Part 7

Richard now fell entirely under the influence of his own favourites, and the friction between himself and his Parliament increased each year. The one good influence in his life was that of Queen Anne; over and over again her sound sense saved the situation. Once Richard, in a fit of sulkiness, had gone to live at Bristol, very privately, and to him there came the Archbishop of Canterbury, who warned him that unless he returned to London the citizens of London and the greater part of his subjects would be very discontented. Richard at first refused to pay any attention to the Archbishop, but at last the good advice of the queen prevailed; he controlled his anger and said he would cheerfully go to London. On his arrival there, a special Parliament was summoned, which made London and Westminster very crowded; the king heard Mass with the crown on his head in the chapel of the Palace; the Archbishop of Canterbury performed the divine service, and was very attentively heard, for he was an excellent preacher; and then came the barons, prelates, and nobles to Richard, with joined hands, as showing themselves to be vassals, swearing faith and loyalty, and kissing him on the mouth.

"But it was visible," adds Froissart, "that the king kissed some heartily and others not."

Possibly, if Anne had lived, her sensible influence might have saved Richard, in spite of the growing irritation of his people at his reckless extravagance. But after only a few hours' illness the queen died at the Feast of Whitsuntide 1394, in Sheen Palace, "to the infinite distress of King Richard, who was deeply afflicted at her death."

Richard was with her when she died, and so uncontrolled was his grief, that, cursing the place of her death, he ordered the Palace of Sheen to be levelled to the ground. He determined that hers should be the greatest burial ever seen in London, and sent to Flanders for large quantities of wax wherewith to have made the torches and flambeaux, though this delayed the funeral by some months. He summoned all the nobles of the land to be present in these words:--

"Inasmuch as our beloved companion the Queen, whom God has hence commanded, will be buried at Westminster on Monday, the 3rd of August next, we earnestly entreat that you, setting aside all excuses, will repair to our city of London the Wednesday previous to the same day, bringing with you our very dear kinswoman your consort at the same time. We desire that you will, the preceding day, accompany the corpse of our dear consort from our manor of Sheen to Westminster, and for this we trust we may rely on you, as you desire our honour and that of our kingdom."

So a great procession followed the queen from Sheen to Westminster, and all were clothed in black, men and women, with black hoods also. Richard behaved as one mad with grief, and when the Earl of Arundel arrived late, he seized a cane, and struck him on the head with such force that the unfortunate nobleman fell to the ground.

A year later the king ordered the beautiful monument which you see in the Confessor's Chapel, and so great was his devotion that he had his own monument made at the same time, with his hand clasped in that of his dearly loved queen. And the touching inscription, of which this is a translation, was of his own choosing:--

"Under this stone lies Anne, here entombed, Wedded in this world's life to the second Richard. To Christ were her meek virtues devoted, His poor she freely fed from her treasures. Strife she healed and feuds she appeased. Beauteous her form, her face surpassing fair. Only July's seventh day, thirteen hundred, ninety four, All comfort was bereft, for through irremediable sickness She passed away into eternal joys."

In spite of his grief, which was very real, Richard married again; but the new queen had no influence with him, and the breach between him and his people widened daily. "Nothing but complaints were heard; the courts of justice were closed; the enmities increased, and the common people said, 'Times are sadly changed; we have a good-for-nothing king, who only attends to his idle pleasures, and so that his inclinations are gratified cares not how public affairs are managed. We must look for a remedy, or our enemies and well-wishers will rejoice.'"

So writes Froissart, who lived in England at the time; and he goes on to say how the people declared to one another, "Our ancestors in former days provided a remedy; our remedy is in Henry of Lancaster. Him we must send for and appoint him regent of the kingdom. For these people are most obstinate, and of all England, the Londoners are the leaders."

This being the feeling in the country, the time was ripe for John of Gaunt's banished son, Henry Bolingbroke, who had long been waiting for his hour. He landed with but thirty men, while Richard was away on one of his highly unpopular expeditions in Ireland; soon he had an army of fifty thousand with which he marched to London, and Richard when he returned agreed meekly, without a word, to all that was demanded. He signed a deed prepared by Parliament in which he said that "he was incapable of reigning, worthy to be deposed, and willing to renounce the throne."

"If it pleases you, it pleases me also," was his feeble remark.

Then he was put into prison, first in the Tower, afterwards in Pontefract Castle, and from this last place he never came out alive. His death was very sudden; some said he fell sick, some said he was starved, almost certainly he was murdered. He was buried at Langley, though many a long year afterwards his body was moved to Westminster by command of Henry V., and laid in the tomb he had chosen close to his wife, after it had been carried through London followed by 20,000 persons, of whom "some on him had pity and some none."

So husband and wife lie united at last under this fine tomb, which cost L10,000 in our money. But in one detail Richard's wish is ungratified to-day, for his hand and hers, which on the monument were clasped together, have been ruthlessly broken off.

Another memorial of Richard in the Abbey is his portrait, which you will find in the choir near the altar, and which is "an ancient painting of the unhappy, beautiful prince, sitting in a chair of gold dressed in a vest of green, flowered with flowers of gold and the initial letters of his name, having on shoes of gold powdered with pearls, the whole robed in crimson lined with ermine, and the shoes spread with the same fastened under a collar of gold." It is valuable because it is the first portrait we have of an English king.

Richard rebuilt Westminster Hall, and built a fine porch called Solomon's Porch, where now stands the great north entrance; but of this porch not a trace remains.

*CHAPTER VIII*

*HENRY V. AND HIS CHANTRY*

On the last day of September 1399, Westminster was well astir, for Parliament had met to decide an all-important question.

Richard had renounced the crown, and his cousin, Henry of Lancaster, claimed it.

"Risyng from his place, mekeley makyne the signe of the Crosse, he saide unto the people, 'In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, I, Henry of Lancaster, claim the realme of Englande and the crowne, as that I am dyscended by righte lyne of bloode from that good Lord King Henry III." Moreover, he proceeded to make clear, Richard had resigned the crown into his hands, and he had also won it by right of conquest.

Then the Archbishop asked the assembly if they would have Henry for king, to which with one voice they answered "Ye, ye, ye," and after that the Archbishop led Henry to the king's throne and set him thereon with great reverence, making to him a long "oryson" from the words, "When I was a child, I spake as a child; but at the time when I came unto the state of a man, I put away childish things."

"A chylde," he said, "will lyghtly promise and as lyghtly brake his promise, doing all thinges that his fancye giveth him unto, and forgettinge lyghtly what he hath done. By which reason it followyth that great inconvenyence must fall to that people a chylde is ruler and governour of. But now we ought all to rejoyse that a man and not a chylde shall have lordeshype over us, a man that shall govern the people by skylful doyngs, settyne apart wylfulnesse and all pleasure of himself."

And the people answered "Amen" with great gladness; they clapped their hands for joy and did homage to the new king, while the coronation was fixed for the 13th of October, the Feast of St. Edward.

Froissart has left us a vivid account of that great day, which you shall have in his words.

"On the Saturday before the coronation, the new king went from Westminster to the Tower attended by great numbers, and those squires who were to be knighted watched their arms that night. They amounted to forty-six, and each squire had his chamber and his bath in which he bathed. The ensuing day, the Duke of Lancaster, after mass, created them knights, and presented them with long green coats with straight sleeves. After dinner on this Sunday, the Duke left the Tower on his return to Westminster; he was bareheaded, and there were of nobility from eight to nine hundred horse in the procession. The Duke was dressed in a jacket of cloth of gold, mounted on a white courser, with a blue garter on his left leg. The same night the king bathed himself, and on the morrow confessed himself and heard three masses. The prelates and clergy who had assembled, then came in a large procession from Westminster Abbey to conduct the king thither, and returned in the same manner, the king and nobles following. The dukes, earls, and barons wore long scarlet robes, with mantles trimmed with ermine and large hoods of the same. The dukes and earls had three bars of ermine on the left arm, the barons but two. On each side of the king were carried the sword of mercy and the sword of justice, and the Marshal of England carried the sceptre.

"The procession entered the church about nine o'clock, in the middle of which was erected a scaffold covered with crimson cloth, and in the centre a royal throne of cloth of gold. When the Duke entered the church, he seated himself upon the throne, and was thus in royal state, except having the crown on his head.

"The Archbishop of Canterbury proclaimed how God had given them a man for their lord and sovereign, and then asked the people if they were consenting to his being consecrated and crowned king. They unanimously shouted out Ay.

"After this the Duke descended from the throne, and advanced to the altar to be consecrated. He was anointed in six places, and while this was doing the clergy chanted a litany that is performed at the hallowing of a font.

"The king was now dressed in churchman's clothes, and they put on him crimson shoes. Then they added spurs; the sword of justice was drawn, blest, and delivered to the king, who put it into the scabbard. The crown of St. Edward, which is arched over like a cross, was then brought and blessed, and put on the king's head by the Archbishop.

"When mass was over, the king left the Abbey and returned to the Palace, and went first to his apartment, then returned to the Hall to dinner.

"At the first table sat the king; at the second, five great peers of England; at the third, the principal citizens of London; at the fourth, the new created knights; at the fifth, all knights and squires of honour. And the king was served by the Prince of Wales, who carried the sword of mercy.

"When dinner was half over, a knight of the name of Dymock entered the Hall completely armed, mounted on a handsome steed. The knight was armed for wager of battle, and was preceded by another knight bearing his lance; he himself had his drawn sword in one hand and a naked dagger at his side. The knight presented the king with a written paper, the contents of which were, that if any knight or gentleman would dare maintain that King Henry was not the lawful sovereign, he was ready to offer him combat in the presence of the king, when and where he would.

"After King Henry had dined and partaken of wines and spices, he retired to his private apartments, and all the company went. Thus passed the Coronation Day of King Henry, who remained that and the ensuing day at the Palace of Westminster."

But though Henry was thus firmly set on the throne by the will of Parliament, he knew full well that he was not the lawful heir while the Earl of March, the descendant of John of Gaunt's elder brother, was alive, and this fact put him very much at the mercy of his Parliament throughout his reign. He was there by the will of Parliament, and therefore, according to their will he must act. His was a troubled, anxious rule; for rebellions broke out in many different parts of the country, and Henry never felt really secure.

With Westminster he had little to do, save at the beginning and end of his reign, and he has left no memorial of himself in the building. Yet he is the one king who died within the Abbey walls.

To ease his conscience, he had resolved to make a pilgrimage to the sepulchre of the Lord at Jerusalem, and this in spite of the fact that he was suffering from a grave disease.

"Galleys of warre" were made ready for the expedition, and the king came to Westminster, both to meet his Parliament and to pray in the shrine of Edward for the blessing and protection of that saint, though he firmly believed an old prophecy that he should die in Jerusalem would be now fulfilled.

While kneeling in the shrine, he became so ill that those about him thought he would die in that place. But with difficulty they moved him to the fine chamber in the Abbot's house, carrying him on a litter through the cloisters, and "there they laid him before the fire on a pallet, he being in great agony for a certain time."

At last, when he came to himself, he asked where he was, and when this had been told him, he inquired if the chamber had any special name.

He was told its name was Jerusalem.

"Then sayd the Kynge: Laud be to the Father of Heaven, for nowe I knowe I shall dye in this chamber, accordynge to ye propheseye of me aforesayde, that I should dye in Jerusalem."

So, in that dark tapestried room, the king, lying there in his royal robes, just as he had come from doing honour to St. Edward, made himself ready to die. His son, Prince Harry, was with him, though between the two there had been many a misunderstanding and quarrel during the last few years; and Shakespeare, taking his facts from the French chronicler, tells how Henry lay there unconscious, his crown on a pillow at his side, and at last seemed to breathe no more. Whereupon the attendants, believing him to be dead, covered over his face, and Prince Harry first held the crown in his hands, then set it on his own head.

This very act seemed to call the dying king back to life, for he groaned, came to himself, and missed the crown.

"What right have you to it, my son?" he asked reproachfully.

The Prince made answer: "My lord, as you have held it by the right of your sword, it is my intent to hold and defend the same during my life."

To which replied the king: "I leave all things to God, and pray that He will have mercy upon me."

And thus saying he died.

But the English chroniclers give another picture of the Prince, and describe him sobered and awestruck in the presence of Death, kneeling at his father's side as the priest administered the Holy Sacrament, tenderly recalling his wandering mind and saying--

"My lord, he has just consecrated the Body of the Lord Christ: I entreat you to worship Him, by whom kings reign and princes rule."

Then the king raised himself up to receive the cup, blessed his son, kissed him, and died.

Prince Harry wept distractedly, full of remorse as he thought of all the follies and mistakes of his past life, which had so added to the sorrows of the dead king. But all that was good and great in him came to the front now. Alone, in a little chapel inside the Abbey, he passed the rest of that day, kneeling in utter humility before the King of kings, praying for pardon, for peace, and for strength. "Then, when the shades of night had fallen upon the face of the earth, the tearful Prince in the darkness went to the Anchorite of Westminster (whose stone cell lay on the south side of the infirmary cloister), and unfolding to this perfect man the secrets of his life, being washed in penitence, he received absolution, and putting off the cloak of iniquity, he returned garbed in the mantle of virtue." Nor was this sudden change the impulse of a moment, for "Henry, after he was admitted to the rule of the land, showed himself a new man, and tourned all his wyldness into sobernesse, wyse sadnesse and constant virtue."

The king, at his own wish, was buried at Canterbury by the side of the Black Prince; some chroniclers say, because he trembled at the thought of lying near Richard's tomb in the Confessor's Chapel; and nothing disturbed the peace of the Abbey till the following spring, when on Passion Sunday, "a daye of exceedinge rayne and snow," Henry V. was crowned.

His first act as king was to give King Richard an honourable burial in the tomb he had chosen, to order that tapers should burn around his grave "as long as the world endureth," and that dirges and masses should be said for his soul. Then he concerned himself with the building which had stood still throughout his father's reign, and he made as his chief architect the wealthy and generous Whittington, now Lord Mayor of London--possibly the hero of the old story--with a monk of Westminster named Haweden. To those two was entrusted the work of completing the nave and all the western part of the Abbey.

Henry was brave and adventurous, the nobles were longing for war, and France, at that moment divided against itself, almost invited attack. The old pretext did well enough; Henry laid claim to the throne of France and invaded the land, scorning all idea of compromise. Disease attacked his army, so that when he came face to face with his foe he had but 15,000 men to their 50,000. But his courage rose to the crisis, and when one of his knights sighed for the thousands of brave warriors in England, he said warmly--

"I would not have a single man more. If God give us the victory, it will be plain we owe it to His grace."

And the battle there fought and won was the great battle of Agincourt, the victory once again of the English archers. Henry had always been loved by the nation, now he became their hero and their darling.

"Oh, when shall Englishmen With such acts fill a pen, Or England breed again Such a King Harry?"

The news of the triumph was quickly sent to London by a special messenger, and the Mayor, with the commonalty and an immense number of citizens, set out on foot to make their pilgrimage to St. Edward's shrine, there to offer devout thanksgiving for the joyful news.

And to this procession there joined themselves very many lords and peers of the realm, with the substantial men, both spiritual and temporal, for all knew that thanksgiving was due unto God, and to Edward, the glorious Confessor. Therefore went they like pilgrims on foot to Westminster, as aforesaid, passing through the newly built nave.

Later on, when Henry made his triumphant entry into London as the victor of Agincourt, "the gates and streets of the cities were garnished and apparelled with precious cloths of arras, containing the victories and triumphs of the king of England, which was done to the intent that the king might understand what remembrance his people would leave to their posterity of these, his great victories and triumphs."

But the king would not have any ditties to be sung of his victory, for he said the glory belonged to God, and the hymn of praise he commanded was a joyful _Te Deum_, which rang through the vaulted arches of the Abbey, led by the monks, swelled by countless voices of brave Englishmen. Nor would Henry allow his battered helmet of gold and his other armour, "that in cruel battaille was so sore broken with the great strokes he hadde received," to be carried before him or shown to his people. With a fine modesty, he sought in no way to glorify himself. The memory of his early manhood, with its dark side, was ever before his eyes; the conflict with the enemy within was ever waging, and the knowledge of his own weakness swept over him even in the hour of his greatest triumph, so that he could not but be humble as a little child.

Peace was at last made with France, the terms being that Henry should marry the French king's daughter, Katherine, who possessed "a white oval face, dark flashing eyes, and most engaging manners," and that he should succeed to the throne of France on the death of his father-in-law. In the February of 1421 he brought his pretty bride to England, where the people received her "as if she had been an angel of God," and on the 24th of that month she was crowned by the Archbishop.

In the words of Robert Fabyan, an alderman of London, but devoted to the pleasures of learning, "I will proceed to show you some part of the great honour that was exercised and used upon that day."

After the service in the church was ended, Queen Katherine was led into the great hall of Westminster, and there sat at dinner at Henry's side, while close to her sat the captive Prince James of Scotland, the Archbishop of Canterbury, and many great nobles. The Countess of Kent sat under the table at the right side of the queen, and the Countess Marshal on the left side, holding her napkin, while the Earl of Worcester rode about the hall on a great courser to keep room and order. Being Lent, no meat was allowed, excepting brawn served with mustard, but of fish there was a great choice; "pyke in herbage lamprey powderyd, codlyng, crabbys, solys, fresshe samon, dryed smelt, halybut, rochet, porpies rostyd, prawys, clys roast, and a white fisshe florysshed with hawthorne leaves and redde lawrys." Wonderful ornaments called "subtelties" were on the table, being images intended to symbolise the happy event, and fastened on to these were labels with such verses as--

"To this sign the king Great joy will bring, And all his people The queen will content."

Or--

"It is written And can be seen, In marriage pure No strifes endure."

Katherine's pity was roused by the clever and charming young Scottish prince who had been so long a prisoner, and who was now deeply in love with Lady Joanna Beaufort, a lady he had seen in the gardens of Windsor Castle, and at this banquet she pleaded for him with her husband, with the result that he was eventually set free, and allowed to marry the lady of his love.

In spite of the peace which had been made, the French people were not inclined to submit to their conquerors, and within a few months of Katherine's coronation war broke out again, which sent Henry off in haste to France. He was still victorious, and when besieging Meaux the news was brought that Katherine had given him a son. At the same time came a loving letter from the queen herself, begging that she might join him in France so soon as her health would permit. The permission was readily granted, and she came, but not too soon; for Henry, who had bravely fought illness as he fought all other enemies, was conquered at last, and died at Vincennes, he, "mighty victor, mighty lord, being carried there helpless on a litter."