The Star of Lancaster

by Jean Plaidy

  ‘This foolish man’s martyrdom is beside the point.’

  ‘Oh no. No. It is very much to the point. And I never forget your part in it, my noble King. You cannot forget that you came riding by and I was with you; and you saw this man tied to the stake. They were lighting the faggots at his feet. And you stopped to watch. I sensed in you, my lord, a melancholy that a man should be persecuted for his religious beliefs. You were always one to flout convention, were you not? Those visits to the tavern were partly because you wanted to go, partly because eyebrows would be raised and people would say: “The Prince is wild. He is a reckless profligate.” That made you laugh, snap your fingers at the old greybeards. But you stopped by Badby’s stake and you paused to think. The names licked his legs and the pain was intense. He cried out “Mercy”. And you, my lord, what said you? “Remove the fire,” you said. “Give him a chance to repent.” So the fire was removed and you and the tailor looked into each other’s eyes. “Swear that you were wrong,” you said. “Declare that you were misled. Do that and you shall go in peace.” But, my lord, Badby did not ask for mercy from mankind but from God; he called out not that the fire should be removed but that God would take him speedily into Heaven. He would not renounce his beliefs, so he was thrown back into the fire. His end, pray God, came quickly. That was Badby and me-thinks a man who continued to plague your thoughts for many a month to come.’

  ‘I remember it. He was a brave man.’

  ‘He died for his beliefs. There are many of us in this land, lord King, who would do the same.’

  The King burst into laughter. ‘Not you, old fellow,’ he said. ‘Not you. You’re more likely to die from the tremors of Venus or the fumes of strong drink.’

  ‘It is a strange and wondrous thing, my lord, that as you have changed, so have I. Does that not show in some mysterious way, that you and I walk close together.’

  ‘You’ll forget your Lollards, John?’

  ‘Will you forget your crown?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Then why should I forget?’

  ‘Because yours, you old buffoon, could be a martyr’s crown if you persist in your follies.’

  ‘Then I would no more cast that aside than you would your crown of gold.’

  ‘Listen to me, John, I speak in all seriousness now. Give up these follies. Go back to your Cobham Manor. You have a new wife. Do your duty by her.’

  ‘Rest assured, lord King, that I will do what I believe to be my duty.’

  Henry realised with dismay that it was no use trying to persuade his friend to act with discretion. John Oldcastle seemed as determined now to snap his fingers at danger as he had ever been.

  To his sorrow within a few weeks he heard that Lord Cobham had been arrested and sent to the Tower.

  The King called on his stepmother at Windsor. To show his friendship for her on his father’s death he had given her licence to live at his royal castles of Windsor, Wallingford, Berkhamsted and Hertford and Joanna had been pleased to accept this invitation, for she was eager to live on good terms with the new young King.

  She was reconciled to the death of her husband. None could have wished him to live and suffer such a loathsome disease which had clearly grown worse as the months passed. It was heart-breaking to consider him as he had been when they had first fallen in love with each other; and it seemed like a cruel trick of fate that she should have been married to an old man and then when she was able to make her own choice it should have fallen on one who was quickly to develop into an invalid.

  She believed that what happened had been too much for Henry. He had been haunted throughout his life by the ghost of Richard. She was sure that had he come to the throne through rightful inheritance everything would have been quite different.

  Now, because she had been here so long and it had become home to her, she wished to stay in England. There would be a home for her in Brittany where her son was the reigning Duke but she feared her welcome there might be a cool one. Moreover she had rich estates in England; she had always enjoyed accumulating wealth and as the wife of King Henry the Fourth she had found opportunities of doing this. But she wished to stay; and therefore she must remain on the best of terms with her stepson.

  She welcomed him into her apartments.

  He had come, he said, to assure himself that she was comfortably settled; but it was more than that, she knew. He wanted her to do something for him; and she must of course, if it were possible.

  It was not long before he came to the point.

  ‘My great-grandfather Edward the Third was convinced that the crown of France rightly belonged to him. I share that view.’

  She waited.

  ‘Moreover,’ he went on, ‘I intend to win it.’

  She said quietly: ‘You will resume the war with France?’

  ‘I shall win my crown.’ He spoke with quiet determination. She remembered that his father had said that his eldest son thought like a soldier and acted like a soldier; and that when he came to the throne war would be his chief preoccupation like his ancestor whom men had called Richard the Lionheart.

  She said: ‘Your great-grandfather won many victories as did his son, the Black Prince, but they never won the crown of France for England.’

  ‘They did not continue long enough. Edward grew old and tired of the war. The Black Prince died in the prime of his youth. I would never give up. I would go in and win and that is what I intend to do.’

  ‘Can you . . . raise the men . . . the money.’

  ‘With God’s help, I can and will.’

  Joanna felt uneasy. She hoped he was not going to ask her to help him. She loved her possessions. Her chief joy now was adding to them, counting them, gloating over them. She would not want to see that wealth which she had taken such pleasure in garnering dissipated in war.

  ‘You are planning . . .’ she began.

  ‘I was even before my father died,’ he replied. ‘I want to succeed, my lady, where others have failed. And make no mistake, I shall do so. I shall have the French on their knees, I promise you. Their King is mad. The Dauphin is not as fine a fellow as he believes himself to be. Indeed, my lady, I am planning. And indeed I shall take war into France. Now I want you to help me. I trust you are willing to do that.’

  ‘If I could it would be my pleasure, but I am a weak woman . . .’

  Joanna was silent. Her son, the Duke of Brittany, was married to the daughter of the King of France, and there would naturally be a strong influence there in favour of France. She felt uneasy.

  ‘Your eldest son must be persuaded that my quarrel is just,’ said Henry. ‘I doubt not he will listen to his mother. Your son Arthur naturally owes his allegiance to me.’

  That was true. She had prevailed on her husband to bestow the title of Earl of Richmond on Arthur and this he had done. It would be Arthur’s duty to range himself on the side of Henry. It was the eldest for whom she feared.

  ‘It is a pity your son was married into France,’ he said.

  She nodded. The marriage was arranged when she had come to England and for the reason that the King of France had wanted to make sure of the allegiance of Brittany.

  ‘Arthur of course will be your man,’ she said. ‘The Duke . . . well, that is another matter.’

  Henry realised that it would be difficult for the Duke to fight against his father-in-law. On the other hand his mother was the Queen of England.

  ‘I shall rely on your powers of persuasion,’ he said.

  Joanna promised to do her best and they parted amicably.

  But after he had gone Joanna gave way to the gloomy mood which his coming had brought. Wars, she thought. Is it going to start again? How foolish it is. He will never gain the throne of France. It will mean bloodshed, loss of treasure and rifts between the families. She could not believe that her eldest son would ever fight on the side of the English against France.

  Henry rode away thoughtful also. He must have Brittany with him, and surely the fact tha
t the mother of the Duke was his stepmother must carry some weight. Joanna was a clever woman. She would know how to persuade. And it was to her interests, too. Look what she had done since she had been in England. She had always been well treated, even though the people did not like her. She was very comfortable in England; he had heard it said that she was a very wealthy woman – in fact one of the most wealthy in England. Like his father, she had never been over-extravagant.

  He was going to need money to finance his war.

  He would think about that later.

  When he arrived back in Westminster it was to learn that Lord Cobham had escaped from the Tower.

  Christmas had come and the Court was at Eltham. Henry was fond of Eltham, and came to it often to escape the activity which there always seemed to be at Westminster. It was a secure fortress surrounded by a moat and a thick greystone external wall.

  There were revelries at Christmas but his thoughts were mainly of the campaign he planned to take into France. He knew that those about him marvelled at the change which had come over him. Not long ago he would have been in the thick of the revels, drinking, singing and watching the women, wondering which one he would select for his night companion.

  A crown had changed that. He had to think of marriage. He was twenty-six, not exactly a boy. Few kings remained bachelors so long. There had been many marriages suggested for him but after the manner of so many of such negotiations they had come to nothing. He must think seriously now of taking a wife.

  Strangely enough he often thought of little Isabella of Valois, Richard’s widow. He had been obsessed by that child. He had never seen anyone to equal her for beauty – but perhaps her image had grown more beauteous as time passed as was often the case. She had died, poor child, after they married her to Orléans. What a fascinating little creature she had been with her fierce loyalty towards ineffectual Richard who had never been her husband in more than name.

  Well, there must be an end to these prevarications. A wife . . . but first the crown of France.

  He sat at the high table in the great banqueting hall, above him the high-pitched roof with its hammer beams, carved pendants and braces held on corbels of hewn stone. Up in the minstrels’ gallery the musicians were playing their tunes. A great fire burned in the centre of the room. Soon the mummers would arrive and enchant the company with their performance.

  It was just like so many Christmases he remembered. The cooks had excelled themselves with the great joints of savoury meats and pies and fish garnished with fennel, mint and parsley – conger, ling, hake, mackerel, flounders, soles and dories. It mattered not the season as the cooks could salt anything to preserve it that they might serve it any time they wished to do so. Cooks vied with each other and the royal cooks must make each banquet better than the last. Capons, fowls, swans, peacock, bitterns adorned the tables, to the delight of those who enjoyed strong-flavoured birds.

  There was no lack of food and most of them thought Henry would be rendered almost incapable of staggering to bed so heartily would they partake of all the delicacies and so freely would they refresh themselves with the wines, beer and the mead produced by the good cellarers of Eltham.

  The banquet was over, the minstrels were playing; the mummers had arrived and repleted with rich food and strong drink the guests roused themselves from the soporific state to watch and applaud.

  The dancing had begun and as the King was wondering which of the ladies to select he felt a tug on his sleeve.

  He turned sharply. One of the mummers wearing the head of a goat was standing at his elbow.

  ‘My lord,’ said the goat-headed mummer in a whisper, and there was an urgency in his tone.

  ‘What means this?’ said the King but he kept his voice low.

  ‘Leave at once for Westminster, my lord. There is a plot to seize you and your brothers this night. To kill you and set up a new rule.’

  ‘Is this a joke? By God, I like not such jokes . . .’

  ‘My lord, my lord. I have been sent to tell you. The Lollards are planning to destroy you. They intend to do what they tried to do in King Richard’s day.’

  ‘Who has sent you to me?’

  ‘One whom you know well. A friend who loves you and who does not wish harm to befall you.’

  He knew at once. This was John’s doing. Was it a joke? The kind of joke they had enjoyed playing on each other. No, John had grown serious, even as he had. And there was one thing he knew and that was that the Lollards were a force and one to be reckoned with.

  ‘They plan to strike in the early morning, my lord. Retire to your chambers now. Let them believe that you are weary of the revels and have state matters to attend to. Summon your brothers . . . and then my lord . . . fly with them for your life.’

  Henry hesitated.

  Could this be true? He had an instinct for such matters and he believed it could be. He was no longer the reckless youth courting danger. He had a country to govern, a war to win.

  He said: ‘Me-thinks you come from my old friend and comrade John Oldcastle. Is that so?’

  ‘I have sworn not to betray the source of my coming, my lord.’

  ‘I could make you talk.’

  ‘There is little time, my lord.’

  ‘I’ll trust you then. Go from me now. People watch. They think we are exchanging badinage.’

  The mummer slipped away. Henry yawned. He said: ‘Continue to revel. I will retire.’ He signed to his brothers. ‘Come with me to my chambers. I have matters of which I must speak to you.’

  They left the great hall and when they had gone the guests again whispered together of the change in the King. In the old days he would have been in the thick of the revels; he would have been watching some of the women and testing them out as to which pleased him. Now it was retirement to talk state matters with his brothers.

  They would have been surprised had they watched the scene which was taking place with Henry and his brothers.

  ‘Prepare to leave at once,’ he said. ‘We are going with all speed to Westminster.’

  The warning had been timely.

  When the King arrived at Westminster early the following morning he was greeted with the news that something unusual was going on in the streets of London. All during the previous day those streets had been crowded, but not with Londoners. It seemed that men from all over the country were gathering there.

  ‘Send one or two men out to discover what they do there,’ was his order. ‘Do not put them under guards for questioning. But mingle with them. Drink with them in the taverns and make discreet enquiries.’

  This was done and it was not long before the same information was gleaned from several sources.

  They had been drawn into London from the countryside with promise of great rewards. Who had made these promises? It was Lord Cobham who was behind it. He was a very rich lord and he was going to reform the Church and make living easy for the poor.

  Has it come to this, John? thought Henry. War between you and me.

  ‘We must arm ourselves,’ said the King. ‘I see full well that this may be a repetition of what happened in Richard’s time. It is the same ragged army but if there are enough of them they could be formidable.’

  ‘My lord,’ said the Archbishop Arundel, ‘it is this man Oldcastle who calls himself Cobham. He has some notion that he is fighting for the right.’

  ‘He is an old man,’ said the King. ‘I knew him once. He is one who will espouse a cause and give it all he has to give. I fear this is what he does now.’

  ‘It is a pity he was ever allowed to escape from the Tower.’

  Henry nodded. He remembered his pleasure when he heard that John was free.

  John, you fool, he thought. Why did you not go back to the country and live in peace? Will you never learn your lesson?

  Of course he wouldn’t. He was a fighter. He was ready for any adventure – now as then.

  Stay out of this John, thought the King. I want no confrontation between
us two. I like not that we should be fighting on different sides. Once we undertook all our adventures together. Let us remember that now. Stop this nonsense while there is still time.

  There was more news. One of his spies reported that the Lollards were gathering in St Giles’s Fields and that they were preparing to march. Their first plan was to destroy the monasteries of Westminster, St Albans and St Paul as well as all the friars’ houses in London.

  The King was restive. Some action must be taken. He remembered how Richard had saved the day by making promises, promises which had not been kept it was true. But the poor simple peasants had not believed that that would be the outcome. They had trusted the King.

  ‘I will send out a proclamation,’ he said, ‘that all persons who have preached heretical doctrines and even those who have plotted against my life shall be pardoned.’

  His advisers were silent. They questioned the wisdom of this but Henry was firm.

  ‘So they are gathering in St Giles’s Fields, are they? Well, I will go to meet them. And I shall take a strong company with me.’

  ‘My lord,’ said one, ‘the apprentices are gathering in the streets.’

  ‘Then when we pass through the city gates on the way to the Fields, see that the gates are closed and let no one in or out save those known to be our friends.’

  ‘It shall be done, my lord,’ was the answer; and so the King with his guards rode out to the Fields of St Giles’s.

  This was a good move for the apprentices, always eager to join any movement which could mean trouble, were preparing to march, and gathering with them were the beggars and criminals ever eager to loot and pillage other people’s goods and houses. Many of the countrymen who had come to London to answer the call of Lord Cobham mistook the King’s camp for that of their friends and were immediately captured. The result was chaos and the rebelling army quickly realised that they could not hope for success against the King’s disciplined soldiers.