Виктория Холт - Passage to Pontefract

She was well aware of the mood of the people and she was constantly afraid that they would harm her lover. He laughed at the idea. No one would get the better of him, he promised her.

She said: ‘There has been a mood of discontent in the streets of late.’

She had seen many a sullen look directed at herself when she rode out. She had heard insults. Not that any had dared shout them at her. They had been whispered. But nevertheless their meaning was clear.

She was anxious on account of the children, she said. ‘I should be happier if I took them out of London for a while …’

‘I must be here,’ he told her.

‘I know. Perhaps I will take them out and leave them in the care of their nurses. And come back to you.’

He embraced her suddenly.

‘You are my comfort, Catherine,’ he said.

‘I know – yet I am one of the reasons why people hate you.’

‘They are unreasonable. My father sports with that harlot and yet they forgive him. And you and I … true lovers … are derided.’

‘I count everything worth while,’ she said.

He laughed. ‘I too. You are right. Take the children away … today … do not hesitate. And come back to me, Catherine.’

The very next day he was glad that she had done so. She was clever, his Catherine. Sometimes he thought she understood the people better than he did.

The day following the scene in the Cathedral the streets were full of muttering people. John had gone by barge to the home of Sir John d’Ypres, a London merchant of great wealth who had become a great friend of the King because of his ability in financial matters. He had been knighted some years previously and the King reckoned him to be one of his most loyal subjects. Lord Percy was leaving the Marshalsea to join John at the house of the merchant.

Meanwhile the crowds were congregating in the streets. They had forgotten their doubts about Wycliffe and had concentrated all their venom on John of Gaunt.

One man had climbed a wall and was addressing the people. He could scarcely be heard above the noise.

‘Who is he? A low-born Fleming … put into the Queen’s bed when she overlaid her child. Now he wants to rule this land. Our little Prince Richard is in danger. This Lancaster will stop at nothing. He with his accomplice Percy will have us all in chains.’

Someone shouted: ‘Remember the petition to Parliament to give us a Captain in place of our Mayor.’

‘We’ll never allow it,’ shouted the people.

‘Good friends, you know what this will mean. A creature of Lancaster’s to take over our City. An officer of his choosing. Shall we have that?’

‘Never!’ shouted the people.

‘Then how are we going to stop it?’

‘Death to John of Gaunt,’ was the cry.

‘Percy has a prisoner in the Marshalsea. One of our people.’

‘Then let us get him.’

That was what they needed – a plan of action.

‘To the Marshalsea. We’ll free the prisoner and then we’ll get them. Lancaster … and Percy.’

The crowd rushed to the Marshalsea. Startled servants bolted the doors against them but it did not take the mob long to batter them down.

It was true. There was a prisoner there. They released him and burned the stocks in which he had been held.

‘Find Percy!’ cried the people. They went through the place pulling down doors and walls taking whatever seemed valuable to them. But they could not find Percy.

‘He will be with his crony,’ said one. ‘He’ll be at the Savoy.’

That was the magic word. The Savoy Palace. That was the home of the real enemy.

Soon they were at the gates of the Savoy.

One of Lancaster’s retinue rode up. He was wearing the badge of Lancaster.

‘What do you here?’ he demanded.

‘Do you serve John of Gaunt?’

‘I do.’

Someone shouted: ‘Here’s one of them.’ The knight, a certain Sir John Swynton, was dragged from his horse and the badge torn from his coat.

He was crying: ‘What have I done to offend you?’

‘Leave him,’ shouted someone. ‘He’s not the one we want.’

Sir John was left bleeding on the ground and the mob passed on.

A priest rode up. ‘What is the trouble? Why are you here?’ he asked.

‘We have come for John of Gaunt,’ someone said. ‘We are going to stop his giving us a Captain. We are going to make him release Peter de la Mare.’

‘Peter de la Mare is a traitor,’ said the priest. ‘He should have been hanged long ago.’

There was a shout of rage as the priest was dragged from his horse and the mob fell on him.

Some of them had now succeeded in breaking into the Savoy. They were trying to tear down the place and many were running out with rich treasures.

‘Come out, John of Gaunt,’ they shouted. ‘We want to give you a warm welcome, John of Gaunt.’

One of the Lancaster knights came riding to the Savoy and pulled up in time for, remembering what had happened in St Paul’s the day before and seeing the mob breaking into the Savoy, he realised what this meant. He heard the shouts of ‘Come out, John of Gaunt. We have come for you, John of Gaunt.’ And he knew there was murder in their hearts.

He turned his horse and rode with all speed to the house of Sir John d’Ypres where he knew his master was dining with Lord Percy.

He reached the house. He broke into the hall where they were eating dinner and had just completed the first course.

‘My lord,’ he cried, ‘the mob is shouting for you. They have broken into the Savoy.’

John rose. He immediately saw the danger.

‘They will discover we are here,’ said Percy.

John nodded. ‘We must leave at once.’

‘Where shall you go?’ asked his host.

‘To Kennington,’ he said. ‘My sister-in-law will give us refuge. Come, there is not a moment to lose.’

Mean while William Courtenay, the Bishop of London, had heard the tumult in the streets, and making enquiries learned that the mob was on the march, that they had already gutted the Marshalsea and were now at the Savoy looking for John of Gaunt and their mood was murderous.

There was no time to lose. John of Gaunt was his enemy, but this was no way to deal with him. They would make a martyr of him.

With all haste he rode to the Savoy. Some of the mob were inside the palace. The noise was deafening, and he found it difficult to make himself heard.

Then a cry went up. ‘The Bishop!’ And there was silence.

He addressed them in a voice of thunder.

‘My people. What is this I find? It grieves me. Take heed, I say. I would speak with you. Do you want to bring the wrath of God down on your heads?’

A hushed silence fell on the crowd.

‘This is the season of Lent,’ went on the Bishop. ‘You have killed one of my priests. May God forgive you. This is a time when you should be repenting of your sins. And you add to them. Go home, and entreat God for mercy. You have need of it. This is not the way to right your wrongs.’

He rode through the crowd. There was something noble about him and his clerical vestments lent him a grandeur. He knew that one of them might have raised a hand against him and set the mood of the mob, but he showed no fear.

They were overawed. He was more than a mere man. He was their Bishop.

‘Disperse quietly,’ he said. ‘Go to your homes and pray for forgiveness. Remember this is the season of Lent.’

He watched them.

One by one they went away.

The Bishop had quelled the riot.

To return to Kennington after all the pomp and glory of the Court where he was a very important person indeed was somewhat disconcerting for young Richard. The proclamation that he was the King’s heir and the banquet which had followed had given him a taste for such pleasures; and now here he was back under the care of Sir Simon Burley and Sir Guichard d’Angle who, although he was very fond of them both, did treat him as though he were a little boy.

His mother was the same; she was always afraid that something was going to happen to him. His father had always chided her for pampering him. It was different with his half-brothers, Thomas and John Holland. They liked to play rough games and were always trying out practical jokes. He was not always pleased with such horseplay and his mother’s constant hovering to make sure he was not hurt.

It was not that he regretted not indulging in the sports that his elder brothers did, for he was not very interested in them. Besides Thomas and John were years older than he was; and they were wild. They took after their father, their mother said. He was the sort of man who took what he wanted and counted the cost after, whereas Richard’s father had been serious, deeply concerned with doing the right thing.

‘You must be like your father.’ That was what he was constantly told until he grew tired of hearing how wonderful his father had been. The great hero. The Black Prince. The tale of how he had won his spurs at Crécy and how he had brought back the French King after Poitiers were stories which grew a little tiresome, especially when they were always followed by the injunction that he must try to be like his father.

Now his half-brothers were talking about Wycliffe who was being examined by the Bishop of London in St Paul’s. Richard had heard a great deal of talk about this man John Wycliffe. He was one who had very strong views about religion and did not mind giving voice to them.

His mother was inclined to favour the man. She thought the Pope had too much power and Richard was agreeing with her now that he had tasted the sweets of coming kingship. The King was the ruler of the country, said his mother, and there should be none above him but God. The Pope set himself up as God’s Deputy on Earth. God did not need a deputy, said his mother.

Richard was beginning to take an interest in what was going on in the country. After all, soon he would be ruling over it.

‘The old man grows more and more feeble every day,’ said Thomas Holland.

Richard admired Thomas very much. He was always so sure of himself and he had always been particularly friendly with Richard. Thomas was in fact the Earl of Kent, a title he had inherited when his father had died and which had come through his mother. Thomas made no secret of the fact that he could not wait for the old King to die. ‘Then,’ he had whispered to Richard, ‘you will be our King.’

He made it sound very exciting. They would always be good friends, said Thomas.

‘Oh yes,’ Richard had cried. ‘When I am King you shall be beside me.’

‘I’ll keep you to that,’ Thomas replied.

John said he would be there too.

It was comforting to have such brothers.

‘He cannot last much longer,’ said Thomas. ‘Poor Alice, she diverts him too much. She keeps her place by her skills and yet those very skills could hasten him to the grave. What a quandary for Alice.’

Their mother joined them. ‘What is this?’ she asked; she must have caught Alice’s name and she did not like such matters to be discussed before Richard.

‘We were talking of Wycliffe,’ said Thomas with a wink at Richard.

Richard enjoyed being in the conspiracy with this man of the world. It made him feel adult. His mother began to talk of Wycliffe and how interesting it was to listen to the views of thinkers such as he was; and then suddenly they could hear the sounds of shouting coming from the river.

‘Listen,’ said Joan.

They were silent. There it was, growing louder.

‘Something is happening in the City,’ said Thomas. ‘I’ll swear it concerns yesterday’s trouble at Wycliffe’s trial.’

‘The people are in revolt,’ said Joan. She had turned pale. She was afraid of the people when they raised their voices and were in protest. Mobs were terrifying. Even when their causes were just they lost all sense of reason when they were massed together. There could be bloodshed.

She was thankful that Richard was here with her.

They stood by the window watching. Thomas pointed out the thread of smoke which was rising to the sky.

‘They are rioting,’ said Joan. ‘Oh, my God, what does this mean?’

‘It must be something to do with Wycliffe.’

‘The people were for him, I am sure.’

‘Look,’ cried Richard. ‘It is my uncle’s barge.’

It was indeed and in it was John of Gaunt with Lord Percy, the Marshal. The speed with which the barge came along the river indicated that they were in flight.