by Jean Plaidy
‘Some do. There is a priest who is so like you that men say he must be your brother.’
‘Richard Maudelyn! He bears a resemblance to me but who has said that he is my brother. How could that be?’
‘Your mother was a lady much given to gaiety. The Black Prince was a man who suffered from much sickness. There were some handsome priests in the Court of Bordeaux.’
‘You lie! How dare you utter such foul slander against my mother.’
Thomas Swynford gave a mock bow. ‘My apologies. You asked for truth and I gave it to you. I tell you this is what is being said. There is a priest who is so like you that he must be your brother … your half-brother that is.’
‘These are lies put about by my cousin.’
‘I must warn you it is unwise to slander the King. That is treason.’
‘Then, Thomas Swynford, you should at this moment be condemned to the traitor’s death.’
‘How forgetful you are! You are no longer a king, Richard. You are less than the least of us.’
He was in despair. There was nothing he could do. He must accept this slander. He was powerless.
Where was Isabella now? What was she thinking? Sad little Queen. And even sadder Richard.
Cold despair had settled on him. Was there not one man in the kingdom who was his friend? Was he doomed to stay here, his cousin’s prisoner, until he died?
One day one of the guards contrived to be alone with him and the words he said sent wild hope soaring through Richard’s heart.
‘My lord King, you have your friends …’
A great gladness came to him. He was not entirely forgotten then.
‘Whence came you?’ asked Richard. ‘And what do you know?’
‘I am to tell you that all will be well. Ere long the traitor Bolingbroke will be no more.’
‘Whom do you serve?’
‘My lord, your brother, the Duke of Exeter, who is stripped of that title and is now known as the Earl of Huntingdon.’
His half-brother, John Holland! He could have wept with joy. John would help him. Of course he would. He was their mother’s son. How he and his brother had teased him when he was a boy; how they had indulged in rough horseplay and practical jokes and their mother had reprimanded them. ‘Remember Richard is but a boy yet.’
They had laughed at him, joked with him, tried to teach him their rough games … but they had loved him.
‘Are you sure of this?’ he asked.
‘My lord, I serve the Duke your brother and he would have you be prepared and not lose hope.’
‘Who is with us?’
‘Your half-brother and his nephew, the Earl of Kent, with Thomas le Despenser, your nephew, the Earl of Rutland, and others. It is a simple plan, my lord, but simple plans are most likely to succeed. Bolingbroke is holding a tournament at Windsor. Our party will go there with carts of harness and armour for the tournament it will be believed. Then we shall choose our moment, overpower the guards, kill Bolingbroke and his son, Henry of Monmouth, and restore you to your throne.’
‘Oh God, bless them. My good brother, my good friends.’
‘We shall succeed, my lord. But there is one thing you must know. The people will want to see you, and it will take time to release you from this place. It may be that they will have to fight their way through to you.’
‘Are there other good and faithful friends like yourself in the castle?’
‘There are a few, my lord. But I am wary of trusting them.’
‘I thank you. I shall not forget you when I come back to my own.’
‘I thank you, my lord. What I must warn you of is this. You may hear that the King is marching at the head of his troops, and you will scent treachery. My lord it will not be so. It will be part of the plan. Richard Maudelyn will take your place. He will show himself as yourself. The people will see him and will believe that you have indeed escaped from your captors.’
Richard started to laugh; and stopped himself. It was hysterical laughter and he saw the fear it inspired in the loyal guard.
‘My lord, we must be discreet. I was to tell you this that you might hold yourself in readiness. Give up your despair, my lord. The day will soon be here.’
‘My good man, you have given me new life. I should have known my brother John would not forget me. Nor would my brother Thomas had he lived. Others are with me too. So I am no longer alone.’
‘My lord, I beg of you, give no sign of your elation. It is imperative to our success that the matter is of the utmost secrecy. Everything depends on our success at Windsor.’
‘Aye. But it shall come to pass. I shall march to London and before me the head of Bolingbroke will be held aloft on a lance.’
‘I pray God it may be so. I must leave you now, my lord. I beg of you to hide your joy. Continue in your melancholy. It is necessary, I do assure you.’
‘I understand. My joy shall remain hidden in my heart.’
He lay down to sleep and he dreamed he was marching to Isabella. Where was she now, his little Queen? He imagined her joy when she heard that he was coming to her. She would be waiting on the battlements of the castle where they would have taken her. She would run to meet him. They would cling together and laugh and make merry.
Isabella was desperately unhappy. She knew that Richard was in danger and that the traitor Bolingbroke had taken his crown. If they would only let her go to him. If she could only speak to him, hear from his own lips what had happened, she could have borne it. But to remain in ignorance, a prisoner of the man who called himself the King, it was unbearable.
They had moved her to Sonning-hill and here she must see the badges of the usurper on all the servants and the men who guarded her.
Henry was the King now, she was told. Richard had abdicated in his favour. Richard no longer deserved to be King nor wished to be, for he had willingly given over his crown to his cousin.
‘It is lies … lies!’ she sobbed. ‘I do not believe it. I will never believe it.’
If only she could know what was happening. She had grown up in these last months. She was no longer a pampered child. She was a desperate woman.
What joy was hers when Richard’s half-brother arrived at the castle. John Holland, wild adventurer that he was, was sure of success.
He had taken the place with the utmost ease from those who made an effort to defend it. Henry had never thought Sonning need be heavily protected. True it contained the Queen but the Queen was a child and had never been regarded of great importance.
John Holland knelt before her and kissed her hand.
‘Rest assured, my lady, that soon you will be restored to the King. Soon the usurper will be no more.’
‘Oh, how happy you have made me! I have been so miserable. Dear, dear Richard! Shall I see him soon?’
‘Ere long, my lady.’
She clasped her hands together. ‘I hate it here. I have heard so little of Richard. Tell me … is he well?’
‘You will soon see for yourself and I doubt not he will be bounding with good health when he has you beside him.’
‘I hate Bolingbroke. He is a wicked cruel traitor to Richard. They wear his badges here. I am going to order them to remove them at once. They must tear them off and replace them with those of the white hart.’
‘That will be a good start,’ said John Holland smiling.
Richard’s supporters were meeting at Kingston in readiness for the attack on Windsor. At this time there was need for the utmost secrecy.
The Earl of Rutland, son of the Duke of York, who had promised support for the coup did not arrive with his men and notice was sent to him to remind him of his obligations.
When Rutland received the notice he was with his father and the Duke of York was amazed at his son’s demeanour.
‘What news?’ he asked.
Rutland hesitated. His father was a meek and kindly man and they had always been on terms of great affection.
He said: ‘It is a reminder that I
am to join my friends. We are going to put Richard back on the throne.’
The Duke stared at his son in horror. ‘You are involved in this!’
‘My lord father, Richard is the true King.’
‘There is no hope of reinstating him.’
‘He is the son of the Black Prince, my grandfather’s eldest son. My cousin Henry is not the true heir.’
‘The battle is over. Richard is deposed. He will never hold the throne. Henry is strong. He is recognised as the King. The people want him. They will never take Richard back. You must not join with these men, my son. If you do you will lose your head and soon too. I am going to save you from that.’
Rutland stared at his father in horror. He had betrayed his friends, he knew. Although Edmund Langley, Duke of York, had never had the wild ambition of his brothers he was determined on this. It was no use supporting a lost cause and his nephew Henry was the man to take the throne in place of Richard.
He had to save his son though and he was thinking quickly.
‘You are a dead man, my son, if you do not act promptly. Henry must be warned. There must be no more bloodshed. There will be revolt throughout the country. Under Henry we have a chance of peace and prosperity. I shall show this letter to Henry – unless you show it to him before me. Go with all speed to Windsor. Tell Henry that Richard’s supporters are rising against him. Tell him of the plot to kill him while he lies unsuspecting at Windsor. Go now … as fast as you can. I tell you this: I shall follow you. My task will be to tell the King of this so he is certain to know. But I want you to be there before me. Do you understand?’
Rutland looked into his father’s earnest eyes. Never before had he seen him so determined.
‘I will do as you say,’ he said. ‘I see that you are right.’
Henry received the news from Rutland with calm. His prompt action confirmed to all about him that he could be relied upon to take charge of events with the resourcefulness of a true leader.
With his sons beside him he left Windsor and made for London. Within a few hours he had mustered an army.
Meanwhile John Holland had left Kingston for Windsor. The little Queen rode with him. He talked to her of how they would take Richard from his prison and set him on the throne again.
She was beautiful with the glow in her cheeks and the shine in her eyes. She had never known such excitement. Everything will be worth while, she told herself, when I see him again.
John Holland was so sure. She believed him. Richard had talked to her often about this half-brother of his. He had always loved him; and she would love him ever after.
‘I wonder what he will say when he sees me riding with you,’ she said. ‘What a surprise for him.’
‘It will make his joy complete,’ Holland told her.
They had come close to Cirencester and here they were to join up with friends.
When Isabella saw him riding at the head of the party she felt almost faint with joy. There he was, his fair hair blowing in the wind; his blue eyes alight with excitement.
She rode up to him.
‘Richard. Richard, I am here …’
He turned to her. Her heart seemed to turn to stone; the pain of disappointment was unbearable, for the figure riding at the head of the troops was not Richard. It was the priest who looked so like him.
She did not hear the words of consternation; she was not aware of the numb terror that was all about her. She did not even hear the words: ‘Bolingbroke is on the march. He has mustered a great army to come against us.’ But she was conscious of a sudden despair.
It was all over. They did not harm her. She was too young to be taken seriously. Moreover she was the daughter of the King of France and Henry of Bolingbroke was a cautious man.
She was hurried away from the scene of the battle to Havering atte Bower and there she was to be placed under restraint until it was decided what should be done with her.
News reached her now and then. Richard had never escaped from his prison in Pontefract. The priest had once more impersonated him. It had been of no avail. The poor priest had lost his head for his part in the farce. John Holland was dead too. He had escaped from Bolingbroke’s forces but was captured at Pleshy by the Countess of Hereford, the sister of the Earl of Arundel. She had him beheaded without any delay and his head was stuck on a lance on the walls of Pleshy Castle.
Isabella wept and talked constantly of Richard. At least he was not dead and while he lived she would never give up hope of joining him.
Now all she could do was wait in Havering and pray and hope that one day she would be with her husband.
King Henry was uneasy. There would be no safety for him while Richard lived.
He had always said that if there was any attempt to put Richard on the throne he would have to be removed. How?
If only he would die! It would have been better if he had escaped. Then he might have been killed in battle; but now he lay a prisoner in Pontefract fretting away his days; and the people who lived nearby were aware that he was there. They would look for the light in the tower and shiver as they passed by.
‘There lies one who was once a king,’ they said, and there was pity in their eyes and voices.
Henry decreed that there should be a curfew at dusk and no person from the town should venture out when the bell had rung. The guards must be watchful.
There was no peace for the new King of England while Richard lived.
Thomas Swynford knew that, and he was eager to serve his mother’s stepson well. All his good had come from the house of Lancaster. His mother’s marriage to the mighty Duke had changed their lives.
Who had he been but Thomas Swynford – son of a humble squire … until his mother became the wife of the Duke of Lancaster?
He would like to show his gratitude to the man whom he daringly referred to as his brother.
Henry knew it. Thomas Swynford was to be trusted. Thomas Swynford knew that Henry could have no peace while Richard lived.
There must be no bloody murder, though. Murdered men became martyrs. Richard must never be allowed to become one.
But Richard must not live.
How gloomy it was in the castle of Pontefract; how the winds howled about those walls. How long the winter was!
Richard lay listless on his pallet. His coat was stained. His golden hair was matted, his beard uncombed.
In the past he had cared so much for his appearance; how he had loved fine clothes, jewels, perfumed unguents, good wine, good food, gracious living.
But now … There was nothing now. There were no fine jewels nor sumptuous materials. His meat was often tainted, his bread mouldy.
Thomas Swynford was always there, watching him sardonically; the son of a squire now the master of the son of a great prince.
‘And you expect me to eat this?’ Richard had demanded.
‘Why not?’ was the answer. ‘It is good enough.’
‘Would you eat it?’
‘I am not the King’s prisoner.’
He could not eat. He felt faint from hunger but the food they brought him only sickened him.
‘You must eat or you will die,’ said Thomas Swynford.
‘I will die then,’ replied Richard.
Thomas Swynford said nothing and continued to serve the tainted meat.
Richard was often light-headed. His thoughts would slip away into the past. That was comfort, for the past was so much easier to live in than the present.
But there was a nightmare which haunted him. His great-grandfather, Edward the Second, had been treated thus. So must he have lain in a castle prison. And one night they had come to him …
Richard could not bear to think of it. What if they should remember and say as it was with Edward so shall it be with Richard?
Pontefract instead of Berkeley … Richard in place of Edward.
‘Oh God, let me die first,’ he prayed.
He was so weak now. He could scarcely raise himself. He ate nothing. He did
not want food now. He could only lie still and drift from the past to the present and when he was most lucid he remembered what they had done to his great-grandfather.
If one wish could be granted me now, he thought, I know what it would be. Death.
It was a wild night on the 14th of February. No one was about. Even if the curfew had not kept people in the weather would.
Thomas Swynford came stealthily into the room. He knew it could not be long now. His prisoner had eaten nothing for many a day. He was fast fading away.
How the wind howled as though for a soul in torment!
It cannot be long now, thought Thomas Swynford. Today … tomorrow … I shall be sending my news to the King.
He tiptoed to the pallet. There he lay, the once handsome King, the proud Plantagenet.
The last wish of Richard of Bordeaux had been granted.
He was dead, and the throne was safe for Henry of Bolingbroke.
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