The emphasis on his royalty meant that he cared deeply for ceremony and for spectacle. He enjoyed dressing up. On one occasion he wore a costume of white satin on which were hung cockle-shells and mussel-shells plated in silver; his doublet was adorned with orange trees embroidered in gold thread. He loved to preside at tournaments, but he was not so enthusiastic about true battles. One of his relatives, Thomas of Lancaster, declared at a later date that ‘he is too heavy in the arse, he only asks for drinking and eating, sleeping, dancing and leaping about’. The medieval texts often refer to ‘leaping about’ without explaining what is meant by it. Thomas of Lancaster went on to say, according to the chronicler Froissart, that ‘this is no life for men-at-arms who ought to win honour through deeds of arms and put their bodies to work’.
In 1383 the young king declared that he was now prepared to rule in person, having taken the precaution of marrying Anne, the daughter of the Holy Roman Emperor, at the beginning of the previous year. Both parties were fifteen years old, and Anne was described by a chronicler as ‘a tiny scrap of humanity’. Now bolstered by formidable marital relatives, and by his own assumption of power, Richard felt able to choose his advisers beyond the charmed circle of the hereditary lords. This was not to the taste of his uncles, John of Gaunt and Thomas of Woodstock – dukes of Lancaster and Gloucester respectively – who withdrew from the court in protest against what they called ‘evil advisers’. Richard feared Gaunt and Woodstock, as possible claimants for the throne, and he filled his household with favourites. The new king was lavish in the grants of lands, castles and titles; he borrowed heavily, and was obliged to give the crown of England as security. The old lords, out of favour and denied gifts, were growing restless. It is the familiar story of jealousy and suspicion, compounded by the king’s own secretive and sensitive temperament. The court had become a dangerous place once more.
In the spring of 1383 there had been a botched campaign to relieve Flanders of French control; it had been led by Henry Despenser, bishop of Norwich, but the bishop did not prove to be a good commander. In full martial gear he led his troops into battle against the Flemish towns, but his victims were ordinary Flemish citizens. ‘Men, women and children’, according to one report, ‘were hewed together in one vast massacre.’ The bishop may have believed that he was saving their souls. His army was eventually surrounded, and terms were agreed without Despenser ever having attacked the French enemy. It seems likely that the king himself planned an invasion of France in this year, but the prospect of heavy taxation and another popular insurrection deterred him.
Another military failure followed two years later. France and Scotland, old friends in arms, were eager to pursue a joint campaign from the north of England. So in the summer of 1385 Richard II gathered an army to forestall them. He called a feudal summons, the last such summons in English history, and the larger magnates were obliged to respond to the call. The English army met at Newcastle and marched northwards, burning Melrose Abbey and other religious houses on their way to Edinburgh. Once the king arrived in the capital, however, he realized that the Scots had gone; the Scottish soldiers were moving towards the Highlands. Some of his commanders urged him to pursue them, but he declined to do so. Why march into barren countryside without the chance of finding supplies? So he went home. This was an eminently wise decision. Doing nothing is sometimes the best course. But it did not improve the king’s reputation for valour. He had been given the opportunity of displaying himself as a sovereign of war, the indisputable qualification for a king, but success eluded him.
The debacle only served to increase the young king’s antipathy to war. In the course of his reign he would never again lead his armies against the French or the Scots. There would be no memorable battles, no sieges, no towns or castles conquered. In any case the English treasury could no longer afford the cost of further military adventure.
Further rumours of war were being whispered in the spring and summer of 1386. A French army of 30,000 men was being gathered on the coast of Flanders, and was compared to the Greek army that had overcome ancient Troy. The people of Rye, Sandwich and Dover were commanded to remain within the walls of their towns, and the castles close to the southern coast were strengthened and refurbished. The citizens of London were ordered to stock food supplies that might last for three months. It was reported that some Londoners were leaving the city. Richard himself planned yet another attack upon France, but the Commons refused to supply his coffers. The threat of invasion faded away by the end of the year. The French court, like that of the English, did not have the funds to maintain so large an army for so long. Autumn gave way to winter. The fierce weather of that season was another deterrent. The business of the country could go on unimpeded, in theory, and the English people could enjoy the pleasures of peace.
In October 1386 the parliament met in Westminster Hall, as had become the custom, but Richard had prepared a surprise for its members. The statues of previous monarchs, larger than life-size, adorned the hall; the thirteen kings, from Edward the Confessor to Richard himself, looked down upon the proceedings. It was a signal vision of Richard’s concept of kingship. The power of sovereignty was meant to overawe the lowlier subjects of the realm.
It did not work out like that in practice. The Lords sent several petitions to the king, all designed to curb his use or abuse of power. He was accused of flouting the law, and ignoring the advice of his proper councillors. He was condemned for appointing and rewarding unsuitable advisers; he gave out land and offices without advice, and made free use of pardons for rape and murder in order to raise revenue. It was clear, at least, that he was now strong enough to resist the counsels of the senior members of the realm.
A deputation from the parliament visited the king at the palace of Eltham, since Richard himself had refused to travel to Westminster. They demanded the removal of his chancellor, Michael de la Pole, one of the ‘new men’ whom Richard favoured at the expense of the old nobility. The king raged against the assembled Lords and Commons, accusing them of disloyalty and even of treachery. He told them, in his abrupt and angry manner, that he would not dismiss a servant from his kitchen at the behest of parliament. Rumours of plots and counter-plots were everywhere. Richard was behaving in secret and arbitrary ways, and it was whispered that he wished to behead the most notable of his enemies.
It was time for a more powerful intervention. Thomas of Woodstock, the duke of Gloucester, sought a further interview with Richard at Eltham; he was accompanied by Richard FitzAlan, eleventh earl of Arundel, a powerful and skilful nobleman. These two magnates informed the king that he had been ruling England unwisely and unlawfully. They said that the country had always been governed by the concord between the king and the noble lords; only a sliver of truth can be found in this argument, but they enforced their claim with a barely disguised threat that the king could be deposed. The example of his great-grandfather, Edward II, was laid before him. That unfortunate monarch had been forced to resign in favour of his son before being cruelly murdered. Thomas of Woodstock, one of Richard’s uncles, may even have desired the throne for himself.