Passage to Pontefract

by Виктория Холт

  He was now suspicious at the emphasis which was being placed on the so-called miracles and he guessed this meant a plot against John of Gaunt.

  De la Pole was a patriotic man, and what he wanted was to bring about peace with France, for England needed peace not only beyond the seas but in England and while there was strife between the King and his uncles this could never be. Moreover it was a danger. The uncles were powerful men. It was true that John of Gaunt had distinguished himself rather by failure than success; but he was a man who must be regarded with respect. Edmund of Langley was of a milder disposition but it was very likely that he would stand with his brothers rather than his nephew; as for Thomas of Woodstock, there was a choleric man, a man ready to act rashly without fear of the consequences.

  But de la Pole did fear the consequences, not only for himself but for England.

  John of Gaunt was by no means loved by the people. In fact there was not a more unpopular man in the country – unless it was Robert de Vere. Even so if he were murdered doubtless he would become a martyr.

  This plot must not be allowed to reach fruition.

  * * *

  At Hertford John of Gaunt received the summons to attend the Council.

  He stood in the great hall with the letter in his hand, long after the messengers had retired to the kitchens to be refreshed.

  Catherine found him there, and noticed at once that something was wrong. Their affection had not waned with the passing of the years. She was installed here in his house as the one who meant a great deal to him. He needed Catherine and she knew it and revelled in the knowledge.

  Hers was a beauty which did not diminish with age. It was true that it had changed; and instead of the flames of passion which had flared between them in their youth there now burned a steady light which was more important to him than anything else.

  It astonished him more than it astonished her.

  He was to her her lover and her child. She often marvelled to think of this great man and herself. Who was she, the daughter of a humble man who had managed to get a knighthood on a battlefield, the widow of another knight, a simple country woman, to be the companion of the great John of Gaunt? But such was love, and theirs was enduring.

  It was a life of thrills and terrors she had chosen. She knew that he was in constant danger and when she was not with him she was full of fear for his safety. Every time a messenger arrived she was afraid he was bringing some bad news. She longed for messengers to bring her news of him but always she feared what it might be.

  And the happy times were when he was with her. They were the high peaks of her life, but she knew she had to pay for them and she spent most of her days in the valleys of fear.

  Recently there had been this terrible affair of the Carmelite who had brought charges against him. She thanked God that was over.

  She slipped her arm through his. ‘What news?’ she asked fearfully.

  ‘A summons to the Council at Waltham.’

  Her heart missed a beat.

  ‘What is it, sweetheart?’ he asked.

  She answered: ‘I felt as though someone was walking over my grave.’

  ‘Ah, Catherine, you have these fears now and then, my love.’

  ‘I fear greatly for you, John.’

  ‘You must not. Do you doubt that I can give a good account of myself?’

  ‘I doubt it not, but there are evil men who would do you ill. I can never trust de Vere.’

  ‘Who does? Except the King and he is besotted. Catherine, sometimes I think my nephew is going to be my grandfather all over again. People are already comparing de Vere with Gaveston.’

  ‘It cannot be so. What of the Queen?’

  ‘The Queen knows of this friendship and joins in it. She appears to find de Vere’s company diverting.’

  Catherine shook her head. ‘Their ménage does not concern me. Let them live as they will as long as you are safe. What of this summons to Waltham?’

  ‘I must go. I shall be needed there. I am the King’s first counsellor whatever de Vere may think.’

  ‘I like it not.’

  ‘Oh Catherine, you fear too much.’

  ‘Methinks I love too much,’ she answered.

  ‘Nay that is something you can never do. Rest easy, sweetheart. I am as good a match for them as they for me … aye better.’

  ‘That Carmelite affair … It could so easily have …’

  ‘No, no, no. I can handle my nephew. He is a boy, nothing more … a weak boy.’

  ‘Which makes it all the more easy for wicked men to handle him. There is a warning in my heart, John. You must not go to Waltham.’

  He tried to soothe her. There was nothing he would rather do than stay here with her in peace. But there was no peace. His life had brought him along a strange path. Sometimes he was unworldly enough to wish that on the death of Blanche he had married Catherine. Impossible. He could well imagine what an outcry there would have been. The King’s son and the widow of a man of no importance! And she had gone up in the social scale by marrying Swynford. No, he had to marry Constanza and the marriage had been a failure from the start, although it would bring him the crown of Castile one day he was sure. He and Constanza did not live together. He had done his duty and they had one daughter. There was an end of it. But his claim to Castile remained. One day he would be a king in truth.

  The desire for a crown! It had haunted his life. And he might have had the crown of England too if he had been born earlier. He was born too late. That was the theme of his life. Too late.

  Too late he had realised that he would have been a happier man if he had married Catherine and lived the life of a nobleman – adviser to the King yes, but not for ever dogged by this accursed ambition.

  Now he had to soothe her. She was obsessed by this council at Waltham.

  He talked to her a great deal – when they walked in the gardens, when they were alone indoors, when she lay beside him at night and they both marvelled in the wonder of their relationship which they knew would go on until one or the other died.

  ‘Don’t go,’ were the last words she said that night but his answer was: ‘I must.’

  * * *

  He was preparing to leave. Whatever was in store – and Catherine’s apprehension had communicated itself to him – he must go.

  She would watch him ride away and then she would go to the topmost tower so that she might see the last of him; and he would turn and wave to her and his heart would be sick with longing to stay with her.

  But he must go. He could not say good-bye to ambition now. He could not say: I, John of Gaunt, will no longer fight for the crown of Castile. I will stay on my estates and live in comfort for the rest of my life beside my mistress.

  There were sounds of arrival in the courtyard.

  He hurried down to the hall. A man was there. He was talking to some of the startled guards.

  ‘Take me at once to the Duke.’

  John cried out in amazement for the man who stood there was Michael de la Pole.

  ‘What has happened?’ asked John.

  De la Pole looked around him.

  ‘Come with me,’ said John, and took him to a private chamber. Catherine came in, her eyes fearful.

  John took her arm and said to de la Pole, ‘You may speak before Lady Swynford.’

  De la Pole said: ‘You must not go to Waltham.’

  ‘Why so?’

  ‘They are planning to arrest you before the Council and bring you to trial for plotting against the King.’

  ‘What nonsense! They could never prove a thing against me … for nothing exists.’

  ‘They will prove something, my lord Duke. They have made up their minds to prove something.’

  ‘You mean a bench of judges

  ‘Picked men, my lord. All your sworn enemies. De Vere failed with his Carmelite but he is determined to try again.’

  Catherine had turned white and was clutching at the table to steady herself. John thought sh
e was going to faint. She said nothing. She was too wise to attempt to advise him in the presence of others.

  ‘There is only one thing to be done, my lord,’ said de la Pole, ‘and that is to feign illness.’

  Then Catherine spoke. ‘Yes,’ she said quietly, ‘yes.’

  ‘I beg you, my lord, send a message at once,’ went on de la Pole. ‘You are too ill to attend the Council.’

  John was silent for a moment. He could see how it would work. Speed was the answer. A quick arrest, trial and then execution before it could be realised what was happening. He must remember what had happened to another Lancaster – Earl Thomas who had been murdered in the same way as was being planned for him – and that to avenge the royal favourite Gaveston.

  He said: ‘My thanks to you, de la Pole, for this timely warning. I see you are right. I shall not attend the Council.’

  He could not help looking at Catherine. Her eyes were shining.

  It was the right decision, he knew.

  * * *

  De Vere was furious. The news had leaked then. He knew what was awaiting him. Illness! Bah! He did not believe it.

  He raged to the King. ‘This is an insult to you, my lord. He defies you. You summon him to your Council and he says, No, I prefer to make sport with my mistress. It is time John of Gaunt was taught who was master in this land.’

  ‘He shall come,’ said Richard. ‘I shall insist.’

  ‘You must, dear lord. It is the only way of showing him your power. I do declare he still regards you as the little boy – the small nephew to be bullied by his big and powerful uncles.’

  ‘You hate him, don’t you, Robert?’

  ‘I hate all who seek to belittle my dear lord the King. But you are not going to allow it, are you, Richard? You are going to send an order to him. Illness or whatever excuses he has to offer are of no avail.’

  ‘I am going to order him to come to the Council,’ said Richard.

  * * *

  At Hertford Castle the summons had come.

  Catherine was with him. She read it with horror.

  ‘They are determined to destroy you,’ she cried.

  He took her chin in his hands and regarded her tenderly. ‘But, my darling, I am determined not to be destroyed.’

  ‘What shall you do?’ she demanded.

  ‘I must go,’ he said. ‘That is clear.’

  ‘Go … right into that den of wolves!’

  ‘I do not believe the King is party to a plot to kill me. He surrounds himself with men like de Vere whose great plan is to guide the King for their own advancement. Never fear, sweet Catherine. I shall know how to deal with them.’

  ‘But how? How, when they accuse you, when they drag you before judges who have made up their minds in advance to condemn you?’

  ‘I shall not go to the Council. I shall see the King alone. I shall draw from him what his feelings are. Catherine, I know how to deal with him. He sways this way and that. He will be with me after a few moments, I promise you. I must attempt to make him see where he is wrong. He must understand otherwise it will be my grandfather all over again. He was bemused by his favourites. That is what is happening to Richard. It led my grandfather to the horrors of Berkeley Castle. You know what happened to him. Richard could be heading towards a similar fate. I must warn him.’

  ‘So you will walk right into the trap.’

  ‘The trap will not be set when I arrive. I intend to go to him with a strong escort. They shall not take me.’

  There was nothing she could do to dissuade him from going and indeed, she knew that he must. Not to do so would be to defy the King and give his enemies a real complaint against him.

  She was relieved that next to his skin he wore chain armour and with a strong guard he set out for Sheen where the King was at that time.

  Sheen was one of Richard and Anne’s favourite palaces; Anne had shown her preference for it soon after her arrival and Richard had immediately discovered that he liked it too.

  It was a beautiful and impressive sight on the river’s edge. John divided his escort and left half by his barge with injunctions that when and if they were summoned they should come to him without delay. With the rest he went to the palace gates. He ordered them to remain there and prevent anyone’s entry or departure.

  He then made his way to the King’s chamber.

  He was fortunate. The King was alone. He was startled to see his uncle and asked what had brought him.

  ‘This, nephew,’ said John sternly, reminding the King of the relationship between them and of his own power by the familiarity he assumed. ‘I learned of the plot to murder me. It was for this reason that I refused to come to the Council.’

  ‘Plot!’ stammered Richard. ‘I know of no plot …’

  ‘That gratifies me,’ said John. ‘Not that I believed that you would be in agreement with my murder. My lord, I beg of you, listen to me. You surround yourself with evil counsellors. The country suffers. There are many who wish you well and wish England well. I am one of them. If this plot were to come to fruition, what think you would be the outcome? Bloodshed throughout England. Richard, I beg of you. Do not make this your great-grandfather’s reign all over again. Think back of what happened to him. He was bemused by his favourites. You should not have favourites, Richard. Choose your friends and your ministers for the good they can do the country.’

  Richard was wavering. When he listened to one side he could believe they were right and so it was with the other. There were two sides to every question and he could always see the one which had been presented to him.

  Perhaps if he had been more like his father, more given to action than contemplation, he would have been able to see only one side of a problem, which would have been so much easier.

  Now as he listened to his uncle he could not believe that he had been anything but a good counsellor.

  He cried: ‘You speak sense, my lord. I know you speak good sense.’

  ‘Then, Richard, act on my advice. Rid yourself of these evil counsellors. Bind those to you who would do you good and ask nothing but to see the country prosper. I shall leave you now, Richard, to think of these things. And I have no intention of coming to the Council where those who call themselves your friends have planned to arrest me, try me and execute me all in the space of a few hours. No, Richard, I tell you this to your face: I shall not be there. And if you hold it against me … there are many who stand with me against those who plan to murder me.’

  With that John bowed and walked out of the palace to his guard and so down to his barge.

  * * *

  The Queen Mother was aware of what was going on and was deeply disturbed by it. She could see that Richard would be deeper and deeper in trouble as the months passed if he did not bring about some reconciliation with his uncles.

  She deplored his friendship with Robert de Vere, for the man had far too much influence over him. She was growing really feeble now and was disinclined to move far. She worried a great deal about her elder sons. She knew they were wild and she was distressed at the part John Holland had played in the affair of the Carmelite friar. He had always had a cruel streak and she had been aware of this. She could imagine how he would have revelled in torturing the friar and was sickened by her thoughts.

  But her real concern was for Richard for what he did was of the utmost importance to the country and she lived in fear that he would, like his great-grandfather, come to a violent end. It was useless to try not to draw these parallels between the present and the past. The past in any case should be used as a lesson for the present.

  She must somehow bring about a peace between Richard and his uncles. This would not be easy. Richard was highly suspicious of John of Gaunt and there was no doubt that John was going to find it hard to forgive the King’s favourites who had plotted against him. But her greatest concern must be for Richard’s future and she was very fearful of it.

  How she wished that she could regain her old vitality. The girl wh
o had danced so gaily through her youth with scarcely a care beyond the next excitement had become a very serious woman. It seemed to her that women had a more reasonable approach to life than men. It was the women who softened the anger of men, who could sometimes persuade them to act more reasonably in the ever worthwhile cause of peace. Queen Philippa had guided great Edward often enough; and he had listened to her. Many a poor man or woman had to be grateful to Philippa for saving them from the King’s wrath. She had given the impression of being a homely woman but the good she had done might well be said to have outweighed that performed by her husband. No one would agree. But who had set up a fine weaving industry in England? Who had saved the lives of the burghers of Calais and so made that town loyal to Edward? Whereas it was impossible to know how many lives had been lost through Edward’s reckless claim to the crown of France.

  John of Gaunt loved Catherine Swynford. There was a clever woman. She must be to have kept John at her side all those years. She would speak to Catherine.

  Sighing she ordered the carriage to be made ready and endured the jolting of her poor old bones across the rough and rutted roads.

  Catherine was delighted to see her. They had always been good friends. Joan had never looked askance at her relationship with John as many did. Joan herself had had not too spotless a reputation in the days of her youth. But it was not that which affected her. It was the recognition of true love which she respected and she found it more to be admired than a contracted marriage which was loveless and made for expediency.

  ‘My dear Catherine,’ she said, ‘my stay will not be long. John is not with you at this time, I hope.’ She smiled. ‘I know that is a matter which does not please you, my dear, but what I have to say is for you alone.’

  Catherine understood perfectly, and during the few days Joan spent with her they had many talks together. Joan stayed in bed most of the time. The journey had shaken her up considerably and there was the return one to be made.