College Hall, once the Abbot's refectory, now the dining-hall of the
Westminster scholars, and the Jerusalem Chamber, the room into which the
Abbot's guests used to pass when they had dined, are open to the public
at certain hours, and you must not forget them when you are walking
through the cloisters. The Jerusalem Chamber has been restored since the
days of Litlington, though the fine roof and the actual building stand
now as then. The glass in one of the windows, however, is very old, as
is the wonderful stone reredos, which once must have been part of the
high altar. In the dining-hall you must notice the gallery at the one
end in which the minstrels used to perform, and the fine pointed
windows; for as the Norman architecture had given way to the Early
English, and the Early English had developed into the beautiful
Decorated style, so now another change was taking place, of which
Litlington's building is an early example, and the Perpendicular style,
which was entirely English, was creeping in.
While Litlington was abbot, another royal funeral took place in the
Confessor's Chapel, for in 1369, "that moost gentyll, moost lyberall,
and moost courtesse fayre lady, Phillipp of Heynault, died."
This is how a writer living at the time quaintly describes the sad
event: "There fell in England a heavy case and a comon, righte pyteouse
for the King, his children and all his realme. For the good Queen of
England fell sicke, the which sickenesse contynewed on her so longe,
that there was no remedye but deathe. And the good lady whenne she this
knewe and perceyved, desyred to speke with the Kynge, her husbande. And
she sayde, 'Sir, we have in peace, ioye, and great prosperyte, used all
our time toguyer. Sir, nowe I pray you at our departyng, that ye will
grant me my desyres.... I requyre you, that it may please you to take
none other sepulture whensoever it shall please God to call you out of
this transytorie lyfe, but besyde me in Westmynster.'
"The Kynge all weepynge sayde, 'Madam, I graunt all your desyre.' Then
the good ladye made on her the sign of the Cross, and anone after she
yielded up her spiryte, the which I beleeve surely the Holy Angels
receyved with great ioy up to Heven, for, in all her lyfe, she dyd
neyther in thought nor dede, thynge whereby to lose her soule, so farr
as any creature coulde knowe."
Her tomb was ordered to be made of "neat black marble, with her image
thereon in polished alabaster, and round the pedestal, sweetly carved
niches, with images therein." But what makes this monument specially
interesting is that the figure of Queen Philippa is really a likeness
and not a beautiful fancy picture, so that as you look at that kind,
motherly face you can quite easily picture to yourself the queen who
pleaded for the lives of the citizens of Calais, and of whom it was said
at her death, "She had done many good deeds in her lyfe; having
succoured so many knyghts and comforted ladyes and damosels."
Eight years later, King Edward was laid beside her, all the glory of his
life having passed from him with her.
"In his time, England had seemed to shine in her meridian; learning was
encouraged; gallantry, and that the most honourable, was practised; the
subjects were beloved; the king was honoured at home and feared abroad."
But after Philippa's death strength of mind and body alike failed him;
his favourite son, the Black Prince, had died; his other sons neglected
him, his courtiers robbed him, and when the end came, there was only a
poor priest by his bedside, who pressed the crucifix to his lips and
caught his last dying word--Jesus.
His funeral, however, was magnificent; he was carried through London
with his face uncovered, followed by his children and by the nobles and
prelates of England, and afterwards a fine tomb was set up to him with
figures of his twelve children kneeling around.
But it was only round the tomb and in the sculptor's fancy that those
strong, high-spirited sons of Edward and Philippa knelt in one accord,
for from them arose the quarrels and strife which later on brought to
England the greatest calamity which can come to any nation--a civil war
in its midst.
[Illustration: TOMBS OF RICHARD II. AND EDWARD III.]
*CHAPTER VII*
*RICHARD II. AND QUEEN ANNE*
Edward the Black Prince, that flower of English chivalry, had left his
little son Richard as his legacy to the people who loved him so well.
"I commend to you my son," he said, as he lay dying in Westminster
Palace, "for he is but young and small. And I pray that as you have
served me, so from your heart you will serve him."
One year afterwards, this boy of eleven was crowned in Westminster, and
so "young and small" was he that the long day with all its wearying
ceremony was too much for him; he fainted away, and had to be carried
from the Abbey to the Palace on a litter.
Never before had there been a coronation on so magnificent a scale: the
citizens of London, with their good wives and daughters, were learning
to enjoy pageants and holidays, and it was now better than half a
century since a king had been crowned. First Richard had spent some
days in the Tower, that great fort of the capital, and then had come the
wonderful procession through Cheapside, Fleet Street, and the Strand,
the boy riding bareheaded, surrounded by a band of young knights in new
attire, forerunners of the knightly Order of the Bath, winning all
hearts by his beautiful face and his lavish generosity. For the young
king was from the first recklessly extravagant, and while he with his
nobles feasted in the Palace at the coronation banquet, he caused the
fountains outside to pour forth wine in abundance, that all who would
might drink to their heart's desire.
John of Gaunt, his uncle, one of those many sons of Edward III., was
made Regent, and Richard, with the approbation of all, was placed under
the tutorship of that accomplished knight, Guiscard d'Angle, Earl of
Huntingdon, to be instructed in the paths of virtue and honour.
But those were not peaceful days in England, and John of Gaunt made the
fatal mistake of defying the knights of the shire and burgesses who
composed the House of Commons, and who really represented the thoughts
and feelings of the people.
"What do these base and ignoble knights attempt?" he asked
contemptuously. "Do they think they be kings or princes in the land?"
Nevertheless, in the end he was forced to flee from England, so bitter
was the feeling against him. The cause of the universal discontent was
the heavy taxation, the result of the long French wars, and the Bishop
of Rochester, in his sermon at the coronation, had boldly touched on
this with words of solemn warning. For the first time the great peasant
population of England, who had hitherto suffered in resentful silence,
was in a position to lift up a voice of protest, as the Black Death had
so ravaged the country that those labourers who were left were able to
make terms for themselves, and to refuse to work without payment. The
tax which brought the discontent to a crowning point was the poll-tax,
which was a tax of twelve pence (about eighteen shillings) to be paid by
every person over fifteen; and when a certain Wat the Tiler killed a
tax-collector, who, not content with trying to force him into paying
this poll-tax, insulted his little daughter, the men of Kent rallied in
their thousands round Wat and marched on London. Richard was now only
fifteen, but he was at his best, full of courage, full of strength,
worthy grandson of Edward III., true son of Edward the Black Prince. He
determined to ride out with a small escort and meet these thousands of
rebels face to face. It was a bold stroke, and he knew the risk. But he
would not be stayed. There is a story, most probably true, that he
consulted the aged Anchorite of the Abbey, for every monastery of
importance had its Anchorite, a monk who voluntarily set himself apart
for the rest of his life to live in one cell, praying for the house; and
more than one of the Anchorites of Westminster had given counsel to the
kings who sought them out, the words of these holy men being held as
sacred. Certain it is that, on the morning of this eventful day, he,
with his escort, heard mass in the Abbey, paid his devotions, and made
his offerings at King Edward's shrine, "in which," says an old writer,
"the kings of England have great faith." Then he rode out to
Smithfield.
"Here is the king," said Wat Tiler to his men. "I will go speak with
him. When I give you a sign, step forward and kill every one except the
king. Hurt him not, for he is young and we can do what we will with
him. We will lead him with us about all England, so shall we be lords
of the kingdom without a doubt."
But in a few minutes, as you know, the scene had changed. Wat Tiler lay
dead, and the boy king, ordering that not one of his attendants should
follow him, rode forward into the midst of the excited crowd, and said
calmly, "Sirs, what aileth you? I will be your leader and captain. I
am your king."
The men were Englishmen, and this cool courage won their hearts on the
spot. They crowded round the king begging for pardon, which he granted
to them at once, forbidding his followers to strike a blow. And so the
great rebellion ended.
As he rode back to London, Richard stopped to reassure his mother.
"Rejoice and thank God, madam," he said, kissing her, "for I have this
day regained my inheritance and the kingdom which I had lost."
If only the king had been true to the promise of his boyhood, he might
have ranked among the greatest of our rulers. As it was, he went on his
way unchecked, uncontrolled, till one after another his good points sank
into the background; cowardice took the place of courage, cruelty of
chivalry, and he who had said confidently to his people, "I will be your
leader and your captain," proved himself to be utterly incapable and
helpless.
A year later Richard married Princess Anne of Bohemia, the sister of
that "good King Wencelaus," about whom was written the Christmas Carol
you know so well, and on their wedding day there were great feastings at
Westminster. All the city guilds and companies, splendidly arrayed,
came out to do honour to the rosy-cheeked and smiling girl queen,
herself only sixteen; and when at his coronation she entreated the king
as a favour to set free all prisoners in the country, the delighted
citizens gave her the name of "Our Good Queen Anne."
The young king spent much of his time in his Palace of Westminster, and
as you look to-day at Westminster Hall, the only part of the fine
building which stands, I want you to try and imagine all the busy life
which centred there round the court and the church. Everything
connected with Richard was done on a magnificent scale. He had a
body-guard of four thousand archers; he had a band of nearly four
hundred workmen--carpenters, jewellers, armourers, masons, tilers,
furriers--whose duty it was to work everything needed for the king's
service, and these, with their wives and children, lived under the
shadow of Westminster. Then there were all the servants connected with
the royal kitchen, the pantry, spicery, buttery, bakehouse, and brewery,
and there must have been a goodly number of these, for a writer who
belonged to the court tells us that every day ten thousand folk that
"followed the Hous" drew their rations of food from the Palace.
Besides all these we must count the higher court officials, the members
of the royal household, the judges who sat in Westminster Hall, the
priests of St. Stephen's Chapel, the bishops and abbots and nobles with
all their retinues, and then we may have some idea of the bustle and
life round Westminster Palace at a time when there was "greate pride,
and riche arraye, and all things much more costious and more precious
than was before or sith."
Look at Old Palace Yard and New Palace Yard, with the dull old streets
leading out of them, and then imagine Richard's Palace, with its towers,
its posterns, its great halls and painted chambers, its cloisters, its
courts, and its galleries; "gabled houses with carved timber and
plastered fronts, cloisters which glowed in the sunshine with their lace
like tracery, with the gold and crimson of their painted roofs and
walls; everywhere tourelles with rich carvings, windows of tracery most
beautiful, archways, gates, battlements; chantry chapels, oratories,
courts of justice, and interiors bright with splendid tapestry, the
colours of which had not yet faded, with canopies of scarlet and gold,
and the sunlight reflected from many a shining helm and breastplate,
from many a jewelled hilt and golden scabbard." Would that the Great
Fire which destroyed all this had left us one little glimpse of its old
splendour.
Inside the monastery, too, there was plenty of life of a different sort,
though the monks were by no means cut off from the great world which lay
at their door. For the Abbey of St. Peter was the richest of all the
great houses, and was now at the height of its glory; and Litlington's
new buildings greatly added to its importance, as the Abbot freely
entertained in his new palace the highest in the land.
Yet a daily routine was carried out. Eight hours were given to sleep
and eight were spent in church; the remainder were devoted to work--that
is to say, some monks taught the young, others studied and transcribed,
others had duties in the refectory and dormitory, and so on. Most of
the monks had come here as young boys; many of them spent here fifty and
sixty years of their lives, praying, working, teaching, learning. But I
think sometimes the young men must have longed for some share in the
life outside of which they heard the echoes daily, and saw all the
outward splendours and delights.
Certain it is that Abbot Litlington was something more than a monk. For
when, during the reign of Richard, there was a great scare that the
French were about to invade England, he, though at that time seventy,
armed himself and set off with some of his monks to the coast to defend
his country. And we find that "one of these monks, Brother John,
supposing his courage equal to his stature, was a very proper person for
a soldier, being one of the largest men in the kingdom. His armour, the
invasion not taking place, was carried into London to be sold, being so
big that no person could be found of a size that it would fit."
One other part of vanished Westminster comes into prominence in this
reign, and that is its Sanctuary, which stood where now is Westminster
Hospital. It was a massive square keep built of stone, each side nearly
eighty feet long, with a heavy oak and iron door, stone stairs, strong
dark rooms and thick walls, and besides a belfry tower, in which hung
those bells which rang for coronations and tolled for royal funerals; it
contained two chapels. This place was the haven of refuge alike to
innocent and to guilty; so long as they remained within its walls the
Church protected them and kept them. Of course, originally these
sanctuaries attached to the religious houses had been intended to
protect the weak, the helpless, and the oppressed, but gradually all
manner of men, thieves, debtors, and law-breakers, gathered round it,
and at Westminster, where all the Abbey buildings were counted as sacred
ground, strange and lawless crowds assembled; but the right of sanctuary
was jealously guarded.
Outside the world of Westminster the country was full of discontent,
which showed itself in parties and in plots. John of Gaunt had fled,
and his place had been filled by his brother, Thomas Woodstock, Duke of
Gloucester, who, with Gaunt's son, Henry of Bolingbroke, and other
nobles, had forced Richard, still a minor, into accepting several of
their demands. But directly he was of age Richard had his revenge; and
in the Council Chamber he made it clear that he intended to keep all the
authority in his own hands or in the hands of those he himself should
choose. Francis, a scribe, and the lame Clerk to the Council, has left
us a vivid picture of the scene.
"Then Richard stood in the doorway; upon his head he wore a crown; in
his hand he carried his sceptre; on his shoulders hung a mantle of
ermine, and through the door I saw a throng of armed men, and heard the
clank of steel.
"Since the time of David there had not been a more comely prince in the
world to look upon than King Richard.... Yet let no one say that his
eyes were soft. This morning they were like the eyes of a falcon.
"'Good, my lord,' began the Duke of Gloucester.
"The King strode across the room and took his seat upon the throne.
"'Fair uncle,' he said, 'tell me how old I am.'
"'Your Highness,' said the Duke, 'is now in his twenty-fourth year.'
"'Say you so? Then, fair uncle, I am old enough to manage mine own
affairs.'
"So saying, he took the Great Seal from the Archbishop, and the keys of
the Exchequer from the Bishop of Hereford. From the Duke of Gloucester
he took his office, he appointed new judges, he created a new council.
'Twas a gallant prince. Alas! that he was not always strong; twice in
his life Richard was strong--that day and another. That night there was
high revelry in the Palace: the mummers and the minstrels and the music
made the Court merry. And the king's fool made the courtiers laugh when
he jested about the Duke's amazement and the Archbishop's discomfiture."
Richard now fell entirely under the influence of his own favourites, and
the friction between himself and his Parliament increased each year.
The one good influence in his life was that of Queen Anne; over and over
again her sound sense saved the situation. Once Richard, in a fit of
sulkiness, had gone to live at Bristol, very privately, and to him there
came the Archbishop of Canterbury, who warned him that unless he
returned to London the citizens of London and the greater part of his
subjects would be very discontented. Richard at first refused to pay
any attention to the Archbishop, but at last the good advice of the
queen prevailed; he controlled his anger and said he would cheerfully go
to London. On his arrival there, a special Parliament was summoned,
which made London and Westminster very crowded; the king heard Mass with
the crown on his head in the chapel of the Palace; the Archbishop of
Canterbury performed the divine service, and was very attentively heard,
for he was an excellent preacher; and then came the barons, prelates,
and nobles to Richard, with joined hands, as showing themselves to be
vassals, swearing faith and loyalty, and kissing him on the mouth.
"But it was visible," adds Froissart, "that the king kissed some
heartily and others not."
Possibly, if Anne had lived, her sensible influence might have saved
Richard, in spite of the growing irritation of his people at his
reckless extravagance. But after only a few hours' illness the queen
died at the Feast of Whitsuntide 1394, in Sheen Palace, "to the infinite
distress of King Richard, who was deeply afflicted at her death."
Richard was with her when she died, and so uncontrolled was his grief,
that, cursing the place of her death, he ordered the Palace of Sheen to
be levelled to the ground. He determined that hers should be the
greatest burial ever seen in London, and sent to Flanders for large
quantities of wax wherewith to have made the torches and flambeaux,
though this delayed the funeral by some months. He summoned all the
nobles of the land to be present in these words:--
"Inasmuch as our beloved companion the Queen, whom God has hence
commanded, will be buried at Westminster on Monday, the 3rd of August
next, we earnestly entreat that you, setting aside all excuses, will
repair to our city of London the Wednesday previous to the same day,
bringing with you our very dear kinswoman your consort at the same time.
We desire that you will, the preceding day, accompany the corpse of our
dear consort from our manor of Sheen to Westminster, and for this we
trust we may rely on you, as you desire our honour and that of our
kingdom."
So a great procession followed the queen from Sheen to Westminster, and
all were clothed in black, men and women, with black hoods also.
Richard behaved as one mad with grief, and when the Earl of Arundel
arrived late, he seized a cane, and struck him on the head with such
force that the unfortunate nobleman fell to the ground.
A year later the king ordered the beautiful monument which you see in
the Confessor's Chapel, and so great was his devotion that he had his
own monument made at the same time, with his hand clasped in that of his
dearly loved queen. And the touching inscription, of which this is a
translation, was of his own choosing:--
"Under this stone lies Anne, here entombed,
Wedded in this world's life to the second Richard.
To Christ were her meek virtues devoted,
His poor she freely fed from her treasures.
Strife she healed and feuds she appeased.
Beauteous her form, her face surpassing fair.
Only July's seventh day, thirteen hundred, ninety four,
All comfort was bereft, for through irremediable sickness
She passed away into eternal joys."
In spite of his grief, which was very real, Richard married again; but
the new queen had no influence with him, and the breach between him and
his people widened daily. "Nothing but complaints were heard; the
courts of justice were closed; the enmities increased, and the common
people said, 'Times are sadly changed; we have a good-for-nothing king,
who only attends to his idle pleasures, and so that his inclinations are
gratified cares not how public affairs are managed. We must look for a
remedy, or our enemies and well-wishers will rejoice.'"
So writes Froissart, who lived in England at the time; and he goes on to
say how the people declared to one another, "Our ancestors in former
days provided a remedy; our remedy is in Henry of Lancaster. Him we
must send for and appoint him regent of the kingdom. For these people
are most obstinate, and of all England, the Londoners are the leaders."
[Illustration: HENRY OF LANCASTER CROWNED AT WESTMINSTER.]
This being the feeling in the country, the time was ripe for John of
Gaunt's banished son, Henry Bolingbroke, who had long been waiting for
his hour. He landed with but thirty men, while Richard was away on one
of his highly unpopular expeditions in Ireland; soon he had an army of
fifty thousand with which he marched to London, and Richard when he
returned agreed meekly, without a word, to all that was demanded. He
signed a deed prepared by Parliament in which he said that "he was
incapable of reigning, worthy to be deposed, and willing to renounce the
throne."
"If it pleases you, it pleases me also," was his feeble remark.
Then he was put into prison, first in the Tower, afterwards in
Pontefract Castle, and from this last place he never came out alive.
His death was very sudden; some said he fell sick, some said he was
starved, almost certainly he was murdered. He was buried at Langley,
though many a long year afterwards his body was moved to Westminster by
command of Henry V., and laid in the tomb he had chosen close to his
wife, after it had been carried through London followed by 20,000
persons, of whom "some on him had pity and some none."
So husband and wife lie united at last under this fine tomb, which cost
L10,000 in our money. But in one detail Richard's wish is ungratified
to-day, for his hand and hers, which on the monument were clasped
together, have been ruthlessly broken off.
Another memorial of Richard in the Abbey is his portrait, which you will
find in the choir near the altar, and which is "an ancient painting of
the unhappy, beautiful prince, sitting in a chair of gold dressed in a
vest of green, flowered with flowers of gold and the initial letters of
his name, having on shoes of gold powdered with pearls, the whole robed
in crimson lined with ermine, and the shoes spread with the same
fastened under a collar of gold." It is valuable because it is the
first portrait we have of an English king.
Richard rebuilt Westminster Hall, and built a fine porch called
Solomon's Porch, where now stands the great north entrance; but of this
porch not a trace remains.
*CHAPTER VIII*
*HENRY V. AND HIS CHANTRY*
On the last day of September 1399, Westminster was well astir, for
Parliament had met to decide an all-important question.
Richard had renounced the crown, and his cousin, Henry of Lancaster,
claimed it.