Harlot Queen (52 page)

The bright dazzle of the cloak confused her; she shut her eyes against it. At the thought of that death, old as she was, indifferent, for the most part, to pain and pleasure, she sickened.

But
did
he die in agony there, in the dark dungeon?

For the hundredth, hundredth time that question.

There’s some to say he escaped. Well, that’s all one now! He must be dead, it’s all so long ago; and we shall never know. But sweet Christ, if I might believe he lives! And yet, why not? His own brother believed it, swore he’d seen Edward’s self—and for that belief, he died; but Kent’s wits were none too bright. Yet Melton of York believed it and Gravesend of London believed it, they’d known him since a boy; shrewd priests both, judges of men, hard to deceive. And the Pope; the Pope at Avignon believed it. If he believed, great lawyer that he was, who should doubt?

Edward escaped to France—so the story goes; in Avignon the Pope sheltered him, honoured him. And such a man did appear at Avignon and the Pope did shelter him, honour him—so much we know! Why? Was it Christian charity to a crazed soul? Or did he know the man? Rumour said much; the Pope himself—nothing. To all enquiries a smile, a smile, only.

And yet it could be true…

She was desperate to convince herself.

There were tales enough, God knows! A second attempt on Berkeley; armed men attacking and rescuing the King. At Berkeley they swore there’d been no such thing, ever; that the prisoner died peacefully in his cell. But all men lie to save their skin; and it might well be true. For why did the Pope command my son to declare me innocent in the matter? And why was no-one ever punished? Ogle and Gurney were tried and convicted—and allowed to escape; why was Maltravers, prime mover in the affair, also allowed to escape? Why was he left safe in Flanders? Why was his wife left to enjoy his incomes? Why was he allowed home, at last, his lands restored, himself honoured?

No-one was punished because there was no murder
. And that is why my son was glad to obey the Pope and why he allowed me a Queen’s dignity—some cold justice he has!

But, if it is not Edward that came to a hideous death—who is it that sleeps in a martyr’s grave?

Her thoughts went round and round in her head like rats biting each other’s tail.

… Surely it must be Edward. Or, if not, he must have died soon after the rescue. Of this be sure—had he lived he had never had held his tongue. The first cup of wine—and out the tale would come!

Well, whatever happened, Mortimer died for it; and still I bear my punishment. I grant it not unjust. But what of punishment to come? If there’s no murder on my soul, will God, in the end, forgive me?

Sitting upright in her chair, she began to pray desperately that, if the final evil had come to pass—the evil she had lifted no hand to stop—she might not burn to all eternity.

A knock fell upon the door. ‘Madam,’ the little page said, ‘I have brought the priest.’

It was a tall man that entered; so tall he must bend his cowled head in the doorway. He stood in his Grey Friar robes, hands folded within his sleeves. The cowl shadowed his face; she did not find this strange. There were some orders where a brother must cover his face before a woman. She rose to greet him. They stood face-to-face and both in the Grey Friar robes.

Brother and sister of the same order… so it would seem; save that I am no holy woman.

‘Madam,’ he said. And then, ‘Daughter, you wish to make confession?’

She did not answer. The confession she had in mind was not easily spoken; nor one to make to a stranger.

She said, in order to gain time, ‘Father, will you not be seated?’

‘Soon we are to kneel,’ he reminded her.

‘Yet be seated,’ she said.

‘Madam,’ and still he stood, ‘we move towards our death; and for some of us time is all but done. The thing you would confess, I think, lies heavy on your heart.’

She said nothing; she was greatly troubled. For nigh on thirty years the thing had lain unspoken; how could she now bring it upon her tongue? But,
We move towards our death; and for some of us time is all but done
. The truth must be told. And soon. Soon. And what better time to tell this unknown priest she would never see again?

And when still she did not speak he said, his voice gentle, ‘Madam, shall I help you? Does the matter concern the late King?’

She made no answer. It was not his words that troubled her—she scarce heard them. It was his voice. She had never heard it before and yet it troubled her.

She said, at last, very low, ‘There is much upon my soul.’

‘Which one of us must not say the same? Madam, shall we not kneel?’

She knelt upon the stool that still held the little cloak. He stood above her, quiet and grey…
like a ghost; we are both ghosts
.

Between them like a flame the little cloak lay unheeded.

He had not put back his cowl. She was glad of that; it was easier so. She began to speak, her voice so low he must bend to hear.

When she had made an end, he gave her no absolution; instead he made her a sign to rise. He said, ‘Daughter, were you willing for the deed?’

‘Unwilling, father; I was not willing here!’ She touched her forehead. ‘Yet I was willing, too… lust, lust drove me. He…’ and even now she could not say his name, ‘refused me his bed until the thing was done. But, before Christ, I was not willing for the manner of his dying. I did not know it. I swear by Christ, I did not know it!’ And when he made no answer to that, she said, very slow, ‘My son told me… a tale. Most horrible. I cannot and I will not believe it—no devil out of Hell could be so cruel! And why should I believe it? There’s no man knows the truth!’

‘There’s one man knows the truth.’

Her head came from her hands. She stared at him. What did he mean by that? What
could
he mean save what anyone might mean—a putting together of old tales, a guessing at the truth? No more.

But for all that she began to shake and could not still her body. The voice; the voice that, from the first, had troubled her. The voice and the height of him!

‘God is all-merciful. He that searches the inmost heart will forgive you, so you truly repent. And be sure that he who was your husband forgives you also.’

…your husband forgives you….

She went on staring, her eyes enormous and darkened with fear. His hands came out from the wide sleeves; hands long and fine, craftsmen’s hands. They had aged but still she knew them.

The room began to rock; and, in the vortex of whirling wall and floor and ceiling, she saw those hands outstretched to help.

The room stopped its mad whirling, came back to ordered stillness; and in the stillness she said his name. She saw him faintly start at that. The years had disciplined him—but not to the sound of the name he had once borne.

‘Sir,’ she said and went down upon her knees.

‘Never kneel to me,’ he said. ‘Kneel to none but two Kings; first the King of Heaven and then the King of England. As for me, I am nothing but a poor friar of Gloucester.’

‘Sir,’ she said again, ‘sir…’ and knelt still.

He went to her then; he held out both hands and raised her to her feet. The shivering took her again at the touch of his hand, She said, wholly fearful, ‘Will you not put back your hood?’

The cowl dropped. For the moment she was not quite sure; lacking the beard the face had a strange, a naked look. Then she saw the noble head and her eyes came back to the face, the handsome face she had prayed never to see again. A petulant face it had been; now it was a face of mercy. The hair was white, the hair that had flowed in bright locks; the eyes were faded that had once been blue as the flower that country-folk call forget-me-not… she had not forgotten. There were lines upon that once-smooth forehead; lines of pain stitched deeper than mere years can bring. The once-rosy, well-fleshed cheeks were pale as ivory, were hollow so that the bones showed through beautiful and clean. Old and humbly clad there was a nobility about him he had never had. He was, every inch, a King.

She said, ‘Sir, will you, for old time’s sake and to show your forgiveness, drink a cup of wine?’ And while he hesitated, she said, sorrowful, ‘Will you not take so simple a thing at my hands? For if I mark no forgiveness in you that I see with my own eyes, how shall I believe in the forgiveness of God my eyes cannot see?’

He nodded at that. She went to the table glad to perform this so-small service for him and poured a cup of fine Bordeaux. And all the time she stared at him as if, even now, not believing the thing she saw, so that the wine brimmed and spilt upon the table. She brought him the cup and, a little doubtful, he set it to his lips. He drank thirstily, draining it like a man that loves wine and sees all too little of it. With a little sigh he put down the empty cup.

‘Sir,’ she said—and she could no longer call him
Father
, ‘they speak of miracles at Gloucester. Well—and why not? That you should be here together with me in one room, isn’t that a miracle in itself? But those other miracles—what truth?’

‘Miracles!’ And she caught a glimpse of the old impatience. ‘What need of miracles? The world God made—isn’t that miracle enough? Yet—and especially it is so with the poor—a miracle is a blessing and a wonder upon a hard life.’ And there was a sweetness in him and a strength, also, she had never seen before. ‘As for the miracles at Gloucester—true or not, the minster grows in beauty on the fame of them; the very stones blossom like a tree reaching up to God Himself.’

‘I think,’ she said, ‘all of us need a miracle, whether we be rich or poor, simple or wise, humble or proud. And I—I need it more than any. And to me it has been given. To see you alive—it is the greatest miracle of all.’

‘One that you welcome?’

‘Can you doubt it? For though the sight of you cannot cleanse my soul, some guilt it takes from me. Now I cannot question the mercy of God. I know if repentance be deep enough and prayer long enough, He will forgive even me.’

For a while they sat in silence. Then she said, ‘Sir, will you not explain your own miracle?’

‘Who can explain a miracle save in the first term and the last—the mercy of God?’

‘Yet still there’s something to tell.’ Unthinking, she put out a hand and lightly touched his knee. She saw him start from her touch as though she burnt him with fire.

‘You have not forgiven me after all,’ she said. ‘Well, I could not expect it!’ She fetched a sigh from the depth of her being.

‘My soul forgives you… but the flesh is not so quick as the soul.

She poured him a second cup of wine and, kneeling, offered it. He drained it even more thirstily than the first. She poured another, waiting for the wine to do its work. For all their will to repentance she had not forgotten her slyness nor he his delight in wine.

The wine easing his strict discipline he said, ‘The thing I speak of must never pass your lips. It could bring great trouble upon the land; and most of all upon the King… my son.’ And upon those last words his lips trembled. ‘It could be death to him; or to me. For myself I care little; any time is not too soon. But for him I care very much. And for the country still more. That it should be torn by war again—God forbid! Yet it would be so. There are always those to take one side or another; two Kings at one time cannot be.’

‘No word shall pass my lips. As I hope for the mercy of God, I swear it!’

‘It was all so simple,’ he said. ‘So simple you’d not believe it! I walked out of the cell and out of the gates. Simple as that! You see I had my friends; and by God’s kindness the turnkey was one—he was a new fellow. The old one was sick; a cruel fellow, he’d nigh done me to death. Had he stayed longer there’d have been no need of escape nor yet of murder! This new fellow told me that friends worked for my escape; but I must wait, he said, until I was fit. And, indeed, I could scarce stand upon my feet—despair and foul conditions had so wasted me. He brought me food from his own table; but more than that he brought me hope! Food and hope! Givers of strength, both!

‘One day he came with news. That very night—late, Gurney would come with one other to murder me. But they should find their bird flown. Before ever they came I should be free. He brought me some clothes—his own. And how they stank! Well, God knows I was used to foul smells. I’d not quarrel with any stink that brought me life and freedom. He took the chains from me; he would return at dusk, he said.

‘Dusk or noonday; in that place it was all one. How long I waited I could not tell. I thought it must be midnight; when I heard footsteps at last, I thought it was Gurney come to murder me. But God be praised; it was my friend the turnkey—his name I must not say, being under oath. He went first from the cell and I followed. All went well until the outer gate; and there the porter challenged me. I had to kill him; God assoil him and me also. There was no other way. It was him or me and the friend whose clothes I wore… and one other waiting outside and both risking their lives for me!

‘So we walked out and there was my friend waiting. His name, also, I must not say; but his brother died for me. He wore a friar’s gown and he had one for me, also; and we walked away together. And that was all. Two friars walking the roads—who should think to question them?’ He gave one of his well-remembered shrugs.

She thought, Nor time nor adversity can change us. This is that same Edward that could never close his mouth upon a secret. He names no name; yet he all but shouts the name aloud! Ah well, it’s long ago and no harm done! She smiled, and in that smile was something of tenderness, as for a child’s fault long forgiven.

‘At first I wore the gown for safety, only; it is easy for a friar to catch the news as it flies and run from danger. Nor will he ever lack food or a bed; he is welcome everywhere. But soon God worked His miracle. He touched my heart to turn it to Himself—and there’s a miracle indeed. So I wandered here and there praying, but preaching never; binding up wounds—I was quick to learn, being skilled with my hands; doing all those things that friars do until I grew weary. A man grows older and years of prison do not add to his strength. And Gloucester drew me. I always loved the minster… and there was the tomb.’