Harlot Queen (53 page)

‘Who lies within it?’

‘The porter; who else? They had to hush the matter up—my escape and his corpse. What better way? He was a tall fellow, like me, and like me grey; the face all marred with shock of his violent end. They didn’t recognise the King—those that came to pay their last respects. Well no wonder!’ And he chuckled.

‘But the death… the fearful death? Mortimer confessed it.’

‘He did right to confess it. He planned it. He thought the thing had happened. But God had mercy upon me; and upon him, upon him also, to prevent so monstrous a stain upon his soul.’

‘Sweet Christ be praised!’ She took in her breath on a great sigh.

‘So now the porter, poor fellow, is a saint, and works his miracles. And I hope the glory pays for his death! It is not given every man to lie in a King’s place beneath marble and gold in a great church; nor to be worshipped by pilgrims from far and near. He was no saint while he lived; now he has a fine chance of salvation!’ He smiled the smile she knew so well—the lazy charming smile so that her eyes stung with sudden tears. To this she had brought his crowned head!

And now he was grave once more. ‘The tomb. I cannot keep myself from it. It draws me like a lodestone. I stand, often, within the shadow of the pillars; I watch and say a blessing for all that kneel to pray!’

He stopped. He said. ‘My son comes; at least once a year, and sometimes twice. And always his wife with him; you chose well for him, better than I—I would have married him to Spain. And for that I thank you. And they bring their children—though they are children no longer. They come in state, those two with all their fine sons, but best of them all, the eldest. A great fighter he is; the best knight in Christendom. He’s like his father and my father. God be praised he’s not like me! Though—’ and he was wistful, ‘I wish he might feature me a little—the old Adam dies hard.’

She found that infinitely touching. ‘I wish too, he featured you… a little. You were the handsomest man in Christendom. There was never another so handsome!’

‘Handsome is as handsome does—it’s an old saying. By that reckoning I am not worth much!’

‘You live a holy life,’ she said, ‘and you have not lost your looks. By any reckoning you will do!’

He smiled at that, shaking his head.

‘So many years carrying your secret. In any man a marvel… and you were always a free talker.’

‘Another miracle?’ And he was teasing her a little. ‘Yes, I’ve learnt to hold my tongue—prison’s a wonderful discipline. But for all that it’s been hard, hard. There was one time I almost declared myself. It was when our daughter came—all the long way from Scotland with that fine young man her husband. She was pregnant; and not much more than a child herself! There she knelt heavy with child and weeping above my tomb. I couldn’t take my eyes from her; so sweet a face; not handsome but
good
, a face to love. I wanted to make myself known, to comfort her, to touch her; I’d never wanted anything so desperately in all my life… except, perhaps, my freedom. But I stood still in the shadows; and I prayed and blessed her—her and her young husband and the child she carried… and all the time the heart was breaking, within me. May God put it to my credit that I made no sign!’

They were silent for a while; then he said, ‘All England blamed you that you made peace with Scotland and sealed it with our daughter’s marriage. But you were wise! We cannot hold Scotland nor could we, ever. In war some great deeds are done but more foolish… foolish and cruel. War brings death and sorrow and hunger. So the best deed of all was the peace you made. For our son’s marriage and for our daughter’s marriage, I thank you; and all England should thank you!’ He bent with his courtier’s grace and kissed her hand.

‘But our own marriage,’ she said. ‘You never thanked me for that! If you had… if only you had!’

‘I did you a great wrong,’ he said.

‘And the wrong I did you—what of that?’

‘It cancels out. I forget it. And God will forget it!’

Again there was silence between them. Then, ‘You never came to my tomb,’ he said. ‘I waited; but you never came.’

‘I did not dare. I feared God Himself would make a sign—the marble crack, the corpse bleed.’

‘At first I waited that I might curse you. Then I waited that I might forgive you. And, at last, when sickness and grief fell upon you I remembered that it was you… in your way, that brought me to God; and I waited that I might bless you.’

‘Will you give me that blessing now?’ And her head went down upon the hand he had kissed.

‘It was for that I came.’

When he had blessed her and signed her with the cross, he said, ‘Will you come to Gloucester… some time?’

She shook her head. ‘I am too old, too sick. I am not able.’

‘Then it is Goodbye.’

He bent again to salute her hand. She felt a tear drop and sting like acid and did not know was it her own or his, so blinded she was she could not see. Between them like a flame, the little cloak… and still he did not see it; or, seeing, did not recognise it. He raised his hand in benediction; and now he was neither King nor courtier. He was a priest.

At the door he turned for a last look at her that had been his wife; and so they stood looking one upon the other that had been each other’s bane. And now he saw the little cloak, knew the little cloak. He took a step forward, looking upon it with a sort of wonder. He bent and touched it with a gentle hand, as though it, too, received his blessing.

She watched him pass through the door, watched the door close behind him. She would see him never again. She felt the tears run down her cheeks and upon her hands; tears lay in dark spots upon the little cloak. Grief she knew still and must always know; but it was no longer a carrion bird, a biting, burning, devouring thing. And the black angel had spread his wings and departed. For what she had said was true—knowing his forgiveness she could lean upon the forgiveness of God. Always she must repent; but no longer in agony, in despair, in madness. Like a blessing tears had washed the dark anguish away; only pure repentance was left.

She turned to her prie-dieu. For the first time her prayer was not an asking nor a bargaining; it was a thanksgiving and a praise.

‘The Song of King Edward, son of King Edward that he himself made’

It has long been a point of argument whether the poem bearing this title is, indeed, the King’s own work. But the chronicler Fabyan says this:

Then Edward thus remaining in prison at first in the castle of Kenilworth and after in the castle of Berkeley took great repentance of his former life and made a lamentable complaint for that he had so grievously offended God…. These, with many others after the same making I have seen.
¹

The Anglo-Norman original of the poem is in the Longleat collection, where I have seen it. It was studied by a modern scholar, Paul Studer, who in 1921 published the text with a commentary. He believes that the poem is certainly the King’s own work.

When news of the death of King Edward II broke upon a shocked country it was commonly supposed that he had been murdered.

But did he die at Berkeley?

There is good evidence that the King was alive long after his supposed death. We may perhaps discount the testimony of his brother Kent who swore to having seen him, with details of time and place—Kent’s wits were not of the best. But we have contemporary testimony of two most eminent Englishmen who swore that they had seen and recognised the King in later years—Archbishop Melton of York who had known the King from boyhood; and Bishop Gravesend of London who knew the King well. And what of Pope John the shrewdest lawyer in Christendom? He received a stranger at Avignon, questioned him and accepted him as the King. It was on the special intercession of this Pope that Isabella was declared innocent.

There are other pointers of interest.

Edward had escaped once from Berkeley, why not again? In that case would his gaolers have admitted to Mortimer and the Queen their appalling ineptitude?

It was commonly said that the face of the dead man exposed in an open coffin was unrecognisable.

No-one was ever punished. Even Mortimer was hanged on charges of treason, the death of the King being barely mentioned. All the others managed to escape abroad; Maltravers lived very comfortably in Flanders whence some years later he was brought home in honour, served his King on diplomatic missions and sat in Parliament. Is it likely that Edward III would have dealt thus with the murderer of his father?

And finally, T.F.Tout, greatest historian on this period, has said in his essay on Edward II’s captivity:

There are exceptional reasons for believing that Edward II escaped the doom allotted to him at Berkeley.

She asked in her will that it be buried with her.

1. I quote exactly but have modernised the spelling.

Annales Londinienses; in
Chronicles of Edward I and Edward II
, Rolls Series I, 1882

Camden Miscellany; Number 15, 1929

DENHOLM-YOUNG, N., (ed.)
Vita Edwardi Secundi
, 1957

DIMITRESCO, M.,
Pierre de Gaveston, Comte de Cornuailles
, 1898

DODGE, W.P.,
Piers Gaveston
, 1899

Flores Historiarum
, Rolls Series III, 1890

FROISSART, J.,
Chronicles

GREEN, M.A.E.,
Lives of the Princesses of England
, 1849-51

HARDYNG, J.,
The Chronicle
, 1812

JOHNSTONE, H., ‘The Queen’s Household’ in Tout, T.F.,
Chapters on Medieval Administrative History,
1930; ‘The Queen’s Exchequer under Three Edwards’ in
Historical Essays in honour of J.Tait
, 1933;
Edward of Carnarvon
, 1946; ‘Eccentricities of Edward II’ in
English Historical Review
, 1933

MCKISACK, M.,
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, 1959

MOORE, T. DE LA, ‘Vita et Mors Edwardi II’ in
Chronicles of the Reign of Edward I and II
, Rolls Series I, 1882

PLANCHÉ, J.R.,
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, 1838

POWICKE, M.,
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, 1962

ROBINSON, C., ‘Was King Edward II a Degenerate?’ in
American Journal of Insanity
, 1910

RYMER, T.,
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SCHRAMM, P.E.,
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, 1937

STRICKLAND, A.,
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, 1851

STUDER, P., ‘An Anglo-Norman Poem by Edward II’ in
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, 1921

TOUT, T.F.,
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, 1922; ‘Captivity and Death of Carnarvon’ in
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, 1920;
Chapters on Medieval Administrative History
, 1930

WALSINGHAM, T., Historia Anglicana, Rolls Series, 1863

WILKINSON, B., ‘The Coronation Oath of Edward II’ in
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, 1933