Part 22

A dead silence followed. The earl burned to tell his tempter what he thought of such treachery; but in those times speech was not always safe, so he held his peace. Gloucester, however, read in his face something of what was passing in his mind, and entreated him to ponder the matter, and above all things to keep it secret, or the lives of many of his friends would be endangered. This March joyfully promised, and instantly returning to London obtained leave from Richard to go and govern Ireland, of which he had just been made viceroy. Every man among the conspirators was not, however, as loyal as March. The plot was betrayed to the king, who instantly summoned his two uncles, Lancaster and York, and his brother-in-law the count de St. Pol lately sent by Charles VI. to see the queen. The king laid the matter before all three and asked their advice how to prevent the success of the conspiracy. The two dukes could not deny the truth of what the king told them—for the scheme that was being planned had come to their ears also; but they spoke soothing words, saying that Gloucester ever threatened more than he meant or could do, and assuring Richard that, even if he really cherished such an evil purpose, they would see that it was not carried out. Then, to avoid taking sides against either brother or nephew, they retired hastily to their castles, leaving Richard to fight his own battles as best he could.

The way which he chose has left a dark stain on his memory. He felt helpless and alone, and there were not wanting people about him to whisper that he would never be secure on his throne as long as Gloucester lived. Still Richard knew too well that if he dared to arrest him publicly his own doom would be sealed, for all London would at once fly to arms. Therefore, taking some men with him on whom he could rely, Richard rode down into Essex to the duke's house of Pleshy, and with fair words requested his company to the Tower of London. Gloucester went without misgiving—would he not be in the City which adored him?—and was lodged in splendid apartments close to the king, on pretence, perhaps, of caring the better, for his uncle who was at that time suffering from illness. This may also have sufficed for a pretext to keep the duke in his room, thus hiding his presence. But a night or two later he was hurried over to Calais, doubtless by the river, which flowed conveniently past the fortress, and handed over to the governor by the earl marshal, now duke of Norfolk.

'What have I done to be so treated?' the duke inquired indignantly of Norfolk, and the earl marshal answered soothingly that 'the king his master was a little angry with him, and had given orders that the duke was to be locked up for the present in his good town of Calais, and, sorry as he himself was to displease his grace, he was forced to carry out his orders.' Gloucester understood, and without further parley begged that a priest might be sent for, to hear his confession and give him absolution. The rite over, he was preparing to dine when four men entered the apartment. The duke had not expected them so soon, but he made no resistance. What would have been the use? He was speedily strangled, and a messenger sent over to tell Richard that his uncle was dead. 'As to the manner of his death, in France no man cared,' says the chronicler; but the Londoners were furious, and the dukes of Lancaster and York trembled for their lives, though they afterwards found that it was to their interest to make peace with the king. More troubles followed this act of treachery; several nobles were condemned to banishment or execution, and a fierce quarrel broke out between Henry of Bolingbroke, duke of Hereford (son to John of Gaunt), and Mowbray duke of Norfolk. A court of chivalry to decide the matter was summoned to meet at Windsor, and we can imagine Isabel's excitement as she watched the assembling of the barons, knights, and bannerets of England in the courtyard of the castle. The scene is described by Shakespeare in the opening of the play of 'Richard II.' (though he places it in London), and you can all read it for yourselves. After much talk judgment was passed that the quarrel should be fought out at Coventry on September 16, in presence of the king, a body of representatives of the house of commons, and the people.

On the day appointed the dukes rode to their places clad in the heavy armour of the time. 'God speed the right!' cried Norfolk, and Henry of Bolingbroke solemnly made the sign of the cross. Each had his lance in rest, and leaned forward, listening for the expected signal; the trumpets were already raised for sounding the charge, when the king's warder was suddenly thrown down between the combatants.

'Hold,' he cried; 'our kingdom's earth should not be soiled With the dear blood that it has fostered; Therefore we banish you our territories: You, cousin Hereford, upon pain of life, Till twice five summers have enriched our fields. Norfolk, for thee remains a heavier doom: The hopeless word of "Never to return" Breathe I against thee upon pain of life.'

'Those whom the gods will to destroy they first infatuate.' Surely the old Latin proverb was never more true than in this act of Richard II. He thought to rid himself of two powerful nobles, and instead he turned them into two undying enemies, and he soon learned with dismay that Hereford had been welcomed at the French Court. Then came news which caused the king bitter grief; the earl of March, whom he so dearly loved, had died in Ireland. Matters there needed a master's eye, and Richard knew not whom to trust. At last, troubled as were the affairs of England, the king felt that he must go himself and try to settle things. And Henry duke of Hereford, on the other side of the Channel, watched it all, and knew that his chance would soon come.

After the sentence had been passed on the banished lords, Richard had sent prince Henry of Monmouth (son of Hereford) and his sisters to Windsor, where the widowed duchess of Gloucester and her two daughters had been living ever since the death of the duke. It was, we may believe, with great unwillingness that the duchess consented to dwell under the roof of her husband's murderer; but she dared not disobey the king, and reminded herself that Isabel not only was innocent of the crime, but ignorant of it, as she was of all Richard's evil deeds. The 'little queen,' who daily grew more beautiful and womanly, only knew that her aunt had lost her husband, and judged her grief by what she herself would feel at the death of Richard. So she busied herself in doing all the kindnesses she could to the duchess and her daughters, though these young ladies were some years older than herself, and did not care to play the games in which prince Henry, her devoted friend, and his sisters Blanche and Philippa delighted. Henry was about her own age, but the little girls were younger, and Isabel, who had in the days that now seemed so long ago taken care of her own brothers and sisters, no doubt mothered these children also, and saw that they learned their lessons, especially French, and that their manners were good. The duke of Hereford had three other sons, but they were not sent to Windsor.

But games and lessons and everything else was forgotten when one day Richard came into the queen's 'bower,' as a lady's boudoir was then called, and told her that he must leave her and proceed at once to Ireland, where he was much needed. Isabel wept and clung to him, and besought him to take her with him; but he shook his head gently, and said that Ireland was no place for ladies, still less for queens, and that she must stay at home and look to her household. He went on to say that he had been greatly wroth at discovering the state that the lady de Coucy had taken on herself, and had dismissed her from her charge about the queen, and bade her to go back to France. In her stead he had given her place to his niece, the young and widowed countess of March, who would shortly arrive with her two small children, and join the sad company in the castle.

Left alone, the queen remained sitting in her carved high-backed chair, gazing straight before her, but seeing nothing. Her thoughts wandered away through the past year, and to the Christmas which she and Richard had kept in the bishop's palace at Lichfield, and to the journey they had made during the summer, riding under shady trees and hedges gay with honeysuckle and wild roses, and over downs sweet with gorse and bright with heather, amongst the towns of the west country, where they had seen splendid cathedrals and stately abbeys, and listened to the people talking a strange speech, which even Richard, clever as he was, could not understand! How happy they had both been, laughing over all their adventures, and what merry evenings they had passed in the tents that Richard had ordered to be spread for the night, wherever Isabel fancied. And how wonderful it was to visit the places where Guinevere had lived, and Arthur had fought his last battle! And now, now he was going to leave her, and travel over the seas, where he might suffer shipwreck, and run into dangers that she might never know. Oh no! It was impossible! She could never bear it.

But it had to be.

On April 25, St. Mark's Day, Richard and Isabel went hand in hand to St. George's chapel at Windsor, kneeling side by side while a solemn Mass was sung and one of the collects chanted by the king himself. When the service was over they left the church as they came, Isabel with her face white and drawn, with her eyes bright and tearless, and walking steadily. Outside the great door was set a table with wine and food, and together they ate, for the king did not mean to return again into the castle, but to ride straight into the west. When they had eaten, or pretended to eat, the king lifted up the queen in his arms, and holding her to his heart he kissed her many times, saying, 'Farewell, madame, until we meet again,' not knowing that it was farewell for ever. Then he rode away without looking back, his young cousins, Henry of Monmouth and Humphrey duke of Gloucester, riding behind him.

The queen stood watching till the cavalcade was out of sight, then slowly turned and walked towards the castle, none daring to speak to her. She mounted the narrow stone staircase like one in a dream, and shutting her door flung herself on her bed, with a burst of weeping. Kind lady March heard her sobs and longed to comfort her; but she too knew what sorrow was, and for some hours left Isabel alone with her grief. For a fortnight the queen was too ill to move from her room, and suffered no one except lady March and her old French maid to attend on her. But one morning the sun shone for her once more, for in came lady March carrying a letter tied with silk and bearing the royal arms, which Richard had sent by a special messenger from Milford Haven.

'He had been thinking of her, as he knew she had been thinking of him,' he wrote, 'while he rode along the same roads on which they had travelled last year together. But she must keep up a good heart, and not grieve if she heard nought of him, for the seas were rough, and not easy for boats to cross, but to remember that he loved her always.'

Perhaps, if the earl of March had lived to rule Ireland, things might have turned out differently, or at any rate Richard's ruin might have been staved off a little longer. As it was, the expedition to Ireland only hurried on the calamity. The murmurs of the Londoners, which had hitherto been low, now became loud, and men shook their heads and reminded each other of the fate of Edward II. 'Trade grows daily worse,' said they, 'and no honest dealer can carry his wares along the roads without fear of robbers and outlaws, while should the thief be caught justice is never done on him.' At length a meeting was held, and it was decided that Henry, now duke of Lancaster by the death of his father, should be invited to come from France and seize the crown. Most likely Henry had expected such a message, but he was too cautious to accept the invitation at once, and he merely replied that he must take a day to consult with his friends. The envoy, however, had noticed a sudden sparkle in his eye, and had little doubt of the answer, and a few days later Henry, with an escort of ships, was seen sailing up the English coast.

The news spread like lightning, and as soon as it was known that he had landed at Ravenspur, in Yorkshire, men flocked to join him. Richard alone remained ignorant of the enemy at his gates, and when, three weeks after, a boat managed to cross bearing the evil tidings and the king took ship for Holyhead, it was only to learn that Henry was advancing to meet him with an army of 60,000 men. The king had entrenched himself in Flint Castle when Henry knocked at the entrance.

'Who goes there?' cried a voice from within, and the newcomer answered:

'I am Henry of Lancaster, and I have come to claim my heritage, which the king has taken for himself. And so you can tell him.'

The man within the gate hastened across the courtyard and up the stairs, and entering the hall where Richard and his knights were holding counsel he said to him:

'Sire, it is your cousin the earl of Derby who knocks, and he demands that you shall restore to him all that belongs to the duchy of Lancaster.'

Now as to this matter Henry spoke truly, for Richard had indeed taken the money and lands that belonged of right to his cousin, and had spent them upon his ill-fated expedition to Ireland. Therefore he looked uncomfortably at his councillors and inquired of them what he should do.

'Sire, he speaks well,' replied the knights, 'and it is our advice that you listen to him, for he is much loved throughout the kingdom, and especially by the Londoners, who sent for him beyond the sea to make cause with him against you.'

'Then open the gate,' said Richard, 'and I will speak with him.'

So two knights arose and went across the courtyard of the castle and through the small door which was in the great gate, and bowed themselves before Henry and his friends, taking care to bear themselves politely and graciously, for they knew that the strength did not lie on their side.

'My lord the king will gladly see you and speak with you,' said the oldest of the two, 'and he prays you to enter.'

'Thus will I do,' answered Henry, and entered forthwith, thinking nothing of the danger he ran, for the king might have straightway put him to death. He walked across the hall, up to the chair where Richard was seated, and the king changed colour at the sight of him. Not that he was in bodily fear, for no Plantagenet was ever a coward, but because he knew in his heart that he had done his cousin grievous wrong. 'Have you breakfasted?' asked Henry without further greeting.

'Not yet,' replied the king, who had expected bitter reproaches, and half thought this must be a jest; 'it is still early. But why do you ask me?'

'You had better eat something at once,' answered his cousin, 'for you have a long journey before you.'

'A journey?' said Richard; 'and where to, I pray?'

'To London,' replied Henry; 'therefore I counsel you to eat and drink, that the ride may seem more merry.'

Richard understood; resistance was useless; so he commanded food to be brought, and ate and drank without haste and composedly.

The castle gates were thrown open wide, and a multitude of soldiers and archers pressed in and advanced to the doors, but Henry ordered them to stand back, and bade them do damage to none, for the castle with all in it was under his protection. After that he fetched the king into the courtyard, and while the horses were saddled they talked together in a corner.

Now Richard had a greyhound of great size and beauty called Math, which he loved much, and the dog would suffer none but the king to touch him. When he rode out Math was always by his side, and often the two would play together in the hall, and Math would put his two huge paws on the king's shoulders. And when Math beheld the horses ready saddled, and being led to the spot where Richard and his cousin were standing, he sprang up, and came with quick bounds towards them. Richard held out his hand to his favourite, but the dog passed him by, and, going to the side of Henry, reared himself on his hind legs and rubbed his head against the duke's cheek.

'What is he doing?' asked Henry, who had never seen Math before.

'Cousin,' answered the king, 'that caress holds a great meaning for you and a little one for me.'

'What is your interpretation of it?' inquired Henry, looking puzzled.

'My greyhound hails you to-day king of England, as you will be when I am deposed, and my crown taken from me. Keep him with you; he will serve you well.'

Henry answered nothing; perhaps in his heart he may have felt a little ashamed; but the dog stayed with him, and did not leave him till the day of his death.

Meanwhile, at the first whisper of invasion, the duke of York, who had been left regent, had removed the queen from Windsor to the stronger castle of Wallingford. The poor girl thought nothing of her own danger, but was wild with despair at the idea that the crown of England might be placed on the usurper's head and the rightful king be ignorant of the fact. Soon arrived the news that Richard had fallen into the hands of the duke of Lancaster, and was to be taken to London. Luckily she never heard that at Lichfield, where he was probably lodged in the same house where they had passed their happy Christmas so short a time ago, he had tried to escape, but was recaptured in the garden. After this his guards were doubled during the long ride to the Tower.

If Henry was in London, Isabel was clearly not safe at Wallingford, and the regent took her by lonely roads and obscure villages to the castle of Leeds in Kent. Here she was within reach of the coast, and could, if needful, be sent over to France. It was at Leeds that Isabel received a messenger from the Londoners to the effect that the lady de Coucy (who had lingered about her mistress in spite of Richard's order) and all French attendants of the queen should be despatched to Dover and conveyed to Boulogne. By the envoy's desire the lady de Coucy was summoned to the queen's presence, and found to her surprise a plain man in the dress of a citizen standing by the window.

'Madame,' he said, without taking the trouble to bow, 'bid your maids get ready your packages, for you must quit this place without delay. But beware of telling anyone that you do not go of your own free will; instead, say that your husband and daughter need you. Your life hangs on your silence and obedience, and the less you hear and see the better for you. You will have an escort as far as Dover, where you will find a ship to put you ashore at Boulogne.'

'I will obey your orders, good sir,' answered the lady de Coucy, who had listened trembling; and she lost no time in making her preparations and in bidding the queen farewell. Indeed, she was in such a haste to be gone that she would hardly wait to hear the loving messages which Isabel sent to her father and mother, or allow her to take leave of the faithful servants who had come with the queen from France, but hurried them down into the courtyard, where horses of all sorts were saddled and bridled. A troop of soldiers was in readiness to accompany them to Dover, but on their arrival there the fugitives—for they were nothing less—found to their dismay that they were expected to pay heavily for the honour, 'each according to his condition,' as Froissart says. Right thankful were they to get on board the vessel which was to land them on French soil. Once in France the lady de Coucy hastened to Paris, and it was from her that Charles learned, for the first time, the peril of his daughter.

At their departure poor Isabel felt more lonely than she had done since she had bidden her parents farewell before her marriage. Far more lonely, for _then_ she had Richard, and _now_ the new English attendants which 'the Londoners' placed about her were forbidden even to mention his name. So her days were spent in torturing thoughts and her nights in evil dreams; she could hardly have been more wretched had she known he was in the Tower. The suspense would have been terrible for a grown-up woman, and for a girl under twelve it was almost unbearable; but her grief would have been deeper still if she had known that Richard had prayed to have his wife with him in his captivity, and had been refused.

Shut up in the Tower, Richard had plenty of time to look back on the events of the twenty-two years that his reign had lasted and to note the folly and extravagance which had led to his ruin. Some friends he still had, and of these the earl of Salisbury was the chief; but a little while after this an effort made by the earl to assassinate Henry only ended in his own death and in the death of the king he was so anxious to save. The advice of Richard's attendants was to resign at once, lest worse should befall them, and, bitter though it was to him, the king felt that the counsel was good. Therefore he sent a message to Henry, now living in his own house on the banks of the Thames, to say he would like to speak with him. The duke, with a company of knights in attendance, arrived in a barge, and was conducted to the king. Humbly Richard confessed all the wrongs he had done him, and declared himself ready to abdicate the throne in his favour. Henry replied that this must be done in the presence of parliament and with the consent of its representatives; but in three days a sufficient number of these could be assembled for the purpose. Not being a generous man, he did not stop there, but went on to point out that if Richard had followed in the steps of his grandfather, Edward III., and of his father, the Black Prince, all would have been well; instead, he had chosen to go his own way without considering his people. 'Still,' cried Henry—and perhaps at the moment he meant what he said—'out of pity I will defend you and preserve your life from the hatred of the Londoners, who would have you die.'

'I thank you, cousin,' replied Richard; 'I have more faith in you than in the whole of England.'