Виктория Холт - The star of Lancaster

Great Harry they called him affectionately and there was grudging admiration even from his enemies.

John smiled, recalling the braggart youth sprawling on his tavern chair drinking, eyeing the women, singing tavern songs. Those had been good days; but they could not have gone on for ever. Neither he nor Henry were of a kind to spend all their lives in riotous living, seeking their excitement in tavern brawls.

Somehow he had always known that there was more to both of them than that. Harry had found it in the quest for a crown; as soon as he had taken that alluring object in his hands, he had changed. As for John, he had changed too. His had been a yearning for spiritual matters. How strange that religion should have become the whole meaning of life to him.

He talked to his followers and all who would listen. He had always been an eloquent talker. That was what had attracted Henry to him. Then he had used his quick wits to provoke laughter. It was different now.

All that mattered to him was that he should make men understand what was in his mind. There must be reforms in Church. Men must worship God, not the trappings of ceremony. All the money which was poured into maintaining the splendours of the Church should be used to improve the life of the villeins, he believed. He wanted a simple religion; he wanted spiritual humility and peace for men and a more dignified physical existence.

As poor Sawtre had said the cross was a piece of wood. Yes, a better piece of wood than others of its kind because Christ had died on it. But it was not to be worshipped as such. Salvation came not through the cross but from Christ who died on it.

He had come to Wales after being surprised in a house in St Albans. He had sought shelter of a villein there who greatly admired him and was ready to risk his life by giving him a bed in his house. His was a personality which could not be hidden. In time people were coming to the villein's house just to hear him talk. So in due course as seemed inevitable he was betrayed and the Abbot of St Albans sent his servants to surround the house; but he had his friends and an hour before the servants came he was riding towards Wales.

It was a lesson and brought home to him the realization of how easily he could be captured.

There in the Welsh Marches among the hills which lay between the Severn and the Vyrnwy he had found his refuge. But he would have to emerge when the spring came. It was not his intention merely to keep hidden from his enemies. He must rally friends to his cause.

He had found the perfect hide-out and decided that he would make this his refuge. It should be the place to which he returned if he were pursued; he believed he would always find shelter there. There was an inn nearby which was owned by ardent supporters, people on whom he could rely. He was safe here to work out his plans. Moel-y-sant offered beauty as well as security; it became known as Cobham's garden.

He had always been reckless; he could not change his entire nature in so short a time. He trusted the innkeeper and his wife and family; he had forgotten that servants came and went and he might not find the same loyalty among them. He had forgotten that there was a possibility that he might be traced to this spot and there might be a plan to capture him.

Lord Charlton, on whose estate John was sheltering, in due course learned that he was there. A reward was offered for the capture of Oldcastle who, because of his connections and eloquence, was considered a great menace not only to the Church but to society; and Charlton thought it could do him no harm—on the contrary much good—if he delivered Oldcastle to his enemies.

He therefore began to plan. He placed one of his servants in the inn which he suspected Oldcastle frequented. The spy soon confirmed the truth of this and one night when John was seated in the inn parlour discoursing to his friends and disciples, there was a shout of "The inn is surrounded'. And then the armed men of Charlton's retinue burst in.

John stood up dashing his tankard to the floor, but he realized that he was trapped. However he was not going to be taken without a fight, and a battle ensued.

John was big and strong and it was not easy to take him; but while he was struggling with an assailant, one of the serving girls who had become friendly with Charlton's spy picked up a stool and threw it with such force against John that it broke his leg, thus rendering him helpless and he fell to the ground—a prey to his enemies.

It was the end. What could he do, being unable to stand? He was seized in triumph and carried off to Welshpool Castle, the home of Charlton, who was overcome with delight by the capture.

The first thing he did was to send a messenger to the Court. The King was in France and the Regent was his brother the Duke of Bedford.

Charlton received a delighted reply from Bedford. Let Oldcastle be brought at once to London without delay.

The injuries which he had received in the fight, chief of which was his broken leg, made it impossible for him to ride, but Bedford was in no mood to delay. It occurred to him that if the King were to hear of his old friend's predicament he might out of sentimental feeling find some way of pardoning him. If, reasoned Bedford, Oldcastle had not been allowed to escape from the Tower—and sometimes Bedford wondered whether Henry had connived in that facile escape—they would have been spared a great deal of trouble.

No, bring Oldcastle to London. Let him be speedily tried and sentenced to the heretic's death.

"Send him at once," he ordered. "Even if he has to travel in a whirlicote."

So John was placed in a horse-litter and brought to London.

"Let there be no delay," said Bedford. "This man should be tried at once."

John knew that this was the end. There could be no escape now. If he could but see the King, if they could indulge in a discussion such as they had so much enjoyed in the old days, he would have been able, he was sure, to make Henry understand.

But Henry was abroad in France bent on winning his crown. And John was here in London, in the hands of his enemy.

He was immediately brought before his judges and condemned to die the heretic's death.

He held his head high; he faced his judges and cried: "Though you judge my body which is a wretched thing, yet I am certain and sure that you can do no harm to my soul, no more than Satan could upon the soul of Job. He who created that will, of His infinite mercy and promise, save it. Of this I have no doubt. I will stand by my beliefs to the very death by the grace of my eternal God."

The very same day he was taken by hurdle to St Giles's Fields to what was now known as the Lollards' Gallows. He saw the fire being laid below the chains in which they would hang him; and he knew then that his last hours had come.

A multitude had gathered to see him die. He had many supporters but none who there in St Giles's would dare to come forward and claim him as a friend. The acrid smell of smoke, the writhing agony of sufferers, set them shuddering. He was a great man, John Oldcastle called Lord Cobham; he was ready to die for his beliefs. But there would be few who would want to share the martyr's crown.

He addressed the spectators as he was being put in chains.

"Good Christian people," he said, "beware of these men, for they will beguile you and lead you blindly into hell with themselves. Christ says plainly unto you: "If one blind man leadeth another, they are like both to fall into a ditch."" He was now hanging horizontally above the flames which were rising to lick his body.

"Lord God Eternal," he cried, "I beseech Thee of Thy great mercy's sake to forgive my enemies if it be Thy will."

There was a hush on the crowd. They heard his cry as the flames reached him.

Then the smoke hid him from view.

Henry was determined to complete the conquest of France and what he needed more than anything was money.

He was obsessed by the thought of attaining the crown and was convinced that it was his by right and he would let nothing stand in the way of attaining it. He was certain that if his great-grandfather Edward the Third had carried on with the fight after Poitiers he would have won it. He had given up too soon; he had become lethargic, obsessed by lust; and the Black Prince, who would have won it, had become ill and died.

He, Henry, was the chosen one.

It was agreed now that he was a great warrior—to rank with William the Conqueror and Richard Coeur de Lion. Such men were all-soldier. They allowed nothing to come between them and their objective. Henry was not cruel for the sake of cruelty but if it was necessary to the outcome of a battle he would kill without mercy. He was a soldier first; everything was subordinated to his cause. He never sought to evade any duty; he should share hardship with his men; he made it clear to them that even though he was their King and leader he was one of them, ready to suffer cold or die with them. He had the power to make them follow him. He was good to them; he was proud of his image; he knew that his men would follow him to the jaws of death if he commanded them to do so.

With such an army and such a leader, he knew he could not fail.

When he heard how Oldcastle had died he was overcome with grief but then he grew angry. John had been a fool. Why had he given up the glorious life of a soldier to campaign for his Lollard views? John, becoming spiritual, a reformer I It was nonsense. He should have been with him at Harfleur and Agincourt.