The Last Plantagenet

  Richard used guile in enticing Arundel into the web. He went to the archbishop and asked his assistance in persuading his brother to come to London. The archbishop was too old and seasoned a hand in the political winds and currents which prevailed at court not to realize that something dangerous was afoot. Being warmly attached to his older brother, he was unwilling to take any hand in the matter.

  “By St. John the Baptist!” said the king, employing the oath which had become his favored expression. “I mean your brother no harm.”

  As the primate still hesitated and spoke of safe conducts and guarantees, the king swore a solemn oath that no harm would come to the earl. The archbishop then agreed to act and sent word to Reigate, advising his brother to come to Westminster. Arundel, his alarm subsiding, came immediately and was met by the primate’s barge, which took him across the river to Lambeth. Here the two brothers spent the night together. In the morning they were rowed over to Westminster, and the earl was summoned into the royal presence. The primate waited for him for many hours. No word of what was happening reached his ears. He begged everyone he could see for information but was met by stony stares. Finally, with a heavy heart, he returned to Lambeth. He never saw his brother again.

  When the earl was escorted into the chamber where the king was engaged with several of his officers, he was not accorded any greeting. Richard sat and stared heavily at him.

  “My lord Arundel!” exclaimed the king, finally. Perhaps in his mind’s eye he was seeing Queen Anne, her eyes wet with tears, kneeling at the feet of this implacable man and begging for the life of Burley. He stood up and turned to Nottingham, who was one of the company. He gestured angrily. “Take my lord Arundel away!” he said.

  The earl was taken first to the Tower and then removed to the Isle of Wight where he was held in the closest seclusion, pending the opening of Parliament.

  3

  The king left London as dusk was falling and with a small party rode all night to Pleshy. It was characteristic of him that, although he would not encounter anything but the blackness of night and was under the necessity of fast riding, he went accoutered as though for a tournament. The chamfron of his horse was of the finest leather and studded with silver, with even the bright eye of a jewel glinting out here and there. The cloth covers were of costly material and decorated also with jeweled insignia. The stirrups were of silver.

  They took the high London Road because the king was anxious to finish quickly what he was setting out to do. Also, he wanted to reach Pleshy before his uncle could learn of his coming and get away. A mizzle fell during the early hours, but it was clearing when dawn broke and, with a cheerful suddenness, the sun came out as they passed the villages of High Easter and Good Easter. They were mounting a slow rise in the road and the towers of Pleshy lay ahead. The castle looked black, grim, formidable. For 250 years it had been the headquarters of the constables of England and it had been planned for defense. One contemporary writer speaks of the keep as “stupendous,” the moat “amazing,” the bridge of one arch over the moat “magnificent.” This part of Essex had been in the Roman country, and the party passed bits of wall of the red brick the Romans had made, sometimes a culvert still sturdy and safe, and against the gray sky even the remnants of towers.

  Pleshy itself had once been surrounded by fortifications that the Romans had raised, but little of this was left now. The castle was entirely Norman, the keep ponderous, the outer walls thick, the moat deep and already reeking with seasonable filth. It was well for the success of Richard’s plot that he had planned a surprise. Behind the tall barbican, the duke could have held out a long time.

  This element of surprise makes a logical choice possible from among the many versions told. In some accounts he is said to have arrived just as his uncle had finished his supper. Others say the king came during the night and had the sleeping duke roused from his bed. Still others set the time of arrival at dawn. The latter explanation seems the right one. Richard wanted to conceal the fact that he was riding into the northeastern country and so would not have left London until after night had fallen. Unless he pushed his troops along at a breakneck gallop, it would take six hours to cover the distance over the dark and hazardous roads. That would bring him to the constable’s castle as dawn was breaking.

  In the still of morning the ring of iron hoofs on the masonry of the one arch threw the castle into sudden activity. A laconic and startled “The king!” caused the guard on the bridge to raise the portcullis at once. Thomas of Woodstock, who was a temperate man and did not drink enough at night to keep him sleeping late, came out at once.

  Richard’s greeting was one of few words. “Have them saddle five or six of your horses. You must return with me to London.”

  A breakfast was laid for the unexpected visitor and his little troop, which they consumed hurriedly. The duke stood by and watched, suspicious of this surprise visit and wondering what purpose filled the king’s mind.

  “By St. John the Baptist!” said Richard, looking up. “Good uncle, what is to be done is for your good. And for my good.”

  Without pausing for rest, they took to the saddle again and set out, the duke accompanied by seven of his men. Richard conversed glibly all the way (in most accounts it is agreed that in his last years he was seldom silent), but gave no hint of what he proposed to do. Thomas of Woodstock rode beside him, silent and uneasy, perhaps also with a sense of guilt. If there were any truth in the story of the conspiracy and the effort to draw young Mortimer into it, he had every reason to expect the worst.

  Before Richard had ridden into Pleshy, he had left the largest part of his troops behind, concealed in a thick wood. When this part was reached on the return trip, they emerged suddenly from the heavy cover and swarmed across the road. The Earl of Nottingham, who was in charge, laid a hand on the duke’s bridle.

  “Sir Duke, you are under arrest!” he said. “In the king’s name!”

  There was a heated passage of words between them and Thomas then became aware that the king had ridden on. He was already some distance down the road, bent over his horse. The duke called out to him in an urgent tone. Richard paid no heed. The call was repeated, with the same lack of result. Thomas of Woodstock realized then that he had allowed himself to fall into a trap. Believing in his power and the support he could rally, he was probably not too much alarmed at first. The people of London would be for him, and the rest of the nobility who felt as he did would come to his assistance.

  But the first direct question he asked of Nottingham brought a disturbing response. Where were they taking him? To London? Nottingham shook his head. He was being taken to Calais.

  The king was soon out of sight. The prisoner, closed in on all sides by the silent horsemen, tried to get more information out of them. All he was told was that they were to ride straight through to Dover, where a ship would be waiting for them. In this they would cross the Channel to Calais.

  4

  Calais had grown in importance since the English had taken possession of that famous old port. The wool staple had been established there, which meant that most of the exports of that commodity crossed the Channel to Calais for distribution to the textile cities of Flanders and northern France. Richard had contributed a new Staple Hall a few years before to serve as the trade headquarters, a building which combined grandeur with utility and was perhaps the busiest spot under the English flag.

  It was to the ancient castle of Calais, however, that Thomas of Woodstock was taken. This was a grim stronghold which had witnessed much history in the making, with its six round towers and its massive keep behind a moat of unusual depth. Here he was placed in an apartment which was neither very large nor very light. He demanded to know the reason for this violence practiced upon him, but got no satisfaction from Nottingham.

  Richard’s plans had been carefully laid. On September 7 a justice of the Common Pleas named Sir William Rickhill was wakened out of his sleep at his home in Essingham, Kent, by a messenger be
aring instructions for him to proceed at once to Calais. This seemed very mysterious, particularly as the order had been issued three weeks earlier. However, he obeyed his instructions and two days later presented himself at the drawbridge of Calais Castle. There was further cause for mystification when Nottingham told him he was to have an interview with the duke, who was being held a prisoner in the castle. This was indeed astonishing, for a story had spread over all of England a short time before Rickhill’s instructions were delivered to the effect that Thomas of Woodstock was already dead. According to the rumor, he had been smothered to death.

  “The duke is alive,” the governor told the judge, disposing of that story.

  Rickhill took a most prudent stand. He insisted on the presence of two witnesses of acknowledged probity. Nottingham thought this over and finally agreed. The witnesses were on hand, accordingly, when the judge was admitted to the chamber where Thomas of Woodstock was being held.

  The duke presented no evidence of ill treatment nor did he seem in seriously bad health. He was, however, a changed man. His overbearing temper had deserted him and he seemed even humble and certainly he was deeply apprehensive. When the judge explained the mission on which he had come, Thomas agreed to prepare a statement. Rickhill, in a desire to protect himself as well as the duke, suggested that he keep a copy of what he wrote.

  He returned later in the evening, with the same witnesses in attendance. The duke read a long statement of nine articles in which he made many admissions. He confessed to holding the king in restraint in 1386 and to threatening to depose him in 1388. A damaging admission was made of the discussions he had held with others as to the advisability of giving up their homage to Richard. There were references also to his, the duke’s, unfortunate habits in dealing with the boy king: of opening his mail, of treating him without respect, of dictating to him what he must do. With this frank statement of what had happened went a denial that he had been guilty since of any form of treason. Most humbly he begged the king’s mercy and grace.

  Before Rickhill and his witnesses left, the duke suggested that they return the next day in case there were any additions to be made to the statement. The judge came back the following morning and to his great surprise was refused admission. The guards at the drawbridge explained that they were acting on orders from the governor.

  Rickhill took the statement back to England and supplied a full report of what had happened at Calais.

  CHAPTER XXV

  “Vengeance Is Mine, I Will Repay”

  1

  THE king had seen fit to provide quite special accommodations for the meeting of Parliament summoned to convene on September 17, 1397. Between the entrance to Westminster Hall and the clock tower there was an open space known as Palace Yard. Here a temporary structure of timber had been erected, with little concession to comfort and none to appearance. Tiles provided a roof against autumn rain, but neither end had been closed. This arrangement gave ample room for the full attendance expected but left the members open to interruption and pressure. In fact, when the meetings began, the open spaces were lined with troops wearing the White Hart livery. The members, had they desired to obstruct the royal will, would have found their personal safety menaced by the scowling archers posted all about them.

  London had not been so packed with humanity since the turbulent days when the peasants had marched across the Bridge under the belligerent Wat Tyler and the eloquent John Ball. All the barons and the men of lower degree who came (there were few absentees) had brought larger trains of armed servitors than ever before. The city could not accommodate them all. They spread out from London over a radius of ten miles. Not only were the villages packed but there were clumps of tents on all open ground.

  It was significant that the clerical branch of the House was to be represented in the voting by a lay member, a judge, one Sir Thomas de Percy. This was the sharpest of practices, for the clergy could not pass on points involving the letting of blood. That stipulation would not bind a lay representative. Richard had removed the one obstacle to the carrying out of his revengeful design.

  It was not until the third day that the weight of the iron glove was felt. There had been intimations, of course, of what was coming. The provisions passed in the session of 1388 (the Merciless Parliament) had been annulled. The pardons granted to the opposition lords, including, of course, Woodstock and Arundel, had been repealed. No dissenting voice had been raised. Perhaps the members were too conscious of taut fingers on the bowstrings about them.

  Archbishop Arundel, who knew nothing of his brother’s plight save that he was still alive, sat on the right hand of the king, with the Archbishop of York on the left. The Commons, headed by Bushy, their Speaker, marched in with ceremonial step.

  They announced their intention to make enquiry into the conduct of various persons of high rank and, if necessary, to impeach them. Then the Speaker began to read in solemn tones from a document he was carrying.

  In the name of the Commons of England I accuse and impeach Thomas, Archbishop of Canterbury, of high treason, for that he, being the chief officer of the king, his chancellor, when he was Bishop of Ely, was traitorously aiding, procuring and advising in making a commission, directed to Thomas of Gloucester, Richard Earl of Arundel, and others, in the tenth year of his Majesty’s reign; and made and procured himself, as chief officer, to be put into it, to have power with the other commissioners to see it put into execution; which commission was made in prejudice to the king, and openly against his royalty, crown and dignity; and that the said Thomas actually put the said commission in execution.

  Also that the said Archbishop, in the eleventh year of the king, procured and advised the Duke of Gloucester with the Earls of Warwick and Arundel, to take upon them royal power, and to arrest the king’s liege subjects, viz., Simon Burley and James Berners, and adjudge them to death, contrary to the king’s will and without his consent.

  The reading was completed in a dead silence. Startled and dismayed beyond measure, the primate was still anxious to speak in his own defense but the king rose promptly and proceeded to address the House. He declared himself anxious to seek advice before proceeding with charges of such gravity against one of such high rank in the realm. The archbishop was compelled to withdraw and for the balance of the term he was kept under close watch in his palace at Lambeth. In his absence he was found guilty and banished from the kingdom. It was subsequently decreed that he must leave in six weeks for France, proceeding by way of Dover and Calais, never to return. All his personal property was confiscated by the Crown.

  Richard was in a fortunate position to get his way in the replacing of the archbishop. Pope Boniface IX at Rome was still sharing the Christian world with the appointee at Avignon and he could not afford to offend or obstruct any of the kings who remained loyal to him. The bitter determination of each incumbent to continue in office almost passed belief. The death of Clement at Avignon seemed to open the way to some form of arbitration and, acting on pressure from the University of Paris, the French king sent a letter to the cardinals at Avignon, protesting against the selection of a successor. The cardinals, knowing what the letter contained, did not open it until they had completed their balloting and had elected a successor in the person of Benedict XIII!

  Boniface at Rome, therefore, did not consider it expedient to do other than accede to Richard’s representations. He declared the see of Canterbury vacant and agreed to act upon the king’s suggestion that his able secretary, Roger Walden, be appointed to the primacy. Arundel was translated to the see of St. Andrew’s. As Scotland acknowledged Benedict and not Boniface, the transfer meant that Arundel was relegated to outer darkness.

  But while Boniface agreed to the election of Walden, he had mental reservations. Certainly he was quick later to reverse the decision and remove the complaisant Walden from office.

  In the meantime the ex-archbishop went to Florence where he lived in ease and comfort.

  The first step in the p
rogram of retribution had been taken. It is easy to imagine Richard, when he regained the solitude of his royal apartments (with perhaps no more than a dozen lords and servants in attendance), seating himself at ease and indulging in triumphant thought. He was certain to reflect on the death of the queen and to address himself to her in his musings on the events of the day. “Ah, my little Anne, were you but here to share this moment with me!”

  But if Anne had been there, it is doubtful that there would have been any savoring of triumph to share. Her gentle persuasion might have succeeded in swerving him from this course.

  2

  When the Earl of Arundel came to trial before the House, he conducted himself with courage and at times with dignity, although tempers ran high and heated words were exchanged. He entered through the ranks of the Chester archers and into the presence of Parliament, wearing a scarlet cloak and hood. He stopped and looked about him, perceiving that the king was present and all the high officers of the realm. John of Gaunt was acting as high steward for the day. It was clear that Richard had called upon the royal relatives as well as the leading barons to play a part in what was to be done.