The Last Plantagenets (32 page)

“Amend your ways, O King!” cried the hermit, shaking what might be called a forfending forefinger in Richard’s face.

The weakness of this prophet of doom was that he believed in himself. When Richard demanded that he prove the divine source of his warning by walking on water, the hermit attempted to do so and was dragged out feet first in a half-drowned condition, to be hanged, in all probability.

The king was confirmed in this new attitude by the lack of any restraint from Rome. Pope Boniface IX, a young man of thirty, found himself so pressed for funds to hold the kings of Europe in his support against the encumbent at the magnificent court of Avignon that he descended to the most barefaced simony. It seemed possible to purchase anything. Richard even managed to get letters from Rome which threatened the punishment of the church on any who failed to accept all measures of the Great Parliament, a term selected for the sessions just concluded of what men in England were already calling the most dangerous and reactionary of all Parliaments.

T
HREE memories of the past seemed to darken Richard’s mind and to fan his desire for revenge. They were the defeat of de Vere at Radcot Bridge, the unceremonious intrusion on his privacy in the Tower of London when the leaders of the opposition, with locked arms, had issued their ultimatum, and the fruitless pleading of his young queen for the life of Burley.

On a day in December 1397, two of the new dukes, the king’s cousin Henry, the Duke of Hereford, although generally called Henry of Bolingbroke, and Thomas de Mowbray, Earl of Nottingham and now Duke of Norfolk, were riding together to London from Brentford. There had never been much friendly feeling between them. Henry was a Plantagenet and a very probable successor to the throne, a man of kingly presence and great courage, and a favorite of the people. Norfolk was of the upper nobility, thickset and of great strength, now holding the office of marshal of England. Henry’s lack of cordiality for the other was undoubtedly due to the fact that Norfolk had acted as Richard’s instrument in the purging of his confederates.

It was a cold and blustery day and so it is a matter for surprise that these two men, so different in temperament and design, would unmuffle sufficiently to indulge in extended talk as they rode fast to reach the welcome warmth of London, their horses’ hoofs striking sparks on the frozen surface of the highway. The talk was of such an incendiary nature that Bolingbroke went at once to Richard and gave him his own version of it. This report Norfolk instantly and vigorously denied.

Had Norfolk been foolish enough to utter treasonable ideas to a man with whom he had never been on friendly terms? Or did the king’s cousin invent the conversation for purposes of his own? The truth was
never arrived at, although it seems reasonable to believe that Henry of Bolingbroke’s version was close to the truth.

Norfolk, according to Bolingbroke, spoke of the day when the appellants had linked arms and marched unceremoniously into Richard’s presence in the Tower. The talk seems to have developed along some such line as this:

Norfolk: “How many were there of us?”

Bolingbroke: “We were five, sir duke.”

Norfolk: “Yes, my prince, we were five. The king’s uncle Thomas was in the center with Arundel and Warwick on each side of him. Two of them are now dead and the other committed to life imprisonment. Who were the other two, on the ends of the line?”

Bolingbroke (turning in his saddle and looking his questioner squarely in the face): “You and I, sir duke, you and I.”

Norfolk then proceeded to speak of doubts which filled his mind. Whenever he saw the king’s eyes on him, there was something in them which gave him small comfort. Could it be that Richard, even after so many years, was seeing him at one end of the line, his arm linked in that of one of the other conspirators who had died? Could he and Bolingbroke place any reliance on the pardons which had been granted them?

He proceeded finally to give a positive reason for such fears. There had been a plot, he declared, to get rid of both Bolingbroke and his father, John of Gaunt. The two Holland brothers, who wanted to get all power in their hands, had been at the bottom of it. He, Norfolk, and the Duke of York had prevented the plotters from accomplishing their purpose.

It was, he had concluded, an evil world and neither of them could put any faith in the king’s oaths.

Bolingbroke made no comments but as soon as he reached London he went to the king and told him what had transpired. Richard had Norfolk summoned before him. The latter denied the story. “My dear lord, I say that Henry of Lancaster is a liar!” he declared. “In what he says of me, he lies like the false traitor that he is!”

It was one man’s word against the other’s, both of high degree and, supposedly, of honor. Richard decided on an open hearing and fixed the day and the place: the festival of St. George sixty days thence, at Windsor Castle.

When the day arrived, a scaffold had been erected inside the castle grounds, for the seating of the king and such members of the nobility and the church as would be in attendance. It was reported to the king that both men asserted it was impossible for them to be reconciled.
Richard then ordered that both of the principals to the dispute be brought in, with heralds to present their respective cases. A knight who appeared for Bolingbroke said: “My sovereign lord, here is Henry of Lancaster, Duke of Hereford and Earl of Derby, who says, and I also for him, that Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk, is a false traitor to your royal majesty and the whole kingdom.” Further it was charged against Norfolk that he had received 8000 nobles for the payment of the garrison at Calais, which sum he had kept for himself; that Norfolk had been the cause of all the treasons in the past eighteen years. Finally, it was proposed to prove this with his, Henry’s, body against that of Norfolk in the lists.

Another knight then came forward and declared that everything said against Norfolk was a lie, and the duke himself stated that he had used the 8000 nobles for proper expenditures and that he beseeched the king to allow him combat against this accuser.

At this point Henry of Bolingbroke threw down his gauntlet and Norfolk picked it up. It was decided that they would be allowed to fight it out in the lists at Coventry, and September 16 was selected as the date.

It has been a custom with princes who exercise despotic sway to offer the people spectacles and entertainments as a sop for the rights which have been taken from them. The emperors of Rome kept the hungry and wretched poor from too much discontent by having gladiators fight in the arena and Christians devoured by lions before their eyes. Richard was no exception, and during the brief period of his megalomania he took every occasion to dazzle the populace with his magnificence. He decided to use the trial by arms at Coventry for this purpose.

He ordered a stately theater to be constructed on Gosford Green, with lists adjoining which would not have suffered by comparison with the famed tilting grounds at Ashby-de-la-Zouch where Ivanhoe performed so nobly. The king arrived the day before and was received as a guest in the round tower belonging to Sir William Bagot. Here he gave audiences at different times to each of the disputants. He seems to have been genuinely distressed that neither was prepared to yield an inch. They still protested that it was impossible for them to be reconciled. Somewhat reluctantly he gave instructions for the duel, which would be fought to the death, to be proceeded with in accordance with the laws of chivalry.

The hour of prime, which meant six in the morning at this season, had been set for the spectacle to begin. Henry of Bolingbroke arrived well ahead of the stipulated hour and pitched his pavilion close to the lists. He was accompanied by a lordly train of gentlemen and followers, as well as the essential squires, a surgeon, and a confessor. Norfolk had his tent placed in a thick wood which lay between the entrance to the lists and the walls of the town.

Promptly at the hour of prime, Bolingbroke came to the lists, riding a white courser with blue and white velvet trappings, on which swans and antelope were embroidered. The Duke of Aumale, who was acting as marshal for the occasion, met him at the barrier.

“Your name and station?” he demanded.

“I am Henry of Lancaster, Duke of Hereford, and I come hither to do my endeavors against Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk, so as to prove him a traitor, false to God, the king, the kingdom and myself.”

He then took an oath that his cause was just and true, and was admitted. He proceeded on foot to a chair of green velvet which had been placed at one end of the lists on a cloth of blue and green.

The king arrived next with a train of great magnificence, most of the peers of the realm being with him and even that visitor on all difficult occasions, seemingly, the Count of St. Pol. The stands by this time were packed with people of substance while the high grounds adjoining were filled with spectators who had to stand. The rabble had come a-foot to revel in this exciting contest between two dukes who would break their lances in the lists and then, if necessary, belabor each other with mace and sword and dagger until one of them was dead. Standing there in sweat-stained jerkins and dusty caps, they looked avidly at the splendid raiment of those who were their betters by accident of birthing. It was a fair day, with a pleasant September sun in the sky and no threat of weather to disturb the prospects of a beautiful fight to the very death.

The only one there who looked with any disquiet on what was to follow seems to have been Richard himself. What had he to gain by letting these two young dukes fight until the weaker gave up his life on the greensward? If Bolingbroke were the victor, it must then be assumed that he had spoken the truth and that Norfolk had warned him of the vengeance of the king. It would even be established that there had been a royal plot to kill him and his father. On the other hand, if Bolingbroke died, a smirch would be left on the fair name of the Lancastrian branch of the royal family. Further, the amity that the king had been striving to restore in the royal family would be rent wide open with grief and suspicion of his purposes. It was too much to hope that
both of these blustering noblemen would be killed in this hate-engendered imbroglio. That would mean there had been no truth in either of them and that the supposed plot was a mere figment of the imagination. This might have suited the king quite well, for he had been conscious of the hot breath of Bolingbroke on his shoulder and was willing to have such a dangerous contender removed from his path.

A much better solution had entered his mind as he sat there in moody magnificence on his high throne.

Norfolk appeared at the barrier and was admitted after taking the oath, a strong figure on a steed covered with crimson velvet and richly embroidered with silver lions and mulberry leaves.

“God assist the just cause!” he cried, as he crossed to his seat at the other end of the lists. Here a crimson velvet chair had been placed for him.

While Richard brooded in his eminence, the work of preparation went forward. The marshal measured the spears and found them of equal length. The chairs of the combatants were removed. The two dukes closed their beavers and were assisted into their saddles. They rode slowly to their stations at the ends of the lists. The drone of talk died down in the stands and in the spaces where the common people stood.

At this dramatic moment Richard finally made up his mind. On a signal from him, the heralds cried, “Halt! Halt!” Instructions were sent down to the marshal to see that the combatants dismounted. The steeds were led away, the chairs were brought back and placed again on their colored carpets. The spectators watched in amazement and loudly expressed their discontent as the two dukes seated themselves again. What was wrong? Why did the king interfere? Was the duel not to be held after all?

For two hours the combatants sat in their heavy armor in the full glare of the warm morning sun. The spectators, concerned with the need to preserve their positions, did not stir about, but a great hum of sound enveloped the lists. Everyone was speculating, discoursing, arguing. As the time passed slowly, the speculation mounted in intensity. The people had become angry. They did not understand what could be happening to justify such a long delay. In the meantime the king had withdrawn from the lists with members of his council. Quite clearly they were debating some form of action.

At the end of the two hours the king and his councilors returned to their seats. It became clear that a decision of some moment had been reached when Sir John Bushy, who was acting as secretary to the king, advanced to a central position in the lists, carrying a long scroll in his
hands. When the heralds had succeeded in silencing the crowds he began to read from the scroll.

The king had decided that the duel was not to take place. It was his decision that both of the contestants were to leave the kingdom. Henry, Duke of Hereford, was to depart within fifteen days and not return to England for ten years. Thomas de Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk, “because he had sown sedition in the realm by his words, should likewise depart the kingdom and never return into England, nor come near the confines thereof upon pain of death,
for a hundred wynter;
and that the king should receive the income of his estate till such time as those sums of money, which he had received for the payment of the garrison of Calais, were fully repaid and satisfied.”

It was a curiously unjust decision. It expressed, certainly, a belief in the guilt of Norfolk; but if he had been spreading sedition and pocketing royal funds, why was Henry of Bolingbroke, who had uncovered his perfidy, made to share the punishment? No other official act of Richard’s exemplified so clearly the instability of his judgments and the unpredictable quirks of his mind. It was stated later that Bolingbroke had been banished from the realm to avoid all conflict between him and his adherents with the Norfolk men.