The Last Plantagenets (34 page)

But no one in the king’s train was sure he would ever see his father again. Humphrey of Gloucester, who held a deep, smoldering hatred for the king, explained the situation. If the returned exile failed to establish himself firmly, he could expect nothing better than a quick death. If, on the other hand, he succeeded in setting up opposition to Richard, then he, Harry of Monmouth, might be made to pay for his father’s success, such being the role of hostages.

The young son of Bolingbroke soon had good reasons to fear the worst. He heard that Richard, white-faced with rage, was declaring that his rebellious cousin would be sent to the gallows to be hanged, drawn, and quartered. His death was to be made the most cruel that could be conceived, that it would “make a noise as far as Turkey.” It also came to the ears of the young hostage that the king had said “he felt sorry for Harry,” an expression of sympathy that held an ominous ring.

Before Richard returned to England, he had still more reason for venting his spleen on the youth, if such had been his intention. But he refrained from the momentary satisfaction of paying off a small part of his score against Bolingbroke on the body of the latter’s innocent son.
Richard’s sudden furies were reserved, as any review of his conduct as king will substantiate, for those who, in his belief, had injured him. No wanton acts of cruelty can be charged against him.

The news from England became quickly more alarming. The futile king found that Bolingbroke, who had landed with a mere handful of men, had been joined by the northern barons, the Percys of Northumberland and the Nevilles of Westmorland. The returned exile had publicly declared that he had one purpose only: to regain the lands and honors which had been taken from him. Richard’s brow became black and his eyes feverish with suspense when the word reached him that 20,000 men had already flocked to the Lancastrian banner. Such a demonstration meant that Bolingbroke’s real purpose went much deeper than the reclaiming of mere lands.

At this point the king decided to send away his two hostages. Perhaps he did not trust his temper and wanted them out of sight and hand. At any rate he selected the great castle standing at Ath Trium, now known as Trim Castle, as the best place for them. The powerful Burghs of Ulster owned this great stronghold, as would have been apparent at moments of strain when the walls would resound with cries of
“Gall riag aboo!”
(the Cause of the Red Englishman!). The earl himself was away, but his lady received the two youths kindly and made them feel safe and welcome there. Humphrey of Gloucester was stricken by the plague and died there, although some reports have it that this happened in the course of the return voyage to England, and that the boy died on the island of Anglesey.

Harry of Monmouth remained at Trim, in the gentle care of the Countess of Ulster until the arrival of a party of armed men who had ridden fast from Tara with vital information. To the youth’s infinite relief, he saw that the leader of the party was Thomas of Dorset, his uncle.

“My father?” cried the hostage, fighting his way to Dorset’s side. “What of him?”

Dorset answered with smiling assurance. Harry’s father was safe at Chester and he was, moreover, in the best of health. He, Dorset, had come to take the boy back to England to join his father there.

I
T IS generally supposed that Richard delayed in Ireland and that he lost his throne as a result of his tardiness, but this is not true. Because of storms over the Irish Sea, the word of Henry’s landing was late in reaching him and the same conditions continued to prevail when Richard was ready to return with his army. Although the precious days thus lost could not be charged to his account, his faulty planning played a decisive part in the victory of Bolingbroke. It was clear to some of the king’s advisers that he should strike across to North Wales and land his troops at Conway. This would put him in immediate contact with the loyal Welshmen and the royal stronghold of Chester. Instead he sent the Earl of Salisbury to Conway and issued orders for his army and fleet to be assembled in order to cross with him to Milford Haven. It was believed that this could be done in six days. Sixteen days had passed before they were ready to put to sea. It was early in August when the king finally came ashore at Milford Haven and by that time two disasters had occurred. The troops that Salisbury had been able to gather had dispersed and the army of Bolingbroke had swooped down on the strategic city of Bristol.

There was a lack of enthusiasm in Richard’s army which caused all but 6000 to desert the first day after they found themselves facing the Lancastrian strength around Bristol. Even Edmund of York had gone over to Henry. As would happen once again in English history, when William of Orange landed and the troops of James II melted away like April snows, a success was scored with hardly a blow struck. A rumor spread through the king’s camp that Bolingbroke had laid hands on the royal treasure, a handsome sum of £700,000, and this completed the
rout; for wars cannot be fought without money and soldiers like to be sure of their pay.

Richard made one mistake after another. Instead of remaining with what was left of his army and striving to instill a sense of confidence and order into his men, he left at night disguised as a friar, his purpose being to find sanctuary in the strong mountains of the north. It may have been bad judgment which prompted this move or it may have been fear for his own safety. Probably it was the latter, for Richard lacked one of the greatest Plantagenet traits, a fighting heart. He realized the full extent of his error when he reached Conway and found that all of the men who had been recruited there had scattered and returned to their homes.

It was not surprising that Richard had placed so much reliance on the people of Wales. They had always been loyal to him. They would continue active in his cause through the sporadic efforts made later to place him back on the throne. The sincerity of their devotion was reflected in one of their folk songs, “Sweet Richard,” which Owen Glendower is supposed to have written. This haunting melody remained on Welsh tongues for many centuries.

But what Richard needed at this moment was more than loyalty of the spirit. He needed men of stout heart and supple arm to draw bows in his defense. Because he was sure they could be rallied again, he did not immediately lose heart. He stationed himself in Conway Castle and, in an effort to play for time, sent his half brother and nephew, those black-plumed birds of perpetual ill omen, the Hollands, to negotiate terms with Bolingbroke, believing the latter to be at Chester.

It was characteristic of Richard that, while he waited the outcome of this peace move, he composed a letter in the form of a poem to his young wife. “My mistress and my consort,” he wrote, “accursed be the man who thus separates us! I am dying of grief because of it! Since I am robbed of the pleasure of beholding thee, such pain and affliction oppresseth my heart that I am near despair.” Needless to state, the little Isabella never received this final husbandly epistle.

Bolingbroke had left Chester long before the Hollands arrived and was consolidating his armies in London and the western shires. The Lancastrian forces there were under the command of Earl Percy of Northumberland, who was convinced that the time for negotiation had long since passed. He put the Hollands under close confinement and proceeded to occupy the country about Conway. When he had the unfortunate king securely hemmed in, he came to the castle and demanded an audience.

Richard’s moods were in a constant state of flux and it happened that
he had regained his confidence when he received Earl Percy. He stormed at the latter and said that he was still king and that his people would rally around him. His faithful Welsh, he declared, would return to his standard now that he himself had returned. Pacing about in an excess of martial spirit, he predicted that he would scatter the army of Bolingbroke and put that rebellious peer to death. Parliament would be the final judge of this difference with his cousin.

Percy decided to temporize. Bolingbroke was on his way north again, being a man who moved fast, in contrast to Richard who barely moved at all. He suggested that they meet at Flint Castle and discuss terms there.

There was something about the mere mention of Flint to arouse confidence. This tall castle, overlooking the sands of Dee, had been built by Edward I and it had always been considered one of the strongest of the ring of forts raised to close in the rebellious Welshmen. Richard felt that here he could face his cousin, secure behind his own thick walls. Accordingly he made his final and most tragic mistake: he allowed himself to believe Percy’s honesty of purpose—Percy, that sly and almost toothless old satyr of the north, who had turned his coat often and would continue to do so in the future. He agreed to accompany him to Flint and to grant Bolingbroke an audience there.

This rash reliance on the good faith of Percy led him into a trap. Before the turrets of Flint could be seen on the horizon, the unfortunate king became aware that the mountainous country surrounding it was filled with troops wearing the blue and silver badge.

“I am betrayed!” he cried. “There are pennons and banners in the valley!”

Percy smiled his slyest and called orders to his horsemen to draw in close about the king and the few barons who had accompanied him.

Bolingbroke, who indeed moved fast, had arrived at Flint next morning when Richard roused himself from his heavy and fitful sleep. The king saw from the top of the walls the huge army below which seemed to fill the valley with the reflections of armor and the sound of trumpets. He recognized Harry Hotspur, the impetuous and valiant son of old Earl Percy, as commander of the vanguard. Had everyone, then, turned against him?

Word was brought in from Bolingbroke that he would not enter the castle until after dinner. This meal was served before noon and a dismal group followed Richard to the donjon where a table was spread. The king looked at them with the most sorrowful expression they had ever seen on human face.

“Kind and loyal friends,” he said, “since you are in like peril of death for your fidelity, sit down with me.”

Accordingly they seated themselves at the table with him, all of them wearing with pride his badge of the White Hart. Few words were spoken and what little desire they might have had for food was lost by the presence in the room of Lancastrian officials who stood about and scoffed at them. “Eat well,” these unfriendly witnesses said over and over again, leering and smirking at the unhappy group. “For soon your heads will be off.”

When the meal was over, the king rose and made his way to the court below. There he was confronted by Bolingbroke in full armor, although his helmet had been removed. It seemed that Richard was fated to read his misfortunes in the smiles of those about him. That of his cousin was steady and triumphant, the smile of a victor who faces a vanquished foe.

“I am come before my time,” said Bolingbroke.

Richard made no response. He could not fail to see now that his cause was a lost one. His armies had dissolved, the people he had ruled for over twenty years were against him. London (this he would learn later) was seething with rebellion.

“I will show you the reason,” continued Henry of Bolingbroke. “Your people, my lord, complain that you have ruled them harshly. However, if it please God, I will help you to rule them better.”

Richard was certain now that he should have acted on a much earlier impulse. All of the five who had forced themselves into his presence should have been put away. He had spared this one of the group of linked arms, this fair-speaking cousin, and now he was facing the consequences.

But all fight had left him. He did not look directly at his cousin. Had he done so, he would have seen that the smile had faded from the latter’s face, to be replaced by an expression of iron purpose.

“Fair cousin,” said Richard, finally, “since it pleases you, it pleases me well.”

Henry of Bolingbroke, Duke of Hereford and now Duke of Lancaster, Earl of Derby, and the holder of many other titles, was as desirous as his father had been to wear the crown, and he had the ruthlessness of purpose which John of Gaunt had lacked. There was never a doubt in his mind as to his reason for returning to England. He had come back to oust Richard and seat himself on the throne.

But he had made no such claim openly, and he did not now when the beaten and impotent king was in his power. Instead, with a dourness of temper which had been missing in him up to this point but would come out unmistakably after he became king, he told Richard that the people of England no longer considered him their rightful king because they were convinced he was no son of Edward the Black Prince. How could he be when he lacked so completely the fine spirit of that prince and of the great King Edward before him? It was well known that his mother had seen the need to present the prince with an heir. It was also known that there had been handsome young churchmen in the vice-regal household at Bordeaux.

Richard could do nothing but listen in a suppressed fury while his cousin thus strove to weaken his spirit and to strengthen his own case for the issue which must be settled between them. This story of his illegitimacy had come to his ears before and he knew it had been in circulation throughout the country.

In Froissart’s story of this meeting between them he introduces at this point a note of deep poignancy. Richard’s favorite hound, Math, had been released from the stables and came bounding out into the court. Instead of rushing to greet his master, he turned instead to Henry of Bolingbroke, jumping about him with every sign of pleasure and excitement.

“What is the meaning of this?” demanded Henry.

“Cousin,” responded Richard, sadly, “it means that even my dog sees which side he should be on.”

There is no explanation given of how the fickle hound happened to be there. Had he followed his master when Richard donned the robe of a Franciscan and started north through Wales? Had he been allowed to come with the small group riding from Conway to Flint? It all seems most unlikely, but the anecdote is part of the saga of the unfortunate king and so is offered for what it is worth.