The star of Lancaster

DEATH AT LOLLARDs' GALLOWS

There was one, however, who could not rejoice wholeheartedly in the great victory, for she greatly feared what the consequences might be.

Ever since Henry had visited Joanna and implied that he expected her to influence her son to fight for the English, she had been very uneasy.

Until this time she had been content with her life in England. At first she had been very happy with Henry but when that fearful disease had grown worse and he had been so horribly disfigured her feelings towards him had begun to change. When he had died it had been a kind of release and had enabled her to settle down to a new life.

She had taken up her quarters at Havering and there had started to enjoy a life of peaceful seclusion. She had amassed great wealth and her thrifty nature, which had fitted in well with that of her husband, had delighted in the growth of her possessions. She wanted nothing changed; she was content enough to live in the shadows. The last thing she wanted was to be drawn away from her quiet luxurious life to join in any controversy and especially one with her stepson, the King.

And now Agincourt! An unprecedented and unexpected victory for Henry.

She knew that her eldest son, the Duke of Brittany, had remained uncomfortably neutral. It was the only action he could have taken, for since his wife was the daughter of the King of France his allegiance must lie with that King. It was different with Arthur. He had been created Earl of Richmond by Joanna's husband and owed his allegiance to England.

Yet he had fought with France.

That would have been a wise action ... if the French had won; and everyone had expected the French to win.

So at Havering Joanna waited in trepidation for the outcome. That Henry's attitude towards her would change, she felt certain. He would blame her for not using enough force in persuading her sons. But what could she do? It was years since she had seen them and even if she had, she would never have been able to influence them to that extent. To have supported the English would have seemed to them like suicide.

It was all very well to be wise after the event.

She was in a state of great nervousness and she sent for two men whom she kept in her household to advise her and predict the future. Petronel Brocart had come to England with her and she had found Roger Colles in Salisbury. She regarded them as her two wise men; they foretold the future and read the stars and before taking any action she always consulted them.

The household was considerably in awe of them; they lived in complete comfort for there was no one who would dare offend them for fear of bringing down their wrath and being illwished.

She sent for them and told them that she wanted to consult them; she was fearful of the future, she told them. They had not foreseen the outcome of the battle of Agincourt.

Petronel Brocart replied that he had foreseen it but had not trusted what he saw and put it down to being a dream and not true foresight. The odds were so overwhelmingly against the English that it could only have been a last minute miracle, decided on in one moment by the powers either of good or evil —it remained to be seen which.

Joanna accepted the explanation and told them that she felt herself to be ... if not in danger, in an uneasy position because of her family in France.

Brocart made sure that he was kept up to date with the latest events which often meant he was able to prophesy a certainty; he kept messengers, whom he paid handsomely, and their duty was to give him the latest information as to what was happening at the Court of Brittany.

Therefore he had news for the Queen; and it was not pleasant news.

"It does not surprise me" said Brocart, "that you feel this lack of ease. There is ill news coming to you, my lady"

Joanna glanced pleadingly from Colles to Brocart.

Tray tell me the worst. My son .. ."

"The Duke is well" replied Colles. "He did not take part in the fighting but wisely remained neutral."

"Your daughter's husband, the Duc d'Alenson, has been killed" said Brocart.

Joanna put her hand to her fast beating heart; she could tell from the expression of these two men that there was more to come.

"Your brother Charles of Navarre was wounded in the battle."

"He has since died of his wounds," added Colles.

"And my son ... Arthur?" asked Joanna faintly.

"He is Henry's prisoner."

"Oh my God, what will become of him?"

"He will remain in England at the King's pleasure, my lady."

"And shall I see my son?"

"Ere long, my lady."

"It grieves us to give you such news, dear lady."

"I know it," replied Joanna, "but I must also know the truth. Do not hesitate. Is there anything more I should know?"

"We have told you all, my lady."

Joanna wanted nothing so much as to shut herself away with her grief.

She had pleaded with the King. He must allow her to see her son. She knew that he had broken the allegiance which as Earl of Richmond he owed to England. But she was his mother and she had not seen him for eleven years when as a boy he had come to England. Perhaps she had been wrong to remind the King of that occasion for it was when he had received the investiture of Earl of Richmond.

The King replied that her son was a traitor. He had been found with England's enemy and had been taken in battle. He could not expect to be received in honour in England; he was a prisoner, a danger to England, and Henry could see no reason why he should be treated otherwise even though his mother had been a Queen of England.

Joanna longed to see him. She greatly feared that he might be sentenced to death. Henry was severe but he was not wantonly cruel. He would understand Arthur's difficulties living as he was in Brittany at his brother's court with his brother's wife the daughter of the King of France. True, he had sworn allegiance to England, but he was young and Henry would not wish to be too harsh. Moreover Joanna was a clever woman; he had always liked her and did not want to inflict undue suffering upon her. It was unthinkable that he should release Arthur of course, but he saw no reason why there might not be a meeting between mother and son.

Arthur was to come, under guard, to Havering after which he would be taken back to the Tower of London. When she heard that he would soon be with her Joanna was overcome by emotion and she sent for her confessor, a Franciscan friar named John Randolf, and asked him to pray with her that she might prepare herself for the meeting.

"I must try not to weep," she said. "Oh, it is a sad state of affairs when children are lost to their mothers at an early age"

"Compose yourself, my lady," advised John Randolf. Trayer will be a solace to you. I would suggest Madam that it is unwise to rely so much on those charlatans, Brocart and Colles. They can bring no good to you."

"They foresaw that my son would be a prisoner. They warned me in advance."

"It is dabbling in evil powers, my lady, and will do you no good with God and his saints."

Joanna was silent. She knew that John Randolf disliked the sorcerers, as they did him. They were suspicious of each other and jealous of the influence every one of them held with her.

But this was no time to consider rivalries.

Arthur was coming and she must be prepared for him, so she knelt with Randolf and together they asked for God's blessing and that the King's heart might be softened towards Arthur.

He was on his way. Soon he would be with her. She was trembling with excitement.

She said to one of her ladies, "Do sit in my chair so that when he comes in he will think you are his mother. I will watch him for a while before I reveal myself."

"He will know you for the Queen, my lady, by your very bearing."

"Nay," said Joanna, "we shall do it this way."

And so she was seated on a footstool at the feet of her lady attendant when her son entered. He was handsome, young, all that she could have wished him to be ... except that he was a prisoner. The guards were standing at the door to remind her of that sad fact.

He approached her lady-in-waiting and knelt at her feet. Joanna watched sadly.

"My mother," said Arthur, "this is a sad meeting. But I rejoice to see you."

They embraced.

"I will present you to my ladies," said the substitute Queen, but at that moment Joanna could sustain her role no longer.

"My son, my son," she cried, "do you not know me?"

Arthur looked in astonishment from the lady-in-waiting to the Queen.

"Yes," said Joanna, "I am your mother."

"I see it now," cried Arthur.

"I had to wait awhile," said Joanna. "My heart was too full."

They embraced warmly, then looked at each other searchingly. "You were but a boy when you went away," said Joanna.

"Oh, Mother, so much has happened since then."

"I was so proud of you, my Earl of Richmond."

"Alas, Mother."

"Henry will treat you well. I would I could keep you here with me."

"I come as a prisoner, my lady."

Joanna nodded.

"Come, tell me of home. Tell me of your brother and your sister ... She has lost her husband."

"Agincourt was disastrous for us."

"And such a victory here. They are still having their pageants and their revelries, their thanksgiving services. The bells are ringing all over the country."

"One King's victory must be another's defeat. Mother."

"And you were on the wrong side."

"It seemed so impossible that the English could triumph."

"Nothing is certain in war" said Joanna. "Now we must make the best of what is left to us. It will not be long, I feel sure."

She was right.

That day Arthur was taken back to his prison in the Tower. The brief reunion was over.

The King kept Christmas at Lambeth.

He was restive. He had won a brilliant victory at Agincourt but all it had brought him was Harfleur. He was no nearer to the crown of France than his predecessors had been.

After Agincourt it would have been the utmost folly to have marched to Paris. Wretched and defeated as it was, what was left of the French army could have stopped him. If the French were in a sad state so were the English. Many of his soldiers were suffering from dysentery. They had fought magnificently but they were in no shape to endure another battle for a while. Good general that he was he had seen there was only one thing he could do and that was return home and get together more men and more stores before he began another campaign.

He could be proud of the achievement. The French had suffered a shattering defeat and they would be demoralized. No more barrels of tennis balls would be sent by the arrogant Dauphin. It was good to contemplate what his feelings must be at this time. It was a glorious moment, there was no doubt about that, but he must not be blinded by his success.

He needed men restored to health; he needed supplies; and raising an army was a costly matter.

But Agincourt had made Englishmen proud again. They had a King whom they could admire. It was like the days of great Edward all over again. The people loved a King who was a great soldier and could bring conquests to the honour of the country and spoils of course to add to its riches.

Celebrations there must be to remind the people what he had brought them; before they were asked to provide money for more conquests they must be allowed to celebrate those which had been won. But the King was impatient. Agincourt had been a revelation. He could almost feel the crown of France on his head.

So at Christmas while he feasted and joked with his friends and danced and watched the mummers, his thoughts were of war. Plans were forming in his mind. He must go on. It would be foolish not to follow up the victory while the French were in such a low state and the English intoxicated by victory.

The new Archbishop Chicheley was growing fanatical about the Lollards and was pursuing them relentlessly. The King often thought of John Oldcastle and wondered where he was hiding himself. How much more satisfactory it would be if he were to come and fight with his King. There were few better soldiers.

If he would come back and fight with me, thought the King, all this Lollardry would be forgotten.

But John did not come. He remained in hiding, no doubt plotting. He was as fixed in his determination to uphold the Lollards as Henry was to gain the crown of France.

Henry must raise money and continue. He was wasting time here.

The people were with him. They wanted more conquests. They were looking forward to prosperity and the end of the war with France and their King firmly established on that throne.

They were living now in the euphoria of great victory. Life seemed more prosperous. It was not, but it seemed so and thought Henry with a certain amount of cynicism, one that was as good as the truth until they woke up to reality. He had ordered that the streets of Holborn be paved. This had never been done before and the Lord Mayor of London, Sir Henry Burton, had brought in improvements to the streets of London by hanging lanthorns which were kept burning throughout the night.

The people were grateful. They loved their King.

But it was the eternal cry of Money. Money to pay the soldiers, money to pay for the arrows and all the weapons of war. Money for the food they would need. Money! Money!

The King rode to Havering to see his stepmother. She greeted him with affection and he talked to her of his plans.

She listened, feigning an enthusiasm which she could not feel. Her family were on the opposing side. It was an irritation between them. How could he boast to her of the glories of Agincourt when that battle had brought disaster for so many members of her family?

The affection he had hitherto felt towards her was tinged with a mild dislike.

She had come to England as his father's second wife and grown rich here. He had heard it said that she was one of the richest women in the country, but like many rich people who had taken delight in garnering their wealth, she was rather loth to part with it.

"My son visited me here," she said.

"I know," he answered. "I gave orders that he should be allowed to do so."

"Thank you, my lord. It was good of you. Your goodness makes me venture to ask if I might see him again."

"My lady, he is a prisoner. He is your son but he is also a traitor. We cannot allow traitors to roam freely about our land. That would be folly, you must realize."

She was silent.

"I intend to carry on the war in France until I have brought it to a satisfactory conclusion," he went on. "I should be there now ... but first I have to build up stores, equipment, pay my soldiers and so much more."

"War is a costly business in treasure and more tragically in blood," said Joanna sombrely.

"So we have seen. Madam," said the King. "But my cause is just and I am determined on victory. I need money."

Her eyes strayed round the chamber. She lived well. She liked luxury. She was indeed a very rich woman.

"I am relying on those who love me and a just cause to come forward with their offerings," he said.

She nodded.

"I have always looked upon you as a friend."

"I will ask my treasurer what can be supplied," she said cautiously; she was already making plans to have the finest of her treasures placed in great chests and hidden in the vaults. "I have given much to the poor," she went on. "I am not as rich as I once was."

You lie, he thought. My God, the woman is on the side of the French. She is all ready to turn traitor, as her son was.

He took his leave shortly. He was in a resentful mood. She amassed wealth under my father, he thought, and she will not give up to me what I so desperately need.

As he rode away he said to his brother Bedford: "I do not trust the Queen."

Bedford replied: "I was talking to John Randolf her confessor. He says she is in constant private talk with those two sorcerers Colles and Brocart. He does not like them nor their influence with the Queen."

"Does he think she practises their evil arts?"

"It is strange how she has become so rich."

The King frowned. "It might be that there is some sorcery in it," he replied.

He felt a sudden surge of anger against her. She had won her wealth through dabbling in dark arts then; and she was very reluctant to part with a penny of it.

His thoughts were occupied with how he could raise money.

"When he returned to London he had decided to pawn his crown and jewels. His uncle, the Bishop of Winchester, would advance him one hundred thousand marks for them; and he would sell a part of the royal jewels to the City of London for ten thousand pounds.

In the month of July two years after the battle of Agincourt Henry was ready to sail to France again. He left with twenty-six thousand men on board a fleet of one thousand five hundred ships.

He took among other strategic places, Caen and Falaise. But the war was not yet won.

John Oldcastle with his band of faithful followers had for four years been wandering in the Welsh mountains. During the summer they lived out of doors and would sit round a camp fire when darkness fell and talk of the days when they would establish their faith throughout England and bring a better life to many poor people. With the coming of winter there must be an end to this life which had an appeal for all of them; then they must find shelter by night in any inn or wayside cottage where someone would give them a place to lie down. All the day John was trying to recruit men to his banner; but it was amazing how difficult it was to arouse enthusiasm for battle even amongst the Welsh who like the Irish and Scots were usually ready to attack the English.

He heard news of Agincourt and it pleased him to know that Henry had won renown throughout the country.

Great Harry they called him affectionately and there was grudging admiration even from his enemies.

John smiled, recalling the braggart youth sprawling on his tavern chair drinking, eyeing the women, singing tavern songs. Those had been good days; but they could not have gone on for ever. Neither he nor Henry were of a kind to spend all their lives in riotous living, seeking their excitement in tavern brawls.

Somehow he had always known that there was more to both of them than that. Harry had found it in the quest for a crown; as soon as he had taken that alluring object in his hands, he had changed. As for John, he had changed too. His had been a yearning for spiritual matters. How strange that religion should have become the whole meaning of life to him.

He talked to his followers and all who would listen. He had always been an eloquent talker. That was what had attracted Henry to him. Then he had used his quick wits to provoke laughter. It was different now.

All that mattered to him was that he should make men understand what was in his mind. There must be reforms in Church. Men must worship God, not the trappings of ceremony. All the money which was poured into maintaining the splendours of the Church should be used to improve the life of the villeins, he believed. He wanted a simple religion; he wanted spiritual humility and peace for men and a more dignified physical existence.

As poor Sawtre had said the cross was a piece of wood. Yes, a better piece of wood than others of its kind because Christ had died on it. But it was not to be worshipped as such. Salvation came not through the cross but from Christ who died on it.

He had come to Wales after being surprised in a house in St Albans. He had sought shelter of a villein there who greatly admired him and was ready to risk his life by giving him a bed in his house. His was a personality which could not be hidden. In time people were coming to the villein's house just to hear him talk. So in due course as seemed inevitable he was betrayed and the Abbot of St Albans sent his servants to surround the house; but he had his friends and an hour before the servants came he was riding towards Wales.

It was a lesson and brought home to him the realization of how easily he could be captured.

There in the Welsh Marches among the hills which lay between the Severn and the Vyrnwy he had found his refuge. But he would have to emerge when the spring came. It was not his intention merely to keep hidden from his enemies. He must rally friends to his cause.

He had found the perfect hide-out and decided that he would make this his refuge. It should be the place to which he returned if he were pursued; he believed he would always find shelter there. There was an inn nearby which was owned by ardent supporters, people on whom he could rely. He was safe here to work out his plans. Moel-y-sant offered beauty as well as security; it became known as Cobham's garden.

He had always been reckless; he could not change his entire nature in so short a time. He trusted the innkeeper and his wife and family; he had forgotten that servants came and went and he might not find the same loyalty among them. He had forgotten that there was a possibility that he might be traced to this spot and there might be a plan to capture him.

Lord Charlton, on whose estate John was sheltering, in due course learned that he was there. A reward was offered for the capture of Oldcastle who, because of his connections and eloquence, was considered a great menace not only to the Church but to society; and Charlton thought it could do him no harm—on the contrary much good—if he delivered Oldcastle to his enemies.

He therefore began to plan. He placed one of his servants in the inn which he suspected Oldcastle frequented. The spy soon confirmed the truth of this and one night when John was seated in the inn parlour discoursing to his friends and disciples, there was a shout of "The inn is surrounded'. And then the armed men of Charlton's retinue burst in.

John stood up dashing his tankard to the floor, but he realized that he was trapped. However he was not going to be taken without a fight, and a battle ensued.

John was big and strong and it was not easy to take him; but while he was struggling with an assailant, one of the serving girls who had become friendly with Charlton's spy picked up a stool and threw it with such force against John that it broke his leg, thus rendering him helpless and he fell to the ground—a prey to his enemies.

It was the end. What could he do, being unable to stand? He was seized in triumph and carried off to Welshpool Castle, the home of Charlton, who was overcome with delight by the capture.

The first thing he did was to send a messenger to the Court. The King was in France and the Regent was his brother the Duke of Bedford.

Charlton received a delighted reply from Bedford. Let Oldcastle be brought at once to London without delay.

The injuries which he had received in the fight, chief of which was his broken leg, made it impossible for him to ride, but Bedford was in no mood to delay. It occurred to him that if the King were to hear of his old friend's predicament he might out of sentimental feeling find some way of pardoning him. If, reasoned Bedford, Oldcastle had not been allowed to escape from the Tower—and sometimes Bedford wondered whether Henry had connived in that facile escape—they would have been spared a great deal of trouble.

No, bring Oldcastle to London. Let him be speedily tried and sentenced to the heretic's death.

"Send him at once," he ordered. "Even if he has to travel in a whirlicote."

So John was placed in a horse-litter and brought to London.

"Let there be no delay," said Bedford. "This man should be tried at once."

John knew that this was the end. There could be no escape now. If he could but see the King, if they could indulge in a discussion such as they had so much enjoyed in the old days, he would have been able, he was sure, to make Henry understand.

But Henry was abroad in France bent on winning his crown. And John was here in London, in the hands of his enemy.

He was immediately brought before his judges and condemned to die the heretic's death.

He held his head high; he faced his judges and cried: "Though you judge my body which is a wretched thing, yet I am certain and sure that you can do no harm to my soul, no more than Satan could upon the soul of Job. He who created that will, of His infinite mercy and promise, save it. Of this I have no doubt. I will stand by my beliefs to the very death by the grace of my eternal God."

The very same day he was taken by hurdle to St Giles's Fields to what was now known as the Lollards' Gallows. He saw the fire being laid below the chains in which they would hang him; and he knew then that his last hours had come.

A multitude had gathered to see him die. He had many supporters but none who there in St Giles's would dare to come forward and claim him as a friend. The acrid smell of smoke, the writhing agony of sufferers, set them shuddering. He was a great man, John Oldcastle called Lord Cobham; he was ready to die for his beliefs. But there would be few who would want to share the martyr's crown.

He addressed the spectators as he was being put in chains.

"Good Christian people," he said, "beware of these men, for they will beguile you and lead you blindly into hell with themselves. Christ says plainly unto you: "If one blind man leadeth another, they are like both to fall into a ditch."" He was now hanging horizontally above the flames which were rising to lick his body.

"Lord God Eternal," he cried, "I beseech Thee of Thy great mercy's sake to forgive my enemies if it be Thy will."

There was a hush on the crowd. They heard his cry as the flames reached him.

Then the smoke hid him from view.