The Star of Lancaster (21 page)

His father was going away. He would be away for ten years. I shall be twenty when he comes back! thought Henry. Would the King send him away? Was the family in disgrace? It must be so if the King suspected his father of treachery and was sending him out of the country.

The two Dukes had been given fifteen days in which to make their preparations and leave the country. After that time they would be arrested if they remained.

A harsh sentence was the comment.

‘Do you wonder?’ Harry overheard someone say. ‘These are the last two of the Lords Appellant. The other three are taken care of. Now exile for these two. Richard never forgets
an insult. Depend upon it he has been waiting to take his revenge on these two.’

‘He seemed to have trusted both Mowbray and Bolingbroke.’

‘Seemed to. But Richard never forgets.’

Harry knew about the Lords Appellant. He learned such matters with absolute ease because they concerned his father and family and that meant himself.

He heard that his father was coming to say good-bye to him before he left the country and he steeled himself for the farewell.

His grandfather arrived with his father. They were both very sober.

His father embraced him and told him that he must grow quickly now. He must remember that in the absence of his father he must take his place. ‘Thank God your grandfather is here to protect you,’ he said.

‘You will be leaving Court and coming with me,’ went on the great Duke. ‘Your father and I think that best. The Duchess is looking forward to welcoming you. We shall go to Leicester after we have accompanied your father to the coast.’

‘Yes,’ said Harry quietly.

‘I think Harry is old enough to understand,’ went on the Duke. ‘Your father will not be allowed to come back to this country, and you must learn how to look after our interests. That is what I shall teach you. And if you are thinking that I am an old man, you are right. I am. I could die at any time and we must be prepared for that. I have seen the King and he has agreed that when I die my estates will not be confiscated. The Lancastrian inheritance will be for your father and in due course for you, Harry. You understand?’

‘Yes,’ repeated Harry.

‘This is a sorry matter for our family but we stand together and never fear or doubt that we shall emerge triumphant in the end.’

While they were talking the King came in.

They were all startled because it was rarely that he was seen without attendants. They were there now . . . but waiting outside the room.

‘You are saying good-bye to the boy,’ said Richard.

His father and grandfather stood back uncertainly.

‘You need have no fear for your son, cousin,’ said the King.

‘He will be well cared for,’ said his grandfather. ‘I shall take him with me when I leave.’

The King smiled slowly. ‘I have grown fond of Harry. You know that don’t you, boy?’

Harry murmured that his good lord had always been gracious to him.

‘So much so that I cannot part with him.’

Harry heard his grandfather catch his breath and saw him put out his hand to touch a chair to steady himself.

‘It is good of you to say so,’ said his father, ‘but in view of my sad state you will wish to be rid of him.’

‘There you are wrong, cousin. I have interested myself in Harry. I like him well. In fact he interests me so much that I have decided to keep him with me.’

‘He is young,’ said his grandfather in a quiet voice. ‘He needs to be with his family.’

‘Well he is to some measure. Are you not my uncle and is he not your grandson? At Court he can be with his King and his kinsman.’ The next words were ominous. ‘It is what I want and I shall not change my mind. Come, Harry, say good-bye to your father. You shall be at my table this night.’

The King turned and went out of the room.

Harry looked from his white-faced father to his stricken grandfather. He understood. He had become a hostage.

Harry did not see his grandfather again. Four months after his son had been exiled John of Gaunt died in Leicester Castle. He was nearly sixty years old and he had led a full and adventurous life. His great ambition had been to wear a crown and he had never achieved it, although his daughter by Constanza of Castile was now a Queen and the son Blanche of Lancaster had borne and those of Catherine Swynford would, he was sure, make their mark in the world.

But he would not see it; and he died, with his son in exile and his grandson a boy who would not be twelve years old until the summer.

His body was carried from Leicester to London and the cavalcade stopped one night to rest at St Albans where that other son, Henry Beaufort, now Bishop of Lincoln, celebrated a requiem for his father.

The name of John of Gaunt was on every lip. Now that he was dead it was forgotten that he had been the most unpopular man in the country and only good was remembered of him.

When the King seized his estates, a number of people were shocked, for it was known that Richard had promised that the estates should go to the rightful heir even though he was an exile. Solemnly the King had promised this to John of Gaunt. It was unwise to break promises given to the dead.

‘No good will come of this,’ was the prophecy. ‘Richard should take care.’

Henry of Bolingbroke, Duke of Hereford, exiled from his native land, arrived disconsolate in France and made up his mind that he had no alternative but to throw himself on the mercy of the King of France, hoping that since Richard had sent him away he might find some favour in that quarter.

Even this was questionable for Charles’s daughter Isabella was now the wife of Richard and the two countries were at peace. All the same it would be naive to assume that there was true friendship between them and it was almost certain that the King of France would be ready to receive a notable exile from England, if only to learn what was happening in that country.

Henry was right. No sooner had he arrived in Paris than King Charles expressed his willingness to receive him, and did so with such a show of friendship that Henry’s spirits rose, especially when the King presented him with the very fine Hôtel Clisson which was to be his while he stayed in France.

He was received at Court presided over by Queen Isabeau, one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen and, if rumour was correct, one of the most evil. In spite of the outward appearance of elegance and wealth there was a distinct uneasiness throughout the Court and it was not long before Henry heard of those mental aberrations which the King suffered and which robbed him of reason. These lasted for varying periods of time – none could be sure how long – and when they ended the King would emerge remembering nothing or very little of what had happened during his periods of insanity.

Henry began to fret. Richard had, under pressure from John of Gaunt, reduced the sentence of ten years to six. But six years away from home! How could he endure that! His father was ageing, young Harry was but a boy, and exile was the most disastrous thing that could have happened. Moreover,
although he had been warmly welcomed at the French Court, he knew how quickly enthusiasm for men in his position waned. He was thrown into melancholy.

One day, however, there were visitors at the Hôtel Clisson who were to cheer him considerably.

He could scarcely believe his eyes when the two men arrived asking for audience with the Duke of Hereford. He received them with caution for the elder of the men was Thomas of Canterbury and the younger the Earl of Arundel whose father had been executed for treason.

It was natural that exiles should work together against a common enemy but the first thought that struck Henry was that his father John of Gaunt as Seneschal of England had been the one to pronounce sentence on the unfortunate Earl of Arundel – and how could he guess what the Arundels’ feelings would be towards the son of John of Gaunt.

It soon became clear that past grievances must be forgotten. After all, although Henry had been a member of the court which had condemned the Earl of Arundel, he himself, had not actually passed the fatal sentence; now they were all exiles from England and must join against the common enemy, Richard the King.

So Henry could draw comfort from the arrival of these two and in Paris they could discuss the fate which had overtaken them, through the misgovernment of Richard, and ponder as to what could be done about it.

The Archbishop had come from Rome where he had exhorted the Pope to request Richard to allow him to return, alas to no avail.

‘One day,’ he said, ‘I shall return. I am the Archbishop no matter whom the King should set up in my place.’

Henry agreed. It was comforting to have Englishmen of standing to share his fate. Oh yes indeed, let bygones be bygones. They had the future to think of.

Young Thomas Fitzalan the Earl of Arundel was the only surviving son of the executed Earl. He had been only sixteen when his father had died; it was not very long ago and he remembered it vividly. How could he forget? Not only had he lost his father, but the way of life to which he had been accustomed was drastically changed.

He told Henry what had happened to him. It had made him very bitter.

‘My father’s estates were confiscated. I had nothing . . . nothing at all. The greatest misfortune of all was to be handed over to John Holland. Duke of Exeter now! He is greatly enriched but not through merit, simply because he is the King’s half-brother. How I hate that man! He takes pleasure in humiliating those better than himself. Richard knows this and yet he goes on honouring him. He is unfit to move in noble circles. How he delighted in humiliating me. “You would call yourself my lord Earl, would you?” he said to me. “Now your father has lost his head you would take his place, eh? Have a care that you do not follow too closely in his footsteps, my young brave.” Then he took off his boots, threw them at me and bade me clean them. I was treated as a servant, I tell you. I’ll have my revenge on Holland one day.’

Yes, it was comforting talk, and each day the exiled Archbishop cast aside more of his grievances against the House of Lancaster. The three of them talked often and earnestly about events in England. They could do nothing as yet, but when the opportunity came they would be ready.

One day the great Duc de Berri, uncle of the King, called at
the Hôtel Clisson. He was affable and showed signs of friendship towards Henry. He too talked of affairs in England. He had his spies in that country and he knew that the King’s conduct was finding less and less favour with his people.

‘The English have a way of chastising their kings if they do not please them, is that not so?’ The Duc laughed. ‘
Mon Dieu
, England came very near to having a King from France in the reign of John, remember? Henry the Third, Edward the Second . . . they had their troubles. It could well be the same with Richard. And then . . . Ah, but we look too far ahead.’

Such talk created great excitement in Henry; but he had learned not to betray his feelings. At what was Berri hinting? That Richard might fall and then . . . and then . . .

His next words made his thoughts quite clear. ‘You are a widower. You lost your good Countess. You are too young a man to remain unmarried eh? Particularly in view of your position. I have a daughter. Marie is a pretty girl. Well, perhaps you would consider this. If you were agreeable, I should raise no objections.’

He was decidedly agreeable. He felt exultant. Berri could only believe that Richard’s throne was tottering and – oh intoxicating thought – that he, Henry of Lancaster, had a chance of attaining it. Only such a hope and a good chance of its becoming a certainty could have brought Berri to this.

Henry replied quietly, for he was determined not to appear too eager and it might be dangerous to utter a word which could be used against him, that he had not thought of remarrying as yet. He had been devoted to his Countess; her death had been a great shock from which he had not yet recovered. He had four fine boys and two daughters so he need not worry at this stage about his heirs. But he appreciated the
honour done to him and if the Duc de Berri would give him a little time . . .

‘A little, my friend,’ cried the Duc, ‘but not too much. A girl such as my daughter has many suitors as you can imagine. You will let me know your answer within the week.’