Harlot Queen (35 page)

For Mortimer he offered a thousand pounds in gold. One thousand golden pounds! It would not be long before his hands closed upon his enemy.

That’s a hare he’ll never catch!
Men grinned, remembering the miraculous escape from the Tower.

They were right. The King offered more; he went on raising the sum. By September it stood at a King’s ransom. Mortimer laughed aloud. ‘I am held in high esteem by King and Queen alike!’ and fondled her neck.

But not by the Prince
. She bit back the words. In spite of all her efforts still he hated Mortimer; nor, though she had coaxed the boy with the bait of Philippa, did he entirely trust his mother.

London had turned bitter against the King. At first it had merely withheld help; now the people were like dogs, teeth bared. He turned his back upon his capital and did not dream he was never to see it again. With the few supporters he could muster, the Despensers, Arundel and de Warenne for captains and Baldock bishop of London to give them blessing, he marched for the west…
fled’s
the better word, the Queen told Mortimer.

And now with love and high welcome all London prepared for the Queen. That she rode in company with her paramour, outlaw and traitor, that she had brought foreigners to spill English blood, that she was bringing civil war—of all wars the most cruel—mattered not at all. She had proclaimed her reasons and God Himself could not fault them. She had come to release a free people from their cruel bonds, she had come to punish those that bound them… and above all she had come to punish the Despensers. And, as the King’s price for the head of Mortimer rose, she doubled it—twice a King’s ransom, thrice a King’s ransom for either Despenser alive or dead.

Mid-October; and everywhere the Queen’s position strengthened. Orleton played his part well—a good orator this bishop that knew how to stir up trouble. And stir it he did—more than even he had dared hope. His words were carried throughout the country like flame before wind. The Queen—he said it boldly—was the King’s declared enemy; England’s princes knew it. Beneath her banner marched barons, and bishops to bless her cause. The bad times had come to an end. He so inflamed the people that, let a man, anywhere say a good word for the King and he was savagely attacked so that he was like to rue it for the rest of his days—if he lived at all!

London went mad. Upon excitement, excitement fed. Londoners went about in gangs to punish any that spoke against the Queen, or who might have spoken, or who could possibly speak. There were lynchings and hangings—murder of the innocents. Nor did a man’s cloth save him. Walter Stapledon, good bishop of Exeter, riding with two priests, was set upon with cries of
traitor
. And no reason save that he was trying for peace between King and Queen. At Paul’s Cross the mob closed in upon them all three, holy, good men that asked nothing but to serve God and man. Urging their horses that they might find sanctuary within the church they were pulled to the ground. There, in the churchyard, in the very shadow of the church, beneath a butcher’s knife, they met their death.

In the west country Edward wept for Stapledon, ‘Good man, good priest that sought to heal this poor country.’ To the Queen went the bloody head. She looked upon it unmoved—so it seemed ‘So let it be with all traitors,’ she said.

It was her first look upon murder in her cause; murder of an innocent man, a priest… and she did not condemn it. It was her baptism in blood.

So let it be with all traitors
. She had actually praised the deed. Her praise added violence to violence. Now London was given over to violence, to slaughter. Foreigners of all nations were stripped of their wealth—and lucky if they got off with their lives! For was it not the cursed Italian bankers that had supplied the King with money, that had helped to make him free of Parliament? And Londoners that were only suspect suffered worse; their homes were burnt and themselves roasted in the flames.

Mad with success the mob stormed the Tower. They forced the Constable to give up the little prince John of Eltham; him they would keep—a hostage. They demanded the children of Mortimer whom the King had seized for hostage; them they would keep in some safe place. They set free what prisoners they would. And all these—even the little boy, the King’s own son—were forced to swear to forsake the King and to stand with the Londoners, to die with them at need. And that done, they seized upon all priests they could lay hands upon and justices and officers of the city and forced them to that same oath.

And now, fearing punishment—for the mayor and chief citizens had looked askance at their doings—sent to the Queen craving permission to put the mayor from his place. She sent her gracious greetings, her praise for their loyalty and herself named the mayor—that same de Bettoyne that had helped Mortimer in his escape and who now looked for reward. And she appointed also a new Constable of the Tower—John de Gisors that had worked with de Bettoyne and also looked for reward.

Mortimer’s friends in key positions in London! So far, so good, so very good!

And now the Queen must press westward in relentless pursuit of the King.

The Queen pressed on to Bristol; Bristol she must have. Within the castle the King sheltered with his sweetheart; the older Despenser and such friends as the King had left, kept the town.

And now for, the first time, she was joined by the barons of the north, the Percies at their head. And, as she moved further west, the barons came from the Welsh marches to do her service. At this last she lifted a face of love to Mortimer. ‘It is for you they come; for you!’

‘For us both. All Christendom loves a brave man and pities a wronged woman!’ As always he put himself first.

A national rising.

Within Bristol castle the King and the younger Hugh sat and trembled.

‘Have no fear,’ the King said, talking above his own fear to comfort his friend, ‘your father and Arundel command the city. It is well-garrisoned and there’s food and firing aplenty! Your father will know how to deal with this Queen and her traitors!’

The elder Despenser had no chance to deal with the traitors—they outnumbered him ten to one; it was they that dealt with him. Bristol was for the Queen. Without a blow the city surrendered; the city but not the castle.

On the twenty-seventh of October in the year of grace thirteen hundred and twenty-six, Edward, Prince of Wales, unwilling and distressed, was proclaimed Keeper of the Realm.

‘And that means you, dear love; you and me!’ the Queen told Mortimer. ‘Now, now we are on our way!’

‘But not yet arrived. We have still to deal with the King.’

She shrugged at that. ‘We’ll send him to some far place where he can make no mischief.’

‘He will always make mischief so long as he lives!’

‘Then we must see to it that he cannot!’

He sent her a sharp glance. Did she mean…?

‘Keep him fast!’ she said. ‘Some pleasant place, castle or monastery, I care not which, so long as it be far enough, secure enough!’

She had not meant the thing he saw clearly must be done! Her mind did not march with his in this matter; not yet. She must come to it; of that he was certain.

That same day the older Despenser was brought before the Queen; Lancaster, Mortimer and the King’s two brothers—these and these alone, stood by to pronounce sentence. Without trial nor any pretence of one, he was sentenced to death. It was Lancaster that spoke for them all; Henry of Lancaster speaking each word with satisfaction. At last, at last, revenge for the smear upon his name and his brother’s dishonoured death.

‘Sir Hugh—’ and he would grant no greater title, ‘this court denies you the right of answer; for you, yourself, made a law that a man could be condemned without right of answer. This law now applies to you.

‘You are an attainted traitor; and, as a traitor, you were judged and banished by consent of the King and all the barons. And never has that sentence been revoked. Against the law of the land you have taken to yourself royal power. You have counselled the King to disinherit his lieges, most notably Thomas of Lancaster whom you put to death for no cause. By your cruelty you have robbed this land, wherefore all the people cry vengeance against you. You have advised the King to the hurt of Holy Church and treacherously taken from her liberties.

‘Therefore the court decrees that you be drawn, hanged and beheaded. And that your head be sent to Winchester of which place—against law and reason—you were made earl. And because you have dishonoured the order of chivalry, you are to be hanged in a surtout quartered with your arms and thereafter those arms shall be destroyed for ever.’ Ignoble in his living, he was yet noble in his dying.

‘Madam—’ he said and he ignored Lancaster, ‘would that God had granted me an upright judge and a just sentence. Well, if we cannot find justice in this world, we shall find it in the next.’

‘Such justice would chain you forever in Hell.’ she said.

So they took him away and, in full armour hanged him and thereupon cut him down that he might suffer the full rigours of the bitter sentence. And that it might be the more bitter, they hanged him in full sight of the King and his own son.

‘They should have shown more courtesy,’ the King said, hand across his eyes that he might not see. ‘An old man… nigh upon ninety years. They might, at least, have let him say Goodbye to us that loved him.’

The Hugh that was left turned his sick face. ‘That woman… no mercy in her. A she-wolf. and leads the pack…’

There was a long silence. Then the King said, ‘I had not dreamed it would come to this! I had thought, at worst, to parley with them, to come to terms.’ The sight of his sick and shaking friend brought him sudden understanding of what those that had so barbarously used the father might do to the son. There was, as yet, no thought of what they might do to himself.

‘We must get from here!’ he cried out. ‘We came here of our own free will; we are not prisoners…’

‘… not yet!’ Hugh covered his face with his hands and wept.

‘Not now; nor ever. God be thanked I have a boat. We make for Chepstow and Wales. The Welsh will shelter us, the Welsh will fight for us. I am Edward of Carnarvon, their own prince!’

‘Why should they help you? What love have you ever shown them? No! There’s no help but in ourselves. We must make for Lundy, my own island and my own castle.’

‘Yes, yes! And thence to Ireland. Ireland and safety. We are King of Ireland; in Ireland we shall gather our forces! By God’s Face the woman shall pay for this!’

‘Do you think the Irish will welcome you? Or that they will cross the sea to fight for you? Or that England will receive you again? By God you have built your house upon shifting sand!’

But still the King looked lovingly upon his friend and bade him be of good cheer. For he was still King of England and Ireland and Wales, yes and Scotland, also. It would go hard, indeed, if he could not muster enough loyal hearts to put the traitors down!

‘It will go hard, indeed!’ Despenser said and would not be comforted.

They had left the castle and embarked—the King, his sweetheart, Baldock the chancellor and Sir Thomas Blount the King’s steward.

‘Throw Blount overboard,’ Despenser spoke low in the King’s ear. ‘I do not trust him.’

‘You are jealous—and no cause!’ The King took his friend by the hand. Despenser pulled it away. This fool of a King that lived in his own dream world! Did he suppose so poor a thing as jealousy—or so low a thing as Blount—would trouble a man flying for his life?

A small boat upon a wide sea; but the water was calm and the wind favouring. God has us in charge, the King said and watched the outline of Lundy grow darker. Despenser said nothing. He knew his channel and its sudden changes of wind.

They were so near Lundy now, a man could count the men-at-arms upon the turrets. A few hundred yards from shore the boat began to turn; nor could all their efforts bring her round again. They took in the sails, they bent to the oars, the King himself taking a hand. The wind blew yet more strong. Between island and boat the water forever broadened: the clear outline dimmed. Now came the rain. Lundy island was lost… forever lost.

The rain stopped. The sun shone from a clear sky. But the wind drove them still. Now the coastline shone clear. They saw the mountains of Wales.

‘God knows best. And still He has us in charge!’ the King said.

Men on the run. Hiding breast-high in wet bracken by day, travelling footsore by night.

Day after day; night after night.

Full fifteen days running before the hunters. By the second week in November they were in Neath Abbey, thankful to shelter from the driving rain. Here the monks made them welcome; here they might rest. This was sanctuary.

It was not until supper that they found Blount missing.

‘He will come,’ the King said, cheering the troubled Hugh. ‘I blame myself that we did not miss him before. He could not keep up with us I suppose; he has more flesh to carry than the rest of us. Still he will surely come; he knows where we’re to be found.’

One day and the next; three and four days… and still Blount did not come.

‘Still he will come!’ the King said.

And come he did. And Lancaster with him.

The King was walking in the garden with Despenser. Out of sanctuary, both!

‘You are my prisoner,’ Lancaster told Despenser. ‘You are for Gloucester!’

For Gloucester and the Queen. Despenser’s doom had been spoken.

And now it was the parting between those two. The King threw his arms about his friend as though to protect him still; but the soldiers pulled them apart and closed in about the prisoner. The King stood and watched them go; he shivered so that the teeth rattled in his head… and it was not the chill of the November morning; it was the shock of parting with his heart’s love. He stood until his eyes could see them no longer; then he turned about weeping for his friend. What would they do to Hugh? For himself he had no fears. He was the King.

Lancaster broke in upon his weeping. ‘Sir, we are for Kenilworth. It is for your safety. You shall be my guest.’