Harlot Queen (12 page)

‘How would you name Madam the Queen?’ The King asked once.

She sat over her stitching, her narrowed eyes green-amber. So far he had not dared! She was conscious of a prick of excitement.

‘I would call Madam the Queen… a kitten.’

She stiffened with annoyance. She had expected something rare and regal; a little dangerous, perhaps. A tigress or a panther. They treated her like a child, both of them!

‘A kitten grows to be a cat,’ the King said. ‘I do like a sleek well-fed cat.’

‘It is a little wild-cat!’ Piers laughed into her slitted eyes.

‘A wild cat. It is of all creatures to be avoided,’ the King said.

‘There’s one worse.’ And Piers was laughing still.

‘The lion? The tiger?’ the King asked.

‘No. Those we may catch and tame; you may go feed them in the Tower! There’s a creature you cannot tame nor keep from blood—and that’s the wolf.’

‘A man would be a fool to try?’ Isabella said, very sudden. ‘It is a coward that runs with the pack. At home we hunt him with dogs. But the werewolf—that’s another story.’ And she spoke as from a dream. ‘The creature we know… one of ourselves… yet not of ourselves. It lives with us, sleeps with us, smiles from a bloody mouth. Beware, my lord, the werewolf!’ And was it to Gaveston she spoke, or to the King? She did not know; she knew, only, that she had given some warning.

When they had gone and she, herself, a little calmer, she found herself troubled.
Had
she meant a warning? And to whom? And of—
what?
And still she did not know. Loneliness, neglect and frustration were growing like a canker within her; they brought thoughts to frighten her… thoughts too bitter for the mind to bear.

Gaveston was gone. Upon her knees the Queen thanked God. The King had kept his friend with him until the last moment; and then, unable to endure the parting, had ridden with him as far as the coast.

The King was back looking sick and sad; he could eat no supper but sat drinking more than was good for him. He sat listless, upon his knees the beribanded lute Gaveston had left behind. Now Isabella could feel for him some pity, for herself some hope. Surely his forlorn state must bring him to her bed.

That night he did not come; nor the next night, nor the next. He sat within his closet the lute across his knees, plucking now and then upon a string so that it wailed throughout the room.

November was wearing to its end; the land was full of rumours; they echoed in the Queen’s sick heart.
Gaveston is here. He did not go. Never an end to his mischief save by death
…

‘It is all a piece of nonsense—would God it were not!’ the King said. ‘He’s in France, or Brabant, or Italy; who knows?’

‘You
know!’ she said. ‘He is here.’

He is here
. She had no reason to suppose it; but she knew it in her blood. Why else had the King not turned to her—his wife. Nigh on four years married and she nearing eighteen… and no heir nor any chance of one!

The rumours grew.

Gaveston was in Cornwall, he was in Somerset…

‘No!’ Isabella told Queen Margaret. ‘He is nearer, nearer.’

He was in his own castle at Wallingford…

‘No!’ The Queen said. ‘Nearer, nearer.’

The barons commanded a search for
Piers Gaveston, supposed to be wandering from place to place
. He was not to be found.

‘He is here,’ the Queen said, sniffing the air like a wild thing, ‘here, nearest of all; like a worm feeding upon my life.’

And so he was; he was in the King’s own apartments safe-hid. For the Christmas festival the King and Queen went to Windsor; and there, openly to meet them under safe-conduct from the King—who but Gaveston? And not Gaveston alone; his wife was with him. Isabella’s heart all but died in her breast. Bitter the sight of Gaveston, bitterer still—if that could be—the sight of his wife. Margaret could not be accused of wanting to flaunt herself—she was an elegant girl, well-bred; but her condition did it for her. She was with child. The thing for which the Queen longed, longed and prayed, had been given to Gaveston’s wife. The sight of the girl was a sword in Isabella’s heart.

‘He wasted no time at Bamborough!’ she said, bitter.

‘What did you expect?’ Madam Queen Margaret shrugged. To make a show of pity would be further insult.

Winchelsey kept his word; he pronounced excommunication. But still Gaveston remained, laughing with the King, making music and dancing as though he hadn’t a care in the world.

‘The King doesn’t mean to part with him ever again!’ Isabella told Queen Margaret. ‘Excommunication. They laugh at it. You’d think they had the Pope in their pocket. They mean to build up a party to overthrow the rebel barons. The Ordainers, the King says, shall ordain nothing but their own deaths.’

‘He dare not do it. He has sworn the oath!’

‘When did he ever keep the oath that irked him? And he’ll find support too! The barons are always at odds. Each looks to his own. Yes, the King will find support; the right word in an angry ear, the clink of gold in a greedy ear—’ Isabella shrugged. ‘He means to carry his sweetheart north out of harm’s way.’

‘So much I’ve heard; and more. I hear he takes you with him!’

Isabella gave no sign of pleasure.

‘You’ll be near him at least,’ Margaret said. ‘Take your chance!’

‘Woo him further? I sicken at the thought.’

‘Once you asked for just this chance. Use your wits, child, and take it!’

Immediately after Christmas the royal train set out. Lacking her aunt, Isabella felt forlorn. The journey was slow; they were forced to a snail’s pace by the frozen roads and by the baggage-carts lumbering ahead, heavier than ever this bitter weather with mattresses with pillows and coverlets, with gowns, with cloaks and furs. And the number of the royal wagons were outnumbered by those of Gaveston and his wife. Of food they carried little; they would honour the countryside. So they rode—the King and his sweetheart, the Queen and her servants, the captains, the men-at-arms, the King’s caged beasts and his fiddlers. And many a town and village, and many a household great as well as small, had reason to dread their coming.

Beneath sables from Muscovy the Queen sat silent and would speak to none; not even to Madam de St. Pierre. Her anger was continually pricked by the presence of Gaveston’s wife, riding by the King’s wish in the royal charette. The girl, Isabella must admit, was subdued enough, her spirit crushed beneath the Queen’s displeasure. Had the girl’s husband been any other, Isabella would herself have invited her into the greater comfort of the charette—the King’s own niece and her baby expected by the end of the month; it was a courtesy due. But she was Gaveston’s wife; the Queen would grant her nothing. Yet, for all her awareness of the Queen’s displeasure, she was even more aware—this wife of Gaveston—of her own dignity, the importance of her pregnancy. She is proud, too proud, the Queen thought, envying the girl, resenting the girl. Nor was her resentment lessened by Madam de St. Pierre, who, in common kindness, looked to the girl’s comfort, moving here a cushion, there a rug; still less when, at every halt, the midwife came to enquire of her lady’s comfort—Mary Maunsel that had brought the King into the world and should have brought the King’s son. And, at every halt, too, and between halts, Piers and the King would come riding back to enquire of her while she smiled out of pale lips and told them all was well.

A long and tiresome journey. The horses slipped on the glassy roads so that the charette slid and jarred; and each time Margaret’s hands flew to her belly to protect the unborn child. Once or twice the Queen’s mouth opened to a kind word; and closed again, the word unsaid. And the journey was slower, even, than the weather allowed, for Gaveston’s wife must not be too many hours on the road. They would end the day’s journey at any hour did she show signs of fatigue; or a comfortable-looking house, be it castle or monastery or simple inn, come into sight. And the first thought of everyone was for the girl; the King, her husband and the midwife anxious for her comfort; yes, Madam de St. Pierre, even, that should think first of the Queen.

No end it would seem to her humiliation. For when the people came out to greet the Queen and bring her into their city, they did not always know which
was
the Queen. She was young and fair—so much they knew; and who should it be but the fair, pregnant girl? When they understood their mistake they would come with all ceremony to welcome the Queen. In spite of all their welcome she knew they asked themselves why she had given them no heir—and she four years wed! This was the hardest of all to bear. On this long journey, thrust into second place, exposed to humiliation, she came to hate Gaveston’s wife.

At York she was free of the sight of the girl at last! Here, the King come to meet his household and chancery officials, must remain several days; but Gaveston and his wife he commanded north with sufficient escort—the girl was near her time.

It was peaceful in St. Mary’s Abbey where the King and Queen were lodged; away from the sight of that hateful pair she knew some peace. But not for long.

When she heard the news she could not, at first, believe it.

Gaveston was no longer a banished man; he was free to go or stay as he chose!

The King had declared by proclamation to his sheriffs throughout the land that Gaveston had been exiled against the laws and customs of the land—which laws and customs the King was bound to maintain. My lord of Cornwall, therefore, was by royal command restored to liberty; and with his freedom was restored all lands and titles, all offices, dues and honours.

Such a public breaking of his oath—how could she believe it? That he would break any oath if it pleased him she had long known; but that he would dare thus to flout his princes, to set against him the church—she had not believed even he was so witless. She caught the troubled looks of those few she knew to be his friends; saw the black looks, heard the angry words of his enemies and trembled. Now she must believe it.

But the King did not tremble, not he! His own defiance had gone to his head; there was no holding him.

‘These Lords Ordainers—’ and he made of the name an insult, ‘think to treat me like an idiot. I’ll not endure it! I’ll dismiss no official, no servant, still less any friend at their command. No, but I will choose my own officers, my own servants, my own friends.’ And to prove he meant it and the pleasure of angering his barons intoxicating him still further, he recalled those household officials especially offensive to the Ordainers. And even that was not enough. To feed their anger he went further still; he bestowed upon Gaveston yet more honours, more lands more wealth.

Utter defiance; barefaced thumbing of the nose.

Pembroke, that moderate man, thrust down his rage. To Parliament assembled he spoke; but all his quiet could not hide his bitterness. Because he was a moderate man, and wiser than most, they listened as they did not listen to that rash and angry man, Lancaster, premier earl that should be their leader.

‘When the King recalled Gaveston that was, of itself, a declaration of war. Yet we sat still, we said nothing. Now he heaps upon the man more wealth and yet more; the country bleeds—and to that bleeding there’s no end. If we do not call a halt now we are lost; and all England is lost. For to Gaveston’s greed and the King’s foolishness there’s no end.’

Recalling Gaveston had, indeed, been a declaration of war; the King knew it and cared little. He was glad, rather, in his mad Plantagenet pride to force the issue, to cut the bonds that irked his vanity.

‘The King forces war upon us; he throws down the gauntlet!’ in Parliament Lancaster cried it out. ‘He makes Gaveston governor of Scarborough Castle and on terms that’s plain declaration of war. He is to yield it to the King alone and to no other man. And more; more yet!’ Lancaster’s grin was a mask of rage. ‘If the King should die, the castle is for Gaveston and his heirs for ever. His
heirs
! He’ll beget no heirs—the eunuch!’

‘You’ve been from court too long!’ Gloucester could not forbear the smile. ‘My sister was brought to bed of a daughter three days since.’

‘We’ll not congratulate you!’ Lancaster told him, sour.

‘There’s more important things to trouble our heads. The King drums up his armies in the north… and not against the Scots!’ Pembroke stopped; he said slow and quiet, ‘He has sent to the Bruce,
the Bruce
, mark you! He offers friendship in return for help, help against us—his own lieges!’

Sell out to the Scots!
And for such a reason! They looked from one to the other. Not to be believed even of this selfish and foolish King.

‘He would if he could but he can’t!’ Warwick barking above the clamour justified, in some degree, Gaveston’s mocking name. ‘Have you heard the answer?’ His surly face was split by a grin. ‘The Bruce said,
How shall I trust a man that cannot keep faith with his own liegemen?’

‘By God, I could love him for that!’ Lancaster said. ‘Well, it’s war—civil war, Christ save us! But it is the King that lets it loose. We march for the north!’

Wife and child safe in Bamborough, Gaveston had seen to it that Scarborough Castle was well defended; a strong retreat at need. He thought there would be need; he was a soldier and no fool. Now, awaiting the King at Newcastle, he was aware of distaste for the meeting. These days there was a new seriousness upon him.

His wife had borne him a child. He was a father; what that could mean he had not counted upon. It was as yet less tenderness than a dawning sense of responsiblity—remembrance of what his priest said.
The fathers have eaten sour grapes and the children’s teeth are set on edge
. Would this little one have teeth on edge by the grapes of her father’s eating? Even for himself those grapes, once deceitfully sweet, were already turning to verjuice. He was beginning to question the worth of his wealth, his titles and his treasure. Would not men say they came from a tainted source? And was it not a blot upon his honour, this friendship with the King? What would she make of it when she was old enough to understand—his daughter? There’d not be wanting tongues agog to make the situation clear. And himself; what could he say to explain to her… or to his son? For surely there must be a son to inherit his great position? Better his son should despise him, execrate him than grow like his father! He had dishonoured the King; he had made of himself an object of contempt, and bitterness to the barons, to the churchmen a thing utterly to be contemned. These things he had long known. But how deserved that contempt, that detestation, he had not known.