Harlot Queen (21 page)

‘They are welcome—save that their poetry is vile!’ He shrugged and smiled.

She sent him a long look out of her green-flecked eyes, staring with insolence at the handsome face, the head and beard golden and long-curling, the bright jewelled gown. There came to her the sudden memory of Mortimer—close-cropped head, strong naked chin, plain leather jerkin. A man! As for this King—useless. Useless!

Scotland must be taught its lesson. Parliament stood with Pembroke in this and called upon the barons to assemble each with his own men; not one to absent himself. June in the year of grace thirteen hundred and nineteen, five years since Bannockburn, the great army assembled at Newcastle, leading them that handsome figurehead Edward Plantagenet of England; at his either hand rode the Despensers able with sword as with tongue, no coward, either of them. At their heels rode the King’s half-brothers, eager each to prove his worth. Hereford was there with Arundel, Richmond and their brother peers—not one absent. A little apart Thomas of Lancaster rode with his brother and heir, Henry of Derby. Lancaster looked upon Pembroke riding in friendship with de Warenne and at the sight of them his gorge rose. De Warenne he hated; but Pembroke even more. De Warenne had robbed him of his wife—a thing of little worth; Pembroke had robbed him of his own place— the highest; not only in the Council but in the army Pembroke led them all. In Lancaster bitterness rose, it tasted bitter on his tongue.

Berwick. Day after day the bitter siege. In the end it was the English that must withdraw, must surrender castle and town. And it was not because of defeat in arms. Traitor Lancaster had laid his plans. Himself he did not appear in the matter but he knew the man to act as go-between. Ten thousand Scottish pounds the Bruce paid; for the fall of Berwick, cheap enough. A simple plan… though it did not turn out exactly as Lancaster had planned.

The Queen walked in the garden this fine summer day. She fretted within the walls of Brotherton whither the King had commanded her with her children. She wondered how he carried himself; she prayed, without much hope, that he made a show, at least, of war like behaviour. She longed to be at Berwick; longed for the sound of trumpet and the clash of arms.

‘Madam!’ She wheeled about.

It was my lord archbishop of York, Melton himself; he was covered with dust and pale as ash.

‘Madam,’ he said, ‘you must come with me at once. We are for York. Send for the children. The Scots are upon us!’

She stared at that. The Scots so far south! She could not believe it. ‘The Black Douglas leads—ten thousand at his heels. Madam, you have been betrayed!’

‘Give me some proof. I’ll not be a laughing-stock—the Queen that runs from her own shadow!’

‘Madam, you waste time! My spies have seen them—we forever look to the Queen’s safety. The Douglas hides in a wood some two hours’ ride away. We must take the road; we go by water—I have a boat ready. Before he reaches Brotherton you will be safe in York. Now, Madam, will you send for the children?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘The Queen must not be taken by pawns!’ and smiled so that he marvelled she showed no sign of fear.

The wind was with them. In the nurse’s arms the baby Eleanor leaped and crowed for joy in the sunshine; Edward, six-and-a-half and John just three, laughed, dabbling their hands in the cool water; and their mother laughed with them. The archbishop himself lent a hand to speed the boat. As they neared York they heard the bell ever louder, ever more demanding, summoning men to the town’s defence—priests and farmers, burghers and craftsmen; and to captain this motley, valiant band, my lord archbishop himself!

Along the high road the Black Douglas came marching, ten thousand at his heels. Black he was, indeed, to find Brotherton empty, the birds all flown that were to win Scotland for the Scots. Had Lancaster played double traitor, warned the Queen? No matter! He’d take them at York if he had to sit down before the city for a year. And God damn His meddling priest!

God’s meddling priest had no intention of letting the Scots anywhere near York. At Myton-in-Swaledale the two armies met—the Douglas with his Scots, hard-disciplined men that had fought from their cradles; and the archbishop, man of peace, with his band undisciplined to war, untrained to arms.

Inch by inch, the valiant men of York gave way. They had lost the day; yet they had won it. They had done the thing they had set out to do—the Queen and her children were safe on their way to Westminster.

The Scots had no more use for York; now, by the Bruce’s command, they were for Pontefract, Lancaster’s stronghold. A master-stroke to bring Lancaster home at a run—home with his men behind him. And many a baron, fearing a like attack, followed Lancaster’s example. Each man for himself!

Now the King of England must make what peace he could. An inglorious truce; immediate evacuation of Berwick town. England that had marched in such glory must return in shame.

The King was the worse for the Scottish venture—a man indifferent to everything, to loss and defeat in Scotland, indifferent to the disapproval of Parliament and Council alike; indifferent, Isabella thought sickened, to everything but his light pleasures. But she, herself, had gained. She knew it. She had proved to herself her own courage, her own strength.

A word from her and a man had gone to his death; his deserved death for slander of the King. She had faced that responsibility when the King had failed. She had washed her hands in a man’s blood, and, so the cause be right, would not fear to do it again. She had faced dire danger—danger of being carried prisoner into Scotland; the threat of ignominy and shame. She had kept her courage and her head. Before fleeing with her children she had asked for proof, weighed that proof. She had not been the Queen that foolishly ran away.

Not to be afraid to command a man’s just death; not to panic in the face of direst danger—these were her triumphs.

Pembroke had lost face over the Scottish campaign—and for the second time. What now? Isabella considered the matter. She did not think he would easily regain it. Nor was Lancaster likely to come back to power; certainly not for the present. The man was unpopular, and his treachery, though not proven, suspected; the aura clung.

Edging into the seat of power—the Despensers.

No-one now to curb the King.

Isabella could not see the sun for the Despensers. Her hatred of them darkened her whole world. It seemed to her that, like spiders, they forever spun their web; were she not wary she, herself, must be caught therein. The King, that willing captive, had long been caught; they held him fast with sweet flatteries, they turned his head with their clever, lying arguments.

For they were clever; so much she must ruefully admit. They might have done the country some good—save that they sought no good but their own. They were liars, they were cheats, they were utterly untrustworthy. Some dishonesty one must expect in a statesman—that she knew, but those two went beyond all decency, all belief. Men that had done them no hurt they fleeced and cast into prison there to rot. They extorted unjust dues; they would seize upon everything a man had so that he must beg his bread or sell himself—a bond servant. They accused innocent men of such evils that the poor creatures were excommunicated or executed or both; robbed of body and soul alike.

And bewitched by his passion for the son, the King said nothing; not though the people cried aloud their hatred—and some of it for the King himself. The Despensers had no friends—least of all the Queen; and that they knew well. Beyond the poison of their tongues they could, at the moment, work her little harm—she was beloved by barons and common folk alike. But patience—they could afford to wait. Meanwhile they treated her with open insolence; and the King allowed it—as he allowed them everything.

‘How long must I endure the poison of their spite?’ Isabella, goaded, cried out to Madam de St. Pierre. ‘Harsh, corrupt and cruel, both of them—and the son worse than the father! He’s cast in a meaner mould; more vicious, more spiteful, even. Cruelty for its own sake—the man’s not human—a wasp to sting because he must, to sting a victim to his death!’

‘Madam, I think he’s not a full man! That pink-and-white, those fair curled locks, that body rounded where it should not be. The waist so pinched, the hips so padded! He’s neither man nor woman—a thing we must despise. Such men know it and it makes them spiteful!’

‘His wife knows the truth of that, poor wretch! He has no use for women—the King’s mignon!’

Even did the King desire it, he could not free himself from those two. They had lent him money; and though they had repaid themselves a hundredfold, the debt, it seemed, was unpaid still. But the King did not desire it; he loved his fetters. When Gaveston fell foul of the barons, those two had stood by the King, those two alone. When Gaveston died, young Despenser had truly wept—they had been palace boys together; that grief the King could never forget… not though the tears were quickly dried. So they went on, father and son piling fortune upon fortune—one made out of offices seized by themselves, one out of offices sold, a third the rake-off of the King’s domestic expenses.

But if the King was a poor judge of men Pembroke was not. Why then had he admitted those two to his party, allowed them seats on the Council, appointed the son High Chamberlain? Why had he given them a chance to thrust great Pembroke from power?

When she asked him his answer was clear. ‘Because I thought through them to win the King; I thought myself strong enough to keep them in check—as but for Berwick I should have done.’

‘Liars and cheats! You are not overnice my lord.’

‘In the game I play I use any piece to protect the King.’

‘It is a lesson, sir, I shall remember; but I shall see to it that it’s a piece I can handle; a lesson it would seem hard to learn. There’s Badlesmere. You made him the King’s Steward. His insolence to me is intolerable—and so I have told you. But still it continues. He’s another piece you chose and cannot handle. He’s no longer your man but my uncle of Lancaster’s.’

‘Enemies always! That they are friends now, I cannot believe.’

‘It is a thing you may have to believe. That two men hate each other doesn’t make either your friend.’

‘Madam, you are a wiser teacher than I!’ He bowed low but whether he spoke in jest or earnest she could not tell.

She had not bargained for this supreme elevation of the Despensers; with them she would have no truck, mutual hatred lay between them. Now she must consider the future once more. Their power hung upon the King; upon the King, alone. Let the barons press—and those two would end like Gaveston. Her future, then, it was clear, must lie with Pembroke or with Lancaster. Pembroke was the better man. But his defeat in Scotland had cost him too much; and his very moderation had led him to make too many mistakes. Lancaster? Not to be trusted… unless he saw her interests as his own. And that she could make him see; she was cleverer than he! Lancaster was her man.

Down Pembroke. Up Lancaster.

She was glad, now, that she had shown her uncle no coldness; now she must seek to win him with assurance of love; lure him from Pontefract where still he sulked, coax him back to Westminster. It would take time. He was a slow thinker and cautious with it. Dear God, let him not consider too long! Lancaster rubbed the Kiss of Peace from his cheeks. He thanked Madam his niece for her kind thought of him; to Westminster he could not come… at present. Of Pembroke he made no mention—the man was clearly on the decline. He could not, he said, breathe the same air as the Despensers. They ate up the country between them; and their insolence to Madam the Queen was such that flesh-and-blood could not tolerate. What he did not say she understood very well.
The Despensers ride too high for the moment. Give me time
.

Until that time he was sitting quiet in Pontefract. But he was busy; he was very busy. He was in constant communication with Badlesmere—a man of no importance save as a mischief-maker; and, kept sweet with Lancaster gold, he was making all the mischief he could. He spied on the King and the Despensers; he ran with his tales to the barons. He was playing his part in Lancaster’s return.

Isabella passed through the Queen’s apartments into her closet. In the anteroom her ladies, sitting over their work, rose to their curtsey. As she passed, the Queen noted without surprise—she had grown used to such slights—the jewel in Eleanor Despenser’s coif. It had been her own; part of her father’s wedding-gift. The King had taken it for Gaveston, and thereafter for his sweetheart the Despenser. But he, slighting the gift as not sufficiently fine, had thrown it to his despised wife. Jeanne Mortimer, too, the Queen noticed for her coif. It stood out from the bejewelled headgear of the others by its simplicity, its perfect freshness; there were some to think that a jewelled chaplet atoned for soiled linen.

Of all her women the Queen might have liked these two best. Eleanor with her high look, her elegance and her charm was a true Clare; she was so like young, dead Gloucester that, coming upon her unexpectedly, your heart turned over. Wed to another, she would have been the Queen’s choice for friend and confidante… but she was Hugh Despenser’s wife. Love him she did not—she had no cause; yet she gave him perfect loyalty. She told him everything—every word the Queen let fall, every gesture the Queen made. She had been set in her place as a spy; in the early days, when she had not sufficiently reported, the thing being repugnant, there had been bruises upon cheeks and wrists. Once she had been a laughing girl; now there was little to be read in the pale oval of her face. She walked in dignity aloof from life… a dead girl walking.

Sometimes the Queen would talk with Mortimer’s wife; she would say nothing important, waiting to see how true this new lady might be, how discreet. The appointment of Jeanne had been a surprise; but the Queen had her reasons. It was because this new lady of hers was Mortimer’s wife and in constant communication with him—a man like Mortimer, an ambitious man, needed to know what went on in court. Such a man, ambitious, knowledgeable, powerful, the Queen would know how to use! Between them Jeanne, born de Joinville, a house faithful to the Capets, was an essential bond. She was older than the others, with a clever monkey-face; that this plain yet not unattractive woman should be wife to the fascinating Mortimer was not surprising. Marriage is a matter of business; the Queen knew it better than most.