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.

"Risyng from his place, mekeley makyne the signe of the Crosse, he saide unto the people, 'In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, I, Henry of Lancaster, claim the realme of Englande and the crowne, as that I am dyscended by righte lyne of bloode from that good Lord King Henry III." Moreover, he proceeded to make clear, Richard had resigned the crown into his hands, and he had also won it by right of conquest.

Then the Archbishop asked the assembly if they would have Henry for king, to which with one voice they answered "Ye, ye, ye," and after that the Archbishop led Henry to the king's throne and set him thereon with great reverence, making to him a long "oryson" from the words, "When I was a child, I spake as a child; but at the time when I came unto the state of a man, I put away childish things."

"A chylde," he said, "will lyghtly promise and as lyghtly brake his promise, doing all thinges that his fancye giveth him unto, and forgettinge lyghtly what he hath done. By which reason it followyth that great inconvenyence must fall to that people a chylde is ruler and governour of. But now we ought all to rejoyse that a man and not a chylde shall have lordeshype over us, a man that shall govern the people by skylful doyngs, settyne apart wylfulnesse and all pleasure of himself."

And the people answered "Amen" with great gladness; they clapped their hands for joy and did homage to the new king, while the coronation was fixed for the 13th of October, the Feast of St. Edward.

Froissart has left us a vivid account of that great day, which you shall have in his words.

"On the Saturday before the coronation, the new king went from Westminster to the Tower attended by great numbers, and those squires who were to be knighted watched their arms that night. They amounted to forty-six, and each squire had his chamber and his bath in which he bathed. The ensuing day, the Duke of Lancaster, after mass, created them knights, and presented them with long green coats with straight sleeves. After dinner on this Sunday, the Duke left the Tower on his return to Westminster; he was bareheaded, and there were of nobility from eight to nine hundred horse in the procession. The Duke was dressed in a jacket of cloth of gold, mounted on a white courser, with a blue garter on his left leg. The same night the king bathed himself, and on the morrow confessed himself and heard three masses. The prelates and clergy who had assembled, then came in a large procession from Westminster Abbey to conduct the king thither, and returned in the same manner, the king and nobles following. The dukes, earls, and barons wore long scarlet robes, with mantles trimmed with ermine and large hoods of the same. The dukes and earls had three bars of ermine on the left arm, the barons but two. On each side of the king were carried the sword of mercy and the sword of justice, and the Marshal of England carried the sceptre.

"The procession entered the church about nine o'clock, in the middle of which was erected a scaffold covered with crimson cloth, and in the centre a royal throne of cloth of gold. When the Duke entered the church, he seated himself upon the throne, and was thus in royal state, except having the crown on his head.

"The Archbishop of Canterbury proclaimed how God had given them a man for their lord and sovereign, and then asked the people if they were consenting to his being consecrated and crowned king. They unanimously shouted out Ay.

"After this the Duke descended from the throne, and advanced to the altar to be consecrated. He was anointed in six places, and while this was doing the clergy chanted a litany that is performed at the hallowing of a font.

"The king was now dressed in churchman's clothes, and they put on him crimson shoes. Then they added spurs; the sword of justice was drawn, blest, and delivered to the king, who put it into the scabbard. The crown of St. Edward, which is arched over like a cross, was then brought and blessed, and put on the king's head by the Archbishop.

"When mass was over, the king left the Abbey and returned to the Palace, and went first to his apartment, then returned to the Hall to dinner.

"At the first table sat the king; at the second, five great peers of England; at the third, the principal citizens of London; at the fourth, the new created knights; at the fifth, all knights and squires of honour. And the king was served by the Prince of Wales, who carried the sword of mercy.

"When dinner was half over, a knight of the name of Dymock entered the Hall completely armed, mounted on a handsome steed. The knight was armed for wager of battle, and was preceded by another knight bearing his lance; he himself had his drawn sword in one hand and a naked dagger at his side. The knight presented the king with a written paper, the contents of which were, that if any knight or gentleman would dare maintain that King Henry was not the lawful sovereign, he was ready to offer him combat in the presence of the king, when and where he would.

"After King Henry had dined and partaken of wines and spices, he retired to his private apartments, and all the company went. Thus passed the Coronation Day of King Henry, who remained that and the ensuing day at the Palace of Westminster."

But though Henry was thus firmly set on the throne by the will of Parliament, he knew full well that he was not the lawful heir while the Earl of March, the descendant of John of Gaunt's elder brother, was alive, and this fact put him very much at the mercy of his Parliament throughout his reign. He was there by the will of Parliament, and therefore, according to their will he must act. His was a troubled, anxious rule; for rebellions broke out in many different parts of the country, and Henry never felt really secure.

With Westminster he had little to do, save at the beginning and end of his reign, and he has left no memorial of himself in the building. Yet he is the one king who died within the Abbey walls.

To ease his conscience, he had resolved to make a pilgrimage to the sepulchre of the Lord at Jerusalem, and this in spite of the fact that he was suffering from a grave disease.

"Galleys of warre" were made ready for the expedition, and the king came to Westminster, both to meet his Parliament and to pray in the shrine of Edward for the blessing and protection of that saint, though he firmly believed an old prophecy that he should die in Jerusalem would be now fulfilled.

While kneeling in the shrine, he became so ill that those about him thought he would die in that place. But with difficulty they moved him to the fine chamber in the Abbot's house, carrying him on a litter through the cloisters, and "there they laid him before the fire on a pallet, he being in great agony for a certain time."

At last, when he came to himself, he asked where he was, and when this had been told him, he inquired if the chamber had any special name.

He was told its name was Jerusalem.

"Then sayd the Kynge: Laud be to the Father of Heaven, for nowe I knowe I shall dye in this chamber, accordynge to ye propheseye of me aforesayde, that I should dye in Jerusalem."

So, in that dark tapestried room, the king, lying there in his royal robes, just as he had come from doing honour to St. Edward, made himself ready to die. His son, Prince Harry, was with him, though between the two there had been many a misunderstanding and quarrel during the last few years; and Shakespeare, taking his facts from the French chronicler, tells how Henry lay there unconscious, his crown on a pillow at his side, and at last seemed to breathe no more. Whereupon the attendants, believing him to be dead, covered over his face, and Prince Harry first held the crown in his hands, then set it on his own head.

This very act seemed to call the dying king back to life, for he groaned, came to himself, and missed the crown.

"What right have you to it, my son?" he asked reproachfully.

The Prince made answer: "My lord, as you have held it by the right of your sword, it is my intent to hold and defend the same during my life."

To which replied the king: "I leave all things to God, and pray that He will have mercy upon me."

And thus saying he died.

But the English chroniclers give another picture of the Prince, and describe him sobered and awestruck in the presence of Death, kneeling at his father's side as the priest administered the Holy Sacrament, tenderly recalling his wandering mind and saying—

"My lord, he has just consecrated the Body of the Lord Christ: I entreat you to worship Him, by whom kings reign and princes rule."

Then the king raised himself up to receive the cup, blessed his son, kissed him, and died.

Prince Harry wept distractedly, full of remorse as he thought of all the follies and mistakes of his past life, which had so added to the sorrows of the dead king. But all that was good and great in him came to the front now. Alone, in a little chapel inside the Abbey, he passed the rest of that day, kneeling in utter humility before the King of kings, praying for pardon, for peace, and for strength. "Then, when the shades of night had fallen upon the face of the earth, the tearful Prince in the darkness went to the Anchorite of Westminster (whose stone cell lay on the south side of the infirmary cloister), and unfolding to this perfect man the secrets of his life, being washed in penitence, he received absolution, and putting off the cloak of iniquity, he returned garbed in the mantle of virtue." Nor was this sudden change the impulse of a moment, for "Henry, after he was admitted to the rule of the land, showed himself a new man, and tourned all his wyldness into sobernesse, wyse sadnesse and constant virtue."

The king, at his own wish, was buried at Canterbury by the side of the Black Prince; some chroniclers say, because he trembled at the thought of lying near Richard's tomb in the Confessor's Chapel; and nothing disturbed the peace of the Abbey till the following spring, when on Passion Sunday, "a daye of exceedinge rayne and snow," Henry V. was crowned.

His first act as king was to give King Richard an honourable burial in the tomb he had chosen, to order that tapers should burn around his grave "as long as the world endureth," and that dirges and masses should be said for his soul. Then he concerned himself with the building which had stood still throughout his father's reign, and he made as his chief architect the wealthy and generous Whittington, now Lord Mayor of London—possibly the hero of the old story—with a monk of Westminster named Haweden. To those two was entrusted the work of completing the nave and all the western part of the Abbey.

Henry was brave and adventurous, the nobles were longing for war, and France, at that moment divided against itself, almost invited attack. The old pretext did well enough; Henry laid claim to the throne of France and invaded the land, scorning all idea of compromise. Disease attacked his army, so that when he came face to face with his foe he had but 15,000 men to their 50,000. But his courage rose to the crisis, and when one of his knights sighed for the thousands of brave warriors in England, he said warmly—

"I would not have a single man more. If God give us the victory, it will be plain we owe it to His grace."

And the battle there fought and won was the great battle of Agincourt, the victory once again of the English archers. Henry had always been loved by the nation, now he became their hero and their darling.

    "Oh, when shall Englishmen
    With such acts fill a pen,
    Or England breed again
    Such a King Harry?"
    

The news of the triumph was quickly sent to London by a special messenger, and the Mayor, with the commonalty and an immense number of citizens, set out on foot to make their pilgrimage to St. Edward's shrine, there to offer devout thanksgiving for the joyful news.

And to this procession there joined themselves very many lords and peers of the realm, with the substantial men, both spiritual and temporal, for all knew that thanksgiving was due unto God, and to Edward, the glorious Confessor. Therefore went they like pilgrims on foot to Westminster, as aforesaid, passing through the newly built nave.

Later on, when Henry made his triumphant entry into London as the victor of Agincourt, "the gates and streets of the cities were garnished and apparelled with precious cloths of arras, containing the victories and triumphs of the king of England, which was done to the intent that the king might understand what remembrance his people would leave to their posterity of these, his great victories and triumphs."

But the king would not have any ditties to be sung of his victory, for he said the glory belonged to God, and the hymn of praise he commanded was a joyful Te Deum, which rang through the vaulted arches of the Abbey, led by the monks, swelled by countless voices of brave Englishmen. Nor would Henry allow his battered helmet of gold and his other armour, "that in cruel battaille was so sore broken with the great strokes he hadde received," to be carried before him or shown to his people. With a fine modesty, he sought in no way to glorify himself. The memory of his early manhood, with its dark side, was ever before his eyes; the conflict with the enemy within was ever waging, and the knowledge of his own weakness swept over him even in the hour of his greatest triumph, so that he could not but be humble as a little child.

Peace was at last made with France, the terms being that Henry should marry the French king's daughter, Katherine, who possessed "a white oval face, dark flashing eyes, and most engaging manners," and that he should succeed to the throne of France on the death of his father-in-law. In the February of 1421 he brought his pretty bride to England, where the people received her "as if she had been an angel of God," and on the 24th of that month she was crowned by the Archbishop.

In the words of Robert Fabyan, an alderman of London, but devoted to the pleasures of learning, "I will proceed to show you some part of the great honour that was exercised and used upon that day."

After the service in the church was ended, Queen Katherine was led into the great hall of Westminster, and there sat at dinner at Henry's side, while close to her sat the captive Prince James of Scotland, the Archbishop of Canterbury, and many great nobles. The Countess of Kent sat under the table at the right side of the queen, and the Countess Marshal on the left side, holding her napkin, while the Earl of Worcester rode about the hall on a great courser to keep room and order. Being Lent, no meat was allowed, excepting brawn served with mustard, but of fish there was a great choice; "pyke in herbage lamprey powderyd, codlyng, crabbys, solys, fresshe samon, dryed smelt, halybut, rochet, porpies rostyd, prawys, clys roast, and a white fisshe florysshed with hawthorne leaves and redde lawrys." Wonderful ornaments called "subtelties" were on the table, being images intended to symbolise the happy event, and fastened on to these were labels with such verses as—

    "To this sign the king
    Great joy will bring,
    And all his people
    The queen will content."

Or—

    "It is written
    And can be seen,
    In marriage pure
    No strifes endure."
    

Katherine's pity was roused by the clever and charming young Scottish prince who had been so long a prisoner, and who was now deeply in love with Lady Joanna Beaufort, a lady he had seen in the gardens of Windsor Castle, and at this banquet she pleaded for him with her husband, with the result that he was eventually set free, and allowed to marry the lady of his love.

In spite of the peace which had been made, the French people were not inclined to submit to their conquerors, and within a few months of Katherine's coronation war broke out again, which sent Henry off in haste to France. He was still victorious, and when besieging Meaux the news was brought that Katherine had given him a son. At the same time came a loving letter from the queen herself, begging that she might join him in France so soon as her health would permit. The permission was readily granted, and she came, but not too soon; for Henry, who had bravely fought illness as he fought all other enemies, was conquered at last, and died at Vincennes, he, "mighty victor, mighty lord, being carried there helpless on a litter."

In the third year of his reign Henry had made his will, in which he had set down careful instructions as to his own burying, which was to be at Westminster, among the kings; and as by now there was but little room left in the Confessor's Chapel, he directed that at its eastern end, where the relics were kept, a high place should be made, ascended on each side by steps, and that there should be raised an altar, while underneath it his body should be laid. To this altar he bequeathed plate, vestments, and a sum of money for the Abbey, in token of which three monks of the Abbey were daily to say three masses there for his soul.

He had been a great benefactor to the Abbey, for besides having completed the nave, he had paid to it a thousand marks yearly, restored to it a ring valued at a thousand marks, and given such valuable presents as a Psalter and other fine books; so the monks were anxious to do him all honour, while the people of London were determined to worthily show their sorrow and their love.

The great funeral procession set out from France, and by slow stages reached London. The coffin had been set on an open chariot, and behind it was carved an image of the king made of leather and painted to look lifelike, clothed in purple with ermine, holding a sceptre, crowned and sandalled. The queen and King James of Scotland followed as chief mourners; a thousand men in white bore torches; throughout the day chants, hymns, and sacred offices were sung by the priests, and wherever his body rested for awhile in a church, masses were said.

From Paris to Calais, Calais to Dover, Dover to Canterbury, and Canterbury to London, this solemn journey of many weeks was made, while once on English soil the procession was greatly lengthened. The streets of London were draped in black; each householder stood at his door with a lighted torch; before the royal coffin rode the king's favourite knight and standard-bearer, Sir Louis Robsart, and many lords bore the banners of saints. Men at arms, in deep black and on black horses, formed the guard of honour; behind came his three chargers, then followed the royal mourners, and once more came a touch of relief from the rich vestments of the bishops and abbots, and the white robes of the priests and singers.

"So with great solemnity and honour was that excellent prince brought unto the monastery of Westminster, and there at the feet of St. Edward reverently interred, on whose soul, sweet Jesus, be merciful."

The little king of England was not yet a year old, but directly after the funeral Parliament met, and Queen Katherine rode through the city of London in a chariot drawn by white horses, surrounded by the nobles of the land. She held her baby in her arms, and in the words of one who watched, "Those pretty hands which could not yet feed himself, were made capable of wielding a sceptre, and he who beholden to his nurses for food, did distribute law and justice to the nation." By his Chancellor the infant king saluted, and to his people spoke his mind, by means of another tongue. Alice Boteler and Joan Ashley were appointed by this year-old child to be his governess and nurse, "from time to time reasonably to chastise us as the case may require, to teach us courtesy and good manners, and many things convenient for our royal persons to learn."

The building of the chantry over the grave of Henry V. was not long delayed, and all his instructions were carefully carried out. You will see it is a little chapel of itself at the east end of the Confessor's Chapel, standing so high, that at first the people from the farther end of the Abbey could see the priests celebrating mass at its altar.
HENRY V.'s TOMB
HENRY V.'s TOMB

But before long the stone screen put up about this time, to the further honour of St. Edward, cut it off from view. How exquisite must that screen have been, with its lacework tracery, its niches full of saints, its brilliancy of gold, of crimson, and of blue! You must look carefully at the carvings, which tell the story of Edward's life, fact and legend blended together. Here I will tell you shortly what each scene is meant to represent, beginning from your left as you face the screen.

The first two describe the birth of Edward; the third, his coronation; the fourth, his dream of the devil dancing for joy over the piles of money collected by the much-hated tax called Danegeld, a dream which so alarmed the king that he did away with the tax. The fifth shows how Edward had mercy on a thief who tried to steal his gold, for the king said, "Let him keep it; he hath more need of it than us." The sixth tells how Christ appeared to the king at the Holy Sacrament; the seventh and eighth describe the crowning of the king of Denmark and a quarrel between Harold and Tostig. The ninth and tenth go back to legend, the vision of the Seven Sleepers and the appearance of St. John as a pilgrim; while the twelfth and thirteenth describe St. John giving back the ring to the pilgrim, and the pilgrim's bearing it to King Edward. The eleventh shows the king washing his hands on the right, and on the left are three blind men, waiting for their sight to be restored to them when they wash their eyes in the water Edward had used; and the two last tell of the king's death and the dedication of the Abbey.

The chantry of King Henry was less ornate than this screen, but it was nevertheless very beautiful. You must look at the pattern of the open work on the iron grating which is round the tomb gates, and pick out the fleur-de-lis, the emblem of France, claimed by Henry as his inheritance. The figure of the king was the special gift of his widow, and was carved of the best English oak, with a head of silver, and its value made it too great a temptation to some "covetous pilferers about the latter end of Henry VIII., who broke it off and conveyed it clean awaie."

Over the chantry you will see a helmet, shield, and saddle; and though the helmet is certainly not the one which Henry kept hidden from all people at the Agincourt festival, it is certainly as old as the funeral day, and was probably made for that occasion.

In the year 1878, Katherine of Valois, who had first been buried in Henry III.'s chapel, then left for more than two hundred years in a rudely made coffin, open to the public gaze, by her husband's tomb, and afterwards laid in a side chapel, was at last buried under the altar slab in the Chantry Chapel of Henry V., and here within the calm shelter of Edward's shrine were carried the remains of two other queens, Eadgytha, the wife of Harold, and good Queen Maude, the wife of Henry I. Here, too, rest two tiny royal children, Margaret of York, the baby daughter of Edward IV., and her niece, Elizabeth Tudor, the three-year-old child of Henry VII. and Elizabeth. Their little marble tombs are plain and bear now no name. One other royal prince is buried here, Thomas of Woodstock, the uncle and for some time the adviser of Richard II., who certainly suffered heavily for any advice he gave, good or otherwise, for he was smothered to death at Calais with Richard's consent. And one man not of royal birth lies here—John of Waltham, Bishop of Salisbury, for whom this same Richard II. had so great a liking, that, defying every one, he ordered him to be laid among kings, close to the tomb of the Confessor.

I wonder if by now you know thoroughly that chapel which holds our earliest and some of our greatest kings and queens? Does that stately tomb in the centre call to your mind Edward, the dreamer and the builder, the dramatic ending of his life, the splendid ceremony of his burial within these walls, when he was honoured not alone as king of England or founder of the Abbey, but as a saint of the Church? Does the tomb of Henry III., with its remains of soft coloured marble and gilt mosaics, tell you of Westminster's second great builder, a lover of beauty and religious observances, but withal weak and extravagant, and incapable of rising to his great responsibilities? Does the rugged, undecorated monument of Edward I. show you the man, strong, stern, and steadfast, or the tomb of his beloved Eleanor speak to you of his wonderful love for her and of her sweet goodness? And when you look at the resting-place of Edward III. and Philippa, does it not call up to your mind the days of chivalry and the feats of English soldiers, the victories of Poitiers and Crecy, the siege of Calais and the compassionate pleading of the kindly queen? You stand by the tomb of Richard and Anne, united at last, and do not you think, "Oh, the pity of it," when you remember how Richard might have been strong and brave, had only he kept true to his best self? And then, do you not turn with a thrill of pride to the lofty chantry which encircles the grave of Henry V., the best loved king England ever had, the king who set a glow of patriotism alight in his realm, who rose above his failings and his faults, and gave to his people the fine example of a man who was victor over himself as well as victor over his foreign foes? Worthily I think does Henry's chantry crown the Confessor's shrine.

If some of these thoughts have come to you, this chapel will have taught you more history than any number of books or any number of dates. Because history only grows real to all of us, when the men and women about whom we read and learn cease to be mere figures and become our familiar acquaintances, till we fit them in as it were to their proper places in the story of England—places which are not always bounded by the years of a reign, which often cannot be bounded even by centuries.