Passage to Pontefract Read online

  Passage to Pontefract

  Виктория Холт

  Richard of Bordeaux, young heir to the throne after Edward the Third, is surrounded by ambitious uncles who believe it would be better for the country if they could take the crown. While Richard shows himself capable of reckless bravery in defeating the Peasants’ Revolt, his extravagance soon brings him into conflict with his people. Before long the king's most powerful opponents confront Richard and threaten to depose him.

  Here is a vivid picture of Richard’s court, his devotion to his favourite Robert de Vere, his love for two Queens, clever Anne and the little Isabella, and of his headlong journey towards disaster. He is determined to take his revenge on the five lords who have humiliated him, but while he succeeds with four of them, the fifth proves to be far more of a challenge. Henry of Bolingbroke, son of John of Gaunt, is clever, subtle and absolutely set on achieving what his father had failed to …

  Jean Plaidy

  Passage to Pontefract

  PART ONE

  JOHN OF GAUNT

  Chapter I

  THE BIRTH OF THE BOYS

  London was in a festive mood on that glorious May day. There was little the citizens liked better than a royal occasion and this promised to be one of the most splendid the capital had ever seen. The King loved display – the more magnificent the better. It was one of his endearing qualities. A weakness perhaps but a lovable one indulged in by a man who was said to be the greatest warrior in Christendom and whose reputation was as illustrious as that of his grandfather, great Edward, the first of that name.

  Three days earlier the King’s son – he who was known as John of Gaunt because he had been born to Edward and good Queen Philippa in the Flemish town of Ghent and the English despising foreign tongues found Gaunt came more easily to the tongue than Ghent – had in Reading been married to Blanche, the daughter of the Duke of Lancaster.

  All would agree that the union of two handsome young people was a matter for celebration, particularly as they were both royal, for Blanche was descended from the Plantagenet tree even as John was; and the parents of both bride and groom were revered throughout the country.

  Henry of Lancaster, the bride’s father, was known in England – and in Europe too – as Good Duke Henry, the perfect knight. He was chivalrous at all times, generous to his enemies, loyal to his friends, a deeply religious man, and his grandfather had been Edmund the second, son of Henry the Third.

  As for the bridegroom’s parents, they were beloved by the people as few monarchs had been before them. Their subjects must be proud of this tall handsome King whom many said was the image of his grandfather and only slightly less tall than that Edward Longshanks whose reputation had been enhanced by memory. This Edward had all the Plantagenet good looks – the abundant fair hair, the straight nose, the flashing blue eyes, the fine physique. Moreover he had brought stability to the country and such was his popularity that it had been forgotten that the glories of Crécy and Poitiers had been paid for not only with blood but with taxes wrung from the people, and that the acquisition of the throne of France was no nearer than it had been at the beginning of the war. He had married Philippa of Hainault of whose benevolence the people had been made aware and even in his marriage he had shown his good sense. Philippa might be over plump and show signs of continuous childbearing and be scarcely a beauty, but her fresh rosiness was comely and her expression one of gentle goodwill. She had on several occasions been known to plead with the King to show mercy, for he like most of his race was possessed of a temper which could be violent when provoked; and for this quality she had been deeply respected. She was womanly; she was virtuous; and she was known as Good Queen Philippa.

  Their devotion to each other had been an example to the nation, and if there had been rumours of late that the King was not quite the faithful husband it had, in the past, been generally believed he was, such suggestions were forgotten when the royal pair appeared together.

  London was delighted with its ruler; and all wise rulers knew that the approval of the capital city was essential to their security. Yes, they loved this King who could give a good account of himself in the jousts in which he so liked to indulge, and they enjoyed seeing him glittering with the jewels with which he so loved to adorn his handsome person.

  Not only had he restored the prestige to England which it had lost during the previous disastrous reign of his weak effeminate father, he had sired sons – all handsome – and the eldest, as was fitting, was one whose fame had spread far and wide and already showed signs of being as great as his father and grandfather – another Edward, known throughout the country as the Black Prince.

  So on this occasion of the marriage of the King’s son, London determined to honour its sovereign. There was noise and bustle everywhere. From the gables of the houses women chatted to each other, discussing the merits of the bride and groom. People crowded into the streets; they lived most of their lives out of doors when the weather permitted, for they liked to escape from the closed-in darkness of the little houses huddled closely together, and regarded them only as shelters against the cold and places in which to eat and sleep. Celebrations such as this one made the highlights of their lives.

  May Day had just passed. Then they had danced round the maypole welcoming the summer; they had decorated it with the wild flowers growing outside the city walls by the Strand which connected the City of London with Westminster and where lay the houses of the nobility, their gardens lapped by the river – the City’s great highway along which craft of many descriptions plied back and forth at all hours of the day and night. They had festooned their doorways with flowers; and had even hung little glass lamps among the blossoms. After dark the effect had enchanted all who beheld it.

  That was May Day. But this was an even greater occasion, for it had been announced that there was to be a great joust and that champions had come forward to hold London against all challengers. There was an air of mystery about this for none knew who those champions were; but all declared that there had never been, nor ever would be, a celebration to match this which honoured the marriage of the King’s son, John of Gaunt, to the Lady Blanche of Lancaster, daughter of Good Duke Henry.

  The pavilions were being erected. In these the knights would don their armour and await the summons to come forth and fight. Some were glorious indeed, made of silk and velvet; but the mystery was stressed because on the grandest of these pavilions there were no mottoes, no shield of arms to identify those who would occupy them. This reminded the people that the defenders of London were the mysterious knights who had come forward to serve the City at this glorious time.

  Stands were being erected for the nobility. It would be a glorious sight. The King would be present. A royal occasion indeed. It was no wonder that hours before the tournament was due to begin people should be converging on the City. From Clerkenwell and Holborn they came, from St John’s Wood and Hampstead. They slept in the meadows of Marylebone and dabbled their feet in the Paddington brooks.

  Even the sombre Tower, that grim Norman fortress, brooding over the scene seemed less menacing on this day and no one thought of the dark deeds which had gone on behind those grey walls. Rather they looked towards Westminster and the magnificent Savoy Palace on the Strand. The Savoy was the home of Duke Henry now and had passed through the hands of many owners; it had been built by the notorious Simon de Montfort who had married King Henry’s sister and had come near to ruling England himself. But when he had been subdued King Henry the Third had presented the house to his wife’s uncle Peter, the Earl of Savoy, and it had been known as the Savoy ever since. He in his turn gave it to a priory and it was from this priory that Queen Eleanor had bought it as a suitable
residence for her second son Edmund, Earl of Lancaster and that was how it had come into the family.

  Close to the City but outside its walls the joust would be held and already the people were waiting there. Cheeky apprentices, like boys let out of school, were chatting to the milkmaids; ploughmen, prelates, merchants – men and women of all ranks – had come to see the pageantry.

  * * *

  Excitement was intense. The joust had begun. The Queen and her ladies sat watching. With her was the young bride. Blanche was as beautiful as she had been proclaimed to be. Her long fair hair was loose about her shoulders; her skin was delicately white, her eyes deep blue. She was eighteen years old. People gazed at her with interest. Tall, slender, almost delicate, she looked so young and tender beside the corpulent Philippa.

  The people cheered themselves hoarse for the ladies. But they waited for the King and they waited in vain.

  But there was little time for speculation for the challengers had come forward and the defenders were riding out to meet them – twenty-four knights led by five of the tallest men in the field. For a few moments the silence was intense. Then the trumpets were sounding and the heralds had come forward announcing that the tournament was about to begin. The heralds ran from the field as the horses came pounding in. There was fierce excitement in the sound of the crash of steel against steel, in the shine of shields and lances as the sun caught them, in the battle cries of the noble knights. The Londoners looked on in utter fascination and their attention was focused on the men who had taken upon themselves the task of defending London. Who were they? The crowd thrilled with delight for the challengers were no match for them.

  In due course their victory was complete. London had been bravely and skilfully defended against all comers, as it always had been and always would be.

  Now the great moment had come. The mysterious defenders must uncover and show themselves. They rode into the centre of the field – those five tall men who had led the defending team.

  One rode a little ahead of the others and when he lifted his visor there was no mistaking the thick fair hair, the blue eyes, the handsome Plantagenet features.

  ‘The King!’ The people went wild with joy. What greater compliment could he have paid his City than to place himself at the head of its defenders. They might have guessed whose face was beneath that visor for he had not been beside the Queen in her loge. It was a game that kings loved to play when they were sure of the loyalty of their people. It was Edward’s way of telling them that his City of London was dear to his heart and that he would defend it with all his might.

  ‘Long live the King.’ The cheers that rent the air could have been heard from the Tower to the village of Knightsbridge.

  The second knight had ridden up. He had removed his visor and the crowd was now almost hysterical with joy for there was no mistaking that handsome face either. It was so like that of the King. More austere perhaps but as handsome, the great military hero Edward, heir to the throne, who had won his spurs at Crécy and was the hero of Poitiers, who a few years previously had led his royal captive, the King of France, through the streets of London and lodged him in the Palace of the Savoy. Edward, acclaimed throughout the world as the soldier whom none could equal. The Black Prince himself.

  And he too was here to defend London!

  The third knight was even taller than the King and the Black Prince. He was not so well known as they were but that he was a Plantagenet there was no doubt – the same colouring, the same handsome features and his outstanding height proclaimed him as a son of the King.

  ‘Long live Lionel Duke of Clarence, Earl of Ulster, defender of London against all comers.’

  How they revelled in the disclosures. They were not surprised however when the next defender was revealed as John of Gaunt, the bridegroom. A special cheer for him because it was due to his wedding that the joust was taking place. All eyes turned to the little bride seated so demurely beside the Queen; she was flushed with what must have been pride and happiness. What a handsome pair they were. Only great Edward could have sired such splendid sons.

  What rejoicing there was. What better gesture could the King have made.

  There was not a more popular man in London that day than the King of England.

  * * *

  When the feasting was at an end and the King and the Queen could retire to their apartments Philippa looked forward to a cosy talk with her husband. Philippa was ever ready to cast aside her rank. She had been brought up in a happy home which by the standards of royalty was homely. She cared more deeply for the happiness of her family than for their military glory or the possessions they might acquire. She had always deplored Edward’s obsession with the crown of France.

  Often she wished that Edward were merely a nobleman without the responsibilities of state, though she knew of course that he would not have wished for that.

  She liked to spend most of the time they could be together in discussing family affairs, and what occupied her mind now was her eldest son.

  ‘Seeing John so happily married to dear Blanche has made me think more than ever about Edward,’ she said.

  The King nodded. Edward’s future was not a new subject.

  ‘He is twenty-nine years old,’ went on the Queen.

  ‘I well remember the day he was born,’ said the King. ‘What rejoicing there was! It was like you to give me such a son … our first born. Do you remember how the people stood about in the streets and how they would go wild with joy at a glimpse of him?’

  ‘I shall never forget their joy. And they still love him. He has their devotion even as you have.’

  The King took her hand and kissed it. ‘You have brought me great happiness, my dear. It was the best day of my life when I came to Hainault and set eyes on you. I loved you then and I love you now.’ He added with fervour: ‘There has never been any to take your place in my heart.’

  Even as he spoke he was thinking of his meeting with the Countess of Salisbury who would always be to him the most beautiful and desirable woman he had ever seen. Love had come to him so suddenly that it had overwhelmed him and to the astonishment of his followers, for hitherto he had been a faithful husband, he had made every attempt to persuade the fair countess to become his mistress. The situation was even more deplorable because she was the wife of William de Montacute, one of his greatest friends who was at the time a prisoner of the French, taken in fighting for Edward’s cause. It was a serious blot on his honour, and even though the Countess had been too virtuous to submit to his lust, his conscience was sorely troubled. Whenever he remembered that occasion he was particularly tender towards Philippa and made a point of protesting his eternal fidelity. Dear homely Philippa, who must never know how near he had come to betraying her!

  Philippa gave him her pleasant smile. She loved him dearly. She had always been aware of her lack of allure and had never ceased to marvel that Edward had loved her as he did. She knew of course that great beauties like the Countess of Salisbury must tempt him from time to time. Rumours reached her. But she had decided to ignore them. She longed for peace in her home. She was the Queen. Edward was her husband. She must always be his first consideration, and he and her children were her life.

  But the occasion of John’s marriage must make her think with apprehension of her eldest son, for he was ten years older than John and still a bachelor. Lionel, who was eight years younger than Edward, was married. A wife had been found for that second son when he was little more than a baby, and a very good match it had been, according to the King, for the bride although six years Lionel’s senior was a great heiress. Elizabeth de Burgh had brought him Ulster and he now bore the title of Earl of Ulster as well as Duke of Clarence, and Elizabeth’s vast inheritance was in his hands. He was happy, which pleased Philippa as much as his wealth. Lionel was an easy-going young man, pleasure-loving, far less serious than his brothers Edward and John. He was the tallest in a tall family and the handsomest. It had been said that there was
not a man in England who could compare with Lionel in good looks.

  In between Edward and Lionel there had been the girls, Isabella and Joanna, and little William who had died; and after John there had been Edmund, who had distinguished himself at the tournament this day; and after Edmund little Blanche who had lived but a short time. Mary and Margaret, her two darling girls, had followed; then another William who had died. An unlucky name for the family, William. And lastly Thomas, the youngest of the brood. None could say she had not done her duty as a mother.

  Isabella, the eldest daughter, was headstrong and her father’s favourite, spoilt, wilful, flaunting the fact that she could with a little wheedling always get her own way with the King. Philippa was uneasy thinking of her eldest daughter’s future; she had constantly tried to restrain the King in his inability to stop spoiling her. But the greatest sadness had come to her through Blanche and her two Williams and Joanna. Joanna had died in Loremo, a small town near Bordeaux, when she was on her way to marry Pedro of Castile. Poor child! It seemed now that she had been fortunate to die, even horribly as she did of the plague, for Pedro who had earned the name of The Cruel would have been a fearful husband for such a gentle creature. She heard that his mistress commanded him and he was her absolute slave, and that he had murdered the wife he had eventually married and had strangled his bastard brother in addition to countless crimes of cruelty. Never again, Philippa had vowed to Edward, should a child of theirs be sent out to marry a bridegroom of whom they knew nothing except that he possessed a great title.

  Edward always soothed her. He loved his children even as she did; he wanted them to be happy; but he must be mindful of the demands of state. He never stressed this though with Philippa, and he knew that in the case of his daughters he would always be lenient.