Georgette Heyer (20 page)

The Chancellor’s messenger found the Lord John and the chief falconer intent upon a gerfalcon troubled with ungladness. ‘Waiting for me?’ John said absently, his careful fingers feeling the falcon’s swollen leg. ‘I’ll come anon.’ Then it occurred to him that his uncle must have important tidings to disclose if he had ridden to Westminster to seek him; and he cast the falcon, and went away at once with the messenger.

The Chancellor had such tidings as drove all thought of Northumberland out of John’s head. ‘My son,’ said Henry Beaufort, his mouth prim, but his tilted eyes laughing, ‘I have come to tell you to truss up your baggage: you are for the North!’

‘Reverend father!’ gasped John.

‘And also to hand you your commission,’ continued the Bishop. ‘The King has been pleased to appoint you Warden of the East Marches, and Captain of Berwick, in my lord of Northumberland’s room. Are you satisfied?’

The dark colour rushed up to the roots of John’s hair; he said gruffly: ‘I owe this to you, my uncle: God thank you!’

‘Well, yes, a little you owe me,’ acknowledged the Bishop. He held out his hand, and, when John knelt to kiss it, he said: ‘Go north, John, and learn how to wage war! But also learn how to rule a turbulent land – and judge not your father hastily! The headsman’s block is not always the answer to the troubles which beset a king.’

Part III

The Lord Warden

(1403–1405)

‘And this prince most discrete and sad,

… Was the first that did his entent,

By grete advys and ful hy prudence…’

John Lydgate
: Of the English Title to the Crown of France

One

The Lord Warden

1

The Lord John reached Pontefract in the middle of August. His first sight of the great hold was not encouraging. The day was overcast, a light rain falling, like a sea-mist; and the castle, which might in sunshine have appeared golden, loomed sour yellow above the town at the foot of its rock. Originally a De Lacy hold, it had come into Lancastrian possession when Thomas of Lancaster, grandson to King Henry III, had married the heiress of the last Earl of Lincoln. He had built one of the seven towers, and had been beheaded for treason within sight of the walls. One of his escort chattily informed John of this circumstance, and was about to embellish the story when it occurred to him that the reminiscence was scarcely felicitous. It had been received in silence; glancing sidelong at the Lord John’s hawk-face he saw it unscrutable, and was thrown into confusion. But the Lord John was not thinking of his great-great-great-uncle; he was staring ahead, his eyes lifted to the keep, which reared its massive bulk high above the flanking towers. Within its huge walls King Richard had died, by what means perhaps three men knew. It seemed to rise out of the sandstone knob on which it had been erected, and was plainly of ancient date, faced with weathered stonework, and lit by narrow, slit windows. An ill place in which to end one’s days, John thought. He remembered the silken luxury in which King Richard had been wont to live, the treasures in which he had delighted, the favourites who had flattered and caressed him, and a shiver ran down his spine. Probably King Henry had ordered his prison to be comfortably furnished, but no hallings, no cushioned sieges, could transform grim Pontefract into another Sheen.

Three gates had to be passed, the way all the time ascending, before the inner bailey was reached. Once within the walls the castle appeared less forbidding than when seen from a distance. In the castle yard John was met by the Governor, Sir Robert Waterton, who greeted him with affection. Sir Robert was one of Father’s oldest friends; it was difficult, looking into his pleasant countenance, listening to his kindly voice, to believe that he could have had any hand in King Richard’s death. Like Sir Hugh, he seemed too honest a man for dark dealings. He told John that the King was awaiting him, but he warned him that he would not find his father in good point. King Henry had been scouring the North like a brisk besom: no doubt he was for-wearied. No weariness of mind or body, however, could abate his energy. His squires swore that he had killed thirty men with his own hand at Shrewsbury; and since then he had allowed neither himself nor his officers a day’s rest. When John was ushered into his presence he was engaged with his secretaries, a mass of papers on his table; and he glanced up with an impatient frown. But when he saw who had entered the chamber the frown lifted, and he held out his hands, exclaiming: ‘Welcome, John!’

John had not stayed to change his raiment, and he knelt before his father with the mud still clinging to his ox-leather buskins. The King kissed his brow. The laugh that was not as ready as once it had been made him jerk up his chin. ‘Holy Rood! Do you mean to tower above us all, whelp?’

‘No force, sir!’ John said, grinning.

‘Well,’ said the King, ‘you are grown too big for Hugh Waterton, and shall have a new governor in Ralph Neville.’

‘That is a change I am blithe to make,’ responded John.

‘I shall make you Constable of England presently,’ pursued the King.

John nodded. If he was gratified by the promised appointment he did not show it; he was certainly not surprised. This great office had belonged of old to the Bohuns. It had passed, on the death of the last Earl of Hereford, John’s grandsire, to his elder son-in-law, Thomas of Gloucester. After his taking off it had been first granted, by King Richard, to Edward of Rutland; and later, by King Henry, to the Earl of Northumberland.

‘While you are under age the business must be done by deputy,’ added the King.

Again John nodded. His father regarded him with a mixture of amusement and exasperation. ‘Well, my son, well! Is there a weight tied to your tongue?’

‘I thought that when the Fox was shent the office must be mine,’ said John. ‘If Thomas is Lord High Steward, I must be Constable, and Humfrey, I suppose, the Lord High Chamberlain, presently.’

The King was shaken by laughter. ‘True!’

Recollecting himself, John began to thank him, but the King interrupted, saying: ‘No, stint! You have said sooth: the office must be yours: it belongs to our family by inheritance. Is there nothing you wish me to tell you?’

‘Witterly, sir!’ John answered. ‘How does Harry fare? I heard he had been wounded, but it was thought not dangerful. Is he well?’

The King stared at him between narrowed eyelids. ‘So! I learn that Harry is amended of his wound: perhaps it may mar his beauty – that I cannot tell!’

‘He’ll take no force of that,’ John said. ‘I heard – Antelope Pursuivant told me – that he demeaned himself right worshipfully in the battle.’

‘Right worshipfully,’ the King agreed.

‘I expect he enjoyed it,’ John said reflectively.

‘I expect he did,’ responded the King dryly. ‘It was his first pitched battle. When he has fought in some more he will not enjoy them so much.’ He saw the disbelief in John’s face, and raised his brows. ‘No?’

‘Sir, my uncle, the Bishop, said to me that war is Harry’s trade, and I think he spoke sooth. But it is not against the Welsh that he would choose to fight.’

‘Let Harry rid himself of dreams of French conquests!’ the King said sharply. ‘There lies no profit in war with France! As for your thirdfather King Edward’s large claims, I tell you without ambage, my son, I deem them folly!’

John knew that he would not himself choose to lead an army into France, but he was too much the disciple both of Bel sire and of Harry wholly to agree with his father. He maintained silence; and after a pause the King said abruptly: ‘I am recalling Thomas from Ireland. He may join Harry in Wales for a space.’

Again John made no comment. He wondered how Thomas would demean himself under the command of a brother he was always ambitious to excel. He thought there would be some trials of strength between them, but this he did not say to the King. Harry could be trusted to handle Thomas without aid or advice. There might be stormy scenes, but there would be no lingering rancour, for neither ever bosomed up malice, and under his jealousy Thomas deeply respected Harry.

Two days later John left Pontefract with the Earl of Westmoreland, Ralph Neville, bound first for York, where he must pay his respects to Archbishop Scrope; and next for my lord’s hold at Middleham. The King advised him privately not to stay at Middleham, but to seek a lodging at the Cistercian monastery of Jervaulx. ‘Always lodge in a monastery!’ said the King, who made this his own rule. ‘You will have far better entertainment. Middleham! Yes, yes, I know it! I had as lief lie in Shrewsbury Castle, which Harry would have had me do!’

‘Harry told me once that Shrewsbury Castle is like Kenilworth,’ said John.

‘What a daffish thing to say!’ exclaimed the King fretfully. ‘It was built of the same red stone, but to compare such a paltry, ancient hold with the palace your grandfather built at Kenilworth – ! But no force, no force! It is well enough for such a youngling as Harry!
I
lodged with the Grey Friars, of course: good entertainment, and the Abbot a witty, conversable man.’ He paused; and added thoughtfully: ‘They are Cistercians at Jervaulx – you will find them all over the north! It is the rule of their order to abjure the company of men, but latterly they have become less strict. You will be better housed there than at Middleham.’

John was easily able to believe him. Like any other well-to-do person he had spent the first night upon the road north at the great Abbey of St Albans, where the arrangements made for noble travellers by far outshone what could be offered by any hostelry. However, he was not of an age to set much store by ease, and as he had reason to suppose that the Nevilles were preparing lavishly for his reception he returned his father an indifferent answer, and left the arrangements for his journey in his new guardian’s hands.

2

The Earl of Westmoreland took him by a roundabout way to Raby, by York, and his own manor of Sheriff Hutton. ‘For it will be well if you know all this land, John,’ he said, ‘and where my chief holds lie.’ Passing over the bridge at York, he volunteered more information, jerking his chin upwards at a grisly relic set upon a pike. ‘Hotspur,’ he said.

John lifted his eyes to look at the head. Such sights were common enough, and the head was quite unrecognisable, stripped bare of flesh by the crows.

‘Your father did not like to see it there,’ remarked the Earl. ‘They were boon-friends once. Well! He was my kinsman, you know, and I am sorry for his ending; but if a man choose to mell himself with treason he may count it good fortune to die upon the field of battle, and not from a doom’s cart.’

He found that his charge was more interested in surveying the walls of York than in heads on pikes, and regarded him with approval. The Lord John inspected the city’s defences, explored the town, heard High Mass in the Minster, and rested that night at the Archbishop’s palace of Bishopsthorpe.

Here he had rather austere entertainment, Archbishop Scrope being renowned for the simplicity of his life. He was an elderly man, scholarly, but not, John thought, witty; and he was too closely connected with the Percy interests to be a favourite of the Earl of Westmoreland. He had been joined with Archbishop Arundel in enthroning King Henry – surprisingly, for he had been one of King Richard’s friends, and, indeed, owed his translation to the Archbishopric of York, in defiance of the choice of the Chapter, to King Richard’s influence with the Pope. It had been he who had gone to Rome, at Richard’s behest, to seek the canonisation of King Edward II: John, seated at his board, glancing at his thin, aloof countenance, recalled the Countess Marshal’s well-salted words, and wondered what could have possessed so seeming-saintly a man to engage on such an embassy. The Archbishop did not enlighten him, but spoke instead of his nephew, the heir to the barony of Masham, who was with Harry on the Marches, and bidding fair to become his closest friend.

Ralph Neville took John north next day betimes, leaving York by the Bootham Bar, a strong gate which had formerly guarded the city against Scottish invaders. ‘But they do not reach York now!’ said the Earl, with one of his horse-laughs.

Sheriff Hutton, a small brown hold rather less than three leagues north-east of York, had little of interest to show. Ralph Neville said that a long time ago, before the memory of man, its constable had been charged with the duty of ridding the neighbourhood of the rogues who had infested the great Forest of Galtres. Forests were still the haunts of desperate men – robbers, outlaws, one-time soldiers, villains, who had deserted their masters – but of this particular forest not much remained. It was said to have harboured wolves once: John, staring at a wilder, larger country than any he had yet seen, was hopeful that wolves might yet lurk in the valleys; but Ralph Neville said there were no wolves to be found south of Northumberland, and not very many there nowadays.

Dropping into one of the valleys they came to the Abbey of Rievaulx at the hour of Sexte, and stood uncovered in the chequered sunlight while the bell tolled the Angelus. The wooded hills rose steeply on either side, and a small river burbled over the stones on its bed. No other habitation had been seen for many miles; the place seemed remote, very lonely. Ralph Neville said that Cistercians always chose such sites. This did not promise good cheer, but when they were admitted by the porter, and conducted to the guest-house, they found very seemly accommodation. The Abbot himself received the Lord John; and if it was his custom to abjure the company of men this did not appear in his manners or in the easy flow of his conversation. At first unhopeful of exchanging ideas with so young a princeling, he soon discovered that the King’s third son, besides having enjoyed the advantages of a careful education, had delved deeply into mundane matters. Sheep-farming was the chief worldly business of the Cistercians, and it was not long before the Abbot found himself talking about wool with the Lord John. They talked of ewe-flocks, of wethers and hoggets; of the perils of the lambing season; of fells; of the advantages and the disadvantages of a fixed Staple; of the guile of the Lombard merchants, and the wiles of the brokers; of the circumstances which had led great families to lease their farms to tenants; and – this was a homethrust delivered by the Lord John – of the sand-blind policy that induced sheep-farmers to sell their wool for many years ahead to crafty Flemish and Italian merchants. The Abbot flung up his hands, crying, ‘
Peccavi!
’ and Ralph Neville, whose livelihood depended on rents and coal, smothered a yawn; and the Lord John’s confessor, a Black Friar, wondered when the company would be allowed to sit down to dinner. An excellent man, Father Matthew, but not one who was indifferent to his body’s needs. Like most Dominicans, he was learned; he was also ambitious; shrewd rather than saintly; correct in doctrine; chaste in his life, but thinking it no sin to be fond of the pleasures of the table and of the chase. The Abbot, a man of another kidney, regarded him with austerity, for when Father Matthew rode on a journey he wore the dress of a layman, so that only when he pulled off his hood, and his tonsured crown was made visible, could he be recognised as a man in Holy Orders. This custom spared him the pain of seeing lewd fellows cross their fingers to avert the evil eye, as common folk were too prone to do when they encountered friars, but it found no favour with the stricter clerics. The Abbot could scarcely have been more shocked had he come in with a hawk on his fist. But he kept no hawks: such a practice would not have been tolerated by the King. The bare-faced falcon, mantling in the Abbot’s parlour, was upon John’s fist. He had flown her at a heron on the road to Rievaulx: Father Matthew’s only part in the sport had been to point the heron out to John; he did not even permit himself to ride forward with John to retrieve the falcon. Ralph Neville thought it unwit to go hawking without dogs, and called out that she would carry; but the friar smiled, and said: ‘Nay, she will keep her mark, and come again to the lure. I know her well!’