Harlot Queen (39 page)

‘Where do you take him?’ ‘To Berkeley.’

‘And the watchdogs?’

‘My son-in-law for one—naturally!’

She nodded. Thomas of Berkeley owned the place. He was much beholden to Mortimer and would happily oblige him in the matter of the prisoner.

‘Somewhat harsh?’ she asked, a little troubled.

‘Let your husband, my dear, taste his own physic!’

At the word
husband
she winced, remembering, as was meant, the miseries she had suffered at his hands.

‘And watchdog, number two?’

‘Maltravers.’

‘You keep it in the family!’ Maltravers was his brother-in-law; him she knew, also. He had fought against the King at Boroughbridge; but he’d been one of the lucky ones. He’d escaped to France and he’d been one of the first exiles to join her cause. But even then she hadn’t liked him… and she didn’t like him now. A hard man and sour; even to the Queen ungracious. Well, so much the better gaoler! But for all that she sighed. She disliked the thought of the prisoner helpless in the hands of Mortimer’s kin. But passion for Mortimer was greater than any compassion, greater than any good within herself, greater than her fear of God.

‘And the arrangements for his keep?’ And there, at least, she might a little sweeten the prisoner’s confinement. ‘Five pounds a day.’

The exact sum the King had allowed his Queen for the upkeep of her royal state when the Despensers had filched her lands and incomes. ‘It is enough,’ she said.

‘It is more than enough! More than he deserves; much, much more!’ His brow darkened, remembering how, in The Tower, his uncle had starved to death; and how, he himself, for all his youth had scarce the strength to escape with his life.

‘I had rather he were left with Lancaster.’ She was still troubled.

‘Then, my dear, you’re a fool. Lancaster’s too soft. There’s overmuch talk in Warwickshire of rescuing your husband. No, my dear, I mean to keep my prisoner safe, and for that be thankful. You had a husband that took no thought for you; be glad you have a lover that does!’

It was only afterwards that she remembered the word he had used… had a husband.
Had
.

‘Cousin, you must up and dress!’ Thomas of Lancaster spoke in the dark night.

The prisoner sat up in bed, shielding his eyes against the lantern-light. Half-asleep, he was hunting still. Piers rode on one side, Hugh on the other; he could feel the wind lifting hair and beard.

‘Up? At this hour?’ And the wind in his hair was the draught that lifted the curtains at his door. His heart began to beat in his throat. Could this be, he wondered, even now not full-awake, the first step in his escape? Had Lancaster come into the business after all?

One look at Lancaster killed the hope, brought him back to cold commonsense.

‘It is the order of Parliament,’ Lancaster said.

Dressing hastily in the flickering light, Lancaster handing him his clothes, Edward could not rid himself of his dear hope. This was the rescue—though Lancaster did not know it.

He followed Lancaster out into the courtyard. One look at the escort that waited—and his heart sank. The grimness of their bearing, the lack of respect that allowed him to stand unsaluted, the unwillingness to meet his eye told him the truth.

‘It would need an army to take you out of their hands!’ Lancaster said, pitying the man. ‘I warned you; but you’d not be warned. Now you are taken from my care. Pray God things go not too hard with you, Cousin. Farewell.’ He bent and unexpectedly, even to himself, kissed the prisoner on both cheeks.

A hard journey, little stop for food and less for rest. Hard for any man on the rough tracks they followed instead of roads; for the prisoner that had not set foot in the stirrup for five months, bitter hard; and, though he swayed in the stirrup, there was no respite.

Riding for the most part at night, hurried through such towns as they could not by-pass, the face of the prisoner was scarce seen. And, if it was? A man hurried to his doom was no new sight.

Journey to break the heart. But even so there were compensations. He felt the free wind on his cheek, was aware of rising sap and the life of growing things; and, in those brief snatches of daylight, saw the willow golden by clear-running water and the new leaves tender and bright.

On Palm Sunday they reached Gloucester and Llantony Abbey, where the monks, hiding their pity, served the prisoner with a loving respect. For them he was still the King; but for them only. Always half-a-dozen of the escort went with him, even into his bedchamber; and there they sat dicing and drinking, swearing, spitting, urinating, caring not at all that they disturbed the prisoner’s restless sleep.

The next day saw them at Berkeley, its single tower thrusting upwards into the sweet sky like a finger of doom.

An outer staircase led them to a doorway midway up the Tower, and there, in the guardroom, Sir Thomas Berkeley was waiting. He did not rise to greet his King nor speak a word of welcome; he motioned with a surly head and the gaoler led the prisoner away.

When he saw his lodgings he could not, at first, believe his eyes and refused to enter, so small it was, so dark with its slit of a window set high in the stonework. But there was no help for it; enter he must and the gaoler locked the heavy door behind him. Soon, as was his way, his spirits began to rise. It was not damp and it was not so very dark; the narrow window let in more light than one would have thought. The rushes upon the floor were clean; the pallet, too, was clean and the blankets, though thin, were fresh. There was a stool and a table, also, with quills and ink—an encouraging sign; a bucket stood in a corner so dark that a man had his privacy.

A prison cell; but a cell for an important prisoner, its furnishings not much worse that he’d endured many a time on the march. It was not a dungeon—and for that he was devoutly thankful; the dungeons, he reckoned, must lie beneath his cell. It would do well enough; he’d not be here long. He had seen Stephen Dunhevid along the road; Dunhevid had made a sign.

And soon he had further cause for hope. The gaoler was a Gloucester man and friendly. He knew nothing of politics; a simple fellow whose loyalties must shift with circumstances. Now, like many another, he was taken by the handsome looks, by the gentle charm the prisoner knew how to exercise. And the prisoner was the King; and a King forever carries about him the glory of kingship. And more. There were plans on hand to set him free, rumours everywhere. If a poor man played his part, if only to show some kindness, what reward might he not look for?

It was only too easy to find cause for kindness. But for him the prisoner must have gone hungry—the food was scant; the five pounds a day went to a worthier cause, in Berkeley’s opinion, than the well-being of the man that once been King. Often the gaoler brought him food from his own table, coarse but grateful to an empty belly; and sometimes there would be a little wine, thin and sour—but still wine. And he would bring a blanket, ragged but clean, so that the prisoner might lie warmer at night. In spite of Mortimer he was not ill-treated; Berkeley and Maltravers had other things to do than sit at home and watch the prisoner; they must ride the wide countryside watchful for signs of revolt. By July they had Dorset under the whip with Hereford, Wiltshire, Hampshire and Somerset besides.

But for all that the conspiracy was growing.

‘And it isn’t only one place, lord King,’ the gaoler told him. ‘There’s Gloucestermen and Warwickmen and there’s men from Worcester and Stafford, aye, and from Oxenford, too. And it isn’t only poor men like me want to see you back where you belong. There’s lords and there’s knights and there’s priests. And, best of all, there’s friars that move quick about the country; they’re the ones to spread the news. All, all, lord King set to put you on the throne again!’

‘Friend, when that time comes I not forget you. By God’s Face I swear it!’

With such a gaoler the room seemed ever less small, less dark. Through the high window he could see the summer sky, and through the bars the sunlight slanted in upon the rushes turning them to gold. And sometimes the gaoler would let him walk in the garden where he would lift up his eyes to the bright hills and feel the wind on his face. But for lack of exercise he tired quickly and then the small, bare room beckoned like home. And, best of all, the gaoler brought him news so that his fingers seemed to touch not freedom, only, but the very crown. Yet news was not always good; he must learn the hard way of patience, and, harder still, to control his passionate Plantagenet pride.

Stephen Dunhevid had been arrested; Berkeley had put him to a hateful death. Berkeley himself, making occasion to visit the prisoner, had spared him no cruel detail.

‘Lord King do not grieve overmuch, there’s others aplenty to take his place!’ The kindly gaoler sought to comfort him; but he could take no comfort, grieving not only for plans gone awry but for the death of his friend—and so hideous a death! He prayed long for the souls of those that, worthless though men called them, had yet died for him. Thereafter he prayed for himself.
Oh God release me from this place that I may prove a worthier King. But if it be Your will that I shall reign no more then he me to be a worthier man. I do repent me of my sins and follies and long only to serve You as You best wish
. And he remembered Llantony quiet among the Gloucester hills and the clean, simple lives of the monks; and he thought he might be well-content to live among them serving God until he died. But at other times he longed, unendurably, to sit once more upon the throne, to feel the crown once more upon his head. Kingship is not lightly put off. It is sealed into the flesh with holy oils.

It was night; what hour the prisoner could not tell. Unsleeping in the darkness he heard the noise—the shouts, the clash of steel, the unmistakable, sharp explosion of gunstones. Red flare from torches painted the high window, stole beneath the door; the cell was rosy with light. He heard footsteps; they were coming louder, coming nearer. He leaped from the mattress all—but suffocated by the mad beat of his heart. Was this the rescue; the rescue at last?

The key turned in the lock.

Friendly faces, God be thanked! No time for salutations. Hasty hands brought him his clothes, threw a cloak about him, drew on the riding-boots.

He was free.

He was riding in the night air, a good horse beneath him; a score of riders, friends, every one, closed about him. Beneath the good cloak his clothes were thin, were shabby; but much he cared for that! He rode free, free with his friends; nothing else mattered. Riding, he thanked God, muttering in his greying beard.

Edward of Carnarvon was free. Mortimer cursed when they brought him the news; cursed Berkeley for a fool that had left the castle to he pillaged and the prisoner taken from beneath his nose, cursed Maltravers and, most of all, cursed Edward himself. Isabella took the news grey-faced. And all the time a voice spoke clear in her head. He must be found!
Neither of us can permit the other to live
.

He must die
. Her conscious mind refused the thought; her unconscious mind received it, accepted it.

First terror passed, she addressed herself to God, promising gifts and alms without stint; for a King’s death a King’s ransom. But God helps those that help themselves; and, quieter now, she considered the matter. Two things she must do at once—calm Mortimer and reassure her son.

High-painted, in full beauty, no whit troubled it would seem, she sought Mortimer. ‘These friends of his!’ And her scorn was high. ‘Already, be sure, they’re quarrelling over the prize. Well, they’ll not keep him long; soon we shall have him in our hands again!’

‘At which time,’ he cried out, harsh, ‘I trust you’ll not be so tender of his comfort.’

‘So you catch him and hold him fast, do with him what you will!’

And to her son, the new young King, seeing him shaken and uncertain in his duty, she said, ‘Your duty is clear—to stand by the oath you swore at your crowning. Those that work upon your father to revolt are guilty of treason against you, the King they have chosen. And, would God I might not say it, the greatest treason is his that gave away the crown declaring his will it should pass to you. Do not think to give it back; for that you cannot do! You have been chosen and consecrated. You are the King. Two Kings there cannot be. It would mean war; no less! Civil war—there’s no war so bloody. For let which side win the country must bleed. We must find your father and keep him safe till all is quiet again. We must do it for his sake and for the country’s sake.’

Torn with grief for his father, shaken by his own guilt, unable to trust her whom above all he should be able to trust, he made no answer. Time. He must have time.

She made her last effort. ‘Sir… my son. When all is quiet again, your father shall live in honour and dignity. He shall have everything he asks, everything he can desire—’

‘Save his freedom. Save his crown!’

When she would have answered to that he said—and there was a new authority in him, ‘Madam leave me! I must consider the matter.’

Alone once more, in her closet the sweet reason she had shown to her lover and to her son fell from her. It was more than a rabble that marched with Edward of Carnarvon; and more, she guessed, would join him every day. The people were disappointed; and, like all disappointed people, angry. They’d expected, the Despensers gone, to find the land suddenly awash with milk and honey—the fools! Discontent—she’d call it nothing worse—was flowing towards herself and Mortimer. As yet there was no danger, but
send Mortimer away
. More than once Lancaster’s veiled words had suggested it. Scarce troubling to hide her anger those words she had disregarded. Send Mortimer away! A confession of weakness. To keep him by her side was a confession of greater weakness—subtle as she was, that she did not understand. Without Mortimer she could not live.

Edward of Carnarvon’s following was increasing; in every town and village men fell in to march beside him. The cold light of reason told her that there was little to fear; for lack of arms, of money, of leaders it must all come to nothing. But the cold shadow of fear was stronger. Lying sleepless by her lover she would ask herself how it would all end? How could she forget her husband’s words that, no weapon being at hand, he would tear her with his teeth? And now could she forget how the younger Despenser had died—his member torn from him? What punishment then for him that had given that command; that had sinfully loved the Queen?