of age. Too young to die. But she was dead. It was the Year of Death—Constanza, the Queen and now Mary, and both the Queen and Mary had been struck down in the flower of their youth. He could understand his cousin's grief which had obsessed him and driven him mad for the time.

Sometimes he thought that his fate was entwined with that of his cousin. He had always thought that but for that quirk of fate he should have been in Richard's place. They had been born in the same year. They had been happily married and within a few weeks of each other they had lost their beloved partners.

He felt lost, bewildered. Although during the last years he had spent more time abroad than with her, he knew he was going to miss her sorely.

She must have a splendid funeral. Her mother would insist on that. She should be laid to rest with the de Bohuns

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