Richard came into the queen's 'bower,' as a lady's boudoir was then
called, and told her that he must leave her and proceed at once to
Ireland, where he was much needed. Isabel wept and clung to him, and
besought him to take her with him; but he shook his head gently, and
said that Ireland was no place for ladies, still less for queens, and
that she must stay at home and look to her household. He went on to say
that he had been greatly wroth at discovering the state that the lady de
Coucy had taken on herself, and had dismissed her from her charge about
the queen, and bade her to go back to France. In her stead he had given
her place to his niece, the young and widowed countess of March, who
would shortly arrive with her two small children, and join the sad
company in the castle.
---------------------
Left alone, the queen remained sitting in her carved high-backed chair,
gazing straight before her, but seeing nothing. Her thoughts wandered
away through the past year, and to the Christmas which she and Richard
had kept in the bishop's palace at Lichfield, and to the journey they
had made during the summer, riding under shady trees and hedges gay with
honeysuckle and wild roses, and over downs sweet with gorse and bright
with heather, amongst the towns of the west country, where they had seen
splendid cathedrals and stately abbeys, and listened to the people
talking a strange speech, which even Richard, clever as he was, could
not understand! How happy they had both been, laughing over all their
adventures, and what merry evenings they had passed in the tents that
Richard had ordered to be spread for the night, wherever Isabel fancied.
And how wonderful it was to visit the places where Guinevere had lived,
and Arthur had fought his last battle! And now, now he was going to
leave her, and travel over the seas, where he might suffer shipwreck,
and run into dangers that she might never know. Oh no! It was
impossible! She could never bear it.
But it had to be.
On April 25, St. Mark's Day, Richard and Isabel went hand in hand to St.
George's chapel at Windsor, kneeling side by side while a solemn Mass
was sung and one of the collects chanted by the king himself. When the
service was over they left the church as they came, Isabel with her face
white and drawn, with her eyes bright and tearless, and walking
steadily. Outside the great door was set a table with wine and food, and
together they ate, for the king did not mean to return again into the
castle, but to ride straight into the west. When they had eaten, or
pretended to eat, the king lifted up the queen in his arms, and holding
her to his heart he kissed her many times, saying, 'Farewell, madame,
until we meet again,' not knowing that it was farewell for ever. Then he
rode away without looking back, his young cousins, Henry of Monmouth and
Humphrey duke of Gloucester, riding behind him.
The queen stood watching till the cavalcade was out of sight, then
slowly turned and walked towards the castle, none daring to speak to
her. She mounted the narrow stone staircase like one in a dream, and
shutting her door flung herself on her bed, with a burst of weeping.
Kind lady March heard her sobs and longed to comfort her; but she too
knew what sorrow was, and for some hours left Isabel alone with her
grief. For a fortnight the queen was too ill to move from her room, and
suffered no one except lady March and her old French maid to attend on
her. But one morning the sun shone for her once more, for in came lady
March carrying a letter tied with silk and bearing the royal arms, which
Richard had sent by a special messenger from Milford Haven.
'He had been thinking of her, as he knew she had been thinking of him,'
he wrote, 'while he rode along the same roads on which they had
travelled last year together. But she must keep up a good heart, and not
grieve if she heard nought of him, for the seas were rough, and not easy
for boats to cross, but to remember that he loved her always.'
Perhaps, if the earl of March had lived to rule Ireland, things might
have turned out differently, or at any rate Richard's ruin might have
been staved off a little longer. As it was, the expedition to Ireland
only hurried on the calamity. The murmurs of the Londoners, which had
hitherto been low, now became loud, and men shook their heads and
reminded each other of the fate of Edward II. 'Trade grows daily worse,'
said they, 'and no honest dealer can carry his wares along the roads
without fear of robbers and outlaws, while should the thief be caught
justice is never done on him.' At length a meeting was held, and it was
decided that Henry, now duke of Lancaster by the death of his father,
should be invited to come from France and seize the crown. Most likely
Henry had expected such a message, but he was too cautious to accept the
invitation at once, and he merely replied that he must take a day to
consult with his friends. The envoy, however, had noticed a sudden
sparkle in his eye, and had little doubt of the answer, and a few days
later Henry, with an escort of ships, was seen sailing up the English
coast.
[Illustration: RICHARD'S LAST FAREWELL TO ISABEL]
The news spread like lightning, and as soon as it was known that he had
landed at Ravenspur, in Yorkshire, men flocked to join him. Richard
alone remained ignorant of the enemy at his gates, and when, three weeks
after, a boat managed to cross bearing the evil tidings and the king
took ship for Holyhead, it was only to learn that Henry was advancing to
meet him with an army of 60,000 men. The king had entrenched himself in
Flint Castle when Henry knocked at the entrance.
'Who goes there?' cried a voice from within, and the newcomer answered:
'I am Henry of Lancaster, and I have come to claim my heritage, which
the king has taken for himself. And so you can tell him.'
The man within the gate hastened across the courtyard and up the stairs,
and entering the hall where Richard and his knights were holding counsel
he said to him:
'Sire, it is your cousin the earl of Derby who knocks, and he demands
that you shall restore to him all that belongs to the duchy of
Lancaster.'
Now as to this matter Henry spoke truly, for Richard had indeed taken
the money and lands that belonged of right to his cousin, and had spent
them upon his ill-fated expedition to Ireland. Therefore he looked
uncomfortably at his councillors and inquired of them what he should do.
'Sire, he speaks well,' replied the knights, 'and it is our advice that
you listen to him, for he is much loved throughout the kingdom, and
especially by the Londoners, who sent for him beyond the sea to make
cause with him against you.'
'Then open the gate,' said Richard, 'and I will speak with him.'
So two knights arose and went across the courtyard of the castle and
through the small door which was in the great gate, and bowed themselves
before Henry and his friends, taking care to bear themselves politely
and graciously, for they knew that the strength did not lie on their
side.
'My lord the king will gladly see you and speak with you,' said the
oldest of the two, 'and he prays you to enter.'
'Thus will I do,' answered Henry, and entered forthwith, thinking
nothing of the danger he ran, for the king might have straightway put
him to death. He walked across the hall, up to the chair where Richard
was seated, and the king changed colour at the sight of him. Not that he
was in bodily fear, for no Plantagenet was ever a coward, but because he
knew in his heart that he had done his cousin grievous wrong. 'Have you
breakfasted?' asked Henry without further greeting.
'Not yet,' replied the king, who had expected bitter reproaches, and
half thought this must be a jest; 'it is still early. But why do you ask
me?'
'You had better eat something at once,' answered his cousin, 'for you
have a long journey before you.'
'A journey?' said Richard; 'and where to, I pray?'
'To London,' replied Henry; 'therefore I counsel you to eat and drink,
that the ride may seem more merry.'
Richard understood; resistance was useless; so he commanded food to be
brought, and ate and drank without haste and composedly.
---------------------
The castle gates were thrown open wide, and a multitude of soldiers and
archers pressed in and advanced to the doors, but Henry ordered them to
stand back, and bade them do damage to none, for the castle with all in
it was under his protection. After that he fetched the king into the
courtyard, and while the horses were saddled they talked together in a
corner.
Now Richard had a greyhound of great size and beauty called Math, which
he loved much, and the dog would suffer none but the king to touch him.
When he rode out Math was always by his side, and often the two would
play together in the hall, and Math would put his two huge paws on the
king's shoulders. And when Math beheld the horses ready saddled, and
being led to the spot where Richard and his cousin were standing, he
sprang up, and came with quick bounds towards them. Richard held out his
hand to his favourite, but the dog passed him by, and, going to the side
of Henry, reared himself on his hind legs and rubbed his head against
the duke's cheek.
[Illustration: KING RICHARD DUKE HENRY & MATH THE GREYHOUND]
'What is he doing?' asked Henry, who had never seen Math before.
'Cousin,' answered the king, 'that caress holds a great meaning for you
and a little one for me.'
'What is your interpretation of it?' inquired Henry, looking puzzled.
'My greyhound hails you to-day king of England, as you will be when I am
deposed, and my crown taken from me. Keep him with you; he will serve
you well.'
Henry answered nothing; perhaps in his heart he may have felt a little
ashamed; but the dog stayed with him, and did not leave him till the day
of his death.
---------------------
Meanwhile, at the first whisper of invasion, the duke of York, who had
been left regent, had removed the queen from Windsor to the stronger
castle of Wallingford. The poor girl thought nothing of her own danger,
but was wild with despair at the idea that the crown of England might be
placed on the usurper's head and the rightful king be ignorant of the
fact. Soon arrived the news that Richard had fallen into the hands of
the duke of Lancaster, and was to be taken to London. Luckily she never
heard that at Lichfield, where he was probably lodged in the same house
where they had passed their happy Christmas so short a time ago, he had
tried to escape, but was recaptured in the garden. After this his guards
were doubled during the long ride to the Tower.
If Henry was in London, Isabel was clearly not safe at Wallingford, and
the regent took her by lonely roads and obscure villages to the castle
of Leeds in Kent. Here she was within reach of the coast, and could, if
needful, be sent over to France. It was at Leeds that Isabel received a
messenger from the Londoners to the effect that the lady de Coucy (who
had lingered about her mistress in spite of Richard's order) and all
French attendants of the queen should be despatched to Dover and
conveyed to Boulogne. By the envoy's desire the lady de Coucy was
summoned to the queen's presence, and found to her surprise a plain man
in the dress of a citizen standing by the window.
'Madame,' he said, without taking the trouble to bow, 'bid your maids
get ready your packages, for you must quit this place without delay. But
beware of telling anyone that you do not go of your own free will;
instead, say that your husband and daughter need you. Your life hangs on
your silence and obedience, and the less you hear and see the better for
you. You will have an escort as far as Dover, where you will find a ship
to put you ashore at Boulogne.'
'I will obey your orders, good sir,' answered the lady de Coucy, who had
listened trembling; and she lost no time in making her preparations and
in bidding the queen farewell. Indeed, she was in such a haste to be
gone that she would hardly wait to hear the loving messages which Isabel
sent to her father and mother, or allow her to take leave of the
faithful servants who had come with the queen from France, but hurried
them down into the courtyard, where horses of all sorts were saddled and
bridled. A troop of soldiers was in readiness to accompany them to
Dover, but on their arrival there the fugitives—for they were nothing
less—found to their dismay that they were expected to pay heavily for
the honour, 'each according to his condition,' as Froissart says. Right
thankful were they to get on board the vessel which was to land them on
French soil. Once in France the lady de Coucy hastened to Paris, and it
was from her that Charles learned, for the first time, the peril of his
daughter.
At their departure poor Isabel felt more lonely than she had done since
she had bidden her parents farewell before her marriage. Far more
lonely, for _then_ she had Richard, and _now_ the new English attendants
which 'the Londoners' placed about her were forbidden even to mention
his name. So her days were spent in torturing thoughts and her nights in
evil dreams; she could hardly have been more wretched had she known he
was in the Tower. The suspense would have been terrible for a grown-up
woman, and for a girl under twelve it was almost unbearable; but her
grief would have been deeper still if she had known that Richard had
prayed to have his wife with him in his captivity, and had been refused.
Shut up in the Tower, Richard had plenty of time to look back on the
events of the twenty-two years that his reign had lasted and to note the
folly and extravagance which had led to his ruin. Some friends he still
had, and of these the earl of Salisbury was the chief; but a little
while after this an effort made by the earl to assassinate Henry only
ended in his own death and in the death of the king he was so anxious to
save. The advice of Richard's attendants was to resign at once, lest
worse should befall them, and, bitter though it was to him, the king
felt that the counsel was good. Therefore he sent a message to Henry,
now living in his own house on the banks of the Thames, to say he would
like to speak with him. The duke, with a company of knights in
attendance, arrived in a barge, and was conducted to the king. Humbly
Richard confessed all the wrongs he had done him, and declared himself
ready to abdicate the throne in his favour. Henry replied that this must
be done in the presence of parliament and with the consent of its
representatives; but in three days a sufficient number of these could be
assembled for the purpose. Not being a generous man, he did not stop
there, but went on to point out that if Richard had followed in the
steps of his grandfather, Edward III., and of his father, the Black
Prince, all would have been well; instead, he had chosen to go his own
way without considering his people. 'Still,' cried Henry—and perhaps at
the moment he meant what he said—'out of pity I will defend you and
preserve your life from the hatred of the Londoners, who would have you
die.'
'I thank you, cousin,' replied Richard; 'I have more faith in you than
in the whole of England.'
---------------------
After remaining for two hours with Richard the duke of Lancaster
returned home, and sent out letters to all his relations of Plantagenet
blood and to the nobles, Churchmen, and citizens of London, summoning
them to meet at Westminster. When they arrived he rode to the Tower with
a great company, who, leaving their horses outside, entered the
fortress. Here Richard awaited them in the great hall, wearing on his
head the crown of his coronation and holding the sceptre in his hand,
while the royal mantle flowed from his shoulders. 'For twenty-two
years,' he said, standing on the steps of the dais and looking
steadfastly into the faces of the men around him—'for twenty-two years
I have been king of England, duke of Aquitaine, and lord of Ireland. I
now resign crown, sceptre, and heritage into the hands of my cousin
Henry duke of Lancaster, and in the presence of you all I pray him to
accept them.' Then he held out the sceptre to Henry, who stood near him,
and taking off the crown placed it before him, saying as he did so,
'Henry, dear cousin and duke of Lancaster, I give you this crown, with
all its duties and privileges,' and the duke of Lancaster received that
also and handed it to the archbishop. This done, Richard—king no
longer—returned to his apartments, and the company who had witnessed
the act of abdication rode silently back to their own houses, while the
sceptre and the crown were deposited for safety in the treasury of
Westminster Abbey. The bitterest moment of Richard's life had come. He
had, through his own fault he knew, been forced to yield up the
inheritance that had descended without a break from father to son for
200 years. He had worn out the patience of his subjects, till he stood
alone, and they refused him even the comfort of his wife's presence. Ah!
_she_ was faithful, and would suffer with his pain! And in thinking of
Isabel for a while he forgot himself.
He had done what was required, and the last acts of the drama were gone
through without him. Perhaps Henry was merciful; perhaps he did not care
to risk his throne by showing the people their rightful king, of whose
beauty and boyish gallantry they had once been so proud. In any case it
was Henry who presided at the parliament held at Westminster, 'outside
London,' in September 1399, and demanded that he should be declared king
on the ground of three claims which he set forth: First, by right of
conquest; second, by heirship; and third, by the resignation of Richard
in his favour, in presence of nobles, bishops, and citizens gathered in
the Tower. 'You shall be our king; we will have none other!' they cried,
and twice more Henry repeated the same question and received the same
answer. Then Henry sat himself on the throne covered with cloth of gold,
and the people stretched out their hands and swore fealty to him. Before
parliament separated, October 8 was fixed for the coronation.
At nine o'clock on the appointed day the royal procession left the
palace. The sword of justice was borne by Henry Percy earl of
Northumberland; the sword of the Church by the young prince of Wales;
while the earl of Westmoreland, marshal of England, carried the sceptre.
Seats had been erected in the Abbey for the nobles and clergy, and in
their midst was a raised platform, on which was a vacant chair draped
with cloth of gold. Henry walked up the steps and took possession of the
throne, while the archbishop turned to the four sides of the platform
and demanded if it was the wish of that assembly that Henry duke of
Lancaster should be crowned king. 'It is, it is!' they cried as before;
so Henry came down from the throne and walked to the High Altar, and the
crown of Edward the Confessor was put on his head, and he was anointed
in six places. Then deacon's robes were placed on him, signifying that
he would defend the Church, and the sword of justice was blessed, and
Henry IV. was proclaimed king.
In spite of the dark whispers that had been heard during the past year
as to the fate of Edward II., it is doubtful if Richard's life would not
have been spared but for the plot made by the earl of Salisbury for
assassinating Henry. The plot failed because Henry did not appear at the
tournament; but, nothing daunted, Salisbury persuaded a man named
Maudlin, who had a strong likeness to Richard, to personate the deposed
king, and sent word to Isabel that her husband was marching to rescue
her at the head of a large army. The queen, who knew by this time that
Henry had been proclaimed king of England, believed all that was told
her, and instantly left Sunning Hill, near Reading, where she had been
staying for some time, and joined the body of troops commanded by the
earl of Kent, nephew of Richard. Happy and excited, and full of hope,
she knew no fatigue; but her spirits fell a little as they drew near
Cirencester without either letter or message from her beloved husband.
Once inside the gates the mayor betrayed them to Henry, and, while Kent
and Salisbury were beheaded at once, Isabel was sent, strictly guarded,
to Havering-atte-Bower, not far from London. Here three French
attendants were all the company allowed her—a maid, a physician and
confessor, and her chamberlain; but these like the rest of her household
were forbidden to mention the late king; even the two gentlemen sent
over by Charles VI. to inquire into the condition of his daughter
received orders from Henry himself to keep silence on this subject,
though they were assured that Isabel would be kept in all the state
befitting a queen dowager. They found her at Havering surrounded by
Richard's relations, 'who honourably kept her company,' as Froissart
tells us. There were the duchess of Ireland, sister of lady de Coucy and
wife of Robert de Vere; the duchess of Gloucester, whose little son had
lately died on his voyage from Ireland, her daughters, and several other
ladies. Isabel looked up eagerly when the Sieur Charles de Labreth and
the Sieur de Hangiers were ushered in, and was about to question them
eagerly on the matter next her heart when M. de Labreth slightly shook
his head. Isabel had grown apt in reading signs. She understood, and the
brightness left her face; but she begged them to tell her all they knew
about her father and mother, her brothers and sisters, and what had
become of her old servants and friends who had returned to Paris. The
envoys, very ill at ease, feeling themselves surrounded by spies, did
not stay long, but rode back through London to Eltham, where they took
leave of Henry, who gave them fine jewels and fair words.
In the end that which was bound to happen did happen. At the first news
of the conspiracy of the earl of Salisbury, Richard had been hastily
removed from the Tower of London to Pontefract Castle, in Yorkshire, and
there, early in February 1400, he met his death. _How_ is not exactly
known: stories of all kinds went abroad, and, to make sure—a vain
precaution—that no pretenders should hereafter spring up, his body was
brought to London and carried in procession through the City. Four black
horses led by two grooms drew the open car, and, four knights in
mourning rode behind it. Slowly they travelled along Cheapside, while
twenty thousand people pressed around to gaze their last upon the
beautiful face of their dead king, who looked scarcely older than on the
day on which he had faced Wat Tyler. 'Some were moved to pity,' says
Froissart, 'but others declared that he had brought his fate on himself,
and felt no sorrow for him.' And the body passed on, unconscious alike
of friend or foe, till it lay for a while in the church of St. Paul's,
and then found rest at Langley.
In these days it is difficult to understand how no whisper of her
husband's death reached Isabel, but it was several weeks before Henry
allowed the fact to be broken to her. She had thought that she was
prepared for every misfortune and every grief that could befall her, but
at twelve one does not easily give up hope, and by the despair that took
possession of her the 'little queen' at last knew that she had expected
'something' might happen to bring them together again.
Considering all that had passed, it seems scarcely possible that Henry
IV. should have been so stupid as to think that he could bring about his
dearest wish and unite in marriage Henry prince of Wales with the young
queen dowager. His accession to the throne had been attended with so
little difficulty that he had ceased to reckon with opposition—he
remembered that prince Harry and Isabel had played together while he was
in exile, and forgot that he had usurped her husband's crown and
countenanced his murder. The horror with which Isabel rejected his first
proposals did not open his eyes to his folly, and during the two years
and a half that she remained in England he spared no effort to bend her
to his will. But Isabel was as determined as he, and in her refusal was
supported by the French council of regency—for at this time her father
was insane.