CHAPTER XXIX
1
IT IS generally supposed that Richard delayed in Ireland and that he lost his throne as a result of his tardiness, but this is not true. Because of storms over the Irish Sea, the word of Henry’s landing was late in reaching him and the same conditions continued to prevail when Richard was ready to return with his army. Although the precious days thus lost could not be charged to his account, his faulty planning played a decisive part in the victory of Bolingbroke. It was clear to some of the king’s advisers that he should strike across to North Wales and land his troops at Conway. This would put him in immediate contact with the loyal Welshmen and the royal stronghold of Chester. Instead he sent the Earl of Salisbury to Conway and issued orders for his army and fleet to be assembled in order to cross with him to Milford Haven. It was believed that this could be done in six days. Sixteen days had passed before they were ready to put to sea. It was early in August when the king finally came ashore at Milford Haven and by that time two disasters had occurred. The troops that Salisbury had been able to gather had dispersed and the army of Bolingbroke had swooped down on the strategic city of Bristol.
There was a lack of enthusiasm in Richard’s army which caused all but 6000 to desert the first day after they found themselves facing the Lancastrian strength around Bristol. Even Edmund of York had gone over to Henry. As would happen once again in English history, when William of Orange landed and the troops of James II melted away like April snows, a success was scored with hardly a blow struck. A rumor spread through the king’s camp that Bolingbroke had laid hands on the royal treasure, a handsome sum of £700,000, and this completed the rout; for wars cannot be fought without money and soldiers like to be sure of their pay.
Richard made one mistake after another. Instead of remaining with what was left of his army and striving to instill a sense of confidence and order into his men, he left at night disguised as a friar, his purpose being to find sanctuary in the strong mountains of the north. It may have been bad judgment which prompted this move or it may have been fear for his own safety. Probably it was the latter, for Richard lacked one of the greatest Plantagenet traits, a fighting heart. He realized the full extent of his error when he reached Conway and found that all of the men who had been recruited there had scattered and returned to their homes.
It was not surprising that Richard had placed so much reliance on the people of Wales. They had always been loyal to him. They would continue active in his cause through the sporadic efforts made later to place him back on the throne. The sincerity of their devotion was reflected in one of their folk songs, “Sweet Richard,” which Owen Glendower is supposed to have written. This haunting melody remained on Welsh tongues for many centuries.
But what Richard needed at this moment was more than loyalty of the spirit. He needed men of stout heart and supple arm to draw bows in his defense. Because he was sure they could be rallied again, he did not immediately lose heart. He stationed himself in Conway Castle and, in an effort to play for time, sent his half brother and nephew, those black-plumed birds of perpetual ill omen, the Hollands, to negotiate terms with Bolingbroke, believing the latter to be at Chester.
It was characteristic of Richard that, while he waited the outcome of this peace move, he composed a letter in the form of a poem to his young wife. “My mistress and my consort,” he wrote, “accursed be the man who thus separates us! I am dying of grief because of it! Since I am robbed of the pleasure of beholding thee, such pain and affliction oppresseth my heart that I am near despair.” Needless to state, the little Isabella never received this final husbandly epistle.
Bolingbroke had left Chester long before the Hollands arrived and was consolidating his armies in London and the western shires. The Lancastrian forces there were under the command of Earl Percy of Northumberland, who was convinced that the time for negotiation had long since passed. He put the Hollands under close confinement and proceeded to occupy the country about Conway. When he had the unfortunate king securely hemmed in, he came to the castle and demanded an audience.
Richard’s moods were in a constant state of flux and it happened that he had regained his confidence when he received Earl Percy. He stormed at the latter and said that he was still king and that his people would rally around him. His faithful Welsh, he declared, would return to his standard now that he himself had returned. Pacing about in an excess of martial spirit, he predicted that he would scatter the army of Bolingbroke and put that rebellious peer to death. Parliament would be the final judge of this difference with his cousin.
Percy decided to temporize. Bolingbroke was on his way north again, being a man who moved fast, in contrast to Richard who barely moved at all. He suggested that they meet at Flint Castle and discuss terms there.
There was something about the mere mention of Flint to arouse confidence. This tall castle, overlooking the sands of Dee, had been built by Edward I and it had always been considered one of the strongest of the ring of forts raised to close in the rebellious Welshmen. Richard felt that here he could face his cousin, secure behind his own thick walls. Accordingly he made his final and most tragic mistake: he allowed himself to believe Percy’s honesty of purpose—Percy, that sly and almost toothless old satyr of the north, who had turned his coat often and would continue to do so in the future. He agreed to accompany him to Flint and to grant Bolingbroke an audience there.
This rash reliance on the good faith of Percy led him into a trap. Before the turrets of Flint could be seen on the horizon, the unfortunate king became aware that the mountainous country surrounding it was filled with troops wearing the blue and silver badge.
“I am betrayed!” he cried. “There are pennons and banners in the valley!”
Percy smiled his slyest and called orders to his horsemen to draw in close about the king and the few barons who had accompanied him.
Bolingbroke, who indeed moved fast, had arrived at Flint next morning when Richard roused himself from his heavy and fitful sleep. The king saw from the top of the walls the huge army below which seemed to fill the valley with the reflections of armor and the sound of trumpets. He recognized Harry Hotspur, the impetuous and valiant son of old Earl Percy, as commander of the vanguard. Had everyone, then, turned against him?
Word was brought in from Bolingbroke that he would not enter the castle until after dinner. This meal was served before noon and a dismal group followed Richard to the donjon where a table was spread. The king looked at them with the most sorrowful expression they had ever seen on human face.
“Kind and loyal friends,” he said, “since you are in like peril of death for your fidelity, sit down with me.”
Accordingly they seated themselves at the table with him, all of them wearing with pride his badge of the White Hart. Few words were spoken and what little desire they might have had for food was lost by the presence in the room of Lancastrian officials who stood about and scoffed at them. “Eat well,” these unfriendly witnesses said over and over again, leering and smirking at the unhappy group. “For soon your heads will be off.”
When the meal was over, the king rose and made his way to the court below. There he was confronted by Bolingbroke in full armor, although his helmet had been removed. It seemed that Richard was fated to read his misfortunes in the smiles of those about him. That of his cousin was steady and triumphant, the smile of a victor who faces a vanquished foe.
“I am come before my time,” said Bolingbroke.
Richard made no response. He could not fail to see now that his cause was a lost one. His armies had dissolved, the people he had ruled for over twenty years were against him. London (this he would learn later) was seething with rebellion.
“I will show you the reason,” continued Henry of Bolingbroke. “Your people, my lord, complain that you have ruled them harshly. However, if it please God, I will help you to rule them better.”
Richard was certain now that he should have acted on a much earlier impulse. All of the five who had forced themselves into his presence should have been put away. He had spared this one of the group of linked arms, this fair-speaking cousin, and now he was facing the consequences.
But all fight had left him. He did not look directly at his cousin. Had he done so, he would have seen that the smile had faded from the latter’s face, to be replaced by an expression of iron purpose.
“Fair cousin,” said Richard, finally, “since it pleases you, it pleases me well.”
2
Henry of Bolingbroke, Duke of Hereford and now Duke of Lancaster, Earl of Derby, and the holder of many other titles, was as desirous as his father had been to wear the crown, and he had the ruthlessness of purpose which John of Gaunt had lacked. There was never a doubt in his mind as to his reason for returning to England. He had come back to oust Richard and seat himself on the throne.
But he had made no such claim openly, and he did not now when the beaten and impotent king was in his power. Instead, with a dourness of temper which had been missing in him up to this point but would come out unmistakably after he became king, he told Richard that the people of England no longer considered him their rightful king because they were convinced he was no son of Edward the Black Prince. How could he be when he lacked so completely the fine spirit of that prince and of the great King Edward before him? It was well known that his mother had seen the need to present the prince with an heir. It was also known that there had been handsome young churchmen in the vice-regal household at Bordeaux.
Richard could do nothing but listen in a suppressed fury while his cousin thus strove to weaken his spirit and to strengthen his own case for the issue which must be settled between them. This story of his illegitimacy had come to his ears before and he knew it had been in circulation throughout the country.
In Froissart’s story of this meeting between them he introduces at this point a note of deep poignancy. Richard’s favorite hound, Math, had been released from the stables and came bounding out into the court. Instead of rushing to greet his master, he turned instead to Henry of Bolingbroke, jumping about him with every sign of pleasure and excitement.
“What is the meaning of this?” demanded Henry.
“Cousin,” responded Richard, sadly, “it means that even my dog sees which side he should be on.”
There is no explanation given of how the fickle hound happened to be there. Had he followed his master when Richard donned the robe of a Franciscan and started north through Wales? Had he been allowed to come with the small group riding from Conway to Flint? It all seems most unlikely, but the anecdote is part of the saga of the unfortunate king and so is offered for what it is worth.
Horses were ordered immediately. Richard and his fellow prisoners rode in the Lancastrian train to Chester. The cavalry of Bolingbroke was received at the gates of that city with a loud blast of trumpets. Richard’s hopes, if he had any left, sank to nothingness. Even Chester, which had always been so staunchly for him, had none of that loyalty left. It had been whispered to him that the great Welshman Owen Glendwyr was hanging on the flanks of the armed horsemen and waiting for a chance to rescue him, but even this failed to arouse his spirits. The Welsh leader was brave and clever beyond all mortal calculation (he was supposed to be a magician), but how could he prevail with his slender strength against the might which Bolingbroke had mustered about him?
They remained two days at Chester and during that time summonses were issued, in Richard’s name, for a Parliament to meet at Westminster. The question between them, Bolingbroke informed the king, would be settled by the voice of the House. This aroused no expectations in the king’s mind. The new Parliament would be hand-picked to vote as his cousin dictated. He, Richard, knew how easily this could be managed.
During the two days at Chester young Harry of Monmouth arrived from Ireland to join his father. He was amazed to find the king a prisoner and, according to some accounts, he spoke warmly of the kindness he had been shown while he served as a hostage. It is also said that, when he came to understand that his father intended to assume the throne, he was astonished and not too happy over what seemed to him the usurpation of the rights of others. This young Harry of Monmouth, as has already been explained, would one day become king and would rule with such splendor that his name would always be ranked among England’s greatest men.
That young Harry came alone was due, of course, to the death of Humphrey of Gloucester from the plague. As the huge armed cavalcade made its way southward from Chester, word reached them that Humphrey’s mother, the widow of Thomas of Woodstock, had died of a broken heart within an hour of receiving word of the loss of her son. The feud in the family, which had begun with the ill will between the boy king and his overbearing uncle, was still taking its toll.
3
The story of Richard in eclipse is so muddied by the sentimentality of the French reports that it is hard to get matters clear. The story of Math, for instance, is hard to believe, certainly, and yet has the endorsement of Froissart, who declares that all of Bolingbroke’s army, which he estimated at 30,000, heard the tale. There is also the statement that Richard was compelled to ride all the way to London on a small and “wretched” steed, “a sorry hack not worth two pounds,” in order to emphasize his defeat and to make him ludicrous in the eyes of the people. This cannot be true. Although his mind was firmly made up to take the throne, Bolingbroke was quite as determined to acquire it with a semblance of legality. He still addressed Richard as king and had made it clear that the latter would remain head of the realm until such time as Parliament decreed his deposition. To treat the captive monarch in the meantime like a clown in a parade of mummers was far from the victor’s intent.
When they arrived in London, to be met by the lord mayor and a procession of the guilds, Bolingbroke said: “Fair sirs, here is your king. Think what you will do with him.” He wanted the offer of the crown to be made him as the result of an overwhelming wave of popular acclaim. Richard was taken to the Tower and lodged in the royal apartments—but under heavy guard.
The next day he was informed that his cousin was below and desired him to go down. The king indulged in a flash of his old high temper.
“Tell Henry of Lancaster, then,” he exclaimed, “if he desires speech with me, let him come to me.”
There was a delay during which, no doubt, Bolingbroke was considering what course to take. Finally he came to Richard’s chambers and greeted him on bended knee. The king demanded to know why he was kept thus under lock and key. Was he not King of England?
“You are my king, sir,” answered Henry. “But the council of your realm thinks fit to set a guard on you until Parliament has reached a decision.”
Richard was a creature of passionate moods and even in the face of complete defeat he could not keep his temper under control. He cried out that he would meet in combat any of his foes or detractors. He demanded that the queen be sent to him, to which Bolingbroke’s reply was, “It is forbidden by the council.” He stormed up and down the apartment, railing at his ill fortune and cursing all who had taken a hand in bringing him to this pass. Bolingbroke listened in silence and, finally, withdrew.
There was one contrast in this scene between the two chief characters in the drama. Richard had dressed himself well, although with none of the extravagances which had always been held against him. He wore no jewels of any kind (perhaps because the regal valuables had been carefully laid away by the officers of the Tower), but Bolingbroke was still in full armor. There is no way of telling if he had continued to wear his fighting gear ever since his landing on the Yorkshire coast, but on many of the occasions when he appears in the chronicles it is put on record that he was, actually, armed to the teeth. Perhaps there was a purpose in this, a desire to point up the difference between a warrior and an aimless man of peace such as Richard.
The following day the king was in a more compliant mood. Perhaps a night’s reflection had convinced him that he had nothing to hope for and should accept his fate with good grace. The recollection of what had befallen Edward II was never out of his mind. Bolingbroke came to see him again, accompanied by Arundel, the deposed archbishop, and a deputation of bishops and peers. The discussion was brief and free of the passion of the previous day. In a quiet voice Richard read a statement in which he agreed to abdicate the throne, if this proved to be the wish of Parliament. He placed his signet ring on Bolingbroke’s finger and expressed his preference for Henry as his successor.
On September 30, 1399, he was taken to Westminster Hall, which had been for several years in process of repair and redecoration, on his own orders, and was now thrown open for the first time. Richard entered the hall in his royal robes, with his crown on his head and the scepter in his hand. He did not, however, seat himself on the throne, but stood beside it with composed mien. He read for the second time the paper in which he agreed to abdicate.
The members of the House were not content with this. A paper of accusation, made up of thirty-three counts, had been prepared and it was demanded that this should be read. Richard was compelled to remain standing while the voice of the Speaker progressed through the long and declamatory statement. He made no attempt to answer or deny the accusations. When bidden to withdraw, he handed his crown and scepter to Bolingbroke and bowed to the members before leaving the chamber. He had conducted himself through this humiliating scene with a fine dignity.
The time had come for Bolingbroke to assert his claim. He rose from his chair and said: “In the name of Fadir, Son and Holy Ghost, I, Henry of Lancaster, challenge the realm of England, and the crown, with all the members and appurtenances; as that I am descended by the right line of blood, coming from the good lord Henry III, and through that right that God of His grace, hath sent me with the help of my kin and of my friends to recover it; the which realm was in point to be undone for default of governance and undoing of good laws.”
The lords and commons were challenged for their opinions and responded with what seemed an acclamation of assent. The ex-archbishop then took Henry by the hand and conducted him to the throne.
4
Richard waited impatiently all through the day for word of what had happened, but no report reached him. The next morning it was raining, none of the quick passing showers of summer but a steady and monotonous downpour, the kind to further unsettle raveled nerves. The rooms in the Tower, never very bright, were gloomier than ever. The faces of the servants were a reflection of their master’s mood and the food they served was plain and unappetizing.
In spite of his certainty earlier that all was lost, he may have gained some small degree of hope from the silence and delay. It had been whispered in his ear that his loyal friend, Bishop Merks of Carlisle, intended to present a defense of him in the House and to demand for him a chance to face his accusers. Had this precipitated a battle on the floor? Perhaps there were enough loyal members after all to prevent the Bolingbroke party from carrying through his dethronement with a high hand. No one told him that the stouthearted bishop had acted on his promise and had spoken strongly in the House. However, a complete silence of disagreement had followed his address and he had even failed to get a seconder. In fact, there had been some intention of bringing charges against Merks for the attitude he had taken. What had happened finally was that the bishop was sent under escort to St. Albans Abbey, there to await the will of the Commons.
Richard walked to the roof and stood somberly at the battlements, disregarding the heavy downpour. It added nothing to his gloomy forebodings that the guards, who had kept close to him all morning, were now so close on his heels that he could feel their breath on his neck. They were, it was clear, fearful of what he might attempt. On the ride to London from Chester he had thrown his guards into an uproar by almost effecting an escape at Litchfield. Knowing that the faithful Welsh were still following on the edges of the Lancastrian army, he had succeeded in letting himself down from his window with a rope but had been trapped because all exits were closed in the high stone walls of the garden in which he found himself.
The prospect from the top of the White Tower walls was disheartening for the prisoner. The townspeople, who had packed the streets below at all hours of the day and night, had finally dispersed. Had the rain driven them indoors or had they learned of a decision in Parliament and had no further need to wait for an announcement? He was certain that, if a fight still continued at Westminster, the rain would have had no effect on the curious Londoners.
Finally the word was brought to him. None of the main actors in the cast came to deliver it, and only a deputation of members from the House waited on him. They performed their task without any hint of compassion. The Speaker read the decision of deposition and then shook an admonitory forefinger at the unhappy man who had been king but was no longer.
“None of all these states or people,” declared the Speaker, “from this time forward either bear you faith or do you obeisances as to their king.”
The scene was closely reminiscent of the cold winter day at Kenilworth Castle nearly a century before when the word was carried to Edward II that he was no longer king. On that occasion the strong young Edward had fallen to the floor in a faint. Richard carried himself with more courage. He heard them through, realizing that this was indeed the end and that all he could hope for was to be allowed to live at peace in some obscure part of the realm. It was too much to hope that he would be allowed to leave the country, not even to find sanctuary in his first home at Bordeaux.
“I look not hereafter,” he said, finally. “But I hope my cousin will be good lord to me.”