The Last Plantagenets (35 page)

Horses were ordered immediately. Richard and his fellow prisoners rode in the Lancastrian train to Chester. The cavalry of Bolingbroke was received at the gates of that city with a loud blast of trumpets. Richard’s hopes, if he had any left, sank to nothingness. Even Chester, which had always been so staunchly for him, had none of that loyalty left. It had been whispered to him that the great Welshman Owen Glendwyr was hanging on the flanks of the armed horsemen and waiting for a chance to rescue him, but even this failed to arouse his spirits. The Welsh leader was brave and clever beyond all mortal calculation (he was supposed to
be a magician), but how could he prevail with his slender strength against the might which Bolingbroke had mustered about him?

They remained two days at Chester and during that time summonses were issued, in Richard’s name, for a Parliament to meet at Westminster. The question between them, Bolingbroke informed the king, would be settled by the voice of the House. This aroused no expectations in the king’s mind. The new Parliament would be hand-picked to vote as his cousin dictated. He, Richard, knew how easily this could be managed.

During the two days at Chester young Harry of Monmouth arrived from Ireland to join his father. He was amazed to find the king a prisoner and, according to some accounts, he spoke warmly of the kindness he had been shown while he served as a hostage. It is also said that, when he came to understand that his father intended to assume the throne, he was astonished and not too happy over what seemed to him the usurpation of the rights of others. This young Harry of Monmouth, as has already been explained, would one day become king and would rule with such splendor that his name would always be ranked among England’s greatest men.

That young Harry came alone was due, of course, to the death of Humphrey of Gloucester from the plague. As the huge armed cavalcade made its way southward from Chester, word reached them that Humphrey’s mother, the widow of Thomas of Woodstock, had died of a broken heart within an hour of receiving word of the loss of her son. The feud in the family, which had begun with the ill will between the boy king and his overbearing uncle, was still taking its toll.

The story of Richard in eclipse is so muddied by the sentimentality of the French reports that it is hard to get matters clear. The story of Math, for instance, is hard to believe, certainly, and yet has the endorsement of Froissart, who declares that all of Bolingbroke’s army, which he estimated at 30,000, heard the tale. There is also the statement that Richard was compelled to ride all the way to London on a small and “wretched” steed, “a sorry hack not worth two pounds,” in order to emphasize his defeat and to make him ludicrous in the eyes of the people. This cannot be true. Although his mind was firmly made up to take the throne, Bolingbroke was quite as determined to acquire it with a semblance of legality. He still addressed Richard as king and had made it clear that the latter would remain head of the realm until such time as Parliament decreed his deposition. To treat the captive monarch in the
meantime like a clown in a parade of mummers was far from the victor’s intent.

When they arrived in London, to be met by the lord mayor and a procession of the guilds, Bolingbroke said: “Fair sirs, here is your king. Think what you will do with him.” He wanted the offer of the crown to be made him as the result of an overwhelming wave of popular acclaim. Richard was taken to the Tower and lodged in the royal apartments—but under heavy guard.

The next day he was informed that his cousin was below and desired him to go down. The king indulged in a flash of his old high temper.

“Tell Henry of Lancaster, then,” he exclaimed, “if he desires speech with me, let him come to me.”

There was a delay during which, no doubt, Bolingbroke was considering what course to take. Finally he came to Richard’s chambers and greeted him on bended knee. The king demanded to know why he was kept thus under lock and key. Was he not King of England?

“You are my king, sir,” answered Henry. “But the council of your realm thinks fit to set a guard on you until Parliament has reached a decision.”

Richard was a creature of passionate moods and even in the face of complete defeat he could not keep his temper under control. He cried out that he would meet in combat any of his foes or detractors. He demanded that the queen be sent to him, to which Bolingbroke’s reply was, “It is forbidden by the council.” He stormed up and down the apartment, railing at his ill fortune and cursing all who had taken a hand in bringing him to this pass. Bolingbroke listened in silence and, finally, withdrew.

There was one contrast in this scene between the two chief characters in the drama. Richard had dressed himself well, although with none of the extravagances which had always been held against him. He wore no jewels of any kind (perhaps because the regal valuables had been carefully laid away by the officers of the Tower), but Bolingbroke was still in full armor. There is no way of telling if he had continued to wear his fighting gear ever since his landing on the Yorkshire coast, but on many of the occasions when he appears in the chronicles it is put on record that he was, actually, armed to the teeth. Perhaps there was a purpose in this, a desire to point up the difference between a warrior and an aimless man of peace such as Richard.

The following day the king was in a more compliant mood. Perhaps a night’s reflection had convinced him that he had nothing to hope for and should accept his fate with good grace. The recollection of what had befallen Edward II was never out of his mind. Bolingbroke came to see him again, accompanied by Arundel, the deposed archbishop, and a
deputation of bishops and peers. The discussion was brief and free of the passion of the previous day. In a quiet voice Richard read a statement in which he agreed to abdicate the throne, if this proved to be the wish of Parliament. He placed his signet ring on Bolingbroke’s finger and expressed his preference for Henry as his successor.

On September 30, 1399, he was taken to Westminster Hall, which had been for several years in process of repair and redecoration, on his own orders, and was now thrown open for the first time. Richard entered the hall in his royal robes, with his crown on his head and the scepter in his hand. He did not, however, seat himself on the throne, but stood beside it with composed mien. He read for the second time the paper in which he agreed to abdicate.

The members of the House were not content with this. A paper of accusation, made up of thirty-three counts, had been prepared and it was demanded that this should be read. Richard was compelled to remain standing while the voice of the Speaker progressed through the long and declamatory statement. He made no attempt to answer or deny the accusations. When bidden to withdraw, he handed his crown and scepter to Bolingbroke and bowed to the members before leaving the chamber. He had conducted himself through this humiliating scene with a fine dignity.

The time had come for Bolingbroke to assert his claim. He rose from his chair and said: “In the name of Fadir, Son and Holy Ghost, I, Henry of Lancaster, challenge the realm of England, and the crown, with all the members and appurtenances; as that I am descended by the right line of blood, coming from the good lord Henry III, and through that right that God of His grace, hath sent me with the help of my kin and of my friends to recover it; the which realm was in point to be undone for default of governance and undoing of good laws.”

The lords and commons were challenged for their opinions and responded with what seemed an acclamation of assent. The ex-archbishop then took Henry by the hand and conducted him to the throne.

Richard waited impatiently all through the day for word of what had happened, but no report reached him. The next morning it was raining, none of the quick passing showers of summer but a steady and monotonous downpour, the kind to further unsettle raveled nerves. The rooms in the Tower, never very bright, were gloomier than ever. The faces of
the servants were a reflection of their master’s mood and the food they served was plain and unappetizing.

In spite of his certainty earlier that all was lost, he may have gained some small degree of hope from the silence and delay. It had been whispered in his ear that his loyal friend, Bishop Merks of Carlisle, intended to present a defense of him in the House and to demand for him a chance to face his accusers. Had this precipitated a battle on the floor? Perhaps there were enough loyal members after all to prevent the Bolingbroke party from carrying through his dethronement with a high hand. No one told him that the stouthearted bishop had acted on his promise and had spoken strongly in the House. However, a complete silence of disagreement had followed his address and he had even failed to get a seconder. In fact, there had been some intention of bringing charges against Merks for the attitude he had taken. What had happened finally was that the bishop was sent under escort to St. Albans Abbey, there to await the will of the Commons.

Richard walked to the roof and stood somberly at the battlements, disregarding the heavy downpour. It added nothing to his gloomy forebodings that the guards, who had kept close to him all morning, were now so close on his heels that he could feel their breath on his neck. They were, it was clear, fearful of what he might attempt. On the ride to London from Chester he had thrown his guards into an uproar by almost effecting an escape at Litchfield. Knowing that the faithful Welsh were still following on the edges of the Lancastrian army, he had succeeded in letting himself down from his window with a rope but had been trapped because all exits were closed in the high stone walls of the garden in which he found himself.

The prospect from the top of the White Tower walls was disheartening for the prisoner. The townspeople, who had packed the streets below at all hours of the day and night, had finally dispersed. Had the rain driven them indoors or had they learned of a decision in Parliament and had no further need to wait for an announcement? He was certain that, if a fight still continued at Westminster, the rain would have had no effect on the curious Londoners.

Finally the word was brought to him. None of the main actors in the cast came to deliver it, and only a deputation of members from the House waited on him. They performed their task without any hint of compassion. The Speaker read the decision of deposition and then shook an admonitory forefinger at the unhappy man who had been king but was no longer.

“None of all these states or people,” declared the Speaker, “from this time forward either bear you faith or do you obeisances as to their king.”

The scene was closely reminiscent of the cold winter day at Kenilworth Castle nearly a century before when the word was carried to Edward II that he was no longer king. On that occasion the strong young Edward had fallen to the floor in a faint. Richard carried himself with more courage. He heard them through, realizing that this was indeed the end and that all he could hope for was to be allowed to live at peace in some obscure part of the realm. It was too much to hope that he would be allowed to leave the country, not even to find sanctuary in his first home at Bordeaux.

“I look not hereafter,” he said, finally. “But I hope my cousin will be good lord to me.”

W
HEN the news of Richard’s downfall reached France, the Duke of Burgundy, one of the royal uncles, commented: “Since the English have imprisoned King Richard, they will assuredly put him to death. They always hated him because he preferred peace to war.”

The duke was right for once. He had put his finger on the real reason for Richard’s unpopularity. Coming after a line of warrior kings and winners of great victories, he seemed weak, effeminate, and indolent to the people. The barons, the merchants of the towns who thrived on war, and the stout yeomen who had played such a great part in the victories were ashamed to have a king who loved music, books, and paintings. This feeling had been aggravated by Richard’s determination to establish an absolutism by parliamentary sanction. What did this sapling mean by declaring publicly, “I am the law?”

No, the main reason for his deposition was not to be found in the murder of Thomas of Woodstock and the execution of Arundel. In this violent age a thirst for revenge was deemed more nearly a virtue than a vice. King John killed his nephew Arthur and starved to death Maude de Braose and her son in a cell at Corfe Castle because she had alluded publicly to the deed. Edward I, a great king in most respects, was so angry over the stout opposition of William Wallace that he had that brave Scot hanged, drawn, and quartered. Edward II sent his cousin of Lancaster to the block because he had been an instrument in the death of the king’s favorite, Piers Gaveston. An injury, even a mild affront, rankled in the minds of these Plantagenet kings and led to furious reprisals. Richard did no more than his forefathers would have done when he removed from his path the two chief instigators of his humiliation and the slayers of his friend, Simon Burley.

The English people hated John because he lost Normandy and dubbed him John Softsword. They despised Edward II because the decisive victories he could have won were turned into defeats. They sang parodies of “Sweet Richard.” They did not want a sweet king.

The French waited impatiently for news of what was happening in England, but it was not until the Countess of St. Pol arrived home (Henry packed her off promptly with all her French ladies and servants and her lordly string of horses) that they heard the full story. There was so much concern felt then for the fate of Queen Isabella that the king suffered a particularly violent return of his mental malady.

One of the first steps taken after the crown had been placed on the head of the winner and he had assumed the title of Henry IV was to remove the little queen from Windsor and place her in the charge of the Bishop of Salisbury at his manor house on the Thames, known as Sunning-Hill. The ex-king was sent first to Leeds Castle in Kent but was then secretly conveyed to Yorkshire where he was kept successively in three of Henry’s castles: Pickering, Knaresborough, and, finally, Pontefract, the scene of so many tragedies. This was done because the demand had been made in the House that he be confined in some “sure and secret place.”