The star of Lancaster

OLDCASTLE

The night was stormy. There were few people in the streets but those who were might have seen a cloaked figure hurrying along towards the Abbey. None would have guessed that it was the King of a few hours. Purposefully he strode, ducking his head against the wind until he came to the doors of the Abbey.

He entered and as he did so a monk came towards him.

"I would speak with you, brother. I would confess my sins and ask absolution," said Henry.

"My lord!" cried the monk, for there was no mistaking the authoritative tones of the new King. "At this hour ..."

"Enough of the hour. I have urgent work. Come. Take me to the confessional."

"Follow me," said the monk.

So Henry followed and there in the confessional he went down on his knees and burying his face in his hands he said: "I have lived a life of dissipation. I have been a diligent follower of idle practices. I swear by God and all his saints that from this day I shall alter my course."

"The Lord will hear your resolution, my son," said the holy man. "You are young. You have years ahead to make recompense for past follies."

"I must tell you of the heinous sins I have committed. I have been wicked, profligate, a frequenter of low taverns and an associate of robbers and prostitutes. I have been a slave to vice. I have turned my back on virtues. I have caused great anxiety to my father. I have been wanton in my ways.. "

"Repent," said the monk. "Truly repent. You are young yet. You have a lifetime before you."

"I have lived on this earth for twenty-six years, Father, and I have committed more sins than the average man commits in three score years."

"Take heart, my son. You have opportunities ahead of you. Devote your life to the service of your country. Eschew your fleshly desires. Put on the mantle of a King and a virtuous King and the barren willow will be converted into a fruitful olive."

"Give me your blessing and let me confess to you that you may know all."

There were a few seconds of silence and then the King began to talk of those nights he had spent in the lowest taverns of East Cheap, of the orgies in which he had played a major part. He wished to conceal nothing. The holy man must know how low he had sunk.

The monk listened and at the end of the King's recital, he said: "Go your way. Your sins will be washed away by the good deeds you will perform."

But the King was not yet satisfied.

"My father died in great remorse," he said. "And I who have inherited his crown must share that remorse. He believed at the end that he had no right to the crown, that he had taken it from Richard and that he would have to pay for this action. Richard's death ..."

"That is a heavy sin to lie on any conscience," interrupted the monk. "If the King your father murdered his predecessor ... he cannot hope to enter the kingdom of heaven."

"He did not murder Richard by his own hand. He did not mean him to die, mayhap. But Richard died at the hands of those who served my father. If he did not actually kill him, he believed he shared that guilt. It hung heavily on his conscience."

"And you, my lord, you knew nothing of this?"

"I was recently returned from Ireland. The crown passed into my father's hand while I was in that country. I knew nothing of Richard's death save that it had to be for the safety of my father."

" 'Twill not be laid at your door, my son. Ease your conscience by giving Richard a royal burial"

"I will have him laid in this Abbey. It is his rightful place"

"Go in peace, my son. Change your ways. Throw off the cloak of vice and tap yourself round with that of virtue. Serve your people well, for in that way you will best serve God." When the King came out into the night he felt uplifted.

Harry the dissolute Prince had been replaced by Henry the resolute King.

The Coronation was to be on Passion Sunday, the ninth of April in that year 1413.

The King was already beginning to astound all those about him by his serious demeanour.

Many said it would not last. They would soon have Harry filling the Court with his dissolute companions. This dedicated role was one which was new to him but they had to admit that he played it with skill.

He had not seen his drinking companions for days; and they had left Court on his suggestion. He was in close touch with his uncles the Beauforts, and gave Henry Beaufort back the Chancellorship from which he had resigned on being nominated to the Bishopric of Winchester. The Earl of Arundel had been a great favourite with his father but Henry did not share his father's devotion to the man, although he realized that the head of such a powerful family must not be offended. He was appointed Treasurer. Henry did public penance for his father's sins and everyone knew that what he really had in mind was the compassing of the crown for he had had Richard's body removed from Langley and buried in Westminster Abbey; and he announced that on coronation day he intended to grant a general pardon to all prisoners except those who had been imprisoned for murder or rape.

It was a good beginning but most people were cautious as yet. Harry the Prince had had too lurid a reputation to be able to cast it off with a few good deeds. He announced that he would found three religious houses at Richmond, one for Carthusian, one for Celestine monks, the other for Bregen-tine nuns; and in these prayers were to be offered by day and night for the repose of his father's soul.

The weather was unseasonably cold. It had been a harsh winter and persisted so through to the spring, but on coronation day people thronged the streets in spite of the bitter winds. After the traditional ceremony in the Abbey, Henry came out into the streets and by this time the snow was falling fast and the strong winds were making it into a blizzard.

A snow storm in April I Surely such a rare phenomenon that it must be a sign from Heaven.

As Henry battled his way back to the palace for the coronation banquet, it was said that this was God's way of telling England that the King had put off the ardours of his youth. He was being chastened by the bleak snow. A good omen. But there were also those who looked upon the storm as a warning of evil to come.

In any case there could be no doubt that Henry had become a new man.

Thomas Arundel, Archbishop of Canterbury, sought an audience with the King.

The last time the King had seen his Archbishop was at the coronation when Arundel had placed the crown on his head. Now Arundel had a serious matter to discuss and Henry guessed its nature.

Arundel had been an enemy of the movement which was sweeping across the country and known as the Lollards. The aim of this community was, in fact, the complete disendowment of the Church; an object which might have seemed worthy of nothing but derision at one time but had in recent years proved itself to be a menace.

These Lollards were the followers of John Wycliffe; they were reformers and their interests were not only confined to the reformation of the Church. It was believed that Lollardry was at the root of the Peasants' Revolt and they had brought disaster very close to the crown. Therefore it was a movement which must be closely watched and since he had come to the throne no one was more aware of this than Henry.

His father had never enjoyed security and he had yet to learn how firm his own hold was. When one had come there by what some might call a devious route and a debatable claim, one had to take care.

The King received the Archbishop with a show of friendship but a certain lack of warmth. He did not greatly care for the old man, but he must be approaching sixty, thought Henry, and could not last much longer.

"My lord," said the Archbishop, I have come to you about a very serious matter. The Lollards are about to rise and it is time that we took action against them."

"The Lollards!" cried the King. "We keep them in check do we not? We know how to deal with them if they become too saucy."

"They have become more than saucy, my lord. They have become a menace."

Henry studied his Archbishop intently. Always alert for the rights of the Church, he thought. Always watchful lest some privileges be filched by the State. Henry believed that the State must come first. The Archbishop would not agree. There was always this conflict between the two parties.

Arundel had had a stormy career. He had been banished by Richard; and because Richard had been his enemy, Henry the Fourth had been his friend. Arundel regretted the passing of the fourth Henry and was going to be very wary of the Fifth of that name. And rightly so, thought the new King.

No need to worry. He was an old man. I shall soon be appointing my own archbishop.

"My lord, the Lollards conspire against the crown when they would attack the Church."

Henry raised his eyebrows.

"Lollardry was behind the Peasants' Revolt, my lord," said the Archbishop. "Make no mistake about that. This is a villeins' charter. They would try to make you their puppet or set up one in your place."

"We have had the Lollards with us for several years. Tell me, my lord Archbishop, why are you excited about them now?"

"Because, my lord, they have a new leader. A man of some wealth and the power to lead. They are gathering together under his leadership. They will be marching on London if we do not take some action."

"Cannot you take this leader and put him in the Tower that he may be judged of his treason?"

"It can be done, my lord, but in view of who this man is, I thought it best to bring the matter first to your notice and ask what you would have done."

"But if this man is the leader of a band of rebels who plan to revolt against the crown ... why do you hesitate?"

"It is Lord Cobham, my lord, who was at some time Sir John Oldcastle. He is known to be a man whom you held in some regard. Before he is arrested we would know your will"

"Oldcastle!" cried the King. A slow smile touched his lips. You old rogue, he thought. What are you up to now? "So he has become a reformer, eh?" Henry was thoughtful for a while. He had not entirely surprised. Old John had loved to discuss, and at times he had leaned towards, those views which were held by the Lollards. It was difficult to imagine him completely serious. He would never give up his lazy lecherous life for a cause surely.

"It appears to be since his marriage to Lady Cobham my lord."

The King nodded. "She is an heiress, is she not?"

"The granddaughter of old Lord Cobham who died some years ago. She now owns Cobham Manor and Cowling Castle"

"What sort of a woman is she?"

"She is about thirty. Oldcastle is her fourth husband."

"A much married lady. One of firm opinions I imagine, and of course by his marriage to her John Oldcastle acquires the title. He will like that."

"There is much Lollardry in the district in which he and his wife now live. It has increased of late. I have heard that the reason is that Lord Cobham is a forceful leader and knows how to recruit men to his cause."

"He would do that," agreed Henry. "I never knew a man more persuasive in his arguments."

"It is proposed that he be arrested and questioned."

Henry nodded. "I will talk to him," he said. "I will show him what a dangerous position he places himself in. It is true he was a friend of mine. It would please me to advise him."

The Archbishop nodded and when he had retired the King sent to Cobham Manor with a command that his old friend visit him without delay.

They faced each other—those two who had been the roystering companions intent on savouring adventures, outdoing each other in their recklessness, boastfully declaring that they would stop at nothing—however offensive to conventional society.

There is a change in him, thought the King. He is as rotund as ever; he still has the merry twinkle in his eyes; but there is a new seriousness, a purpose; one might even say fanaticism.

"Well John," said Henry, "you may have guessed why I have sent for you."

"It is because you have missed my merry company and wish to make use of it again."

"Of a truth I have missed it but there is little time in my life now for such merriment as that which you and I indulged in. You have become over serious, John."

"My lord, you have become a King and I detect something of a change in you."

"I have to speak to you seriously"

"You have been in conference with my lord Archbishop I'll swear."

"Then you know of this grievance against you."

"'Til warrant that my lord Archbishop knowing of a certain fondness between you and me will have your permission first before he proceeds to clap me into the Tower"

"John, you have to stop this nonsense."

"Nonsense! My lord, you have failed to understand. As well might I ask you to give up your crown."

"Now it is you who talk nonsense. You have not only joined the Lollards but have become their leader and because you are yourself ... with a strength of persuasion which I know is powerful ... and because you have now married Lady Cob-ham and make use of her wealth and her title you have provided a rallying point. You are in danger, old man. As one who has been your friend, I am warning you."

"Your words fall on stony ground, my dear lord."

"Then I intend to cultivate that ground and make it fertile. John, you must listen to me."

"I had hoped to make you listen to me."

"Come, would you turn me into a Lollard?"

"We do not stand against the King, my lord. We have our eyes on the Church."

"What could a band of rebels ... peasants for the most part ... do against the Church?"

"We want to reform it. You must agree that Christ and his apostles did not wrap themselves in fine garments. They did not live in palaces. They went about humbly and in poverty to do good. A Church which holds landed possessions, collects tithes and takes money from peasants who are starving and can ill afford to pay for burials and baptizing cannot be doing the work Christ intended on this Earth"

"I have no doubt that your intentions are good, John. We have the Church and we have always had the Church. I cannot have my Archbishop roaming the countryside and sleeping under hedges when he cannot beg a bed, living on the scraps thrown to him by some farmer's wife. Let us be reasonable, John. I fear for you. They will arrest you. They will question you. God's ears, old man, can you not see what fate could be in store for you? Have you forgotten William Sawtre?"

"I have not forgotten him. Nor will many. He was the first man to be burned to death for his religious opinions. Acts like that do not deter. They strengthen purpose."

"They should be a lesson to you."

"They are indeed, my lord, a lesson that a man's soul is his dearest possession and that cannot be destroyed by fire."

"I had rather see my former lewd companion than this earnest reformer."

"Then you do wrong," answered Oldcastle seriously. "I rejoice to see a King where once was a reckless boy. Do you remember, Hal—forgive the familiarity but my mind goes back to the days when we were boon companions, for I speak of those days. Dost remember a humble tailor of the diocese of Worcester? His name was John Badby?"

The King turned away shaking his head impatiently, but he did so to hide the fact that he was moved. Yes, he did remember John Badby. He had thought of him often during the months that had followed that day. He had smelt the acrid smell, heard the groans of agony. It was something he preferred to forget.

But John Oldcastle was not going to let him forget.

"They took him ... a humble tailor," went on John. "Why choose such a man as an example? By God's teeth, he was a brave fellow. What was his crime? It was the denial of transubstantiation. What did he say: "If every consecration of the altar be the body of the Lord then there must be twenty thousand gods in England." He said he believed in only one God in England. They tried him in St Paul's. They showed him the sacrament and asked him what it was. He said it was hallowed bread but not God's body. And for that they took him out to Smithfield. You have forgotten this man, my lord. Who should remember a humble tailor? But if that humble tailor becomes a saint ..."

"This foolish man's martyrdom is beside the point."

"Oh no. No. It is very much to the point. And I never forget your part in it, my noble King. You cannot forget that you came riding by and I was with you; and you saw this man tied to the stake. They were lighting the faggots at his feet. And you stopped to watch. I sensed in you, my lord, a melancholy that a man should be persecuted for his religious beliefs. You were always one to flout convention, were you not? Those visits to the tavern were partly because you wanted to go, partly because eyebrows would be raised and people would say: "The Prince is wild. He is a reckless profligate." That made you laugh, snap your fingers at the old greybeards. But you stopped by Badby's stake and you paused to think. The flames licked his legs and the pain was intense. He cried out "Mercy". And you, my lord, what said you? "Remove the fire," you said. "Give him a chance to repent." So the fire was removed and you and the tailor looked into each other's eyes. "Swear that you were wrong," you said. "Declare that you were misled. Do that and you shall go in peace." But, my lord, Badby did not ask for mercy from mankind but from God; he called out not that the fire should be removed but that God would take him speedily into Heaven. He would not renounce his beliefs, so he was thrown back into the fire. His end, pray God, came quickly. That was Badby and methinks a man who continued to plague your thoughts for many a month to come."

"I remember it. He was a brave man."

"He died for his beliefs. There are many of us in this land, lord King, who would do the same."

The King burst into laughter. "Not you, old fellow," he said. "Not you. You're more likely to die from the tremors of Venus or the fumes of strong drink."

It is a strange and wondrous thing, my lord, that as you have changed, so have I. Does that not show in some mysterious way, that you and I walk close together."

"You'll forget your Lollards, John?"

"Will you forget your crown?"

"Never."

"Then why should I forget?"

"Because yours, you old buffoon, could be a martyr's crown if you persist in your follies."

"Then I would no more cast that aside than you would your crown of gold."

"Listen to me, John, I speak in all seriousness now. Give up these follies. Go back to your Cobham Manor. You have a new wife. Do your duty by her."

"Rest assured, lord King, that I will do what I believe to be my duty."

Henry realized with dismay that it was no use trying to persuade his friend to act with discretion. John Oldcastle seemed as determined now to snap his fingers at danger as he had ever been.

To his sorrow within a few weeks he heard that Lord Cob-ham had been arrested and sent to the Tower.

The King called on his stepmother at Windsor. To show his friendship for her on his father's death he had given her licence to live at his royal castles of Windsor, Wallingford, Berkhamsted and Hertford and Joanna had been pleased to accept this invitation, for she was eager to live on good terms with the new young King.

She was reconciled to the death of her husband. None could have wished him to live and suffer such a loathsome disease which had clearly grown worse as the months passed. It was heart-breaking to consider him as he had been when they had first fallen in love with each other; and it seemed like a cruel trick of fate that she should have been married to an old man and then when she was able to make her own choice it should have fallen on one who was quickly to develop into an invalid.

She believed that what happened had been too much for Henry. He had been haunted throughout his life by the ghost of Richard. She was sure that had he come to the throne through rightful inheritance everything would have been quite different.

Now, because she had been here so long and it had become home to her, she wished to stay in England. There would be a home for her in Brittany where her son was the reigning Duke but she feared her welcome there might be a cool one. Moreover she had rich estates in England; she had always enjoyed accumulating wealth and as the wife of King Henry the Fourth she had found opportunities of doing this. But she wished to stay; and therefore she must remain on the best of terms with her stepson.

She welcomed him into her apartments.

He had come, he said, to assure himself that she was comfortably settled; but it was more than that, she knew. He wanted her to do something for him; and she must of course, if it were possible.

It was not long before he came to the point.

"My great-grandfather Edward the Third was convinced that the crown of France rightly belonged to him. I share that view."

She waited.

"Moreover," he went on, "I intend to win it."

She said quietly: "You will resume the war with France?"

"I shall win my crown." He spoke with quiet determination. She remembered that his father had said that his eldest son thought like a soldier and acted like a soldier; and that when he came to the throne war would be his chief preoccupation like his ancestor whom men had called Richard the Lion-heart.

She said: "Your great-grandfather won many victories as did his son, the Black Prince, but they never won the crown of France for England."

"They did not continue long enough. Edward grew old and tired of the war. The Black Prince died in the prime of his youth. I would never give up. I would go in and win and that is what I intend to do."

"Can you ... raise the men ... the money."

"With God's help, I can and will."

Joanna felt uneasy. She hoped he was not going to ask her to help him. She loved her possessions. Her chief joy now was adding to them, counting them, gloating over them. She would not want to see that wealth which she had taken such pleasure in garnering dissipated in war.

"You are planning ..." she began.

"I was even before my father died," he replied. "I want to succeed, my lady, where others have failed. And make no mistake, I shall do so. I shall have the French on their knees, I promise you. Their King is mad. The Dauphin is not as fine a fellow as he believes himself to be. Indeed, my lady, I am planning. And indeed I shall take war into France. Now I want you to help me. I trust you are willing to do that."

"If I could it would be my pleasure, but I am a weak woman ..."

Joanna was silent. Her son, the Duke of Brittany, was married to the daughter of the King of France, and there would naturally be a strong influence there in favour of France. She felt uneasy.

Tour eldest son must be persuaded that my quarrel is just," said Henry. "I doubt not he will listen to his mother. Your son Arthur naturally owes his allegiance to me."

That was true. She had prevailed on her husband to bestow the title of Earl of Richmond on Arthur and this he had done. It would be Arthur's duty to range himself on the side of Henry. It was the eldest for whom she feared.

"It is a pity your son was married into France," he said.

She nodded. The marriage was arranged when she had come to England and for the reason that the King of France had wanted to make sure of the allegiance of Brittany.

"Arthur of course will be your man," she said. "The Duke ... well, that is another matter."

Henry realized that it would be difficult for the Duke to fight against his father-in-law. On the other hand his mother was the Queen of England.

"I shall rely on your powers of persuasion," he said.

Joanna promised to do her best and they parted amicably.

But after he had gone Joanna gave way to the gloomy mood which his coming had brought. Wars, she thought. Is it going to start again? How foolish it is. He will never gain the throne of France. It will mean bloodshed, loss of treasure and rifts between the families. She could not believe that her eldest son would ever fight on the side of the English against France.

Henry rode away thoughtful also. He must have Brittany with him, and surely the fact that the mother of the Duke was his stepmother must carry some weight. Joanna was a clever woman. She would know how to persuade. And it was to her interests, too. Look what she had done since she had been in England. She had always been well treated, even though the people did not like her. She was very comfortable in England; he had heard it said that she was a very wealthy woman—in fact one of the most wealthy in England. Like his father, she had never been over extravagant.

He was going to need money to finance his war. He would think about that later.

When he arrived back in Westminster it was to learn that Lord Cobham had escaped from the Tower.

Christmas had come and the Court was at Eltham. Henry was fond of Eltham, and came to it often to escape the activity which there always seemed to be at Westminster. It was a secure fortress surrounded by a moat and a thick greystone external wall.

There were revelries at Christmas but his thoughts were mainly of the campaign he planned to take into France. He knew that those about him marvelled at the change which had come over him. Not long ago he would have been in the thick of the revels, drinking, singing and watching the women, wondering which one he would select for his night companion.

A crown had changed that. He had to think of marriage. He was twenty-six, not exactly a boy. Few kings remained bachelors so long. There had been many marriages suggested for him but after the manner of so many of such negotiations they had come to nothing. He must think seriously now of taking a wife.

Strangely enough he often thought of little Isabella of Valois, Richard's widow. He had been obsessed by that child. He had never seen anyone to equal her for beauty—but perhaps her image had grown more beauteous as time passed as was often the case. She had died, poor child, after they married her to Orleans. What a fascinating little creature she had been with her fierce loyalty towards ineffectual Richard who had never been her husband in more than name.

Well, there must be an end to these prevarications. A wife ... but first the crown of France.

He sat at the high table in the great banqueting hall, above him the high-pitched roof with its hammer beams, carved pendants and braces held on corbels of hewn stone. Up in the minstrels' gallery the musicians were playing their tunes. A great fire burned in the centre of the room. Soon the mummers would arrive and enchant the company with their performance.

It was just like so many Christmases he remembered. The cooks had excelled themselves with the great joints of savoury meats and pies and fish garnished with fennel, mint and parsley—conger, ling, hake, mackerel, flounders, soles and dories. It mattered not the season as the cooks could salt anything to preserve it that they might serve it any time they wished to do so. Cooks vied with each other and the royal cooks must make each banquet better than the last. Capons, fowls, swans, peacock, bitterns adorned the tables, to the delight of those who enjoyed strong-flavoured birds.

There was no lack of food and most of them thought Henry would be rendered almost incapable of staggering to bed so heartily would they partake of all the delicacies and so freely would they refresh themselves with the wines, beer and the mead produced by the good cellarers of Eltham.

The banquet was over, the minstrels were playing; the mummers had arrived and repleted with rich food and strong drink the guests roused themselves from the soporific state to watch and applaud.

The dancing had begun and as the King was wondering which of the ladies to select he felt a tug on his sleeve.

He turned sharply. One of the mummers wearing the head of a goat was standing at his elbow.

"My lord" said the goat-headed mummer in a whisper, and there was an urgency in his tone.

"What means this?" said the King but he kept his voice low.

"Leave at once for Westminster, my lord. There is a plot to seize you and your brothers this night. To kill you and set up a new rule."

"Is this a joke? By God, I like not such jokes ..."

"My lord, my lord. I have been sent to tell you. The Lollards are planning to destroy you. They intend to do what they tried to do in King Richard's day."

"Who has sent you to me?"

"One whom you know well. A friend who loves you and who does not wish harm to befall you."

He knew at once. This was John's doing. Was it a joke? The kind of joke they had enjoyed playing on each other. No, John had grown serious, even as he had. And there was one thing he knew and that was that the Lollards were a force and one to be reckoned with.

"They plan to strike in the early morning, my lord. Retire to your chambers now. Let them believe that you are weary of the revels and have State matters to attend to. Summon your brothers... and then my lord... fly with them for your life."

Henry hesitated.

Could this be true? He had an instinct for such matters and he believed it could be. He was no longer the reckless youth courting danger. He had a country to govern, a war to win.

He said: "Methinks you come from my old friend and comrade John Oldcastle. Is that so?"

"I have sworn not to betray the source of my coming, my lord."

"I could make you talk."

"There is little time, my lord."

I'll trust you then. Go from me now. People watch. They think we are exchanging badinage."

The mummer slipped away. Henry yawned. He said: "Continue to revel. I will retire." He signed to his brothers. "Come with me to my chambers. I have matters of which I must speak to you."

They left the great hall and when they had gone the guests again whispered together of the change in the King. In the old days he would have been in the thick of the revels; he would have been watching some of the women and testing them out as to which pleased him. Now it was retirement to talk State matters with his brothers.

They would have been surprised had they watched the scene which was taking place with Henry and his brothers.

"Prepare to leave at once," he said. "We are going with all speed to Westminster."

The warning had been timely.

When the King arrived at Westminster early the following morning he was greeted with the news that something unusual was going on in the streets of London. All during the previous day those streets had been crowded, but not with Londoners. It seemed that men from all over the country were gathering there.

"Send one or two men out to discover what they do there," was his order. "Do not put them under guards for questioning. But mingle with them. Drink with them in the taverns and make discreet enquiries."

This was done and it was not long before the same information was gleaned from several sources.

They had been drawn into London from the countryside with promise of great rewards. Who had made these promises? It was Lord Cobham who was behind it. He was a very rich lord and he was going to reform the Church and make living easy for the poor.

Has it come to this, John? thought Henry. War between you and me.

"We must arm ourselves" said the King. "I see full well that this may be a repetition of what happened in Richard's time. It is the same ragged army but if there are enough of them they could be formidable."

"My lord," said the Archbishop Arundel, "it is this man Old-castle who calls himself Cobham. He has some notion that he is fighting for the right."

"He is an old man," said the King. "I knew him once. He is one who will espouse a cause and give it all he has to give. I fear this is what he does now."

"It is a pity he was ever allowed to escape from the Tower."

Henry nodded. He remembered his pleasure when he heard that John was free.

John, you fool, he thought. Why did you not go back to the country and live in peace? Will you never learn your lesson?

Of course he wouldn't. He was a fighter. He was ready for any adventure—now as then.

Stay out of this John, thought the King. I want no confrontation between us two. I like not that we should be fighting on different sides. Once we undertook all our adventures together. Let us remember that now. Stop this nonsense while there is still time.

There was more news. One of his spies reported that the Lollards were gathering in St Giles's Fields and that they were preparing to march. Their first plan was to destroy the monasteries of Westminster, St Albans and St Paul as well as all the friars' houses in London.

The King was restive. Some action must be taken. He remembered how Richard had saved the day by making promises, promises which had not been kept it was true. But the poor simple peasants had not believed that that would be the outcome. They had trusted the King.

"I will send out a proclamation," he said, "that all persons who have preached heretical doctrines and even those who have plotted against my life shall be pardoned."

His advisers were silent. They questioned the wisdom of this but Henry was firm.

"So they are gathering in St Giles's Fields, are they? Well, I will go to meet them. And I shall take a strong company with me?"

"My lord," said one, "the apprentices are gathering in the streets."

"Then when we pass through the city gates on the way to the Fields, see that the gates are closed and let no one in or out save those known to be our friends."

"It shall be done, my lord," was the answer; and so the King with his guards rode out to the Fields of St Giles's.

This was a good move for the apprentices, always eager to join any movement which could mean trouble, were preparing to march, and gathering with them were the beggars and criminals ever eager to loot and pillage other people's goods and houses. Many of the countrymen who had come to London to answer the call of Lord Cobham mistook the King's camp for that of their friends and were immediately captured. The result was chaos and the rebelling army quickly realized that they could not hope for success against the King's disciplined soldiers.

They took the only action possible. They fled.

The King returned to London. He had quelled the revolt with greater ease than Richard had dispersed the band of peasants who came against him. This was not, of course, on the same scale; but such risings could be dangerous.

He eagerly awaited news of the prisoners who had been taken. There were many of them.

"Is Lord Cobham among them?" he asked.

"No, my lord. It would seem that he got away ... if indeed he were there. He is the one we want, my lord. He might attempt again what he has failed to do this time."

"He is a slippery fellow, this Oldcastle."

"We should bring him to the Tower and this time make sure he gets his deserts."

"We should," agreed the King, "but I doubt he will be easy to hold. He escaped before."

"His fate will be quickly decided this time. He is a heretic as well as a traitor to you, my lord."

The King half closed his eyes. There were so many memories of John. How had they come to this? They should have been friends for life.

"Yes," said Henry firmly, "his fate will be decided quickly."

And what would it be? The axe, the rope? The heretic's death?

Henry could not shut out of his mind the thought of John Badby. The hideous smell of scorching flesh.

Oh John, you fool, he thought.

When he heard that Lord Cobham had escaped from the Fields (if he had been there) and had gone into hiding he was filled with relief.

Stay in hiding, you old idiot, he thought. And for the love of God, come to your senses!