Виктория Холт - Passage to Pontefract

I will have vengeance on them … every one of them, he promised himself. But there was nothing he could do now but obey.

‘I will come to the Parliament,’ he said.

That was triumph for his accusers. How he hated them. Particularly when they left Bolingbroke and Mowbray to guard him and kept their soldiers stationed outside the Tower.

* * *

He sat with his head buried in his hands. Bolingbroke was with him.

A curse on you, Cousin, he thought. This is what I would expect of John of Gaunt’s son.

He clenched his fists.

‘By St John the Baptist,’ he cried suddenly, ‘why should I submit to this? Why should I be forced to betray my friends … those who have served me well … Who are these men to tell me what I must do? Am I not the King?’

Bolingbroke spoke very quietly. ‘Richard, Cousin … I do not speak thus for lack of respect but to remind you of the kinship between us. You have come very near to losing your throne.’

‘That is what Gloucester wants. My uncle … and my enemy.’

Bolingbroke did not deny that. ‘I have urged him to curb his rashness,’ he said. ‘Richard, if you do not do what is asked of you they will depose you. They will set up a new king in your place.’

‘Gloucester? He is not next in line.’

‘Gloucester is here and Gloucester is strong. Listen, Richard, you must do as they wish, if you would keep your crown.’

He looked into Bolingbroke’s glowing eyes. There were thoughts there which he could not read. But he knew Bolingbroke was right.

* * *

How long that night was! Richard saw clearly now what lay before him. He would have to betray his friends or lose his crown. That was the choice.

He could not lose his crown. It was a cruel and bitter choice.

The five who were known as the Lords Appellant and the Parliament known as the Merciless Parliament had forced this on him.

He vowed vengeance on the five – but he gave way.

They were terrible days that followed. The King’s favourites were all declared traitors and condemned to death. Robert was safe and Suffolk managed to escape in the disguise of a Flemish poulterer; Neville was not condemned to death as he was an archbishop but he was outlawed and all his goods confiscated; Tresilian suffered the fearful death meted out to traitors and was hanged, drawn and quartered. His terrible fate did not arouse much sympathy throughout the country as his cruelty to the peasants was remembered.

When Simon Burley was arrested there was great sorrow in the royal household.

‘Simon!’ cried Richard to Anne. ‘What has he ever done?’

Anne was stunned. She had grown very fond of Simon Burley! He it was who had come to Prague to negotiate for her marriage; she had liked him from the moment she had seen him. He had talked so appealingly of Richard and had made her look forward to seeing her new home. He had been one of their dear friends.

‘I’ll not allow them to harm Simon,’ cried Richard.

‘We must try to stop them,’ Anne agreed. ‘Oh Richard, we can do something.’

‘Arundel always hated him. And it seems to me that on the strength of his victory at sea, Arundel feels he should rule the country.’

‘It is Gloucester I fear most.’

‘My own uncle,’ cried Richard bitterly. ‘I tell you this, Anne, it would do me much good to see his head on a lance.’

‘Hush,’ cautioned Anne. ‘People listen. What can we do about Simon?’

‘I shall tell Parliament that I’ll not have him harmed. He has been my friend since childhood.’

It was all rather ineffectual talk, Anne knew; but it soothed Richard so it achieved some purpose and he needed soothing at this time.

Simon was accused of misusing power and of promoting a corrupt Court about the young King; he had raised his income in a few years from twenty to three thousand marks; it was even said that he was planning to sell Dover to the French.

It was no use protesting that this was nonsense. They were bent on his destruction.

When Gloucester with Arundel came to the Tower to see the King, both he and Anne declared their wish that Simon Burley should be pardoned.

Anne went on her knees before Arundel and cried: ‘My lord, listen to me. This man has done no harm. Or if he has it was done in innocence. He is a good man. He is my friend … mine and the King’s. I implore you to set him free.’

Arundel was an arrogant man. He did not seem to realise that it was the Queen who knelt before him – or if he did, he enjoyed her humility.

He said: ‘I have no intention of freeing Simon Burley, Madam. He must take the consequences of his actions.’

‘It is unjust. It is cruel …’ cried Anne.

She caught at his robes but he walked on and she fell to one side.

It was unheard-of arrogance to treat the Queen so.

Richard went to the Queen and helped her to her feet.

‘These men shall learn that I am the King,’ he muttered.

His uncle Gloucester said in a loud voice: ‘It is because we wish you to remain King that we bring these charges and are determined to see them carried out.’

There it was again, the threat. He could almost hear his great-grandfather’s cries coming all the way from Berkeley Castle.

‘We cannot spare Simon Burley,’ said Gloucester firmly. ‘Your cousin Bolingbroke has soft feeling for him too. But though he has made himself our ally I could not spare this man for him.’

A further insult, thought Richard. Not even for Henry of Bolingbroke when the Queen had gone on her knees to him!

‘So you have sentenced him to the traitor’s death!’ cried Richard.

‘He is a traitor,’ retorted Gloucester.

The traitor’s death. Hanged, drawn and quartered – that venerable old friend to be so treated!

‘That,’ said Richard determinedly, ‘is something I shall not allow.’

Gloucester shrugged his shoulders. The point was that the man was removed from the sphere of influence. How he went was not all that important. It might be advisable to give way on this point. Let Burley go by way of the axe.

He died on Tower Hill, that dear old friend.

The King and Queen were plunged into melancholy. There was nothing to be done now but mourn, and, thought the King, plan vengeance.

Thomas Arundel was made Archbishop of York in Neville’s place and the government was carried on in Richard’s name.

As she sat stitching at one of her gowns in the manor of Kettlethorpe, Catherine Swynford was brooding as she often did on that period in her life which on looking back seemed so brief and so glorious.

She had been exalted then; not because she had been admired by the son of a King but because she had loved and been loved. She had believed then – and again but briefly – that the love she and John of Gaunt had borne each other was rare in the history of the world. There had been times when she had deluded herself into believing that it would go on for ever. She should have been wiser. It was true that the convent-bred girl had become the wife of an obscure knight and had lived largely away from great events. And then she had seen him. He had seemed to her like a god. John of Gaunt, the most notorious man in England, and he had been her lover.

All was over. But she would never forget; and there could never be any real contentment for her because always her thoughts would be straying back to the past with that infinite longing which would not be subdued. It imbued everything with a gentle melancholy. Yes, she accepted fate but she could never be truly happy again.

He had been good to their children. He had done what he said he would; but the fact remained that they were bastards, though bastards of royal blood. There were plenty of those about. But hers were different, she had always maintained. They had not been begotten in some hurried fumble. They had been conceived in love.

But what was the use? It was over and done.

She would never forget their last night together. There had been that terrible indecision which had obsessed him. But she had known that he would go. He had to go. He loved her, yes, but he was a man with a vision. Ambition there would always be, and he must serve it.

So now there she was, a lady of the manor, well cared for. He had seen to that. Her jewels would keep her for the rest of her life if need be. He would put their sons in high places. Even Thomas, her son by Hugh Swynford, had his niche and was with Henry of Bolingbroke. John, Henry and Thomas Beaufort would be even better provided for. She had no fears on that score.

But none of this could ease her melancholy.

She had her attendants; she lived like a lady in her manor, looking to her household, with plenty to minister to her needs. And here in the country now and then news came from Court of the young King’s conflict with his uncle of Gloucester and she thought: At least John is spared those troubles.

She had heard that the young King had come near to being driven from his throne, but a year had passed since, mercifully, those troubles had blown over and he was now in control.

He had taken firm action; he had reminded those about him that he was twenty-one years old. He would have no more regencies, he said. He would rule himself.

The country had grown quieter and there had been no more disturbing rumours for some time.

So life went on – one day very like another. So will it be until the end of my days, thought Catherine. I shall grow old and if he did come back he would not know me.

But it was not to be so.

One misty November day when she had set aside her needlework because the light was so bad, she was startled by the arrival of visitors.

This was a somewhat rare occurrence and always welcomed. It was stimulating to hear news of the outside world.

She was a good housewife and there were always pies in the larder, for there were many in the household to be fed and she liked to be prepared should any travellers call and there was a constant stream of beggars to come pleading for a bite to eat and she never refused them.

She went down to the courtyard. A man leaped from his horse and as she looked at him she thought she was dreaming.

He stood still gazing at her while she stood as though rooted to the ground.

Then he said: ‘Catherine. You have not changed one small bit.’

He held out his hands and they were in each other’s arms.

* * *

So he was back. The world was suddenly gay. It was bleak November but it was spring to her. She was wild with joy. She called throughout the house: ‘Fires must be lighted. Flesh must be roasted. The best … the very best. My lord has come home.

‘I shall die of joy,’ she told him.

‘I too,’ he answered.

He must look at her. He must touch her hair, her soft white skin.

‘So often have I done so in my dreams,’ he said.

Nothing had changed. They were the same passionate lovers as they had been when they had first met. There was so much to know. So much to learn.

They must love and they must talk. He must not go away again.

He would not, he promised her. From now on they would be together always.

‘You do not know how near I came to staying, to abandoning all my hopes of Castile for your sake.’

‘Ah, John, I knew,’ she answered. ‘But I knew too that you would go.’

‘Those lonely years … barren of love!’

‘Perhaps they will come again,’ she said.

He shook his head.

‘I shall never leave you again, Catherine,’ he said solemnly.

‘You will never cease to want a crown,’ she said. ‘I know you well. You love me, but ambition is there. It was born in you. You are the son of your father. He sought the crown of France … hopelessly it seems now, and you will always seek that of Castile.’

He smiled at her. He had much to tell her, then she would understand. He wanted news of their children. His aim was to legitimise them. Yes, he was going to do it one day. Richard would agree. He must tell her that Richard had wished him to come home, had asked him to come home.

‘He does not trust my brother Gloucester.’

‘Oh John, there will be this strife again. There was a time after you had gone when there was talk of war … war here in England. The barons rising against the King.’