Harlot Queen (16 page)

She had made peace—of a sort. The King had published his pardon for all that had taken part in Gaveston’s killing; never mind how direct the hand.

Pardon and remission is granted by the King through the prayers of his dearest companion, Isabella Queen of England.

How could the people not love her, beautiful and gracious; Isabella the Peace-maker.

Into Parliament came the insurgent peers to kneel, every one, before the King. He gave them the kiss of peace… but peace was not in his heart.

‘It is the King’s victory,’ Isabella told Queen Margaret.
And mine, mine too!
‘Ordainers and their Ordinances—finished!’

‘Not finished. Laid aside for a time because the barons choose it so. Ordainers and Ordinances still stand. Make no mistake! Not one baron—and Lancaster least of all—will accept defeat.’

‘Lancaster!’ Isabella shrugged. ‘He has a flaw of weakness in him—you told me yourself; such things I don’t forget. He’ll go so far and no further. He’ll crack…’

‘… like a louse between my fingers!’ The King had come upon them unaware. There he stood handsome and arrogant and laughing. Rising from her curtsey Isabella thought one might almost believe in his kingship. But had he learnt anything from his experiences? Would he ever learn? Well, no matter! Her part to cover his foolishness with her wits, his weakness with her strength. If he would but listen to her, men would forget the emptiness which lay beneath that commanding figure.

If he would listen…!

Peace between King and barons, Ordainers and Ordinances forgotten… so it seemed. King and Queen were, alike, happier. He felt himself stronger than before, freer of his barons; she knew herself to be of consequence. If there was no love between them there was, on her side, goodwill and ambition for him; on his, friendship and some trust. The present tranquillity she laid, rightly, to her growing influence with both husband and barons.

And in himself the King was calmer. He was over the worst of his grief for Gaveston; but never would he forget his friend nor forgive the manner of his dying. And still loneliness drove him to his wife’s bed. And still he would start up crying out the beloved name, sometimes with joy mistaking the sleeper at his side, sometimes all broken with grief. But the occasions were less frequent, the company of Despenser, the handsome young man, comforted him more than a little.

But his greatest comfort lay in his small prince. He would send for the child, and taking him from the nurse, would fondle the little one, calling him love-names the while. Isabella thought it unkingly, unmanly. A man should love his child; but in reason, hiding his love. She, herself, loved the child; she loved him because he added to her stature, and because he was a kingly child and because he was her own. She safeguarded him as she might any treasure; but she had little fondness for children and, as long as he was healthy, cared not overmuch how little she might see him. But, from the day of his birth, his father called him by his little name—Ned. The babe—he swore it by God’s Body—even in those first days turned to the sound of that name and smiled upon his father. And, certainly, within a little, he did smile and jump to come to his father; towards his mother he made no move, preferring the warm, milky smell of his nurse.

Had she loved the child with passion she still could have had no time for him. She was sworn to her husband’s service—to cover his weakness, his vacillations; no mean task. And she must keep her image constant in the public eye—the good Queen, the peace-making Queen. But, above all, she must woo the barons. The pardon they had been forced to ask, did not make them love the King more or distrust him less. Nor could she blame them! He was not one to keep a promise against his inclinations. She must forever with soft words and gentle smiles soothe their angers.

This was her work. That it was formidable she knew but not beyond her powers; none but she could carry it through.

So far so good. But now the King was to be removed from her influence. Trouble with ever-troublesome Scotland had broken out afresh. Early in February they had the news. Robert the Bruce had broken the sworn oath. He had crossed the border; with utmost savagery he had destroyed crops, burnt houses great and small, put to the sword men, women and children. Now, back in Scotland, he was raiding towns and castles that stood by their rightful lord, the King of England. Already Perth had fallen—town and castle; now Stirling, that great stronghold looked to fall also. Mowbray, the governor, had sent his urgent messengers to Westminster.

‘We march for the north!’ the King cried out, glad of any change, even though it involved the discomforts of war; and called upon his barons.

But it was not to be so easy. The Lords Ordainers, so long silent, lifted their voices.
The lord King must not make war without consent of Parliament
.

‘Much good your advice!’ he cried out white and raging, to Isabella. ‘Now you can see where pardon has led! One party, you said!
One party!
My friends are still my friends and my enemies my enemies. My friends will come, and willing; my enemies will not stir until Parliament give them the nod. By God I’ll not be held back! I’m no child to be constrained.’

‘The man that takes you for a child’s a fool!’ she said, shameless. ‘The child acts without thinking; the wise man acts with caution—and such a man are you! You will—I know you well—make a show of consulting the barons; thereafter you’ll do as you think right!’

‘Let those that will not come rot in Hell!’ And he was not to be mollified. ‘I’ll not wait upon their yea or nay. There’s enough to march with me—Gloucester, Pembroke and Hereford! Clifford and Beaumont stand ready, yes and many another. By God’s Face I’ll not stand to lose Scotland for any man’s spite!’

To march at once was right; she’d say no more. Already he blamed her for his pardon of the barons. He did not ask her, as she had hoped, to go with him. A pity!Yet, staying behind she might do much—smooth down the angered Ordainers, woo the laggard barons, stir up the common people to the King’s cause. In the cold and frozen north she could do little; she was no captain of forces.

May, in the year of grace, thirteen hundred and fourteen, the King rode out; those friends he had named rode with him. Pembroke had been sent ahead with sufficient men to deal with any ambush. A very great force had been mustered, forty thousand at the least and well-equipped. So through the early summer countryside went the great procession—wagons lumbering, high-stepping cavalry, infantry at the ready, fife and drum sounding, banners and pennants flying.

From a high window the two Queens watched them go. ‘The King shows himself his father’s son,’ Isabella said. ‘And I thank God for it. There are over-many to twit him with playing at soldiers.’

He is over-hasty. It was ever his way. Over-hasty to begin, over-hasty to make an end
. Margaret bit back the words.

The army was making its steady way north. By the end of the second week in June it had reached Berwick. It had crossed the Tweed no man offering to bar the way. The King was in high spirits, he and his captains in good accord.

The King had confiscated the estates of two Scots lords and given then to the young Despenser. First breath of discord upon general good humour.

That last piece of news set Isabella thinking. Why? Despenser had done nothing for the King except to weep with him in the matter of Gaveston. But Despenser was a handsome fellow—if you admired those fair girlish looks. Could it be possible…?

The sickness at her heart warned her that it could! The friendliness the King had shown the young man was warming into something quite other!

Was the Despenser boy destined for Gaveston’s shoes? In that case it was out of the frying-pan into the fire for those that had slain Gaveston. Gaveston had been greedy, but it had been a poor man’s greed, fear of known penury; and he could be, at times, generous. The greed of Despensers, father and son, was quite other; it was a cold and calculating greed; greed of rich men who could never have enough. They were careful, those two, they were cautious, and above all they were
able
; able as Gaveston had never been to devise policies—and always for their own good. There was no heart in them, no warmth. What their elevation could mean to herself she dared not think. Gaveston she had won—though, alas, too late. This father and son she could win—never! Now she must watch them both, seizing her every chance. If they were clever, she must be cleverer yet. Never would she lay down her hard task—but they made it so much the harder.

And now it was the third week in June. In Edinburgh the King made a short stay to replenish food, to overhaul weapons, to look to shoes of horses and men. And then no stop until Falkirk twenty-six miles away.

Daily the messengers rode in to kneel before the Queen.

‘Madam, the King has left Falkirk for Stirling; he takes the Roman road. The Scots are few in number; some say six thousand, none puts it above ten. And we with our forty thousand; who can doubt the victory?’

The next news was not so reassuring.

‘Madam, the Bruce guessed our men would take the Roman road. He ordered potholes to be dug to the depth of a man’s knee and well-hid by branches. Down the road our vanguard came marching, Sir Humphrey Bohun at the head… and there the Bruce met them. Madam, he wore a crown upon a helmet all of leather; a
crown
as though he were King of Scotland. He! The sight enraged my lord Bohun—and can any man wonder? He went spurring forward to his death. For the Bruce, old as he is and a leper, with one blow felled him.’

‘And then?’ She gave no thought for Bohun save as it might affect the cause.

‘His men fought on. Madam, they were brave! Yet they were but a small part of the army and their captain dead! In the end they must give way. So, Madam, they turned at last; and, as they fled, they stumbled into the accursed pot-holes. And some escaped and some were taken… and those that were taken were at once put to the sword.’

‘How many?’ She was less concerned for those that were dead than for the number of those that were left to fight.

‘Almost the whole contingent. But let not Madam the Queen lose heart! It is but the beginning. We left the Roman road to cross the river further down—the Bannock, Madam. The upper course runs wild and swift through rocks; the lower course is quiet; it runs through pool and marsh and none the less deadly for that! And still we outnumber the enemy three to one; Madam, be of good cheer.’

But of cheer she could find little. The Bruce, for all he was old and sick, was a warrior; her husband, for all his youth and strength, was not. The Bruce had a firm purpose—to free Scotland and to rule it, her independent King. But Edward? Who knew how long his purpose would stand? But even were he firm of purpose, he did not know the terrain; he was, besides, too little patient, too careless, too confident to trouble about such a thing! On the other hand he out numbered the Scots three to one at the least; that must surely count for victory.

‘Madam, we crossed the river a mile below the Bannock village; when we left each man was busying himself for the morrow.’

‘The morrow?’

‘Yes, Madam; to meet the Scots in battle.’

The morrow!
Then already the battle was fought; already lost and won. It had taken these messengers above a week riding in relays, day and night to reach her today!

‘Tomorrow, or the next day, Madam the Queen shall have the news!’

Tomorrow? How does one live till tomorrow?
Her anguished eyes turned to Queen Margaret.

‘We can pray.’ The older woman said.

We can pray
. And pray she did—if one can call it praying, the bargain she sought to drive with God. She knelt offering masses, offering jewels, offering plate to God’s service, offering a chapel, offering a church; offering, offering. The half of the kingdom could scarce pay for it; yet still she went on offering. Such offers surely God could not refuse! God had refused.

The English had been routed; the great army drowned or dead or fled.

‘Madam,’ and the messenger could not lift his eyes, ‘God be thanked the lord King is safe!’

Yes, he would be safe! But how far did he shame himself and me… and me?

She could not ask but she must know; she must know!

He felt the pressure of her will upon him; he said, unwilling ‘Madam, the King left the field…’

He left the field, oh God he fled!

‘Madam, there was no other way. He returns by way of Berwick and thence by sea!’

‘Tell me of the battle.’
And if he showed some spark of valour, in God’s name let me hear it …

‘They fought, Madam, where the river turns north. It is all black marsh; evil ground. The Bruce drew up his men in four close squares; their pikes stuck out like bristles of a hedgehog—full eighteen feet in all directions. Such a thing was never seen. Impossible to get near them.

‘The most part of our captains, Madam, urged the lord King to wait one day at least—the men were weary with the long, forced march. But he would not listen. Then my lord of Gloucester urged further, but still the lord King would not listen. He called the earl a coward…’

She drew in her breath. Gloucester had spoken good sense. He was no coward nor ever had been. It was the King that was the coward; he had feared to wait until his courage should cool, the King that had fled the field!

‘At that, Madam, the lord Gloucester rushed into the battle; he threw himself against those murdering pikes. and so he died…’

Gloucester killed. Driven to his death by the foolishness of the King; dead in his springtime, the brave young man. She felt tears prick in her eyes.

On and on the dreadful tale, the appalling slaughter.

‘Again and again our men flung themselves against the murdering pikes. The lord Robert de Clifford died upon them, so also the lord Beaumont and many another. Gone all of them to join dead Gloucester. Hereford they took; he struggled like a lion in the net. They took also the lord bishop of Lichfield together with his clerks and all the records…’

‘And the seal; the privy seal? Lichfield had it!’