by Jean Plaidy
Hotspur raged.
‘Was not Mortimer taken in the King’s business?’ he raged. And then he cried: ‘No, of a surety Henry of Bolingbroke does not want the return of Mortimer for the Mortimers stand closer to the throne than he does himself!’
When Harry heard what had been said he was apprehensive. Hotspur was placing himself on the other side, for the rift between him and the King was growing fast.
Hotspur declared that he would no longer stay in Wales. He had done everything possible but his services had never been understood or appreciated and he had had enough of Wales.
He was going back to the stronghold of Northumberland.
Before he left he received a message to the effect that a high-ranking Welshman wished to speak with him and if he would receive him they might come to some terms amicable to them both. Percy agreed and a tall man wrapped in a cloak which was concealing his identity was brought into his tent.
Percy was ready. He was in armour and prepared for treachery. Great was his surprise when his visitor revealed himself as Owen Glendower.
‘I come in peace,’ said Glendower. ‘Put away your sword, my lord. You see I am unarmed.’
Percy saw this and laid down his sword.
‘Why have you come to me?’ asked Percy. ‘What do you want to say?’
‘That we are fighting a senseless war. There will never be peace if you English wish to subdue Wales. The mountains are our allies. Give me back the lands which have been taken from me and there could be peace. There can be no satisfactory ending to this war.’
Percy was silent. What Glendower was saying was true. They could never completely subdue the Welsh and even if they did so for a time there would always be outbreaks of trouble.
He himself was weary of the Welsh war; he had made up his mind to leave and in a few days he would be gone.
‘I can put your proposal to the King,’ said Percy.
‘The King?’ cried Glendowe, ‘The usurper you mean. The man who calls himself King.’
Percy was taken aback and said nothing; but he was not ill pleased to hear the venom in Glendower’s voice. He himself was feeling more and more antagonistic towards Henry Bolingbroke.
‘There is talk that Richard did not die, that he was not murdered at the usurper’s command.’
‘He is dead. I feel certain of it,’ said Hotspur. ‘If he were not Henry would never have tried to marry young Harry to Richard’s Queen. He would not want a string of bastards calling themselves heirs to the Lancastrian estates.’
‘Then if Richard is dead, the Earl of March is the true King.’
‘There is some truth in that.’
‘It may well be that if Henry will not return the land which has been taken from me, if he does not make peace with Wales, we shall work to put him from his throne and set up the rightful king in his place.’ Owen looked intently at Hotspur. ‘It might well be that some in England will be of like mind and join us.’
Hotspur was thoughtful. Then he said: ‘There is one matter which is close to my heart. You have as your prisoner my brother-in-law, Sir Edmund Mortimer. Henry has refused to discuss his ransom. I want him released.’
Owen smiled slowly. ‘Are you sure my lord that he wishes to be released?’
Hotspur stared in astonishment, and Owen continued: ‘He has fallen in love with my daughter Catherine. I see no reason to oppose the match. I do not think he will want to take up arms against his father-in-law. And naturally he would like to see his nephew in his rightful place on the throne.’
Hotspur was astounded.
He saw that Henry was going to have a very difficult task in holding the crown and he was not displeased. Serve him right. If he did not appreciate the Northumberlands he should be deposed. Moreover the new King would be his nephew through marriage and that seemed a fairly bright prospect.
Of course Henry would not relinquish the crown with ease. But this was an interesting situation to go home to brood on.
He said: ‘I will put your proposals for the return of your land and the truce before the King. But I hold little hope of his accepting.’
‘Nor do I,’ replied Owen. ‘But if he does not, we shall know how to act, eh, my good lord?’
Hotspur was silent. He said good-bye to Owen Glendower and was very thoughtful as he made his way to Northumberland.
Fuming against Hotspur, Henry arrived at Worcester. There he was joined by Harry and he learned about the difficulties of making war in Wales.
‘The country is against us,’ Harry explained. ‘The Welsh know every hill and valley, and we don’t.’
Henry, however, was not sure of this and he was determined to show the Welsh that they could not flout him; but, when others joined their voices with that of Harry and insisted that to attack in the mountains was a hazardous proposition, he had to listen.
It was at this time that a Welshman appeared at the camp, asking for an audience with the King and assuring the guards that he came in peace. They examined him to ascertain that he carried no weapons and Henry agreed to see him.
His name he said was Llywelyn ap Gruffydd. He welcomed the English, he said. His two sons were fighting with the rebels and he wanted them back. If Henry would restore his sons to him he would undertake to show him and his army the way through the mountain passes and conduct him to the Welsh camp.
Henry accepted his offer and in due course set out with Llywelyn ap Gruffydd riding between him and Harry. Under the guidance of the Welshman they penetrated far into the Welsh mountains but one morning they awoke to find that their guide was missing. Then they realised what a trick had been played on them. They were nowhere near Glendower’s army; they had come several hard days’ marches into difficult country where there were no provisions and now must find their way out.
Henry was furious. He was finding it difficult to feed his army and they could find nothing in this poverty-stricken land to help them. He must find his way back to a town where his men could eat and rest in comfort.
His fury was increased when he heard that Llywelyn was boasting about how he had deceived the English and the Welsh made matters worse by writing ballads about the incident.
Henry made his way back to the town of Llandovery, vowing vengeance on Llywelyn ap Gruffydd. ‘If I can lay my hands on him he will not live long to regret. I pray God he will not keep this man from me.’
God answered his prayers for one day Llywelyn ventured into a tavern in the town and was recognised by some of Henry’s soldiers as he was singing the ballad of Henry’s discomfiture for the entertainment of the rest of the company.
In a short while he was standing before Henry . . .
The last months had wrought a change in the King. Before the crown had been his he had been a calm man, who prided himself on his shrewd judgements. Now, with so many threats to his position and an almost overpowering responsibility beside a gnawing anxiety that there was something wrong with his health, he had become vindictive. He would spare no one in his determination to hold the crown; and he wanted to make an example of all those who were his enemies.
With savage pleasure he condemned the Welsh joker to the barbaric death of hanging, drawing and quartering and he commanded that his sons sit beside him while they witnessed the terrible sentence being carried out.
Harry was disturbed by it. The man should be punished, yes, but the sentence was too harsh. Llywelyn was a brave man and if he had worked against the English it was natural for him to do so, because they were the enemies of his country.
However he could not remonstrate while his father was in this mood; but he did marvel at the change in him and he wondered whether he was as happy with his crown as he had been without it.
After the execution they left Llandovery and made for the Cistercian Abbey of Strata Florida which contained the tombs of several Welsh Princes. The King ordered his men to sack the place.
A lesson, said Henry, to all those who oppose me.
He sent for his son an
d looked at him intently. Perhaps sooner than he realises, he thought, the crown will pass to him.
No one must know of his fears of what was happening to him. He had signs of a dread disease. Could he have caught it in the Holy Land, in Famagusta perhaps, Venice, Corfu . . . some hot and arid land where unheard-of diseases flourished? So far he could keep his affliction secret. None could see the eruptions on his skin because by good fortune they were where they could be hidden by his clothes; and he could forget them when they did not plague him with their burning irritation. But sometimes he feared what they meant and he wondered whether it would grow worse.
He must hold the crown until Harry grew up and Harry must do that quickly. He had never thought that it would be so difficult to hold; and he could not have foreseen how determined he would be to cling to it.
‘Harry,’ he said, ‘the news is not good. Northumberland with Hotspur are on the march against us. They are joining with the Welsh.’
‘That is impossible. Hotspur fought the Welsh.’
‘His brother-in-law has married Glendower’s daughter. You know what this means. Northumberland and Glendower are joining forces against us.’
‘On what grounds?’
‘Read this,’ said Henry.
It was a document which had been prepared by the Percys to present not only to the King but to all leading noblemen in the country. It was a call to arms. They wanted Henry deposed because as they set out he had:
Sworn to them at Doncaster when he returned to England that he wished nothing more than to restore his inheritance and that of his wife. Yet he had imprisoned Richard his sovereign and compelled him to resign the crown and had himself taken on the style and authority of kingship.
He had sworn that as long as Richard should live he should enjoy every royal prerogative and yet he had caused that Prince, in the castle of Pontefract, after fifteen days to die of hunger, thirst and cold and thus be murdered.
Because of Richard’s death he had kept possession of the crown which belonged to the young Earl of March, who was the next and direct heir.
He had sworn to govern according to law and had not done so. He had refused to permit the liberation of Sir Edmund de Mortimer who had been taken when fighting for him and he had looked on the Percys as traitors because they had negotiated with Glendower. Because of this we defy thee and we intend to prove it by force of arms and Almighty God.
When Harry finished reading the document he looked at his father in dismay.
‘So they come against us! The Northumberlands . . . and Glendower . . .’
‘And the French have sent a company to harass me.’
‘You may trust the French to seize every opportunity,’ cried Harry.
‘Never fear, my son. We shall defeat them.’
‘Aye,’ cried Harry. ‘That we shall do.’
All the same he wished that the enemy was not Hotspur.
It was a long march of two hundred and fifty miles from Northumberland to Shrewsbury – Hotspur’s men were eager to fight but they were tired and hungry; and they needed rest first.
The battle would be for Shrewsbury, for if he took that town Henry could block Hotspur’s passage to Wales.
Hotspur thought of young Harry for whom he had cherished a certain affection. A boy of fifteen, but one who showed promise. He hoped the boy would come to no harm this day. Would you were with me, Harry of Monmouth, he thought. You’d be a better ally than your sly father, I doubt not.
But naturally the boy would be beside his father. How could it be otherwise?
The two armies faced each other. Hotspur saw a priest break from the ranks and come riding towards him. He was Thomas Prestbury, the Abbot of Shrewsbury, and he had a message for Hotspur. It was this: Let him put himself at Henry’s mercy and the battle should be called off.
Hotspur sent his uncle, Thomas Percy, Earl of Worcester, back to the King with his reply.
Henry said: ‘Come, Worcester, do you want innocent blood to be shed this day?’
‘We seek justice, my lord,’ replied Worcester.
‘Put yourself on my grace.’
‘I trust not in your grace,’ was the answer.
‘Then go to it,’ cried Henry. ‘I pray God that you may have to answer for the blood that is spilt this day, and not I.’
Shortly after that encounter the battle began. A strong discharge of arrows came from both sides. It was a fierce fight. An arrow struck Harry in the face but he went on fighting.
‘St George! St George!’ cried Harry. The blood was streaming down his face but he ignored it. Excitement gripped him. Men were falling all about him and he was in the thick of the fight.
Hotspur was determined on victory. He wanted to slay the King with his own hands and with thirty or so of his most valiant knights he rode full tilt into the company about Henry. But the King and his men were a match for them and they were driven back.
It seemed then that the victory was going to Hotspur. Shouts for him filled the air. Harry stood firm. This was battle and he knew he was meant for it. He could scarcely feel the wound on his face.
He rallied his men about him and all forgot that he was but fifteen years old.
Hotspur was certain of victory. He was going to dethrone Henry. He was going to see the rightful heir on the throne; he was going to avenge Richard’s death.
‘Hotspur!’ shouted the triumphant voices about him.
Then it happened. Flushed with imminent victory as he was, he did not see the arrow until it struck him. It pierced his brain and he fell from his horse a – dead man.
He did not hear the triumphant cry from the King’s forces.
Hotspur was dead and his death decided the day.
It was the end of the battle and triumph for Henry.
The Duke of Brittany was dying. The Duchess Joanna nursed him herself but as she did so she could not prevent her thoughts straying to Henry of Lancaster and wondering how he was faring in England.
She had pressed the little blue flower he had given her. Forget-me-not. That was what he had called it and she never would forget him.
He had on several occasions indicated the warmth of his feelings towards her and implied that had she not been the wife of the Duke there might have been a match between them. He was King now. Well, she was the daughter of a King and her mother had been the daughter of the King of France. There could be no question of her worthiness to become Queen of England.
News came now and then to Brittany of what was happening overseas. She knew that Henry had not married again. His time had been taken up first with seizing the throne and then holding it; and this she believed he was doing now.
There had been rumours about Richard’s death. Some said he had been murdered. One version was that men had entered his cell and killed him. Another was that he had been starved to death. But the murderer in both cases had been named as Henry, for though, it was said, he may not have done the deed himself, he would have ordered others to do it.
It would have been necessary, argued Joanna.
She wondered whether he ever thought of her or whether his mind was completely taken up with the stirring events about him.
Suppose he sent for her, would she have been able to go to him? It would not be possible at this stage. She was forgetting her young son, now the Duke of Brittany and a minor. She could not leave him.
She feared Clisson; she knew that he had a very ambitious daughter, the wife of the Count of Penthievres, who believed that through him she had a greater claim to the throne of Brittany than Joanna’s son.
Glisson was an honourable man, and although the rival claimant to the throne had married his daughter he had regarded the late Duke as the true heir to Brittany. Joanna believed she could treat with him.
In this she was proved right. She would promise concessions to Clisson; she would remain Regent and with his help rule the Duchy until her son was in a position to do so. The Duke of Burgundy, who was Joanna’s uncle, and the King of
France were to have guardianship of the Duchy and the young members of the family until they came of age.
Joanna had in fact shown great shrewdness in bringing about this reconciliation for the power, wealth and popularity of Clisson if used against her could have robbed her son of his inheritance.
But once Clisson had given his word and signed the treaty he was as strong a supporter of the little Duke as Joanna could wish, which was proved when his daughter Marguerite, who had wanted the Dukedom for her husband, went to her father in a state of great agitation and asked him why he worked against his own family. ‘So much could depend on you,’ she said. ‘You could give us Brittany. It is my children’s inheritance.’
‘You ask too much,’ Clisson had replied. ‘The Duke of Burgundy is coming here. It may be he will take the children with him to the French Court. He is one of their guardians now.’
‘Father,’ cried the ambitious Marguerite, ‘there is still time to remove them.’
‘Remove them?’ he answered. ‘Are you mad?’
‘You could have them killed. If they were no more, our path would be clear.’
Clisson was so overcome with horror that he cried out: ‘What a wicked woman you are! You ask me to kill these innocent children. I would rather kill you.’ And so great was his disgust that momentarily he meant it and drew his sword.
She, seeing the purpose in his eyes, turned and fled and in doing so fell headlong down a flight of stairs. She was always to remember that encounter for she broke her thigh bone which never healed properly and made her lame for the rest of her life.
The Duke of Burgundy arrived in Brittany and twelve-year-old Pierre who was now called John was invested with the ducal habit, circlet and sword and in the same ceremony his younger brothers Arthur and Jules were knighted.
Now that her son had been proclaimed Duke and he had the powerful Duke of Burgundy and King of France as his guardians, and Oliver Clisson had sworn to uphold him, Joanna felt herself to be free.
If Henry were to send for her she could go to him; but the Pope would never agree to the marriage she knew and how to bring it about without that approval?