Passage to Pontefract Read online

  ‘You are to meet the Bishop of London and you should have no fear that you will not be able to withstand his questions. I know him well. He is a man who fears that his own power may shrink. I shall attend the meeting. Lord Percy the Earl Marshal will be present too. We shall show ourselves to be your friends before this Bishop who believes because he is the Bishop of London he has the power of a king.’

  Wycliffe answered: ‘I shall not be afraid to answer the questions the Bishop puts to me, my lord. I shall speak my mind and God’s will be done.’

  It was a cold February day when the meeting between John Wycliffe and the Bishop of London was to take place. News of the coming confrontation had spread through the City and the people were determined to witness it.

  The narrow streets with their gabled houses almost meeting across the narrow road and so shutting out the light of day, were crowded with people making their way to the Cathedral. The Londoners seized on any chance to enliven their days. They would have been on the side of Wycliffe because he was clearly speaking for the people, but his patron it seemed was John of Gaunt, the man for whom they had little love. So their feelings were mixed as they crowded into the Cathedral.

  Wycliffe was an impressive figure; he was of more than usual height and was simply clad in a dark robe belted at the waist and hanging to his feet. His flowing beard gave him a venerable air and the people were awed as they watched him.

  At his right hand walked John of Gaunt, resplendent as always, in velvet and ermine to proclaim his royalty, a man to catch every eye, a man who must either be loved or hated; and there was no doubt which it was the people felt for him. They whispered together as they watched him. He was the man who was trying to steal the crown from that sweet innocent boy. He was the lecher who flaunted his mistress Catherine Swynford before their eyes, being seen with her on ceremonial occasions so brazenly while he deserted his poor wife whom he had married because she could become Queen of Castile; he was the base-born son of a Flemish woman – a serving wench; her station grew lower and lower as the weeks went by. He was the one who was passing himself off as the King’s son.

  They hated John of Gaunt; and it was bewildering that he should be Wycliffe’s champion.

  On the other side of Wycliffe was the Earl Marshal, Lord Percy, who had stepped into the role after John of Gaunt had rid himself of the Earl of March, because the wife of the Earl of March was the daughter of Lionel, that son of the King who was older than John of Gaunt and who had unfortunately died in Italy.

  So great was the press of people in the Cathedral that Wycliffe with John of Gaunt and Lord Percy on either side of him found it difficult to make his way inside.

  Lord Percy gave orders for his men to clear the crowd which they did with a certain amount of roughness. There were cries of protest as people were pushed aside and some fell and cursed the Marshal.

  The mood of the people was growing sullen in a way which should have warned John of Gaunt and Percy had they given any thought to the matter.

  They had forced their way through and were face to face with those who would hear the case, at the head of whom was William Courtenay, the Bishop of London.

  Some might have been intimidated by the sight of John of Gaunt and the Earl Marshal standing on either side of John Wycliffe like guards come to fight his cause – not so William Courtenay. The Bishop was a man of strong principles; his intentions were good; he was kindly by nature; he was eager to do his duty; but there was a certain pride in him and he was very ready to resent what might be construed as a slight. As the fourth son of the Earl of Devon – and his mother was the daughter of the Earl of Hereford – he was highly born and did not intend any should forget it; he had had the inclination to go into the Church and in any case he was a fourth son; and because of his intellectual gifts it seemed very likely that he would rise high in his chosen profession.

  The crowd pressed forward from all sides, determined after the rough treatment of the Marshal’s men not to be deprived of their rights. They were sure that it was going to be as good an entertainment as a mummers’ performance.

  The Bishop first expressed his displeasure at the signs of rowdiness in his church. The Cathedral was open to all and people came to the holy place for refuge. He did not care to see them roughly treated in the house of God.

  ‘Had I known, Marshal,’ he said, ‘what masteries you would have brought into the church, I should have stopped you from coming hither.’

  Lord Percy was aghast at the rebuke; but John of Gaunt cried angrily: ‘He shall keep such masteries though you say him nay.’

  ‘We will proceed into the lady chapel,’ said the Bishop ignoring the remark, ‘and there the examination shall proceed.’

  The crowd pressed forward. They would not be kept out. Had they heard what their Bishop had said? This was their church and this was their city and they would have none try to take any of their privileges from them.

  Percy, smarting from the altercation, looked round the lady chapel and said: ‘Wycliffe, sit down. You have many things to answer, and you need to repose yourself on a soft seat.’

  The Bishop replied sharply: ‘It is not the custom for one so cited to be seated during his answers. He must and he shall stand.’

  John of Gaunt’s temper burst out. He hated the Bishop; and all he stood for.

  He cried in a loud voice so that all the people who were crowding round could hear: ‘Lord Percy’s request is not unreasonable. As for you, my lord Bishop, you have grown so proud and arrogant that I will no longer tolerate such conduct. I will put down the pride, not of you alone, but of all the prelacy in England.’

  The Bishop had grown very pale. He replied in a firm voice: ‘Do your worst, sir.’

  ‘You … and your pride,’ cried the Duke, the Plantagenet temper now unrestrained. ‘You boast about your parentage. Let me tell you, they shall not be able to keep you when you are brought low. They will have enough to do to help themselves.’

  ‘I understand you not, my lord,’ said the Bishop coldly. ‘My confidence is not in my parents, nor in any man else, but only in God in whom I trust, and by whose assistance I shall be bold enough to speak the truth.’

  John of Gaunt turned to the Marshal and said: ‘Rather than bear such things, I will drag this Bishop out of the church by his hair.’

  Although he had said this to the Marshal he had spoken loudly enough for the people around him to have heard.

  The shout went up. ‘John of Gaunt insults our Bishop. We will not have him dishonoured in his own church.’

  They were calling to the people without. ‘Did you hear? John of Gaunt will drag our Bishop from his church by his hair. Come, friends. Stand together. We’ll die rather than submit to tyrants.’

  Great was the tumult within and without the church and fearing violence the Bishop said quietly, ‘The people are in an angry mood. Follow me … quickly please. You must leave here at once.’

  John of Gaunt, red with fury, hesitated. But he knew the anger of these people, how it quickly became dangerous. They hated him. And the few men they had with them could not stand against the mob.

  There was only one thing to do and that was to forget their pride, follow the Bishop and leave the Cathedral by a side door.

  After John of Gaunt and Lord Percy had slipped quietly away the people streamed into the streets. Tempers were running high but the Church was not the place in which they could give true vent to their feelings. Moreover, many of them were in agreement with John Wycliffe. For some time now there had been murmurings about the wealth and worldliness of men of the Church and that was the very thing Wycliffe was trying to stop. On the other hand John of Gaunt was hated and he was on the side of Wycliffe. John of Gaunt had threatened to abolish the mayoralty and set up a Captain to govern the City and that Captain would be selected by the Crown. They would never allow that. Moreover he had insulted the Bishop of London and that was tantamount to insulting London.

  So they were confused an
d because of this they were uncertain how to attack.

  John went back to the Savoy Palace. Catherine had already heard that there had been trouble in St Paul’s and was very worried.

  She was well aware of the mood of the people and she was constantly afraid that they would harm her lover. He laughed at the idea. No one would get the better of him, he promised her.

  She said: ‘There has been a mood of discontent in the streets of late.’

  She had seen many a sullen look directed at herself when she rode out. She had heard insults. Not that any had dared shout them at her. They had been whispered. But nevertheless their meaning was clear.

  She was anxious on account of the children, she said. ‘I should be happier if I took them out of London for a while …’

  ‘I must be here,’ he told her.

  ‘I know. Perhaps I will take them out and leave them in the care of their nurses. And come back to you.’

  He embraced her suddenly.

  ‘You are my comfort, Catherine,’ he said.

  ‘I know – yet I am one of the reasons why people hate you.’

  ‘They are unreasonable. My father sports with that harlot and yet they forgive him. And you and I … true lovers … are derided.’

  ‘I count everything worth while,’ she said.

  He laughed. ‘I too. You are right. Take the children away … today … do not hesitate. And come back to me, Catherine.’

  The very next day he was glad that she had done so. She was clever, his Catherine. Sometimes he thought she understood the people better than he did.

  The day following the scene in the Cathedral the streets were full of muttering people. John had gone by barge to the home of Sir John d’Ypres, a London merchant of great wealth who had become a great friend of the King because of his ability in financial matters. He had been knighted some years previously and the King reckoned him to be one of his most loyal subjects. Lord Percy was leaving the Marshalsea to join John at the house of the merchant.

  Meanwhile the crowds were congregating in the streets. They had forgotten their doubts about Wycliffe and had concentrated all their venom on John of Gaunt.

  One man had climbed a wall and was addressing the people. He could scarcely be heard above the noise.

  ‘Who is he? A low-born Fleming … put into the Queen’s bed when she overlaid her child. Now he wants to rule this land. Our little Prince Richard is in danger. This Lancaster will stop at nothing. He with his accomplice Percy will have us all in chains.’

  Someone shouted: ‘Remember the petition to Parliament to give us a Captain in place of our Mayor.’

  ‘We’ll never allow it,’ shouted the people.

  ‘Good friends, you know what this will mean. A creature of Lancaster’s to take over our City. An officer of his choosing. Shall we have that?’

  ‘Never!’ shouted the people.

  ‘Then how are we going to stop it?’

  ‘Death to John of Gaunt,’ was the cry.

  ‘Percy has a prisoner in the Marshalsea. One of our people.’

  ‘Then let us get him.’

  That was what they needed – a plan of action.

  ‘To the Marshalsea. We’ll free the prisoner and then we’ll get them. Lancaster … and Percy.’

  The crowd rushed to the Marshalsea. Startled servants bolted the doors against them but it did not take the mob long to batter them down.

  It was true. There was a prisoner there. They released him and burned the stocks in which he had been held.

  ‘Find Percy!’ cried the people. They went through the place pulling down doors and walls taking whatever seemed valuable to them. But they could not find Percy.

  ‘He will be with his crony,’ said one. ‘He’ll be at the Savoy.’

  That was the magic word. The Savoy Palace. That was the home of the real enemy.

  Soon they were at the gates of the Savoy.

  One of Lancaster’s retinue rode up. He was wearing the badge of Lancaster.

  ‘What do you here?’ he demanded.

  ‘Do you serve John of Gaunt?’

  ‘I do.’

  Someone shouted: ‘Here’s one of them.’ The knight, a certain Sir John Swynton, was dragged from his horse and the badge torn from his coat.

  He was crying: ‘What have I done to offend you?’

  ‘Leave him,’ shouted someone. ‘He’s not the one we want.’

  Sir John was left bleeding on the ground and the mob passed on.

  A priest rode up. ‘What is the trouble? Why are you here?’ he asked.

  ‘We have come for John of Gaunt,’ someone said. ‘We are going to stop his giving us a Captain. We are going to make him release Peter de la Mare.’

  ‘Peter de la Mare is a traitor,’ said the priest. ‘He should have been hanged long ago.’

  There was a shout of rage as the priest was dragged from his horse and the mob fell on him.

  Some of them had now succeeded in breaking into the Savoy. They were trying to tear down the place and many were running out with rich treasures.

  ‘Come out, John of Gaunt,’ they shouted. ‘We want to give you a warm welcome, John of Gaunt.’

  One of the Lancaster knights came riding to the Savoy and pulled up in time for, remembering what had happened in St Paul’s the day before and seeing the mob breaking into the Savoy, he realised what this meant. He heard the shouts of ‘Come out, John of Gaunt. We have come for you, John of Gaunt.’ And he knew there was murder in their hearts.

  He turned his horse and rode with all speed to the house of Sir John d’Ypres where he knew his master was dining with Lord Percy.

  He reached the house. He broke into the hall where they were eating dinner and had just completed the first course.

  ‘My lord,’ he cried, ‘the mob is shouting for you. They have broken into the Savoy.’

  John rose. He immediately saw the danger.

  ‘They will discover we are here,’ said Percy.

  John nodded. ‘We must leave at once.’

  ‘Where shall you go?’ asked his host.

  ‘To Kennington,’ he said. ‘My sister-in-law will give us refuge. Come, there is not a moment to lose.’

  Mean while William Courtenay, the Bishop of London, had heard the tumult in the streets, and making enquiries learned that the mob was on the march, that they had already gutted the Marshalsea and were now at the Savoy looking for John of Gaunt and their mood was murderous.

  There was no time to lose. John of Gaunt was his enemy, but this was no way to deal with him. They would make a martyr of him.

  With all haste he rode to the Savoy. Some of the mob were inside the palace. The noise was deafening, and he found it difficult to make himself heard.

  Then a cry went up. ‘The Bishop!’ And there was silence.

  He addressed them in a voice of thunder.

  ‘My people. What is this I find? It grieves me. Take heed, I say. I would speak with you. Do you want to bring the wrath of God down on your heads?’

  A hushed silence fell on the crowd.

  ‘This is the season of Lent,’ went on the Bishop. ‘You have killed one of my priests. May God forgive you. This is a time when you should be repenting of your sins. And you add to them. Go home, and entreat God for mercy. You have need of it. This is not the way to right your wrongs.’

  He rode through the crowd. There was something noble about him and his clerical vestments lent him a grandeur. He knew that one of them might have raised a hand against him and set the mood of the mob, but he showed no fear.

  They were overawed. He was more than a mere man. He was their Bishop.

  ‘Disperse quietly,’ he said. ‘Go to your homes and pray for forgiveness. Remember this is the season of Lent.’

  He watched them.

  One by one they went away.

  The Bishop had quelled the riot.

  Chapter VII

  THE END OF A REIGN

  To return to Kennington after all the pomp
and glory of the Court where he was a very important person indeed was somewhat disconcerting for young Richard. The proclamation that he was the King’s heir and the banquet which had followed had given him a taste for such pleasures; and now here he was back under the care of Sir Simon Burley and Sir Guichard d’Angle who, although he was very fond of them both, did treat him as though he were a little boy.

  His mother was the same; she was always afraid that something was going to happen to him. His father had always chided her for pampering him. It was different with his half-brothers, Thomas and John Holland. They liked to play rough games and were always trying out practical jokes. He was not always pleased with such horseplay and his mother’s constant hovering to make sure he was not hurt.

  It was not that he regretted not indulging in the sports that his elder brothers did, for he was not very interested in them. Besides Thomas and John were years older than he was; and they were wild. They took after their father, their mother said. He was the sort of man who took what he wanted and counted the cost after, whereas Richard’s father had been serious, deeply concerned with doing the right thing.

  ‘You must be like your father.’ That was what he was constantly told until he grew tired of hearing how wonderful his father had been. The great hero. The Black Prince. The tale of how he had won his spurs at Crécy and how he had brought back the French King after Poitiers were stories which grew a little tiresome, especially when they were always followed by the injunction that he must try to be like his father.

  Now his half-brothers were talking about Wycliffe who was being examined by the Bishop of London in St Paul’s. Richard had heard a great deal of talk about this man John Wycliffe. He was one who had very strong views about religion and did not mind giving voice to them.

  His mother was inclined to favour the man. She thought the Pope had too much power and Richard was agreeing with her now that he had tasted the sweets of coming kingship. The King was the ruler of the country, said his mother, and there should be none above him but God. The Pope set himself up as God’s Deputy on Earth. God did not need a deputy, said his mother.