Виктория Холт - Passage to Pontefract

Nothing could have convinced them more than that strange act of the dog that Richard’s reign was over, and that of Henry of Bolingbroke had begun.

They had given him the clothes of a foreigner that he might not be recognised as they took him down the river. He was not sure of his destination. He felt numbed and at times he was certain that he would wake up and find he had been the victim of a nightmare that had seemed to go on for weeks. At Gravesend they alighted and went by road to Leeds Castle in Kent.

A prisoner, he the King! No, no longer the King – plain Richard of Bordeaux. He would never forget those last days in the Tower. Gloomy days, with the rain pelting against the grey walls and the darkness of despair in the fortress.

For the last time he had worn his royal robes, but he was not allowed to sit on the throne. He had gone there only to give it up.

How they had shamed him! They had kept him standing while they read out the long list of his deficiencies. And then had come the degrading moment when he had taken off his crown and handed it to Bolingbroke.

Oh fool that I was! he had thought. I had him in my power once. I exiled him. I should have destroyed him then.

And Bolingbroke was now Henry the Fourth of England. It was the end. He had failed and it had all happened too quickly for him. He had not seen the danger until it was right upon him.

Leeds was one of the most beautiful castles in England standing as it did on two islands connected by a double drawbridge, but Richard was in no mood to admire his surroundings. He could see nothing but that terrible scene in the great hall at Westminster when he had meekly handed over his birthright to his cousin.

It was all over now. This was the end. Pictures from the past filled his mind. He remembered so well the anxious looks in his mother’s eyes. She had feared for him from the moment she knew he was destined to become a king. He thought of his great father and wondered what he would feel if he could look down on what was happening to his son.

He must not brood on these things; of what then could he think? Of the present? He shivered. The future? What hope was there in life for him?

They did not leave him long at Leeds. They did not tell him where they were taking him, but he knew that he was riding North. Ah yes, to some Lancastrian stronghold of his cousin-enemy. First they kept him at Pickering and after that at Knaresborough and finally they came to the Castle of Pontefract.

It was built on a rock and the high wall was flanked by seven towers. The moat on the western side was deep. He had visited Pontefract before and had heard of the dungeons there. There was at least one he knew which could only be entered through a trap door. Prisoners were lowered and left there to die.

What did they intend to do with him? The fact that he had been taken to this grim fortress of Pontefract could be significant.

It was deep winter now and the weather bitterly cold. There were snowdrifts about the castle walls. From one of the towers Richard could look down on the town and he could see the guards who were stationed about the castle. There were always guards; when one group went off duty another took it’s place. It was heartening in a way because it meant that his enemies feared there might be an attempt to rescue him.

He let himself dream. This nightmare would pass. He would be back again. He would be King; men would bow before him; he would ride to Windsor and see his dear little Isabella.

Isabella, Isabella, he murmured, what do you know of this?

Poor sweet child! She was growing up now. She would hear news and her sweet heart would be torn with grief.

He must write to her. Perhaps they would send her to him. She was too young to be suspected of subtlety. She was but a child. She would be faithful to him in his adversity. Unlike Math. When he thought of that incident it struck him as uncanny. It had unnerved him more than anything that had gone before. Looking back, he saw that in that moment when Math had turned from him to Henry he had known it was the end.

Dear, sweet Isabella! She would never turn from him.

They allowed him writing materials. With mingling pleasure and pain he took up his pen.‘My mistress and my consort, cursed be the man who has separated us. I am dying of grief because of it. Since I am robbed of the joy of being with you, I suffer such pain and am near despair … And it is no marvel when I from such a height have fallen so low, and lose my joy, my solace and my consort.’

‘Sweet child,’ he murmured. ‘What will become of you? What will become of us both?’

* * *

They had set Sir Thomas Swynford to guard him. Trust Henry to make sure that those on whom he could rely should be given positions of trust. Swynford was the son of Henry’s stepmother, Catherine of Lancaster, and as all his possessions had come to him through Lancaster he would serve the Lancastrian cause with all his heart because it was his own.

But he, Richard, had been good to Catherine. Had he not, on his uncle’s urgent request, legitimised the children they had had? The Beauforts were now the recognised legitimate sons of John of Gaunt. Surely they should be grateful for that. But it was natural that they should support their half-brother.

He did not like Thomas Swynford. He fancied the man took pleasure in humiliating him.

He talked to him now and then almost condescendingly and showed no respect for one who had once been a king.

Once Richard said to him: ‘I was a good friend to you and your mother, Thomas Swynford.’

Thomas Swynford replied: ‘You thought it well to please the man you called your mighty uncle.’

‘There were times when John of Gaunt felt it advisable to please me. Why do you say the man I call my uncle?’

‘Because many say now that he was not your uncle because you were not the son of the Black Prince.’

‘None would believe such a lie.’

‘Some do. There is a priest who is so like you that men say he must be your brother.’

‘Richard Maudelyn! He bears a resemblance to me but who has said that he is my brother. How could that be?’

‘Your mother was a lady much given to gaiety. The Black Prince was a man who suffered from much sickness. There were some handsome priests in the Court of Bordeaux.’

‘You lie! How dare you utter such foul slander against my mother.’

Thomas Swynford gave a mock bow. ‘My apologies. You asked for truth and I gave it to you. I tell you this is what is being said. There is a priest who is so like you that he must be your brother … your half-brother that is.’

‘These are lies put about by my cousin.’

‘I must warn you it is unwise to slander the King. That is treason.’

‘Then, Thomas Swynford, you should at this moment be condemned to the traitor’s death.’

‘How forgetful you are! You are no longer a king, Richard. You are less than the least of us.’

He was in despair. There was nothing he could do. He must accept this slander. He was powerless.

Where was Isabella now? What was she thinking? Sad little Queen. And even sadder Richard.

* * *

Cold despair had settled on him. Was there not one man in the kingdom who was his friend? Was he doomed to stay here, his cousin’s prisoner, until he died?

One day one of the guards contrived to be alone with him and the words he said sent wild hope soaring through Richard’s heart.

‘My lord King, you have your friends …’

A great gladness came to him. He was not entirely forgotten then.

‘Whence came you?’ asked Richard. ‘And what do you know?’

‘I am to tell you that all will be well. Ere long the traitor Bolingbroke will be no more.’

‘Whom do you serve?’

‘My lord, your brother, the Duke of Exeter, who is stripped of that title and is now known as the Earl of Huntingdon.’

His half-brother, John Holland! He could have wept with joy. John would help him. Of course he would. He was their mother’s son. How he and his brother had teased him when he was a boy; how they had indulged in rough horseplay and practical jokes and their mother had reprimanded them. ‘Remember Richard is but a boy yet.’

They had laughed at him, joked with him, tried to teach him their rough games … but they had loved him.

‘Are you sure of this?’ he asked.

‘My lord, I serve the Duke your brother and he would have you be prepared and not lose hope.’

‘Who is with us?’

‘Your half-brother and his nephew, the Earl of Kent, with Thomas le Despenser, your nephew, the Earl of Rutland, and others. It is a simple plan, my lord, but simple plans are most likely to succeed. Bolingbroke is holding a tournament at Windsor. Our party will go there with carts of harness and armour for the tournament it will be believed. Then we shall choose our moment, overpower the guards, kill Bolingbroke and his son, Henry of Monmouth, and restore you to your throne.’

‘Oh God, bless them. My good brother, my good friends.’

‘We shall succeed, my lord. But there is one thing you must know. The people will want to see you, and it will take time to release you from this place. It may be that they will have to fight their way through to you.’

‘Are there other good and faithful friends like yourself in the castle?’

‘There are a few, my lord. But I am wary of trusting them.’