Passage to Pontefract

Richard of Bordeaux, young heir to the throne after Edward the Third, is surrounded by ambitious uncles who believe it would be better for the country if they could take the crown. While Richard shows himself capable of reckless bravery in defeating the Peasants’ Revolt, his extravagance soon brings him into conflict with his people. Before long the king's most powerful opponents confront Richard and threaten to depose him.

Here is a vivid picture of Richard’s court, his devotion to his favourite Robert de Vere, his love for two Queens, clever Anne and the little Isabella, and of his headlong journey towards disaster. He is determined to take his revenge on the five lords who have humiliated him, but while he succeeds with four of them, the fifth proves to be far more of a challenge. Henry of Bolingbroke, son of John of Gaunt, is clever, subtle and absolutely set on achieving what his father had failed to …

Praise for Jean Plaidy

‘It is hard to better Jean Plaidy when she’s in form … both elegant and exciting as she steers a stylish path through the feuding Plantagenets’
Daily Mirror

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  Contents  

Cover

About the Book

Title

Copyright

Praise

About the Author

Further titles available in Arrow by Jean Plaidy

The Plantagenets

JOHN OF GAUNT

I The Birth of the Boys

II Catherine Swynford

III The Lovers

IV The Castilian Marriage

V The Black Prince

VI Riot at the Savoy

VII The End of a Reign

RICHARD OF BORDEAUX

VIII The Gathering Storm

IX Wat Tyler

X A Queen From Bohemia

XI The End of the Fair Maid of Kent

XII The Five Lords Appellant

XIII Tragedy at Sheen

XIV The Little Isabella

XV The King’s Revenge

XVI The Return of Bolingbroke

XVII Pontefract

Bibliography

Praise for Jean Plaidy

‘Plaidy excels at blending history with romance and drama’
New York Times

‘Outstanding’
Vanity Fair

‘Full-bodied, dramatic, exciting’
Observer

‘Plaidy has brought the past to life’
Times Literary Supplement

‘One of our best historical novelists’
News Chronicle

‘An excellent story’
Irish Press

‘Spirited … Plaidy paints the truth as she sees it’
Birmingham Post

‘Sketched vividly and sympathetically … rewarding’
Scotsman

‘Among the foremost of current historical novelists’
Birmingham Mail

‘An accomplished novelist’
Glasgow Evening News

‘There can be no doubt of the author’s gift for storytelling’
Illustrated London News

‘Jean Plaidy has once again brought characters and background vividly to life’
Everywoman

‘Well up to standard … fascinating’
Manchester Evening News

‘Exciting and intelligent’
Truth Magazine

‘No frills and plenty of excitement’
Yorkshire Post

Jean Plaidy, one of the pre-eminent authors of historical fiction for most of the twentieth century, is the pen name of the prolific English author Eleanor Hibbert, also known as Victoria Holt. Jean Plaidy’s novels had sold more than 14 million copies worldwide by the time of her death in 1993.

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Further titles available in Arrow by Jean Plaidy

The Tudors

Uneasy Lies the Head

Katharine, the Virgin Widow

The Shadow of the Pomegranate

The King’s Secret Matter

Murder Most Royal

St Thomas’s Eve

The Sixth Wife

The Thistle and the Rose

Mary Queen of France

Lord Robert

Royal Road to Fotheringay

The Captive Queen of Scots

The Medici Trilogy

Madame Serpent

The Italian Woman

Queen Jezebel

The Plantagenets

The Plantagenet Prelude

The Revolt of the Eaglets

The Heart of the Lion

The Prince of Darkness

The Battle of the Queens

The Queen from Provence

The Hammer of the Scots

The Follies of the King

The Vow on the Heron

The Passage to Pontefract

The Star of Lancaster

The French Revolution

Louis the Well-Beloved

The Road to Compiègne

Flaunting, Extravagant Queen

The Isabella and Ferdinand Trilogy

Castile for Isabella

Spain for the Sovereigns

Daughters of Spain

The Victorians

The Captive of Kensington Palace

The Queen and Lord M

The Queen’s Husband

The Widow of Windsor

PART ONE
JOHN OF GAUNT

  Chapter I  

THE BIRTH OF THE BOYS

L
ondon was in a festive mood on that glorious May day. There was little the citizens liked better than a royal occasion and this promised to be one of the most splendid the capital had ever seen. The King loved display – the more magnificent the better. It was one of his endearing qualities. A weakness perhaps but a lovable one indulged in by a man who was said to be the greatest warrior in Christendom and whose reputation was as illustrious as that of his grandfather, great Edward, the first of that name.

Three days earlier the King’s son – he who was known as John of Gaunt because he had been born to Edward and good Queen Philippa in the Flemish town of Ghent and the English despising foreign tongues found Gaunt came more easily to the tongue than Ghent – had in Reading been married to Blanche, the daughter of the Duke of Lancaster.

All would agree that the union of two handsome young people was a matter for celebration, particularly as they were both royal, for Blanche was descended from the Plantagenet tree even as John was; and the parents of both bride and groom were revered throughout the country.

Henry of Lancaster, the bride’s father, was known in England – and in Europe too – as Good Duke Henry, the perfect knight. He was chivalrous at all times, generous to his enemies, loyal to his friends, a deeply religious man, and his grandfather had been Edmund the second, son of Henry the Third.

As for the bridegroom’s parents, they were beloved by the people as few monarchs had been before them. Their subjects must be proud of this tall handsome King whom many said was the image of his grandfather and only slightly less tall than that Edward Longshanks whose reputation had been enhanced by memory. This Edward had all the Plantagenet good looks – the abundant fair hair, the straight nose, the flashing blue eyes, the fine physique. Moreover he had brought stability to the country and such was his popularity that it had been forgotten that the glories of Crécy and Poitiers had been paid for not only with blood but with taxes wrung from the people, and that the acquisition of the throne of France was no nearer than it had been at the beginning of the war. He had married Philippa of Hainault of whose benevolence the people had been made aware and even in his marriage he had shown his good sense. Philippa might be over plump and show signs of continuous childbearing and be scarcely a beauty, but her fresh rosiness was comely and her expression one of gentle goodwill. She had on several occasions been known to plead with the King to show mercy, for he like most of his race was possessed of a temper which could be violent when provoked; and for this quality she had been deeply respected. She was womanly; she was virtuous; and she was known as Good Queen Philippa.

Their devotion to each other had been an example to the nation, and if there had been rumours of late that the King was not quite the faithful husband it had, in the past, been generally believed he was, such suggestions were forgotten when the royal pair appeared together.

London was delighted with its ruler; and all wise rulers knew that the approval of the capital city was essential to their security. Yes, they loved this King who could give a good account of himself in the jousts in which he so liked to indulge, and they enjoyed seeing him glittering with the jewels with which he so loved to adorn his handsome person.

Not only had he restored the prestige to England which it had lost during the previous disastrous reign of his weak effeminate father, he had sired sons – all handsome – and the eldest, as was fitting, was one whose fame had spread far and wide and already showed signs of being as great as his father and grandfather – another Edward, known throughout the country as the Black Prince.

So on this occasion of the marriage of the King’s son, London determined to honour its sovereign. There was noise and bustle everywhere. From the gables of the houses women chatted to each other, discussing the merits of the bride and groom. People crowded into the streets; they lived most of their lives out of doors when the weather permitted, for they liked to escape from the closed-in darkness of the little houses huddled closely together, and regarded them only as shelters against the cold and places in which to eat and sleep. Celebrations such as this one made the highlights of their lives.

May Day had just passed. Then they had danced round the maypole welcoming the summer; they had decorated it with the wild flowers growing outside the city walls by the Strand which connected the City of London with Westminster and where lay the houses of the nobility, their gardens lapped by the river – the City’s great highway along which craft of many descriptions plied back and forth at all hours of the day and night. They had festooned their doorways with flowers; and had even hung little glass lamps among the blossoms. After dark the effect had enchanted all who beheld it.

That was May Day. But this was an even greater occasion, for it had been announced that there was to be a great joust and that champions had come forward to hold London against all challengers. There was an air of mystery about this for none knew who those champions were; but all declared that there had never been, nor ever would be, a celebration to match this which honoured the marriage of the King’s son, John of Gaunt, to the Lady Blanche of Lancaster, daughter of Good Duke Henry.

The pavilions were being erected. In these the knights would don their armour and await the summons to come forth and fight. Some were glorious indeed, made of silk and velvet; but the mystery was stressed because on the grandest of these pavilions there were no mottoes, no shield of arms to identify those who would occupy them. This reminded the people that the defenders of London were the mysterious knights who had come forward to serve the City at this glorious time.

Stands were being erected for the nobility. It would be a glorious sight. The King would be present. A royal occasion indeed. It was no wonder that hours before the tournament was due to begin people should be converging on the City. From Clerkenwell and Holborn they came, from St John’s Wood and Hampstead. They slept in the meadows of Marylebone and dabbled their feet in the Paddington brooks.

Even the sombre Tower, that grim Norman fortress, brooding over the scene seemed less menacing on this day and no one thought of the dark deeds which had gone on behind those grey walls. Rather they looked towards Westminster and the magnificent Savoy Palace on the Strand. The Savoy was the home of Duke Henry now and had passed through the hands of many owners; it had been built by the notorious Simon de Montfort who had married King Henry’s sister and had come near to ruling England himself. But when he had been subdued King Henry the Third had presented the house to his wife’s uncle Peter, the Earl of Savoy, and it had been known as the Savoy ever since. He in his turn gave it to a priory and it was from this priory that Queen Eleanor had bought it as a suitable residence for her second son Edmund, Earl of Lancaster and that was how it had come into the family.

Close to the City but outside its walls the joust would be held and already the people were waiting there. Cheeky apprentices, like boys let out of school, were chatting to the milkmaids; ploughmen, prelates, merchants – men and women of all ranks – had come to see the pageantry.

Excitement was intense. The joust had begun. The Queen and her ladies sat watching. With her was the young bride. Blanche was as beautiful as she had been proclaimed to be. Her long fair hair was loose about her shoulders; her skin was delicately white, her eyes deep blue. She was eighteen years old. People gazed at her with interest. Tall, slender, almost delicate, she looked so young and tender beside the corpulent Philippa.

The people cheered themselves hoarse for the ladies. But they waited for the King and they waited in vain.

But there was little time for speculation for the challengers had come forward and the defenders were riding out to meet them – twenty-four knights led by five of the tallest men in the field. For a few moments the silence was intense. Then the trumpets were sounding and the heralds had come forward announcing that the tournament was about to begin. The heralds ran from the field as the horses came pounding in. There was fierce excitement in the sound of the crash of steel against steel, in the shine of shields and lances as the sun caught them, in the battle cries of the noble knights. The Londoners looked on in utter fascination and their attention was focused on the men who had taken upon themselves the task of defending London. Who were they? The crowd thrilled with delight for the challengers were no match for them.

In due course their victory was complete. London had been bravely and skilfully defended against all comers, as it always had been and always would be.

Now the great moment had come. The mysterious defenders must uncover and show themselves. They rode into the centre of the field – those five tall men who had led the defending team.

One rode a little ahead of the others and when he lifted his visor there was no mistaking the thick fair hair, the blue eyes, the handsome Plantagenet features.

‘The King!’ The people went wild with joy. What greater compliment could he have paid his City than to place himself at the head of its defenders. They might have guessed whose face was beneath that visor for he had not been beside the Queen in her loge. It was a game that kings loved to play when they were sure of the loyalty of their people. It was Edward’s way of telling them that his City of London was dear to his heart and that he would defend it with all his might.

‘Long live the King.’ The cheers that rent the air could have been heard from the Tower to the village of Knightsbridge.

The second knight had ridden up. He had removed his visor and the crowd was now almost hysterical with joy for there was no mistaking that handsome face either. It was so like that of the King. More austere perhaps but as handsome, the great military hero Edward, heir to the throne, who had won his spurs at Crécy and was the hero of Poitiers, who a few years previously had led his royal captive, the King of France, through the streets of London and lodged him in the Palace of the Savoy. Edward, acclaimed throughout the world as the soldier whom none could equal. The Black Prince himself.

And he too was here to defend London!

The third knight was even taller than the King and the Black Prince. He was not so well known as they were but that he was a Plantagenet there was no doubt – the same colouring, the same handsome features and his outstanding height proclaimed him as a son of the King.

‘Long live Lionel Duke of Clarence, Earl of Ulster, defender of London against all comers.’

How they revelled in the disclosures. They were not surprised however when the next defender was revealed as John of Gaunt, the bridegroom. A special cheer for him because it was due to his wedding that the joust was taking place. All eyes turned to the little bride seated so demurely beside the Queen; she was flushed with what must have been pride and happiness. What a handsome pair they were. Only great Edward could have sired such splendid sons.

What rejoicing there was. What better gesture could the King have made.