The Last Plantagenets (28 page)

A large part of the dowry, 300,000 crowns, was paid over before the ceremony began.

It had been decided that Windsor Castle was to be the home of the girl queen and there had been serious efforts to make the King’s House clean and attractive, with polished woodwork and new hangings. She was to have the duchess Philippa with her, and the latter’s sister, the Countess of St. Pol. Courtenay, a younger brother of the former archbishop, recently chosen constable of the castle, was charged with her safety. Here a pleasant atmosphere was soon established while Isabella began the education which was intended to make her a good English queen.

Richard visited Windsor often and the Little Queen was always delighted
to see him. Her affection seemed to grow with each visit. He would ride in after the long jaunt from London, looking as fresh as when he started; his cloak without a wrinkle, his handsome riding boots free of mud, a splendid new plume in his cap. He took a great interest in her education and seemed chiefly concerned about the subjects which pleased her most. It was his invariable custom to preside over her music lessons and to demonstrate his own skill on the strings or the flute. Always he read to her from the Romances which he himself found enthralling. He never talked to her of war and sieges and death, nor of the hurly-burly of the tournament lists and the sharp clash of spearheads. It is probable also that he took an interest in the clothes being made for her and saw to it that the right materials were found to keep her warm when the raw blasts of winter whistled about the turrets of the King’s House.

It is also said that the Little Queen conceived a liking for the fair Katharine, John of Gaunt’s third wife, above the other royal ladies. This would not be surprising, for Katharine had become a woman of serene beauty, with natural kindliness and tact, whereas the others, particularly the hard-visaged wife of Thomas of Woodstock and the proud Philippa of Arundel, were troublemakers from the beginning.

As the months passed and merged into years, her memories of home and family began to recede and the Little Queen took on much of the coloring of the new land. If nothing had occurred to disturb her development, she would in time have become what the people of England wanted: an English queen in thought and outlook and training.

R
ICHARD and his young father-in-law, Charles of France, had found one thing in common during their private discussions before the marriage. They both had suffered, and they continued to suffer, from the activities of royal uncles. Charles knew about Thomas of Woodstock and is said to have spoken of him as “the worst-tempered man in England.” He seems to have told Richard of his own troubles with the French dukes. The result was a mutual engagement to help each other in any difficulties which might arise from avuncular opposition.

Early in the year 1397 the Count of St. Pol came to England to visit his wife at Windsor Castle. He was reported to have whispered in Richard’s ear that the English malcontents were moving silently in the background with the purpose of taking the throne away from him. This may have been the first result of the understanding between the two kings, but the situation was not entirely unknown to Richard. He had already received some inkling of what was afoot from the Earl of Nottingham, who was serving as governor of Calais. Nottingham had been one of the original dissenters but had afterward swung around to the king’s support.

The story was, briefly, that secret meetings had been held between Thomas of Woodstock, the Earl of Arundel, and the archbishop at Arundel Castle and at St. Albans. The Earl of Derby had been one of the group of five who had activated the Merciless Parliament but, since returning from his crusading jaunts, he had been on friendly terms with the king, and for that reason he had not been invited to the meetings. Nottingham had been kept in the dark also. Thomas de Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick, had joined the group later, but with some unwillingness.

It had been decided that Richard and his two oldest uncles, John of Gaunt and Edmund of York, were to be seized and placed in perpetual imprisonment. Thomas of Woodstock then took a step which he had immediate reasons for regretting. He confided in Roger de Mortimer, who had been selected by Richard as his successor.

Mortimer was a son of Philippa, the only daughter of Prince Lionel, second son of Edward III. His grandmother, Lionel’s first wife, was Elizabeth, the only child of William de Burgh, Lord of Connaught and Earl of Ulster. The family were considered first among the Anglo-Norman lords of Ireland and it had been a natural thing for the boy Roger to be chosen by Richard as lord-lieutenant of that island. The boy was only seven when the appointment was made and it had been necessary for an uncle to act as his deputy. But now Roger was twenty-two and was planning to go to Ireland and take up his work there seriously. He was a young man of honesty and amiability and had become justly popular with the people of England.

“You need not wait to succeed to the throne,” was the message whispered in his ear when Thomas of Woodstock sought him out. An army would be raised, he was told, to fight under his banner against Richard. The persons of the king and his French wife were to be secured and they would then be kept in the most rigid confinement. Mortimer would be declared King of England.

It had never occurred to Thomas that the youth would see anything but his own advantage in such a plan. He was amazed when Mortimer became pale and so agitated that he could hardly speak. Mortimer, it became clear, was too loyal for treasonable activities, even though his own interests might be served. It was evident he was aghast at the disclosure which had been made.

This brought Woodstock to a realization that he had made a serious blunder. He reacted in a way that was natural to him, blustering and threatening and demanding of Mortimer a promise to keep the matter secret. The latter was so seriously disturbed that at first he did not know what to say. He liked Richard and was completely loyal to him but he realized also that it would mean death for the conspirators if he divulged what he knew. Finally, in a state of panic, he agreed to say nothing. Soon afterward he sailed to Ireland.

The young lord-lieutenant took his duties seriously, even to the extent of wearing the native costumes. His responsibilities included, however, the restoration of order in the land and he was plunged at once into hostilities. Two years after his arrival he was killed in a skirmish with the armed men of an Irish clan and was buried in Wigmore Abbey. In the
meantime the family complications from which he had fled had been carried through to their sanguinary conclusion.

This story of a second conspiracy is based on the chronicles of two French writers, Froissart and Gaillard, both of whom were favorable to Richard. English historians have been disposed to regard the evidence as inadmissible, although they agree there had been many things to fan the king’s anger during the months immediately following his marriage. Both Woodstock and Arundel had withdrawn from court and had been openly critical of the placing of the port of Brest in the hands of the Duke of Brittany. Whispers had been spread that Richard intended to return Calais to France. This story, for which there was no foundation, was circulated all over the country and generally believed, being one of the reasons for the unpopularity of Richard through the final stages of his reign. On the arrival of the Count of St. Pol, the whispers took wings and spread fast. It was said he had been sent over to arrange the transfer.

Did Richard have the justification of acting in self-defense? Or had it been his intention from the first to repay the dissenting barons in their own coin when the opportunity presented itself? There is so much evidence on both sides that it is impossible to point to one and say the truth lies there.

However, there can be no doubt or dispute in considering the measures that the king took. His methods can neither be explained away nor condoned.

July 10, 1397.

St. Pol had returned to France. Roger de Mortimer had sailed for Ireland. Woodstock and Arundel were remaining away from court, but rumors were flying thick and fast.

Richard was in London and his troop of Chester archers, estimated by some as numerous as 2000, were with him and ready for action. Richard Whittington, who had lived to see the promise of Bow Bells come true by his elevation to the mayoralty of London, was disturbed to find the streets of the great city filled with so many armed men wearing the royal livery of the White Hart and was keeping the trained bands alerted for trouble. Summonses for a meeting of Parliament had been sent out. It was to be a “packed” session of the House, according to some authorities.

The king had sent invitations to his uncle of Woodstock, Arundel, and Warwick to meet him at dinner at the residence near Temple Bar of the Bishop of Exeter, who had been appointed chancellor. There was something about the invitation which smacked of trouble. Thomas of Woodstock sensed it at once and returned word that he was ill and could not leave his castle of Pleshy. No word at all was received from the Earl of Arundel, but he promptly shut himself up in his stronghold at Reigate. Only the unsuspecting Warwick put in an appearance. Expecting a larger company, he was disturbed by the empty seats at the board. The king was cordial, however, and nothing was said to cause uneasiness until dinner was over. Richard then rose to his feet and told Warwick he was under arrest. The earl, who was not made of the stern stuff of conspiracy, was so overcome that it was not difficult later to bring him to the point of a confession. He was sent to the Tower and lodged in a section which later was called the Beauchamp Tower.

Richard used guile in enticing Arundel into the web. He went to the archbishop and asked his assistance in persuading his brother to come to London. The archbishop was too old and seasoned a hand in the political winds and currents which prevailed at court not to realize that something dangerous was afoot. Being warmly attached to his older brother, he was unwilling to take any hand in the matter.

“By St. John the Baptist!” said the king, employing the oath which had become his favored expression. “I mean your brother no harm.”

As the primate still hesitated and spoke of safe conducts and guarantees, the king swore a solemn oath that no harm would come to the earl. The archbishop then agreed to act and sent word to Reigate, advising his brother to come to Westminster. Arundel, his alarm subsiding, came immediately and was met by the primate’s barge, which took him across the river to Lambeth. Here the two brothers spent the night together. In the morning they were rowed over to Westminster, and the earl was summoned into the royal presence. The primate waited for him for many hours. No word of what was happening reached his ears. He begged everyone he could see for information but was met by stony stares. Finally, with a heavy heart, he returned to Lambeth. He never saw his brother again.

When the earl was escorted into the chamber where the king was engaged with several of his officers, he was not accorded any greeting. Richard sat and stared heavily at him.

“My lord Arundel!” exclaimed the king, finally. Perhaps in his mind’s eye he was seeing Queen Anne, her eyes wet with tears, kneeling at the feet of this implacable man and begging for the life of Burley. He
stood up and turned to Nottingham, who was one of the company. He gestured angrily. “Take my lord Arundel away!” he said.

The earl was taken first to the Tower and then removed to the Isle of Wight where he was held in the closest seclusion, pending the opening of Parliament.

The king left London as dusk was falling and with a small party rode all night to Pleshy. It was characteristic of him that, although he would not encounter anything but the blackness of night and was under the necessity of fast riding, he went accoutered as though for a tournament. The chamfron of his horse was of the finest leather and studded with silver, with even the bright eye of a jewel glinting out here and there. The cloth covers were of costly material and decorated also with jeweled insignia. The stirrups were of silver.

They took the high London Road because the king was anxious to finish quickly what he was setting out to do. Also, he wanted to reach Pleshy before his uncle could learn of his coming and get away. A mizzle fell during the early hours, but it was clearing when dawn broke and, with a cheerful suddenness, the sun came out as they passed the villages of High Easter and Good Easter. They were mounting a slow rise in the road and the towers of Pleshy lay ahead. The castle looked black, grim, formidable. For 250 years it had been the headquarters of the constables of England and it had been planned for defense. One contemporary writer speaks of the keep as “stupendous,” the moat “amazing,” the bridge of one arch over the moat “magnificent.” This part of Essex had been in the Roman country, and the party passed bits of wall of the red brick the Romans had made, sometimes a culvert still sturdy and safe, and against the gray sky even the remnants of towers.

Pleshy itself had once been surrounded by fortifications that the Romans had raised, but little of this was left now. The castle was entirely Norman, the keep ponderous, the outer walls thick, the moat deep and already reeking with seasonable filth. It was well for the success of Richard’s plot that he had planned a surprise. Behind the tall barbican, the duke could have held out a long time.

This element of surprise makes a logical choice possible from among the many versions told. In some accounts he is said to have arrived just as his uncle had finished his supper. Others say the king came during the night and had the sleeping duke roused from his bed. Still others set the time of arrival at dawn. The latter explanation seems the right
one. Richard wanted to conceal the fact that he was riding into the northeastern country and so would not have left London until after night had fallen. Unless he pushed his troops along at a breakneck gallop, it would take six hours to cover the distance over the dark and hazardous roads. That would bring him to the constable’s castle as dawn was breaking.