Виктория Холт - Passage to Pontefract

He had known he was growing weaker and in spite of Alice’s assurances that he was getting better every day he knew he was dying.

He was a sick old man. He was in his sixty-fifth year and out of those sixty-five years he had reigned for fifty-one. It was a great record.

Indeed it had been a great reign. It was only the last years that had brought him shame. Philippa had died and left him and without her he was bereft. Although to be truthful he had started with Alice before Philippa died.

Well, so are great men fallen. Their weaknesses catch up with them; and it was strange to contemplate that he, the faithful husband for so long, should have become such a slave to his senses. He knew what Alice wanted; but what a companion she had been! All through his life he had been restraining his impulses and it was only rarely that he had broken free.

Well, now here he was dying … great Edward, no longer great, no longer admired, no longer loved by his people.

Just an old man – a rather loathsome old man, but still the hero of Sluys and Crécy. The shining hero who had set out to win the throne of France and had failed so miserably.

What was he leaving to his grandson? He dared not think. ‘God, save Richard. It is not his fault that he is inheriting a bankrupt kingdom. Oh God, if you had not taken Edward …’

Ah, that was at the heart of the tragedy. Edward had died. If Edward had been in health, he would never have allowed the country to get into this state. There would not have been riots in the streets. There would not have been bribery and corruption in high places. If Edward had been strong and healthy … But God had seen fit to take that bulwark of strength and leave but a frail boy in his place. But he was dying now. This was the end.

There was only one priest by his bedside. He could just see him.

The priest was placing the cross in his hands and he was saying ‘Jesu miserere …’

He kissed the cross.

Then he was lying in his bed and he could see no one.

Slowly life was ebbing away.

Very soon after Alice came to the bedside.

He was gone, this poor doting old man was no more. This was the end of Alice.

She pulled the rings from his fingers, collected what jewels she could and left the palace.

Richard was exultant. To be a ten-year-old King was surely the finest thing in the world. Tomorrow was the day of his coronation and the whole of London, the whole of the country, was eager to tell him how much he was loved.

He had come to the Tower of London, his mother beside him, and the people had thrown garlands of flowers at him; they had shouted his name. Their loyal cheers still echoed in his ears.

How they loved him! And how he loved them!

‘It is the Crown they cheer,’ Simon had said. ‘It is the symbol of kingship.’

Oh no, he thought. They cheer me. They love me, because I am young and good to look on and they are tired of old men.

So it seemed, for it was true that they were rapturous at the sight of him. They threw kisses to him. They called him their dear little King. He was the true King, the grandson of a great King, the son of a great Prince.

‘Richard!’ they shouted. ‘Long live Richard.’

His uncle John had been to see him. He was very quiet and serious and Richard did not quite know what he was thinking.

‘I shall be with you at the coronation,’ he told his nephew. ‘As High Steward of England I have the right to bear the sword. I shall demand that right.’

‘So should you,’ replied Richard.

‘And as Earl of Lincoln I have the right to carve before you at the coronation feast.’

‘I know it,’ answered Richard.

‘And when the ceremony is over I intend to retire from Court for a while.’

Now Richard was astonished.

‘Yes,’ went on John, ‘I have been subjected to slanderous attacks, and I think my best plan is to leave for a while. So I shall ask your permission to remain in the country for a time.’

‘It is granted,’ said Richard in as authoritative a voice as he could command.

John bowed his head and went on to discuss the arrangements for the coronation.

‘There are many who are demanding to perform the traditional ceremonies,’ he explained. ‘So many claims, alas, for one post I shall have to select with care.’

‘People talk of nothing but the coronation,’ said Richard with delight.

‘It is a very important occasion, nephew. We shall have to take care with these Londoners who are only too ready to make trouble whenever they can find an excuse to do so. The Lord Mayor wishes to serve you with a golden cup and they want some of the leading citizens to serve in the butlery.’

‘I shall have no objection,’ said Richard. ‘They have never shown anything but kindness to me.’

John was not very pleased with that remark and was about to say something when he changed his mind.

They all must remember that I am the King now, thought Richard complacently.

‘I am bringing forward young Robert de Vere, the Earl of Oxford. If you are agreeable you might permit him to act as your Chamberlain. He is quite young.’

‘How old?’ asked Richard.

‘He must be perhaps fifteen years old. His father died some time ago when Robert de Vere was only nine. He inherited at about the same age as yourself. I have him waiting below. Would you consent to see him now?’

Richard appeared to consider. It was so enjoyable to have important men, so much his senior, asking for his consent to this and that.

Yes, he thought he could see the young Earl of Oxford now.

‘Then he shall come to you. I shall introduce him and leave you together. You can give your verdict after you have seen him.’

Within a few minutes Robert de Vere, Earl of Oxford came into the room.

From the beginning Richard liked the look of him. He was good looking and it was pleasant to find that although he was older than Richard, it was not by so many years; Richard began the interview somewhat haughtily making sure that young de Vere remembered that he was the King, but his attitude changed after a few minutes because there was something so natural about the other boy that Richard felt he could be perfectly natural with him, too.

Robert de Vere told Richard he was fifteen. Richard said he wished he were. It was rather tiresome being only ten.

‘Ten and a King!’ said Robert. ‘I was about ten when I became an Earl. But it is very different being a King.’

Robert told Richard how there were plans afoot to marry him. His guardian, Ingelran de Couci, who had been made Earl of Bedford when he had married King Edward’s daughter Isabella, had been his guardian and he wanted to marry him to his daughter Philippa.

‘Married!’ said Richard. ‘They’ll be wanting to marry me to someone soon.’

‘You can be sure of that. You’ll choose your bride though. You’re the King. You can do as you wish.’

It was a pleasant conversation.

‘And you, you don’t want to marry this Philippa?’

‘I don’t want to marry anybody. But if I marry her I shall have some sort of connection with you, shan’t I? Her mother was your father’s sister. Think of that.’

‘You will be connected with my family!’

‘That makes it a better proposition,’ said Robert de Vere and they laughed together.

Richard made up his mind that he would tell his uncle that he would be very happy to make Robert his chamberlain.

A close friendship had begun.

* * *

London was determined to honour the new King. In Cheapside they had erected a castle of flowers from which ran two streams of wine. There were four turrets and on each of these stood a girl who had been chosen for her beauty and her age, which was the same as the King’s. As Richard rode past on his way from the Tower, flowers and leaves made of gilded paper were thrown down at him. The procession came to a halt and the girls came down from their towers and filled golden goblets with wine which they handed to the King and his attendants. Then an angel appeared from the castle with a golden crown which she placed on the little King’s head.

The crowd cheered. The people were proud of the magnificent spectacle which the Londoners had contrived, for not only did it show their loyalty but it also reminded the King of their power and that if he would rule well he must never forget the interests of his capital city.

Richard was moved with emotion and his happiness and delight was so obvious that it added to the general rejoicing.

All along the road to Westminster such pageants had been arranged and though none of these quite equalled the one of Cheapside, they were very impressive.

Crowds had gathered round the Abbey and when the procession appeared, headed by the young King with Simon walking before him, his sword bared, the cheers were deafening.

The Bishop of Rochester preached the sermon and the Archbishop of Canterbury conducted the ceremony; and as the proceedings went on, and Richard could no longer hear the cheers of the crowd, he began to grow rather tired. The Bishop seemed as though he was never going to stop and then there was the ceremony of taking off his coat and shirt while men stood holding a gold-coloured cloth around him like a tent so that none of the people gathered in the Abbey should see his body. Then he was anointed and the prayers went on and on. After that there were the coronation rituals. The crown was so heavy that it seemed to weigh down his head. Then the sceptre and the orb were put into his hands. The spurs were presented and the pallium which was heavily encrusted with jewels was put on.

He knew what he had to do. He had to walk to the altar and lay a gold purse on it, but even that was not the end. There had to be the mass and the communion after that, and he was finding it increasingly hard to keep his eyes open.

Simon was watching him anxiously. He smiled wanly at his dear guardian. ‘Not much longer,’ Simon seemed to be saying.

The crown was growing more and more heavy. Richard felt it would crush him; and his shoulders refused to support all his garments any longer. He felt an almost irresistible inclination to slip to the floor and go to sleep.

Simon was watching carefully and understood. Suddenly he had picked the young King up in his arms.

‘All is well,’ he whispered. ‘We are going back to the palace now. We’re going to have a rest and a nice sleep before the banquet.’

‘Oh Simon …’

The comfort of those arms was wonderful. Richard closed his eyes while Simon walked with him through the astonished crowds and out to the litter over which a canopy of silk was held by four wardens of the Cinque Ports.

‘He is but a child,’ muttered Simon.

‘Our dear little King is tired,’ cried the people. ‘Oh, he is only a boy, God bless him.’

The cheers went up. There was their little King so pretty in the arms of good Simon who clearly loved him.

As Simon pressed through the crowds who came forward for a closer look at their King, one of Richard’s slippers fell off and as Simon pressed on to the litter, there was a scramble among the crowds for the King’s shoe.

* * *

Richard was soon fast asleep and it seemed almost immediately Simon was at his bedside. It was time to prepare for the state banquet.

‘You have had a good sleep,’ said Simon fondly. ‘You were tired out, my King.’

Richard sat up. He put his hands to his head. He could still feel the crown there.

‘It was so heavy,’ he said.

Simon nodded. ‘A symbol of your responsibilities,’ he commented grimly. ‘But not yet. There will be many to advise you … perhaps too many.’

I am a King, thought Richard. I am the most important person in the country. The people love me. From henceforth I shall ride among them and they will cheer me and love me for ever. But he hoped that future ceremonies would not be quite as tiring as the coronation.

‘Did I do well, Simon?’ he asked – suddenly a young boy eager for his tutor’s approval.

‘You did very well indeed.’

‘But to fall asleep when you picked me up! I don’t remember coming into the palace. Then I dreamed that I could still hear the people shouting.’