Passage to Pontefract (48 page)

He was not kept long in suspense. Sir William Rickhill, who was a justice of the Common Pleas, arrived from England and he told Gloucester that he had come to question him and take a statement from him.

Gloucester was almost relieved. It was better for something to happen than to go on in this state of suspense.

Sir William Rickhill was surprised when he came face to face with the Duke. He knew of his bombastic manner and how in the past he had behaved with great arrogance as though he were the King, instead of his nephew.

He found a changed man. Even Gloucester’s ruddy complexion had turned sallow and there was an anxious brooding in his eyes. He was clearly a very worried man.

He talked freely to Sir William. He admitted that he had held the King in restraint ten years before and had threatened to depose him. It was no use trying to pretend otherwise for Richard knew this was true. Yes, it could be said that he had looked upon his nephew as a boy and had not shown him the respect a subject should show to his King. He could only beg the King’s pardon.

Rickhill returned to England and Gloucester tried to settle himself to wait patiently for the verdict.

There was no news from England. Each day Gloucester looked from the castle window of his apartment which was well guarded by his jailers, out over the stormy sea awaiting the arrival of the King’s messenger.

They would come. He would be pardoned. The King could not put his uncle to death.

He had a new servant, a man named John Halle who told him that he had once served the Earl of Nottingham.

There was something sly about the man and often Gloucester would find his eyes on him as though there was some plan forming in his head. Gloucester was indeed changing since he concerned himself with the mood of servants. Not that there was anything to complain of in Halle. He was subservient enough. And there was another named William Serle who admitted that he had once served in the King’s chamber.

Gloucester asked John Halle why they were here. The answer was that they had been sent.

‘We but obey the orders that are given us, my lord Duke,’ said William Serle.

One day John Halle came to the Duke and told him that he was to prepare himself to leave the castle.

Gloucester cried out in his joy. He was going home. Of course Richard could not hold out for long against his own uncle. His brothers Lancaster and York might not exactly love him, but they would remember that they were the sons of the same royal father. Families should stand together and that was of particular importance if they were royal.

He was ready. Waiting for him was a small band of guards — among them were Halle and Serle to escort him, as he supposed, to the coast.

In the midst of them he rode out of the castle, but to his dismay instead of going to the shore where he had expected a ship would be waiting for them, they went into the town of Calais.

‘Where are we going?’ he demanded.

It was William Serle who answered: ‘To a new lodging for you, my lord Duke.’

‘A new lodging! Here in Calais?’

They had pulled up before an inn. Gloucester looked up at the sign swinging over the door. The Prince’s Inn. It looked an ill-kept place.

‘I like this not,’ said Gloucester. ‘Why do you bring me here?’

‘My lord Duke, you should not ask us. We but obey the orders that are given.’

‘I do not understand …’

They took him inside. It was dark and gloomy. An evil ill-smelling place.

He turned to leave but he was surrounded by the guards.

‘Have you the room ready?’ said William Serle who seemed to be their leader.

An unkempt man in a filthy jerkin appeared out of the dimness.

‘All ready, good sirs,’ he answered.

‘Then to it,’ said Serle.

‘I shall not ascend those stairs,’ cried Gloucester.

‘My lord Duke, we have orders.’

They were pressing round him so that it was clear he must obey.

A door was opened, he was led forward. He stood in the middle of a room on the floor of which was a pallet. The closeness of the place and the rank odour nauseated him.

‘Take me out of here,’ he shouted.

Serle sadly shook his head.

‘It won’t be long, my lord Duke. I can promise you that. But I’m just doing as I’m told.’

The men who had brought him here were outside the room. Serle stepped back. The door was shut and he was alone.

He had never felt such despair in his life. On whose orders had he been brought here? On Richard’s? What did they intend to do with him? To leave him here, to starve him to death, to go away and forget him?

He sat down on the pallet. He buried his face in his hands. He wanted to shut out the sight of this evil room.

He could sense the doom all around him. He would never escape. They had brought him here to die.

But why? Why? Why had they not despatched him in the castle? Some evil fate was intended for him, he felt sure.

He could hear the rats in a corner of the room. One of them ran across close to him … boldly looking at him with baleful eyes.

‘Oh God,’ he prayed, ‘get me out of here. I’ll do anything … but get me out of here.’

Then he thought back over his life, of his anger because he was the youngest of his father’s sons, of all his dreams and longing for power. And it had brought him to this!

Did Lancaster know? He was his brother. Did York know? Edmund had always been the quiet one, never seeking power, living in the shadows. He had hardly ever thought of Edmund in the last years. It seemed Edmund was perhaps the wisest of them all. And Lancaster had lost his fire lately. Who would ever have believed that the ambitious John of Gaunt would have been content to live quietly with his low-born wife.

And that this could happen to me! He wanted to scream, to shout to them to come and let him out. He knew it was useless.

Instinct told him that he had been brought to this room to die. Now he was praying silently: ‘Let it be soon, oh Lord. Let it come quickly.’

He seemed to have sunk into a stupor. The darkness was closing in on him. He thought: At night the rats will come out.

He felt numb and he could only pray: ‘Oh Lord, let it come soon!’

It seemed as though his prayer was about to be answered. He heard footsteps on the stairs – quiet stealthy footsteps. The door was being opened quietly, slowly. There were men in the room. He recognised William Serle.

He stood up and as he did so he was seized.

They were carrying something. He did not know what it was. It looked like feather-beds.

God had answered his prayers. It was happening quickly. He was thrown face downwards onto the pallet and the feather-beds were placed on top of him.

They were held firmly down on him. There was no air. He could not breathe.

So died the proud Duke of Gloucester.

Richard congratulated himself on his prompt action. The three main protagonists were all taken care of. Only one of them lived – the Earl of Warwick – and he had never been the menace that the other two had presented. Warwick had been drawn into the conspiracy almost against his will. At his trial he had confessed to his guilt and had implored the King’s pardon. There was no point in sending him to his death. There had been enough death already and after the manner of the people, death was the accolade of saintliness. They were even saying that miracles were being performed on Arundel’s grave now.

No, let Warwick be sentenced to forfeiture and imprisonment for life. He had been sent to the Isle of Man where he would be under the control of the governor there, William le Scrope, who was not the man to show much leniency to a self-confessed traitor to the King.

With Arundel dead and Warwick imprisoned and Gloucester dying rather mysteriously in Calais there remained only one thing to be done. Gloucester’s body must be brought to England and given decent burial.

There were rumours about the cause of his death for at the time of his arrest Gloucester had been a healthy man. Richard wanted no martyrdom for this far from saintly uncle.

He sent for one of the priests that he might give him personal instructions as to how his uncle’s body was to be dealt with.

The priest came to the King and when they faced each other Richard was struck with amazement, for the priest was so like himself that had they been dressed in similar clothes it would scarcely have been possible to tell them apart.

‘Who are you?’ asked Richard.

‘Richard Maudelyn at your service, my lord.’

Richard said: ‘I am struck with amazement. It must be obvious to you that we resemble each other very closely.’

The priest smiled. ‘My lord, all my life I have been told that I bear a close resemblance to you.’

‘It is remarkable,’ Richard smiled. ‘There must be some blood tie.’

‘I have often thought so, my lord.’

‘Your parents …’

‘My parents are dead, sir.’

‘I wonder …’

‘It is possible, my lord.’

Richard was thoughtful. His father had been a faithful husband but Richard knew that he had at least one illegitimate son, who had been born before he married. Richard Maudelyn was about ten years older than he was. It was possible.

‘I am so overwhelmed by this unusual resemblance,’ said the King, ‘that I forgot the reason why I sent for you. You know that the Duke of Gloucester has died in Calais. I want you to see that his body is taken to his widow for burial in Westminster Abbey.’

‘It shall be done, my lord.’

‘And, Richard Maudelyn, when it is done, I would have you wait on me again.’

‘Thank you, my lord.’

Richard had taken such a fancy to his double that he gave him a post in his household.

They became great friends and everyone was startled by the resemblance. Richard Maudelyn’s voice was even like the King’s and he could with the utmost ease give an impersonation of his master which was indistinguishable to many of his courtiers.

Richard was amused and liked to play little tricks on them, changing clothes with Maudelyn. Sometimes they did not let people into the deception, and Richard began to realise that Maudelyn could often take his place. He had even ridden through the city and acknowledged the greetings of the people.

It occurred to Richard and those close to him that there might come a time when this strange quirk of fate could be put to good use.

Thomas Mowbray was uneasy. It was true that as Earl of Nottingham he had helped bring Warwick, Arundel and Gloucester to justice and for his services he had been created Duke of Norfolk. The King though had shown himself to be one who would not easily forget an insult. And Mowbray, though now Duke of Norfolk, had been one of the five who had confronted Richard on that memorable occasion years ago. The King had had his revenge on three of them. Two remained, himself and Bolingbroke, now Duke of Hereford.

Norfolk remembered the King’s outburst against Arundel when he reminded him of his implacable and relentless pursuit of Simon Burley. To bring it up after all those years showed how it had rankled. Richard was one who would never forget an injury; and it was logical to assume that that occasion when the five lords had faced him and made him their prisoner, was something which would remain in his memory. And he would want revenge on all five.