Harlot Queen (27 page)

The Despensers had promised to make the King free of Parliament. The only use of Parliament was to supply the King with money; money they knew where to get! Beneath renewed extortion the country bled.

The Queen saw it all with satisfaction. ‘How much longer will the people endure it?’ she asked Orleton; she had been seeing much of him of late. ‘Surely they must see that this is worse, far worse, than the repeal of the Ordinances. To make the King free of Parliament—for them the worst betrayal of all!’

‘Madam, the people suffer like animals; they are slow to act. But they pray. They forever make their pilgrimages to Pontefract. They wait for a voice to speak from Lancaster’s grave. One day that voice will speak—or so they believe; and when it speaks they will follow!’

People were laying flowers beneath the gallows where corrupting bodies still offended eye and nose. Parliament besought the King for his own sake to take down these breeders of bitterness. He had, of himself, been willing enough; his resentments, as a rule, were not enduring. The older Despenser counselled him otherwise.

‘Sir, it will be taken for weakness in you!’

And the younger, ‘Sir, we have freed you from this Parliament. Pay it no heed. Let it not vex my King; for when my King is vexed I cannot sleep nor eat.’

And how should the King refuse his sweetheart, all troubled for his King? The bodies should hang until the last rag of flesh fell from the bones.

He had done better to listen to his Parliament. As the bodies rotted, so more surely the people’s anger increased against the King. Now all their loyalty, all their affection, all their duty turned towards the Queen, the Queen alone. Men everywhere recounted her virtues and her wrongs. She had a heart to grieve for her people pressed beyond bearing. She felt the shame of Scotland lost. She was wise, she was good. She was persecuted by the Despensers. She was a wronged wife, a wronged Queen. And she was the mother of the heir.

She had become a symbol of justice, of mercy.

So dumb, so hidden this turning towards the Queen, none but the sensitive mind could register it. Isabella recognised it, Orleton recognised it. The Despensers recognised it.

Ridden more than ever by the belief that her luck rose and fell with Mortimer, she dared risk that luck no longer. Fail him now and God would perhaps fail her; change His mind about her divorce and say so through His Mouthpiece; or he might turn the people’s heart from her. Her plan had long been ready; she waited only to be sure of her accomplice. She had been weighing up Orleton—his caution against his courage; his ambition against his honesty. In him these qualities balanced—more or less; she could have wished him more courage. But let her wait till kingdom come she’d find none better for her purpose. But for the unrest throughout the land Mortimer must already have come to his death. That he was unwell she had heard from Orleton. ‘Madam, his strength grows daily less. I fear he will die of his weakness.’

She must move—and at once lest death find him first.

The King had declared his intention of putting an end to Mortimer. A public execution; a warning to traitors.

The Queen sent for Orleton; she came to the point at once.

‘The lord Mortimer will not die of his weakness; he’s to die by the rope!’

‘Madam, I fear it. But—the
rope
!’ He looked at her out of a sick face.

She nodded. ‘The day is not yet named; but it will be soon. Neither insult nor torment will be spared.’

‘It is a man not afraid to die—though he will live as long as he can. But—a shameful death; it will break heart and pride together!’

‘Then—’ and she looked him full in the face, ‘we must see he does not come to such a death. My lord, we can do it!’

‘How, Madam?’ He lifted a shocked face. ‘It is the strongest prison in England—triple walls, many towers, a great keep and a deep ditch. How can a prisoner escape thence? And, if he could? Then he must cross the river in full sight of the guards. The thing’s impossible!’

‘Not impossible; difficult, difficult, only!’

My lord bishop of Hereford spread long, fine hands. ‘Madam, man’s wit cannot encompass it. The Tower. It has stood above two hundred and fifty years and no man has ever broken free.’

‘There’s always a first time. And if man’s wit cannot encompass it then a woman’s can. Tell me where he lies, who are his gaolers and what men have access to him.’

He looked at her; he was deeply troubled. He knew her—the quick wits, the single-mindedness, the strength of will; but this was beyond even her powers. As for himself, he dare not move in this; he was answerable to the Pope himself, and already the King had complained of him to Rome.

And still she pressed him.

‘The cell; where?’

‘Beneath the White Tower—the bottom-most dungeon; hard by the great sewer. A man could die of the stench.’

‘Good!’ she said, surprising him. ‘Now! Let us consider. First of all, Segrave. He’s a fool. Never in my life would I make him Constable of the Tower. Well, for his foolishness, God be praised!’

‘Then, Madam, there’s young Alspaye his lieutenant. He cannot help us—though his will is good. He hates Segrave for a drunken brute and a cruel one; endlessly cruel to the poor wretches he has in care.
Care
, God save the mark!’

‘Goodwill is somewhat!’

‘Not enough. He can do nothing. He complains that Segrave treats him as a child; will not allow him to handle keys nor even to know where they are kept. The gaolers have their own keys—but only to the cells; keys to the outer gates they never see. To find these keys, much less use them—impossible! There’d be an instant hue and cry; and before a man could take in his breath, young Alspaye would be hanging. He’d not face it were much to be gained; but when nothing’s to be gained save a hateful death for himself——! Madam, you cannot expect it!’

‘Yet I do expect it. I know young Alspaye; we were friends when I lodged in the Tower.’ She smiled remembering the young man’s infatuation. ‘And many a game of chess we had together!’ She smiled again remembering that sometimes she had let him win. Now it was the Queen’s turn to win. ‘With Alspaye I can deal. Now for the turnkey; what of him?’

‘Only this; he, too, would suffer death were he discovered—and discovered he must be!’

‘Who else has access to the prisoner?’

‘Myself, Madam; but only upon special occasion. And Ogle the barber; he goes in once a week to shave such prisoners as desire it; and also those about to die.’

‘I know him. He shaved my servants in the Tower.’

‘A man, Madam, without compassion. To save a child, even, he’d not lift a finger without reward.’

‘We must see he has his reward. So then there’s Ogle and Alspaye. And there’s you, my lord bishop. You will, I take it, hear his last confession; where is the gaoler then?’

‘He must wait without; in view but not in hearing. Confession is between a man and his God.’

‘One last question. Is it allowed to take the prisoner some small comfort… white bread, perhaps, or a bottle of wine?’

‘It is not allowed this prisoner. Yet—a last confession and there after the man to die! It could be managed.’

‘Now, my lord bishop, leave me. I have to think awhile.’

‘Madam!’ And again he spread his hands so that the ring flashed and glittered. ‘You cannot help him. I beseech you do not meddle in the affair. I have great love for the lord Mortimer—but even more for my Queen!’

And most of all for yourself!
Well she could not blame him. He was a cautious man and already high in the King’s displeasure. But once he gave his word he would stand by it.

She said, gentle and devout, ‘My lord, this is God’s work. He will help us. If I did not know that, I would not dare put my hand to it; much less bring another into danger—and especially one I revere as my father in God.’ She knelt and pressed her lips to the ring; hand upon the bent head he blessed her. But he had not, as yet, vowed himself to the work.

When my lord bishop came to her again she said, ‘Mortimer dies on Saturday—if we allow it. Well, we do not allow it! The plan is perfect and complete.’

When she had laid it before him he shook his head.

‘Madam, it is not possible; the thing’s too involved, too complicated.’

‘Not so, my lord. Take it step by step—and it is simple.’

‘Madam, you must allow for chance. The slightest thing untoward—!’ He shrugged. ‘I cannot think luck will be with us!’

‘Fie, my lord. There’s no such thing as luck—must I remind you? God either smiles or He frowns. In this matter I do not think He will frown! And if He should; who’s the worse? Not Mortimer. If we do nothing, he must die. To die without at least a bid for freedom—and such a death! Can you think he’d hesitate? And for ourselves; we are safe enough. I cannot see how suspicion should fall on you or me—God’s bishop and the Queen! Well?’ she held him with her strange compelling eyes.

He made no answer; and still she held him with that gaze.

‘So be it!’When he spoke at last it was without his own will. ‘Now for the first step. I have slept ill of late. The lord King sent me a physician; he gave me a sleeping-draught. I did not take it. The Despensers—’ and it was as though she spat, ‘would give much to find me so sound asleep they could do with me what they would. This—’ and she drew from the bosom of her gown a packet wrapped in silk, ‘will put the gaoler to sleep.’

He searched her face… Beautiful, clever, and for all her talk of God, hejudged unscrupulous.

‘It is distilled from the poppy and harmless; the physician told me. Before God I’d not offend Him with any man’s death.’

That was good sense; he must believe her. He took the package wishing himself well out of this.

‘Now!’ she said. ‘On Friday morning you hear Mortimer’s confession. Later Ogle will go shave him; he will take with him a bottle of wine. Why not? The prisoner’s to die in the morning. You’ll need to pay Ogle well—he’ll have to get out of the country!’ She put a purse into his hand. He emptied the silver and handed it back. ‘The Queen’s purse could have a long tongue!’ he told her. He handed back also, the one gold piece. ‘Gold is for princes, not barbers!’ he said. ‘This could betray us all!’

She smiled; until this last moment she had been testing his discretion. ‘You are wise, my lord! Now here is your part; it is simple enough—to hear a confession and to bribe a barber. Alspaye’s part in this he knows and will perform it. I have his promise. When you have heard the confession you have nothing to do but wait until Mortimer has crossed the river.’

‘That, Madam, I fear he’ll never do’.

‘Then, my lord, you are saved some trouble! But I believe he will; and you must be ready. Once he leaves his cell comes the hardest part. Ten paces to the left there’s a shaft; Alspaye told me. The shaft—from two privies I regret to say—opens upon the drain that carries the filth into the ditch. The drain that has caused him such discomfort shall bring him the greatest comfort of all—freedom. The shaft is wide enough to take a man; up this shaft he must climb—he’s nimble as a cat, I hear. The shaft runs as far ‘as the Queen’s lodgings. He must climb until the shaft branches—and a long climb it will be! That branch he must not take—it leads to Segrave’s lodgings. He must climb until he reaches the second branch and that is the one he must take. The second shaft—mark it! It leads to the Queen’s privy. From the privy he may come into the Queen’s closet and there a short staircase leads to the leads. How often I have used it to take the air! There Alspaye will leave a rope.’

‘One question, Madame; what of Segrave?’

‘One Friday night he sups with me. It is a courtesy long overdue; he was, in some sort, my host when I lodged within the Tower. Mortimer’s road to freedom is not salubrious; but it offers life. The rest—when he reaches the Southwark side—my lord bishop I leave to you!’

The lord Mortimer of Wigmore was sunk in melancholy. Tomorrow he must die; a tormented, hideous death. A clean death he could face. But the shameful rope; and being cut down half hanged, the entrails torn from his bleeding body while yet he lived! He all-but vomited. And thereafter—no Christian burial; his mutilated body quartered, his head fixed high upon the Bridge—a warning to traitors! He was no traitor, not he! He’d done an honest man’s best against a dishonest King. Had Lancaster played his promised part, he’d not be lying here with a filthy death coming hourly nearer. He had grieved to see his uncle die, reduced within a few short months, from sturdy middle manhood to frail old age. Now he wished passionately that he might die likewise, sinking into merciful sleep. No hope of it. Weakened he was; but strong enough to face tomorrow.

Tomorrow…

Round and round the thoughts beating through his head, rats in a cage running round and round.

He heard the grind of bolts, heard the key turn; saw the pale light creep, lie along the filthy floor, heard the scamper of vermin away from the light.

The gaoler had brought his food—stale crust, stale water, salted meat.

‘Sir,’ the fellow said, ‘your priest sends word he will confess you; and you may have the barber, also—the rope slides sweeter for a shave.’ He laughed and was a little annoyed that the prisoner did not join in the joke. A dull dog, this lord Mortimer! He set down the food; the door clanged, the light went with him.

The prisoner fingered the loathsome food; his belly craved it, yet rose at the smell of it. He put a piece of bread in his mouth; it tasted of mould.

Tomorrow… tomorrow… tomorrow
. How long till tomorrow? Was it—the sickness came up into his throat—already tomorrow? In this dark place one lost track of time. It could not be tomorrow; Orleton had not come, nor yet the barber…

He dozed and woke and dozed again.

Once more the grating of locks, the grinding of bolts.

He awoke in sick terror. They had come to take him to his death!

The gaoler set down the lantern; Orleton came in. He was dressed as a simple monk, his face half-hidden in the cowl; he was carrying the Sacrament. He bade the fellow go. ‘Stand where you may see; but on peril of your soul, where you can hear no word. A dying man’s confession is between himself and his God. Overhear one word, one word, only, and your soul shall burn in Hell.’