Виктория Холт - Passage to Pontefract

It was inevitable in gatherings of this kind that there should be certain frictions. The followers of one great lord would pick a quarrel with those of another. There were rivalries and jealousies continually cropping up. One of these occurred between the followers of Sir John Holland and Ralph, son of the Earl of Stafford, and during the mêlée one of Holland’s favourite squires was killed.

John Holland was furious and swore he would be revenged on the murderers, who aware of the storm which was rising had taken refuge in sanctuary and in spite of Holland’s appeal to Richard he was not allowed to have them brought to justice.

‘This was a fight between two sets of men,’ said Richard. ‘One side was as much to blame as the other. It was just unfortunate that it was one of your squires who was killed. It could easily have been one of Stafford’s.’

But John Holland was a man with a high opinion of himself and his position in relationship to the King. Had Richard forgotten he was his brother – well, half-brother. Surely some concession should be allowed to him.

He was a man of violent temper. ‘Well,’ he cried, ‘if I cannot be given justice I will take it myself.’

He immediately set out for the quarters of young Stafford and before he had gone very far came face to face with Ralph himself, whereupon Holland drew his sword and killed him on the spot.

The Earl of Stafford was overcome with anguish and rage at the death of his son and the King was stricken with grief for young Ralph, who was about his own age and had been a favourite of his. There was an outcry. The Earl was demanding revenge.

‘It seems,’ said Holland, ‘that when men kill all they have to do is go into sanctuary.’

He himself had sought such protection in Beverley Minster and there he remained, safe from Stafford and his followers.

This was a different matter from the death of the squire who had been struck down in a fracas between two parties. This was deliberate murder and even if Holland was the brother of the King, Stafford was going to have justice.

He went to Richard. ‘My son has been murdered,’ he said.

And he and the King wept together.

‘My lord,’ went on Stafford, ‘I cannot stand aside and see this murderer go free. I want justice. This was my son and the victim of cold-blooded murder.’

Richard turned away. Anyone else yes. But his own brother! Oh, why had John been so foolish? Why couldn’t he have let the matter go? Fights among squires were common enough.

The Earl of Stafford could see the King was wavering and he knew that if pressure was brought on him he would pardon Holland and that was something Stafford would not allow.

‘My lord,’ he said, ‘if justice is not meted out in this case I and my friends will take the matter into our own hands. I beg leave to depart.’

He bowed now and went out.

Richard was distraught. What could he do?

Anne came to him and although she knew that it would greatly disturb the Queen Mother, her opinion was that John Holland should not go unpunished.

Meanwhile the expedition to Scotland was halted, and great matters could not be long delayed by such events.

The King made his decision: Holland should be banished from the country and his goods confiscated.

* * *

Joan had come to Wallingford Castle. It was restful there and she felt the need of rest. The journeys to Catherine Swynford and to the Queen had exhausted her even more than she had feared they would. There had been a certain amount of satisfaction though. They had achieved some purpose. Temporary relief perhaps but even that was important.

How she feared the future. Her life was beset by anxiety. Sometimes she thought how strange it was that it seemed to have been divided neatly down the middle. The gay careless days of abandoned pleasure and then this careworn existence. If she had married de Brocas as had at one time been suggested, would she have been spared this anxiety? It was a trial to be the mother of a King.

For the last years she had worried continuously. First over her husband’s illness; then the loss of her first-born, then Richard being thrust into a position for which he was not well fitted.

There, she had admitted it. Richard had not the making of a King.

When one was old one faced realities.

She wanted peace in her family, and there was nothing but anxiety. She worried about her boys, all of them.

Messengers came to the castle. There was one from her son John and another from Richard.

She read Richard’s first, and as she did so she put her hand to her fluttering heart. Trouble. She always feared it now when she saw a messenger.

A murder! John had murdered young Ralph Stafford and the Earl was insisting on vengeance. ‘There is nothing to do, Mother, but to banish him. It is the only thing that will satisfy Stafford and I cannot have discord in the army now. Charles of France is threatening me. The Scots are threatening me. We must have unity. I have had to give way to Stafford. John will be banished and his goods confiscated.’

She went to a chair and sat down. She felt faint and giddy.

These turns were coming more frequently now and they followed exertion and shocks.

With trembling hands she opened John’s letter.

‘Richard is banishing me. I had to do this. I was not going to let Stafford’s men murder mine. You must plead for me. Richard will listen to you. Dear Mother, you do not want me far away. I should be with you at this time …’

Her women came and found her lying back in her chair, the letters at her feet.

* * *

They got her to her bed. She was not quite sure then where she was. At times she believed she was in Bordeaux and the Prince was lying beside her. ‘Limoges,’ he kept murmuring in his sleep.

Something terrible had happened. She knew that. What was it? The death of young Edward? The death of the Prince?

No … no … that was in the past.

I must not lie here, she thought. I must do something. There is something that must be done. But what? But what?

There had been a messenger … Yes, letters. It was coming back to her. Brothers quarrelling. Richard sending John away.

‘I have letters to write,’ she said.

‘My lady,’ said her women, ‘you are not fit to leave your bed.’

‘There is something I have to do.’

She insisted. She could scarcely stand. The dizziness took possession of her.

‘I must … I must do it,’ she said.

She sat at her writing-table. They propped her up with cushions.

She thought of what she would say. ‘Richard, he is your brother. There must not be this strife particularly in families. John will always stand beside you. He will fight for you …’

Yes, John would fight for the King because from the King blessings would flow.

They were ambitious, all of them. They stretched their greedy hands for lands, for riches … sometimes for a crown.

Why did they want a crown, these men? Did they not know that after the glorious crowning ceremony when the glittering thing was placed on their heads they spent the rest of their lives in keeping it there … or trying to?

‘God help us all,’ she murmured, ‘and particularly Richard.’

She started to write.

When she had finished she sent for messengers. The letter was to be taken to the King without delay.

Then she went back to her bed. She had done her best. She had implored Richard to forgive John. Banished from the country! That could mean that he would never return.

The days passed and she grew a little better.

She waited for the return of the messenger. What was happening now? she wondered. They were going to wage war on Scotland and the French were threatening to invade England.

At such a time England needed a great Edward. A Black Prince. And all it had was Richard.

‘Oh God preserve him,’ she prayed. ‘Give him that strength with which You graciously endowed his father. My Richard has need of it now.’

The messenger came back from the King. He sent his loving greetings to his mother, but there was nothing he could do to save John Holland.

He had murdered Ralph Stafford and must needs take his punishment. Richard wished at all times to please his mother whose loving care of him he would always remember with gratitude. But this was something he could not do … even for her.

She lay back on her bed. John would bitterly resent his brother’s action. Trouble in the family. Where would it end?

She thought of them all … the uncles, John of Gaunt, a man too ambitious for comfort; Langley, well he was of not much account yet but who could say? She feared Woodstock. He had once even dared threaten Richard.

Trouble, she could see it looming. And how would Richard combat it … he and his young innocent Queen?

A lethargy had come over her. What could she do now?

Her days were numbered. How many were left to her? One? Two? Six?

She was ill. She was dying. She felt helpless to hold back the tide which was rising against her son. She had tried and failed.

There was no longer any point in living.

She lay back on her pillows – a tired old woman. She thought: None would believe now that I was once the Fair Maid of Kent.

She had made her will and sent for the priest. She wished to be buried at the Church of Friars Minor at Stamford; and she wished to lie near the monument which she had had erected to Thomas Holland, her first husband. She thought fleetingly of those light-hearted days.

Then she folded her hands on her chest and lay down to wait for death.

It was not long in coming.

Her servants wrapped her in waxed swathings and placed her in a lead coffin. There she would lie until the King returned. They knew that his grief would be great.

The Army was on the border of Scotland and the invasion was about to begin. Richard decided to mark the occasion by creating two new Dukes. So far the only man to hold the title of Duke in the Kingdom was John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster. He now honoured his two younger uncles, Edmund Langley, Earl of Cambridge became the Duke of York and Thomas, Earl of Buckingham the Duke of Gloucester. Michael de la Pole was also honoured. He became the Earl of Suffolk.

Now the important matter of dealing with the Scots must go ahead. They must make it impossible for the French to use Scotland as a base; if they did the battle for England could well be lost.

The Scots with the French used their usual tactics which was to avoid a confrontation for as long as possible, luring the enemy farther and farther into the country and so lengthening their lines of communication, hoping by doing this that they would find it so difficult to feed and maintain their armies that they would at the final point suffer defeat.

There was a certain amount of friction between Richard and his uncle Lancaster. John of Gaunt wanted to push on; but Richard, thinking of his soldiers who would lack provisions, refused to allow this. It was whispered that John of Gaunt was hoping Richard would be killed in an affray and that was why he was eager to force a battle.

Richard was distraught. He kept thinking of his mother whom he knew to be very ill and he was hurt because he had been unable to grant her request. If he himself alone had been involved, willingly would he have given way to her wishes. She did not understand. They came at him from all sides. Stafford, his uncle … the whole of them.

There was another matter which disturbed him. He loved his wife dearly. He relied on her so much. She was a perfect wife except in one respect; she had given him no children.

They were both young, and people were beginning to say, What is wrong?

There were so many problems. But the chief of course was this Scottish affair. They must not linger too long. They had to consider what arrogant Charles might do in the South, but all had agreed on one thing: The French must be made to realise that they could not use Scotland as a base.

They had pillaged the abbeys of Melrose and Newbattle; Holyrood had been sacked and part of Edinburgh burned. The Scots were in retreat; and the point had been driven home. Scotland was no place for the French to make an attack on England.