Harlot Queen (43 page)

The colour died in the young King’s face; the news had come with no warning.

‘Until you have punished the Scots, my son, your face will not shine bright in the north; nor in the south, neither.’

‘Madam the Queen is right in this,’ Lancaster told him later. ‘She is to put it to the Council; and the Council will agree; must, indeed, agree. The Scots have broken the truce; broken it again and again. No end to the burning, the thieving, the raping. There’s misery in the north; and the south watches with growing unease. And who can wonder? We’ve been patient too long. We must make an end; And you, sir, must march at the head of the armies.’

Being a King, the boy thought, was more kicks than pence!

To Bartholomew Burghersh, Constable of Dover, went the King’s command.

We desire and command that you receive into the Kingdom the nobleman William Count of Hainault, with the illustrious damsel Philippa and the familiars of the said count and damsel…

And to every town through which the young Queen must pass,

We will that all and singular, my nobility and the people of the counties through which the count and his daughter must pass with their familiars, do them honour and give them needful aid…

He could do no more save march to the north and pray to be home again.

The Scots war was not going well. Queen Isabella—and no longer might she be called the Queen—and Mortimer were making no move to face the enemy. Content, it seemed, with delaying tactics they made no attempt to cross the Border. The young King fretted; he had his grandfather’s warlike spirit. He had come to fight; and to get back to his bride as soon as he could.

‘Why do we not move to meet the Scots?’ he kept asking; and always the same answer.

‘It is not yet time!’

‘When will it be time?’ he cried out in an agony of frustration. ‘The Scots over-run Northumberland; they’re marching southwards burning, raping and we do nothing!’

‘You’ll make a fine soldier… one day, my son!’ Isabella told him. ‘But every man must learn his trade. You’re lucky to learn yours from my lord of March.’

‘I’ll learn nothing from Mortimer; nothing that’s good!’ And he’d not grant the man his new and glittering title.

‘Beware, sir, how you offend him!’

‘Let him beware how he offend me!’

How long did they intend to keep him here idle in the north; how long keep him from his bride? He was weary of their cunning and their lies; he longed for Philippa. She was not only his wife and his love; she was his companion and his need. Need for her was a constant longing, a small sharp pain.

The Scots were pushing ever southwards. Mortimer, in spite of greater numbers, was not willing to fight—and with some reason. Had he been able to meet the Scots in battle-order, he had been willing enough; but the Scots were not so foolish. They had no intention of facing greater numbers all heavily armed. They had their own manner of fighting. Lightly armed they would make their sudden darting raids on small, swift horses. They could sit in the saddle daylong without food or rest; they needed no food but the bag of oatmeal each man carried at his saddle. Hardy and daring, these Scots, swift and unexpected. Mortimer felt unable to cope with them. He ordered a withdrawal to Newcastle.

‘You have shamed me and all England this day!’ Edward said cold and bitter—his fighting grandfather come again.

‘You are wrong. But you are young; you will learn!’ Mortimer spoke in the slighting tone that never failed to anger the boy. ‘We have not come to open battle because the Scots will not meet us!’

‘Then we must go hunt them out!’

‘We are not hunting-dogs,’ Isabella said. ‘We are good watchdogs. Let them venture too near the house and we bite! It is they that do the running! Let them run until they’re weary; soon they will be suing for peace.’

She had spoken some truth. If they had not hunted down the enemy, certainly they had kept them on the run. But she had not spoken all the truth—she was sick of the war. She had marched to win approval from the people whose love did not shine so bright as once; of such approval there was little sign. Now she’d had enough of this barbarous north and its discomforts. More; she did not care or dare, to stay longer from Westminster: she and Mortimer had too many enemies. Surely a firm peace was better than the border misery! And, besides, she knew a better use for money than pouring it away in the Scottish wars. She was ready for peace at any price.

Old, tired, eaten with leprosy, the Bruce was not unwilling for peace; peace upon his own terms.

‘Never!’ Edward cried out. ‘Scotland is ours. If we grant peace, then the terms must be ours.’

‘They shall be ours,’ Isabella promised.

‘A pity if we can’t get the better of a sick old fool!’ Mortimer said, brutal.

Edward swallowed his disgust. Argument was useless; Mortimer led the forces. One must do one’s uttermost to defeat the enemy; but one could admire him—and the sick old man had shown himself a hero.

In Edinburgh Castle the Bruce laid out his terms. They were simple enough; nothing more nor less than Scotland itself. Edward listened appalled, anger and sickness rose together in his throat. They had lied to him, his mother and Mortimer, both. Sullen he gave his consent; but only if Parliament would consent, also. Till then he would sign nothing. If Parliament agreed, Scotland no longer belonged to England.

For this his grandfather had fought and won his glory! And his father, though men slighted him, had fought, also. He had fought; and because he had failed, it had been a complaint against him… a step towards his death.

Plantagenet rage shook him; frustration curdled like poison with in him.

Even so he had not heard half of the peace-terms! His little sister Joan was to marry David Bruce—the bride seven, the groom four. A prince does not marry for his own pleasure—he knew it well. But he was in love and fate had been kind. That his little sister was to be married off at so tender an age—and never a chance for fate to show kindness—struck him as sad; sad and wrong.

England was to receive twenty thousand pounds on the signing of the treaty. Twenty thousand pounds! It would not begin to pay for the damage to the north. Twenty thousand pounds; a wretched sum for the sale of Scotland—and his little sister thrown into the bargain. She was to be sent at once into that barbarous country.

‘Never grieve, my son, we have done well. Be satisfied. The north will prosper because of this. Peace and prosperity! Now we are for York to meet Parliament and put the treaty before it. Your bride, I hear, has reached London. She’s to join us at York!’

‘Why was I not told?’ he burst out. Even in this thing so personal to himself, so close to his heart, he knew nothing until they chose to speak. Another item in the long account against those two!

With every step that took him nearer York his anger against them grew. And with anger, his resolve. He’d take counsel with his cousin of Lancaster and with his uncles of Norfolk and Kent. Between them they’d find the way to rid England of Mortimer and to restrain his mother. Millstones both about the neck of a free King.

Philippa had landed at Dover. Two days before Christmas it was, and, in spite of a sprinkling of snow and a sharp wind blowing from the sea, crowds had gathered to greet the new Queen, and to stare all amazed at the glittering retinue. The much talked of wealth of Hainault was proved no myth; everyone down to the smallest page clad in velvets and fine Flemish wool, in vair and sable. Through the narrow streets and out across the country to Canterbury went the high-stepping horses harnessed in Spanish leather, went the great charettes decorated with pure gold leaf, went the bright pennants, the jewelled crosses and the swords of state.

And in the midst the young girl serene with all the promise of goodness in herself, and in the good she would bring to a sad country that had allowed itself—it was beginning to believe—to be hoodwinked by a bad woman. Through town and village, high upon a white horse, rode Philippa, at her right hand John of Hainault—her father at his last moment prevented by sickness. Chanting priests walked before; bishops, nobles and an array of knights, Hainaulters all, rode behind. And, wherever she passed, blessings rose to the skies, gifts were tendered on bended knee; and were the gift precious or but a few eggs in a basket she received it with equal grace. Goodness shines in her face, the people said.

On Christmas Day she entered London; a day of good omen the Londoners thought. Beyond the city gates, as far as open country, came the Mayor to greet her with his aldermen all in scarlet and sable; came the guild-masters splendid in the rich attire of their mistery, came the journey-men and apprentices gay in holiday dress. Over the garlanded bridge she rode, the young girl, wise with the wisdom of her own good heart. At the Guildhall the Mayor presented her with London’s wedding-gift—a rich service of gold plate; no Queen had ever the like before. And there were more blessings for the young Queen and prayers that this marriage should heal all scars; and rejoicings for the prosperity this alliance should bring.

London went mad about the new Queen. Fountains of wine ran in the streets; there were pageants glorious to behold, a great tournament on the Bridge and a water-spectacle on the river. She could not, alas, stay to grace the proceedings; the King waited at York. She longed for wings to fly; she was more than a sweetheart riding to her lover, more than a bride riding to her young husband, she was a friend riding towards her heart’s friend.

She set out in the dark of a December morning; but with her it was all Spring. Now there rode in her train John de Bohun, earl of Hereford, lord Constable of England—her husband’s cousin and now her own, together with many an English nobleman and knight. New Year’s Day brought them to Peterborough; and here, as everywhere, the sweetness of her young face and the happiness that shone from her won every heart.

In York Edward waited with a most loving impatience. He was wild to leave York, to ride with her through his English countryside. Madam Queen Isabella restrained him. ‘Do not spoil her triumph by sharing it. Let it be hers and hers alone!’ The reason seemed good to him and he set it down to her kindness. Only herself and Mortimer knew that her heart burned because henceforth it must be Edward and Philippa—the King and the Queen. She would put off the evil moment of seeing them together as long as she could; her own power she would never relinquish.
Because of the anguish she has suffered, our lady the Queen shall continue to reign all her life
. So it had been promised and so it should be!

Messengers rode daily with news of the young Queen’s triumphant progress.

‘A dull, good child!’ Isabella told Mortimer.

‘Madam the Queen is no child!’ and he flicked her with the title. ‘Young, yes; a child no! Nor, I think, can she be dull. Dullness doesn’t call forth love; but goodness—that’s another story. When next you meet take a good long look at her! You’ll find, I don’t doubt, a spirit to match your own.’

She sent him a quick sharp look. He had changed his tune. Had he learned something new, received some warning? She thought not; he could know nothing that she, already, did not know.

It was his way to fling words where they would hurt most.

‘For my part,’ he said, lust rising in him, ‘I like my ladies well-spiced with wickedness… and for such a lady I am in the mood!’ He sent her the look that never yet had failed to stir her blood. For once her lust did not rise to meet his own. She said, ‘Have I been wise to bring such a paragon into the country?’ And in spite of her mockery she was clearly troubled. ‘Will the people love me less?’

‘That they
cannot
do!’ He was brutal because she delayed his satisfaction. ‘And it isn’t because of the girl. It’s because of yourself. They say you sold Scotland for a song and put the gold in your own pocket—and that’s true enough! They say you made peace for your own ends!’

‘They are fools! The war with the Scots has never been won and never can be won. We cannot afford to lose good fighting-men nor cast away gold in a lost cause. The peace is for the good of the whole country; and if I gain somewhat, peace is none the worse for that!’

‘It’s not the peace they quarrel with, it’s you! You, yourself are the worse for it!’ And he was weary of the whole matter. It was and done with. But a man’s lust for woman is never over and done with—unless he be no longer a man. He said with the lewdness that worked in her blood like fever, ‘If you’ll not come to bed I’ll take you where you stand!’

She went with him at his bidding. But, even as he took her, her mind was upon her problem. This girl with her goodness! Does she hope to outshine me, me they called the good Queen? And with reason! Who rescued the country from the Despensers? From the weak and wilful King? Who made peace between him and his barons? Between England and France? Between England and Scotland? But people forget; a new toy takes their fancy. So I must use this toy of theirs, win her for friend—already she’s beholden to me for her husband. Treat her with a show of love. If she recognise her duty—to keep her husband obedient to his mother—well and good. But let her try to make her mischief, to set son against mother! Let her try!

‘I like your attention, my dear, as well as your body!’ Mortimer said; she cried out at the sudden, vicious thrust.

York was to celebrate the King’s wedding. And such a wedding! A wedding to bring happiness to the country, wealth and peace—and the young couple head over heels in love! Never a city so gay. Ribands, tapestries, laurels, garlands, and everyone in his best clothes. Streets crowded; scarce room to move nor a lodging to be had. For it was not only the wedding-guests come from every corner of the land, come from Flanders and France, but one hundred Scots knights come, also, to seal the peace made in Edinburgh. England would prefer not to be reminded of that; and in the general rejoicing, it might, for the moment, be forgotten.

The young Queen was within a mile of the gates; out went the King to meet her with a great company—Madam Queen Isabella and the late King’s two young brothers; Parliament and the Council; princes of church and state; knights, English and Scots together, with the Mayor and chief citizens of the town. Such a company had not been seen in York within memory of man. From the narrow streets rose joyful acclaim so that the January sky, clear as crystal, must, it seemed, like a crystal bowl shatter and fall. But the sky remained serene, the fountains ran with wine; ribands, garlands, tapestries and pennants floated free; and over the joyful notes of pipe and tabor and the clear call of trumpets, rose the sound of the people’s joy.