The next day he was informed that his cousin was below and desired him to go down. The king indulged in a flash of his old high temper.
“Tell Henry of Lancaster, then,” he exclaimed, “if he desires speech with me, let him come to me.”
There was a delay during which, no doubt, Bolingbroke was considering what course to take. Finally he came to Richard’s chambers and greeted him on bended knee. The king demanded to know why he was kept thus under lock and key. Was he not King of England?
“You are my king, sir,” answered Henry. “But the council of your realm thinks fit to set a guard on you until Parliament has reached a decision.”
Richard was a creature of passionate moods and even in the face of complete defeat he could not keep his temper under control. He cried out that he would meet in combat any of his foes or detractors. He demanded that the queen be sent to him, to which Bolingbroke’s reply was, “It is forbidden by the council.” He stormed up and down the apartment, railing at his ill fortune and cursing all who had taken a hand in bringing him to this pass. Bolingbroke listened in silence and, finally, withdrew.
There was one contrast in this scene between the two chief characters in the drama. Richard had dressed himself well, although with none of the extravagances which had always been held against him. He wore no jewels of any kind (perhaps because the regal valuables had been carefully laid away by the officers of the Tower), but Bolingbroke was still in full armor. There is no way of telling if he had continued to wear his fighting gear ever since his landing on the Yorkshire coast, but on many of the occasions when he appears in the chronicles it is put on record that he was, actually, armed to the teeth. Perhaps there was a purpose in this, a desire to point up the difference between a warrior and an aimless man of peace such as Richard.
The following day the king was in a more compliant mood. Perhaps a night’s reflection had convinced him that he had nothing to hope for and should accept his fate with good grace. The recollection of what had befallen Edward II was never out of his mind. Bolingbroke came to see him again, accompanied by Arundel, the deposed archbishop, and a deputation of bishops and peers. The discussion was brief and free of the passion of the previous day. In a quiet voice Richard read a statement in which he agreed to abdicate the throne, if this proved to be the wish of Parliament. He placed his signet ring on Bolingbroke’s finger and expressed his preference for Henry as his successor.
On September 30, 1399, he was taken to Westminster Hall, which had been for several years in process of repair and redecoration, on his own orders, and was now thrown open for the first time. Richard entered the hall in his royal robes, with his crown on his head and the scepter in his hand. He did not, however, seat himself on the throne, but stood beside it with composed mien. He read for the second time the paper in which he agreed to abdicate.
The members of the House were not content with this. A paper of accusation, made up of thirty-three counts, had been prepared and it was demanded that this should be read. Richard was compelled to remain standing while the voice of the Speaker progressed through the long and declamatory statement. He made no attempt to answer or deny the accusations. When bidden to withdraw, he handed his crown and scepter to Bolingbroke and bowed to the members before leaving the chamber. He had conducted himself through this humiliating scene with a fine dignity.
The time had come for Bolingbroke to assert his claim. He rose from his chair and said: “In the name of Fadir, Son and Holy Ghost, I, Henry of Lancaster, challenge the realm of England, and the crown, with all the members and appurtenances; as that I am descended by the right line of blood, coming from the good lord Henry III, and through that right that God of His grace, hath sent me with the help of my kin and of my friends to recover it; the which realm was in point to be undone for default of governance and undoing of good laws.”
The lords and commons were challenged for their opinions and responded with what seemed an acclamation of assent. The ex-archbishop then took Henry by the hand and conducted him to the throne.
4
Richard waited impatiently all through the day for word of what had happened, but no report reached him. The next morning it was raining, none of the quick passing showers of summer but a steady and monotonous downpour, the kind to further unsettle raveled nerves. The rooms in the Tower, never very bright, were gloomier than ever. The faces of the servants were a reflection of their master’s mood and the food they served was plain and unappetizing.
In spite of his certainty earlier that all was lost, he may have gained some small degree of hope from the silence and delay. It had been whispered in his ear that his loyal friend, Bishop Merks of Carlisle, intended to present a defense of him in the House and to demand for him a chance to face his accusers. Had this precipitated a battle on the floor? Perhaps there were enough loyal members after all to prevent the Bolingbroke party from carrying through his dethronement with a high hand. No one told him that the stouthearted bishop had acted on his promise and had spoken strongly in the House. However, a complete silence of disagreement had followed his address and he had even failed to get a seconder. In fact, there had been some intention of bringing charges against Merks for the attitude he had taken. What had happened finally was that the bishop was sent under escort to St. Albans Abbey, there to await the will of the Commons.
Richard walked to the roof and stood somberly at the battlements, disregarding the heavy downpour. It added nothing to his gloomy forebodings that the guards, who had kept close to him all morning, were now so close on his heels that he could feel their breath on his neck. They were, it was clear, fearful of what he might attempt. On the ride to London from Chester he had thrown his guards into an uproar by almost effecting an escape at Litchfield. Knowing that the faithful Welsh were still following on the edges of the Lancastrian army, he had succeeded in letting himself down from his window with a rope but had been trapped because all exits were closed in the high stone walls of the garden in which he found himself.
The prospect from the top of the White Tower walls was disheartening for the prisoner. The townspeople, who had packed the streets below at all hours of the day and night, had finally dispersed. Had the rain driven them indoors or had they learned of a decision in Parliament and had no further need to wait for an announcement? He was certain that, if a fight still continued at Westminster, the rain would have had no effect on the curious Londoners.
Finally the word was brought to him. None of the main actors in the cast came to deliver it, and only a deputation of members from the House waited on him. They performed their task without any hint of compassion. The Speaker read the decision of deposition and then shook an admonitory forefinger at the unhappy man who had been king but was no longer.
“None of all these states or people,” declared the Speaker, “from this time forward either bear you faith or do you obeisances as to their king.”
The scene was closely reminiscent of the cold winter day at Kenilworth Castle nearly a century before when the word was carried to Edward II that he was no longer king. On that occasion the strong young Edward had fallen to the floor in a faint. Richard carried himself with more courage. He heard them through, realizing that this was indeed the end and that all he could hope for was to be allowed to live at peace in some obscure part of the realm. It was too much to hope that he would be allowed to leave the country, not even to find sanctuary in his first home at Bordeaux.
“I look not hereafter,” he said, finally. “But I hope my cousin will be good lord to me.”
CHAPTER XXX
The Little Queen Fights for the Throne
1
WHEN the news of Richard’s downfall reached France, the Duke of Burgundy, one of the royal uncles, commented: “Since the English have imprisoned King Richard, they will assuredly put him to death. They always hated him because he preferred peace to war.”
The duke was right for once. He had put his finger on the real reason for Richard’s unpopulari
ty. Coming after a line of warrior kings and winners of great victories, he seemed weak, effeminate, and indolent to the people. The barons, the merchants of the towns who thrived on war, and the stout yeomen who had played such a great part in the victories were ashamed to have a king who loved music, books, and paintings. This feeling had been aggravated by Richard’s determination to establish an absolutism by parliamentary sanction. What did this sapling mean by declaring publicly, “I am the law?”
No, the main reason for his deposition was not to be found in the murder of Thomas of Woodstock and the execution of Arundel. In this violent age a thirst for revenge was deemed more nearly a virtue than a vice. King John killed his nephew Arthur and starved to death Maude de Braose and her son in a cell at Corfe Castle because she had alluded publicly to the deed. Edward I, a great king in most respects, was so angry over the stout opposition of William Wallace that he had that brave Scot hanged, drawn, and quartered. Edward II sent his cousin of Lancaster to the block because he had been an instrument in the death of the king’s favorite, Piers Gaveston. An injury, even a mild affront, rankled in the minds of these Plantagenet kings and led to furious reprisals. Richard did no more than his forefathers would have done when he removed from his path the two chief instigators of his humiliation and the slayers of his friend, Simon Burley.
The English people hated John because he lost Normandy and dubbed him John Softsword. They despised Edward II because the decisive victories he could have won were turned into defeats. They sang parodies of “Sweet Richard.” They did not want a sweet king.
2
The French waited impatiently for news of what was happening in England, but it was not until the Countess of St. Pol arrived home (Henry packed her off promptly with all her French ladies and servants and her lordly string of horses) that they heard the full story. There was so much concern felt then for the fate of Queen Isabella that the king suffered a particularly violent return of his mental malady.
One of the first steps taken after the crown had been placed on the head of the winner and he had assumed the title of Henry IV was to remove the little queen from Windsor and place her in the charge of the Bishop of Salisbury at his manor house on the Thames, known as Sunning-Hill. The ex-king was sent first to Leeds Castle in Kent but was then secretly conveyed to Yorkshire where he was kept successively in three of Henry’s castles: Pickering, Knaresborough, and, finally, Pontefract, the scene of so many tragedies. This was done because the demand had been made in the House that he be confined in some “sure and secret place.”
The next step was to punish those who had remained loyal to Richard through the brief and inglorious struggle. All who could be accused of a part in the deaths of Thomas of Woodstock and Arundel were called to account and the House was filled with one of the most violent scenes in its history. From both sides came threats and counterthreats, with bitter charges and cries of “Liar!” “Assassin!” and “Traitor!” It was said that as many as twenty gages of battle were on the floor, hurled there by angry hands, and none of them taken up. With a degree of moderation which did him credit, the new king contented himself with demoting those who had received titles from Richard in his last orgy of promotion. The two Hollands ceased to be dukes and became earls again. Edward Plantagenet, who had been made Duke of Aumale, found his honors snipped back to the mere earldom of Rutland. Dorset, the new king’s brother, was deprived of his title of marquis and became again the Earl of Dorset. Scrope, who had been made Earl of Wiltshire, could not be demoted because he had no head left on which to wear laurels.
Arundel, the deposed Archbishop of Canterbury, had landed with Henry at Ravenspur and had ridden with him on his speedy campaign to raise the country against Richard. He preached from pulpits wherever they went, arrayed in the gorgeous robes of office and wearing his miter, extending in his hands so all could see what he claimed was a bull granted by the Pope offering indulgences to all who joined in the rebellion.
Arundel had announced his resumption of the office of Archbishop of Canterbury as soon as he reached England. However, it was not until Pope Boniface IX, explaining that he had been in ignorance of the full facts when he elevated Walden to the see, issued letters-patent to that effect that Arundel was free to resume his post as primate. Walden had to make a hurried exit from Canterbury, taking all his jewels with him. Arundel took no overt steps until word reached him that Walden had stripped the archiepiscopal palace of furnishings, tapestries, books, carpets, and pictures and had filled six carts with the loot. He then moved rapidly and seized all six of the carts when they reached Saltwood Castle near Hythe and had the contents taken back to Canterbury, where, moreover, the late incumbent’s arms were ripped from the walls and burned. He took immediate steps to see that everything was removed from the episcopal palace at Lambeth which hinted at the existence of an intruder. Walden hurried to the new king to make his peace but he was committed for a time to the Tower of London.
There was a forgiving streak in Arundel which his brother had so sadly lacked. Five years later he used his influence to have Walden appointed Bishop of London, an honor which the latter enjoyed for no more than a year.
Almost immediately after the deposition, rumors spread through the country that Richard had escaped to Scotland where he was raising an army to invade England in the hope of regaining his throne. Another version of the story was that Maudelyn, who was now believed to be a blood connection of Richard’s by the left hand, was impersonating him in the northern kingdom. There was no truth in either story. Richard was being securely guarded in his captivity and Maudelyn was engaged in a conspiracy which would cost him his life.
3
The importance of retaining good relations with France was realized by the new king and he made up his mind at once that the little queen would make the best wife for his son, Harry of Monmouth. As her marriage with Richard had never been consummated, it would not be difficult to get an annulment from the Pope, provided the French royal family were in agreement. Young Harry saw Isabella at Windsor before she was removed to Sunning-Hill and he was instantly attracted by the beauty of the twelve-year-old girl. Many years later, when he was ruling England as Henry V, he would marry her youngest sister, Katherine, a match which has been considered one of the greatest of royal romances. But the boy’s infatuation for the wife of the deposed Richard was greater than the love he later displayed for the less beautiful younger sister. He was much distressed when he learned that the slender Isabella regarded him with hostility. The little queen remained strongly loyal to Richard and after his death she refused to consider the match proposed with the son of the new king.
The word was conveyed to her secretly at Sunning-Hill that a conspiracy was afoot to bring Richard back. The noblemen who had been demoted in rank were all involved in it. Their plan was to join forces and seize Windsor, where Henry (who had been weakened by an illness attributed to poison) planned to spend Christmas. Later she was told that Richard had escaped from his prison at Pontefract and would lead the army for his restoration. They talked to her in full round terms and convinced her that 100,000 men would be found under Richard’s standard. Overjoyed and excited at this prospect, the girl was only too happy to promise them her support. She displayed, in fact, the firmness of character of a mature woman and even tore the Lancastrian emblems from the walls where she was confined, replacing them with the White Hart.
But Richard had not escaped and it is doubtful if any whisper of the conspiracy had reached his ears. The leaders of the plot hoped to win public support by a deception. The priest Maudelyn was to play the part of the king. He was to be dressed in royal robes in which his resemblance to the captive at Pontefract would serve to deceive the people. In all respects the plot had been as hastily conceived as might be expected of the men who were to serve as leaders.
The older of the Holland brothers, Thomas, had died two years before from natural causes, an extraordinary thing to happen to any member of this family. His son had be
en created Duke of Surrey by Richard, but he had been demoted to the earldom of Kent by Henry’s first Parliament. This hotheaded young man seems to have been more active in the conspiracy than his uncle, John Holland, who had been Duke of Exeter before being reduced to the earldom of Huntingdon. The latter’s wife was a daughter of John of Gaunt, which made him Henry’s brother-in-law. John was one of the proudest of men in this arrogant age and, no doubt, he bitterly resented the loss of his higher rank. At any rate, he disregarded his family tie with Henry and threw in his lot with the conspiratorial ring. Others in the circle were the Earl of Salisbury, who had stood by Richard through thick and thin, and the Earl of Rutland. The latter was a son of Edmund of York and he was so weak and fickle that he betrayed the secret to his father. The latter went to the king and told him what was being planned. Although Henry was still in a weakened condition, he took to horse at once and rode to London to gather his forces.
The plan was doomed to failure, because of the instability of the leadership, before they approached the queen with their glittering promises. All they could count on at the time were a few hundred men of their own, instead of the 100,000 that Richard was supposed to be leading south from Yorkshire. She had no way of judging the truth of their statements and, of course, she was prepared to grasp at any means for Richard’s restoration. She even permitted a proclamation to be used in her name, declaring that she did not recognize Henry of Lancaster as king.