Outside to the sound of trumpets and tabors, the solemn processional wound its way from Westminster Palace to the north door of the Abbey along a carpet of striped red worsted. The Duke carried the great blunted sword of mercy, Curtana, and behind him, his enemy, the Earl of March, whose baby son was Richard's heir, carried the sword of state. The bitterness between March and the Duke was abeyant just now, like other enmities, and John had gone out of his way to conciliate the nervous, spiteful little earl The Earl of Warwick followed with the third sword; Edmund of Langley and Thomas of Woodstock carried the orb and sceptre.
Over Richard's bare head, the barons of the Cinque Ports, by ancient right, upheld a cloth-of-gold baldaquin supported by four silver poles. After them came old Sudbury, the Archbishop of Canterbury, his wrinkled face working with emotion, his blue-veined hands trembling on his crosier - and after him the bishops and the abbots and priors and monks.
As they entered the Abbey and Richard was placed on a platform half-way between the choir and the High Altar, the clergy burst forth in a great anthem, "Firmetur Manus Tua."
Katherine's eyes filled, the people around her wept as the glorious singing mingled with the exultant organ and the Abbey was awash with beauty of sound, enclosed by the beauty of stone.
She could see very little of what took place, but in the suddenly tense, quiet church she heard a quavering boy's voice repeat the coronation oath and when the archbishop turned to the people and asked if they would have and hold Prince Richard for their King, she cried joyously with the thousand other voices, "Ay, we will have him!'' while her spine tingled.
The ceremony progressed: the Veni Creator, the Litany, the Collects. Then the King was anointed with the holy oil and invested with all the ceremonial robes and the regalia. Finally he was crowned and installed upon his throne. The archbishop commenced the Enthronement Mass, and first of all Richard's subjects, the Duke of Lancaster knelt before the child to do him homage.
Richard's reign started with bright promise. Only the most superstitious thought ill-omened two small occurrences.
The little boy drooped and had gone very pale when the Mass and homage were at last over and he walked down the transept to quit the Abbey. He swayed giddily as he stepped into the North Porch. His old tutor, Sir Simon Burley, was watching. He swooped the child up in his arms and ran with him towards the Hall, where Richard still must endure the banquet. When Burley lifted him, one of the King's red-velvet consecrated slippers flew off and must have been seized by some knave in the watching crowd, for it was never seen again.
So soon had Richard lost a part of his kinghood.
And at the banquet in Westminster Hall, the child complained that his head ached dreadfully from the weight of the crown. His cousin Henry sat opposite him in his father's place, since the Duke and other lords were riding their horses up and down the Great Hall, keeping order.
"Feel the thing, Henry," said Richard, pushing at his crown. " 'Tis heavier than an iron helm."
Henry curiously reached his stubby little hands across the board to try the crown's weight, but the Earl of March intervened violently and snatched the crown from Richard. "I will hold it for Your Grace," said the Earl, "so that you may eat in comfort."
Henry shrugged and returned to his roast peacock, of which he was very fond. This pother about the crown seemed to him silly, and Richard was always whining about something, anyway. Henry wondered if he could get Tom Mowbray off in a corner for a wrestling match pretty soon, and then remembered that he couldn't.
Richard was going to make Tom Earl of Nottingham after the banquet, and make a lot of other new earls too. Lord Percy would turn into Northumberland, Uncle Thomas of Woodstock was finally going to get a title of his own and turn into Buckingham. The old King hadn't cared much for his youngest son and had done mighty little for him, not even a title. But small wonder, thought Henry, Uncle Tom's a mump.
In a tapestry-hung gallery at the far end of the Great Hall, the Princess Joan ate with the royal ladies and a few selected peeresses. She had soon given up making conversation with the Castilian Duchess, who responded in polite monosyllables while pecking at her food and sipping her wine with what the Princess, who adored eating, considered maddening affectation.
Joan was therefore thunderstruck when the Duchess lifted her head and, turning her huge black eyes, said sombrely, "LaSweenford, es vero que - zat she is wiz child again?"
Joan for all her experience did not know how to take this, and her instinct was to protect Katherine. She answered, "Why - I know nothing about it, Duchess." Though she did.
Costanza gave the Princess a shrewd stare from under her thick white fids. Beneath the ermine cape her thin shoulders sketched a shrug. "I do not inquietarme about hees - bastardos," she said, "except - -" She stopped, obviously searching for words, and the Princess, embarrassed but curious, suggested that French might be easier.
Costanza's eyes flashed. It was the perfidious French who had been supporting the usurper Trastamare on the throne. She never spoke French.
She continued frigidly, "La Sweenford she make heem - el duque - soft. He forget - Castile!"
And a very good thing too, thought the Princess, who began to get the drift of this, as Costanza's dark glance moved down the Hall and rested on Richard's little golden head. Joan had no intention of using her new influence to take up the cudgels for Castile. The French depredations in Sussex were quite enough worry. So she ignored Costanza's real meaning and said with her charming sunny smile, "Oh, I don't believe the Duke has grown soft, in any way. On the contrary, I think he's showing great wisdom lately. We must straighten out the tangles in our own land first, don't you think?"
Costanza understood enough to realise that here was not the ally she had hoped for; a curious blankness like a mist obscured her brilliant eyes. Her lips quivered, and she muttered passionately in Spanish, "Why will not God let me bear a son?" She clutched at the reliquary on her chest.
Joan was not introspective, or given to moral judgements, and her own youth had contained a decidedly questionable love escapade. But it did occur to her that whether Costanza really minded or not, she was being increasingly wronged by this flagrant affair of John's with Katherine, and that probably the Duchess suffered more than her colossal pride would let her admit. Joan's facile fondness for Katherine slipped a little.
Spurred by her ever-alert watchfulness for Richard's safety, she viewed John's liaison with sudden alarm. Look how the old King's prestige had waned because of Alice Perrers, how the Commons had almost lost reverence for royalty and actually rebelled against the crown.
In truth it would be wiser for John to be more discreet in regard to Lady Swynford. Not cast her off, of course, no need for that. He could send her to one of his northern castles, Knaresborough, Pickering, or better yet, to Dunstanburgh on the Scottish border. There people would forget her and he could visit her in secret.
Joan decided to take up this matter tactfully in a day or so when she had no doubt that John would soon see the wisdom of her advice.
She was destined to be completely disappointed.
Part Five (1381)
"Forth, pilgrim, forth! Forth beast out of thy stall!
Know thy country, look up, thank God for all;
Hold the highway, and let thy soul thee lead;
And truth thee shall deliver, it is no dread."
(Ballade de Bon Conseil)