He sent for Owen. He had no longer need to play the King. He was just a young boy who had lost his mother.
‘I did not see her much after they took me away,’ he said, ‘but I always thought of her. It is strange, Owen, but when I had to do something which I hated and which I was a little afraid of, like being crowned in Paris and going to the Parliaments in the beginning, I always thought of my mother.’
Poor Owen. He could not speak of her because his emotion choked him.
‘And Owen, I remember you too … You used to ride with me.’
‘You were a bold little boy, my lord.’
‘I was quaking with fear within and you always gave me courage. Owen … it is so sad that she is gone … and the house at Hadham …’
‘I don’t want to go there again.’
‘No … nor I. What of the children?’
‘They are at Barking still.’
‘I will see that they are well cared for, Owen.’
‘I am going to see them.’
Henry nodded. ‘It is well that they are so young. They will forget perhaps.’
‘The little ones yes … not Edmund and Jasper …’
‘They will in time. Are you going straight to them now?’
‘Yes, my lord. I shall refresh myself in the tavern at Westminster Gate and then ride to Barking.’
‘God speed, Owen. Remember I am your friend.’
Owen took his leave and went to the tavern as he had said he would and he was accompanied by his priest and his servant and while he was there a man came in and sat beside him.
The man wore a heavy cloak but as he sat down beside Owen he allowed it to fall open and so disclosed the royal livery.
‘I come from the King,’ he said. ‘He commands me to tell you that you should not go to Barking. Your enemies are waiting for you there as the first place to which you would go. On the King’s commands you are to get away with all speed.’
Owen understood. Gloucester was not going to let him go free.
Owen hastily left the tavern with his two retainers, mounted his horse and turned his face to Wales.
They had not gone far when they realised that they were being followed and soon a company of armed men had caught up with them and surrounded them. Gloucester had sent men to Barking but others had been lying in wait at Westminster.
What were three against so many? And when Owen saw who his captors were he feared the worst.
So he was once more a prisoner. Gloucester had no wish to appear in the matter and gave the prisoner into the hands of the Earl of Suffolk. A dangerous man, said Gloucester, as all men were who escaped from prison. ‘We must see,’ he added, ‘that there is no escape this time.’
It was more comfortable in Wallingford Castle than it had been in Newgate but Owen chafed against his lack of freedom.
There was no reason to suppose that he would be allowed to remain there. Gloucester wanted him back in Newgate. The proper place, he said, for men who had the temerity to marry queens in the hope of furthering their ambitions.
So it was back to Newgate. Owen realised then the futility of appealing to the King. Henry wished him well; he was honourable and a son of whom Katherine could have been proud, but he was ineffectual in the hands of powerful men.
Gloucester wanted him out of the way. He would have to be careful. He must plan. He must not give in. He must find some way of getting out of Newgate for the sake of his children.
There was one consolation. He had his servant and the priest with him. They could talk together; they could plan.
The opportunity came. ‘It must not fail,’ said Owen. ‘If it does they will separate us; they will put us in closer confinement. We have to succeed and this time never give them the chance to take us again.’
It was the time-worn method. Guards were always ready to take a little wine, and if that wine had something a little stronger in it, well, the plan might work.
It did. The drunken guards, the scaling of the walls, and out to freedom.
They found horses which were supplied by a friend at a nearby tavern and before the dawn broke they were miles away from Newgate on their way to freedom and Owen’s native Wales.
Chapter XIX
THE RECKONING
THE Duchess of Gloucester was restless and disgruntled. Her plans came to nothing. The years were passing and the King was leaving his childhood behind. He was almost twenty. Some kings of twenty might be considered to have reached their maturity; not so Henry. He had always been a mild creature ready to be guided; sometimes it seemed that he was somehow lacking.
Eleanor liked to think of him as an imbecile.
Gloucester mildly reproved her. His nephew was by no means half-witted. In fact intellectually he was very bright. It was merely that he was not forceful enough to govern. He really was not endowed to be a King.
‘This is the crux of the matter,’ said Eleanor. ‘He is not endowed with kingly qualities.’
And they were talking of marrying him which of course they would soon. It was strange that he had been allowed to reach the age of twenty without having had a wife found for him. It would not be long delayed and then there would be a child … an heir to the throne.
No, thought Eleanor, not that!
Humphrey was deep in his feud with Cardinal Beaufort. It was amazing how they always took opposing views. Beaufort was all for making peace with France because he said that England could not afford to go on supporting a war. Humphrey had always dreamed that he would outshine his late brother Bedford and win back all that had been lost since the coming of Joan of Arc. Humphrey saw himself as another Henry the Fifth. Beaufort wanted to release the Duc d’Orléans who had been a prisoner in English hands since Agincourt. He was an excellent bargaining counter. Beaufort was ready to do anything for peace. No, cried Humphrey, there should be no peace.
Eleanor supported him in this. Peace with France would inevitably mean a marriage for Henry with a daughter of Charles the Seventh.
There must be no marriage. Eleanor was frantic at the thought.
Something must be done before then.
She was disappointed in Margery Jourdemayne. In spite of the beautiful waxen image nurtured in its cradle she was still not pregnant. She had swallowed pills and potions which Margery assured her were destined to produce fruitfulness and Margery had been living very comfortably on the proceeds of the Duchess’s patronage for years.
And yet nothing the Duchess desired came to pass.
The baby did not arrive and the King still lived.
Margery was getting desperate. She said that a certain familiar had come to her in a dream and said that the fault lay with the Duke.
‘I do not believe that. Before our connection he had an illegitimate son and a daughter.’
‘Bastards,’ cried Margery. ‘How can they be sure who their fathers are?’
‘Arthur and Antigone both have a look of the Duke.’
‘The Plantagenet looks are not uncommon in this land,’ was Margery’s excuse. ‘It comes down through generations.’
But Eleanor was getting impatient and Margery was getting alarmed seeing the disappearance of her best source of income – and the one which had enabled her to not only live in comfort but stow something away for less lucrative days.
‘My lady might like to consult a man I know of – a cleric – a man of the Church no less. He will tell your future. That is what your ladyship would like. I hear that he can foretell the stars. He is expensive … Well, not to a lady like you. And he is worth every groat.’
‘Bring him here,’ said the Duchess.
So that was how she made the acquaintance of Roger Bolingbroke.