Harlot Queen (44 page)

Riding by her side, the King dared not trust himself to look at his bride, lest, unkingly, he wear his heart on his sleeve. He loved her face; she was, he was ready to swear, the beauty of the world. He loved the way she held her head, and the frank look in her eyes, and the gentleness of her mouth. He loved the hands firm upon the reins, he loved every line, every movement of her young body. She as his other self; his better, his perfect self. Lacking her, for all he was crowned, he was nothing; with her his life was crowned, indeed.

January twenty-fourth, in the year of grace thirteen hundred and twenty-eight, in York minster, the third Edward espoused Philippa of Hainault, to the great blessing of himself and of all England.

Wedded and bedded. Frolics and lewd songs. Naked in the nuptial bed the young couple, whose combined years numbered scarce thirty, endured it with dignity. Beneath his quiet face Edward hid dislike of the jests. It was customary, he knew, but he needed neither jest nor song to prick his desires—he had not been alone with Philippa since they had parted in Hainault. Philippa, come from the staidest court in Christendom, yet bore it with grace. This custom—usual, as she knew, everywhere though frowned upon at her father’s court—she endured with a young and touching dignity; there was about her an inviolate modesty. Jealous of that untouched innocence, fearful for her own threatened power, and above all envious of the love and trust that shone clear between them, Isabella longed to strike the girl. He would come to his wife for comfort and he would find it. He would never doubt her nor she deceive him with another man. And good reason—she hadn’t the looks! Nor would she lie to him ever, in great things or small—she hadn’t the wit! A compulsive truth teller at bed and board—she wished her son joy of his bride!

And now the nuptial wine was brought; fingers entwined about the heavy cup, the bridal pair drank. And, the blessing pronounced by my lord archbishop, the bed curtains were drawn, the company departed. And now they were free to turn to each other. Gentle, a little fearful, he took her; as gentle, but nothing fearful, she gave herself.

Now he knew the meaning of marriage; no less than the delight—the sacrament. And now he better understood the thing his mother had done. In dishonour she had given herself; in dishonour Mortimer had taken her. If ever she had thought the tenderness of marriage might soften him, she was wrong. More clearly than ever he saw that she had betrayed his father, tarnished her husband’s honour as well as her own. Of the wrongs that husband had forced upon her he was too little experienced to understand. He knew one thing only; she had betrayed the sacrament of marriage.

They stayed in York for Parliament’s assent to the Scots treaty, and thence to Northampton for the signing. As the procession rode the countryside there were cheers and blessings for the new-wed couple; and for my lords the late King’s brothers, and for Lancaster there were cheers, also. But where Isabella rode and Mortimer—silence. It offended her vanity, rubbed raw her resentment against her son’s wife; but,
our lady the Queen shall continue to reign all her life
. If they did not kiss her hand they should kiss the rod.

The court spent Easter at Northampton; thereafter the King and Queen rode for London. Isabella and her paramour with the Scottish knights were for Berwick where the little princess awaited her marriage with David Bruce.

‘A pretty pair of babes!’ Sir Geoffrey Scrope told the King; he’d been sent on a special commission from Edward much concerned with the happiness of this small sister. ‘Sir, you need have no fear. The lady princess Joan is happy. She has her familiars about her, and chief of them her good nurse. And more; now she has a playmate to command—and that, I fancy, she will always do! She would have parted with Madam Queen Isabella with no more than a formal curtsey but that the good nurse bent to whisper. At that the little one raised herself on tiptoe to salute her mother’s cheeks and then turned again to her playmate. So they parted, mother and child—and never a tear, either side!’

The young King looked at his wife. Were he and she forced to part with a young child they would grieve, all three. He supposed he should grieve for his mother, unloving as she was! Her love for Mortimer he was too young, too new to love, too prejudiced to admit. With her it was lust; lust only; greed and the itch to power.

The late lord King was done to death; and in that business his wife’s hands not clean!

Yet another rumour to lend new horror to an old tale. Upon so foul a slander the young King turned a deaf ear; but, as it grew ever louder, he found himself forced to listen. Was this why the people had let her ride in silence? Could there be any truth in the rumour, any slightest foundation? He did not know what to think. He was beginning to believe that, although of herself she would have had no part in so appalling a wickedness, under Mortimer’s influence she was capable of any crime. And then, having in his heart accused her, he must believe her innocent. How should one believe any rumour; any rumour whatsoever? For now that other rumour cried louder than before,
Edward of Carnarvon is not dead.
Even now, he held in his hand a letter from an unknown priest, written from some place unknown.

The priest had heard the dying confession of a man who knew, beyond all doubt, that Edward of Carnarvon lived and another buried in his place. The dying man had been the gaoler privy to the King’s escape. For proof the priest sent papers written by the King in prison—writings that had been put into the man’s hand by the King himself, with the request that they be taken to the lord King his son. The good man had fallen sick of the plague but the papers delivered, according to his promise to the young King.

It was a poem; in his father’s well-known hand and written in the French tongue he had loved so well. And, for further proof the title.
The song of King Edward, son of King Edward that he himself made….

My winter has come; only sorrow I see.

Too often, too cruel, Fortune has spoken.

Blow after blow she rains upon me,

Heart, hope and courage, all, all she has broken…

Reading it, grief rose like a sickness within him. This, this his father had suffered!

When he came to the lines concerning his mother
—a faithful wife turned to deceit
—he bit upon his lip to keep back anger and grief. That, at least, was true; he knew it for himself. Reading of his father’s humiliations and his acceptance, he felt his own heart break. But when he came to the prayer for himself,

Keep him Jesus, son of Mary

From traitors…

and the prayer that the young King should shine in honour, then the tears ran down his cheeks and would not be stayed. And though the heart was broken within him, there was pride in him that, in such bitterness of grief, his father had thought for his son, prayed for his son. To weep for such a father was right and proper… a boy’s heart is not made of stone.

Tears dried at long last, he strode into his mother’s room to find, as usual, Mortimer carelessly lounging. He thrust both letter and poem at her; Mortimer he ignored. ‘Read it, Madam!’ Her brows went up at his air of command; she judged it best to humour him. Her eye went quickly over the papers. Of the priest’s letter she said, shrugging, ‘Some madman or jester!’ Of the poem, ‘This is not your father’s work. He was no poet—not even a poor one. He could scarce put two words together!’ It was a lie. He still had his father’s letters commanding him home from France; and she, herself, had received letters more than enough!

‘My father could write very well…’ he began.

‘Even so!’ Mortimer’s coarse laughter lifted in the room. ‘How could he write—unless like the blind he wrote in the dark? And with what would he write? His finger dipped in his heart’s blood? There’s no blood here! He never wrote this stuff!’ He flicked it away with a contemptuous hand. ‘Be sure he was allowed neither light nor paper nor pens nor ink!’

It was out; out at last, the appalling cruelty of his father’s prison. They had lied. All the time they had lied. Liars, liars both. He felt the sickness come into his throat; the gay colour of his mother’s chamber swung in dizzy arcs, himself swung with them, swinging, swinging. He put out a hand to steady himself. He turned and all-but ran from the room lest he vomit there, in theft presence.

When he was sufficiently recovered he sent for Lancaster.

‘Shut in the dark. Like a felon, a madman, a wild beast! My father. A crowned King and my father. And all the time the lies about the comforts he enjoyed. Comforts! Deprived of light, of pen and ink. Deprived of what else, God alone knows! Deprived of life, also, maybe! That’s not so hard to believe. Yes, yes it follows. They murdered him those two, Mortimer—and God pity us all—she, my mother!’

‘I have believed it this long while!’ Lancaster said. ‘Your father was strong; how should he die in so short a time? And yet …
murder
. There was no mark upon him.’

‘Is it possible he lives still?’ The boy’s heart was torn for the pitiful prisoner, violated at the horror he had conjured against his mother.

‘I cannot think it. This verse proves nothing. We do not know when it was written. It need not have been at Berkeley. It could have been at Corfe or Bristol or Kenilworth, even!’

‘Not Kenilworth; there he lived like a King…’

‘Save that he was not free. Sir, to the prisoner all light is dark, all comfort bitter. I cannot think he’s still alive! Your uncles Kent and Norfolk are hopeful in the matter; myself I have no hope!’

‘By God’s Face we must search into the matter, no clue unfollowed, no stone unturned. While there’s still doubt I cannot endure the sight of my mother’s face. As for the crown—I have no heart for it; the way it came… too soon. I need time, cousin. I am too young, too little-wise to be a King.’

Lancaster was a troubled man. The second Edward, with every fault, had not wrought so much evil as those two that once the country had hailed as saviours. These days he sat with the Council, watchful and withdrawn. He had no mind to associate himself with its policies. For Mortimer, though he had lost goodwill, had still a tyrant’s power. Before one could strip him of that power one must deal with Madam Queen Isabella. From such a bitter farce as the Council Lancaster had wished to withdraw. He was growing old and his eyes troubled him. ‘Yet stay, cousin,’ the young King besought him, ‘I must have one heart faithful to my service.’

Kent and Norfolk were yet more troubled. Not only did they grieve deeply for the country’s plight; conscience smote them to the heart. For this bad Queen they had taken arms against their brother and King. Greedy, lascivious, she let nothing stand in the way of her shameless pleasures. She cared nothing for the welfare of the people. She had put down the Despensers to set an even bloodier tyrant in their place. And now this new rumour—that her hand had been in the murder; a rumour her behaviour made only too likely! Now they must ask themselves whether they were not fratricides and regicides. Now they must remember that Edward had been a most kind brother and to their mother a devoted son. From a lean purse he had made offerings for joy of their birth—so she had told them. And now they had, in all likelihood, helped to kill him. Edmund—more heart than head—was the more affected. Until he had found out the truth of the matter his wits were in danger of being overthrown. If Edward still lived, if that sacred blood were not upon his own head, he would wear his knees to the bone in thanksgiving. But, if Edward had been murdered, then the murderers, whoever they might be, should pay the penalty!

‘I believed in her,’ the young King said. ‘When I was a child I believed in her as in a saint. When I grew older I knew no saint walked the earth—not even you, my darling!’ He took Philippa’s hand and laid it against his cheek. ‘But still I believed her the best of women. Even the things she said against my father, I believed. I loved him; but still I believed her. When I went to France I believed her still… until I found out about her and
that man
! I believed my father was cruel, I believed that he robbed her, I believed she stood in danger of her life.
She
—from
him
!’ His laugh was bitter.

Philippa said, ‘The things she told you were not all lies. Her life was never easy, nor your father always kind. And he did keep her poor; when she came to us in Hainault, I doubt she had a silver piece in her pocket.’

‘She soon found the way to fill it! Where’s the dowry your father gave you? We should have it to ease us now—God knows we’re poor enough! And where’s your English dower—the Queen of England’s due? Where the rents, the incomes, the jewels and the lands? She has them all. Nothing left; not even to pay for your crowning—and that grieves me most of all.’

She said, gentle, ‘You must learn to weigh and to reason. Once you thought no word could tell your mother’s goodness; now you think there’s none too bad. And the truth, I fancy, must lie somewhere between the two. That your father came to a violent end, I do fear is all too true. But that your mother had a hand in so foul a thing I cannot believe.’

‘You are too good, too innocent.’

‘Neither the one nor the other. Nor yet a fool, neither.’

‘Her greed, at least, you cannot deny. I am the poorest King in Christendom.’

‘We have enough for our needs.’ And she would not let him know how she must pinch and pare and was yet behind with her debts; nor how come from the richest court in Christendom, she longed for some allevation of her poverty. ‘The rest will come.’

‘I’ll not wait for that. It is time you were crowned; time and time enough. I’ll speak to Lancaster.’

Lancaster raised the matter in Council and then in Parliament. Madam Queen Isabella heard of it with anger; Mortimer added it to the score of his hatred against Lancaster.

Lancaster’s protest did not go unheard. Parliament knew well the wrongs the young Queen had suffered. Fifteen thousand pounds a year had been promised in the marriage contract; it was little enough for a Queen of England. Yet not one penny of it had she seen. Expenses of the Scots war had been high, already taxes were heavy; there was little money about and the extortions of Isabella and Mortimer had made that little, less. As for the lands and incomes due to the Queen, Isabella held them fast; not one yard nor one penny would she let go.