by Jean Plaidy
It was brought and laid beside him on a cushion made of cloth of gold.
The King seemed satisfied.
He closed his eyes.
Those about him watched him closely.
‘It is the end,’ said one.
‘He is no longer with us,’ said another.
Harry knelt at his father’s side and looked at that face made hideous by the disease from which he had suffered. Joanna knelt at his other side. She raised her eyes and looked across her husband at Harry.
He is the King now, she thought.
Harry said: ‘It is all over,’ and one of the attendants placed a silk towel across the King’s face.
‘It is for you to take the crown, my lord,’ said one of Harry’s followers.
He picked it up and even as he did so the King moved as though aware of what was happening.
The towel was removed from his face and Henry opened his eyes and looked straight at his son who was standing beside him with the crown in his hands.
‘What right have you to it, my son,’ he said, ‘seeing that I had none?’
Harry answered promptly: ‘Sire, as you have held it and kept it by the sword, so will I hold it and keep it as long as I shall live.’
‘I am not yet dead,’ he said. ‘They would have sent me off before I am ready. But my time is near. Do as you will but now recommend me to God and pray that He will have mercy on my soul.’
The King took the sacrament and closed his eyes; but even now he lingered on.
‘Harry,’ he said, ‘come close to me. This is our last farewell. I love you well. I am proud of you. Always deserve that pride, my son. Look at me now. I was once strong as you are now. Think, in the midst of your glory and prosperity, of the kingdom to which I go and whither you must come. Love the Lord God and fear him. Be not too fond of ease but engage rather in the things of God and in those pleasures and sports which have in them nothing of the foulness of vice. Pay my debts and may God give you his blessing, laden with all good things that you may live blessed for ever and ever.’
Harry was deeply moved. He promised his father that he would endeavour to be all that he would wish him to be.
The King smiled and lay back.
This time there was no doubt that he was dead.
Harry had become King Henry the Fifth.
Chapter X
OLDCASTLE
The night was stormy. There were few people in the streets but those who were might have seen a cloaked figure hurrying along towards the Abbey. None would have guessed that it was the King of a few hours. Purposefully he strode, ducking his head against the wind until he came to the doors of the Abbey.
He entered and as he did so a monk came towards him.
‘I would speak with you, brother. I would confess my sins and ask absolution,’ said Henry.
‘My lord!’ cried the monk, for there was no mistaking the authoritative tones of the new King. ‘At this hour . . .’
‘Enough of the hour. I have urgent work. Come. Take me to the confessional.’
‘Follow me,’ said the monk.
So Henry followed and there in the confessional he went down on his knees and burying his face in his hands he said: ‘I have lived a life of dissipation. I have been a diligent follower of idle practices. I swear by God and all his saints that from this day I shall alter my course.’
‘The Lord will hear your resolution, my son,’ said the holy man. ‘You are young. You have years ahead to make recompense for past follies.’
‘I must tell you of the heinous sins I have committed. I have been wicked, profligate, a frequenter of low taverns and an associate of robbers and prostitutes. I have been a slave to vice. I have turned my back on virtues. I have caused great anxiety to my father. I have been wanton in my ways . . .’
‘Repent,’ said the monk. ‘Truly repent. You are young yet. You have a lifetime before you.’
‘I have lived on this earth for twenty-six years, Father, and I have committed more sins than the average man commits in three score years.’
‘Take heart, my son. You have opportunities ahead of you. Devote your life to the service of your country. Eschew your fleshly desires. Put on the mantle of a King and a virtuous King and the barren willow will be converted into a fruitful olive.’
‘Give me your blessing and let me confess to you that you may know all.’
There were a few seconds of silence and then the King began to talk of those nights he had spent in the lowest taverns of East Cheap, of the orgies in which he had played a major part. He wished to conceal nothing. The holy man must know how low he had sunk.
The monk listened and at the end of the King’s recital, he said: ‘Go your way. Your sins will be washed away by the good deeds you will perform.’
But the King was not yet satisfied.
‘My father died in great remorse,’ he said. ‘And I who have inherited his crown must share that remorse. He believed at the end that he had no right to the crown, that he had taken it from Richard and that he would have to pay for this action. Richard’s death . . .’
‘That is a heavy sin to lie on any conscience,’ interrupted the monk. ‘If the King your father murdered his predecessor... he cannot hope to enter the kingdom of heaven.’
‘He did not murder Richard by his own hand. He did not mean him to die, mayhap. But Richard died at the hands of those who served my father. If he did not actually kill him, he believed he shared that guilt. It hung heavily on his conscience.’
‘And you, my lord, you knew nothing of this?’
‘I was recently returned from Ireland. The crown passed into my father’s hand while I was in that country. I knew nothing of Richard’s death save that it had to be for the safety of my father.’
‘’Twill not be laid at your door, my son. Ease your conscience by giving Richard a royal burial.’
‘I will have him laid in this Abbey. It is his rightful place.’
‘Go in peace, my son. Change your ways. Throw off the cloak of vice and wrap yourself round with that of virtue. Serve your people well, for in that way you will best serve God.’
When the King came out into the night he felt uplifted. Harry the dissolute Prince had been replaced by Henry the resolute King.
The coronation was to be on Passion Sunday, the ninth of April in that year 1413.
The King was already beginning to astound all those about him by his serious demeanour.
Many said it would not last. They would soon have Harry filling the Court with his dissolute companions. This dedicated role was one which was new to him but they had to admit that he played it with skill.
He had not seen his drinking companions for days; and they had left Court on his suggestion. He was in close touch with his uncles the Beauforts, and gave Henry Beaufort back the Chancellorship from which he had resigned on being nominated to the Bishopric of Winchester. The Earl of Arundel had been a great favourite with his father but Henry did not share his father’s devotion to the man, although he realised that the head of such a powerful family must not be offended. He was appointed Treasurer. Henry did public penance for his father’s sins and everyone knew that what he really had in mind was the compassing of the crown for he had had Richard’s body removed from Langley and buried in Westminster Abbey; and he announced that on coronation day he intended to grant a general pardon to all prisoners except those who had been imprisoned for murder or rape.
It was a good beginning but most people were cautious as yet. Harry the Prince had had too lurid a reputation to be able to cast it off with a few good deeds. He announced that he would found three religious houses at Richmond, one for Carthusian, one for Celestine monks, the other for Bregentine nuns; and in these prayers were to be offered by day and night for the repose of his father’s soul.
The weather was unseasonably cold. It had been a harsh winter and persisted so through to the spring, but on coronation day people thronged the streets in spite of the bitter winds. After t
he traditional ceremony in the Abbey, Henry came out into the streets and by this time the snow was falling fast and the strong winds were making it into a blizzard.
A snow storm in April! Surely such a rare phenomenon that it must be a sign from Heaven.
As Henry battled his way back to the palace for the coronation banquet, it was said that this was God’s way of telling England that the King had put off the ardours of his youth. He was being chastened by the bleak snow. A good omen. But there were also those who looked upon the storm as a warning of evil to come.
In any case there could be no doubt that Henry had become a new man.
Thomas Arundel, Archbishop of Canterbury, sought an audience with the King.
The last time the King had seen his Archbishop was at the coronation when Arundel had placed the crown on his head. Now Arundel had a serious matter to discuss and Henry guessed its nature.
Arundel had been an enemy of the movement which was sweeping across the country and known as the Lollards. The aim of this community was, in fact, the complete disendowment of the Church; an object which might have seemed worthy of nothing but derision at one time but had in recent years proved itself to be a menace.
These Lollards were the followers of John Wycliffe; they were reformers and their interests were not only confined to the reformation of the Church. It was believed that Lollardry was at the root of the Peasants’ Revolt and they had brought disaster very close to the crown. Therefore it was a movement which must be closely watched and since he had come to the throne no one was more aware of this than Henry.
His father had never enjoyed security and he had yet to learn how firm his own hold was. When one had come there by what some might call a devious route and a debatable claim, one had to take care.
The King received the Archbishop with a show of friendship but a certain lack of warmth. He did not greatly care for the old man, but he must be approaching sixty, thought Henry, and could not last much longer.
‘My lord,’ said the Archbishop, ‘I have come to you about a very serious matter. The Lollards are about to rise and it is time that we took action against them.’
‘The Lollards!’ cried the King. ‘We keep them in check do we not? We know how to deal with them if they become too saucy.’
‘They have become more than saucy, my lord. They have become a menace.’
Henry studied his Archbishop intently. Always alert for the rights of the Church, he thought. Always watchful lest some privileges be filched by the state. Henry believed that the state must come, first. The Archbishop would not agree. There was always this conflict between the two parties.
Arundel had had a stormy career. He had been banished by Richard; and because Richard had been his enemy, Henry the Fourth had been his friend. Arundel regretted the passing of the fourth Henry and was going to be very wary of the Fifth of that name. And rightly so, thought the new King.
No need to worry. He was an old man. I shall soon be appointing my own archbishop.
‘My lord, the Lollards conspire against the crown when they would attack the Church.’
Henry raised his eyebrows.
‘Lollardry was behind the Peasants’ Revolt, my lord,’ said the Archbishop. ‘Make no mistake about that. This is a villeins’ charter. They would try to make you their puppet or set up one in your place.’
‘We have had the Lollards with us for several years. Tell me, my lord Archbishop, why are you excited about them now?’
‘Because, my lord, they have a new leader. A man of some wealth and the power to lead. They are gathering together under his leadership. They will be marching on London if we do not take some action.’
‘Cannot you take this leader and put him in the Tower that he may be judged of his treason?’
‘It can be done, my lord, but in view of who this man is, I thought it best to bring the matter first to your notice and ask what you would have done.’
‘But if this man is the leader of a band of rebels who plan to revolt against the crown . . . why do you hesitate?’
‘It is Lord Cobham, my lord, who was at some time Sir John Oldcastle. He is known to be a man whom you held in some regard. Before he is arrested we would know your will’
‘Oldcastle!’ cried the King. A slow smile touched his lips. You old rogue, he thought. What are you up to now? ‘So he has become a reformer, eh?’ Henry was thoughtful for a while. He had not entirely surprised. Old John had loved to discuss, and at times he had leaned towards, those views which were held by the Lollards. It was difficult to imagine him completely serious. He would never give up his lazy lecherous life for a cause surely.
‘It appears to be since his marriage to Lady Cobham my lord.’
The King nodded. ‘She is an heiress, is she not?’
‘The granddaughter of old Lord Cobham who died some years ago. She now owns Cobham Manor and Cowling Castle.’
‘What sort of a woman is she?’
‘She is about thirty. Oldcastle is her fourth husband.’
‘A much married lady. One of firm opinions I imagine, and of course by his marriage to her John Oldcastle acquires the title. He will like that.’
‘There is much Lollardry in the district in which he and his wife now live. It has increased of late. I have heard that the reason is that Lord Cobham is a forceful leader and knows how to recruit men to his cause.’
‘He would do that,’ agreed Henry. ‘I never knew a man more persuasive in his arguments.’
‘It is proposed that he be arrested and questioned.’
Henry nodded. ‘I will talk to him,’ he said. ‘I will show him what a dangerous position he places himself in. It is true he was a friend of mine. It would please me to advise him.’
The Archbishop nodded and when he had retired the King sent to Cobham Manor with a command that his old friend visit him without delay.
They faced each other – those two who had been the roystering companions intent on savouring adventures, outdoing each other in their recklessness, boastfully declaring that they would stop at nothing – however offensive to conventional society.
There is a change in him, thought the King. He is as rotund as ever; he still has the merry twinkle in his eyes; but there is a new seriousness, a purpose; one might even say fanaticism.
‘Well, John,’ said Henry, ‘you may have guessed why I have sent for you.’
‘It is because you have missed my merry company and wish to make use of it again.’
‘Of a truth I have missed it but there is little time in my life now for such merriment as that which you and I indulged in. You have become over-serious, John.’
‘My lord, you have become a King and I detect something of a change in you.’
‘I have to speak to you seriously.’
‘You have been in conference with my lord Archbishop I’ll swear.’
‘Then you know of this grievance against you.’
‘I’ll warrant that my lord Archbishop knowing of a certain fondness between you and me will have your permission first before he proceeds to clap me into the Tower.’
‘John, you have to stop this nonsense.’
‘Nonsense! My lord, you have failed to understand. As well might I ask you to give up your crown.’
‘Now it is you who talk nonsense. You have not only joined the Lollards but have become their leader and because you are yourself . . . with a strength of persuasion which I know is powerful . . . and because you have now married Lady Cobham and make use of her wealth and her title you have provided a rallying point. You are in danger, old man. As one who has been your friend, I am warning you.’
‘Your words fall on stony ground, my dear lord.’
‘Then I intend to cultivate that ground and make it fertile. John, you must listen to me.’
‘I had hoped to make you listen to me.’
‘Come, would you turn me into a Lollard?’
‘We do not stand against the King, my lord. We have our eyes on the Ch
urch.’
‘What could a band of rebels . . . peasants for the most part . . . do against the Church?’
‘We want to reform it. You must agree that Christ and his apostles did not wrap themselves in fine garments. They did not live in palaces. They went about humbly and in poverty to do good. A Church which holds landed possessions, collects tithes and takes money from peasants who are starving and can ill afford to pay for burials and baptising cannot be doing the work Christ intended on this Earth.’
‘I have no doubt that your intentions are good, John. We have the Church and we have always had the Church. I cannot have my Archbishop roaming the countryside and sleeping under hedges when he cannot beg a bed, living on the scraps thrown to him by some farmer’s wife. Let us be reasonable, John. I fear for you. They will arrest you. They will question you. God’s ears, old man, can you not see what fate could be in store for you? Have you forgotten William Sawtre?’
‘I have not forgotten him. Nor will many. He was the first man to be burned to death for his religious opinions. Acts like that do not deter. They strengthen purpose.’
‘They should be a lesson to you.’
‘They are indeed, my lord, a lesson that a man’s soul is his dearest possession and that cannot be destroyed by fire.’
‘I had rather see my former lewd companion than this earnest reformer.’
‘Then you do wrong,’ answered Oldcastle seriously. ‘I rejoice to see a King where once was a reckless boy. Do you remember, Hal – forgive the familiarity but my mind goes back to the days when we were boon companions, for I speak of those days. Dost remember a humble tailor of the diocese of Worcester? His name was John Badby?’
The King turned away shaking his head impatiently, but he did so to hide the fact that he was moved. Yes, he did remember John Badby. He had thought of him often during the months that had followed that day. He had smelt the acrid smell, heard the groans of agony. It was something he preferred to forget.
But John Oldcastle was not going to let him forget.
‘They took him . . . a humble tailor,’ went on John. ‘Why choose such a man as an example? By God’s teeth, he was a brave fellow. What was his crime? It was the denial of transubstantiation. What did he say: “If every consecration of the altar be the body of the Lord then there must be twenty thousand gods in England.” He said he believed in only one God in England. They tried him in St Paul’s. They showed him the sacrament and asked him what it was. He said it was hallowed bread but not God’s body. And for that they took him out to Smithfield. You have forgotten this man, my lord. Who should remember a humble tailor? But if that humble tailor becomes a saint . . .’