CHAPTER XXIV
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RICHARD and his young father-in-law, Charles of France, had found one thing in common during their private discussions before the marriage. They both had suffered, and they continued to suffer, from the activities of royal uncles. Charles knew about Thomas of Woodstock and is said to have spoken of him as “the worst-tempered man in England.” He seems to have told Richard of his own troubles with the French dukes. The result was a mutual engagement to help each other in any difficulties which might arise from avuncular opposition.
Early in the year 1397 the Count of St. Pol came to England to visit his wife at Windsor Castle. He was reported to have whispered in Richard’s ear that the English malcontents were moving silently in the background with the purpose of taking the throne away from him. This may have been the first result of the understanding between the two kings, but the situation was not entirely unknown to Richard. He had already received some inkling of what was afoot from the Earl of Nottingham, who was serving as governor of Calais. Nottingham had been one of the original dissenters but had afterward swung around to the king’s support.
The story was, briefly, that secret meetings had been held between Thomas of Woodstock, the Earl of Arundel, and the archbishop at Arundel Castle and at St. Albans. The Earl of Derby had been one of the group of five who had activated the Merciless Parliament but, since returning from his crusading jaunts, he had been on friendly terms with the king, and for that reason he had not been invited to the meetings. Nottingham had been kept in the dark also. Thomas de Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick, had joined the group later, but with some unwillingness.
It had been decided that Richard and his two oldest uncles, John of Gaunt and Edmund of York, were to be seized and placed in perpetual imprisonment. Thomas of Woodstock then took a step which he had immediate reasons for regretting. He confided in Roger de Mortimer, who had been selected by Richard as his successor.
Mortimer was a son of Philippa, the only daughter of Prince Lionel, second son of Edward III. His grandmother, Lionel’s first wife, was Elizabeth, the only child of William de Burgh, Lord of Connaught and Earl of Ulster. The family were considered first among the Anglo-Norman lords of Ireland and it had been a natural thing for the boy Roger to be chosen by Richard as lord-lieutenant of that island. The boy was only seven when the appointment was made and it had been necessary for an uncle to act as his deputy. But now Roger was twenty-two and was planning to go to Ireland and take up his work there seriously. He was a young man of honesty and amiability and had become justly popular with the people of England.
“You need not wait to succeed to the throne,” was the message whispered in his ear when Thomas of Woodstock sought him out. An army would be raised, he was told, to fight under his banner against Richard. The persons of the king and his French wife were to be secured and they would then be kept in the most rigid confinement. Mortimer would be declared King of England.
It had never occurred to Thomas that the youth would see anything but his own advantage in such a plan. He was amazed when Mortimer became pale and so agitated that he could hardly speak. Mortimer, it became clear, was too loyal for treasonable activities, even though his own interests might be served. It was evident he was aghast at the disclosure which had been made.
This brought Woodstock to a realization that he had made a serious blunder. He reacted in a way that was natural to him, blustering and threatening and demanding of Mortimer a promise to keep the matter secret. The latter was so seriously disturbed that at first he did not know what to say. He liked Richard and was completely loyal to him but he realized also that it would mean death for the conspirators if he divulged what he knew. Finally, in a state of panic, he agreed to say nothing. Soon afterward he sailed to Ireland.
The young lord-lieutenant took his duties seriously, even to the extent of wearing the native costumes. His responsibilities included, however, the restoration of order in the land and he was plunged at once into hostilities. Two years after his arrival he was killed in a skirmish with the armed men of an Irish clan and was buried in Wigmore Abbey. In the meantime the family complications from which he had fled had been carried through to their sanguinary conclusion.
This story of a second conspiracy is based on the chronicles of two French writers, Froissart and Gaillard, both of whom were favorable to Richard. English historians have been disposed to regard the evidence as inadmissible, although they agree there had been many things to fan the king’s anger during the months immediately following his marriage. Both Woodstock and Arundel had withdrawn from court and had been openly critical of the placing of the port of Brest in the hands of the Duke of Brittany. Whispers had been spread that Richard intended to return Calais to France. This story, for which there was no foundation, was circulated all over the country and generally believed, being one of the reasons for the unpopularity of Richard through the final stages of his reign. On the arrival of the Count of St. Pol, the whispers took wings and spread fast. It was said he had been sent over to arrange the transfer.
Did Richard have the justification of acting in self-defense? Or had it been his intention from the first to repay the dissenting barons in their own coin when the opportunity presented itself? There is so much evidence on both sides that it is impossible to point to one and say the truth lies there.
However, there can be no doubt or dispute in considering the measures that the king took. His methods can neither be explained away nor condoned.
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July 10, 1397.
St. Pol had returned to France. Roger de Mortimer had sailed for Ireland. Woodstock and Arundel were remaining away from court, but rumors were flying thick and fast.
Richard was in London and his troop of Chester archers, estimated by some as numerous as 2000, were with him and ready for action. Richard Whittington, who had lived to see the promise of Bow Bells come true by his elevation to the mayoralty of London, was disturbed to find the streets of the great city filled with so many armed men wearing the royal livery of the White Hart and was keeping the trained bands alerted for trouble. Summonses for a meeting of Parliament had been sent out. It was to be a “packed” session of the House, according to some authorities.
The king had sent invitations to his uncle of Woodstock, Arundel, and Warwick to meet him at dinner at the residence near Temple Bar of the Bishop of Exeter, who had been appointed chancellor. There was something about the invitation which smacked of trouble. Thomas of Woodstock sensed it at once and returned word that he was ill and could not leave his castle of Pleshy. No word at all was received from the Earl of Arundel, but he promptly shut himself up in his stronghold at Reigate. Only the unsuspecting Warwick put in an appearance. Expecting a larger company, he was disturbed by the empty seats at the board. The king was cordial, however, and nothing was said to cause uneasiness until dinner was over. Richard then rose to his feet and told Warwick he was under arrest. The earl, who was not made of the stern stuff of conspiracy, was so overcome that it was not difficult later to bring him to the point of a confession. He was sent to the Tower and lodged in a section which later was called the Beauchamp Tower.
Richard used guile in enticing Arundel into the web. He went to the archbishop and asked his assistance in persuading his brother to come to London. The archbishop was too old and seasoned a hand in the political winds and currents which prevailed at court not to realize that something dangerous was afoot. Being warmly attached to his older brother, he was unwilling to take any hand in the matter.
“By St. John the Baptist!” said the king, employing the oath which had become his favored expression. “I mean your brother no harm.”
As the primate still hesitated and spoke of safe conducts and guarantees, the king swore a solemn oath that no harm would come to the earl. The archbishop then agreed to act and sent word to Reigate, advising his brother to come to Westminster. Arundel, his alarm subsiding, came immediately and was met by the primate’s barge, which took him across the river to Lambeth. Here the two brothers spent the night together. In the morning they were rowed over to Westminster, and the earl was summoned into the royal presence. The primate waited for him for many hours. No word of what was happening reached his ears. He begged everyone he could see for information but was met by stony stares. Finally, with a heavy heart, he returned to Lambeth. He never saw his brother again.
When the earl was escorted into the chamber where the king was engaged with several of his officers, he was not accorded any greeting. Richard sat and stared heavily at him.
“My lord Arundel!” exclaimed the king, finally. Perhaps in his mind’s eye he was seeing Queen Anne, her eyes wet with tears, kneeling at the feet of this implacable man and begging for the life of Burley. He stood up and turned to Nottingham, who was one of the company. He gestured angrily. “Take my lord Arundel away!” he said.
The earl was taken first to the Tower and then removed to the Isle of Wight where he was held in the closest seclusion, pending the opening of Parliament.
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The king left London as dusk was falling and with a small party rode all night to Pleshy. It was characteristic of him that, although he would not encounter anything but the blackness of night and was under the necessity of fast riding, he went accoutered as though for a tournament. The chamfron of his horse was of the finest leather and studded with silver, with even the bright eye of a jewel glinting out here and there. The cloth covers were of costly material and decorated also with jeweled insignia. The stirrups were of silver.
They took the high London Road because the king was anxious to finish quickly what he was setting out to do. Also, he wanted to reach Pleshy before his uncle could learn of his coming and get away. A mizzle fell during the early hours, but it was clearing when dawn broke and, with a cheerful suddenness, the sun came out as they passed the villages of High Easter and Good Easter. They were mounting a slow rise in the road and the towers of Pleshy lay ahead. The castle looked black, grim, formidable. For 250 years it had been the headquarters of the constables of England and it had been planned for defense. One contemporary writer speaks of the keep as “stupendous,” the moat “amazing,” the bridge of one arch over the moat “magnificent.” This part of Essex had been in the Roman country, and the party passed bits of wall of the red brick the Romans had made, sometimes a culvert still sturdy and safe, and against the gray sky even the remnants of towers.
Pleshy itself had once been surrounded by fortifications that the Romans had raised, but little of this was left now. The castle was entirely Norman, the keep ponderous, the outer walls thick, the moat deep and already reeking with seasonable filth. It was well for the success of Richard’s plot that he had planned a surprise. Behind the tall barbican, the duke could have held out a long time.
This element of surprise makes a logical choice possible from among the many versions told. In some accounts he is said to have arrived just as his uncle had finished his supper. Others say the king came during the night and had the sleeping duke roused from his bed. Still others set the time of arrival at dawn. The latter explanation seems the right one. Richard wanted to conceal the fact that he was riding into the northeastern country and so would not have left London until after night had fallen. Unless he pushed his troops along at a breakneck gallop, it would take six hours to cover the distance over the dark and hazardous roads. That would bring him to the constable’s castle as dawn was breaking.
In the still of morning the ring of iron hoofs on the masonry of the one arch threw the castle into sudden activity. A laconic and startled “The king!” caused the guard on the bridge to raise the portcullis at once. Thomas of Woodstock, who was a temperate man and did not drink enough at night to keep him sleeping late, came out at once.
Richard’s greeting was one of few words. “Have them saddle five or six of your horses. You must return with me to London.”
A breakfast was laid for the unexpected visitor and his little troop, which they consumed hurriedly. The duke stood by and watched, suspicious of this surprise visit and wondering what purpose filled the king’s mind.
“By St. John the Baptist!” said Richard, looking up. “Good uncle, what is to be done is for your good. And for my good.”
Without pausing for rest, they took to the saddle again and set out, the duke accompanied by seven of his men. Richard conversed glibly all the way (in most accounts it is agreed that in his last years he was seldom silent), but gave no hint of what he proposed to do. Thomas of Woodstock rode beside him, silent and uneasy, perhaps also with a sense of guilt. If there were any truth in the story of the conspiracy and the effort to draw young Mortimer into it, he had every reason to expect the worst.
Before Richard had ridden into Pleshy, he had left the largest part of his troops behind, concealed in a thick wood. When this part was reached on the return trip, they emerged suddenly from the heavy cover and swarmed across the road. The Earl of Nottingham, who was in charge, laid a hand on the duke’s bridle.
“Sir Duke, you are under arrest!” he said. “In the king’s name!”
There was a heated passage of words between them and Thomas then became aware that the king had ridden on. He was already some distance down the road, bent over his horse. The duke called out to him in an urgent tone. Richard paid no heed. The call was repeated, with the same lack of result. Thomas of Woodstock realized then that he had allowed himself to fall into a trap. Believing in his power and the support he could rally, he was probably not too much alarmed at first. The people of London would be for him, and the rest of the nobility who felt as he did would come to his assistance.
But the first direct question he asked of Nottingham brought a disturbing response. Where were they taking him? To London? Nottingham shook his head. He was being taken to Calais.
The king was soon out of sight. The prisoner, closed in on all sides by the silent horsemen, tried to get more information out of them. All he was told was that they were to ride straight through to Dover, where a ship would be waiting for them. In this they would cross the Channel to Calais.
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Calais had grown in importance since the English had taken possession of that famous old port. The wool staple had been established there, which meant that most of the exports of that commodity crossed the Channel to Calais for distribution to the textile cities of Flanders and northern France. Richard had contributed a new Staple Hall a few years before to serve as the trade headquarters, a building which combined grandeur with utility and was perhaps the busiest spot under the English flag.
It was to the ancient castle of Calais, however, that Thomas of Woodstock was taken. This was a grim stronghold which had witnessed much history in the making, with its six round towers and its massive keep behind a moat of unusual depth. Here he was placed in an apartment which was neither very large nor very light. He demanded to know the reason for this violence practiced upon him, but got no satisfaction from Nottingham.
Richard’s plans had been carefully laid. On September 7 a justice of the Common Pleas named Sir William Rickhill was wakened out of his sleep at his home in Essingham, Kent, by a messenger bearing instructions for him to proceed at once to Calais. This seemed very mysterious, particularly as the order had been issued three weeks earlier. However, he obeyed his instructions and two days later presented himself at the drawbridge of Calais Castle. There was further cause for mystification when Nottingham told him he was to have an interview with the duke, who was being held a prisoner in the castle. This was indeed astonishing, for a story had spread over all of England a short time before Rickhill’s instructions were delivered to the effect that Thomas of Woodstock was already dead. According to the rumor, he had been smothered to death.
“The duke is alive,” the governor told the judge, disposing of that story.
Rickhill took a most prudent stand. He insisted on the presence of two witnesses of acknowledged probity. Nottingham thought this over and finally agreed. The witnesses were on hand, accordingly, when the judge was admitted to the chamber where Thomas of Woodstock was being held.
The duke presented no evidence of ill treatment nor did he seem in seriously bad health. He was, however, a changed man. His overbearing temper had deserted him and he seemed even humble and certainly he was deeply apprehensive. When the judge explained the mission on which he had come, Thomas agreed to prepare a statement. Rickhill, in a desire to protect himself as well as the duke, suggested that he keep a copy of what he wrote.
He returned later in the evening, with the same witnesses in attendance. The duke read a long statement of nine articles in which he made many admissions. He confessed to holding the king in restraint in 1386 and to threatening to depose him in 1388. A damaging admission was made of the discussions he had held with others as to the advisability of giving up their homage to Richard. There were references also to his, the duke’s, unfortunate habits in dealing with the boy king: of opening his mail, of treating him without respect, of dictating to him what he must do. With this frank statement of what had happened went a denial that he had been guilty since of any form of treason. Most humbly he begged the king’s mercy and grace.
Before Rickhill and his witnesses left, the duke suggested that they return the next day in case there were any additions to be made to the statement. The judge came back the following morning and to his great surprise was refused admission. The guards at the drawbridge explained that they were acting on orders from the governor.
Rickhill took the statement back to England and supplied a full report of what had happened at Calais.