by Sole, Linda
‘The weather is unfortunate, Sire. Some talk of witchcraft. They say that the weather has been sent to destroy the English usurpers and free the Welsh people from their oppressors. Even the priests are fearful and constantly telling their beads.’
‘Nonsense! I do not believe in witchcraft.’ Richard banished his regrets. ‘What of your sister? Does she do well?’
‘I fear I am the bearer of sad news, Sire. My sister was brought to bed early and the child was stillborn.’
‘Indeed? I am sorry to hear that, Sir Hugh. Lord Tomas must be devastated.’ Richard turned his face away, his hands clenching at his side. ‘What was the child – a girl or…?’
‘It was a boy child, Sire. My sister hath lost the son she longed for.’
For an instant Richard bowed his head in grief. ‘I am very sorry for her. I shall write my condolences when I have a moment to spare and you shall take the letter when we are done here in Wales. Elspeth does well still?’
‘Yes, the girl thrives, Sire.’
Richard nodded, once more in control. ‘It is often so. Girls thrive and the son we long for dies. It happens to kings and peasants alike, Hugh. I grieve for your sister’s loss, but I am sure she will console herself with Elspeth.’
‘I believe that is what Tomas will tell her. He is a good man. She was luckier than she knew when she wed him. He cares for her deeply.’
‘Does he?’ Richard stilled, shocked for an instant, and then nodded his head, in acknowledgement of something he had known in his heart. ‘That is a good thing. I am sure that they will have sons to bring them joy in future.’
‘Yes, perhaps.’
‘Was there something more?’
Hugh looked into the King’s harsh face. For a moment he was tempted to demand justice for his sister and her husband, but his courage failed him as he saw the glint in Richard’s eyes.
‘No, there is nothing more, Sire.’
‘You have done well to bring in as many men as you have. Join your fellow knights and rest. We have food enough, though ‘tis but rough fare. I dare say we may do better at Conway.’
‘Sire…’ Again Hugh hesitated. His instincts told him that Richard must strike now, before it was too late. He had a feeling of foreboding. It crept over him like a dark shadow, making him want to cry out that the King was wrong. He must not lose the advantage by taking shelter in Conway Castle. If he did so his cause was doomed. Yet to object too plainly would anger Richard. He would not be told by a mere knight for he was anointed in God’s sight. ‘I thank you.’
Walking away from the King’s tent, Hugh sensed the heavy atmosphere of gloom that seemed to hang over the small groups of soldiers, knights and even the nobles. Looking at their faces, Hugh could see and almost taste the air of defeat that clung about them. It was as if they all knew that their cause was doomed. Richard had lost even before he began, because the people refused to answer his call.
‘I hear that Richard intends to make his stronghold at Conway,’ the messenger said. He had ridden hard, his boots and hose splashed with mud from the roads, and had not stopped to change his apparel. ‘It is a stout fortress, my lord, and I think it will take a huge army to break down those walls and subdue the King’s forces.’
Henry Bolingbroke, created Duke of Hereford at Richard’s hand, swore loudly. Of a much heavier build than Richard Plantagenet and trained to fight from his early years he had proved himself again and again in the tourney, and was more at home on the field of battle than in a palace. He was a soldier to his core and as such he was respected by men who resented the superior qualities of their King; Henry was to their minds brave and strong where Richard was weak and vicious.
‘Richard is a coward,’ he snarled. ‘He will stay holed up in his castle for months and our army will grow tired of waiting for a fight. Men will desert us and then, when our ranks are sufficiently depleted, he will come out. Once the people see that he has the upper hand they will flock to him in their thousands and I shall have to return to France with my hands empty and, if I am taken, my head will be forfeit.’
‘Richard is a tyrant but clever as a fox. He played the waiting game before and beat us, and he thinks to do the same again, lulling us to a sense of security before he strikes – but this time we should not let him have his way. With good fortune, you may escape to France none the poorer for your venture, but those of us who joined you will lose our lands and mayhap our heads. Richard will not forgive those that took up arms against him. He has shown that he is prepared to hang his enemies and take their hereditary lands. We cannot let him win this time.’
‘There is a way,’ Henry said, his eyes narrowed, thoughtful. ‘We must trick him
- bring him out of there under a flag of truce and then arrest him.’
‘You would kill him?’
‘Nay, we shall meet with him, disarm him and then discuss our grievances. When we have him in our power the resistance will crumble. Without Richard there is no true opposition.’
‘But why should he give up a position of strength to meet with you?’
‘We must send someone in to talk to him, make him believe that all we wish for is to make peace, to ask that he will rescind the laws that forced us to rise up against him.’
‘It would have to be someone he trusted,’
‘Richard is not a fool. He will know that you are trying to lure him into a trap.’
‘Not if we send the right man.’
‘Where will you find such a man?’ There was a murmuring amongst the nobles as they looked fearfully at one another, wondering who would be chosen for such a dangerous mission.
‘I think perhaps we already have,’ Henry said and turned to look at a man who had stood silent and watchful all this time. ‘What do you say, my lord?’
‘You wish me to persuade him to meet you?’ Thomas Arundel asked, coming forward out of the shadows so that the light of the candles fell upon his thin face. ‘My family suffered at Richard’s hands. Yes, I shall do it, though I may need Northumberland’s help for Richard trusts him.’
‘Tell him that we wish to meet with the King to talk of peace. I am not sure of Northumberland’s heart. If he knew what we planned he might betray us to Richard.’
The other man nodded, his expression grim. ‘You may rely on my discretion,’ Richard is a tyrant and he no longer deserves to be King. ‘I shall deliver him to you, but the rest is up to you.’
‘You may leave the future to me.’ Henry smiled. ‘If Richard be a trusting fool, as I think him, he deserves no more than his fate.’
Six
‘Where is my wife?’ Tomas asked of his steward, as he strode into the great hall, spurs jingling. He was still wearing his mail of steel links and had ridden hard straight from the town of Oswestry. He had been on business there for the castle, buying much-needed stores, and the news he had gathered was not good. He must speak to Beatrice at once, before she heard it from another’s lips.
‘The lady is in her chamber, my lord.’
‘Good. I shall go up to her.’
Tomas ran up the twisting stone steps. How to tell her news that would cause her great distress? He was both shocked and anxious for the future looked uncertain. What ought he to do, to protect his wife and their daughter? He knew well the answer Beatrice would give but she spoke with the heart of a woman who loved. Tomas had served Richard faithfully but now…he drew a deep breath and entered his wife’s chamber. She seldom left it these days, preferring to eat alone and claiming that she was not well enough to dine with the men in the great hall. He had allowed her to hide behind her ill health, but if she did not put her grief to one side soon he might have to force her to see sense. He had given her, her way in all things but perhaps it was time to assert his authority as her husband.
‘How are you, Beatrice?’
‘Well enough,’ she said but did not look up from her tapestry. She was working on a brightly coloured screen, which would adorn their solar and depicted a scene of h
eraldry and men in battle.
‘I have just returned from Oswestry.’
‘Is that where you went?’ Her tone was flat, uninterested.
‘I told you there was business for the estate.’ Tomas sighed. She never listened to him. Sunk in her misery, she had turned inward and away from him. ‘I heard something there that will distress you, Beatrice. As yet I am not certain the news is true – but I wished to tell you before you heard it from another.’
Her head came up with a start. She was looking at him now, uncertainty and the beginning of fear in her eyes. ‘Do you speak of Richard? Is it bad news? Is he dead?’
‘Not dead, as far as I know – but taken by a trick.’
‘Taken prisoner?’ Beatrice rose to her feet, shock in her eyes. ‘How? You told me he was in Conway Castle. It is a strong fortress. How could it fall so easily?’
‘The castle has not fallen. Richard was persuaded to leave it and ride out to a meeting with Henry Bolingbroke. He took a small party of men he trusted with him, believing that he had been given assurances of safety. They surrounded him with armed men and rather than have his friends die for him, he gave himself up.’
‘No! How could he be so foolish?’ Beatrice’s voice rose on a note of hysteria. ‘That vile man will have him murdered. If Richard is not already dead, he will die soon.’
‘No, Beatrice. He cares too much for others and because of that people think him weal or a fool – but only a strong man would have done what he did. Richard still has many friends. Bolingbroke will not dare to bring him to trial or execute him. He is a man of fine honour. Surely England will rise for him? We shall demand his restoration. We shall seek terms for his release and…’
Beatrice shook her head, her eyes wild with grief. ‘I dreamed that Richard called to me last night. He was in sore distress. He wept and begged me to forgive him, and he swore that if he were freed he would legitimise my child – but I know it will not happen. He will die in prison at that man’s hands.’
‘Henry would not murder him, but there are others who are not so nice. Henry has what he wants now. He will declare himself King claiming that he has as much right to the throne as Richard.’
‘How can that be true? Richard was the son of the Black Prince and the rightful heir to Edward 111.’
‘That is true, but Henry can claim the same grandfather and if Richard is dead…there is no one else to dispute his right. Richard hath no heirs.’
‘Richard has a daughter.’ Beatrice’s eyes flashed with temper. ‘If Richard is murdered she has as much or more right to the throne than Henry Bolingbroke.’
‘No, Beatrice. Forget such dreams.’ Tomas took her by her arms and gave her a shake. ‘You must never say such things outside this room. Do you hear me? If Bolingbroke were to hear of Elspeth he would not allow her to live. Do you not see? He has the crown and he will defend it ruthlessly, no matter who has to die. If he would murder his anointed King why should he hesitate to kill a child? A child that might be the rightful queen.’
‘Richard is not yet dead,’ Beatrice said, her mouth set stubbornly. ‘He must be released and then – he will acknowledge his daughter. He will understand that Elspeth is his main hope for the future. If she is acknowledged as his rightful heir the people will rally around her and sweep Bolingbroke back across the sea to France.'
‘Richard’s friends will seek to free him for his own sake – but forget your foolish ambition, Beatrice. By speaking so wildly you endanger your daughter. If word of her existence reached Henry Bolingbroke, he might decide to do away with her lest someone start a rebellion in her name.’
‘Will you betray us to him?’
Tomas saw the bitter line of her mouth and felt pain strike at his heart. That she could say such things to him! ‘Surely you know that I would never hurt you? I know you blame me for your son’s death, but I sought only to make you see the error of your folly. I would never betray your secret but others may. Take care whom you speak to of your dreams, Beatrice, for you may learn to regret your wild talk.’
Beatrice turned from him, her face proud and rebellious. Tomas knew that it was useless to continue. She would not listen to him. He could only pray that her pride did not bring disaster on them all.
‘Sire, there is a priest without. He claims that he has an important message for you.’
‘A priest? What do I want with a priest?’ Henry Bolingbroke, self-proclaimed King of England, waved his servant away impatiently. The last thing he needed was a
priest to preach at him and warn him against the fires of hell. This was the moment of his triumph and revenge was sweet. Richard deserved his fate, which was to languish in prison until he died. Henry had given lip service to the men who sought his presence, persuading, even begging for Richard’s release, and then ignored them. As the months passed he was growing more certain of his power. He would not yield one inch no matter what. Any that came against him would be ruthlessly crushed.
‘He insists that it is a vital matter, one that you would do well to hear, Sire.’
Henry frowned, looking up from the document he had been studying. At heart he was a superstitious man. He was already haunted in his dreams and knew that his conscience would trouble him throughout many nights to come. There had been a time when Richard had called him cousin and they had laughed together as young lads, when he had reason to thank Richard for favours granted. Yet the King had turned against him, striking the last fatal blow while Henry still grieved his father’s death. Pushed to the limit, Henry had taken the law into his own dominion and now held the kingdom in the palm of his hand. Richard was a fool and deserved his fate. Forget the charming youth, who had shown him kindness, forget all favours given and think only of revenge. The barons were with him for too many had suffered losses at Richard’s hands. Still, he must tread carefully for pockets of resistance remained and there were many scattered about the country whose loyalty was Richard’s yet.
‘Very well, tell the priest to come in if he must. I shall give him a chance to speak his piece.’
Henry strode to the narrow window of the chamber above the great hall of Winchester Castle, looking down on the activity below. Men-at-arms were training, the sound of metal against metal resounding on the morning air. He caught the smell he always associated with priests and wrinkled his nose – incense and stale body odours made him sick to his stomach.
‘What do you want, priest? I am busy.’
‘I have news that you may wish to hear, Sire.’
Henry turned, his gaze narrowed and impatient. The priest was young, little more than a youth, his brown habit worn thin and in need of a wash, his tonsured hair greasy and hanging about his face. ‘By what name are you called?’
‘Father Arnaud, Sire.’
‘Speak then. I cannot conceive what news you think would interest me?’
‘Would it interest you to know that Richard Plantagenet has a daughter?’
Henry started violently, his gaze narrowing. ‘Richard has no child. His wife Anne of Bohemia gave him no children – and Isabella of Valois is but a child herself.’
‘Yet he had a daughter with the lady Beatrice. She is wed to Lord Tomas Ryston but they have not consummated the marriage. She recently gave birth to a stillborn son, who was also the King’s child.’
‘How do you know this?’
‘I was her confessor and she told me of her sins – but I overheard her speaking to her husband and the tale I tell came not from the confessional but from her own lips in her bedchamber.’
Henry was silent, his gaze narrowed, angry. ‘Even if this is true the child is a bastard and no threat to me. What did you hope to gain by coming to me with this tale, priest?’
‘I hoped for preferment at court, Sire.’
‘Then you gave yourself false hope. Your time is done. Leave me. I have other more important matters to attend.’
‘The lady thinks her child should be Richard’s heir. Her ambition knows no bounds. She ho
pes the bastard may be legitimised in Richard’s will. One day you may wish that you had listened to me, Sire.’
‘Watch your tongue, priest – or you may lose it. Go and keep your foolish tales to yourself. A bastard son might have represented some danger, a daughter means little. The barons of England want a strong King to rule them. It is for that reason they support me.’
‘You have seized the crown of England but it will never rest easy on your head.’
The priest glared at him and went out, leaving Henry to stare after him. He drummed his fingers against the table for a moment, irritated by the priest’s parting shot. It might have been better to give the man something, to keep him loyal. Some insignificant position where he could be easily dealt with if need be. If such a rumour spread it could cause unrest, though he doubted the barons would rise up for a child of Richard’s. Had they stayed loyal to their King, Richard would not now be languishing in Flint Castle – where he would stay despite the arguments of his friends. Henry would crush any rebellion ruthlessly, as a beetle beneath his boot.
He glanced down at the documents spread before him but his mind was elsewhere. It might be as well to make inquiries about the lady Beatrice and her daughter. If there were a grain of truth in the priest’s story he would at least be prepared for any eventuality. The year 1400 had been prophesied to be a year of terrible disaster. Henry would see to it that disaster fell on his enemies and not on him.
Reaching for the bell rope, he summoned his attendant.
‘Send for Sir John Fletcher,’ he commanded. ‘I have a use for him.’
Seven
‘I think I shall die here,’ the man said, looking into the face of the knight who had risked much by coming here to his prison cell. Sir Hugh had bribed the gaoler with gold and been given a rare interview. ‘No, my friend, do not waste what little time we have with protests. Take this to your sister. I have wronged her but now I shall put right that wrong. Give her my letter and let her make what use of it she may.’