Read Passage to Pontefract Online
Authors: Jean Plaidy
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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