Within the Hollow Crown: A Valiant King's Struggle to Save His Country, His Dynasty, and His Love Read online

  Edmund of York was at his elbow now, fussing about the lateness of the hour. "A splendid sermon!" he observed, although he had dozed through most of it. "We are fortunate—you and I, my boy—in having been sired by such fathers!"

  "Yes, sir," agreed Richard again. It always saved argument to agree with the uncles. But he wasn't so sure. Without being able to put the matter into words, he was beginning to find out that being the son of some public hero like his father or his grandfather precluded the possibility of being liked without comparison. He lingered a little in the pleasant Cathedral precincts, tossing the hot ermine cloak to a page and telling his groom to tighten a girth. Truth to tell, he still felt a bit diffident about riding before his mother and his uncles. But of course all these paunchy grownups would be wanting to get along to the Archbishop's palace for their dinner. Their show of grief hadn't, on previous occasions, he recalled, affected their appetites. And a small surge of superiority and precocious insight possessed him, remembering how when his puppy had died he had been too desolate to eat for days.

  Footsteps that he feared—yet knew only in the depths of his soul that he feared—roused him from dalliance and drove him instinctively towards his horse. Thomas of Gloucester, the youngest and hardest of Edward the Third's batch of sons, came striding out from the violet shadow of the west porch, a lean figure resplendent in ceremonial armour and emblazoned jupon. "So you will not be journeying back to London with us, Joan?" he inquired briskly of his sister-in-law.

  The widowed Princess of Wales gathered up her scalloped crimson reins. As a good Kentishwoman she liked to spend a week or two shopping and seeing friends in Canterbury. "You know that every June I come on a pilgrimage to the shrine of blessed Saint Thomas on my poor husband's birthday," she reminded him, in the virtuous tones of a woman who knows herself to be disapproved of.

  "Killing two birds with one stone, eh?" observed Edmund of York, settling his flabby weight in the saddle with a grunt. He wasn't particularly tactful at any time but probably, thought Richard, his mind was running on the chances of episcopal capon.

  "Well, don't hurry to return, dear sister, until your native air has restored some of those wild roses to your cheeks," urged Gloucester, ignoring his brother's unfortunate contribution to the conversation. "The odours from the Fleet ditch aren't too healthy in hot weather, and you can rest assured that I will escort the boy safely back to Westminster."

  "I make no doubt you will, milord," agreed Joan, turning to stare pointedly at an armed troop in his livery which far outnumbered the young King's modest retinue. For the briefest moment the glances of mother and son met in guarded amusement. She made no secret that "the fair maid of Kent's" complexion came out of a paint box these days, and they both knew that the longer she tarried in Kent or any other county the better the uncles would be pleased. They always had resented the confidence her husband had placed in her, going over their heads to make her co-governor with the Duke of Lancaster; and her absence gave more scope for avuncular interference.

  It had been decided that they and Richard must leave directly after dinner to attend a Council meeting especially convened because of the widespread discontent about the new poll tax. Michael de la Pole, one of the most astute members of the Council, and Walworth, the Mayor of London, had both sent messengers urging them to come. But after all, wondered Joan, was this wretched meeting so important? It wasn't as if it were about some imperative matter to do with the wars in France or Spain or Scotland. What did it really matter what a lot of ignorant shopkeepers and swineherds thought here at home? They were always grumbling about something. If it wasn't taxes it was wages…She leaned from her white palfrey to lay a hand on Richard's shoulder. "Couldn't you stay, Dickon, and return with me next week?" she suggested.

  She could feel both uncles glaring. She knew well enough that if the late Prince had decided his son was to go somewhere at a certain time, he would have had to go; and that Burley, who had been tutor to both of them, was hovering disapprovingly somewhere in the background because he hated the idea of Richard's being brought up softly. She knew that they would all tell her for the hundredth time how bad her inconsequent vacillation was for the boy's character. But they ought to remember that he was all she had left. And he was such a charming companion. The monotony of widowhood was leavened by his gaiety and affection. He wasn't always bragging about his prowess at sports like Lancaster's tedious boy, Henry—nor dumb about everything but military manoeuvres like the two hefty sons of her first marriage. Not but what she adored her two grown-up sons, of course…But Richard had more of the woman in him. He could take an intelligent interest in music and clothes and things that interested her. Though even he, of late, had been less amenable to her extravagant devises for their mutual amusement. "We could go and choose the cloth for your new hunting coat," she coaxed. "I've got the Flemish weavers down by the river to design some delicious green stuff specially for you with little white harts embroidered all over it."

  A month or two ago the suggestion would have tempted him. But now, pausing with one foot in the stirrup, he only looked up to laugh at her naïve cajolery. He was exceedingly proud of this beautiful mother of his, with her pink and white skin and red-gold hair. Although she was growing plump and in her early forties, she still retained the charm that had enslaved so many men. He liked going about with her and knew that if he stayed they would have a good time together, taking a ridiculous little boat down the narrow Stour and dressing up with her ladies in the weavers' fascinating stock of fabrics. But there were other things to be done. He wanted to get back to London to put in some practice for the tournament the Mayor was giving at Smithfield—back to his friend, Robert de Vere—to the book of poems Geoffrey Chaucer had given him and to his new puppy, Mathe. For once he even wanted to attend the Council meeting. For this time it wouldn't be about war. Michael de la Pole was sure to open the debate on the conditions of the working people, and de la Pole always talked sense.

  So Richard lifted the persuasive hand from his shoulder and kissed it gallantly, but shook his head. He could see Archbishop Sudbury, newly changed from his vestments, bearing down upon them, full of further homilies on living up to the Black Prince's reputation, no doubt. So he swung himself into the saddle and signalled hurriedly to his Master of the Horse to move off.

  Out beyond the fine new city wall which his uncle of Lancaster had built against the marauding French he caught a glimpse of sunlit fields, framed like a piece of green tapestry in the grey archway of the Pilgrim's Gate. And winding through them like a dusty white ribbon the road to London. His London. The city where so many interesting people lived and so many exciting things happened. The port where ships brought strange cargoes from all over the world.

  He was impatient to get dinner over and be on the way. Life beckoned enticingly. Perhaps after all it wasn't so bad being a very young king. One would grow up. And then people wouldn't be able to prevent him from doing all the lovely things he planned.

  Richard's dreams stretched before him like a golden pathway leading to a city where craftsmen made buildings beautiful and poets poured out a fantasy of words. Where merchants from all countries met in peace on prosperous quays. Where hovels and stenches and disease were swept away, and all the wisest scientists gathered to cure the plague. Nebulous, shining, adolescent dreams—remote enough from the standards of his world to catch the smile of the Christ. Or a crazy jumble of impracticable whimsies which would have shocked the uncles to their unimaginative souls!

  Chapter Two

  The tilt yard at Eltham was a pleasant place in June. The scent of box hedges and sun-drenched thyme drifted across from the palace garden, and red and white roses nodded their heads over the wall. Slim squires and pages, brighter than any flower border in their short tunics and parti-coloured hose, stood about holding spare equipment and laying bets; for the King and his friends were practising for a junior event in the Mayor's midsummer tournament. And the attention of all of them was centre
d on a well-worn quintain set up in the middle.

  Tom Mowbray, the Earl of Norfolk's heir, had just cantered back from a thrust barely good enough to save him from the backwards swing of the beam. "Your turn next, Robert!" he panted, as he passed de Vere.

  "Robert won't escape the sandbag! He never takes the trouble to practise," prophesied Lancaster's son, Harry Bolingbroke, who rose at dawn every day of his life to do military exercises, as behoved a nephew of the Black Prince.

  "I'll wager you a florin he does!" countered Richard Planagenet from his perch on top of a mounting block. But he spoke out of loyalty rather than conviction.

  "Make it two!" urged Bolingbroke, who was always comfortably sure of his own convictions—and usually so annoyingly right.

  But for once his judgment was out. Or was it that Robert de Vere had a genius for doing the unexpected, wondered Richard, noting the negligent way in which his friend couched his lance and how a kindly little gust of wind sprang up from the river and stirred the swinging target just at the right moment.

  Tom Mowbray hooted with good-natured laughter.

  "The wind blew the thing straight onto his lance!" said Henry disgustedly. But he called the page who was holding his purse and handed over the coins without resentment.

  "Milord of Oxford is always lucky!" grinned Bartholomew, the Master-at-Arms, chalking up a score equal to Mowbray's.

  "Does that go for love as well, Barty?" chaffed Richard. Being completely bilingual, he had been alternately singing snatches of a Provencal ballad and shouting ribald English comments at his fellow competitors; and everyone laughed because the handsome Earl of Oxford had ousted stocky young Tom from the fickle favours of one of the Princess of Wales' wards. But Robert, who was taller and older than the rest of them, rode back with a disarming grin, seemingly equally indifferent to his conquests in either field.

  Richard rolled over lazily onto his stomach. It was pleasant lounging there in the sunshine, watching his two cousins' exertions and his friend's indolent grace. If one half-closed one's eyes the bright morning light made all the people in the tilt yard look like little figures cut out of paper with their own violet shadows neatly folded over backwards for stands. There was old Bartholomew in his leather jerkin, Bolingbroke all done up in his first suit of armour, small groups of multi-coloured squires and—a little apart in gown of sombre velvet—the dear, familiar figure of Sir Simon Burley, who usually came to watch their sports. It was one of those golden moments when time stands still enough to paint itself upon a page of memory. Somehow Richard knew that in after years he would only have to turn back to this scene to recapture the quintessence of a youthful summer day, and was vaguely saddened because the bright sands of boyhood were slipping all too swiftly through the hourglass of his life.

  But all fanciful illusion was suddenly disturbed by a scattering of pages and servants, a spectacular splutter of sparks and the thud of Henry's heavy stallion charging purposefully across the yard. Success was a foregone conclusion; but the sun blazed so on his breast-plate that it was difficult to see.

  "A perfect thrust!" cried their delighted instructor, above a howl of applause.

  "Perhaps if we too had worn our new armour—" murmured de Vere a little maliciously, drawing rein beside the mounting block.

  "Old Barty didn't say we need. And it's only a quintain practice anyway," yawned Richard.

  Sir Simon Burley turned to frown at their deplorable flippancy. "That thrust was the effortless result of regular discipline," he was heard to observe. "None of your chancy successes achieved on the strength of spasmodic efforts just before tournament time!" He was addressing Sir Thomas Holland, Richard's grown-up half-brother who had strolled over from the palace. But the criticism was evidently for their benefit.

  Richard jumped down and greeted his half-brother affectionately. He enquired politely after Thomas's wife and gave him news of her ten-year-old son, whom he had recently taken into the royal household as a page. It made him feel pleasantly mature, being an uncle. But he wished Thomas hadn't chosen that moment to arrive. A couple of men-at-arms were steadying the quintain in readiness for a fresh essay and the redoubtable Master-in-Arms was coming in his direction. "Your turn now, sir," he invited, with that mixture of deference and command which the young King had to endure from all his instructors except Sir Simon.

  Richard mounted his white mare without more ado, gentling her to the starting point. He even made some gay quip to the young squire who handed him his lance. But his grip on the thing was a thought too tense, his brows knitted. He wished now that he hadn't waived his right to ride first. How could anyone be expected to tilt immediately after Bolingbroke? To compete with his expensive armour and his solemn practising and his one-track mind? The morning had been so enjoyable until now, he thought, screwing up his eyes almost angrily to sight the target. In a moment he would be charging across the enclosure, filled with exhilaration. But first there was always the split second of shivering fear. Fear of what, he wondered for the hundredth time. Fear of being afraid—of making a fool of himself? Did other lads experience it? Or was it because there was always that extra little hush before he sped a hawk or pulled a bow? Just because he happened to be a king…And because he was always aware of Thomas or someone watching to see if he were shaping like his father.

  Thomas Holland thought the world of his illustrious stepfather and had been knighted by him on the field in Spain. How paltry all this childish pother about a contest with light-weight lances must seem to him! The bare thought of it made Richard spur Blanchette into a nervous start.

  But he was off and the breeze was in his hair. That cold, silvery feeling like plunging into the river for a swim had braced him. His slim, lithe body felt supple in the saddle. Life suddenly was a joy, an adventure. He and Blanchette were as one and his blood warmed to a lovely confidence. Onlookers, repressions, criticism—all were forgotten in the thrill of thundering across the Eltham yard. Only the quintain swam before his vision—a worn wooden post and crossbar transformed by imagination into the splendid figure of some doughty opponent. At the right moment he raised himself in the stirrups. With perfect timing arm and lance swept back ready for his own graceful, unorthodox thrust; so that Thomas and Burley and the grizzled Master-at-Arms almost fancied they saw the Black Prince ride again. Then all in the last few yards Richard had to remember Bolingbroke's correct and carefully perfected thrust— and Burley's approbation. He, too, wanted the old man's approbation. The quintain was flying towards him. Richard's quick brain flew faster. "If I draw my elbow in now—just a fraction, the way Uncle Thomas is always nagging about—I've still time…"

  According to all military ethics the effort should have been successful. He put all he had into it so that the thrust shook his slender frame from toe to shoulder. But the lance caught only the edge of the target and glanced off, almost unseating him. And as he ducked instinctively the heavy bag of sand at the opposite end of the bar swung round and hit him soundly on the back. The ignominious fate ingeniously designed for all who muffed their stroke.

  Even when he had pulled his mare, sweating and slithering, to a standstill the blow still jarred. To tough, stocky Mowbray or steelplated Bolingbroke it would have meant little. Robert was clever at concealing all he felt. Richard hated himself for being sensitive and unaccustomed to rough handling. He stopped to pat Blanchette because he was blinded by tears. Tears of rage and shame. His companions' laughter reached him from a long way off. "How dare they laugh at me! I am their King," he caught himself muttering childishly; but strove to chase the ignoble thought away. Of course, it was the same good-natured fun he had been poking at them— all part of the precious good comradeship which had made him purposely forgo his prerogative to ride first. Only—only—there was something: in him—some part of him—that no man must laugh at. And it was so difficult to know which part of him minded so much that humiliating, body-shaking thwack—the cosseted mother's darling who would probably bring up his breakfast
because of it—or that part of him which he inherited from his father's father, right back into the austere past, and which he had to guard from indignity.

  He wheeled his mare and looked with envy at the others, untrammelled by such dual personalities, and rode slowly back to them. His back was a little more rigid, his chin held a little higher. Only Robert and Sir Simon would know by the wet brightness of his eyes how awful he felt.

  "Better luck next time, Dickon!" called Thomas, trying to swallow the slur on the family prowess.

  "I'd better have stayed at Canterbury—making an exhibition of myself like this…" muttered his shamed relative.

  Thomas was fond of him and told him not to be a young fool. "You're not up to their weight," he pointed out with rough kindliness. And Burley came and stroked Blanchette's sleek neck and smiled up at him. "Plenty of other people make exhibitions of themselves, Richard, and haven't the wit to know it," he said. He was thinking particularly of Gloucester and his friend the Earl of Arundel when they lost their tempers in Council but, attracted by a sudden burst of merriment, his keen grey eyes passed from his pupil's flushed face to the spectacle of an unseated horseman in modish pink picking himself up from the dust, and he was glad to accept the opportunity of pointing his words more lightly. "Look at young de Vere there! A worse miss than yours—and he's laughing all over his impudent face!"