Passage to Pontefract

by Jean Plaidy

  But her real concern was for Richard for what he did was of the utmost importance to the country and she lived in fear that he would, like his great-grandfather, come to a violent end. It was useless to try not to draw these parallels between the present and the past. The past in any case should be used as a lesson for the present.

  She must somehow bring about a peace between Richard and his uncles. This would not be easy. Richard was highly suspicious of John of Gaunt and there was no doubt that John was going to find it hard to forgive the King’s favourites who had plotted against him. But her greatest concern must be for Richard’s future and she was very fearful of it.

  How she wished that she could regain her old vitality. The girl who had danced so gaily through her youth with scarcely a care beyond the next excitement had become a very serious woman. It seemed to her that women had a more reasonable approach to life than men. It was the women who softened the anger of men, who could sometimes persuade them to act more reasonably in the ever worthwhile cause of peace. Queen Philippa had guided great Edward often enough; and he had listened to her. Many a poor man or woman had to be grateful to Philippa for saving them from the King’s wrath. She had given the impression of being a homely woman but the good she had done might well be said to have outweighed that performed by her husband. No one would agree. But who had set up a fine weaving industry in England? Who had saved the lives of the burghers of Calais and so made that town loyal to Edward? Whereas it was impossible to know how many lives had been lost through Edward’s reckless claim to the crown of France.

  John of Gaunt loved Catherine Swynford. There was a clever woman. She must be to have kept John at her side all those years. She would speak to Catherine.

  Sighing she ordered the carriage to be made ready and endured the jolting of her poor old bones across the rough and rutted roads.

  Catherine was delighted to see her. They had always been good friends. Joan had never looked askance at her relationship with John as many did. Joan herself had had not too spotless a reputation in the days of her youth. But it was not that which affected her. It was the recognition of true love which she respected and she found it more to be admired than a contracted marriage which was loveless and made for expediency.

  ‘My dear Catherine,’ she said, ‘my stay will not be long. John is not with you at this time, I hope.’ She smiled. ‘I know that is a matter which does not please you, my dear, but what I have to say is for you alone.’

  Catherine understood perfectly, and during the few days Joan spent with her they had many talks together. Joan stayed in bed most of the time. The journey had shaken her up considerably and there was the return one to be made.

  ‘I should not have come here,’ she said, ‘if I had not considered the matter of the utmost urgency. Catherine, I am afraid. I like not the way England is going.’

  ‘Nor I.’

  ‘These attempts on John’s life …’

  Catherine shivered.

  ‘My dear,’ went on Joan, ‘I know your feelings. You are as worried as I am. There must be peace between my son and his uncles.’

  ‘How I wish there could be.’

  ‘It is for us to arrange it, my dear. I must leave John to you. Your word carries a great deal of weight with him.’

  ‘I can never tell him what to do where the King is concerned.’

  ‘You can persuade him, Catherine. He must be persuaded. He and Woodstock. Woodstock is hot-headed. John is cautious. It is for John to make the move. There must be a reconciliation between the King and John … and chiefly between de Vere and Mowbray and John.’

  ‘My lady, they planned to murder him.’

  ‘I know, and will plan again unless this silly quarrel is patched up.’

  ‘I should never trust them … nor would John.’

  ‘I know, but we must have a surface trust. I am sure there must be some outward show of reconciliation. If there is not there will be civil war. I feel sure of it. And that is the greatest of all tragedies.’

  ‘I agree with all my heart.’

  ‘Catherine, speak to John. I want him to come to Westminster and declare himself ready to forget what has happened. I want a show of friendship. Believe me, I know it is the only thing to save the country. Will you do it, Catherine?’

  ‘I will do my best,’ she answered. ‘I know you are right. This enmity must end … or appear to end.’

  ‘We shall have to be watchful, of course. But it will be an end to this plot to bring John to trial. That must be stopped. I know you can do it, and I know John will see it is the right way to act. It will come better from you, my dear. Promise me you will do it.’

  ‘I will do what I can.’

  ‘My dear Catherine, he loves you dearly. He listens to you. He trusts you as he trusts no one else. You will do it. And tomorrow I must leave here. Oh how I dread the journey. I am getting so old now. I feel the jogging of my carriage for days after I have left it.’

  ‘It is noble of you to come.’

  ‘He is my son, Catherine, my little son. He is but a boy really. And these men who long for the crown do not understand that it can be more of a burden than a glory. And when the head on which it rests is young and inexperienced then that burden is a heavy one indeed.’

  The next day she trundled off in her carriage and in due course she came to Sheen where she talked with Anne.

  Anne was a bright girl, quick to understand. It was a pity she had been thrust into all this intrigue, thought Joan. It was a pity that de Vere had entered their married paradise like the serpent in Eden, a great pity.

  But Anne had influence with the King. She did not seem to mind his pleasure in de Vere. She was a thoughtful girl, unaware that so many in her position might have been jealous. Not so Anne; she seemed contented, or perhaps she was merely clever.

  Joan talked to her as she had talked to Catherine.

  She feared civil war, she told Anne. This quarrel which was brewing between the King and his uncles must be stopped.

  Anne agreed with her.

  ‘There should be an end to these attempts to incriminate Lancaster. He is too powerful to be incriminated. Moreover there is no proof against him, and he is too clever to allow there to be. Woodstock is with him. And Langley would be too if it came to the point. It would be the King and his favourites on one side and Lancaster and his men on the other. Anne, Lancaster was once very unpopular. He could not venture out in London without someone shouting abuse at him. He is more popular now. Do you know why? The people have turned their hatred on de Vere. Anne, we must bring them together. It must be seen that there is no enmity between the King and his uncles.’

  Anne said, ‘Yes, I agree. We must do what we can to bring this about.’

  ‘I am an old woman,’ went on Joan. ‘I cannot make many more of these journeys. Anne, I want to see peace in this land before I die. I want to see my son set on a fair course. You understand, I know.’

  Anne did understand.

  Between them, the three women worked the miracle.

  At Westminster a reconciliation took place between the Duke of Lancaster and the men who shortly before had been plotting to bring him to his end.

  Richard was delighted. It seemed to him that all the bickering was at an end.

  ‘Now we are all good friends,’ he said benignly.

  From the turret Catherine saw her lover approaching. She went down to the courtyard to meet him. Swept up in his embrace she clung to him.

  She was trembling. ‘I have been terrified. I feared it was a plot.’

  ‘No, no. The Queen Mother insisted that we profess friendship for each other and somehow she and the Queen have convinced the King that he wants it too.’

  ‘And what does it mean? What friendship will those men ever have for you or you for them?’

  ‘None,’ he said. ‘We shall be watchful of each other but at least we have declared our friendship and that has pleased the Queen Mother.’

  ‘You will n
ot cease to be watchful.’

  Arm in arm they went into the castle.

  ‘I have news for you,’ he said. ‘How soon will you be ready to leave?’

  ‘With you? We are going away together?’

  ‘That pleases you?’

  ‘That for me is heaven,’ she answered.

  ‘We are going north,’ he said. ‘To Pontefract. It’s the favourite of all my places, you know.’

  ‘I did know and for that reason it is mine.’

  ‘A fortress. We could hold out for months, Catherine, if any came against us. When can you be ready?’

  ‘Tomorrow morning … early.’

  ‘We will leave at dawn,’ he said.

  The stay in Pontefract was not long for there was trouble from the French.

  The old King had died and there was a young King on the throne. This young Charles was very different from Richard. He had all the arrogance of youth and the vitality too. He made it clear from the start that there were going to be changes in his rule. He was not going to stand by and endure what he considered the insolence of the English claim to the crown of France. He was going to finish them once and for all. He was tired of hearing about the victories of Crécy and Poitiers. It was a great blot on the nation that a King of France had once been captured by that legendary figure the Black Prince and taken to England. That was something he intended to wipe out and he could only do it by achieving a victory which was as shattering to the English as that of Poitiers had been to the French. He would not be content with victories in France. He intended to carry the war into English territory. That would stop them boasting about the victories of Edward the Third and the Black Prince.

  Young Charles had recently married and this had made him more than ever sure of himself. It was not exactly the commonplace fact of marriage but the manner in which his had taken place and which had shown his people that he was a man determined to have his way.

  ‘Only the most beautiful Princess in the world will do for me,’ he had brashly declared when reports were brought to him of the Bavarian Princess Isabeau. He had no intention of agreeing to a marriage before he had seen the girl. ‘If her father cares to send her to me, then I shall assess her. If I do not like what I see she will return to Bavaria.’

  Such an arrangement could not be entered into, was the answer from Bavaria. They were not going to send their daughter for the King’s approval.

  ‘Then,’ retorted the King, ‘there will be no union between France and Bavaria. The matter is closed.’

  A union with France was of great importance to Bavaria and could not be lightly thrown away. Moreover Isabeau was reckoned to be a very beautiful young girl and it was hardly likely that having seen her the young King would wish to send her away.

  Isabeau herself was very confident of her charms and she wanted to go and confront this arrogant young man.

  The outcome was that she went; and it was as she had predicted. When Charles saw her dusky beauty, her abundant dark hair, her languorous heavy-lashed dark eyes, her voluptuous little figure, he was completely enchanted and within a few weeks of her arrival in France the marriage was celebrated.

  Now he was intent on carrying out his project to subdue England, to inflict the humiliation of making war in their own country.

  The Scots could always be relied upon to rise against the English when they were in trouble. So while he was getting his fleet together at Sluys, Charles sent one of his greatest commanders, Jean de Vienne, to Scotland. The French forces were given a hearty welcome both at Leith and Dunbar and the task of harrying the English began.

  From the South Richard set out with an army. John of Gaunt gathered his men together to join the King. He was able to muster a mighty force and in fact his followers made up a third of the entire army, which fact should have served as a lesson to the King that it would be unwise to antagonise his uncle. Moreover although John of Gaunt had not been successful in battle as his father and elder brother had, he had some experience of war; whereas the unwarlike Richard had little at all.

  It was inevitable in gatherings of this kind that there should be certain frictions. The followers of one great lord would pick a quarrel with those of another. There were rivalries and jealousies continually cropping up. One of these occurred between the followers of Sir John Holland and Ralph, son of the Earl of Stafford, and during the mêlée one of Holland’s favourite squires was killed.

  John Holland was furious and swore he would be revenged on the murderers, who aware of the storm which was rising had taken refuge in sanctuary and in spite of Holland’s appeal to Richard he was not allowed to have them brought to justice.

  ‘This was a fight between two sets of men,’ said Richard. ‘One side was as much to blame as the other. It was just unfortunate that it was one of your squires who was killed. It could easily have been one of Stafford’s.’

  But John Holland was a man with a high opinion of himself and his position in relationship to the King. Had Richard forgotten he was his brother – well, half-brother. Surely some concession should be allowed to him.

  He was a man of violent temper. ‘Well,’ he cried, ‘if I cannot be given justice I will take it myself.’

  He immediately set out for the quarters of young Stafford and before he had gone very far came face to face with Ralph himself, whereupon Holland drew his sword and killed him on the spot.

  The Earl of Stafford was overcome with anguish and rage at the death of his son and the King was stricken with grief for young Ralph, who was about his own age and had been a favourite of his. There was an outcry. The Earl was demanding revenge.

  ‘It seems,’ said Holland, ‘that when men kill all they have to do is go into sanctuary.’

  He himself had sought such protection in Beverley Minster and there he remained, safe from Stafford and his followers.

  This was a different matter from the death of the squire who had been struck down in a fracas between two parties. This was deliberate murder and even if Holland was the brother of the King, Stafford was going to have justice.

  He went to Richard. ‘My son has been murdered,’ he said.

  And he and the King wept together.

  ‘My lord,’ went on Stafford, ‘I cannot stand aside and see this murderer go free. I want justice. This was my son and the victim of cold-blooded murder.’

  Richard turned away. Anyone else yes. But his own brother! Oh, why had John been so foolish? Why couldn’t he have let the matter go? Fights among squires were common enough.

  The Earl of Stafford could see the King was wavering and he knew that if pressure was brought on him he would pardon Holland and that was something Stafford would not allow.

  ‘My lord,’ he said, ‘if justice is not meted out in this case I and my friends will take the matter into our own hands. I beg leave to depart.’

  He bowed now and went out.

  Richard was distraught. What could he do?

  Anne came to him and although she knew that it would greatly disturb the Queen Mother, her opinion was that John Holland should not go unpunished.

  Meanwhile the expedition to Scotland was halted, and great matters could not be long delayed by such events.

  The King made his decision: Holland should be banished from the country and his goods confiscated.

  Joan had come to Wallingford Castle. It was restful there and she felt the need of rest. The journeys to Catherine Swynford and to the Queen had exhausted her even more than she had feared they would. There had been a certain amount of satisfaction though. They had achieved some purpose. Temporary relief perhaps but even that was important.

  How she feared the future. Her life was beset by anxiety. Sometimes she thought how strange it was that it seemed to have been divided neatly down the middle. The gay careless days of abandoned pleasure and then this careworn existence. If she had married de Brocas as had at one time been suggested, would she have been spared this anxiety? It was a trial to be the mother of a King.

&n
bsp; For the last years she had worried continuously. First over her husband’s illness; then the loss of her first-born, then Richard being thrust into a position for which he was not well fitted.

  There, she had admitted it. Richard had not the making of a King.

  When one was old one faced realities.

  She wanted peace in her family, and there was nothing but anxiety. She worried about her boys, all of them.

  Messengers came to the castle. There was one from her son John and another from Richard.

  She read Richard’s first, and as she did so she put her hand to her fluttering heart. Trouble. She always feared it now when she saw a messenger.

  A murder! John had murdered young Ralph Stafford and the Earl was insisting on vengeance. ‘There is nothing to do, Mother, but to banish him. It is the only thing that will satisfy Stafford and I cannot have discord in the army now. Charles of France is threatening me. The Scots are threatening me. We must have unity. I have had to give way to Stafford. John will be banished and his goods confiscated.’

  She went to a chair and sat down. She felt faint and giddy.

  These turns were coming more frequently now and they followed exertion and shocks.

  With trembling hands she opened John’s letter.

  ‘Richard is banishing me. I had to do this. I was not going to let Stafford’s men murder mine. You must plead for me. Richard will listen to you. Dear Mother, you do not want me far away. I should be with you at this time …’

  Her women came and found her lying back in her chair, the letters at her feet.

  They got her to her bed. She was not quite sure then where she was. At times she believed she was in Bordeaux and the Prince was lying beside her. ‘Limoges,’ he kept murmuring in his sleep.

  Something terrible had happened. She knew that. What was it? The death of young Edward? The death of the Prince?

  No … no … that was in the past.

  I must not lie here, she thought. I must do something. There is something that must be done. But what? But what?