Passage to Pontefract (38 page)

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.

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?

There had been a messenger … Yes, letters. It was coming back to her. Brothers quarrelling. Richard sending John away.

‘I have letters to write,’ she said.

‘My lady,’ said her women, ‘you are not fit to leave your bed.’

‘There is something I have to do.’

She insisted. She could scarcely stand. The dizziness took possession of her.

‘I must … I must do it,’ she said.

She sat at her writing-table. They propped her up with cushions.

She thought of what she would say. ‘Richard, he is your brother. There must not be this strife particularly in families. John will always stand beside you. He will fight for you …’

Yes, John would fight for the King because from the King blessings would flow.

They were ambitious, all of them. They stretched their greedy hands for lands, for riches … sometimes for a crown.

Why did they want a crown, these men? Did they not know that after the glorious crowning ceremony when the glittering thing was placed on their heads they spent the rest of their lives in keeping it there … or trying to?

‘God help us all,’ she murmured, ‘and particularly Richard.’

She started to write.

When she had finished she sent for messengers. The letter was to be taken to the King without delay.

Then she went back to her bed. She had done her best. She had implored Richard to forgive John. Banished from the country! That could mean that he would never return.

The days passed and she grew a little better.

She waited for the return of the messenger. What was happening now? she wondered. They were going to wage war on Scotland and the French were threatening to invade England.

At such a time England needed a great Edward. A Black Prince. And all it had was Richard.

‘Oh God preserve him,’ she prayed. ‘Give him that strength with which You graciously endowed his father. My Richard has need of it now.’

The messenger came back from the King. He sent his loving greetings to his mother, but there was nothing he could do to save John Holland.

He had murdered Ralph Stafford and must needs take his punishment. Richard wished at all times to please his mother whose loving care of him he would always remember with gratitude. But this was something he could not do … even for her.

She lay back on her bed. John would bitterly resent his brother’s action. Trouble in the family. Where would it end?

She thought of them all … the uncles, John of Gaunt, a man too ambitious for comfort; Langley, well he was of not much account yet but who could say? She feared Woodstock. He had once even dared threaten Richard.

Trouble, she could see it looming. And how would Richard combat it … he and his young innocent Queen?

A lethargy had come over her. What could she do now?

Her days were numbered. How many were left to her? One? Two? Six?

She was ill. She was dying. She felt helpless to hold back the tide which was rising against her son. She had tried and failed.

There was no longer any point in living.

She lay back on her pillows – a tired old woman. She thought: None would believe now that I was once the Fair Maid of Kent.

She had made her will and sent for the priest. She wished to be buried at the Church of Friars Minor at Stamford; and she wished to lie near the monument which she had had erected to Thomas Holland, her first husband. She thought fleetingly of those light-hearted days.

Then she folded her hands on her chest and lay down to wait for death.

It was not long in coming.

Her servants wrapped her in waxed swathings and placed her in a lead coffin. There she would lie until the King returned. They knew that his grief would be great.

  Chapter XII  

THE FIVE LORDS APPELLANT

T
he Army was on the border of Scotland and the invasion was about to begin. Richard decided to mark the occasion by creating two new Dukes. So far the only man to hold the title of Duke in the Kingdom was John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster. He now honoured his two younger uncles, Edmund Langley, Earl of Cambridge became the Duke of York and Thomas, Earl of Buckingham the Duke of Gloucester. Michael de la Pole was also honoured. He became the Earl of Suffolk.

Now the important matter of dealing with the Scots must go ahead. They must make it impossible for the French to use Scotland as a base; if they did the battle for England could well be lost.

The Scots with the French used their usual tactics which was to avoid a confrontation for as long as possible, luring the enemy farther and farther into the country and so lengthening their lines of communication, hoping by doing this that they would find it so difficult to feed and maintain their armies that they would at the final point suffer defeat.

There was a certain amount of friction between Richard and his uncle Lancaster. John of Gaunt wanted to push on; but Richard, thinking of his soldiers who would lack provisions, refused to allow this. It was whispered that John of Gaunt was hoping Richard would be killed in an affray and that was why he was eager to force a battle.

Richard was distraught. He kept thinking of his mother whom he knew to be very ill and he was hurt because he had been unable to grant her request. If he himself alone had been involved, willingly would he have given way to her wishes. She did not understand. They came at him from all sides. Stafford, his uncle … the whole of them.

There was another matter which disturbed him. He loved his wife dearly. He relied on her so much. She was a perfect wife except in one respect; she had given him no children.

They were both young, and people were beginning to say, What is wrong?

There were so many problems. But the chief of course was this Scottish affair. They must not linger too long. They had to consider what arrogant Charles might do in the South, but all had agreed on one thing: The French must be made to realise that they could not use Scotland as a base.

They had pillaged the abbeys of Melrose and Newbattle; Holyrood had been sacked and part of Edinburgh burned. The Scots were in retreat; and the point had been driven home. Scotland was no place for the French to make an attack on England.

It had not been a glorious campaign; but it had achieved its purpose. They could return to the South satisfied.

When the King heard of the death of his mother he was prostrate with grief.

There was nothing Anne could do to console him.

‘She died while I was in Scotland,’ he cried, ‘and I had refused her last request.’

‘There was nothing you could do but refuse,’ Anne consoled him. ‘She would have known that. She was a wise woman.’

‘Nevertheless she asked me and I refused her. I can never forgive myself.’

He was inconsolable. He could not forget that she had begged for her son’s pardon and he had refused her.

‘That was in her mind right at the end,’ he mourned. ‘I shall never forgive myself.’

Then he went over how they had been together in his childhood, how he had been her favourite although his elder brother Edward had been his father’s, how she had taught him herself, how she had always been beside him, how devoted they had been; and it all came back to the final reproach.

She asked a boon of me and I refused her.

Impulsively he recalled John Holland. He restored his lands and granted him more. John embraced his half-brother with a show of great affection.

‘I had to do it,’ said Richard. ‘You understand, brother, that I had to placate Stafford.’

‘I understand,’ said John. ‘We are brothers … nothing can change that. Our mother would understand, Richard. She will know that we both had to act as we did.’

That was a great comfort to Richard.

Not long after his return John was married and his bride was Elizabeth, daughter of John of Gaunt. John was passionate in love and in hate, and, although Elizabeth had in fact been betrothed to the Earl of Pembroke, Holland had swept her off her feet and so far made her forget her previous vows that they had become lovers.

This had caused a great deal of trouble to her father who seeing that marriage with Pembroke was now impossible arranged to have the contract annulled and, to the great joy of his daughter and her bridegroom, they were married.

John Holland was pleased with himself. He had never yet failed, he boasted, to find a way out of his difficulties. A short time ago he had been exiled; now here he was, possessed of all the estates he had had and more, and married to the daughter of the most powerful man in the land. It was small wonder that he was delighted with the clever manner in which he had adjusted the turn of events.

Robert de Vere was decidedly unhappy because his two attempts to be rid of John of Gaunt had come to nothing. He was constantly pointing out to Richard that John of Gaunt would always try to overrule him. It had been obvious during the Scottish campaign. John of Gaunt had wanted to carry on with it; Richard had wisely decided that enough had been done.

‘He did give way to my decision,’ Richard pointed out. ‘He did say that I was his King and he would follow me.’

‘Words!’ said de Vere. ‘He will try to rule you and that means he will try to ruin me.’

The thought of John of Gaunt working against his beloved friend alarmed Richard.

Something would have to be done.

An opportunity occurred. It had always been the dream of John of Gaunt to gain the throne of Castile, and now that João of Avis had won the crown of Portugal in the battle of Albujarotta, he would be a worthy ally for he had his own quarrel with Castile. If Lancaster would join him they could attack the usurper of Castile and give themselves a chance of winning the crown for John and Constanza.

It was for the King and the Council to debate whether they would vote in favour of giving Lancaster the assistance he would need.

The debate did not take long. Both the enemies and friends of John of Gaunt decided that it would be good for the country for him to be out of it.

Already there had been two plots on Lancaster’s life. He was too important a figure to be easily despatched and if he were killed it could well spark off a revolt in the country.

There was not a man in the Council who did not agree that this was an excellent opportunity to escape from a dangerous situation.

John of Gaunt in Castile would be removed from the political scene. That must bring a certain peace; and the Council voted for the necessary supplies to be provided.

So John prepared to leave for Castile. He was torn between two emotions – his love for Catherine Swynford and his ambition.

But this was the realisation of his dream. He was going to win now. He would become the King he never could be in England. And to do it he would have to have Constanza beside him, and because of his love and ever present desire for Catherine Swynford he could feel nothing but repulsion for Constanza.

Yet he must go. Perhaps he would never return.

Catherine knew that.

He took his last farewell of her. He was taking his two daughters with him as well as his wife: Philippa, his daughter by Blanche, and Catherine, his daughter by Constanza.

If he were successful he would stay in Castile for the rest of his life. If he failed again he would return.

They spent that night together which could be their last. There was little to be said. It was life. It was fate. It had to be.

She might have wept. She might have begged him to stay or to take her with him. She knew that either would have been impossible for him.

No, she had always feared their parting would come. Now it had.

He spoke little either. What could he say? How could he explain that while he longed to feel the crown on his head yet he would never be happy again for she would not be with him?

‘I’ll come back one day, Catherine. Whatever happens I shall come back. Perhaps I may be able to send for you. I shall plan something, never fear.’

And she tried to smile and pretend that she believed him.

She watched him from the top of the turret as he left. She could not see him because her eyes were blinded with tears. He did not turn back.

It was symbolic of the future. She could not look into it. And for him there could be no turning back.

The threat of invasion continued. News came constantly across the Channel as to how the French were working away in their dockyards.

The young King of France was boasting of what he would do when he conquered England. All the men should be slaughtered so that they could never make war in France again; the women and children should be taken as slaves. That would teach them to lay claim to the throne of France.

These rumours were just the sort to put heart into the English.

Were they afraid of a lot of Frenchmen? Never! They went over the old story of Crécy and Poitiers which proved, did it not, that one Englishman was worth ten Frenchmen?

Let them come! They would learn then the true state of affairs.

The Earl of Arundel was put in charge of the English fleet.

It was certainly a fine array of enemy ships which set sail from Rochelle for Sluys. Not only was it composed of French ships, but Spanish as well. It was under the command of Jean de Bucq, a Flemish admiral noted for his skill in sea warfare.

On the other hand Arundel had a reputation for sluggishness and when the French had raided the coast of Sussex – his own territory – he had been noticeably dilatory in taking action, so he seemed hardly a wise choice to take over the defence.

It was surprising therefore that he should when the occasion arose astonish everyone with his skill in handling the invaders. All through the spring he had worked indefatigably with Thomas Mowbray, Earl of Nottingham, to prepare a fleet to meet the French.

To see the magnificent armada sailing down the Channel was a sight to fill any heart with apprehension. Arundel however remained calm, watching it. Then he put his fleet into retreat trying to lure the French off course, but they would not be deceived by so obvious a ruse.