by Jean Plaidy
Richard was beginning to take an interest in what was going on in the country. After all, soon he would be ruling over it.
‘The old man grows more and more feeble every day,’ said Thomas Holland.
Richard admired Thomas very much. He was always so sure of himself and he had always been particularly friendly with Richard. Thomas was in fact the Earl of Kent, a title he had inherited when his father had died and which had come through his mother. Thomas made no secret of the fact that he could not wait for the old King to die. ‘Then,’ he had whispered to Richard, ‘you will be our King.’
He made it sound very exciting. They would always be good friends, said Thomas.
‘Oh yes,’ Richard had cried. ‘When I am King you shall be beside me.’
‘I’ll keep you to that,’ Thomas replied.
John said he would be there too.
It was comforting to have such brothers.
‘He cannot last much longer,’ said Thomas. ‘Poor Alice, she diverts him too much. She keeps her place by her skills and yet those very skills could hasten him to the grave. What a quandary for Alice.’
Their mother joined them. ‘What is this?’ she asked; she must have caught Alice’s name and she did not like such matters to be discussed before Richard.
‘We were talking of Wycliffe,’ said Thomas with a wink at Richard.
Richard enjoyed being in the conspiracy with this man of the world. It made him feel adult. His mother began to talk of Wycliffe and how interesting it was to listen to the views of thinkers such as he was; and then suddenly they could hear the sounds of shouting coming from the river.
‘Listen,’ said Joan.
They were silent. There it was, growing louder.
‘Something is happening in the City,’ said Thomas. ‘I’ll swear it concerns yesterday’s trouble at Wycliffe’s trial.’
‘The people are in revolt,’ said Joan. She had turned pale. She was afraid of the people when they raised their voices and were in protest. Mobs were terrifying. Even when their causes were just they lost all sense of reason when they were massed together. There could be bloodshed.
She was thankful that Richard was here with her.
They stood by the window watching. Thomas pointed out the thread of smoke which was rising to the sky.
‘They are rioting,’ said Joan. ‘Oh, my God, what does this mean?’
‘It must be something to do with Wycliffe.’
‘The people were for him, I am sure.’
‘Look,’ cried Richard. ‘It is my uncle’s barge.’
It was indeed and in it was John of Gaunt with Lord Percy, the Marshal. The speed with which the barge came along the river indicated that they were in flight.
They all ran out of the palace and down to the river steps.
As John of Gaunt leaped out of the barge, Joan seized his hand and cried: ‘What news? What news?’
‘There is a riot. The people have gone mad.’
‘Against Wycliffe?’
‘Nay. They have nothing against Wycliffe. They are threatening to kill me.’
‘You are safe here,’ said Joan.
How strange, thought Richard, that they should hate this uncle who looked so splendid always in his beautiful clothes. Richard could not help noticing his clothes even at a moment like this. His short tunic of rich velvet, the girdle at his waist in which was a dagger, and a purse of leather most beautifully embossed. The tippets which hung from his sleeves reached to his knees. They were most elegant and it was hard to believe that such grace could have suffered the indignity of flight from the mob.
‘They hate me, Joan,’ said Uncle John. ‘They have made up their minds to hate me. Any crime they can think of they accuse me of. They insist on believing that I am some sort of changeling.’
‘No one of any sense believes such lies,’ said Joan. ‘But you are distraught. Did this begin in the church?’
‘It is that stiff-necked Courtenay. I’ll not forget this.’
He is proud, thought Richard. He hates me to see him thus, in flight from the mob.
‘Let us go in quickly,’ said Joan. She is afraid, thought Richard, that they will seek him here.
If they did come he would go out to meet them. He would say: ‘I am Richard of Bordeaux. I shall be your King. Hear me!’ or something brave like that. And when they saw him all their anger would melt away and they would love him and shout blessings on him.
‘Come along, Richard,’ said his mother.
She always looked to him first and had taken him by the arm. She seemed to forget that he would soon be a king.
Later news was brought to Kennington of how the rioters had gone to the Marshalsea and sacked it. Shortly afterwards came the news that they had marched on the Savoy Palace.
John was horrified, but thankful that Catherine had had the foresight to leave with the children.
It was ironical that William Courtenay should have been the one to stop the mob from doing more damage at the Savoy. He must be grateful to the Bishop but even in the midst of his relief he wished it had been someone else whom he must thank.
It had been an ugly scene though. It showed clearly how the resentment of the people was ready to flow over at the slightest provocation.
Nor did the matter end there. This quarrel between the Duke of Lancaster and the City of London could not be allowed to fester. There must at least be some outward sign of reconciliation. If the matter was not settled in a satisfactory manner it would mean that at any moment another riot such as that just experienced could take place.
Joan anxiously discussed the matter with her brother-in-law. How she needed her strong purposeful honourable husband beside her now! Her fears were all for Richard. He was going to inherit a country not only impoverished by the Black Death and the French wars but torn by internal strife.
‘You could help to bring about a reconciliation,’ said John. ‘The people like you. You are the mother of the heir whom they have taken to their hearts. There must be a meeting between myself and the representatives of the City. I must let them know that I wish to be their friend and they must give an undertaking that there shall be no more wanton destruction as that which has just occurred.’
Joan saw the point of this. She did not like the role assigned to her but she realised it must be played for the sake of Richard.
She sent for Sir Simon Burley whom she trusted more than any and asked him what could be done. He saw the point at once. There must be no more riots. It must be made clear to the citizens of London that no encroachment on their liberties was planned.
‘Simon, you could explain this. Select two of my knights. Go to the Mayor and talk to him. Please do this, for my sake … for Richard’s sake.’
Simon set out for London accompanied by Sir Aubrey de Vere and Sir Lewis Clifford.
He was received graciously but was told that London demanded the release of Peter de la Mare and William of Wykeham. They wanted to hear from the lips of the King and from his only that their conditions were acceptable.
Lancaster went with all speed to Westminster where he found the King even more feeble than when he had last seen him.
‘What is this trouble?’ he asked testily.
John explained.
‘You shouldn’t be bothered with these people, my love,’ said Alice.
‘I will see them for you,’ replied John.
‘You’re my good son,’ said the King. ‘I do not know what I should do without you … and Alice.’
John was content. This John Philipot whom the Londoners had chosen for their spokesman would have a surprise when he found that instead of having an interview with the King he was faced with the Duke of Lancaster.
But John Philipot was not to be brushed aside.
He bowed and said: ‘My lord, I came to see the King. My instructions are that I shall see none other.’
‘The King is too ill to see you. I am acting for the King.’
A cynical smile
touched the man’s lips. John of Gaunt was certainly not the man to arrange the settlement of the quarrel between himself and the people of London.
‘Then I will return and we will see what the citizens have to say,’ he replied, and he left.
It soon became clear that the citizens were determined. They would see the King and none other.
It was at times such as this that Edward could arouse himself from the lethargy which had taken possession of him.
For a few hours he was like the old King.
He received Philipot and how different was the man’s attitude towards his King from what it had been to John of Gaunt. He might be the sickly lecher, but he was still the great King under whom the country had grown rich and prosperous, who had brought home booty from France – though never the Crown. He was still Great Edward and even now that could be apparent.
He knew how to disarm Philipot; he knew how to placate the Londoners.
Of course de la Mare should have a fair trial. So also should the Bishop of Winchester. They need have no fear of that. The Mayor to be replaced by a Captain! This might have been suggested in Parliament but they could rest assured that that was something he would never give his consent to.
Philipot was overcome by that Plantagenet charm; that ability of Edward’s to cast aside his royalty at the right moment and talk to a man as his equal.
Philipot assured the King that the riot had been started by a few unruly people. The City could not be blamed for that. There would always be such people.
The King agreed.
‘I have never intended to cancel the City’s liberties,’ he assured Philipot. ‘Indeed it is in my mind to extend them.’
‘My lord King, I assure you that the citizens are your most devoted subjects.’
The King nodded. ‘There is the matter of the Duke of Lancaster,’ went on the King. ‘I think those who started the riot and damaged his property and the Marshalsea should be found and punished.’
That should be done, agreed Philipot, knowing full well that they would never be found, even as the King did.
John was uneasy about the meeting. He would have preferred the King not to have seen Philipot. In any case, no culprits were brought forward and the lampoons about the Duke – chiefly referring to that changeling story – were circulated through the town and even posted up in the streets.
The King must act, said John. The Londoners were flouting him; and when they insulted his son they insulted him.
Once more the King agreed to receive a deputation. This time it was the Mayor and the Sheriffs. He was at Sheen at this time and too ill to travel to Westminster. He was very weak and had to be propped up in a chair; he found it difficult to speak.
The citizens must understand that when they insulted his son, they insulted him, he mumbled.
They would make amends, the Mayor promised the King. They would take a candle bearing the Duke’s arms and place it on the altar of the Virgin; there should be processions and the town crier should summon people to attend. This would show that the City of London and the Duke of Lancaster had buried their quarrel.
But when the ceremony was carried out it was a failure. The people refused to attend.
There was a certain amusement among those who did. Such a ceremony was usually performed in honour of the dead. Was it done subtly to suggest that they hoped Lancaster would soon be among that band?
However the people would not do honour to him.
As for John of Gaunt he saw through the insult and hated those who had arranged it. But he had to assume that the quarrel was over, because it was the only way to call a truce. And a truce there must be. There must be no more rioting. The Savoy had been saved and was hastily being repaired.
It might have been so much worse.
A great ceremony was taking place at Windsor where gathered together were the greatest nobles and all the chivalry of England.
It was to witness the ceremony of the Garter which was to be bestowed on the King’s two grandsons – Richard of Bordeaux and Henry of Bolingbroke.
There were moments when the King’s mind was very lucid and seemed to have reverted to its former shrewdness, and this was one of them.
These two, he told himself, will in time be the two most powerful men in England. Richard the King; Henry his cousin, son of John of Gaunt, who is the richest and most influential man in the country under the King.
Edward wanted to see them together. They were of an age, those two, and grandsons of whom a man could be proud. Richard was the elder by a few months – tall, very handsome, yet slender and delicate looking. He will grow out of that, thought Edward. The people will love him, for they admire a handsome man. And he has gracious manners and is clever with words. And Henry – rather stocky but goodly to look on. Of course the people would not care for the son of John of Gaunt as they did for the son of the Black Prince.
They had always loved Edward. He had that quality which drew people to him; and what a hero! And what a tragedy that he should die and leave this young boy to take his place. They had loved Edward as fiercely as they had hated John.
But these two boys must be friends when they grew up. He wanted that. He would have a talk with them after the ceremony.
There was little time left. Alice tried to persuade him that he was well. She tried to prove it, and he tried to pretend it was so to please her.
That affair in the Cathedral had been alarming. He thanked God Courtenay had intervened and prevented further damage. William of Wykeham was restored to his place. Alice had persuaded him and he had had him recalled. He knew that Alice, the minx, had accepted a big bribe from Wykeham, and that was why she had acted for him. It amused him really. These men of the Church were not above a bit of sly bargaining, so if Wykeham was ready to pay for favours why should people criticise Alice for taking advantage of it!
When the ceremony was over he called the two boys to him and told them that he wanted them always to be good friends.
‘The Garter is the symbol of this illustrious order,’ he told them. ‘It is the Order of Chivalry. Never forget it. Because it has been bestowed on you, you must always be courageous and just and preserve your honour at all times. You understand me?’
They both assured him that they understood.
‘Take each other’s hands. There. Now you are joined in love and friendship. The time will come when I am gone and you, Richard, will wear the crown. Henry, remember, he will be your liege lord. Serve him well. And Richard, this is your good cousin. Your fathers were brothers. Proud Plantagenet blood flows through your veins. Stand together. That is where your strength will lie.’
The King was tired suddenly. But a calm had come to him. He was relieved to talk to the boys, to bring them together.
He had a feeling that he had achieved an important mission.
Now he was tired. He wanted his bed … and Alice.
Edward lay at Sheen Palace. It was hot in the apartment for it was the month of June.
He had known he was growing weaker and in spite of Alice’s assurances that he was getting better every day he knew he was dying.
He was a sick old man. He was in his sixty-fifth year and out of those sixty-five years he had reigned for fifty-one. It was a great record.
Indeed it had been a great reign. It was only the last years that had brought him shame. Philippa had died and left him and without her he was bereft. Although to be truthful he had started with Alice before Philippa died.
Well, so are great men fallen. Their weaknesses catch up with them; and it was strange to contemplate that he, the faithful husband for so long, should have become such a slave to his senses. He knew what Alice wanted; but what a companion she had been! All through his life he had been restraining his impulses and it was only rarely that he had broken free.
Well, now here he was dying … great Edward, no longer great, no longer admired, no longer loved by his people.
Just an old man – a rather loathsome old man
, but still the hero of Sluys and Crécy. The shining hero who had set out to win the throne of France and had failed so miserably.
What was he leaving to his grandson? He dared not think. ‘God, save Richard. It is not his fault that he is inheriting a bankrupt kingdom. Oh God, if you had not taken Edward …’
Ah, that was at the heart of the tragedy. Edward had died. If Edward had been in health, he would never have allowed the country to get into this state. There would not have been riots in the streets. There would not have been bribery and corruption in high places. If Edward had been strong and healthy … But God had seen fit to take that bulwark of strength and leave but a frail boy in his place. But he was dying now. This was the end.
There was only one priest by his bedside. He could just see him.
The priest was placing the cross in his hands and he was saying ‘Jesu miserere …’
He kissed the cross.
Then he was lying in his bed and he could see no one.
Slowly life was ebbing away.
Very soon after Alice came to the bedside.
He was gone, this poor doting old man was no more. This was the end of Alice.
She pulled the rings from his fingers, collected what jewels she could and left the palace.
PART TWO
RICHARD OF BORDEAUX
Chapter VIII
THE GATHERING STORM
Richard was exultant. To be a ten-year-old King was surely the finest thing in the world. Tomorrow was the day of his coronation and the whole of London, the whole of the country, was eager to tell him how much he was loved.
He had come to the Tower of London, his mother beside him, and the people had thrown garlands of flowers at him; they had shouted his name. Their loyal cheers still echoed in his ears.
How they loved him! And how he loved them!
‘It is the Crown they cheer,’ Simon had said. ‘It is the symbol of kingship.’
Oh no, he thought. They cheer me. They love me, because I am young and good to look on and they are tired of old men.
