Виктория Холт - Passage to Pontefract

‘His time here is growing short,’ replied Richard coldly.

‘And there are one or two points which I want to clear up before he goes. I am sure you will understand my concern, for you will wish to be just to your cousin and to me.’

‘It is always my desire to administer justice,’ retorted Richard.

‘Then, my lord, I want your undertaking that in the event of my dying during my son’s absence, my estates will pass to him and not be forfeited to the Crown.’

Richard waved his hand. ‘That request is granted,’ he said. Then he added: ‘Why Uncle, you have many years left to you.’

‘So I trust,’ answered John of Gaunt.

‘My father will care for my elder sons,’ said Henry. ‘Thomas and John are on their way to Leicester now. He will take Harry back with him.’

Richard shook his head and regarded his cousin coolly.

‘Nay, nay,’ he said. ‘Not young Harry. I have grown fond of the lad.’

John saw the stricken look in his son’s eyes.

‘My lord, his place is with his grandfather. He will be his guardian during my absence.’

‘I have decided to be his guardian … for a while,’ said the King.

‘You mean …’

Richard was smiling gently. ‘I mean, cousin, that I love the boy so well that I would have him at Court. He shall have his duties there and you need have no fear for him.’

He was making his meaning clear. No, Richard did not trust his cousin. He was holding young Harry of Monmouth as a hostage for his father’s good behaviour.

There was nothing more to be said. Henry took his farewell of the King and his father rode with him to the coast.

‘You see what this means,’ said Henry. ‘Harry is to be a hostage.’

‘Richard grows wily … at last,’ answered his father. ‘You will have to be careful, Henry.’

‘I intend to take the greatest care,’ was the answer.

‘At least we made him swear that my estates shall not be forfeited to the Crown; and that was what we came to do.’

‘And to take Harry away.’

‘Do not fret about Harry. I tell you this, there is a boy who will know how to take care of himself.’

Henry agreed with that.

At the coast he and his father took a sad farewell of each other and Henry set sail for banishment and France.

* * *

The loss of his eldest son whom he had looked on as the hope of the house of Lancaster had a marked effect on John of Gaunt. Richard had, out of compassion to him, shortened the length of exile from ten to six years. But six years! mourned John. Shall I ever see my son again?

He loved his children, all of them. His Beaufort boys as he called them delighted him because they had a look of Catherine; but Henry his first-born son, his heir, royal Henry, had been the one on whom all his hopes were fixed.

Richard was a failure. He had seen that for a long time. Richard was feckless and extravagant. He cared far too much for fine clothes and lavish displays. He gathered the wrong people about him. He had a talent for taking the wrong action – for instance marrying a child who could not be a wife to him for years. Was ever such a piece of folly committed by a King who needed an heir?

Richard’s power could not last. He could see that as clearly as he could see anything. Richard would go. And Henry was in exile.

This was particularly significant at this time because news had come from Ireland that Roger de Mortimer, Earl of March and Richard’s heir, had been slain in the fighting at Kells.

The crown was perilously in danger of falling from Richard’s head. And who should wear it next?

If only Henry were here! Henry should take the crown. Life was ironical. How he, John of Gaunt, had yearned for that very crown; and it had been denied him, although he had found crowns for his daughters and it might have been that the most coveted of all could have gone to his son.

Life was bitter. Henry at this moment – this significant, this most fateful moment – was in exile.

* * *

He brooded a great deal on Henry’s exile. He thought of young Harry whom the King kept at his side. Catherine busied herself with the others – delighted to have children to care for again. She was watchful of him but she was growing more and more anxious every day.

There came a time when John took to his bed and Catherine knew that he must indeed be falling ill to agree to do this. He lay there, his eyes closed, and Catherine was filled with a terrible fear.

He made her sit beside him and took her hand.

‘These have been happy years,’ he said, ‘these we have had together.’

‘There are many left to us,’ she said firmly.

He smiled at her. ‘It is not like you to hide your face from the truth, Catherine,’ he said.

‘You are not going to die. You are too great a man to die.’

‘And where is the logic in that? Greatness has nothing to do with death. One thing is certain – I shall die. As for my greatness that is not such a certainty. I have failed so often, Catherine.’

‘We have been happy,’ she reminded him. ‘You have just said so. To achieve happiness … is that not what we all seek, and to achieve it … that is the true success.’

‘You talk like a woman … you always did,’ he told her fondly.

‘Perhaps it is no bad way to talk.’

She sat beside him holding his hand. He slept a great deal and when she looked at his face, so pale, so still, she felt a great desolation touch her for he looked as though he were already dead.

‘Oh John,’ she whispered, ‘don’t leave me. Now … we have come together … after all these years. Don’t leave me …’

He opened his eyes and said: ‘There is trouble coming, Catherine. Richard cannot last. And then … and then …’

‘Don’t think of it, it distresses you.’

‘And then,’ he said, ‘what of Henry …? Henry banished … Henry should be here. It is Henry’s place …’

‘Let it take care of itself …’ she said. ‘Rest now. It is not for you to worry.’

‘It is true,’ he murmured. ‘I shall be gone … There is no peace, Catherine, for those who see the crown within their reach and yet cannot quite attain it.’

‘Rest. To please me. It matters nothing … now.’

But it mattered still to him, she could see. He had longed for the crown. He would be happy if he could see Richard deposed and his son Henry reigning in his stead.

‘It is what Richard feared,’ he murmured. ‘That is why he sent him away …’

She sat long by his bed. She would not leave him because she knew that there was not much time left.

* * *

John of Gaunt was dead. It was like the passing of an age.

Catherine was desolate. It was the end of life for her. Since she had first met him years before, he had dominated her thoughts. He had raised her to become his Duchess and that filled her with exultation, not because he had placed her specially high but because it showed his esteem for her. Their children had been legitimised and would play a big part in the country’s affairs. All that had filled her with pride but now she could feel nothing but this utter desolation.

They had taken his body to the Carmelite in Fleet Street where it would lie until burial.

In accordance with the wishes he had expressed in his will he was buried in St Paul’s Cathedral by the side of his first wife the Duchess Blanche. The funeral was a ceremonial occasion and Richard was present, expressing deep sorrow at the loss of this uncle who had played such an important part in his life.

Edmund of Langley, Duke of York, who had lived very quietly for so long, much preferring to shrug off all responsibilities and enjoy life on his country estates, had been commanded to come to see the King and was in a state of some concern.

Richard received him with affection and explained the reason for the summons.

‘Well, Uncle,’ said Richard, ‘you see me in the throes of great preparation. I am going to show the people of Ireland that I have had enough of their disobediences. I am going to avenge Mortimer’s death. You will preside over my government during my absence.’

Langley was disconcerted and uneasy, but he saw at once that protest was useless so with his usual nonchalance he accepted what he must.

‘There is one matter of which I would speak with you, my lord,’ he said.

‘Could it possibly concern Lancaster’s estates?’ asked Richard.

Edmund Duke of York said that it did.

‘You have not come to reproach me, Uncle?’ said Richard. ‘I see you so rarely. Must there be conflict between us when we do meet?’

‘Not conflict, I trust,’ replied York. ‘I merely wish to say that I hope what I have heard regarding the estates is not true.’

‘I have a feeling, Uncle, that it may well be true.’

‘Not that you have taken them! I understood from my brother that you had sworn they should not be forfeit.’

‘Your brother is dead, Uncle of York. The heir to these estates is in exile and will remain there for some years yet. Why should the Lancastrian estates be passed to an exile?’

‘Because he is the true heir to those estates and you gave your word that they should not be forfeited to the crown.’

‘You have stayed in the country overlong, Uncle. It does me good to see you here. But I like it not when you tell your King how he should rule his kingdom.’

The Duke was aghast. What had happened to his nephew since he had last seen him? Where was the young man who had sought to rule his kingdom well? Richard was not only arrogant but foolish. Did he not realise the importance of this matter of the Lancaster estates?