Uneasy Lies the Crown

by N. Gemini Sasson

  It was May of ’95 before Owain returned to Sycharth. He rode upon a new gray steed of fine Irish blood. Margaret waited for him on the road beyond the manor. The glow was back in her cheeks and her eyes were bright with joy to see him. He dropped from his horse and ran to her. In either arm she clutched their youngest ones, their heads tufted with the same silken yellow as their mother. Before Owain could grant his wife a kiss, she put little Sion down. For a moment Sion tottered uncertainly on his plump, bowed legs. Then he took one step, and then another, and fell into his father’s strong arms.

  Iolo Goch:

  The year following King Richard’s marriage to seven-year old Isabella, daughter of King Charles of France, three of the Lords Appellant were suddenly arrested—by order of the king himself. The Duke of Gloucester, Richard’s own uncle, met his death by suspect circumstances while imprisoned at Calais. Richard Fitzalan, Earl of Arundel, was executed. The Earl of Warwick was spared his life, but doomed to lifelong imprisonment on the Isle of Man. Only Thomas Mowbray, the Earl of Nottingham and a new favorite of the king, and Henry of Bolingbroke, son of John of Gaunt, were spared. To their astonishment, Mowbray and Bolingbroke were vaulted to the dukedoms of Norfolk and Hereford, respectively. They were gifts accepted with great misgiving.

  Mowbray made the horrific mistake of confiding in Henry. So great had grown Mowbray’s mistrust, that he was noticeably absent when Parliament convened in Shrewsbury on January 27th, 1398.

  If there were troubles in Richard’s reign, much of it was of his own making.

  6

  Shrewsbury, England — January, 1398

  In his private chambers at Shrewsbury Castle, Richard II, King of England, sat hunched over the chess board, tapping at one of his pawns. He lifted it, twirled it between his thumb and forefinger, and then put it back down. Twice more, he reached for a piece, but drew his hand back.

  Across from him, John of Gaunt groaned impatiently. “You’re testing my patience, Richard.”

  “Uncle, Uncle...” Richard laced his fingers behind his head and leaned back on his stool. His father had died when he was only nine, after having just returned from the battlefields of France. The following year, his grandfather, the resolute Edward III, also died, leaving the crown to young Richard. Gaunt had stepped into the role of his guardian almost immediately and served him capably in that respect. They may have differed in opinion from time to time, but Richard didn’t love or respect his uncle any less for it. “You’re rushing me in the hopes I’ll make an impetuous move.”

  “You, Richard, are stalling. You have no idea what to do, because any move you make will be a deadly one.”

  “I am not stalling. I’m considering my options.”

  “None of them are good, so just be done with it, will you?”

  Richard nudged a pawn forward and snatched his hand back. The door flew open. The fire sputtered and went low momentarily as it battled the draft that marched in on Henry of Bolingbroke’s heels. Shivering at the January cold, Richard tugged his fox-trimmed mantle up to his ears.

  Toying with a knight, Gaunt glanced at his son. “Close the door.”

  Henry flung the door shut with vehemence. His concentration unbroken, Gaunt executed his move, then pinched the stem of his green-tinged Bohemian glass and triumphantly doused his throat with wine.

  “Ah, damnation. I’ll lose yet another.” Richard twisted his face. Quick to find distraction, he peered at Henry. “How goes it, Cousin? Where has Mowbray been these past two days? Not like him to avoid Parliament. I pray he has not taken ill.”

  “It would be to your great advantage if he were,” Henry said.

  Hands now clasped before him as he rested his elbows on the table, Richard caressed his jewel-encrusted rings. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know the reason for Thomas Mowbray’s absence. Even though he had vaulted him to the dukedom of Norfolk, he had lately been nagged by an inkling of mistrust of the man. But more than Mowbray’s scheming, he feared Henry’s ambition. This sudden revelation was just one more instance of his cousin seeking to advance his worth in Richard’s eyes.

  Gaunt lifted his chin, stretching the folds of skin that marked his many years like the rings of a tree trunk. “You have news for the king?”

  “Oh, enough!” Henry grumbled. “It was you, Father, who urged me to do this. And by God, though I detest my mission, it must be done.”

  Above his glittering knuckles, Richard studied his cousin: the epitome of knighthood. A constant champion on the tournament field and possessing all the piety of an anointed crusader, he was a power worth recognizing. Even the ornate tapestry on the wall behind him depicting St. George slaying the dragon could have been spun in laud of him.

  “What must be done?” Richard said.

  Striding forward, Henry planted his rock-like fists on the table, rattling the chess pieces. “Thomas Mowbray says that you seek to plot against him. That all your pardons were for naught. He also says that I have every reason to plot against you, which I swear by all that is holy is untrue. I will not have him utter such lies about either myself or my king.”

  Richard lowered his hands, then rose and straightened his robes. “You speak of treason.”

  “That I do.”

  “Then you must bring this before Parliament.”

  “I know.” Henry’s gruff voice lowered. “I know as well that it was Mowbray himself at whose hands Gloucester died.”

  Richard tried hard to control his expression. The web of lies he had guarded until now threatened to tear. It had been the official statement that Gloucester had died of natural causes. He would have preferred that version to remain undisputed, for suspicion to simply vanish. “He will challenge you.”

  “I am well aware of that.”

  Richard moved a few steps, stopping behind his uncle. He could have pressed himself through the very cracks in the walls and not been far enough from Henry at that moment. “Henry, my dear cousin... this is a complicated matter. Perhaps it was no more than a thought spoken aloud and just as quickly dismissed. Or a rumor that —”

  “It was no rumor.” Henry’s face took on a revealing shade of red. His fingernails dug into the tabletop. He was not known for his ability to control his temper. “I was there. I heard him say it.”

  “All the same, you may wish you had never spoken of this without further proof. He will deny it. His supporters might well retaliate against you.”

  “And if I had kept it to myself, would I not then have been guilty of treason, as well? That I would not do. I have no wish to destroy your faithful followers, or myself for what it matters... but I will not stand idly by while such sedition grows and festers in your realm. Soon enough it will stink like plague-rotted corpses in your court.”

  His fingers again nervously probing the dazzling facets of his jewels, Richard nodded, half-convinced and wholly disturbed. “Very well. Your accusations will be heard before Parliament adjourns this session. Gather what evidence you have. Present it. I thank you for your... your concern.” He reclaimed his seat. A cool minute later, with Henry still looming, the king drummed his fingers on the table. “You may go. Spare me the details for now.”

  Jaw clenched, Henry stormed from the room.

  Unwilling to accept defeat prematurely, Richard slid one of the marble pieces strategically forward.

  “I hear the young Earl of March received a hero’s welcome this morning,” Gaunt imparted. Edmund Mortimer, the Earl of March, was a seven-year boy old whose great-grandfather, Lionel, Duke of Clarence, had been the second oldest son of King Edward III and Queen Philippa. As the direct descendant of the next oldest of King Edward’s sons, many believed that little Edmund Mortimer was next in line for the throne. Richard still had no heir and with his new bride, Isabella, being a young girl still, it was not likely he would have one for some years yet. Anything could happen in that span of time and Richard was well aware of it. Although John of Gaunt had long wielded his influence over Richard, he was King Edward’s
fourth son and not even he would have asserted to hold the stronger claim. Richard sensed otherwise about his hotheaded cousin Henry of Bolingbroke, however. Henry was ambitious and would have thought nothing of grasping for what was not his if he wanted it. Richard did not trust him.

  “Oh yes, the heir presumptive.” Richard sneered. Henry’s appearance had put him in a foul mood. He flicked his queen across the board, toppling Gaunt’s army of pawns. “I have wearied of this. I wish to retire now.”

  It was an unsettling revelation for the king. Henry pitted against Mowbray could prove to be extremely ugly. For all he knew, his cousin was merely trying to earn favor by alerting him to Mowbray’s remarks. A contrived delay was in order. If Richard was to rid himself of the bur that was Henry of Bolingbroke, without alienating his beloved uncle, it would take some delicate planning.

  Iolo Goch:

  A parliamentary committee decided, most conveniently, that the dispute between Bolingbroke and Mowbray should be determined by trial by combat. The chosen place was Coventry. The date—the 16th of September of that year: 1398.

  As the duel was about to begin, Richard intervened. He banished both men: Mowbray for a hundred winters and Henry for ten years. Henry withdrew to the French court, where he was received with great civility.

  The next winter, Henry received the ill tidings of his father’s death. He expected that Richard would summon him home and bestow upon him the titles and holdings that had been his father’s. But to Henry’s astonishment, instead of a cousin’s welcoming arms and tepid apology, Richard disinherited him—from everything.

  Vengefulness is a dangerous quality in a king. More so to Richard himself than to those he sought to punish. Henry swore himself the king’s enemy. Richard would pay.

  7

  Waterford, Ireland — May, 1399

  It was the 31st of May in 1399 when King Richard’s ships pulled into the harbor at Waterford. Art McMurrough had once again reared up in revolt—this time claiming himself as the rightful king of all Ireland. So it was that Richard had departed for that unruly isle, the funds for the expedition duly augmented by the seizure of Henry of Bolingbroke’s lands. There was great risk at leaving his kingdom, especially so shortly after the cutting affront to his cousin, who was not without his supporters. But it was with calculated foresight that Richard brought with him Henry’s own son: Henry of Monmouth, more affectionately known to his godfather the king as Harry.

  The ride inland toward Kilkenny was intoxicating. The persistent mists had summoned from the earth tender blades of grass that flooded the island in a rippling sea of green. When the clouds broke and drifted away, sunlight coaxed forth tight buds so that the trees and hedges lifted up their emerald crowns beneath an endless sky.

  Numerous reports confirmed the king’s army was on the trail of McMurrough, but always, the rebel was one slippery step ahead. Then they stumbled upon him almost by accident. An Irishman from the nearby village with a grudge against McMurrough decided to take advantage of the king’s presence and revealed McMurrough’s whereabouts. A small party of scouts on the swiftest horses rode on ahead to find him. Meanwhile, the English pressed on as fast as they could, their pace hampered by the king’s wagon train. It was a short hour later that one of the scouts returned to the king’s army.

  The breathless soldier dropped from his saddle before his horse had even completely stopped. Sweat poured from his jaw line, drenching the front of his shirt. He bowed hastily before the king, who was enthroned upon his gray destrier, then looked up uneasily. “Sire.” His eyes plunged. “We lost him. Over the next ridge. By the time we reached the place we had last seen him, there was no trace. Three rivers converged nearby. He could have crossed any one of them to hide his tracks.”

  With pinched lips, Richard studied the countryside. Beyond the nearest line of hillocks, the rambling edge of a thick forest wandered. The tree trunks stood like the masts of ships, firmly entrenched, their leafy sails buffeted by the hot, insistent wind. He clenched his reins, feeling the earth tip beneath him. A queasiness reminiscent of his channel crossing soured his stomach. He choked back the bitterness. “So hunt him down. However long it takes. Bring him back to me.”

  “We tried, sire, but... the ground has been used for grazing cattle recently. The tracks will be hard to find—if there are any. And there are several more streams to swallow up hoof prints by the score, as well as forest trails leading in a dozen directions. He knows this land too well and we not at all.”

  “You failed?” Richard resisted the urge to strike the man.

  Beside him, Harry, fourteen years of age, spoke out. “Burn the closest village.”

  Richard’s eyes snapped toward him. “What?”

  Above a dimpled chin, Harry’s angelic mouth curved into a smile. “If you can’t shackle the criminal, punish him otherwise.”

  “M’lord?” Thomas, Duke of Surrey and the king’s nephew through his mother’s second marriage, edged his horse closer. “It was a villager who led us to McMurrough. If we burn it...”

  Richard dabbed at his upper lip with a kerchief. He wasn’t comfortable with the idea, but he wasn’t about to go back to England without making some sort of statement that rebellion came with consequences. “Perhaps it was all a ruse, Thomas? Carefully planned from the very beginning. They think to mock their king. My young cousin here is a clever lad. Do as he says: burn the village.”

  An hour later, as Richard rode on to Dublin at the head of his army, the smoke of burning thatch blotted out the sun.

  Dublin, Ireland — June, 1399

  Young Harry was sitting cross-legged on his bed in Dublin Castle, bent over a cherished copy of Troilus and Cressida, when the king rushed into his private chamber at well past Compline, startling him. They had been ensconced in Dublin for nearly two months now, with no apparent cause keeping them there. Already, Harry had begun to feel himself a prisoner of circumstance, subjected to Richard’s increasingly unpredictable moods.

  The lamplight drew long shadows on Richard’s thinning face. The corners of his mouth were weighed down with a hundred years’ worry. He trailed his hand along the rough stone wall. “Oh, poor Harry. Do you know what your father has done?”

  Harry closed his book, studying the king. Yes, he knew. Half the world knew by then. Henry of Bolingbroke had set sail from Boulogne and landed at Ravenspur at the Mouth of the Humber earlier that month. He had then headed toward Pontefract in the north and along the way the people had joined him, shouting and cheering. Even the mighty lords of those northern lands—Henry Percy, the Earl of Northumberland, and his son Harry Hotspur—had merged with Henry of Bolingbroke’s ranks. They were more than mere rumors, as sources had been highly reliable, and with each report Harry had watched his cousin rant and worry endlessly.

  While Harry understood his father’s yearning for justice, it grieved him to see the king so helplessly cornered. For several tense, volatile weeks, Richard had paced the floors of Dublin Castle, bestowing precious time on Henry’s cause. The loyalties of those that the king had left behind had proven to be as shifting as sand dunes in a gale. Left and right, Richard’s closest councilors had submitted to Henry. If Richard remained in Ireland much longer, soon enough he would have no kingdom at all to return to.

  Pressing his back against the wall, Richard covered his face for a long minute. Finally, he raked the woven tangle of hair back from his forehead. “He invaded my land. Beautiful, glorious England. And... and without trial or cause or mercy he has put to death my faithful subjects. Oh, Harry, I do love you. I am so sorry for you. Your father’s doings will cost you your inheritance. I would not have had it so. Dear God, you don’t know how this pains me.” Tears washed over his cheeks. “My friends, my own kinsmen—they all turn from me. It feels as though my soul is in flames and there is nothing left inside me but ashes.” He crumpled to the floor, his head upon his knees, sobbing.

  In his nightshirt, Harry slid from his bed. He approached slowly, knelt down
and laid a hand on the king’s shoulder. He had spent far more years of his youth at the king’s side than his own father’s. The affection he felt for Richard was genuine, as was his pity of him. “I had prayed the rumors were not true. But please, please... I had no part in my father’s deeds. None. I am innocent.”

  Grasping Harry’s fingers tightly, Richard raised his watery eyes. “Yes, I know. You had no part in his crimes. I don’t accuse you of anything. Still...”

  Harry wrapped his arms around the king. Richard, unable to endure the embrace, bolted up. He went to the doorway and hung there, both hands braced against the frame as if there existed some degree of safety in its structure.

  “Harry?” He glanced over his sloping shoulder. “If I could have chosen a son...” Quickly, he averted his face. “I must return to England. Try to amend matters there. Tomorrow, Thomas will take you to Castle Trim in Meath for your own protection, where you will remain until this is over.”

  Over? It would not be over until Harry’s father had his way. Only one end could come of Richard.

  8

  Sycharth, Wales — Summer, 1399

  Margaret fanned her supple fingers over the ridge of Owain’s knuckles. They sat side by side at the head of the table in Sycharth’s hall. Their home was thronged with family and friends. The rafters rang with the echo of laughter. Owain’s family was celebrating the sixteenth birthday of his oldest son Gruffydd and it was much to Gruffydd’s chagrin that Iolo had chosen as his verse the woeful romance of Tristan and Iseult. Only yesterday, Gruffydd had confided in Iolo that the object of his every waking moment was a young maiden named Elise, a niece to Owain’s petulant neighbor Lord Reginald de Grey of Ruthin.