Harlot Queen (18 page)

He looked at her in some surprise. Always he had seen her as a wilful, coaxing girl, of little importance. Now, for the first time he saw her—a woman; possibly a clever woman. That she was beautiful he did not notice; to women’s looks he was indifferent. But she had spoken good sense; he might do worse than make some sort of alliance with her. But, could he trust her? Might not the sharpness of her wits turn about to wound the man that trusted her? It was a matter to require thought. But for all that he smiled and kissed her hand and vowed himself to her service.

And she? Could she trust him? His wits were not sharp nor was he honest; but what he lacked in both he made up in pride. Flatter his pride—the sure way to manage him!

‘Dearest Uncle!’ she said and bent forward to kiss him upon both cheeks.

Now the King and Lancaster must woo each other with false and flowery words. In open Parliament the King declared, ‘Dear Cousin of Lancaster, doubt me no longer. In all things I am your good friend as I hold you to be mine. I pray you be chief in Council to direct all my affairs.’ And he wondered that the words did not blister his tongue.

And Lancaster, no whit behind in false compliments, ‘I thank my lord the King. For love of him I consent to lead the Council.’ Yet he must add, ‘But if the lord King shall not heed my advice, I must hold myself free to leave the Council.’

So, smiling above his hatred, the King must swear again to observe every Ordinance. And more bitter than ever it was, for they had added fresh demands. Now he must agree that any member of his Parliament who gave him what Lancaster called
bad advice
must at once be dismissed.
Yes
and Yes… humiliating himself, humiliating his friends.

In Parliament it had been
Yes
and
Yes;
but when he burst into his wife’s closet it was
No
and No!

‘Lancaster seeks to chain me beneath his obedience—presumptuous fool! Let the fool beware!’

She laid a finger to her lip lest with an unguarded tongue he might yet, in spite of all humiliations, undo himself. She lifted the arras and looked into the empty ante-room beyond. She said, very low, ‘Sir, this is Lincoln and Lancaster is its lord. Say nothing now; wait till we are back in Westminster. Pembroke has better wits than my uncle, and Pembroke is our friend; Pembroke will know how to deal with him! Between those two there’s no love lost.’

Pembroke was wise and Pembroke was loyal, but Lancaster was supreme; she knew it, and within that knowledge she must work.

The worst of the famine was passing. Trees were breaking into healthy leaf, corn was growing straight, uncankered. Yet there was misery enough. Sickness still took toll and there was not enough food—nor would be for some time. The misery of the people showed itself in unrest; unrest everywhere. And with unrest—violence; violence spread like a plague throughout the country. Good honest folk, solid burghers who, in happier time had set their faces against crime, now supported gangs of robbers that supplied them with food. In the north the misery was even more intense. The Scots, drunk with success at Bannockburn were over the border, with every raid they struck further south; slaughter, rape, arson—the north knew it all. And, following the Scots’ example, the Welsh poured over the border and the west suffered with the north.

Lancaster did nothing to put the violence down; he was facing trouble in his own household. For this reason he had not, as yet, come out in open enmity to the King.

Division in Lancaster’s household! Isabella considered the matter. That must certainly hamper his plans for a while. Wise, perhaps to show him less kindness; wiser still to find out the truth.

‘Why this trouble among your husband’s people?’ she asked my lady of Lancaster.

Pretty Alice, born de Lacy, lifted a pale face.

‘It is the steward, Madam; a violent man and greedy. He extorts as he will and punishes as he will; he does not stop at murder.’

‘And Lancaster allows it?’

‘Madam, he is much occupied with affairs. As long as the fellow fills his master’s pockets as well as his own, there’s no question asked.’

‘A hard man, Lancaster; a man not easy to love!’ She fixed Alice with a meaningful eye. Pale Alice went a shade paler.

‘I know well what you suffer at Lancaster’s hands,’ the Queen said, ‘but is it wise to leave Lancaster for de Warenne?’

The red came up in Alice’s pale cheeks. ‘It is not de Warenne, Madam. It is his esquire… it is L’Estrange.’

Isabella stared, unbelieving. The lame man, the landless man! Did the fool think to throw away her place, her fortune and her honour for this?

Alice said, ‘A little kindness, Madam—it is all I ask; all I have ever asked… and L’Estrange is kind. Madam—’ and now she spoke with passion shocking is so pale a creature. ‘I am more than an animal to breed upon. But Lancaster! Even using me he has no tenderness. Nor would I welcome tenderness from him now. My flesh creeps at the sight of him!’

‘Can you hope to escape Lancaster—his anger and his revenge—you and your lover, both?’ Queen Margaret looked up from her stitching.

‘De Warenne will help us, Madam; he has promised.’

‘I knew your mother,’ Margaret said, ‘and I speak for your good. De Warenne helps you not from kindness but from hatred—hatred of Lancaster. To take you from your husband for himself—that had been bad enough; to take you for another man—and that man poor and humble…’

‘A gentleman, Madam; he loves me!’ Alice said gentle yet proud with the pride of the great house of de Lacy.

Envying the woman, despising the woman that cast away everything for love, Isabella said, honey-sweet, ‘If you are sure of your heart then follow it.’

‘What have you done?’ Margaret asked when Alice had made her curtsey and was gone. ‘You send that woman to disgrace.’

Isabella shrugged. ‘If she wants her cake let her eat it and not complain of bellyache later!’

‘You did it not out of kindness but to stir up angers between Lancaster and de Warenne.’

‘It needs no stirring.’

‘Then in God’s Name, why?’

‘Lancaster’s too proud. All the world laughs at the man that wears the horns; such laughter will help to bring him low.’

Margaret stared as though she had never truly seen the girl before. So devious a mind, so ruthless a will, such quickness to seize upon her chance… and still so young. How would she grow with the years? What strange fruit might her tree not ripen?

Lancaster’s wife had left him—and for so low a man!

He was, he said, well content. Her rich lands, the titles her father had left were secured to him and to his house for ever. He was well rid of a strumpet; he said that, too. But men said otherwise.
He shall he hope to rule any man—let alone the King—Lancaster that cannot rule the one creature all men should rule; his wife?
Men asked the question laughing the while; but the laughter was behind his back; to his face they did not dare. But Lancaster knew well what they said of him and burned against the whole world.

Now, as though at a challenge, he thrust himself ever forward; he loomed over the whole country like a black sky. Blind to the law, deaf to the law, he played the king, punishing whom he would and how he would. He set himself against the King in every way; and it was not ambition alone that drove him. Personal bitterness against both King and Queen went deep. He suspected she had encouraged his wife in her flight; and the King made no attempt to hide his amusement. ‘If no wedding, at least a bedding for Cousin Thomas’s wife!’ he said once where Lancaster must hear. They should pay for it—King and Queen, both! Lancaster swore it. Now he stirred trouble wherever he could.

Trouble from the Scots gave Lancaster his excuse to march; march through Yorkshire where de Warenne sat thumbing his nose. Private quarrel between those two threatened to break into civil war.

Lancaster command the armies; disaffected Lancaster! The King would have none of that. Himself would take command to punish the Scots. But already Lancaster had departed. Now with his forces he sat in his own city of Lancaster to stop the King’s advance. He blocked roads, he broke bridges, he dared to imprison the King’s messengers. Unlawful disturber of the peace, he declared it his duty to guard the peace of the realm.

The King’s party was weak, Lancaster’s strong. The King must go to the wall unless… unless…

‘Pembroke could save us all—if the King would let him!’ Isabella told Queen Margaret. ‘He could put Lancaster down and set himself again in the leader’s place.’

‘I have long thought it. He took overmuch of the blame for Bannockburn. Lancaster’s all noise and bluster. But Pembroke has a wisdom beyond most men. He’s clear in thought and moderate in demand. He’s reasonably honest and he’s steady; he doesn’t chop and change. He keeps the middle way… a good middle man.’

‘He could lead a middle party…
a middle party!
’ Isabella said, thoughtful, and coined a new name.

A new name; a new party.

In the ever-growing enmity between the King and Lancaster, Pembroke was steadily coming into his own. A man to be trusted. It was not only the two Queens that had come to recognise his virtues. He had stood unwavering by the Ordinances, he had never, since Gaveston’s death, shown friendship for Lancaster; yet he had not shown hatred, neither. A moderate man he had friends in both parties. Now these friends were turning towards him—their one hope; they were forming a party to put an end to the incessant quarrels and to all the miseries quarrels brought.

‘The church rallies to Pembroke,’ Queen Margaret said. ‘He’s got both archbishops in his pocket, yes even Reynolds that knows which side his bread’s buttered; and with them, naturally the most part of the bishops. He’s got de Warenne, of course; they’re brothers in this!’

‘Many of Lancaster’s friends have left him—if you can call them friends! They don’t trust him. Folk say everywhere that he had his own secret understanding with the Bruce; and because of it we lost Bannockburn. Hereford vouches for it; he heard it in Scotland while he was waiting for ransom. He says he’ll have nothing to do with my uncle. And he’s not the only one.’

‘You may count on the Despensers! Give them the chance and they’ll be back; Lancaster will have to reckon with them too!’

Margaret told her. ‘Never look so black. And don’t underestimate them, neither! Greedy they are and insolent; but able, able both. Useful men—if the King would but show himself reasonable in his love of them!’

‘Reasonable
—can you expect it?’ Isabella was silent, biting upon her lip. ‘Better for us all if he keep them at a distance; and for the King best. The people hate them; and hatred has spilt over upon the King. Now goodwill turns to him again; God send he doesn’t thrust it back!’ she cried out passionate. ‘The tide is turning, friends and servants are creeping back to the Treasury to the Wardrobe and to the Household… have you marked it?’

‘I have marked it; and I begin to hope,’ Margaret said.

In the summer of the year of grace thirteen hundred and sixteen the two Queens went to Eltham; there in mid August, Isabella was brought to bed with her second son.

Food might still be scarce and misery rife; there might be little in Wardrobe and Treasury. But the King’s son had been born and the King’s friends were back in office and there was enough money to fling about. The messenger had a hundred pounds for bringing the news, the midwife enough to keep her in comfort for the rest of her life. The Queen ordered a gown of white velvet, very rich and fine, five pieces went to the making of it; and all trimmed with minniver and pearls. Very lovely she looked when she went to her churching. There were some to mutter against her extravagance; but it was an extravagance most could forgive. She had given them a second prince; she was but twenty-two and well-liked. The mutterings were lost in the louder cry of love.

A new name had been added to Pembroke’s supporters; an unexpected name. Uncle and nephew had sent from the Welsh marches with assurances of friendship, of help at need.

Mortimer! It was a name Isabella knew. A great name on the Welsh border. The uncle was Mortimer of Chirk, the nephew Mortimer of Wigmore; and baptised Roger both. One never saw them at court; their hands were full. Most powerful of marcher lords they kept peace on the Welsh Border. Isabella thanked God they had come in to Pembroke.

The year moved on; the new year came in.

Lancaster more bitter, more intransigent than ever still rode high in the saddle. But Pembroke’s Middle Party gathered strength, bishops and barons forever swelling its ranks. Mortimer; it was a name often heard now and Isabella listened with care, stored the information. Mortimer of Chirk was in late middle-age; a strong man of great authority. Mortimer of Wigmore in his early thirties was his uncle’s heir and both were very rich. Bonny fighters both of them; and the younger, one that knew how to use his wits. He was, they said, ambitious above all men. From Madam de St. Pierre the Queen had the personal, intriguing gossip about the man.

‘Women hate him or run mad for him!’ Théophania said.

‘And he?’

‘No woman-hater, certainly!’

‘Married?’

‘But certainly, Madam. His wife’s a good and pleasant lady—our country-woman. De Joinville she was; Jeanne de Joinville.’

‘A name I know. I hope to meet its pleasant owner soon.’

‘She’ll not come unless you command her. She’s not fond of courts—she has a growing family. They say he’s as faithful a husband as you can expect from a soldier—but he’s a man to like variety in women; and he’s able to take his pick!’

‘I hope to see this challenging man one day!’ the Queen said, indifferent.

‘Since, Madam, he’s of the lord Pembroke’s party he must soon come to court!’

‘Then let it be soon! Before God, I’m sick to the soul of the faces I know—the greedy, suspicious faces. Should this Mortimer prove no better than the rest, at least he’s something new!’

The year of thirteen hundred and seventeen had worn its dreary way to December. Christmas was not enlivened for the Queen by the knowledge that she was once more with child. Nothing for it but to resign herself as best she might to the situation. Of her sons she saw little. Edward, turned five, and John, half-way through his second year, lived each in his own household. They had their governors and their tutors, their household officials and servants. Their father saw more of them than she; he liked children and little Ned he loved with an all-devouring pride. He visited them both whenever he could, he sent them playthings—a tiny boat, or a hound himself had carved with loving care, his strong, fine hands holding the knife with precision. But she? As long as the children were well she cared not how little she might see them.