The Last Plantagenet

by Thomas B. Costain

  One of the daughters of Owen, named Joan, was a handsome and agreeable girl and she made such an impression on the prisoner that he asked for her hand in marriage, an alliance which the rebel chief was only too glad to accept. From that time on, Mortimer remained an ally and was ready to do anything in his power to unseat the king, either in favor of Richard, if he were still alive, or his nephew of March. Some writers speak of Mortimer as “slow of wit, even weak of mind.” It may have been that he concealed a shrewdness of wit under an outer showing of simplicity. It was he who had been heard to say, when told that Henry of Bolingbroke called himself heir to the throne, “Yea, he is so, as a pirate is heir of a merchant whom he has taken or destroyed.”

  He was too wary certainly to become involved in a wild plot hatched in the unsettled mind of Lady Constance of York. This daughter of Doña Isabella of Castile was the widow of the Despenser who had been executed at Cirencester. She hated Henry so much that she decided to get the two young sons of the deceased Earl of March out of his hands. They had been removed from the Tower and were being held behind the high walls of Windsor Castle.

  This strange member of the royal family, who had a wildness in her hauntingly dark eyes which warned of her mental condition, located a locksmith in the town of Windsor who was able to make keys for all the doors in the castle. Armed with these, she let herself in unobserved one dark night and found her way to the Norman tower where the two boys were sleeping.

  They roused uneasily when they saw this fey nocturnal visitor.

  “Hear me,” she whispered (or similar words which have not been recorded), “I have come to take you away. There is now a man who can perform magic and he has raised a great army with your good uncle. They will sweep this king off the throne. And you, dear Edmund,” addressing the older of the pair, “will become king in his stead.”

  They left by the southern postern without being seen and vanished into the darkness. However, a curious-looking woman and two young boys cannot travel the countryside without attracting attention. The pursuers soon caught up with them and took them back to Windsor.

  The lady Constance, under close questioning, charged so many high-placed people with being involved, including her own brother, the Duke of York, that no attention was paid to her. She was not punished.

  But the poor locksmith of Windsor was not pardoned. His right arm was fastened to a block and severed with one blow of a butcher’s knife. Later he was taken out and hanged.

  Edmund Mortimer died some years later in the defense of Harlech Castle. His widow, with their three daughters, had been captured previously and taken to London. Here, most mysteriously, they all died. The state, however, was generous enough to pay the sum of one pound for their burial in the churchyard of St. Swithin’s.

  7

  In the year 1404 it seemed that Owen Glendower had attained his great objective. Only a few of the great castles still held out for Henry. On May 10, in what he claimed to be the fourth year of his reign, Owen began to circulate letters which he signed as “Prince of Wales by the Grace of God.” In one he appointed Griffith Yong as his chancellor and delegated him to go to France as joint ambassador with John Hanmer, the brother of Owen’s wife. Their mission was to conclude a treaty of alliance with the French.

  Philip of Orléans, acting for the still intermittently insane king, was glad to promise assistance. The ambassadors returned to Wales with a present for Owen of a jeweled helmet, habergeon, and sword, and an assurance of troops to help him in his struggle against the English.

  The Welsh patriot, clearly, was in a vainglorious mood during these days of military prosperity. A seal had been struck for him, showing him seated on a throne with a scepter in his right hand and an orb in the other.

  But no good ever came, during the years which preceded this or in the centuries which followed, from the importation of French auxiliaries. The army which landed at Milford Haven a year later under the Comte de la Marche proved of no assistance whatever. Their ships, left unprotected in the harbor, were pounced upon and fifteen of the largest were destroyed. The brave barons who led the land forces were appalled at the wildness of the land. They found the food unpalatable and the wines thin and sour. They faced the English once. Henry had led his forces up to Worcester and for eight days the two armies remained at bay while skirmishing parties battled in the open space between them. Finally Glendower dropped back and drew the king’s army after him. It was the same old story. The English became involved in the valley of the Rhondda with a furious band of rebels who charged them from cover, shouting their battle cry of “Cadwgan, whet thy battle-axe!” At the same time the weather turned hostile (directed by Owen who was believed to control the winds and the clouds) and floods swept down the valleys, making an English advance impossible and a retreat difficult. Henry was back in Worcester by the first of October.

  But this kind of victory did not suit the French. In fact, they had no stomach left for fighting of any kind, and all but a handful returned home before Christmas. How they obtained the necessary ships has never been explained. It was said later that the French were disappointed over the lack of booty. Certainly the Welsh were highly disgruntled with the futile efforts of their allies. The alliance came to an end.

  The following year the Welsh armies suffered two severe defeats. The sun which had been so high in the heavens had begun to set. The military supplies, without which the most valiant armies can do nothing, were running short. The people were tiring of the continuous fighting and the hardships from which they suffered. The fiery sword of Glendower seemed to be cutting both ways.

  If Owen’s gift for disappearance was due to the possession of a cloak of invisibility, as the people of his day believed, he continued to possess it and to use it during the few remaining years of his life. They were not great years. From the leading of armies he found himself with nothing but small bands engaged in guerrilla operations. Then he seems to have become a fugitive, seen here and there but never visible when any effort was made to capture him. Various places are still pointed out where the once glorious leader sought sanctuary in the days of his decline: a cave at the mouth of the Dysynni and an obscure hiding place on Moel Hebog, a companion peak to Snowdon.

  When Henry IV died and his gallant son, Prince Hal, succeeded him on the throne, one of the first acts of the new king was to declare a pardon for all rebels in Wales. Although he was not excluded, the stout old leader refused to benefit by it. The chivalrous young king sent special envoys to find him, including Talbot of the Marcher barons and Owen’s own son, Meredith. They did not succeed in locating him.

  One story has it that Owen found his way to Herefordshire disguised as a shepherd and reached the home of one of his married daughters at Monnington and remained there quietly, even secretly, until his death.

  The story most often believed is that the rebel chief disappeared from the sight of all who had followed him or had known him and was never heard of again.

  CHAPTER III

  The King and Fair Kate

  1

  THE reign of Henry V was one of the shortest in English history—nine years, filled with great military achievements and both colored and dignified by a display of justice, moderation, and fairness in all respects. As a man Henry was deeply religious, chaste, and honorable, which set him apart from most kings. He was free of the besetting sin of the Plantagenets, extravagance. In fact, there was a frugality in everything he did, and it was only in the equipment and maintenance of armies in the field that he was ready to draw heavily on parliamentary support. The wildness he had exhibited as a prince, which was due in no small degree to his lack of money (Henry IV was always poor and his son was supposed to draw his income from a Wales in arms which paid not a shilling in tribute), fell from him like an outworn cloak.

  As a general he must be ranked above the great Plantagenets who had preceded him: Richard of the Lion-Heart, Edward I, Edward III, and the Black Prince. There was brilliant strategy in the Aginco
urt campaign and in the conquest of Normandy which followed.

  Everything about him seems admirable. As a negotiator he was direct and in no sense devious. He did not hide behind subterfuges or resort to vague half promises. It was said that he would listen in silence to the reasoning of those about him and finally say either, “It is impossible,” or “It shall be done.” When he had taken a stand, he remained firm and resolute in it.

  It is unfortunate that he was so obsessed with the need to recover all the ground lost halfway in the Hundred Years War. This left him with little time to tend the legislative and administrative fields at home. If he had given himself instead to peace-time pursuits, what straight and enduring furrows he would have plowed!

  Had he lived longer he would undoubtedly have been acclaimed the greatest of English kings. Many historians so rank him. All agree that he was the best loved.

  These nine brilliant, incisive years, these years so full of accomplishments and so free of chivalrous nonsense and wasteful ceremony, are chiefly remembered for two things: the remarkable victory at Agincourt which left France prostrate at Henry’s feet and the king’s romance with a daughter of the French king, who is called in history the Fair Kate. There is a temptation to write about Agincourt, because it was fought so boldly and aggressively and because there was better strategic planning back of it than in any of the earlier English victories. But even allowing for Henry’s boldness and his cool foresight it was a case of the French losing the battle rather than the English winning it. For thirty years the single-minded nobles of France had been restrained from offering battle and it is probable that, if Henry had been disposed to load his army back on his ships and depart, they would have been ready enough to see him go. But Henry had crossed the Sleeve to fight, and so, after much marching and countermarching along the fords of the Somme, they came face to face at last on ground well suited to battle within sight of the castle walls of Agincourt.

  The French had learned something from their defeats at Crécy and Poictiers, but not enough. They took up their stations along the field the night before, at least 50,000 of them as against the English 8000 to 10,000, and they were supremely confident. But they still believed in the mounted knight and there was so much cavalry around the castle that the ground was reduced to pulp by the hoofs of the horses. It is even true that many of the young knights sat all night in their saddles so their shining armor would not have a fleck of mud when the time came to ride into battle; and the next day their weary steeds floundered and went down or turned and bolted in mad panic into the thick ranks behind. In contrast Henry ordered his knights to dismount and fight on foot, a demeaning innovation in the eyes of the Gallic foe. He even arranged his thin line so his foot soldiers would provide some guard for the all-essential archers. The French still lacked archers to compete with the stout English longbow men.

  The French died by the thousands, the English by the hundreds, and again it was a great English victory. But all this is familiar ground to readers of the Plantagenet story. And so—better to choose the romance of Henry of England and Katherine of France.

  2

  King Henry: Now fie upon my false French! By mine honor, in true English, I love thee, Kate; by which honor I dare not swear thou lovest me; yet my blood begins to flatter me that thou dost, notwithstanding the poor and untempering effect of my visage. Now, beshrew my father’s ambition! He was thinking of civil wars when he got me; wherefore was I created with a stubborn outside, with an aspect of iron, that when I come to woo ladies, I fright them. But, in faith, Kate, the elder I wax the better I shall appear; my comfort is that old age, that ill layer-up of beauty, can do no more spoil upon my face: thou hast me, if thou hast me, at the worst; and thou shalt wear me, if thou wear me, better and better. And therefore tell me, most fair Katherine, will you have me? Put off your maiden blushes; avouch the thoughts of your heart with the looks of an empress; take me by the hand and say,—Harry of England, I am thine: which word thou shalt no sooner bless mine ear withal but I will tell thee aloud, England is thine, Ireland is thine, France is thine, and Henry Plantagenet is thine—Come, your answer in broken music—for thy voice is music, thy English broken; therefore, queen of all, Katherine, break thy mind to me in broken English—wilt thou have me? Katherine: Dat is as it sall please de roi mon pere.

  Thus, in King Henry V, Shakespeare describes the wooing of the Fair Kate by the forthright English king.

  But the story begins much earlier, dating back to the day when Prince Henry first saw Isabella of France. It was soon after the deposition and death of Richard, and the twelve-year-old girl, who had thus become a widow before being a wife, was in the depths of despair. In spite of her grief, it was apparent that she was becoming a slender, graceful, and delightful-looking girl. The prince was an impressionable youth of thirteen and he stood tongue-tied in the presence of the little queen. Later he informed his father that he wanted to marry Isabella as soon as they were old enough.

  It happened that this was completely in accord with the ideas of the new king, who was anxious to make a lasting peace with France. The French government was agreeable to the union, because Charles VI was falling with greater frequency into his spells of insanity and the country was torn by the struggles between two political parties, the Burgundians and the Armagnacs. But they failed to reckon with the firm spirit of the girl widow of the dead English king. Isabella had acquired a real affection for her handsome spouse. His defeat and death had broken her heart (or so she believed), but without breaking her spirit. She hated the new king who had been responsible for Richard’s death and she would have nothing to do with any member of the Lancastrian family. The roses mounted in her cheeks, her eyes flashed angrily, and she gave her answer with one word—No!

  Young Henry was so obsessed with her delicate beauty that he begged his father to persist. Isabella was approached several times, but her answer never varied. No, no! Finally she was allowed to return to France, without her dowry or even her personal jewelry, and later married a prince of the Orléans line for whom she felt a deep affection. She died within a year in childbirth. It is doubtful if the prince ever outgrew his infatuation for her. It was a day of great sadness for him when he learned of her death.

  But there were three younger sisters in the French royal family, Michelle, Marie, and Katherine, and he decided that one of them might fill this vacant place in his heart. Michelle, first, but she was promised to the son of the Duke of Burgundy. Marie, then; but Marie was taking the vows in a convent. Well, it must be the youngest of them, Katherine. He received reports about her and even had a portrait sent to him. She was an attractive girl, even though she seemed to him not as beautiful as his first love, Isabella; but she had charms of her own.

  When he had been crowned King of England, Henry entered suit for the hand of Katherine. His demands seemed to the French wildly exorbitant. He was demanding that they give him Normandy, all the territories which Eleanor of Aquitaine brought with her when she married Henry II of England, and a dowry of 2,000,000 crowns. France wanted peace, but what grounds had this young and untried king, the son of a usurper, moreover, to make such demands? Once again Henry suffered the mortification of having his suit rejected.

  3

  It is doubtful if Henry knew of the conditions under which the three daughters were being raised. The princess who had been sent to France on approval was now serving as a queen on sufferance. As the king was in the grip of his malady most of the time, Isabeau gave full rein to her lascivious tendencies. She saw to it that the three children were raised in the Hôtel de St. Pol, where their father was kept during his mad spells. The royal finances were always low, so Queen Isabeau found it difficult to maintain herself in the full splendor she desired. Little of the royal revenue was used for the unhappy household at the St. Pol. The servants, who were not under any suitable form of supervision, saw to it that they themselves had plenty of food, even when there was not enough for the children. One dress had to be used
in turn by all three, which was particularly hard for Katherine, who received it after a second alteration. It is even said that they had no changes of linen. The insane king was in worse stead. Kept in a dark and closely shuttered room, he attacked with maniacal fury any servants or doctors who attempted to enter. He was left alone and so went for months at a time without any change of clothing or a bath. The apartments of the royal children were some distance from this chamber of horrors but they could hear his wailing and screaming and his bickering with the hostile visitors he fancied about him.

  On one occasion he regained his senses unexpectedly and was stricken with horror at his own condition, and even more so when he saw the misery of the princesses. Wine had been brought him in a gold goblet and he ordered that it should be sold to buy suitable clothes for his daughters.

  Perhaps unaware of the true state of affairs at St. Pol, or unconcerned about it, Queen Isabeau continued on terms of more or less open intimacy with the Duke of Orléans, who was said to be the most handsome man in all France and the greatest philanderer. One night in Paris, after supping with the queen, he was returning at a late hour. It was a dark night and, as always, dangers lurked in the unlighted streets. The duke was accompanied by two squires only and had sent a handful of servants ahead on foot to light the way with torches. Suddenly a party of armed men emerged from concealment behind a house known as Image de Notre-Dame and surrounded him.