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been seen running through the castle and some swore they had been thrown by it as it passed swiftly between their legs.
    Blanche remembered her father’s telling how a pantler of the castle who had once tripped while carrying wine had blamed the hare, but it seemed more likely that he had been indulging too freely in the cellars.
    There was an old story that once some bold spirits had gathered together a pack of hounds to hunt the hare. They had pursued it through the rooms of the castle down the spiral staircases to the cellars. Then the hounds had come dashing out, mad to escape, their hair on end, their eyes wild and none of them would enter the castle again.
    In all her sojourns at the castle Blanche had never seen the hare and as the fancy had come to her to visit Bolingbroke, hither she had come and decided that it should be the birthplace of her child.
    Here she awaited the event and thought constantly of John, praying to God and the saints to bring him safely through the battle.
    She sent for Isolda who was a great comfort to her, for she believed that Isolda had some rare gift of looking into the future. Isolda was sure that her beloved John was coming home safely. She was sure too that this time there was going to be a healthy boy.
    So while the winter days grew a little longer and the signs of spring increased with passing time, Blanche waited at the Castle of Bolingbroke for the birth of her child.

    On the battle field of Nájara the Black Prince with his brother John of Gaunt was ready to fight the cause of Pedro of Castile.
    Against them was the army of Henry of Trastamare. ‘This day,’ the Prince had said to Pedro, ‘we shall decide whether or not you are to have your throne.’
    He had begun to doubt Pedro. Henry of Trastamare had written to him in a manner which seemed frank and plausible. Pedro was known throughout Castile as The Cruel. He had shed much innocent blood. Legitimate he might be but Castile suffered under him and the people of Castile would be overjoyed to see him deposed. The great Black Prince had no notion of the man he was dealing with. If he really knew Pedro the Cruel he would recognise him as a false friend.
    ‘Ha,’ said the Prince, ‘it is clear that Bastard Henry has no stomach for the conflict. The battle is as good as won.’
    So they rode forward and there was not a man in Henry of Trastamare’s ranks who was not aware that that military legend the Black Prince came against them and in their hearts they knew that the hero of Crécy and Poitiers was undefeatable.
    They saw him there, at the head of his army, his black armour making him easily identifiable.
    From the moment they heard his shout: ‘Advance, banner in the name of God and St George. And God defend our right!’ the result was a foregone conclusion. All knew that the Black Prince was the greatest soldier in the world next to his father and his great-grandfather; and the former was growing old and the latter was dead. He had gathered under his banner the flower of English chivalry and there was not a man who did not regard it as the greatest honour to serve under him.
    The battle was over. Henry of Trastamare had fled the field. The Black Prince had given Pedro the Cruel his kingdom. He had shown the world that even for a King of questionable worth he would fight rather than a bastard should usurp his right.
    They rode back to Bordeaux. The Black Prince looked weary as John had never seen him look before. There was a faint yellowish tinge in his usually fresh-coloured face.
    ‘You are unwell, Edward,’ said John.
    ‘I confess to certain disorders,’ admitted Edward. ‘Of late I have been aware of them. I pray you do not mention this to Joan. She would have me in bed and be acting the nurse to me.’
    John nodded but he thought, Joan will have only to look at you, brother, to see that all is not well.
    When they reached the castle, there were letters from England.
    Great waves of exultation swept over