Divine Intervention

By jeannette scollard

This is a glorious chronicle of how a problematic marriage between a desperate bride and an obstinate king slowly transformed into a great love affair, the remarkable legacy of which was the launch of the Age of Discovery. Philippa of Lancaster, older sister of Britain's King Henry IV, hungered for her own power and influence when she married King Joao I of Portugal, a stubborn former priest. Although he had been assisted by Philippa's father, John of Gaunt, in salvaging Portugal's future as an independent country, Joao initially refused to share the same castle as his bride or to have any dealings with her. Educated, diplomatic and determined, Philippa was not easily deterred: She first persuaded Joao's mistress to enter a convent for life. Then Philippa then took Joao's two illegitimate children under her wing and treated them as her own, while she organized day to day business in the kingdom as though Joao were beside her. Slowly, he began to visit her and as they came to know more about each other, to their great surprise Philippa and Joao discovered they were a match made in heaven. Their awkward marriage of convenience blossomed into a wonderful lifelong love affair. They raised an extraordinary family and launched Portugal's ascent into its Golden Age.

• Language: English
• Publisher: jeannette scollard
• Release date: Feb 9, 2012
• ISBN: 9780615600116

jeannette scollard

Jeannette Scollard is fascinated by the role women have had in shaping our history. A successful non fiction author, lecturer, columnist and writer, Jeannette became intrigued with Philippa of Lancaster historically and first intended to write Philippa's love story as non fiction. "To breathe life into the characters, I had to write it as fiction," she says.

Book preview

1384 LANCASTER CASTLE

The sun crested the green hill and sparked gold on the tall arched windows of the massive old grey castle. Shimmering shafts of sunlight sparkled in the dew atop sorrel and clover, and violets and bluebells. A family of squirrels cavorted and leapt limb to limb. Doves cooed. Thrushes chirped. Tits and finches trilled in a sweet avian cacophony. It was a balmy spring morning, a blessing after a week of continuous rain.

Beyond the stately oaks and birches surrounding the centuries-old fortress, a multitude of servants and staff members began their daily chores tending the castle’s every nook and cranny. Outside, in gardens and sheds, a blacksmith with a leather apron stoked two fires, four butchers with bloody aprons trimmed a boar and two deer, two arrow makers sorted their goose feathers, three spinners twisted their wool yarns and a milk maid churned the rhythm of her butter.

A small army of washerwomen dunked fabrics in tubs of hot water heated in adjacent cauldrons. Lavinia, fifteen years old and new to her job as a junior lace laundress, thought working in the castle kitchen garden was a privilege. She breathed the fine fresh air and concentrated on her wash. She kept a wary eye on the six black and white spaniels lathered by two liveried stewards in the far corner of the grassy courtyard. The last thing Lavinia wanted was for the feisty palace dogs to run pell-mell across the fragile Flemish laces in her custody. Her family had sold a year’s hoard of honey to pay for the shoes and stockings she wore for this job and she was determined to excel at her work, to move up in the castle.

She handled the tatted undergarments as tenderly as a hummingbird’s nest. She gently strung exquisite petticoats across the clotheslines. She spread diaphanous bodices and dainty handkerchiefs on the springy petals of the round bushes of crimson roses so that their fragrance would linger in the laces.

Lavinia was as proud to tend the lace as she would have been to own it. There was status in the mere proximity to exquisite wealth. The young duchess Philippa dresses like a queen, she whispered to Bertha.

The young duchess has rejected a dozen suitors in the time I’ve been working here, and now the King of France wants to marry her, replied Bertha. With two years seniority she pretended she was privy to special scuttlebutt. The young duchess better take the King’s offer. The King of France! She’s getting old. She’s twenty-five. It seems she’s too picky to marry.

I’d be just like Lady Philippa, if I were a Lady, Lavinia gushed.

Bertha glared at Lavinia as though she were stupid. Of course. So would we all.

Bertha was herself exceedingly interested in boys. That’s a likely looking lad over there, she observed. Her freckled face resembled an exotic bird, with tiny pursed lips and unruly red hair that escaped in unlikely tuffs from her white starched cap. She arched her back instinctively to point her small breasts to their best advantage. The steward, a lanky lad with arms like sticks, paid her no heed.

Lavinia’ guarded the clothes in her care like they were the crown jewels. When she had children and grandchildren of her own she would be able to brag about her service to the most popular noblewoman in the land. Lavinia dreaded that random misfortune might interfere with her service. Unfortunately, her apprehension was warranted.

The dreaded mischief arrived from an unsuspected source, as mischief tends to do. And it arrived fast. It originated at the far edge of the courtyard with Albert, eight-years-old and muddy-fingered, because he was bored with being apprentice to his father the blacksmith on so fine an English morning.

Dangling a fragrant bit of jerky, Albert enticed Scratches, a barn cat with six spunky kittens, to come close enough for Albert to grab her. He instantly ignited her tail with a candle lighted for just that purpose. With eye-popping feline fury, smoke billowing from her tail, Scratches catapulted so high up into the air that Lavinia thought the cat might actually take flight. Lavinia surveyed the howling apparition closely, prepared to throw herself atop the laundry to protect it should the cat’s inevitable descent endanger the precious lace clothes in her keeping. She tracked the caterwauling creature’s sky bound arc and prayed for a happy ending, but feared the worst.

*****

That same fine morning the Duke of Lancaster’s daughter, Lady Philippa, had sneaked away from her entourage to gallop gloriously solo through the emerald-toned primeval private forest that surrounded Lancaster castle. She savored the few delicious moments alone, away from bodyguards and staff, as she leaned forward on Fleet, her surefooted stallion, his ear turned toward her breath and her whisper. Fleet was warm and muscular. He flew down the trail like the wind. The plumes in his bridle undulated as though yet attached to preening birds dancing to entice their mates.

She and Fleet moved as one. They whipped between the yews, under the oaks, past yellow forsythia and fragrant lavender. They hightailed it past hazels, hawthorns, junipers and scots pines, around downy birches, crack willows and wych limes. She felt as primal as any fern, as determined as every oak, and as full of yearning as a sapling fighting for a space in the sun. Philippa dashed as though she could speed up her life.

For a few moments she became Diana, goddess of the hunt, reincarnate. Her long russet hair tumbled wild and free. Her longbow was slung over her shoulder and her jeweled quiver half filled with arrows. She dreaded meeting the King of France because she believed reports that he as too young and unhealthily unstable for a match. She imagined that she was already married to a king who adored her, who awaited her in his castle as she arrived breathlessly across the moat, who rushed to sweep her into his arms as she jumped down from Fleet’s back, who kissed her hello and declared his joy to see her. It was a fantasy. But if she could imagine it, could it not happen? She savored the image and then gulped the terror she felt about her future. What if she never found a King? What if she became an old maid shuttled around her brother’s courts, a childless failure, excessive baggage that was laughingstock? Moreover, how could she fool herself into thinking that love would be a part of any match she made?

Angry with herself for nurturing a fool’s paradise, Philippa pointed Fleet to hurl toward her father’s castle, the flags and pennants that flicked its turrets, Lancaster blues and reds. The young duchess and her steed clattered into the kitchen courtyard. The spell of the forest shattered under the clothesline of lace.

Philippa’s interlude of solitude ended as abruptly as it had begun. She was late. It was to be another busy day crammed with legions of people, servants, supplicants and guests, another day unmarried with no prospect in sight.

*****

The screeching cat was a surprise. Ablaze, it etched a trail of dark smoke descending from its odyssey toward the clouds, directly down toward Philippa. It arrived as though it had hung in limbo, waited for her to ride in and rescue it. It writhed and plummeted to handy snatching distance. It was a serendipitous end to a howling sojourn.

Dexterous and quick, she made an easy save. She smothered the cat’s flames inside her cloak as she leapt from Fleet’s back. She sped to the well and doused the blackened tail of the furious feline in a bucket of water.

Scratches was well named. The poor cat clawed herself ferociously from Philippa’s grip and sped high up a tree. Philippa looked aloft into the cat’s furious feral eyes, before it turned its complete attention to licking its burnt tail.

Philippa rinsed her scratched bloodied hands. Her cloak still smoldered. Out of the corner of her eye, Philippa noted that a boy, the culprit no doubt, skedaddled. When Philippa turned to ask about him, the two tidy laundresses who were washing her personal laundry were open-mouthed and goggled-eyed. Being royal could be burdensome, surrounded by staff that viewed her as more than human. Philippa sighed.

Where’s the boy who did this? she asked the older of the two laundresses, a pert redhead who resembled a rooster. The girl was rendered speechless by Philippa’s attention.

Philippa raised her eyebrows, queried the second with a nod. Mi…Milady. He’s Albert. The smith’s son, the maid replied.

Your name? said Philippa. She liked the frank clear brown eyes of the maid, in her mid-teens. The girl had her wits about her.

Lavinia.

Fetch Albert, Lavinia. I have better things to do than save cats.

Lavinia darted around the corner and returned dragging Albert by his ear. Grimy with unkempt hair, he looked like he dreaded the whipping he deserved. He was momentarily mesmerized by snarls from Scratches in the tree above. The cat’s contempt was so great that even from a distance Albert recoiled.

Philippa kept her amusement well concealed. Do you know the punishment for what you’ve done? she demanded.

Albert quaked so hard that his teeth chattered. All the boys do it for sport.

Since when?

Father told me about it when he came back from Brittany. The French burn all their cats.

One more good reason the French are our enemies, snapped Philippa. Did you plan to eat the cat for dinner?

No, Milady! Cats go crazy when we set their tails on fire. Run in circles until they die. Then they are too charred to eat.

I forbid you to kill for sport, declared Philippa heatedly. As she delved into her pocket Albert flinched. He no doubt expected a lashing.

He was a child. He could learn. Philippa handed him a half-farthing. I’ll pay you a coin for each cat you save, every time you stop a boy from setting a cat afire. Albert’s relief was so great Philippa had to restrain a smile. He was a good boy.

Henceforth, you are responsible for the safety of all castle cats, she said sternly, over her shoulder, as she headed briskly toward the castle entrance. Don’t ever make me late again for my appointments. Moreover, should any cat burn, you’ll get a whipping.

As Albert realized the full responsibility he was being assigned, his jubilance faded. Philippa heard Lavinia whisper to Alfred. I’ll help you save cats. For half.

Philippa snapped her fingers toward the stewards and they released two shiny spaniels, freshly dried, which bounded joyfully in her direction. Marjorie, her most trusted lady-in-waiting, waited for her at the door. Marjorie glowered as she pointed toward the sundial and the shadow that indicated they were off to a late start. Philippa shrugged.

*****

The defiant indifference implied in the subtle twist of Philippa’s fair shoulders, enwrapped in green silk, bespoke generations of the bluest blood in Europe. Her deft dainty shrugs indicated that, in the end, playing by the rules for her not as much of necessity as choice.

Two massive jewel-encrusted medallions proudly hung around Marjorie’s neck attested to her distinguished career serving the highest in the land. She had served not one but two English queens. That service, to Philippa’s grandmother and great grandmother, had well acquainted her with patrician gestures of indifference. In her sixteen years tending to Philippa, serving first as tutor then as her major domo, Marjorie had come to realize that the shrugs were a part of Philippa’s nature. Albeit, they were not Marjorie’s favorite aspect of her ward.

Marjorie walked Philippa across the castle at a trot. Felicity, a young energetic lady-in-waiting, whose pink cheeks matched her pink dress, trotted behind.

Lucky cat, Marjorie said to Philippa.

Lucky catch, Philippa admitted.

That too. We’re late.

The hunt.

Always the hunt. Always late.

Is brother Henry coming? asked Philippa.

Marjorie hated to answer. Philippa’s young brother was heir to all the titles and wealth of the duchy and reportedly would make Lancaster Castle his own someday, to the complete exclusion of Philippa. He had never discussed his plans face-to-face with Philippa, but permitted gossips to break the news instead.

Well? queried Philippa.

No word, said Marjorie. She could see in Philippa’s expression what she was thinking: Time was running out. Philippa needed to find a suitable duke or king to marry, or she would be relegated to live in a small manor in the English countryside, far removed from the rivers of people and ideas that flowed through the house of a man with power, as in this house of her father, the Duke. Philippa would inherit no influence of her own. And, her days in her father’s palace and castles were numbered.

*****

They rushed under the ivy-covered loggia around the courtyard and entered the back palace stairs, chiseled from grey granite worn round and lower in the middle by millions of trudging footsteps over hundreds of years. Marjorie took Philippa’s cape. She examined the smoke damage from the cat and tsk-tsk-ed as she handed it over to Felicity.

Tell me about my day, Philippa asked Marjorie as they entered the bustle of the main castle corridor lined with life-sized portraits of Lancaster ancestors. Filled with hurried staff, lolling visitors, nervous supplicants and local farmers who wanted simply to ogle, the hallway traffic was more like a public street than a dwelling. Those who recognized Philippa bowed, gaped and gasped.

The mapmakers await. The bishop will disapprove that you invited them, said Marjorie.

The bishop can’t see beyond the end of his greedy little nose. He should realize that the more gold England gets, the more he can ship back to the Pope. Consider the profits we could make if we trade directly with India. We could be richer than Venetians…

You’ll get to tell the bishop directly when he shows up unannounced tomorrow or the next day. He always does, you’ve noted, when he thinks you’ve committed heresy, said Marjorie.

Philippa formed an almost imperceptible shrug. Marjorie repressed a smile. The bishop was no match for the queen’s granddaughter. I haven’t told you the rest of your day, she said.

Tell me the good parts first, said Philippa, pausing to permit Felicity to adjust a ribbon in her hair, tug the folds of her green silk gown into place.

Marjorie pulled Philippa gently forward by the arm. Lunch with Geoff Chaucer. Vespers with John Wycliff.

Master Geoff will make me clever. Friar John will make me pure of heart. They were two of Philippa’s favorite intellectuals supported by her father.

But after lunch you adjudicate nasty real estate disputes. All afternoon. Two farmers claim ownership of the same hill. The next argues for access to a river. The next involves an inheritance, a farm, Marjorie continued. Philippa grimaced.

The Earl of Hainault is guest of honor at the evening banquet, Marjorie continued.

Cousin Hans is a bloody bore. Seat me far away, next to someone witty, Philippa said.

You have to host, in your father’s chair. Hans will be next to you. There’s no escape, said Marjorie.

Seat the Bishop next to the cartographers, suggested Philippa. That guarantees a heated debate, should bring a little life to the dinner table.

Too heated, mayhap?

Seat Chaucer between them. He’s a natural diplomat.

Marjorie’s admiration must have shown on her face because Philippa giggled. Even Cousin Hans can’t make this group boring, Philippa said victoriously.

*****

Down the busy passageway on the street level of the castle, Marjorie and Philippa passed a priest going the other direction. He was about 30 years old, sturdily built. Dressed in a dusty brown cassock, his hair in a tonsure, he walked with vitality and confidence.

He looked like no ordinary priest. Philippa locked eyes with him.

She noted something regal, almost defiant, in the thrust of his shoulders and the way he moved. His eyes were dark. His nose was exotic, long and slender. His lips were full and friendly like a cherub. As Philippa paused to look back at him, he turned to stare at her. Her dogs ran over, tried to sniff his crotch. She summoned them back to her side. They left the priest reluctantly. Philippa would have begun a conversation with him if she had her way. His contemplative gaze must have rested on many a sight. Why did so many attractive young men become priests?

Philippa felt he wanted to ask her a question. Do you seek someone or something? she asked the stranger, in Latin since he was a monk.

I seek divine intervention, he said. Had he not appeared completely solemn, she might have laughed. But his serious demeanor indicated mirth would not be embraced.

Omnipotent? she asked. Or would partially angelic suffice? She thought she saw a hint of a smile.

Good question, he responded, and seemed to give it thought. Incarnate, he said. Do you know where I will find the Duke?

If he’s in the castle, he’ll be in the main receiving hall, she pointed. Would any other person do? she asked. His daughter sometimes receives visitors in his place. She ignored Marjorie’s grimace at her forwardness.

But her advance seemed to have missed the priest completely. It’s the Duke I seek, he said.

To the disappointment of those mere mortals who pass you in the hall, Philippa said. Marjorie yanked her arm, pulled her forward. Philippa turned reluctantly.

You have no time for banter, chastised Marjorie.

Can’t you put him on my schedule? Philippa said. He looks interesting.

He’s a priest. Have you no shame?

Marjorie paused outside the heavy wood doors and pulled a tiara from her pocket. Philippa positioned it on her head in preparation to enter her chambers where guests waited. Marjorie folded Philippa’s sash so that a smudge was hidden. Felicity tidied Philippa’s hair. Silk wasn’t made to be worn to a hunt, Marjorie chided.

Philippa shrugged, and then approached her liveried doormen who bowed as they flung open the massive doors carved with lions and roses.

*****

Marjorie enjoyed the way Philippa entered a room. She exuded a mysterious energy that entranced everyone around her. She swept in. She had an impeccable innate sense of timing, a brief pause to let everyone notice she was there and to let the news travel the room. She paused until the musicians suspended their play, until all conversation halted mid-sentence. Then she drew herself tall and smiled just enough to acknowledge everyone. She was granddaughter of the king, daughter of the richest noblewoman in England, God rest her soul. Breeding showed.

Philippa’s private receiving room was filled with awaiting guests, relatives and servants. The salon was long with a towering ceiling and huge windows that faced the front courtyard of the castle. Flemish tapestries with unicorns and grey hounds back-dropped silver urns jammed with yellow roses. Maids in starched aprons served tea and fragrant cinnamon apple cakes to visiting relatives, minor nobles from other parts of Europe. They gossiped at one end of the room. A flautist played lilting English folk songs. The air was redolent with the combined scents of cinnamon and roses.

When Philippa first entered, the action in the room froze for several heartbeats. Then, as on cue, everyone bowed, some to the floor. Philippa nodded toward the musicians to resume mid-note where they had left off.

Marjorie beckoned forward an entourage of robed men in scholar’s robes, scarves and jewels indicating their position and achievements. A plump Majorcan, 45, wearing a yarmulke, with astute brown eyes, was apparently in charge since he stepped forward to greet her. Philippa clasped his hands cordially in hers. She smiled with the fresh and dazzling warmth that without exception melted the reserve of first time guests. He was no exception.

Philippa ooh-ed when the cartographer, Ibrahim, pulled out a large world map, painted on canvas. It was the famed Catalan Atlas, updated. China was drawn as described by Marco Polo and Africa from the experiences of seasoned Arab traders. The map showed all the ports where the Venetians shopped.

I am not to be disturbed, Philippa announced to her liveried guards.

Marjorie seated herself before her embroidery stand, set up as usual nearby and holding an altar cloth she was completing. She happily picked up her needle to resume sewing intricate lilies of the valley and ivy. Busy fingers contributed to her clarity of mind.

Philippa was enrapt as the cartographers explained their map. When other of her dogs wandered in, she fed them treats and ordered them to lie down. When a puppy sucked on the train of her gown, she swooped it up and patted its belly. But she never took her eyes off the cartographer except to turn to Marjorie. There’s nothing that prohibits us English from sailing to all these places.

Ibrahim smiled. There are obstacles, but none insurmountable.

*****

Thomas, a handsome young guard at the door, cleared