Harlot Queen (8 page)

The day had come. Parliament had spoken.

It was full summer now; six months since the King had sworn the oath of his crowning. Yet nothing had been done towards keeping it; nothing would be done until the head of all offending was removed.

Gaveston must go. Peers and commons alike demanded it; demanded it with threats. Before a Parliament so united, the King must bow his head. Very well, go Piers should… but in a way his enemies would not relish.

‘Gaveston must leave at once,’ my lord archbishop of Canterbury told the king. ‘And if he should return, mark it, sir, he shall be excommunicated and damned. I have sworn it!’

He
had sworn it, Winchelsey that the King had brought back from obscurity! He must be pretty sure of himself. Well there was a neat little surprise in store for him!

‘I cannot think he would wish to return!’ the King’s mocking eyes met those of his archbishop. ‘He goes to govern Ireland. I trust it will please my lords.’

He saw the archbishop’s jaw actually drop. He read the priest’s thought plain.
The King thumbs his nose at us. He gives Gaveston the richest plum in the administration; royal honours and unlimited opportunities to make his fortune. And, most cunning of all, he sends the fellow not too far away
…

‘You see—’ and he all but laughed in the priest’s shocked face, ‘I keep my word.’ And now, driven by one of his sudden gusts of anger, he could not stay his tongue. ‘My lord of Cornwall—and beware priest how you forget his title—goes provided as a King should go. He shall have precedence and every honour that belong to his high position. He stands in the King’s place.’ But even in his anger he judged it wise to say nothing of revenues from Aquitaine, of blank bonds pressed upon his friend—gifts for which Gaveston himself had not dared hope, nor the King name.

But such news is not to be kept quiet. It was spread, in not unnatural triumph, by Gaveston himself. The black brows of barons and bishops alike, amused him. That it would not be so amusing if ever he fell into their hands did not trouble him—for he never should! He was the King’s friend.

Piers was departing like a King, indeed; with knights and esquires and men-at-arms, with lords and ladies to form his court, with servants unnumbered, with horses and hounds, with baggage-trains scarce to be counted. The King, himself, in full procession of lords and ladies took the way to Bristol. Simple folk might stand agape but those with an eye for affairs noted that the great barons and the most part of bishops were absent. Absent, too, was the Queen; she had pleaded woman’s sickness and not all the advice of Madam Queen Margaret nor the black looks of her husband could induce her to ride in this triumphal procession.

The King was back from Bristol. He was gloomy, he missed Gaveston intolerably; for him all joy had fled the court. And things were worse between himself and the Queen. He still resented the letter she had written home and her father’s rebuke, mild though it had been. More bitterly he resented her dislike of Gaveston. Most bitterly of all he resented that she had not ridden with him to honour his departure. Nor was his anger the less that, because she was so young and because she made no complaint, she had won the good will of his lords—won it at his own expense.

And still she carried herself—a gentle, helpless child. But it was no child that dwelt within that ripening body.

She was forever at her uncle of Lancaster with her subtle words—a dove that would peck to the death. ‘Gaveston departed more glorious than a King. Surely that touches the honour of my lords the barons! And surely to keep him in such state costs gold and gold and yet more gold.’ She forever pricked him with Gaveston’s success. ‘He wins golden opinions in Ireland. Everywhere they call him
King Gaveston
. How will it be when he returns again?’

And every time Lancaster answered, ‘Let them call him King of Ireland—and of England, too! So he stay away I’ll not complain.’ But she knew very well by the restless turning of the great head upon his hunchback’s shoulders that every word of hers pricked home.

The King was growing more and more difficult. To every demand for the redress of grievances he had but one answer.
When my lord of Cornwall returns I will consider it
. Gaveston was more present in absence than in the flesh.

A gloomy court; barons, bishops and King all alike morose. The Queen, as far as her husband was concerned, might not have existed. To him she was still a child; of no importance.

And yet a little kindness to his Queen might have won him comfort from her and approval from his barons. To win her now would not be easy; he had humiliated her overmuch. He had taken no account of a heart ready to love him. It was not so ready now; but still she might have been won.

But how could he find kindness for anyone at all, sick as he was with longing for Piers? ‘He cannot have the plaything he wants,’ she cried out to Madam de St. Pierre with all a woman’s bitterness, ‘so all other things must be broken—even if that thing be my heart!’ And when Théophania would have comforted her, broke in quick and fierce, ‘Never counsel me to patience—though, by the Mother of God I have tried. Or shall I kneel beseeching him for favour? I am no serving-wench, I, but daughter to the King of France and he should know it!’ And before Théophania could take breath to answer, was gone, but not before the older woman had seen the brightness of tears.

Save for her aunt, save for Théophania, she must keep her anger to herself. She must guard her tongue; but she thought the more. She would sit pondering the word that should move this baron to anger on her account, that one to pity. Pity she resented; but it was needful—a weapon she could not afford to lay down.

The pity the whole court felt for her was driving still further a wedge between herself and the King, between the court and the King. Every word of pity or of praise, even, was condemnation of the King. Queen Margaret watched with an ever troubled heart. Deliberate unkindness towards her was not in the King; nor in her any hatred… but already the seeds had been sown. Nourished alike by his indifference and her resentment what fearful fruit might they not ripen?

April in the year of grace thirteen hundred and nine. A spring sweet with violets, with primroses, with scarlet tassels of hazel and hanging golden chains. But for the King there was little sweetness; he languished still for Gaveston. Ten months since Piers had gone… and every day of them black for lack of him, black with his own bitterness against his barons. Could they not see how unjust their accusations against his friend? For the first time within memory Ireland was quiet. Piers had beaten her rebellious kings; he had taken their homage. As well as battles he had won hearts. All Ireland rang with his praises. His king’s choice had been justified; but here in England no-one would admit it.

And still the old miserable ding-dong. Parliament was demanding redress of grievances according to the coronation promises. Grievances there were aplenty, and the most pressing the removal of officials of the King’s household. They were his personal friends—and for that purpose chosen. They wasted the country’s revenues—and nothing to show for it but the clothes upon their back. Of the King’s own extravagance Parliament had, as yet, said nothing. Put others in the place of Keeper of the Wardrobe and the Wardrobe Clerk—and the King’s extravagance must find itself curbed. All Parliament pressing upon the King in this matter—barons, bishops and commons alike; and always the same answer—
Recall my lord of Cornwall and I will consider the matter
.

‘They’d be fools to believe him; his word is not to be trusted,’ Isabella cried out. ‘God send they stand firm and keep the King’s sweetheart away! By God’s Face I wish the man were dead!’

Shocked by the bitterness in the young voice Théophania said, ‘Madam… Madam, my darling.’ She cast a swift look round. ‘I implore you, watch your words.’

‘I say what everybody says; no more! Well, Parliament’s to meet next month and the question settled once and for all. I cannot think the King will win.’

For nigh on a year the King had languished moody, resentful. Now, suddenly, and for no reason, he was cheerful. What had brought this sudden turnabout? Isabella asked herself disquieted. Nor was her disquiet the less that the younger Despenser had been much with the King of late. Two Despensers there were at court, father and son—and both of them Gaveston’s friends, and both of them she distrusted; nor was she alone in her distrust. The younger man she thought might prove—give him the chance—as dangerous as Gaveston. He was sly, he was greedy, he was good-looking though he lacked Gaveston’s undoubted charm. And he was clever; cleverer than Gaveston, cleverer than the King, cleverer than his own father, that shrewd man of affairs. She watched disturbed. Between the King and this sly, clever young man what game was afoot?

The year had moved into June; roses were sweet in the Queen’s garden at Westminster, the river ran clear, green with mirrored trees. Within a little, Parliament would meet at Stamford to settle the matter of Gaveston once and for all.

Isabella came into the chamber of Madam Queen Margaret; she was taut as bowstring and lambent with anger.

‘He… he…’ and she could not speak the hated name. ‘Back. He’s here. Here… in this house!’

‘I know it.’ Margaret put by her stitching.

‘He digs his own grave; and no-one may bury him—an excommunicated man!’ Isabella said, vicious.

Margaret looked at her with pity. ‘Excommunicate no longer. The Pope has annulled it. The King’s been busy in the matter this long time!’

‘Dear God!’ The girl beat her hands together. ‘Is the Pope, God’s mouthpiece, to be bought for a handful of gold?’

‘He chooses the lesser of two evils. Let the King take his stand with an excommunicated man and his own excommunication must follow—the lord Pope has no choice. And what becomes of the King then? And what becomes of you? And what becomes of England?’

Gaveston had been back a fortnight. He had conducted himself with propriety. He was courteous to barons and bishops; to Madam the Queen he carried himself with so deep a respect she could not tell whether he mocked or no. And now it was time for the journey to Stamford. Isabella had looked forward to it, to the bustle and the change; and, most of all, to the kindness in people’s eyes. She was, she knew it, a well-loved Queen. Now all was spoilt by Gaveston’s hateful presence. There he rode beside the King, handsome, arrogant and over-familiar. She saw how, as those two passed, folk turned aside to spit. It was for Gaveston the insult; but it came all too near the King. For herself as she rode, there was nothing but kindness; she read it in the eyes of gentle and simple alike. How easy to win the love of these good people! Her eyes rested upon those two in front. How easy to lose it!

Gaveston was a continual pricking at her peace—and it was worse when he behaved well; that charm of his inclined others to forget their grievances. He had, since his return, behaved so well that she forever asked herself,
Will Parliament stand firm against him?
When she spoke to the lord earl of Lincoln, oldest and wisest of the peers, he was, she thought, evasive. ‘Gaveston has, I fancy, learned his lesson!’ he told her. Yet more troubled she went to Pembroke, of all the peers most honest. She found him even less reassuring. ‘Parliament is no longer of one mind in the matter! With fair words and promise of good behaviour both for himself and his friend, the King has won the half of us. We must wait and see!’

She was desperate when she went to her uncle of Lancaster. There was little love between him and Pembroke, for Pembroke and de Warenne were fast friends; and of all men Lancaster hated de Warenne most. Lincoln might be, in name, leader of the barons; but for all his wisdom he was old and tired, his mantle had fallen upon Lancaster. Whatever Lancaster said she must believe.

He had no comfort for her. He said, slow and bitter, ‘It is true; we are no longer united. God knows I loathe the fellow, the rat that gnaws the foundation of the house. But, if the most part of us agree to give him this last chance, I’ll not say Nay. I’ll not split Parliament.’ And when she stared, eyes disbelieving, he added roughly, ‘That could mean civil war; of all wars the most hateful—for in that war no side can win. And what becomes of the King? And what becomes of us all?’

Gaveston would be pardoned; by the time they reached Stamford the Queen’s mind was prepared. Her mind; but not her will, still less her heart. That first night the King came, as usual, to bid her sleep well… and left her to eat her heart out with bitterness.

From her window, next morning, she saw them crossing the courtyard, the handsome pair, come, as she guessed, from one chamber. The sweet day was poisoned for her. There they strolled, laughing, arms intertwined, towards the Parliament chamber; behind them a young esquire carried the crown upon a cushion, two pages carried the robes. She doubted the King would trouble to put them on; wearing the crown meant fasting—and he was not one needlessly to fast. She saw the shadowed doorway swallow them all and took in her breath. She had expected Gaveston to turn back. But no! He was actually going to outface them all. How very certain they must be, Gaveston and the King.

She turned back into the room; she paced backwards and forwards, strange eyes glowing now green now topaz as the light caught them. And, as she paced, she prayed that they would send Gaveston into exile. If God would grant her this she would forget every slight, every unkind-ness. And then, Gaveston gone, Edward would surely turn to his wife. It did not trouble her overmuch that, during the months of Gaveston’s exile, the King had turned not to her but to the young Despenser. Let God be kind in this; it was all she asked. During these months she had grown in beauty and in woman’s wiles; there should be no fault found in her. She could not fail.

It was her uncle of Lancaster that told her how the matter stood. He had been unwilling to speak but for all that she had it out of him. The King had put forth all his charm. ‘There he stood promising, promising… no longer commanding, no longer bargaining, but humble, throwing himself upon the goodwill of his Parliament. Impossible not to believe him!’