These were supposed by Capgrave to be Henry’s last words. When he rewrote the death of Henry IV in his Chronicle of England, he was far less polite. Just as Edward IV maintained his right to the throne on the grounds that the Lancastrians were usurpers, Capgrave cut the above scene and, instead of the prince, had the lords at court persuade Henry’s confessor, John Tille, to go to the king on his deathbed and try to extract a confession from him for three things: for the death of Richard II, the execution of Archbishop Scrope and the usurpation of the realm. Capgrave claims that Henry’s response was to say that he had letters of absolution on account of the first two sins, and had performed his penance for them, and, with regard to the usurpation, he would not make any remedy, for his sons ‘would not permit the throne to go out of our lineage’.51
Capgrave’s willingness to change his narrative according to his patron’s preferences is a worrying trait, and would leave us uncertain as to the king’s final days if it were not for another account which supports the earlier of these narratives. This was written by Thomas Elmham, whom Henry V described in a letter the following year as ‘our chaplain’. Elmham was thus close to the royal family and – as modern examination of his work on the early history of St Augustine’s Canterbury has proved – a discerning man. He also wrote a life of Henry V. Both he and Capgrave were clergymen, and thus both had a reason to stress Henry’s religious exhortations at the end of his life, but otherwise there is no reason to doubt that, on his deathbed, Henry exhorted his son to follow a life of righteousness and piety, compared his sickness with his former strength, and asked the prince to pay all his debts.52
Henry’s last request probably formed a nuncupative will (one given verbally and recorded by witnesses). The terms are not known in detail but he left directions for his goods and chattels to be sold and for the sums raised to be put to pious uses.53 He named Henry V and Archbishop Arundel as supervisors, but they both declined to act, leaving as executors the archbishop of York, Bishop Langley of Durham, Sir John Pelham, Sir Robert Waterton and Sir John Leventhorpe. It is likely that all these men were with him when he died. His wife and at least two of his sons, Henry and Humphrey, were also present. Thus Henry – the revolutionary king – died peacefully, surrounded by friends. He breathed his last on 20 March 1413, three and a half weeks short of his forty-sixth birthday.
*
Henry’s body was embalmed and wrapped in cerecloth and laid in state in Westminster Abbey. His final instructions had probably included the direction that he was to be buried on Trinity Sunday (18 June) in the Trinity Chapel at Canterbury, which not only was in line with his personal faith but gave his son Thomas sufficient time to return from France to attend. Thus it was not until two months after his death that his corpse was placed in a lead coffin and an elm chest and rowed down the river to Gravesend in a torch-lit barge. It was then taken by carriage to Faversham, and finally to Canterbury, where it was placed on an iron-framed hearse draped in black cloth and covered in candles and torches. Thomas – who had marched all the way across France to Gascony – returned to England in time, and was present with his three brothers at the funeral. The rivalry between him and the prince, now King Henry V, dissolved into an acknowledgement of brotherly respect and loyal service.
The house of Lancaster was united once more. A golden age had begun.
NINETEEN
That I and Greatness were Compelled to Kiss
Necessity so bow’d the state
That I and greatness were compelled to kiss …
Henry IV Part Two, Act 2, Scene 1
This book began with a note stressing how Shakespeare used the historical Henry as a sort of dressmaker’s dummy over which to sew two very different characters: the cold usurper, Bolingbroke, and the aloof, regal father of England’s hero, Henry V. Occasionally in the plays there is a flash of poetic understanding which accords with the historical Henry’s situation – for example, the speech which ends ‘uneasy lies the head that wears a crown’ – but otherwise Shakespeare’s Henry is just an archetypal king, lacking a distinctive personality. As any ardent Shakespeare reader will have realised, although the nineteen chapter titles in this book have all been drawn from the three plays in which Henry appears, only five have been used in context. ‘The Summons of the Appellant’s Trumpet’, for example, relates to the events of 1397, not the Appellants’ rising in 1387, and ‘The Virtue of Necessity’ comes from a speech in which John of Gaunt tries to persuade Henry to see the positive aspects of exile, and has nothing to do with his return to England in 1399. Such words were drawn from the stardust cloud of poetic truths which turns slowly around the historical Richard II and Henry IV, sometimes shedding light but more often obscuring the characters.
In one respect, though – the title of this final chapter – Shakespeare was absolutely correct. Henry and greatness were compelled to kiss. Henry was kept distant from greatness all through his youth. Richard appointed him to lead no embassies, and gave him no military command. His visits to Lithuania and Jerusalem were remarkable but they were not the stuff of greatness. His patience and forbearance in the 1390s were equally remarkable but again, silence is not greatness. Then came the moment of compulsion, the kiss. To think that Henry could have done anything other than to return to England in 1399 is to misunderstand both the man and his times. He could not have remained a knight, stripped of his titles, in exile; it would not have been good enough for his family or his retainers – the hundreds of people who depended on him – let alone for himself and the dignity of his position. Moreover, he was a fighting man, the sole man to be the grandson of the two greatest war leaders of the fourteenth century. He was the ultimate thoroughbred warrior. The very fact that Richard tried to dishonour and destroy such a man showed contemporaries that their king was acting without thought for the consequences of his actions, and that in itself was dangerous for the realm. Henry was compelled by circumstances to return to England in 1399. And that implied either a kiss with greatness or the more permanent embrace with failure and a traitor’s death.
A kiss is a fleeting thing, but once it has taken place it cannot be undone. Henry’s kiss with greatness was similar. In 1399 he was called upon to act in an extraordinary manner and he did not shrink from the heavy responsibility placed upon his shoulders. What he did – against all the social conventions of his time – was astounding. His manner of assuming the crown was not that of a usurper but more like the winner of an election, a point he recognised himself in his arguments with the friars in 1402. That he did not go on to be a great king does not detract from the courage, initiative and consideration of his actions in 1399. There is almost no sense in which his reign can be considered great; it was dogged by financial problems and rebellion, so that defeating or outlasting all his enemies is his sole claim to greatness as a ruler. But in terms of his stature as a man, those judgements do not apply. His rule may have been characterised by crisis and opposition, but he was one of the most courageous, conscientious, personally committed and energetic men ever to rule England. It is unfortunate that he has historically been judged solely as a king and not as a man.
The purpose of this final chapter is therefore to correct this imbalance, or rather more fairly to appraise the character and achievements of Henry of Lancaster. In doing this, it hardly needs to be repeated that we need to break up the old frames through which we see the kings and queens of England. The idea that we can look down the list of monarchs and compare them all is a facile one, for each man and woman faced his or her own unique problems, and, as we have seen, no one had previously had to face the range of difficulties which confronted Henry. But it is valid to ask how well he personally coped with his particular set of problems, and (to repeat a question posed in the introductory note) why he survived as a king and Richard did not. And the starting point for any such reckoning has to be the personality of Henry himself.
There is no getting away from the fact that Henry was a complex character. Logical, conse
rvative, intelligent, articulate, eager to engage in dispute, militarily minded, energetic, a creature of routine … Already we have some obvious contradictions, for how could Henry have been both ‘conservative’ and the leader of the most far-reaching revolution in England before the seventeenth century? How can he have been so argumentative, in his disputes with the friars, and so fond of routine (in his itinerary, spending virtually every Christmas at Eltham, for instance)? This point is an important one, for it is arguably the key to understanding any historical person. In the course of writing The Perfect King: the life of Edward III, it was impossible to avoid the realisation that Edward III was also a mass of apparent contradictions: romantic yet hard-headed, pious yet ruthless, faithful to his wife yet encouraging of sexual adventure.1 As that study showed, it is only when we tease out and juxtapose the apparent contradictions of a lord or king that we obtain an in-depth view of his character. In fact, apparent contradictions such as these very rarely represent real aberrations but rather are different viewpoints from which to see a multi-dimensional character.
To show how this affects our interpretation of Henry, consider his spirituality. There is no doubt that Henry’s devotion to the Trinity was sincere and unfaltering. There are far too many references in his life for his adherence to the cult to be considered any less sincere than the devotion of his uncle (the Black Prince) and Henry V, both of whom were fervent believers in the Trinity. Yet Henry executed an archbishop. He also executed the abbot of Halesowen, the prior of Launde and a whole host of friars. He had the bishop of Carlisle tried for treason, and was accused by Richard II of being an enemy to the Church. These details prevent us from interpreting his religious views as traditional and straightforward. Knowing that he had no respect for opponents who held high office in the Church allows us to contextualise his piety and see a direct link between his God and himself, thereby largely circumventing the role of the clergy. His attitude towards the prelates he executed was that they deserved no special treatment if they stood in the way of God’s will that Henry should rule England. Hence the apparent contradiction of a pious king who executed an archbishop is explained, and a much fuller picture of his religious conscience obtained.
So, what was Henry really like? Having started with his spirituality, it seems appropriate to continue with that theme. Very clearly, Henry cared more for God than for the Church, and more for the Church than for some of the men who exercised office within it. Indeed, his relationship with God was one of the most powerful drivers in his life. This is not reflected in great buildings and worthy foundations like those of Henry III or Henry VI; Henry simply did not have the time or the money to build on a lavish scale, nor did he have the need to make a show of his religion. But there is plentiful evidence for his zeal. Although there were already two chapels at Eltham, he built another for his own personal use, connected by a staircase from his own bed chamber. In decorating the windows of his private rooms within the palace, he chose figures of saints and the Trinity. Similarly, when prevented from going on crusade in 1392, his alternative was a protracted pilgrimage. Throughout his life we may notice this tendency to opt for the religious path, even celebrating his birthday through Maundy alms-giving. As mentioned in the text, Richard and others feared this personal religious confidence in Henry. Those who have seen Scrope’s execution as evidence that Henry was irreligious are missing the key point: Henry’s spiritual strength was so great that not even an archbishop could stand in the way of him performing what he believed was right. This spiritual conviction – so dramatically reflected in his will of 1409 – must be considered to have been a solid foundation for his outlook on life and a reassurance in dealing with the vicissitudes of his reign.
This personal religion – Henry’s ‘direct link’ with God – is closely connected to the private side of his life, and his preference for the company of his household staff and family, not a great mass of courtiers and magnates. It is this respect in which he differs most markedly from his grandfather, Edward III. Although he was extraordinarily courageous, confident and militarily accomplished, he did not have his grandfather’s ability to bring together a large number of knights and bind them in a quasi-Arthurian thirst for collective glory. The Arthurian renaissance was not yet over in 1399 but Henry was unable to capitalise on it. Similarly, the Welsh expeditions in which he took part were all short forays, with the prime purpose of demonstrating that the king of England could march through Wales at will. We do not sense any great collective enthusiasm for glory in the company around Henry on these expeditions. He was just too serious. His nature did not prevent him being one of the greatest knights of his age, and a good battle commander, but it did make his court less exuberant, less romantic, less fun and less united than that of his male-bonding grandfather.
From this we can begin to see the makings of an individualist, and this accords with other aspects of Henry’s character. The serious, logical underpinning of many of his interests was outlined early on in this book; for example, his love of music, jousting and disputation. To these we might add his preference for archery and cannon: highly efficient means of fighting with projectile weapons, not hand-to-hand gallantry. This logical way of thinking, combined with his high level of education and a natural intelligence, gave him an intellectual self-confidence matched by very few of his contemporaries. Hence his ability to comment constructively on theological disputes at the University of Paris, and his readiness to engage in arguments with the friars about their perverse loyalty to a discredited and deceased ex-king. Such argumentativeness is supported by Capgrave’s line about Henry’s tendency to discuss moral issues at length. It is further supported by Jean de Waurin, who recorded that ‘his good sense, and his prudence extended into many lands and divers countries. He maintained and loved justice above all things, and besides was a very handsome prince, learned, and eloquent, courteous, valiant and brave in arms …’2 It is no surprise that he continued arguing with the duke of Orléans far beyond the point of regal dignity.
Henry was unswervingly loyal to his friends and loved ones. His loyalty to his father was exceptional: as far as we can see, he never went against his father’s directions, even though such obedience risked humiliation at court. That instinctive loyalty and fidelity is noticeable through his entire life: from his relationships with his wives, both of whom he loved dearly, to his children and his Lancastrian retainers. His only known illegitimate child was conceived and born between his marriages. His support of Thomas Arundel was unflinching, even on those occasions when it was contrary to his own interests. Naturally, for a man with a logical mind, this was part of a quid pro quo agreement, and his loyalty to his friends was only half the story. Just as important was his appreciation of the loyalty of others, and his ability to encourage and retain that loyalty even in the face of adversity was crucial. The betrayal of the Percys, for example, proved less significant than the loyalty of those who stood by the king in 1403. Henry’s relationships with his sons, and his ability to retain their devotion, and to forgive Prince Henry in 1412, is similarly striking. When we recall the Lancastrian retainers who had supported him all his life – for example, John Norbury, Thomas Erpingham and Hugh and Robert Waterton – the importance of these personal ties is revealed. He did all he could to keep his promises to them – resisting the commons’ demands in 1404 for their pensions and gifts to be cut – and they stuck by him with an equal loyalty.
Beyond this we can see another sort of loyalty in Henry: loyalty to his kingdom. There is no doubt that Henry’s responsibility to the realm was of an altogether different nature to Richard’s. Part of this is due to the fact that Henry could not take his status as king for granted. Not only was it constantly under threat, he himself had been a subject – a vassal – for most of his life. His outlook as a subject of the king became transposed, on his accession, to becoming a subject of the kingdom. In parliament this allowed him to be far more tolerant of opposition than any previous king. It can also be seen in
his readiness to accept responsibility for the defence of the realm, especially Wales. In neither arena did he shirk his responsibilities. Henry’s loyalty to individuals and his sense of obligation to the kingdom are factors which cannot be ignored in assessing his character.
Loyalty? In Henry IV, the man who rebelled against his liege lord and usurped his throne? We have another apparent contradiction here. But it is not hard to find an answer; it is a matter of to whom or to what he was loyal. Henry was loyal to his friends, not to Richard II. Readers of The Greatest Traitor might have recalled the first line of the opening chapter of that book when reading this one: ‘the roots of betrayal lie in friendship; those of treason lie in loyalty’. It is a truism which may be repeated over and over again for the later middle ages, for the causes of rebellion are normally to be found in an undiminished loyalty to another cause. It was the Counter-Appellants’ loyalty to Richard II which led to the Epiphany Rising. The reason Glendower took arms was not just hatred of Lord Grey but his loyalty to the idea of an independent Welsh nation. Even the Percy rebellion was partly actuated by loyalty to the Mortimer claim to the throne. Similarly Henry, in returning to England in 1399, was acting in accordance with a combination of Lancastrian and national loyalties which went over and above his obligations to an unworthy king.
The above parade of Henry’s characteristics makes him appear a model medieval magnate. Spiritually motivated, intellectual, conscientious, courageous, loyal to his friends, family and kingdom: all these – coupled with his education and his military skill – make him appear too good to be true. Add to these his wit (remarked on by the emperor of Byzantium) and his charming manners (noticed on his pilgrimage as well as in Paris during his exile) and we may begin to wonder was there no downside to him as a man. The answer to that question, of course, lies in the ultimate testing of his character, following his accession. Yes, he was a virtuous man, but virtue is not necessarily the most suitable characteristic in a king, especially if the kingdom’s highest priority is to stamp out opposition at home and to win overseas victories. As a king, under pressure, the potential weaknesses in his character became clearer and clearer. His concept of mercy was pushed to the limit, and then beyond, with the inevitable result that he was forced to take more direct action against unrepentant rebels, making his initial promises of mercy appear false. His own standards of duty and loyalty were so high that he expected more of his leading subjects than they were able to give. A few lived up to his expectations – such as the earl of Westmorland – but others did not, and broke from him. Most of all, he wanted so much to be a good king – attempting to please everyone all the time – that he inevitably displeased some. In no aspect of his rule is this clearer than his failure to cope financially. His natural generosity and his loyalty to his friends meant that, after 1399, he became generous to a fault, giving away far more than he could afford. When the implications of this were made clear in parliament, he was reluctant to do anything to remedy the situation. He would rather tax the anonymous masses than take away a grant from a loyal supporter. In this way the strains of kingship almost proved Henry’s undoing.
The Fears of Henry IV: The Life of England's Self-Made King Page 50
