The Star of Lancaster Page 18

  Then she had had dreams of greatness. Becoming royal through marriage with one of the sons of Edward the Third she had been so proud. And when her son had been born and he had been given that good old de Bohun name of Humphrey she had doted on him.

  Her only son! Her Humphrey! She had known what it meant to love something other than riches and power when he had been born, although she had never ceased to value those things and wanted them for Humphrey.

  When her husband had been murdered that had been the end of her ambition for him and she had turned her thoughts more and more to this precious son.

  He had accompanied his cousin Harry to Ireland at the command of Richard but it had not occurred to her that any harm could come to her son.

  And now this news had shattered her. She had been robbed of that which was the meaning of life to her. She had three daughters; but it had been on Humphrey that her love and devotion was centred.

  She went about Pleshy silent-footed and mournful. Her attendants watched her anxiously.

  ‘She will die of a broken heart,’ they said.

  She would sit in the window seat and look out across the country to where the grey walls of the convent rose and she thought of those days long before Humphrey’s birth when her sister Mary was here and had made her journeys to and from the convent. How they had urged her to take up the life of the nun. And she might have done so had it not been for that meeting with Henry Bolingbroke – contrived of course by John of Gaunt. They had wanted Mary’s fortune . . . well so had she.

  How different everything would have been if Mary had entered the convent. Harry of Monmouth would never have been born.

  ‘Oh Humphrey,’ she mourned, ‘never to see you again . . . Humphrey, my son, my boy . . .’

  She was tired in body and in mind. She had nothing now to live for.

  Then she saw again the grey walls of the convent and it seemed to her that they offered peace. Could it be that she, Eleanor Duchess of Gloucester, who for years before had tried so hard to persuade her sister to enter that convent, should now be considering ending her own life there?

  It was strange what peace the thought brought her. She could almost hear her own arguments with which she had bombarded Mary. The quiet. The peace. The life lived to a pattern of service to others.

  There was comfort in it.

  It was ironical that the Duchess, who had thought the convent life so suitable for her sister, should now want to embrace it herself.

  As the days passed the more firm became the decision and finally she took the step.

  She did not live long. She found that she must mourn her son within the convent walls as bitterly as she had in the castle.

  She died very soon after entering the convent. Of a broken heart, it was said.

  Harry realised that Humphrey had been right when he had talked about the insecurity of the new King’s position; and none was more aware of this than Henry himself.

  He was delighted to receive his son and to see that he was in good health, though somewhat melancholy still owing to the sudden death of his cousin.

  There were other matters with which to concern themselves, Henry reminded his son, and because Harry was next in importance to himself he discussed matters candidly with him.

  ‘Do not imagine,’ said the new King, ‘that we are as safe on the throne as if it had come to us through straight inheritance. Richard has been crowned King. He still lives. The people have shown they have had enough of him and he has agreed to abdicate, but it is a dangerous position.’

  ‘Richard’s reign is over,’ cried Harry. ‘Should we concern, ourselves with him?’

  ‘Of a certainty we should, my son. I tell you this, I shall not rest easy while he lives. There is Edmund de Mortimer – that child. He does not add to my peace of mind. Harry, we must tread with the greatest care. You give yourself airs. Do not do so. Behave with modesty. Let it be as it was before.’

  ‘Did I ever behave with modesty?’ asked Harry, grinning.

  ‘This is a serious matter. So much will depend on the next few weeks. I have not won the crown by conquest, for there has been scarcely any fighting. It is rather by election.’

  ‘Is that not a good thing?’

  ‘Yes, but I want to make it firm. I want now and in the years to come people to say of me, “There is a true King and ruler.” If we do not take care we shall have risings. There will be those ready to support Richard . . . till he dies . . . Edmund de Mortimer’s adherents . . .’

  ‘’Twould be safer if we could prove in some way that you were the rightful heir.’

  ‘Well, there is the story you know, that Henry the Third’s eldest son was not Edward who became the First of that name, but Edmund, Earl of Lancaster, he whom they called Crouch-back, and from whom we are directly descended. But because of the latter’s weakness they substituted Edward the second son for the first-born and so he was brought up as the heir.’

  ‘Will any believe that, my lord?’

  ‘I think very few would, but it would save a great deal of trouble if they could be persuaded to.’

  ‘Why do you not claim the throne because you have won it?’

  ‘Claim it is mine through conquest! A dangerous situation, Harry. Someone one day might be taking it from me . . . claiming it by conquest. Chief Justice Thyrnynge has warned me against that. But perhaps I could be said to have a greater claim because I am descended on both sides of the family from Henry the Third. You see that king was my father’s great-great-grandfather and my mother’s great-great-grandfather also. Edmund de Mortimer could not claim that.’

  ‘My lord,’ said Harry, ‘as I see it, you have the power; you have the riches; you have the crown in your hands. That makes you King. All you must concern yourself with is keeping that crown, until it comes to me and rest assured, my lord, that when it does I shall clamp it to my head with bars of iron.’

  Henry could not help smiling at his son. As soon as he possibly could he would create him Prince of Wales.

  The new King rode through the teeming rain from the Tower on the traditional journey to Westminster for the next day would be that of his coronation.

  The water streamed down his face, soaking his fine clothes but he laughed at it and so did the crowds of people who had come out in spite of the weather to welcome him.

  With him rode his four sons, Harry who was to be created Prince of Wales within the next few days, just past his twelfth birthday, Thomas who was ten, John nine, and Humphrey eight. The sight of the boys warmed the people’s hearts. Here was a man to rule them and he was strong and clever, the son of wily John of Gaunt, and already he had given proof that he could provide strong heirs to the throne. Young Harry’s affable smiles and manner towards the crowd delighted all; and now everything would be different from the reign of Richard when they had been taxed to pay for his fine friends and general extravagances and he had shown them quite clearly that he was either unable or disinclined to produce an heir.

  Harry thought the most magical sound in the world was that of the people’s cheers and the words ‘God Save the King’. It was particularly exhilarating to think that this would one day be happening to him.

  He was almost sorry to reach the dry comfort of Westminster Palace where they would lodge for the night in preparation for the next day’s event.

  His father had said: ‘I shall be uneasy until the coronation is over. When a man is crowned King people are less inclined to topple him from his throne.’

  Harry was beginning to think that his father worried too much and was not going to be uneasy merely till the coronation was over but would go on being so for ever. He should forget how the crown had come to him. He must put the image of an imprisoned Richard and the child Edmund Mortimer out of his mind. Richard had been deposed and nobody wanted a child on the throne.

  Harry awoke early on coronation day.

  In his own chamber the King prayed that nothing would go wrong. It did not occur to Harry that anything
could.

  Fortunately the rain had stopped. The people had been in the streets since early morning and had assembled in their thousands around the palace and the abbey.

  There were wild cheers when the procession emerged led by Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland carrying in his hand the sword of Lancaster which Henry had said should always be preserved, as he had carried it when he landed in England. Northumberland was Constable of England and it was for this reason that he took such a prominent part in the coronation; moreover he reckoned that he and his son Hotspur had made it possible for Henry to gain the throne by offering their support when he arrived, without any army or the means to conduct a campaign the object of which at that time had been merely the regaining of the Lancaster estates.

  Harry was entranced to play an important part in such a spectacle. It was his task to carry the curtana, that sword without a point which was always carried at coronations as a symbol of mercy.

  He walked immediately behind his father who, dressed entirely in white, walked beneath a blue silk canopy which was carried by the barons of the Cinque Ports.

  It was one of the most impressive ceremonies ever seen and if all the time Henry was uneasy wondering whether at the last moment some would protest that the country had a King already and this man who was being crowned was an impostor, he did not show it.

  Nothing of the sort happened. It appeared that the country was well satisfied with its new King. But Henry’s uneasiness continued all through the splendid banquet that followed and when Sir Thomas Dymoke, the traditional challenger, rode into the hall to demand that if any man present did not accept Henry as the righful King of England he must enter into single combat with Sir Thomas, Henry himself answered.

  ‘If the need arises, Sir Thomas,’ he said in a clear voice, ‘I will myself take this office from you.’

  It was well spoken though it betrayed a departure from tradition – as indeed was this occasion. It was rare that a King was crowned while a crowned King lived and there was one other closer to the throne.

  A moment’s silence followed and then the cheering burst out.

  There was no doubt that Henry the Fourth was King of England by will of the people.

  A few days later Harry was created Prince of Wales.

  It was inevitable that there should be some voices of dissent. Henry was wary; and when there was a plan to seize and kill him and his family and put Richard back on the throne he took firm action. He crushed the revolt but it was absolutely necessary that Richard must die. At Pontefract Castle Henry put him under the care of Sir Thomas Swynford, the son of Catherine the Duchess of Lancaster. Thomas had risen in the world and he owed his advancement to his mother’s connection with the house of Lancaster. If Henry failed Thomas’s fortunes would wane. Thomas was a man whom he could trust, he was a shrewd man who knew where his own advantage lay; he was aware that there would be rebellions and risings as long as Richard lived. It was up to Thomas to see that Richard did not live.

  Nor did he. He died in Pontefract. Some said he had been starved to death; Thomas Swynford’s story was that he had refused to eat. There was rumour that he had been attacked and had died defending himself. But the story which worried Henry most was that he was not dead at all and that a priest who bore a striking resemblance to him had taken his place in the castle while Richard escaped.

  That was a story which must be denied at once. Richard must be shown to be dead, and Henry acted with his usual promptness. The late King must be accorded a burial worthy of his rank, he declared. True he had become merely Sir Richard of Bordeaux, but he had once been a king; and he was after all first cousin to the reigning monarch.

  Henry gave orders that Richard’s body should be placed on a litter and covered with black cloth. There should be a canopy over the litter of the same black cloth. Four horses should be harnessed to the carriage-litter and they also must be caparisoned in black. Grooms should ride the horses which drew the litter and four knights should follow it on its journey. Their demeanour must match their garments of mourning for it must be seen that all due respect was paid to the late King. His face should be exposed so that all might see who the dead man was that there might be no more tiresome rumours about his not being dead. In all the towns and villages through which the cortège passed the litter was to be left in the market square or some such public place where all might see it and satisfy themselves that it was indeed Richard who lay there.

  In due course it arrived in London and it proceeded at a slow pace through the streets until it came to Cheapside and there it rested for two hours.

  Twenty thousand men and women came to see it and gaze mournfully at the dead face which was all that could be seen of the King.

  When the funeral litter left Cheapside it travelled to Langley and there Richard was buried.

  Harry of Monmouth, Prince of Wales, was riding out to Havering Bower. He was in good spirits. Life was turning out to be very interesting indeed. Who would have believed it could have changed so quickly! It seemed only a week or so ago that he and Humphrey had been playing and fighting together, captives in Trim Castle, and his father had been an exile with little hope of returning to England for years. He did not wish to think too much of Trim Castle for that brought back thoughts of Humphrey which made him sad. If only Humphrey had been here now how he would have enjoyed boasting to him. But Humphrey was dead and Harry was Prince of Wales with a King for a father.

  It was too exciting a prospect for him to entertain melancholy for long.

  And he was almost a man. He chuckled too, contemplating his mission.

  His father had come straight to the point in his customary manner.

  ‘Harry, you’re growing up. Moreover you are the Prince of Wales. It is time we considered a marriage for you.’

  Marriage! The thought excited Harry. He had already shown a certain fondness for women – and so far his attentions had been mainly for serving girls. They liked him and were ready to accept his attention with a giggle and a rather patronising air which reminded him that he was ‘only a boy’.

  Marriage would be different.

  ‘Well, you will soon be thirteen and not over-young for your years,’ went on his father. ‘I think there need be little delay. I see no reason why the marriage should not take place as soon as we have arranged all that will be necessary.’

  ‘Who is to be my bride?’ asked Harry.

  His father smiled at him. ‘One you have already met and I believe are inclined to admire. She is of the highest birth – in fact a queen. What do you think of that?’ As Harry looked puzzled, his father went on: ‘Why, young Isabella of course.’

  ‘Richard’s Queen!’

  ‘A widow now – a virgin widow. Just about your age, Harry.’

  ‘Isabella!’

  ‘Ah, I see the idea does not displease you.’

  ‘She is the prettiest girl I ever saw.’

  ‘That is exactly what you should say about your future wife.’

  ‘When shall I marry her?’

  ‘Not quite so much haste, please. She is the daughter of the King of France. I don’t want to let her go for he is sure to demand her dowry back, so it seems an excellent solution for you to marry her. In due time she should be reigning Queen of England again.’

  ‘I think she will like that.’

  ‘What is most important at the moment, Harry, is that she should like you.’

  ‘Oh she will like me,’ boasted Harry. ‘I will go and see her.’

  His father had thought that would be an excellent idea. Isabella was an imperious young person and as she had been far too much indulged by her late husband, she would need a certain amount of wooing, reasoned the King. He wanted the marriage to be acceptable to her.

  Harry had no doubt whatsoever that he was carrying good news to Isabella and he arrived at Havering in good spirits.

  When she heard who had come to see her Isabella was at first amazed and then angry. She was in a state of gre
at melancholy mourning Richard. From the moment she had seen him she had loved him; he was so beautiful with his golden hair, blue eyes and delicate skin. He had always been so exquisitely dressed and perfumed and he had been as delighted with her as she was with him. She had been longing for the day when she would be old enough to live with him as his wife and now here she was nearly twelve years old and reaching that goal, and they had killed him.

  She was certain they had killed him. She did not believe that he had starved himself to death. He had talked so glowingly of what their life would be together when she was grown up. He would never have killed himself. After all she was his wife and even if they robbed him of his crown and called him Sir Richard of Bordeaux instead of what he really was, King Richard, she was still his wife.

  And now he was dead and she was alone and she did not know what would become of her – yet in her grief she did not care.

  ‘I shall not see this braggart Harry,’ she said. ‘Why should he come here to see me?’

  Her maids, Simonette and Marianne, whom she had brought with her from France and whom Richard had indulgently allowed her to keep, fluttered round her, one brushing her long dark hair and the other putting on her shoes.

  ‘It is important, my lady,’ said Simonette. ‘He is the Prince of Wales now, this Harry.’

  ‘He is not the Prince of Wales,’ cried Isabella. ‘There is no Prince of Wales. He is the son of the usurper.’

  ‘Hush, hush, my lady,’ warned Marianne. ‘People listen. They say the King is very harsh with those who go against him.’

  ‘Let him be harsh with me. Let him kill me as he has killed my dear Richard. My father will come and fight him and perhaps kill him which would please me much, I tell you.’

  The two chambermaids shook their heads and looked sadly at each other. It was hardly likely that the King of France would come to England to rescue his daughter. He was at this time in one of his lost periods, which meant that he was kept shut away from the world, until his affliction left him and he was sane again.