That was the rub. The country could not stomach the continual preference for that proud young man of such indifferent parts. But Richard proceeded to act with the impetuosity and poor judgment of youth. He should have waited for the more moderate of the barons to reach the conclusion that the pressure exerted on him was unfair, a view they would undoubtedly have taken when the highhandedness of the “pressure group” became clear. He sent de Vere to Chester to raise an armed force in the north and thus played into the hands of his opponents.
If there had been any strain of leadership in the still adolescent Earl of Oxford, the king’s move would have been effective. Chester was one of the royal earldoms and it lay close to the borders of North Wales where Richard still held the affections of the people. But the lack of dispatch that de Vere displayed enabled the three opposing leaders to take the initiative. Woodstock, Warwick, and Arundel met at Huntingdon, which straddled Ermine Street, the great Roman highroad running north and south. It was a sound selection for strategic reasons, lying more than a hundred miles closer to London than Chester and thus enabling the barons to close off any attempt on de Vere’s part to join forces with the king in the capital. It is said the trio were determined that the boy king would have to be deposed and that all the lesser barons who had joined them were in agreement.
De Vere finally succeeded in raising a force estimated at 5000 men and started his southward march. Riding proudly in the van with the folds of the royal standard coiling in the breezes above his head, the new duke seemed confident of overawing all opposition. He was due for an unpleasant surprise. The dissentients had already raised a stronger army than his. They had moreover acted with military acumen in advancing to Northampton, where they blocked his route to London. De Vere, who lacked that quality completely, made the mistake of circling to the westward in the hope of getting around the enemy. They countered by throwing part of their forces behind him, thus cutting off any possible retreat to Chester.
De Vere proceeded to display a sorry lack of capacity for command. In fact, he seems to have fallen into a panic. Approaching the crossing of the Thames at Radcot Bridge, with his badly organized command straggling along behind him, he suddenly found himself facing the vanguard of the baronial army under the Earl of Arundel. This was a bad plight for a military tyro, to face a strong force drawn up in battle array with his hastily organized and poorly armed rabble. He had a feeble store of personal courage to begin with and there was no one at his side to bolster his inexperience. Arundel rode out in advance, demanding a parley. De Vere’s columns, lacking order and having already lost confidence in their leader, opened their ears to the deep voice of Arundel when he declared de Vere a traitor and advised them to disband while they had the chance. De Vere made ineffectual efforts to rally his men but they had no willingness to fight and began an immediate retreat. Observing that the main forces of the barons were beginning to arrive, de Vere took to horse and rode through the gathering gloom of evening for Radcot Bridge. This structure had been closed off for repair and enemy troops occupied one end of it. De Vere discarded his armor and plunged his horse into the stream, being lucky enough to get across and find the road clear.
Arriving in London disguised as a groom, he succeeded in reaching the king, who was both shocked and chagrined at the report he gave of his defeat. Richard took steps at once to get him out of the way. Passage was arranged for him on a vessel sailing from Queenborough and he arrived in due course at Bruges where he had previously deposited funds for his support with a firm of Lombard bankers—the only trace of foresight he had shown in this whole sorry episode.
He never came back. The safety of the Low Countries seemed to him more desirable than any further part in the struggle at home. Deserted thus by the friend he had supported through thick and thin, the young king found himself called upon to face alone a victorious coalition. Most of his intimates had taken flight. Tresilian had played a prominent part in getting from the justices at Nottingham a verdict in the king’s favor. He had, moreover, sealed the opinions and kept them under his hand, thereby making himself a target for the ire of the dissenting barons. Before news was received of the fiasco at Radcot Bridge, Tresilian had sensed what was coming and had gone into hiding. Among the prominent men who would have to face the enmity of the triumphant barons, that stout soldier and man of honor, Sir Simon Burley, had the courage to remain at the king’s side.
The uncompromising trio, Woodstock, Arundel, and Warwick, met at Huntingdon and decided they would depose the king. It took much effort and extended argument on the part of two other leading barons, who joined the party later, the Earls of Derby and Nottingham, to persuade them against this radical step. The victorious magnates joined forces then and marched on London, arriving there the day after Christmas. It had not been a pleasant Christmas for Richard and his queen, because reports had reached them every hour of the approach of forces against which they would have no defense. It was almost literally true that the sound of carols and the sweet chimes of the church bells had been blotted out by the clank of steel-clad feet; for in London, too, trouble was stirring and the streets were filled with men of hostile intent.
No resistance was offered when the baronial forces reached the city gates. The following day the creaking doorway of the Tower of London swung open.
The scene which followed was one of extreme tension as well as historical novelty. Five of the leaders, the demanding trio and the two younger earls, linked arms in the anteroom and marched abreast into the royal presence. Richard had been prepared for a bitter encounter, but he must have been taken aback by this ocular proof of their unity of purpose as well as their disregard of court etiquette. Each of the five had donned his own color and so they were a study in contrasts; dark maroon, green, a tawny brown, the antelopes of Lancaster on blue and silver, the crimson of Norfolk inlaid with mulberry leaves. They had all studiously avoided the fashionable excesses of the court. Their muscular legs were encased in hose of one shade instead of the current preference for the parti-colored, their sleeves did not fall below their fingertips, and their cloaks were rather plain.
Richard, who as usual was arrayed in some degree of magnificence, studied this ominous group with eyes which disclosed a sudden sense of real alarm. When they produced letters recovered from the effects of Robert de Vere after his flight from Radcot Bridge, which carried the king’s own instructions to that ineffective instrument of his royal will, he realized perhaps the full extent of the danger facing him. To increase his unease his uncle drew him to a window and showed him that the open space on Tower Hill below was black with armed men under the command of the barons.
“Ten times as many more,” declared the bombastic uncle, “are ready to join us in our demands!”
De Vere’s forces were scattered over the countryside through which that ineffective young man had led them. The citizens were, at best, in an aloof mood and showing no signs of supporting their lawful king. Richard realized that he had no force to support him against the determined baronage. He sought, therefore, to temporize. He would meet them the next day at Westminster to discuss the situation. In the meantime would they stay the night in the Tower and join him in a supper? The three older barons said No, in most decided terms. The two younger hesitated and finally agreed to remain as his guests.
After a night spent in reflection, Richard went to the meeting next day with the intention of standing firm. He was the king, he informed them, and would not accept dictation from anyone. He shared the belief of his strong-willed father that he was answerable only to God.
His uncle of Woodstock and the Earl of Arundel, the latter bolstered by his sudden and dazzling popularity, tried to tear Richard’s resolution to shreds with a harsh rejoinder. He was answerable to God, yes, but also to them, the leading representatives of the hereditary baronage. He would do what they wanted or they would depose him. This was not an idle threat: they meant it and, in fact, they seemed only too eager to set the wheels of depositi
on turning at once.
Richard, white of face, struggled against this iron resolution. He was old enough and sufficiently experienced now to read in the dark and hostile eyes of his chief opponents a purpose from which they could not be swayed. If he refused to give in, they would move at once to take the Crown from him. If he gave in, he was condemning his close friends to a token trial before Parliament. This could have one result only—their condemnation and death on the gallows or at the block. Could he abandon these men who had been so close to him: Pole the sage adviser and administrator, the Archbishop of York who had never ruffled his feelings as Courtenay of Canterbury had done, Robert de Vere his personal friend, Brembre the stout if rashly combative alderman?
But could he sacrifice his exalted post (which he would always believe had been conferred on him by divine right) in order to prolong a struggle which already seemed lost? Seldom in history has a young man of twenty (a stubborn one, it is true, and unsuited to the kind of rulership he seemed determined to exercise) faced such a bitter choice.
It would have been easier for the king if the issue had been a constitutional one only. But it was clear to everyone that personal considerations as well animated the leaders of the baronage. There was an avid gleam in the eyes of the unshakable pair, Woodstock and Arundel, a determination to vent personal dislikes, an eagerness for revenge. If they had been willing to lay aside their grudges and be content with a thorough housecleaning, the issue would undoubtedly have been resolved without difficulty. But Richard knew quite well that they would demand, literally, their pound of flesh.
The result was inevitable. Richard consented finally to the arrest of his leading advisers: Archbishop Neville of York, Michael de la Pole, Robert de Vere, Tresilian, and Sir Nicholas Brembre, as well as several knights who were his closest friends. They would all be tried, no matter how small their share of complicity might be, at the forthcoming session of Parliament. The matter of their punishment (no one doubted what the verdict would be, even at this preliminary stage) would also be in the hands of that body. Four of the defendants had already fled: Vere, Pole, Tresilian, and Brembre.
Realizing that the king’s consent had been wrung from him with the utmost difficulty, the leading barons assembled in conference later. Woodstock and Arundel battled long and bitterly for an immediate abdication. It would come to this in the end, they declared. They even went to the length of having the state papers relating to the deposition of Edward II brought out from the state files for study. To them it was clear that the cases were parallel and that there was every reason for ridding themselves at once of this unstable youth. Again the two younger earls, Derby and Nottingham, stood against it. Richard had met their demands. From this point onward they could keep the control of things in their own hands. In the end the more moderate viewpoint prevailed. Richard could remain on the throne but only if he agreed to a thorough housecleaning without any attempt at interference.
Richard signed the order for the arrests with a heavy heart. He had an affectionate regard for most of the men he was thus condemning to trial for treason. Among the lesser figures whose names had been added to the list was one over which he hesitated with a contraction of the heart and with the deepest apprehension—Sir Simon Burley.
2
Parliament met on February 3, 1388, and proceeded at once with the treason trials. The leading hereditary barons appeared to press the charges. They met with no opposition. All of the defendants were found guilty, four in absentia. All were sentenced to death, with the exception of the Archbishop of York. One of them, Sir Nicholas Brembre, had run away to Wales, but he was overtaken there and brought back to London to face trial. Soon thereafter Tresilian was captured by a curious coincidence.
That unrelenting judge of the peasants, for whom it is impossible to feel any sympathy, had apparently been drawn back to London by curiosity when Parliament opened. He had grown a beard in the meantime and he came in the guise of a country yokel, believing himself safe from detection. According to one version, he stayed in a common alehouse in the city. Another has it that he took a room over an apothecary’s shop near the palace at Westminster. A servant of Thomas of Woodstock saw him and, in spite of the beard, recognized him at once. Prompt action followed and the fugitive was carried in to face the House. The trial of Brembre was under way, but it was adjourned to deal with the new prisoner. Tresilian was asked to show reason why the sentence of death already pronounced on him in his absence should not be carried out.
Tresilian, who does not seem to have been a close confidant of the king and had been retained in office because of his complaisance, had been vehement and harsh of tongue when files of unfortunate peasants had faced him. He had refused them any mercy and had not even permitted them a chance to plead. Now he stood at the bar as they had done, with the same penalty hanging over him, and his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth. He could not speak a word.
The death he suffered was as cruel as the fate he had meted out to the hundreds of peasants to whom he had refused justice. That afternoon he was taken from the Tower and dragged at the feet of horses to Tyburn through the streets of London. There he was hanged, drawn, and quartered.
Shortly afterward Brembre was declared guilty, although he had defended himself with vigor, and suffered the same fate. Archbishop Neville was left to such punishment as canonical law might fix for him. When his case was laid before Urban VI, the Pope degraded Neville from his see and translated him to the see of St. Andrew’s. As Scotland did not acknowledge Urban and stood instead for the Pope at Avignon, this decision had no weight. Neville accordingly followed his fellows in misfortune by exiling himself to Flanders, where he died soon after.
The judges who had entered a verdict for the king at Nottingham were then brought to the bar of the House and sentenced to death. It was only when the bishops united in a body to support the queen in begging for the remission of this sentence that the judges were condemned instead to perpetual exile in Ireland.
On the twelfth of March four knights of Richard’s train were brought before the House. They were Sir John Beauchamp of Holt, Sir John Salisbury, Sir James Berners—and Sir Simon Burley. The last act was now to be played out.
3
May 5, 1388. The Merciless Parliament, after a recess for Easter, had completed its part that morning by finding the four knights guilty. It was on one count only that a case had been made against Burley. This was the eighth, which charged him with encouraging the king to gather a corrupt court about him. The four were sentenced to be hanged, drawn, and quartered.
The state of mind of King Richard and his young queen can easily be conceived. Burley had been like a foster father to them both. He had taken the boy’s education in hand from the earliest years on the instructions of the Black Prince. He had broken the rules of the coronation by picking him up when he looked too tired to complete the ceremony and had carried him out in his arms, at which time the shoe had fallen from the young king’s foot. He had taught him the pleasure and profit of reading and had supplied him with the books which would never have been found otherwise at court. When Richard rode into London, it was his desire always that Sir Simon Burley should carry the state sword before him.
It was this courtly knight who had gone first to Bohemia to open negotiations for the hand of the princess Anne and who had won her assent to the match. Later he had been sent with English troops to escort the bride to England. Anne had become as deeply attached to him as the king.
The course of history often hinges on matters of seeming unimportance. Burley was not one of the king’s chief ministers. It would have cost the relentless barons nothing if they had agreed to commute the death sentence on this very great friend of both king and queen. It is conceivable that Richard would not in that case have carried in his heart the dark design of vengeance which led to such bitterness later.
But there was a reason why they would not yield. Arundel hated Burley. He had never forgiven the latter for his open cr
iticism of naval strategy during the earlier years when the tardy admiral had seemed unable to do anything right. Even after his great victory, which might have brought him to a magnanimous state of mind, Arundel was determined to make the knight pay for what he considered insolence.
It was the king’s harsh uncle and the revengeful admiral who shared equally the responsibility for the cruel decisions of Parliament, but instinctively the king and his consort knew that it was Arundel who was pressing for the death of Burley. It was to him they went to plead his case.
Arundel was brusque, discourteous, even brutal, to them. He brushed aside every reason they advanced for remitting the death penalty with acerbic responses. Burley had been given a fair trial and had been found guilty. The sentence must stand. They could see in his dark and passionate eye, in the frown which never left his brow, the real reason which he did not put into words. Burley must now pay for the things he had said in the past.
Queen Anne, growing desperate in her desire to save an old friend, actually went down on her knees to this fiercely unrelenting subject. She pleaded, she wept, she wrung her hands. She was no longer a queen with position and authority to wield, she was a woman willing to lay aside all dignity and all power in this sorry crisis.
Arundel did not stir from his stand. Nothing she could say had any effect on him. He pulled at his beard and glowered about him, anxious to end the scene but not daring to carry disrespect to the point of turning his back on her and leaving the room. It is said that she remained on her knees for three hours, all to no avail.
One statement only from the adamant earl is given in the chronicles of the day.
“Let the request alone, Madame Queen,” he is reported to have said. Then, permitting his words to convey in full measure the threat being held over the royal pair, he added: “Pray for yourself and your husband. That is the best thing you can do.”
The Last Plantagenet Page 17