Free Passage to Pontefract by Jean Plaidy Page A

should want to confess her sins and be alone with the Bishop before she died. But it was to be remembered later and then seemed to be of great significance.
    The King came back to the chamber of death and knelt beside her bed. She placed her hand in his and thus she died.

    Blanche had left the children at Windsor in the care of Catherine Swynford and had set out for Bolingbroke Castle. In due course they should all follow her there. Blanche had felt a need to be alone for a while where she might mourn in solitude for the dead Queen.
    Philippa had been almost a mother to her; she had loved her dearly. Nothing would be quite the same without her to confide in; there would be no more of those calm judgements to be given, that innocence which was closer to wisdom than most men of the world possess.
    Yes, thought Blanche, she had done with life. She had lived long and happily – at least she had been happy until illness had affected her, and it was only of late that there had been an Alice Perrers in her life.
    Riding through the countryside she was shocked when one of her servants said they must not enter a certain village.
    ‘No, my lady, there are red crosses on the doors. The plague is with us again.’
    She said then they must change their route to Bolingbroke. The plague would not survive in the fresh country air.
    They continued their journey and at length came to the castle of Bolingbroke which would always be one of her favourite castles because little Henry had been born there and she could never think of the place without remembering the joy of coming out of her exhaustion to hear the glad news that she had given birth to a boy.
    Bolingbroke lay before them – looking less grim than usual because of the September sunshine.
    She rode into the courtyard. Grooms came running forward to take the horses. She alighted and went into the castle.
    She was tired and made her way straight to her apartments and had food brought to her there. In the morning she would make plans for the children to come to her. She was glad to think of them in the care of Catherine Swynford. She was sorry that John had seemed to take a dislike to her. It could only be because he had imagined someone homely like the good Philippa Chaucer.
    She ate a little and was soon asleep.
    When she awoke next morning a sudden foreboding came to her. She could hear no sounds of activity in the castle. She arose and went into the antechamber where her personal attendants should be sleeping.
    The room was empty.
    Puzzled she went out to the head of the great staircase and looked down into the hall. A group of serving men and women stood there, strangely whispering.
    They stopped when they saw her and stood as though turned to stone, gazing at her.
    ‘What means this?’ she demanded.
    One of the stewards stepped to the foot of the stairs.
    ‘My lady, two of the serving-men have been stricken. They are in the castle … now. We do not know what we should do.’
    ‘Stricken,’ she echoed. ‘The … plague?’
    ‘’Tis so, my lady.’
    ‘Have any of you been near them?’
    ‘Yes, my lady.’
    She stood looking down on them and as she did so she saw one of the women creep into a corner and lie there.
    ‘A red cross must be put at the castle gates,’ she said. ‘No one must go out. No one must come in. We must wait awhile.’
    There was a deep silence in the hall. Then it was broken by the sound of someone sobbing in another part of the castle.
    The plague had come to Bolingbroke.

    Death was in the castle.
    Blanche thought: ‘Thank God the children are not here.’
    Three days had passed and she knew that several were already dead.
    ‘We must pray,’ she had said; and they had prayed; but they all remembered that when the plague entered a dwelling be it cottage or castle there was little hope of survival for its inhabitants.
    On the fourth day Blanche discovered the fatal swelling under her arms. In the space of a few hours the loathsome spots began to