A King's Betrayal (5 page)

Six

‘Where is my wife?’ Tomas asked of his steward, as he strode into the great hall, spurs jingling.  He was still wearing his mail of steel links and had ridden hard straight from the town of Oswestry. He had been on business there for the castle, buying much-needed stores, and the news he had gathered was not good.  He must speak to Beatrice at once, before she heard it from another’s lips.

             
‘The lady is in her chamber, my lord.’

             
‘Good.  I shall go up to her.’

             
Tomas ran up the twisting stone steps. How to tell her news that would cause her great distress?  He was both shocked and anxious for the future looked uncertain.  What ought he to do, to protect his wife and their daughter?  He knew well the answer Beatrice would give but she spoke with the heart of a woman who loved.  Tomas had served Richard faithfully but now…he drew a deep breath and entered his wife’s chamber.  She seldom left it these days, preferring to eat alone and claiming that she was not well enough to dine with the men in the great hall.  He had allowed her to hide behind her ill health, but if she did not put her grief to one side soon he might have to force her to see sense.  He had given her, her way in all things but perhaps it was time to assert his authority as her husband.

             
‘How are you, Beatrice?’

             
‘Well enough,’ she said but did not look up from her tapestry.  She was working on a brightly coloured screen, which would adorn their solar and depicted a scene of heraldry and men in battle.

             
‘I have just returned from Oswestry.’

             
‘Is that where you went?’  Her tone was flat, uninterested.

             
‘I told you there was business for the estate.’ Tomas sighed.  She never listened to him.  Sunk in her misery, she had turned inward and away from him.  ‘I heard something there that will distress you, Beatrice.  As yet I am not certain the news is true – but I wished to tell you before you heard it from another.’

             
Her head came up with a start.  She was looking at him now, uncertainty and the beginning of fear in her eyes.  ‘Do you speak of Richard?  Is it bad news?  Is he dead?’

             
‘Not dead, as far as I know – but taken by a trick.’

             
‘Taken prisoner?’  Beatrice rose to her feet, shock in her eyes.  ‘How?  You told me he was in Conway Castle.  It is a strong fortress.  How could it fall so easily?’

             
‘The castle has not fallen.  Richard was persuaded to leave it and ride out to a meeting with Henry Bolingbroke.  He took a small party of men he trusted with him, believing that he had been given assurances of safety.  They surrounded him with armed men and rather than have his friends die for him, he gave himself up.’

             
‘No!  How could he be so foolish?’ Beatrice’s voice rose on a note of hysteria.  ‘That vile man will have him murdered.  If Richard is not already dead, he will die soon.’

             
‘No, Beatrice. He cares too much for others and because of that people think him weal or a fool – but only a strong man would have done what he did.  Richard still has many friends.  Bolingbroke will not dare to bring him to trial or execute him.  He is a man of fine honour.  Surely England will rise for him? We shall demand his restoration.  We shall seek terms for his release and…’

             
Beatrice shook her head, her eyes wild with grief.  ‘I dreamed that Richard called to me last night.  He was in sore distress.  He wept and begged me to forgive him, and he swore that if he were freed he would legitimise my child – but I know it will not happen.  He will die in prison at that man’s hands.’

             
‘Henry would not murder him, but there are others who are not so nice.  Henry has what he wants now.  He will declare himself King claiming that he has as much right to the throne as Richard.’

             
‘How can that be true?  Richard was the son of the Black Prince and the rightful heir to Edward 111.’

             
‘That is true, but Henry can claim the same grandfather and if Richard is dead…there is no one else to dispute his right.  Richard hath no heirs.’

             
‘Richard has a daughter.’  Beatrice’s eyes flashed with temper.  ‘If Richard is murdered she has as much or more right to the throne than Henry Bolingbroke.’

             
‘No, Beatrice.  Forget such dreams.’  Tomas took her by her arms and gave her a shake.  ‘You must never say such things outside this room.  Do you hear me?  If Bolingbroke were to hear of Elspeth he would not allow her to live.  Do you not see?  He has the crown and he will defend it ruthlessly, no matter who has to die.  If he would murder his anointed King why should he hesitate to kill a child? A child that might be the rightful queen.’

             
‘Richard is not yet dead,’ Beatrice said, her mouth set stubbornly.  ‘He must be released and then – he will acknowledge his daughter.  He will understand that Elspeth is his main hope for the future.  If she is acknowledged as his rightful heir the people will rally around her and sweep Bolingbroke back across the sea to France.'

             
‘Richard’s friends will seek to free him for his own sake – but forget your foolish ambition, Beatrice.  By speaking so wildly you endanger your daughter.  If word of her existence reached Henry Bolingbroke, he might decide to do away with her lest someone start a rebellion in her name.’

             
‘Will you betray us to him?’

             
Tomas saw the bitter line of her mouth and felt pain strike at his heart.  That she could say such things to him!  ‘Surely you know that I would never hurt you?  I know you blame me for your son’s death, but I sought only to make you see the error of your folly.  I would never betray your secret but others may.  Take care whom you speak to of your dreams, Beatrice, for you may learn to regret your wild talk.’

             
Beatrice turned from him, her face proud and rebellious.  Tomas knew that it was useless to continue.  She would not listen to him.  He could only pray that her pride did not bring disaster on them all.

‘Sire, there is a priest without.  He claims that he has an important message for you.’

             
‘A priest?  What do I want with a priest?’  Henry Bolingbroke, self-proclaimed King of England, waved his servant away impatiently.  The last thing he needed was a

priest to preach at him and warn him against the fires of hell.  This was the moment of his triumph and revenge was sweet.  Richard deserved his fate, which was to languish in prison until he died.  Henry had given lip service to the men who sought his presence, persuading, even begging for Richard’s release, and then ignored them.  As the months passed he was growing more certain of his power.  He would not yield one inch no matter what.  Any that came against him would be ruthlessly crushed.

             
‘He insists that it is a vital matter, one that you would do well to hear, Sire.’

             
Henry frowned, looking up from the document he had been studying.  At heart he was a superstitious man.  He was already haunted in his dreams and knew that his conscience would trouble him throughout many nights to come.  There had been a time when Richard had called him cousin and they had laughed together as young lads, when he had reason to thank Richard for favours granted.  Yet the King had turned against him, striking the last fatal blow while Henry still grieved his father’s death. Pushed to the limit, Henry had taken the law into his own dominion and now held the kingdom in the palm of his hand.  Richard was a fool and deserved his fate. Forget the charming youth, who had shown him kindness, forget all favours given and think only of revenge.  The barons were with him for too many had suffered losses at Richard’s hands. Still, he must tread carefully for pockets of resistance remained and there were many scattered about the country whose loyalty was Richard’s yet.

             
‘Very well, tell the priest to come in if he must.  I shall give him a chance to speak his piece.’

             
Henry strode to the narrow window of the chamber above the great hall of Winchester Castle, looking down on the activity below.  Men-at-arms were training, the sound of metal against metal resounding on the morning air.  He caught the smell he always associated with priests and wrinkled his nose – incense and stale body odours made him sick to his stomach.

             
‘What do you want, priest?  I am busy.’

             
‘I have news that you may wish to hear, Sire.’

             
Henry turned, his gaze narrowed and impatient.  The priest was young, little more than a youth, his brown habit worn thin and in need of a wash, his tonsured hair greasy and hanging about his face. ‘By what name are you called?’

             
‘Father Arnaud, Sire.’

             
‘Speak then.  I cannot conceive what news you think would interest me?’

             
‘Would it interest you to know that Richard Plantagenet has a daughter?’

             
Henry started violently, his gaze narrowing.  ‘Richard has no child.  His wife Anne of Bohemia gave him no children – and Isabella of Valois is but a child herself.’

             
‘Yet he had a daughter with the lady Beatrice.  She is wed to Lord Tomas Ryston but they have not consummated the marriage. She recently gave birth to a stillborn son, who was also the King’s child.’

             
‘How do you know this?’

             
‘I was her confessor and she told me of her sins – but I overheard her speaking to her husband and the tale I tell came not from the confessional but from her own lips in her bedchamber.’

             
Henry was silent, his gaze narrowed, angry.  ‘Even if this is true the child is a bastard and no threat to me.  What did you hope to gain by coming to me with this tale, priest?’

             
‘I hoped for preferment at court, Sire.’

             
‘Then you gave yourself false hope.  Your time is done.  Leave me.  I have other more important matters to attend.’

             
‘The lady thinks her child should be Richard’s heir.  Her ambition knows no bounds.  She hopes the bastard may be legitimised in Richard’s will.  One day you may wish that you had listened to me, Sire.’

             
‘Watch your tongue, priest – or you may lose it.  Go and keep your foolish tales to yourself.  A bastard son might have represented some danger, a daughter means little.  The barons of England want a strong King to rule them.  It is for that reason they support me.’

             
‘You  have seized the crown of England but it will never rest easy on your head.’

             
The priest glared at him and went out, leaving Henry to stare after him.  He drummed his fingers against the table for a moment, irritated by the priest’s parting shot.  It might have been better to give the man something, to keep him loyal.  Some insignificant position where he could be easily dealt with if need be. If such a rumour spread it could cause unrest, though he doubted the barons would rise up for a child of Richard’s.  Had they stayed loyal to their King, Richard would not now be languishing in Flint Castle – where he would stay despite the arguments of his friends.  Henry would crush any rebellion ruthlessly, as a beetle beneath his boot.

             
He glanced down at the documents spread before him but his mind was elsewhere.  It might be as well to make inquiries about the lady Beatrice and her daughter.  If there were a grain of truth in the priest’s story he would at least be prepared for any eventuality. The year 1400 had been prophesied to be a year of terrible disaster.  Henry would see to it that disaster fell on his enemies and not on him.

             
Reaching for the bell rope, he summoned his attendant.

             
‘Send for Sir John Fletcher,’ he commanded.  ‘I have a use for him.’

Seven

‘I think I shall die here,’ the man said, looking into the face of the knight who had risked much by coming here to his prison cell.  Sir Hugh had bribed the gaoler with gold and been given a rare interview.  ‘No, my friend, do not waste what little time we have with protests.  Take this to your sister.  I have wronged her but now I shall put right that wrong.  Give her my letter and let her make what use of it she may.’

             
Hugh took the letter, saw the royal seal and knew that it had been written before Richard’s confinement became absolute, when there was still some hope of a settlement.  He slipped it inside his surcoat.

             
‘What more may I do for you, Sire?  You know that your friends work tirelessly on your behalf?’

             
‘You are loyal, Hugh, and I have given you scant reason.  I do not think you or any other can win my freedom.  I have not much time left.  Go to Beatrice.  Tell her that I thought of her in my last hours. Tell her that I loved her and regret I did not keep my word to her.’

             
‘Sire, do not give up hope.’

             
‘You must leave.’

             
The turnkey’s sharp intervention made Hugh turn in anger.  ‘I have paid your price, sirrah.  Pray allow us a moment more.’

             
‘No, the guard changes soon.  You’ve had your time.  Go now – unless you wish to join your master and languish here?’

             
‘Forgive me,’ Hugh said, his gaze meeting Richard’s.  ‘I shall come again if I can and bring better news I hope.’

             
‘May God keep you and preserve you,’ Richard smiled.  ‘As God is my witness I did only what I thought right to preserve the throne for England’s good. A nation divided will fall and England needs peace.  The age of true chivalry ends with me for I am the last true Plantagenet.  After me comes darkness and bloody war. I shall go to my Maker with a good heart, though I pray Henry will grant me justice and a clean death.’

             
‘He dare not put you on trial for he believes the people might rise in support.’

             
‘I fear that he will let me rot here until I am dead.’

             
‘I will try again,’ Hugh promised.

             
‘Give Beatrice my letter.’

             
‘I shall,’ Hugh promised, turned and left.

             
He was frowning as he followed the turnkey up the dimly lit stone steps, away from the foul dank cells in the bowels of the castle that housed Richard.  He had given his word to his King but his thoughts were deeply troubled.  Despite his promises he knew that Richard’s cause was lost.  Henry was king and nothing would make him risk that now.  He would show no leniency.  At the moment Richard’s followers were deflated and dispirited.  The time was not right for another uprising, especially for a child with a tenuous claim to the throne.

             
It might be better if Beatrice never saw the letter Richard had given into his safe keeping.  Richard was doomed to die of some foul deed or sickness in his cell.  Why give Beatrice false hope when her ambition could only bring disgrace and ruin on them all? Hugh knew his sister well.  Given what she needed, she would never rest until the whole of England was up in arms against the usurper.

             
Hugh knew that for the moment he intended to bide his time and do what he must.  There was no point in parting with his head for a lost cause.

‘The news is grave,’ Tomas said as he entered his wife’s chamber some days later.  He was carrying a sheet of parchment in his hand.  ‘It will grieve you, Beatrice.  Yet I must tell you for Hugh’s letter confirms it.’

             
Beatrice turned to him, her eyes dark with misery.  ‘You do not need to tell me, Tomas.  Last week I dreamed again that Richard was dying.  He came to me in my dream, kissed me most tenderly, told me that he had ever loved me, and begged me to forgive him.  I know that he is dead.  I have felt it for some days.’

             
‘The King says that he died of some illness, but rumour has it that he was allowed to starve to death in his cell.  When his friends failed at Pontefract it was inevitable that his death must follow to prevent yet another attempt to dislodge Henry. There is an outcry against his murder, for none believe the tale of sickness,  but I do not think Richard’s friends are strong enough in numbers to rise against Henry again.’

             
‘I know that Richard died in pain and suffering.  May God curse Henry Bolingbroke for what he has done.  I should like to cut out his black heart and feed it to the dogs. I pray that he too will die in agony and that his soul will burn in hell.’

             
‘Hush, wife.  You speak wildly and your words are treason.’

             
‘I speak only what many feel but dare not say.  I dare swear that ere long the people of this land will wish that Richard were still their King. The day comes when they will hate the tyrant that took his place and long for the time when Richard ruled.’

             
‘That may be true but still you must take care.  Hugh says that the King is demanding Richard’s friends pledge their allegiance to him.  He wants an end to the quarrelling between his English barons, for he faces another threat.  The Welsh people are rising against us.’

             
‘Would that they had risen when their rightful king asked it of them,’ Beatrice said and there was a note of bitterness in her voice.  ‘Had they been loyal to him then he would still be King.’

             
‘They do not rise because Richard is dead, but because a man called Owain Glyn Dwr claims he is the true prince of Wales.  He means to drive the English from Wales.  Henry needs all his English barons to support him in the coming struggle – and I believe this may unite them.’

             
Beatrice’s gaze narrowed in suspicion.  ‘You will not join him, Tomas?  Can you forget Richard so soon?’

             
‘Henry has sent me a letter.  He says that he knows I was Richard’s man but since I took no part in the fighting, he will not take reprisals against me.  My lands in Wales are safe, as are yours. He asks for my support.’

             
Anger flared in her eyes.  ‘How dare he send such a letter?  He is the usurper and no true king of England.’

             
‘Be careful what you say, Beatrice.  I have warned you before.’

             
‘There is no one to hear me,’ Beatrice scorned.  ‘You start at shadows, husband.  My daughter has as much right to the throne as that man and one day when the people know him for what he is, she will help to take the throne from him.’

             
‘That is foolish talk and dangerous.’  Tomas glared at her.  ‘Sir Hugh has chosen to join the King for now.  He will take part in the campaign against the Welsh.  Hugh says this Welsh prince is dangerous and it is for the good of England that the barons stand together.’

             
‘He has betrayed me!  He has gone over to the enemy.’  Beatrice’s mouth drew into a thin line of displeasure.  ‘Who is this Welsh prince, Tomas?  Has he a chance of winning?  If I thought him a true prince I would tell you to join him and help bring down that tyrant who calls himself King of England.’

             
‘Henry is King.  We cannot change that by foolish words,’ Tomas replied with a frown.  ‘For your own sake and Elspeth’s take care what you say.  If Henry heard that you spoke so wildly he might punish you – all of us.’

             
‘I should be better had I died with Richard,’ she said, then shook her head as she saw his face.  ‘No, Tomas.  Forgive me.  I did not mean those cruel words.  You have been a good husband to me.  It is my foolish tongue.  I must learn to curb it.’

             
‘For all our sakes,’ Tomas said.  ‘You hurt inside, Beatrice, but you must allow your wounds to heal or you will ruin your life.’

‘Mama, will you play with me?’ Elspeth asked, pulling at her mother’s skirts.  ‘The sun shines.  Will you take me to the meadow to pick wild flowers?’

             
‘I do not feel like picking wild flowers,’ Beatrice said.  She saw the disappointment in her daughter’s face and sighed, knowing that of late she had not paid her the attention she deserved.  She had grieved these many months for both her stillborn son and Richard.  It was unfair to the child she loved.  She smiled and drew the child close.  ‘Your nurses shall take you to pick flowers and later I will tell you a story.  Nessa, take the lady Elspeth into the meadow and guard her well.  You may ask three ladies to go with you and two men-at arms.  Do not stray further than the stream and if there is any hint of danger bring Elspeth home swiftly.’

             
Her hand caressed the child’s golden hair, then she pushed her towards the young woman who was Elspeth’s chief nurse.  She smiled as Elspeth reached up and hugged her.

             
‘I love you, Mama.  I wish you were not so sad.’

             
‘I shall try to be happy again soon for your sake,’ Beatrice said.  ‘Bring me some flowers when you come back, my darling, and I will tell you a story.’

             
‘Yes, Mama.’

             
Elspeth ran to her nurse and took her hand, smiling up at her in the sweet shy way that won so many hearts.  She took Nessa’s hand and they went out of her mother’s solar and down the winding stair to the hall below.  In the hall Lord Tomas was talking with his steward but they took little notice of the nurse and her charge.  Elspeth thought that her mother’s husband was a stern man who seldom smiled, though he was kind enough to her when he thought of it and she always wore the golden cross and chain he had given her at Christ’s Mass. 

For a moment she wondered why the man with the gentle smile had not been to see them for so many months.  She did not know why she thought it, but Elspeth believed he was her father.  He had once sat her on his knee and told her that she was his precious girl and that he would make sure she married well when she was older.  Why should he be so kind to her unless he was her father?  Sir Tomas had never once kissed her or taken her on his knee.  He was not unkind but he never showed love towards her.

             
It was since the man with the soft hair and the gold band about his brow had ceased to visit that her mother had become so sad.  Elspeth did not understand, but she wished that her mother would smile again.

             
‘Can we go as far as the stream, Nessa?’ she asked, looking up at her nurse.  ‘The flowers grow thick there and if the water is not cold we could dip our toes at the edge of the stream.’

             
‘No, we may not.  If you should catch a chill your mother would never forgive me.’

             
‘But she need not know,’ Elspeth said and giggled.  ‘I like to paddle at the edge of the stream where the water is shallow. Besides, it is very warm today.  Please say I may, Nessa.’

             
‘Well, we’ll see,’ Nessa said, won by her smile and the look of entreaty in her eyes.  ‘But you must be good and do as I say.’

Nessa and Elspeth played together near the stream, which flowed past the village and separated it from the Lady Beatrice’s lands.  Closer to the castle several ladies were gathering herbs and wild flowers, their chattering voices like music on the still warm air.  Birds called from deep within the woods; bees and insects fluttered amongst the tall spikes of the willow rose herb and delicate orchids sheltering amongst the sweet grasses, contributed to the pungent scents of summer.

             
When the band of horsemen came riding towards them from the direction of the ruins of an old lazar house on the hill, the group of women merely glanced up, hardly disturbed by the sight.  Only as the thud of their heavy horses grew louder and more menacing, the jingle of harness and the glint of sunlight on steel suddenly making them aware of danger did they realise what was happening.

             
‘Nessa, bring the child,’ one of the ladies screamed and began to run towards the nurse and her charge.  ‘Come now!  Bring our lady’s daughter. There is danger…’

             
Nessa looked round.  Her attention had all been for the child, who was playing in the shallows, her feet bare and her short tunic caught up above her knees. The lady’s daughter was a lively happy child, always into mischief, always curious.  If Nessa did not watch her she might wander too far and get caught by the reeds beneath the surface.

             
Suddenly aware of the approaching danger, she screamed and grabbed for the child but Elspeth giggled and tried to avoid capture.