Harlot Queen (34 page)

‘For me it is easy to go home,’ Isabella said. ‘I shall make my peace with your father. I shall live my life as best I may; happiness I do not expect. But for you; for you it is different.’

‘How so, Madam? You have promised my father shall forgive me.’

‘Yes, forgive you he will. But I cannot promise he will change his mind on other matters.’

‘What matters, Madam?’

‘He is set upon your marriage with the Infanta of Spain.’

The angry red flew into his cheeks. ‘I had not heard it.’

‘You would not,’ she said, very smooth. ‘The Despensers have seen to it. And I would not grieve you until I must. But you remember—surely you must remember—when you parted with your father you promised not to betroth yourself without his permission! Why did he do that do you think? Because already the Spanish match was in his mind; already negotiations begun, the Pope petitioned for dispensation. The bride is Eleanor of Castile…’

‘No!’ he cried out. ‘No!’

‘But yes—if the Despensers have their way. And why not? The match is good enough. This Eleanor is very rich; and, as I hear, not ill-looking. A slight squint; but what is that to you? Not ungraceful they say—if she shed some of her fat;
if
it’s a big word, her family runs to fat. A will of her own, so I hear; somewhat hasty in judgment, and in her judgments obstinate. There’s a cruel streak in these women of Castile. But let these things not trouble you. You’ll be her husband; I’d not think much of you if you couldn’t keep her in her place!’

‘Her husband I’ll never be!’ he cried out, passionate.

‘You have no choice—if the Despensers have their way; already they’ve dipped their hands in Spanish gold. We must be rid of them; but before that time there’s a weary way to go. Yet of this be sure. I fight the Despensers not for myself but for us all—for the barons that they may be free to cast away new bad laws and bring back the old good ones; for the people that they may be free to live under those laws; for your father that he may be free of the Despensers and win the heart of the people again; for you that you may be free to choose your bride when the time comes!’

She said no more. Let him weigh well her words.

Point of departure; the longed-for day. Young Sir John had gathered forces from Hainault, from Brabant, from Bohemia. In England Orleton and Henry of Derby had done their work; barons and bishops held themselves ready. And it was not only England’s princes; the common people heard of her coming and blessed her. Sick to death, everyone, of the Despensers and the weak-willed King, of the crippling taxes, the cruel extortions, the hateful punishments. And the loss of Scotland forever rankled.

Isabella had warned her son against a show of grief in parting with his sweetheart. The promise of betrothal had been made and a great part of the dowry already paid; a matter of further congratulation to Isabella who needed the money for her troops. But no contract had been signed. They had yet to win his father’s consent; until then the matter must be secret as the grave—an open show of grief might yet mar all!

Now, bending to Philippa’s hand, the boy was careful to salute it no longer than those of her sisters; but his mother, noting the dejected eye, the pale cheek, smiled. She was sure of him now. And for his sake, too, she was glad—those two were in love. Once she would not have reckoned that part of the bargain; now, herself in love, she valued it… but not too much.

They were on the road to Dordrecht; Sir John rode beside his Queen. And,
Madam
, he said
Madam
, continually plucking at her thoughts. ‘Madam, God Himself, filled me with this enterprise. You, Madam, after God, are my whole life. Madam… Madam…’

She was weary to death of him. He had done his work—now let him leave her to her thoughts; there was very much upon her heart. Soon Mortimer should take the burden from her—her captain and her love. Soon she would see him again; soon! At the thought of their meeting she was shaken body and soul.

That night they lay at Mons Castle. For all her long riding, Isabella could not sleep. She was oppressed by the weight, the nearness of the enterprise. Lying open-eyed in the darkness, she ached for her lover, flesh and spirit. The hours of parting already endured, the hours yet to be endured, gathered now like a monstrous wave to drown her in anguish. That she should see him tomorrow was no comfort now; what comfort of water tomorrow to him that dies in the desert of thirst? The summer day was still dark when she rose hollow-eyed to busy herself about unguents, her lotions and her paints. Let the whole world fall, this day she must be fair to meet her love.

He sat his horse filling his eyes with the sight of her; of late he had grown used to her charms—he was not one to enslave himself to any woman. And, unlike her, he had not since their parting gone empty of love. But not then or ever had he found a woman like her. It was less her beauty than the passion that he sensed palpable as perfume; it kindled him afresh. He was down from the saddle; almost he leaped upon her to lift her from her horse. She lay in his arms her whole body crying out
Take me, Take me!
But time pressed and they must content themselves with touching; they could not keep their hands from each other and cared not at all who might see, not though it was her young son himself.

But at night, lying by his side, filled with love yet thirsting still, she asked herself, would she be satisfied to give up all for him; to go to some quiet place where they might live together? No! Her answer came at once. Keep him from his ambitions—if that were possible—and he would come to hate her. As for herself—deep her love, but ambition deeper; in that they were equal. Crownless she would be less than herself, crippled with the loss of some vital part. With such a loss she could not hope to keep him. There was but one way to hold him. Together they would fight, together succeed, together hold power in their hands. To her husband she gave scarce a thought; his part she had already decided. He must give up the throne, go to some far place—across the sea, or bury himself in some monastery; she cared not which. From her son she need fear nothing; she had bound him to her by his love for a girl.

On the evening of the third day they embarked. The sky was dark and the wind high. The sky was restless with coming storm; and she with coming events. Her future shone in glory as in joy; her marriage-bed cleared of trash, her lover by her side, her son obedient, the Despensers dead and rotting. She was filled with her destiny.

The wind rose higher, the threatening storm rose to a tempest. Between heaving sky and heaving sea the ships lifted, dropped, lifted again, drifted helpless upon the tumult of the waters. The very sailors sick, the ship lost course; fighting-men lay low, groaning as never on the field of battle. The Queen herself, love and glory forgotten, lay and retched upon her pallet. But Mortimer, erect and grim, stood by the captain to fight the storm.

Dawn broke barely perceptible in the sullen sky; daylight came, nebulous as the dawn. And still Mortimer stood at his post to bring the Queen’s ship safe to land. And, grounded at last, though they knew not where, nor even in what country—they carried the Queen ashore and made a rude shelter of branches and kindled a fire with such buoys as had been cast upon the beach, and so left her to take what rest she might. But rest she could not. She knew not where they were—whether in England or Spain, or driven back to France? What had become of the other ships? How different had been her picture of this first day of her return?

And now, ship by ship the rest of the fleet, wind-driven and battered, came limping to land. And now, also, scouts that had been sent out came back with news to cheer the heart. For this was England; and not so far from Orwell where they had meant to land; they were but a few miles from Walton-on-the-Naze. And now, though it was late in the day, the Queen gave orders to march. So they left their cold harbour, and cold it was, for in spite of the summer afternoon the sharp wind blew from the sea to chill them to the bone. They were glad, indeed, to come into Walton where the good monks welcomed them with food and lodgings. The next day they were on the march; through Bury St. Edmunds to Cambridge where, according to plan, the Queen’s supporters were to gather. Here the troops should take a needed rest; the Queen, herself, and Mortimer lay at Barnwell Priory where the monks could not enough honour their Queen and the gallant captain that had come to set all wrongs to rights.

Now came the gentry of the neighbourhood and beyond, their men behind them, to kneel and offer their loyalty; and simple folk, with hearts no less loyal, came also to offer their lives to her service.

The Queen’s forces, being idle, were foraging the countryside; they were taking by force food and whatever else they fancied. The Queen cried out in anger when she heard it. ‘Such behaviour we leave to the Despensers! Every man that so offends again shall be punished. Let it be known! And let it be known, also, that whosoever has complaint on this same score shall be paid the full worth of what he has lost.’

‘To pillage is the way of soldiers,’ Mortimer told her, laughing and teasing. ‘If you are to be a soldier you must learn our ways!’

‘We come not as enemies but as friends; I am not one to pay where I may take, but this payment I must afford. To lose one heart—that I cannot afford!’

The Queen was for London. So far the King had done nothing—he and his Despensers had not thought it worth their while. Now she heard that the Tower had been fortified, that orders had gone out to fortify castles throughout the land, and soldiers sent to guard the coast. At that last she laughed. ‘How like him to lock the stable-door when the mare is gone!’ At Dunstable, some thirty miles from London, they halted. And now came Thomas of Norfolk and Edmund of Kent, their men at their heels. This was great comfort, for now the people could see for themselves that even the King’s own brothers had turned from him to stand by her cause. ‘Dear sister, the Londoners long for the sight of you,’ Thomas told her. ‘They are with you, everyone. They await you with men and arms and most loyal hearts.’

Henry of Derby came with all his forces; and upon him she bestowed, at once, the great title of Lancaster with all its lands and honours. He smarted still that his name had not been cleared; and that his brother lay still in a traitor’s grave.
A nest of traitors these Lancasters
the King had said. Once more she gave her royal word that the name should shine forth in clear honour.

And now came Richmond and Beaumont the King’s own friends to offer their service; and a host of other lords already sworn to her cause. And Orleton came, too; and with him my lords the bishops of Winchester and of Norwich… and more to follow, Orleton said; Orleton that had served her well both in the matter of Mortimer’s escape and in drumming up men for her forces.

‘Now we are strong, indeed!’ Mortimer said. ‘We have Madam the Queen and the lord Prince of Wales; we have the King’s brothers and the chiefest lords of church and state.’

‘And best of all—you, my captain!’ The Queen flung both arms about his neck and cared not at all that Orleton stood by.

He disentangled himself. ‘There’s no victory but a man must fight for it!

‘We must pray God for his continuing kindness,’ Orleton told her, displeased by her wanton show of affection. ‘And for that kindness we must make ourselves fit.’

She sent him a side-long look, gold-flecked eyes narrowed. How far could she trust him? Only as long as his ambition marched with her own; no further. For all his talk of God, ambition and revenge, not righteousness drove him to destroy the King.

For that was what he had meant from the beginning; the King was to pay dear for that public reproof. Long before the idea had entered her own head he had meant to put down the King. Very like he had guided her thoughts in that direction. But she must watch him, this man of God, so secret, subtle and revengeful; she needed him… but she did not trust him.

Through the countryside wound the Queen’s armies—fife and trumpet, banners flying; foreign knights with unknown arms, English lords, all of them in glittering armour. And before them the robed bishops, jewelled croziers lifted. Who could doubt the rightness of her cause? And whenever she halted, beautiful and gracious, she received her people, promising them the things they longed to hear, so that it seemed with her the good times must come again. They fell in to march beneath her banner, gentle and simple alike.

The Queen’s wrongs were the people’s wrongs. The King had deserted his wife for his playboy—as he had deserted his people. He had robbed her of her possessions, he had left her all but penniless—as he had left his people. There was some gossip that the strong man riding by her side was her lover! Malice, merely, put about by the Despensers. None could believe it! Else why did the bishops make nothing of the matter; nor the King’s own brother riding by her side; nor the good, quiet man, her uncle of Lancaster? Good luck to the gallant Queen and her gallant captain!

The King was riding through London to rally the citizens to his cause and riding too late. Sullen they admitted him; sullen they stood while he rode their streets, his soldiers at his heels, a Despenser at either hand. In deadly silence he rode; it was as though he rode through a city of the dead. He had been told that where she rode, false Queen, there had been cheers and blessings.

Arrived at the Tower he gave himself up to bitter thought. Her he dared not—if he could—touch; the people’s love was too great. But with her followers he would deal—traitors all! Traitors to die a traitor’s death—unless they returned at once to their allegiance. And so he would proclaim it. Promise of pardon—and she’d soon find her fine army melting away. And that promise he’d keep—for the most part; he couldn’t afford to kill off the bulk of his lords. But Orleton he’d not pardon; the sly bishop should meet an accidental death—one couldn’t afford to anger the Pope. But Mortimer—no thing accidental about
his
death; the traitor and seducer that had vilely dishonoured the King’s bed should be punished as no man ever before. He could not wait to get his hands upon the man!