‘Sweet child,’ he murmured. ‘What will become of you? What will become of us both?’
They had set Sir Thomas Swynford to guard him. Trust Henry to make sure that those on whom he could rely should be given positions of trust. Swynford was the son of Henry’s stepmother, Catherine of Lancaster, and as all his possessions had come to him through Lancaster he would serve the Lancastrian cause with all his heart because it was his own.
But he, Richard, had been good to Catherine. Had he not, on his uncle’s urgent request, legitimised the children they had had? The Beauforts were now the recognised legitimate sons of John of Gaunt. Surely they should be grateful for that. But it was natural that they should support their half-brother.
He did not like Thomas Swynford. He fancied the man took pleasure in humiliating him.
He talked to him now and then almost condescendingly and showed no respect for one who had once been a king.
Once Richard said to him: ‘I was a good friend to you and your mother, Thomas Swynford.’
Thomas Swynford replied: ‘You thought it well to please the man you called your mighty uncle.’
‘There were times when John of Gaunt felt it advisable to please me. Why do you say the man I call my uncle?’
‘Because many say now that he was not your uncle because you were not the son of the Black Prince.’
‘None would believe such a lie.’
‘Some do. There is a priest who is so like you that men say he must be your brother.’
‘Richard Maudelyn! He bears a resemblance to me but who has said that he is my brother. How could that be?’
‘Your mother was a lady much given to gaiety. The Black Prince was a man who suffered from much sickness. There were some handsome priests in the Court of Bordeaux.’
‘You lie! How dare you utter such foul slander against my mother.’
Thomas Swynford gave a mock bow. ‘My apologies. You asked for truth and I gave it to you. I tell you this is what is being said. There is a priest who is so like you that he must be your brother … your half-brother that is.’
‘These are lies put about by my cousin.’
‘I must warn you it is unwise to slander the King. That is treason.’
‘Then, Thomas Swynford, you should at this moment be condemned to the traitor’s death.’
‘How forgetful you are! You are no longer a king, Richard. You are less than the least of us.’
He was in despair. There was nothing he could do. He must accept this slander. He was powerless.
Where was Isabella now? What was she thinking? Sad little Queen. And even sadder Richard.
Cold despair had settled on him. Was there not one man in the kingdom who was his friend? Was he doomed to stay here, his cousin’s prisoner, until he died?
One day one of the guards contrived to be alone with him and the words he said sent wild hope soaring through Richard’s heart.
‘My lord King, you have your friends …’
A great gladness came to him. He was not entirely forgotten then.
‘Whence came you?’ asked Richard. ‘And what do you know?’
‘I am to tell you that all will be well. Ere long the traitor Bolingbroke will be no more.’
‘Whom do you serve?’
‘My lord, your brother, the Duke of Exeter, who is stripped of that title and is now known as the Earl of Huntingdon.’
His half-brother, John Holland! He could have wept with joy. John would help him. Of course he would. He was their mother’s son. How he and his brother had teased him when he was a boy; how they had indulged in rough horseplay and practical jokes and their mother had reprimanded them. ‘Remember Richard is but a boy yet.’
They had laughed at him, joked with him, tried to teach him their rough games … but they had loved him.
‘Are you sure of this?’ he asked.
‘My lord, I serve the Duke your brother and he would have you be prepared and not lose hope.’
‘Who is with us?’
‘Your half-brother and his nephew, the Earl of Kent, with Thomas le Despenser, your nephew, the Earl of Rutland, and others. It is a simple plan, my lord, but simple plans are most likely to succeed. Bolingbroke is holding a tournament at Windsor. Our party will go there with carts of harness and armour for the tournament it will be believed. Then we shall choose our moment, overpower the guards, kill Bolingbroke and his son, Henry of Monmouth, and restore you to your throne.’
‘Oh God, bless them. My good brother, my good friends.’
‘We shall succeed, my lord. But there is one thing you must know. The people will want to see you, and it will take time to release you from this place. It may be that they will have to fight their way through to you.’
‘Are there other good and faithful friends like yourself in the castle?’
‘There are a few, my lord. But I am wary of trusting them.’
‘I thank you. I shall not forget you when I come back to my own.’
‘I thank you, my lord. What I must warn you of is this. You may hear that the King is marching at the head of his troops, and you will scent treachery. My lord it will not be so. It will be part of the plan. Richard Maudelyn will take your place. He will show himself as yourself. The people will see him and will believe that you have indeed escaped from your captors.’
Richard started to laugh; and stopped himself. It was hysterical laughter and he saw the fear it inspired in the loyal guard.
‘My lord, we must be discreet. I was to tell you this that you might hold yourself in readiness. Give up your despair, my lord. The day will soon be here.’
‘My good man, you have given me new life. I should have known my brother John would not forget me. Nor would my brother Thomas had he lived. Others are with me too. So I am no longer alone.’
‘My lord, I beg of you, give no sign of your elation. It is imperative to our success that the matter is of the utmost secrecy. Everything depends on our success at Windsor.’
‘Aye. But it shall come to pass. I shall march to London and before me the head of Bolingbroke will be held aloft on a lance.’
‘I pray God it may be so. I must leave you now, my lord. I beg of you to hide your joy. Continue in your melancholy. It is necessary, I do assure you.’
‘I understand. My joy shall remain hidden in my heart.’
He lay down to sleep and he dreamed he was marching to Isabella. Where was she now, his little Queen? He imagined her joy when she heard that he was coming to her. She would be waiting on the battlements of the castle where they would have taken her. She would run to meet him. They would cling together and laugh and make merry.
Isabella was desperately unhappy. She knew that Richard was in danger and that the traitor Bolingbroke had taken his crown. If they would only let her go to him. If she could only speak to him, hear from his own lips what had happened, she could have borne it. But to remain in ignorance, a prisoner of the man who called himself the King, it was unbearable.
They had moved her to Sonning-hill and here she must see the badges of the usurper on all the servants and the men who guarded her.
Henry was the King now, she was told. Richard had abdicated in his favour. Richard no longer deserved to be King nor wished to be, for he had willingly given over his crown to his cousin.
‘It is lies … lies!’ she sobbed. ‘I do not believe it. I will never believe it.’