The Three Edwards

by Thomas B. Costain

  “King Arthur!” they cried in mockery. “Where are your knights to help you now?”

  The earl was beginning to lose the fortitude he had shown in the great hall. His hand was unsteady and he swayed in his seat.

  “King of heaven!” he cried. “Grant me thy mercy, for the king of earth has forsaken me!”

  If it seems strange that he was taken such a distance and to a hillside, when the courtyard of the castle would have been a more suitable place for the execution, it may be considered that this is what had happened to Gaveston. Was it the king’s purpose to recall to the mind of the condemned man the part he had played in that never forgotten nor forgiven episode?

  The block was ready when they reached St. Thomas’ Hill. Lancaster knelt beside it in such a position that he faced the east. He was rudely instructed to look instead toward the north, “In the direction of your friends, the Scots!” It was in that direction that his head fell.

  4

  With the death of Lancaster the baronial opposition fell to pieces. Edward, behaving more like a true Plantagenet every day, took full advantage of his success. It was given out that the two Mortimers and Audley, the sole surviving brother-in-law of the younger Despenser, would be confined in prison for the balance of their days. Bartholomew Badlesmere, the repentant husband of the harridan of Leeds, was yanked out of Stowe Park and hanged. Other executions took place, about thirty in all. A great silence fell over the ranks of the dissenters.

  A Parliament was assembled at York with both Despensers in attendance, the younger having given up piracy with avidity to obey the writ summoning him home. With much high-sounding talk and many promises of good government, the ordinances were abolished and the Council of Ordainers was dissolved. “A skeleton, with pap!” said the man in the tavern, the friar on his barefooted rounds, the villein with sweaty hand on the plow handle; meaning that fair words had been used to disguise an evil measure. The expression was often thus reversed from its usual form, when it meant a good deed performed with a grumbling mien.

  Edward made another abortive invasion of Scotland, failing to capture Berwick, was nearly captured himself, and brought the Scottish forces back on his heels over the border, like hornets with a sting in the edge of the claymore. An English mother was sitting one night on the battlements of a castle, singing a lullaby to her child, Do not fret ye, little pet ye, the Black Douglas shall not get ye. “Don’t be too sure of that,” said a voice behind her. It was the Black Douglas, who had led his men in a wild climb up the walls. He captured the castle but spared the lives of the garrison.

  It seemed useless to go on with this costly war of reprisal, so on May 30, 1323, Edward made a truce for thirteen years with Robert the Bruce.

  Queen Isabella’s anger over her lack of welcome at Leeds Castle had cooled before Lancaster was executed. She did not hear of his death until sometime later. Although nothing is on record about her reactions, it may be taken for granted that she was shocked and greatly disturbed by it. But things were happening all the time to shock and disturb her. When she gave birth in the Tower to her last child, the daughter who was named Joanna, the apartment in which she lay was so badly in need of repair that the rains came through the ceiling and kept the bed clothing damp. The royal lady, as might have been expected, was furious that the royal suite could have been so neglected. Edward became angry in turn and had the constable of the Tower, one John de Cromwell, discharged from his post. He did not, however, lay any of the blame where it rightly belonged, on the shoulders of the Despensers, who were back in harness and making such a sorry mess of public affairs that there was not enough money in the treasury to pay for a new roof.

  The Despensers were poor administrators. They were fattening their own purses while the financial condition of the kingdom went from bad to worse. The younger, with the daring of a rope walker crossing a chasm, undertook changes in the queen’s own household with a view to economy. He succeeded to the extent of discharging all her French servants and packing them back to France, and then taking from her the revenue of her dower properties and allowing her in exchange a pension which she complained was unfair and completely inadequate for her needs; which was not surprising, for the amount paid was only twenty shillings a day. She complained to Edward, not once but many times, but he was now riding high and full of satisfaction at having his beloved Despensers back with him. He paid little attention to her.

  Isabella realized then that the old days, the evil days, had returned, although it was now the younger Despenser who controlled her husband instead of the impudent Gascon. There was no longer a Cousin Lancaster to lend an ear to her complaints. Public opinion about him was turning rapidly in his favor. It was reported that miracles were happening at his tomb (this story became so persistent that Edward had the entrance sealed up), and the people of the north country, who had not taken him to their hearts while he was alive, were spreading a prophecy that grass would never grow again where the battle of Boroughbridge had been fought. There was even a movement on foot to have him canonized. Still he was dead and could no longer support the queen in her grievances against her insensitive and infatuated husband. She turned then to her third brother, Charles the Fair (another physically handsome specimen), who was now King of France, her two older brothers having died without male issue, thus reviving the talk about the curse laid on the family by the dying Grand Master of the Templars. In one of her letters to this brother she declared she had become no better than a servant in the royal household. In another she spoke of Edward as “a gripple miser,” a strange epithet to apply to one who had been a spendthrift all his life. What she meant, of course, was that he behaved like a miser to her and lavished everything on the demanding Despensers.

  Four years of this sort of thing followed. There was no longer a baronial party to spearhead a movement against the king and the new favorites, but feeling against him in the country began to run high. The younger Despenser was hated then almost as universally as Gaveston had been. He was blamed for the bad times which had gripped the country: the lack of food, the lack of work, the stagnation in trade. To make matters worse, Edward used no tact in his dealings with prominent men in the country.

  The discontent grew deep. The coals were ready, the fire laid: all that was needed was a spark to ignite the blaze.

  CHAPTER IX

  The Royal Triangle

  1

  THE center of the stage must now be given to one of the most unpleasant of villains: Roger de Mortimer, eighth Baron of Wigmore, lying in the Tower of London under a sentence of life imprisonment.

  He has already appeared for brief intervals and never in the most favorable light. A determined, ambitious, and cruel young man, whose energy and drive had made him the real leader of the Marcher barons and whose marriage to an heiress had raised his fortune and influence considerably; a handsome fellow, obviously, with ease of deportment, and without a scruple.

  It had been customary for prisoners of consequence in the Tower to live in some degree of state. When John Baliol, the stickit King of Scotland, was immured there, he was allowed to take with him a large retinue, including even huntsmen to look after his horses, greyhounds, and beagles. Altogether he cost the crown seventeen shillings a day. Later his staff was reduced to two squires, three pages, two grooms of the chamber, one barber, one tailor, one laundress, one butler, and one pantler. One half crown a day was saved this way.

  In later years, when prominent prisoners were allowed the services of no more than one or two servants, it would be cited as evidence of extreme severity.

  It is apparent, therefore, that Mortimer and his sixty-five-year-old uncle were kept in unusually rigorous confinement. They must have shared one cell, a “lofty and narrow chamber,” with little light, airless in summer and clammily cold in winter. It is not likely that a servant of any kind attended them, and for food they had to be content with what the jailers brought, which would be very plain fare indeed. Here they remained for over two year
s, by which time the uncle, Mortimer of Chirk, died.

  But Roger de Mortimer was not the kind of man to remain forever in confinement, not when he had willing friends on the outside and high-placed friends within. It is not recorded when or where he first saw Queen Isabella, but it is agreed that it must have been while he was in the Tower. This may seem to be stretching the probabilities, but after a close consideration it appears distinctly possible. The queen came to the Tower for her accouchement and remained there for some time after the birth of her daughter. The Tower held relatively few prisoners in these days and the queen would hear much about the bold young baron who was existing under the same roof. A building which serves the double purpose of royal residence and prison inevitably rings with rumor and gossip. Isabella would have all manner of stories poured into her ears by her ladies; how handsome the prisoner was, what his habits were, what he said to his jailers. All such small talk would be repeated and added to and commented on at considerable length.

  It must be remembered also how limited the facilities of the Tower were, with its one entrance and one stairway. Mortimer was often summoned for hearings, and it may be taken for granted that word got around. Avid eyes would watch from around turns in the dark corridors as he was escorted to and from the one stairway shaft. It is quite conceivable that on such occasions one pair would belong to Isabella, for a queen can be just as curious as a lady-in-waiting or a domestic. And life in the Tower was sometimes as dull for her as for any of the others.

  There is a certain amount of attraction about a prisoner, particularly if he has been in captivity a sufficient time for his hair to grow long and his cheeks pale and his eyes to have the look of desperation which close confinement breeds; most particularly when he is handsome to begin with and has a reputation for bravery in the field and a way with women.

  Yes, it is highly probable that the queen saw the prisoner. It is well within the bounds of probability, in fact, that communications passed between them. One glance might have been enough to plant a romantic interest in the receptive mind of the queen. She was ripe for romance. Although the mother of four children, she had no true wifely feeling for her husband. He had awakened contempt in her almost from the first; and love does not go with contempt. She was about twenty-six years of age when the opportunity came to see Mortimer, and if a little beyond the peak of her beauty she was still a woman of loveliness and charm. Mortimer would most certainly have grasped at any indication of interest on the part of the queen.

  There is room for speculation also in the manner of his escape from the Tower; for escape he did, most boldly. It would have been impossible for him to get out of that “lofty and narrow chamber” and over the high walls unless he had help from inside. The rather circumstantial reports of the escape which have been handed down make it clear he had such assistance. Gerard de Alspaye, the sublieutenant of the Tower, was won over to his aid and was chiefly instrumental in hatching the plan and carrying it through. Why would a man in a comfortable minor position risk his post, his life even, to let an important prisoner loose? Mortimer’s estates had been seized and he was not in a position to pay a large enough bribe. It is almost certain that the sublieutenant would not take this risk unless he knew he had the support of someone of high rank.

  It is not difficult to believe that the queen, her emotions aroused by the fine dark eyes of the prisoner, had communicated with him, had in fact made occasion to see him. It is easy enough, too, when served by loyal gentlemen and ladies-in-waiting, to have a cell door opened and a corridor kept clear and thus to receive a guest when the silence of night has settled over the dark Tower. It would be risky but possible to carry on a liaison under the eyes of the court. It is easy to imagine also that the sublieutenant could have been won over if pressure of the right kind had been brought to bear on him.

  On the night of August 1 it was customary for the garrison and the prison guards to celebrate the feast of St. Peter and Vincula with much eating and drinking. Alspaye saw to it that the supplies for the occasion were drugged. When all of the company had fallen into a stupor, the sublieutenant accompanied Mortimer out through a hole which had been dug in the wall of his cell (undoubtedly with tools supplied by Alspaye) and into a passage which led to the roof of the royal kitchens. This took them to an inner ward, where a rope ladder was produced.

  A complete silence had settled over the Tower. In the kitchen they had found the cook and his staff, after partaking of the feast, lying in sodden slumber amidst their ovens and pans. If there were sentries on the walls, they had crumpled against the stone of the battlements and were snoring loudly to the stars.

  One highly romantic version of the escape has it that the queen came out from the shadows of the ward, wrapped in a cloak and hood for concealment. There was a last embrace, a few whispered words of reassurance and warning, and then she helped Mortimer to climb the wall by holding the rope ladder firm in her own fair hands. The prisoner is asserted to have called down when he reached the top, “Now, Fortune, be my guide!”

  It is extremely doubtful that she would have shown so little discretion. If she were the baron’s accomplice, she undoubtedly had enough sense to remain in her bed, reassured by the lack of sound from the battlements and the absence of any peremptory challenges from the sentries.

  Accompanied by Alspaye, the escaped prisoner reached the river, where an open boat was waiting. They were ferried across the Thames and on the opposite side found seven of Mortimer’s men ready for them with horses. They rode through the night, pausing only to change horses, until they reached the coast of Hampshire. Here another boat waited, and it was given out that they were going to the Isle of Wight. In reality they were conveyed to a large merchant ship hovering off the coast which belonged to a London merchant by the name of Ralf Botton. The ship took them to a port in Normandy. Mortimer, still accompanied by the sublieutenant, made his way direct to Paris and the French court. It was learned later that Adam of Orleton, Bishop of Hereford, had arranged all the outside details with great skill and foresight.

  The king was in Lancaster when the word of Mortimer’s escape reached him. He fell into a fury of activity and, believing the fugitive would make for his own possessions, he directed the hue and cry into Wales. It was some time before the truth came out, and then the harassed king had matters on his mind which seemed of even more importance than the escape of an important prisoner. The absence of Alspaye placed the guilt of complicity on his shoulders, but no whisper involved the queen.

  That Isabella had taken some hand in the escape and that the most lurid of clandestine romances in the royal annals of England had begun while Mortimer was a prisoner became something more than conjecture as a result of what happened after the fugitive reached the court of Charles IV, the last of Isabella’s three brothers.

  2

  Queen Isabella visited Paris the next year. There was a great rush to see her as she rode through the streets of the French capital with her train; this queen of surpassing beauty who had left France many years before and had lived such a stormy life with her English spouse. She rode astride (the sidesaddle would not be used for another century or more), and her black velvet skirts were very full and so long that no more than the tips of her riding boots of white checkered leather could be seen. Her hair was unplaited and held in cases of gold fretwork on each side of her head. They cheered her proudly and said among themselves what a lout this Edward of England must be to neglect so fair a creature.

  When she first went to England as a bride she had been aware that the clothing of the English was strangely different. To her girlish eyes the people had looked dowdy and old-fashioned. She had known, of course, that Paris established the mode, but it had never occurred to her that a country as close as England could lag so far behind. In her first years as queen she had managed to keep pace with things in the world of style but inevitably had lost contact. When she managed to convince her husband that she should go back to France as a peacemaker, she imm
ediately took steps to have her wardrobe thoroughly overhauled. Tailors came from Paris at considerable expense to see that she had clothes of the very latest style and design.

  And so she was richly and fashionably clad when she appeared at her brother’s court. It is contended in some chronicles of the time that it was then that she first laid eyes on Roger Mortimer. The latter had been cordially received by the king after his escape and was on hand to be presented with the knights of France. The queen and the fugitive were said to have fallen deeply, completely, overwhelmingly in love at the first glance.

  But the events leading up to her visit to France seem to refute this supposition. In the first place, Charles the Fair would not have received a political refugee with favor unless he had been properly prepared in advance; by letters from the queen herself, it is alleged. As soon as the Englishman put in an appearance, a situation developed which was not understood at the time but was recognized later as the first step in a well-laid plan. Charles had begun immediately to contend that Edward must come to France to do homage for Aquitaine and Ponthieu, on pain of having them seized. Edward was advised by the Despensers that it would be unwise for him to leave the kingdom. What they really meant was that it would be unwise from their standpoint; for Edward, under alien influences, might be persuaded to dispense with them. He blithely accepted their word for it and sent over his uncle Pembroke to discuss matters. Pembroke died almost as soon as he arrived and then the king sent Edmund of Kent, his half brother, to take his place. Edmund was a dull young man with no head for diplomacy whatever and he accomplished nothing. Then Isabella came forward with a suggestion: she would go to France and get her brother’s consent to a delay. Secretly the king may have been glad to be rid of her for a time. Her hostility to the Despensers had been causing continual scenes. He had been growing weary of the light of indignation in her eyes, the angry tapping of her small foot, the bitterness of her tongue. Let her go and perhaps she would be in a better mood when she returned. So Edward put no obstacles in the way and Parliament gave its consent.