If only he would die! It would have been better if he had escaped. Then he might have been killed in battle; but now he lay a prisoner in Pontefract fretting away his days; and the people who lived nearby were aware that he was there. They would look for the light in the tower and shiver as they passed by.

‘There lies one who was once a king,’ they said, and there was pity in their eyes and voices.

Henry decreed that there should be a curfew at dusk and no person from the town should venture out when the bell had rung. The guards must be watchful.

There was no peace for the new King of England while Richard lived.

Thomas Swynford knew that, and he was eager to serve his mother’s stepson well. All his good had come from the house of Lancaster. His mother’s marriage to the mighty Duke had changed their lives.

Who had he been but Thomas Swynford – son of a humble squire … until his mother became the wife of the Duke of Lancaster?

He would like to show his gratitude to the man whom he daringly referred to as his brother.

Henry knew it. Thomas Swynford was to be trusted. Thomas Swynford knew that Henry could have no peace while Richard lived.

There must be no bloody murder, though. Murdered men became martyrs. Richard must never be allowed to become one.

But Richard must not live.


* * *

How gloomy it was in the castle of Pontefract; how the winds howled about those walls. How long the winter was!

Richard lay listless on his pallet. His coat was stained. His golden hair was matted, his beard uncombed.

In the past he had cared so much for his appearance; how he had loved fine clothes, jewels, perfumed unguents, good wine, good food, gracious living.

But now … There was nothing now. There were no fine jewels nor sumptuous materials. His meat was often tainted, his bread mouldy.

Thomas Swynford was always there, watching him sardonically; the son of a squire now the master of the son of a great prince.

‘And you expect me to eat this?’ Richard had demanded.

‘Why not?’ was the answer. ‘It is good enough.’

‘Would you eat it?’

‘I am not the King’s prisoner.’

He could not eat. He felt faint from hunger but the food they brought him only sickened him.

‘You must eat or you will die,’ said Thomas Swynford.

‘I will die then,’ replied Richard.

Thomas Swynford said nothing and continued to serve the tainted meat.

Richard was often light-headed. His thoughts would slip away into the past. That was comfort, for the past was so much easier to live in than the present.

But there was a nightmare which haunted him. His great-grandfather, Edward the Second, had been treated thus. So must he have lain in a castle prison. And one night they had come to him …

Richard could not bear to think of it. What if they should remember and say as it was with Edward so shall it be with Richard?

Pontefract instead of Berkeley … Richard in place of Edward.

‘Oh God, let me die first,’ he prayed.

He was so weak now. He could scarcely raise himself. He ate nothing. He did not want food now. He could only lie still and drift from the past to the present and when he was most lucid he remembered what they had done to his great-grandfather.

If one wish could be granted me now, he thought, I know what it would be. Death.


* * *

It was a wild night on the 14th of February. No one was about. Even if the curfew had not kept people in the weather would.

Thomas Swynford came stealthily into the room. He knew it could not be long now. His prisoner had eaten nothing for many a day. He was fast fading away.

How the wind howled as though for a soul in torment!

It cannot be long now, thought Thomas Swynford. Today … tomorrow … I shall be sending my news to the King.

He tiptoed to the pallet. There he lay, the once handsome King, the proud Plantagenet.

The last wish of Richard of Bordeaux had been granted.

He was dead, and the throne was safe for Henry of Bolingbroke.

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