The Star of Lancaster (26 page)

‘Great news, my lord,’ said the guard looking straight at Harry who was beginning to feel a little light-headed with the possibility which had occurred to him.

‘Yes, yes,’ cried Harry, impatient and imperious.

‘We have a new King, God save him. King Henry IV of England.

‘My . . . my father!’ gasped Harry.

‘Your noble father, my lord, God save him.’

‘Then Richard . . .’

‘Has abdicated, my lord. He knew himself to be beaten.’

Harry smiled to himself. This was the biggest thing that had ever happened. Yesterday he had been Harry of Monmouth, son of an exile, a hostage in the hands of the King. Today he was Prince Harry, heir to the throne.

He wanted to go home. He wanted to share in the triumph. This was the end of this dull and pointless life. A wild exultation took hold of him. Everyone was showing respect, even Humphrey. Heir to the throne. The words kept ringing in his ears.

‘What news of my father the King?’ he asked.

‘Orders, my lord, that you and Duke Humphrey are to leave at once for England,’ was the answer.

‘Come, Humphrey,’ cried Harry. ‘Let us lose no time.’

Nor did they. They would leave at once. There would be a ship waiting for them. His father had seen to that. He wanted his heir with him with all speed. He would be made the Prince of Wales, that was certain. A glorious life lay before him.

Humphrey was more cautious and very thoughtful.

Poor old Humphrey, it would make little difference to him. He was already the Duke of Gloucester and he could not go much higher than that. Still, he would have the distinction of having shared exile with the Prince of Wales.

When they were alone Humphrey said: ‘Harry, don’t hope for too much.’

‘What do you mean? Hope for too much! I’m heir to the throne, am I not?’

‘It must be very insecure as yet.’

‘Insecure! Depend upon it, my father had made it very secure.’

‘For one thing young Edmund Mortimer is the true heir.’

‘That’s not a serious claim.’

‘You have to see things as they are, Harry. Edmund is descended from Lionel who was older than your grandfather.’

‘I know. I know. But he’s only a child.’

‘Age makes no difference.’

‘Oh yes it does. My father has the people behind him. He is the one they want. They want no more child kings.’

‘Not even if they are the rightful heirs?’

‘Enough, Humphrey. Remember . . .’

‘To whom I speak. The heir to the tottering throne. Don’t hope for too much, Harry.’

‘Will you stop it or . . . or . . .’

‘You’ll send me to the Tower and have me lay my head on the block? You’ll be a vindictive king, Harry, but you won’t last long if you don’t look the truth right in the face and accept it for what it is.’

Harry seized him and the two of them wrestled together on the floor of the chamber as they loved to do. Harry often scored in these bouts although he was several years younger than Humphrey.

The tussle ended up in laughter as it always did and Harry cried: ‘What are we doing, wasting our time? Come, we must return to the scene of action with all speed. I am no longer a hostage, Humphrey. Think of that.’

‘I can think of nothing but how glad I am to leave this damp unfriendly land.’

‘Come, then, let us make ready. To England.’

Within a few days they left Ireland. The crossing was rough and during it Humphrey became ill. Harry chaffed him and told him he was a poor sailor and commented that it was a mercy they were not going into battle. Humphrey smiled wanly and said he could never remember feeling so strange.

‘You’ll be well again as soon as you set foot on dry land,’ Harry promised him.

But this was not so and the crossing was so rough that it seemed at one time that they would never make it. It was a great relief when they were able to land in Anglesey. Oddly enough Humphrey was no better and it soon became clear that his malady had nothing to do with the sea.

He was in a fever and wandering in his mind. They had come to an inn which was nearest to the spot where they had landed and Harry had thought that after a brief rest there Humphrey would be himself again.

Humphrey was rambling about his father. He thought he was himself in an inn in Calais instead of Anglesey and that what had been done to his father would be done to him.

‘Nonsense,’ cried Harry. ‘I’m here with you, Humphrey. We’re in Wales . . . soon we shall be with my father. We are not Richard’s prisoners any more.’

Humphrey was soothed but he did not improve. In fact he was growing worse and a cold fear suddenly touched Harry.

Was this some sort of a plague which had attacked his companion?

He should ride on. His father was impatiently awaiting him, but he was not going to leave Humphrey.

That was to prove a sad homecoming for Harry in spite of
the glory which awaited him. Within a few days of their landing Humphrey had died of the mysterious illness which had attacked him so suddenly.

When the Duchess of Gloucester heard of the death of her only son she was overcome with melancholy.

It was difficult to recognise in this grief-stricken lady the forceful Eleanor de Bohun who had once been so pleased with herself when she had married Thomas of Woodstock, and together they had planned to get their hands on the entire fortune left by her father.

Then she had had dreams of greatness. Becoming royal through marriage with one of the sons of Edward the Third she had been so proud. And when her son had been born and he had been given that good old de Bohun name of Humphrey she had doted on him.

Her only son! Her Humphrey! She had known what it meant to love something other than riches and power when he had been born, although she had never ceased to value those things and wanted them for Humphrey.

When her husband had been murdered that had been the end of her ambition for him and she had turned her thoughts more and more to this precious son.

He had accompanied his cousin Harry to Ireland at the command of Richard but it had not occurred to her that any harm could come to her son.

And now this news had shattered her. She had been robbed of that which was the meaning of life to her. She had three daughters; but it had been on Humphrey that her love and devotion was centred.

She went about Pleshy silent-footed and mournful. Her attendants watched her anxiously.

‘She will die of a broken heart,’ they said.

She would sit in the window seat and look out across the country to where the grey walls of the convent rose and she thought of those days long before Humphrey’s birth when her sister Mary was here and had made her journeys to and from the convent. How they had urged her to take up the life of the nun. And she might have done so had it not been for that meeting with Henry Bolingbroke – contrived of course by John of Gaunt. They had wanted Mary’s fortune . . . well so had she.

How different everything would have been if Mary had entered the convent. Harry of Monmouth would never have been born.

‘Oh Humphrey,’ she mourned, ‘never to see you again . . . Humphrey, my son, my boy . . .’

She was tired in body and in mind. She had nothing now to live for.

Then she saw again the grey walls of the convent and it seemed to her that they offered peace. Could it be that she, Eleanor Duchess of Gloucester, who for years before had tried so hard to persuade her sister to enter that convent, should now be considering ending her own life there?

It was strange what peace the thought brought her. She could almost hear her own arguments with which she had bombarded Mary. The quiet. The peace. The life lived to a pattern of service to others.

There was comfort in it.

It was ironical that the Duchess, who had thought the convent life so suitable for her sister, should now want to embrace it herself.

As the days passed the more firm became the decision and finally she took the step.

She did not live long. She found that she must mourn her son within the convent walls as bitterly as she had in the castle.

She died very soon after entering the convent. Of a broken heart, it was said.

Harry realised that Humphrey had been right when he had talked about the insecurity of the new King’s position; and none was more aware of this than Henry himself.

He was delighted to receive his son and to see that he was in good health, though somewhat melancholy still owing to the sudden death of his cousin.

There were other matters with which to concern themselves, Henry reminded his son, and because Harry was next in importance to himself he discussed matters candidly with him.

‘Do not imagine,’ said the new King, ‘that we are as safe on the throne as if it had come to us through straight inheritance. Richard has been crowned King. He still lives. The people have shown they have had enough of him and he has agreed to abdicate, but it is a dangerous position.’

‘Richard’s reign is over,’ cried Harry. ‘Should we concern, ourselves with him?’

‘Of a certainty we should, my son. I tell you this, I shall not rest easy while he lives. There is Edmund de Mortimer – that child. He does not add to my peace of mind. Harry, we must tread with the greatest care. You give yourself airs. Do not do so. Behave with modesty. Let it be as it was before.’

‘Did I ever behave with modesty?’ asked Harry, grinning.

‘This is a serious matter. So much will depend on the next
few weeks. I have not won the crown by conquest, for there has been scarcely any fighting. It is rather by election.’

‘Is that not a good thing?’

‘Yes, but I want to make it firm. I want now and in the years to come people to say of me, “There is a true King and ruler.” If we do not take care we shall have risings. There will be those ready to support Richard . . . till he dies . . . Edmund de Mortimer’s adherents . . .’

‘’Twould be safer if we could prove in some way that you were the rightful heir.’

‘Well, there is the story you know, that Henry the Third’s eldest son was not Edward who became the First of that name, but Edmund, Earl of Lancaster, he whom they called Crouch-back, and from whom we are directly descended. But because of the latter’s weakness they substituted Edward the second son for the first-born and so he was brought up as the heir.’

‘Will any believe that, my lord?’

‘I think very few would, but it would save a great deal of trouble if they could be persuaded to.’

‘Why do you not claim the throne because you have won it?’

‘Claim it is mine through conquest! A dangerous situation, Harry. Someone one day might be taking it from me . . . claiming it by conquest. Chief Justice Thyrnynge has warned me against that. But perhaps I could be said to have a greater claim because I am descended on both sides of the family from Henry the Third. You see that king was my father’s great-great-grandfather and my mother’s great-great-grandfather also. Edmund de Mortimer could not claim that.’

‘My lord,’ said Harry, ‘as I see it, you have the power; you have the riches; you have the crown in your hands. That makes you King. All you must concern yourself with is keeping that
crown, until it comes to me and rest assured, my lord, that when it does I shall clamp it to my head with bars of iron.’

Henry could not help smiling at his son. As soon as he possibly could he would create him Prince of Wales.