Passage to Pontefract (43 page)

He lopped savagely at the bedpost. It came away in his hands and he reeled back as the bed began to collapse.

There was nothing to do but obey the King.

The late Queen’s apartments in Sheen Palace were completely destroyed that day.

Having given vent to his fury against fate Richard felt a little better.

She should have the most magnificent funeral. The whole world should know how he loved her. He summoned all the most noble of the land to come and pay homage to her as she lay in St Paul’s. There was one notable absentee, the Earl of Arundel.

When Richard heard that Arundel had not attended St Paul’s he fell into a rage against him. He wanted to arrest him but was restrained from doing so by his uncle John.

At first Richard would not listen but when John reminded him that Anne would not have wished it he was so overcome with grief that he turned away and went to his own apartments.

Arundel was an arrogant man. He was contemptuous of the King. His new wife Philippa was a forceful woman who continually reminded him of his royalty through her. She was as highly born as the King, she maintained; and she was going to make everyone remember it.

Therefore if her husband did not wish to attend the obsequies of the Queen he need not.

She and her husband decided that he should put in an appearance at the burial service at Westminster, although there was no reason why he should remain throughout. He should tell the King that he had come as summoned but had no intention of remaining and the King should therefore give him official permission to retire.

‘I shall tell him that I must leave for urgent personal reasons,’ said Arundel.

‘That is the discreet way of doing it,’ agreed his wife.

The ceremony in the Abbey had begun. Richard was melancholy, thinking of the day he had first seen Anne and how he had loved her because of her humility and grace. He could not have loved a flamboyant beauty with the same intensity.

Oh Anne, Anne, he mourned, why did you leave me? Why did I allow you to go to Sheen? We should never have parted, even for a day. I hate Sheen, Anne. And I used to love it … because we were there together and now … and now …

‘My lord.’ It was Arundel at his elbow.

Richard sprang round shaken out of his reverie and instead of the sweetly compliant face of Anne there was that of his enemy.

‘For certain urgent private reasons, my lord, I crave leave to retire from the Abbey.’

‘You will wait until this ceremony is over,’ retorted Richard. ‘You shall not insult the Queen.’

‘My lord, I must leave …’

Richard snatched a wand which one of the vergers was carrying and with it hit Arundel across the face with such force that the blood spurted out of the wound. He then went on raining down blows on the Earl who, utterly amazed, was beaten to his knees.

There was consternation. This was defiling the holy abbey. Arundel’s blood was already staining the floor.

Richard shouted: ‘Arrest this man. Take him to the Tower.’

There was a hushed silence then Richard roared: ‘Take him! Take him! He is my prisoner.’

Arundel was dragged away and Richard signed for the ceremony to proceed.

There was whispering of course. Many blamed Arundel but an equal number blamed the King. He was stricken with grief, they knew; but if Arundel had perfectly good reason for leaving the ceremony his wish should have been granted.

They were both at fault but the King had grief on his side.

Once more John of Gaunt came to the King.

‘My lord,’ he said, ‘Arundel is in the Tower. What crime has he committed?’

‘The greatest. He has insulted the Queen.’

John of Gaunt sighed. ‘It is not enough to send him to the Tower, my lord. He has many powerful friends.’

‘I have sent him and there he shall remain.’

‘It is dangerous, my lord. You must understand that the country is full of discontent, like dry wood waiting for the flame to ignite it. I know full well that if the good Queen Anne were here she would add her voice to mine.’

‘Arundel has insulted
her
.’

‘Arundel deserves to be reprimanded for that. But as I tell you, he has many friends. Release him, Richard.’

‘I shall do no such thing,’ said Richard. ‘When you went away I might have been a child. I am so no longer. My will shall be done.’

‘And so it should be and so it shall be while I have a right arm to fight for it. But there should not be unnecessary unrest as there will be if you declare open warfare on Arundel. He is too influential to be slighted, Richard. I know the Queen would add her voice to mine … if she were here … if only she were here!’

Richard was ready to dissolve into tears. But his uncle was right. He knew he was right. He could almost hear Anne’s voice pleading for the release of Arundel.

Within a week Arundel was a free man.

Constanza of Castile was content to live with her own attendants – men and women of her own country, for she had never been able to get on with the English. She had lived quietly at Hatfield knowing that her husband would visit her but rarely and then only for the sake of appearances.

They had not lived together for some years. She had sensed his repulsion and it offended her dignity that she, a Princess of the House of Castile – the true Queen she had always maintained – should have to accept the fact that her husband preferred his mistress and was going to spend every spare moment he had with her.

Constanza was very much aware of her royalty and although she certainly did not want John or any man in her bed, she deplored the manner in which he made no attempt to keep his relationship with Catherine Swynford a secret.

She had to admit that Catherine was discreet. She never flaunted her position. She behaved with more decorum than many a more nobly born woman might have done who found herself in a similar position. But the fact remained that John insisted on Catherine’s being with him at every function he attended; and people were accepting her. The King received her; in fact he seemed to have a fondness for her, and Constanza had to admit that Catherine was possessed of a certain charm which had been utterly denied her.

It was not surprising in the circumstances that she preferred to live quietly in the country where she could be surrounded by her own people, where she could eat the dishes of her native land and wear those clothes which the women of her own country all enjoyed making for her.

It was a life of quietness and meditation for she had always been deeply religious.

In the early spring of that year when the Queen had died, Constanza began to feel a certain lethargy creep over her.

She had never taken a great deal of exercise but spent most of her time either in meditation and prayer or sitting with her attendants sewing for the poor; and since her daughter Catherine had married the heir to Castile it seemed as though she had no great reason for living. Those about her noticed that she grew more frail every day.

They were not really surprised when one day when they went to call her she told them that she was feeling too unwell to rise.

Within the week she was dead.

John of Gaunt was free, and his feelings were mingled. He was relieved that he should not have to see Constanza again. Her existence had been a continual reproach to him. On the other hand it placed him in a quandary as far as Catherine was concerned.

He had always maintained that if he were free he would marry Catherine, yet he had to consider what such a marriage would mean to him.

Catherine was beautiful still; she was discreet and he loved her dearly. He had never glanced at another woman seriously since he had known her. But on the other hand she was not of the nobility and their relationship had been far from discreet so that the whole country knew that she had been his mistress.

Could he marry her? Would it be an act of unprecedented folly to do so?

A man in his position must consider these matters.

In any case nothing could be done until after a suitable period and he rather welcomed the need to go to Aquitaine to take charge of his duties there.

So he sailed away and he vowed to himself that he would look facts squarely in the face and when he returned he would have the solution.

The months began to pass and he found life in Bordeaux intolerable. All the time he was longing to be with Catherine. He wondered what she was thinking. He fancied that she was resigned, telling herself that what she had always longed for could never come to pass.

He reviewed his life. His ambition had availed him little. All the wishing in the world could not make him King of England. And who in his right senses would want such an unenviable lot? The people had never liked him; they would never have accepted him. To rule, a King must have his people’s love and approval.

The only happy times he had known were with Catherine. That was not quite true. He had been happy with Blanche. Theirs had been a good union. But it had not equalled his relationship with Catherine. There could never be anything to rival that.

He came back to England at the end of the year 1395.

Richard had returned from Ireland where he had conducted a not unsuccessful campaign. It seemed the Irish had been so overwhelmed by Richard’s magnificent array and general splendour that they had made no resistance. However the expedition had been costly in money if not in lives.

Flushed with success and feeling his power as a ruler, Richard was not inclined to give a very warm welcome to his uncle.

John left Court quickly and went at once to Kettlethorpe in Lincolnshire.