Georgette Heyer (16 page)

Harry’s eyes flashed. ‘As God sees me, I will never tread a crooked path to achieve my ends! A King should be fearless and just, or forfeit his kingdom!’

‘As Cousin Richard did,’ said Thomas, not kindly.

Harry’s fists clenched, but he did not fly at Thomas. He turned away, saying: ‘Yes. As Cousin Richard did!’

Three

After Wind Cometh Rain

1

It might have been expected that after nipping rebellion in the bud the King would have lost his frown, but it seemed to bite deeper into his brow as the days passed. None of his sons had more than a vague knowledge of what the cares were which pressed so hard upon him, but they all knew that he was besieged with demands and petitions; and they could all see that the first flush of his popularity had waned. The great lords who had placed him on the throne had ambitions which they looked to him to gratify; and the redeless Commons, hailing him as their preserver, expected him to right every grievance which was brought to his notice. Lords, Church, and Commons were at one in ignoring the unpleasant truth that without money little could be done; and if all the three estates had united in condemning King Richard’s unthrift they were equally united in the belief that in placing King Henry on the throne they had filled the royal coffers. They thought that the demesne lands should provide him with money for his personal needs; but his predecessor had granted so many of these as rewards that they were much diminished.

Of the four princes, only John took a real interest in the country’s revenue. Harry studied it as a duty; Thomas was bored by it; and Humfrey preferred the Humanities. John was fascinated by it; and soon discovered that it was derived from direct taxation and from Customs, of which the King’s levy on wool was the most important. This, ‘the sovereign merchandise and jewel of the realm’, was the most valuable of the exports, the best Cotswold wool fetching as much as twelve marks the sack, of which the King claimed half a mark. Next to wool came corn, cloth and honey; and, some way behind these, lead, tin, salt, fish, hides, and other such commodities. There were also tallages on the counties, boroughs, and cities; and a special duty on all wine imported into the country.

More lucrative than the duties were the land-charges. Forfeits and escheats brought in a respectable sum; but although the deaths under attainder of several rich lords had brought their estates into the hands of the Crown the money thus accruing was speedily swallowed up by the barons who had lent the King their aid, and demanded reward for their services.

It was one of the chief complaints of John Wycliffe’s disciples that the richest body of men in the land paid relatively the least towards its maintenance. Both the Southern and the Northern Convocations met every year to vote a fraction of the Church’s wealth to the Crown: it never seemed to amount to more than a tenth, yet all men could see the opulence of bishoprics and abbeys; and all men knew what large gifts poured into the coffers of the great mendicant orders of Friars.

One of the easiest, and, on the whole, the most satisfactory ways of rewarding a man to whom the King stood in debt was to grant him a valuable wardship. It was seldom that this arrangement was abused, for a man who held in ward a minor of substance found it to his advantage to administer the estates wisely. He enjoyed the revenues until the last year of his ward’s minority; if possible he married the ward to one of his own daughters; and if he were a kind guardian he found himself at the end of his guardianship not only wealthier, but linked by marriage-ties to a powerful ally. From time to time, of course, the custom did suffer abuse, as when my lord of Huntingdon misused Thomas Fitzalan, but these exceptions to the rule were rare, the most threadbare of cunning amongst the barons being well able to perceive the result of such misusage.

There were some, however, notably my lord of Northumberland, who would not be content with this form of reward. Northumberland was Warden of the Eastern Marches, and he said that for years he had been obliged to maintain his own charges. He had been the most lavishly rewarded of all the King’s supporters, even having bestowed on him the office of Lord High Constable of England, but never was he satisfied. John ventured to observe to his father that, in contrast, my lord of Westmoreland was making no such extortionate demands upon him.

‘Ah, Ralph Neville must stand or fall by Lancaster!’ said the King.

‘Percy too, for he would not go with King Richard to Ireland,’ said John.

The King looked at him sideways, and arranged a fold of his gown over his knees. ‘The Percies are very powerful, my son. Moreover, Thomas Percy of Worcester, Northumberland’s brother, was Bel sire’s Admiral when he sailed for Spain; and Hotspur and I were lads together.’ He saw the dissatisfied look on John’s face, and added, with a sigh: ‘That counts, John, as one day you will discover for yourself. Eh, the times we have seen, Harry Percy and I! The jests we have laughed at together!’

John said: ‘Yea, but I spoke of Northumberland, not of his son Sir Harry, sir. I know he calls himself your Mattathias, but Bel sire said he was a crafty old fox!’

The King laughed, and pulled his ear. ‘Master Jackanapes, it is time and high time that you returned to your books!’ he said.

2

To John’s disgust the King sent his four younger children to Berkhampsted Castle, in Sir Hugh Waterton’s charge. Humfrey, who was going to Balliol College, asked nothing better than to be chained to his studies; but not even the acquisition of a new tutor, who was a close friend of Master Chaucer, could reconcile John to what he thought a waste of time. Master Scogan was a stimulating teacher; and when he saw how methodically and accurately John worked, and compared his exquisitely neat writing with Humfrey’s often careless scrawl, he entertained hopes of making a scholar of him. He failed, because John was more interested in the problems of the world he knew than in the writings of the Romans; but Master Scogan’s wit and his understanding at least made John’s last year of pupildom less irksome than Father Joseph could ever have done.

It was not until the end of February that the princes removed to Berkhampsted; and before they left Westminster the rumour that King Richard was dead had received confirmation.

King Richard had died of pure displeasure: that was what the Commons were told. He had decreed in his Will that he would be buried in the Abbey at Westminster, which he had done so much to embellish, but his interment took place, very quietly, at King’s Langley.

It was not to be expected that Harry would accept King Richard’s death without question. In a manner unbecoming a son he demanded how King Richard had met his end. Perhaps King Henry had been prepared for this question, for he answered readily: ‘In one of his fits of woodhead Richard would not eat, though the richest viands were set before him. He died forhungered.’

The King had been signing some documents when Harry had thrust past those who guarded the door. A draught fluttered the topmost – it was the petition of Master Chaucer for a fresh warrant for his pension, he having negligently lost the original – and the King sought for a weight to set upon the papers, and so did not meet the beam of Harry’s lion-look.

‘There have been many messengers sent to Pontefract in these last weeks!’ Harry said, breathing hard through distended nostrils.

‘Affirmably,’ said the King, setting the ink-standage on his papers. He lifted his eyes, and said in an indifferent tone: ‘He lies in an open coffin: there is no mark on him.’

Harry shuddered. ‘Forhungered?’

‘As I have told you. By his own will, and for despite, belike. He would commit any deed of folly when he was araged.’

Harry remembered the destruction of Sheen Palace; the scenes of fury when Richard would destroy whatever came within reach of his hands; the long spells of accidie when he could scarcely be coaxed to eat or drink. It was possible, it was even dreadfully probable, that one of these fits had visited him in prison. No one would have coaxed him to swallow food at Pontefract. ‘Did he slay himself ?’ he asked, horror in his boy’s breaking voice.

‘Well, he was not possessed of his wits,’ said the King soothingly. He was himself a man of orthodox beliefs, and he had taken care that his children should be reared in these; but he found himself wishing that his heir were not quite so devout. Sometimes he felt that Harry would be more at home in a cloister than on the throne; then he would recall Harry’s headstrong pranks, and be reassured. A strange lad, Harry: half the time with his confessor, half the time chin-deep in devilry. He saw the haggard look in Harry’s face, and tried to find something to say to comfort his distress, for however noyously Harry might demean himself he was his son and his first-born, and he loved him. ‘I have bought a thousand masses for his soul,’ he said.

3

After the requiem service at St Paul’s for King Richard the younger children went away to Berkhampsted. Some instinct prevented Thomas from discussing Cousin Richard’s death within Harry’s hearing. He told John that he did not care a rush how Richard had died, because he had heard enough to show him that there would never be peace while he lived. Harry himself repeated to John what Father had said to him, and John replied: ‘Very like.’

Harry said, a challenge in his eyes: ‘I believe it to be true!’

‘Yea, no force!’ John said, not because he thought it, but because he knew it was what Harry desperately wished to believe.

Berkhampsted Castle, which lay some ten leagues from London, was surrounded by low hills. It was a spacious home for the King’s children, but except for the keep, which was built on a mound, no prospect could be obtained from any of the buildings. King’s Langley, which lay at no great distance from Berkhampsted, was more openly placed: the children thought it a pity they could not exchange residences with Great-uncle York, who hardly seemed to care where he lived.

He had aged rapidly since the accession of Lancaster to the throne, and nothing seemed to afford him pleasure. He lived retired from the world, refusing for some time even to receive his elder son, and hanging fondly instead on Richard of Coningsburgh. Richard was still unmarried, but his father had arranged an alliance for him with the Lady Anne Mortimer. She was an infant, but it was hoped that when she became of marriageable age she would prove a more satisfactory wife than Rutland’s lady, whose childlessness was a source of grief to her, and of reproach from her father-in-law. Only Rutland remained cheerful under a series of yearly disappointments. He patted his wife in the kindly fashion he used towards his hounds, and bade her be of good cheer. ‘We do very well as we are, ma mie! A man’s children will often grow up to be a bane to him,’ said good-natured Rutland, accurately stating the relationship he stood in towards his father.

The spring passed uneventfully at Berkhampsted, with nothing to break the tedium but a visit to Windsor, in April, for the Feast of St George. All four princes were invested with the Order of the Garter, Harry succeeding to his grandfather’s stall at the head of what had been known, since the Lord Edward’s day, as the Prince’s Table. The King gave them jewelled Garters; and the two youngest lordings saw their shields for the first time. They looked very bright: John’s with a label of five points, ermine and France; Humfrey’s with a border of argent and azure. Humfrey said how fortunate it was that the late troubles had emptied so many stalls: a remark which made Harry flush, so vividly did it conjure up the picture of King Richard in what had become Father’s stall.

The younger princes enjoyed the subsequent feast; Harry demeaned himself manfully, and spent the next two days recovering from it.

‘Harry, why
does
this happen to you?’ John said, looking down at him in concern.

‘God knows!’ replied Harry, prostrate on his bed. ‘If I could school my belly to hold rich meats I would, but since I can’t I shall forbid all feasts when I am King! And another thing I shall do,’ he added, smiling at John, and stretching out his hand, ‘will be to make you my Chancellor, or my Lieutenant, or some such thing! Which will you be?’

John took his hand, and held it. It was slender, but very strong. It did not seem possible that anyone with so vital a hand could be sickly, however often his belly might betray him. He was comforted, and replied: ‘I don’t mind. I’ll be anything you like!’

4

In June, the King announced his intention of going against the Scots. The existing truce would expire in September, and King Robert was withholding homage. King Henry reached Leith, but his army was not strong enough to enable him to proceed farther; so after wringing some vague assurances from King Robert and his brother the Duke of Albany he retired again. As far as the princes could discover, the only results of his expedition were the renunciation of homage to King Robert by the Earl of Dunbar and the Scottish Earl of March (by no means to be confused, Sir Hugh warned his charges, with young Edmund Mortimer), and the marriage of Aunt Bess Holland to Sir John Cornwall.

The King had found time to preside over a tournament in York where Sir John had distinguished himself so worshipfully that Henry had rewarded him with the hand of his dear sister. Old-fashioned persons considered the match to be beneath the lady, for although Sir John claimed King Henry III’s brother, the Earl of Cornwall, as his progenitor, his descent from this royal personage was, at the best, lefthanded. King Henry IV cared nothing for that if he could but silence his dear sister’s reproaches for the death of her first husband. She was quite unreasonable about Huntingdon’s taking-off; and when her brother told her that he was well aware that she had had several lovers during Huntingdon’s lifetime she said that this was nothing to the point, and no excuse at all for making her the widow of an attainted man. There were those who said that Sir John already knew her better than was seemly. The King thought this extremely probable, and counted the match as one of his most successful strokes of domestic policy.