by Hilda Lewis
He saw by their faces they were going to refuse: he lost his head entirely. He burst into a frenzy of speech. Pardon Gaveston and he’d sign anything; anything at all. If not—then nothing, nothing, nothing!
And still they sat, dark faces of stone.
Lancaster came carrying the parchment, carrying the quill. The King dashed it aside; in direst grief flung himself out. They hated Piers, all, all! And the wife that should give a man comfort—she was the bitterest hater of them all! That he had given her cause, and cause enough, he did not consider. Suddenly he remembered one person’s kindness, one person’s truth.
Into Queen Margaret’s closet he burst distraught.
‘Their demands—endless, endless!’ He threw out shaking hands.
She nodded, grave. Of course endless; like his abuses, endless.
‘It is not the law they seek to change, but me, me the King. Nor is it the people they mean to better, but themselves, only themselves. These Lords Ordainers!’ He was bitter with contempt.
She thought there was some truth there. The barons had much right on their side but would they use it rightly? They were, she had long thought it, looking less to the welfare of the country than to the increase of their own power.
‘Me and my household censured! And first and foremost—Piers!’ He leads me into evil ways, if you please! What am I—a child? As for evil ways! They should talk! There’s more than one of these same loud-mouthed bullies has his pretty chamber-boy. But let them burst for all I care. Piers and I—we’re not the public business; we’re our own private business!’
‘The King has no private business.’ And would he never learn, this foolish, headstrong, beloved stepson of hers? She hesitated; she went steadily on. ‘Indeed, sir, this business between you and Gaveston is very much public business. It concerns the Queen… and the lack of an heir.’
This he would have taken from no-one else; yet furious as he was, bitter and harassed, still he knew her for his friend.
‘You must expect some bitterness against him on that score alone; but there are other accounts, also!’ She grieved to add to his hurt; yet she must spare him nothing to make him see more justly and so save him. ‘They say Gaveston lays hands upon the royal treasure—and God knows we’re poor enough! They say he’s sent it across the sea to Gascony!’
‘It is his. I gave it to him. He has the right.’
‘But was it yours to give? Was it not rather yours to hold in trust?’
‘It was mine—the King’s!’ He was obstinate.
She let the point go. ‘You gave; but a true friend would not have taken.’
‘Piers is myself; between us there’s no giving and taking! But there’s no accusation too absurd. They say he’s turned my heart from the people; that’s not true!’
‘No,’ she agreed, ‘it is not true!’ His heart had never been with the people. True it pleased him to measure his skill against a humble fellow here and there, to seek their company. But for their welfare he gave no thought; for his craftsmen, his merchants, his gentry—he cared nothing, save as he might get money from them. He must mend his ways if… she stopped shaken by a thought; if he hopes to keep his crown. She looked at him with pity for the fate that made him a King. He would have done well enough in the unremarkable life of a country gentleman. He loved country ways and country crafts. But fate had pushed him—a square peg into a round hole.
‘They say he led me into war without consent of Parliament. Well what war? None of my making! For that you must blame my father, the hero that saddled me with war and all the debts of war. Me! I hate war! But this Parliament of mine! No way of pleasing them—none!’
He didn’t seem to understand that he had never tried to please them; never tried to please any but himself… and Gaveston.
‘They say… they say! Does it matter what they say? White’s black and black’s white—as it shall serve their turn. For their jealousy, their spite, Piers is to be banished. Out of the country by All Saints’ Day! Well, well see… we’ll see!’
‘What shall we see?’ she asked grieved with his grief, his helplessness. ‘If he should delay—he’ll die… a traitor’s death.’
His hand went to his throat to thrust down the sickness.
‘I tell you there’s no fault in Piers!’ And now his voice came out heartbroken rather than angry. ‘But he’s a foreigner; there’s the top and bottom of his offending. Out with the foreigner!’
‘There’s more to it than that! I am a foreigner; and the Queen is a foreigner. Yet we have met with nothing but love and respect. No, sir, it is the man himself! The pride that admits no man his equal—scarce even his King; and the strange value you set upon him. Sir… my son; do not, I beseech you, stand against your Parliament in this. On my knees I implore you!’ And would have knelt save that his hand stayed her. ‘You could split the country into a most bloody war.’
He looked at her unbelieving, yet stricken, so that she longed to give him comfort, were it but a single word. But comfort there was none—save what he might make for himself.
He would not desert Piers. Was it so ill a thing for men to love passing the love of women? So it had been with David and Jonathan—and the holy writings had found no fault.
Again and again he came into Parliament. With a patience new to his high Plantagenet spirit he listened to their complaints, their scarce-veiled abuse of himself; he said no word in his own defence. He swore upon his kingly word to grant them anything, anything at all, so they showed grace to Gaveston.
He abased himself in vain.
‘He has no shame!’ Isabella told Madam Queen Margaret. ‘He accepts all insult, all humiliation that he may keep his whore!’
‘Gaveston is more than that to the King; much more. You should respect faithfulness.’
‘Faithfulness! Does he keep faith with his country or with his barons? Or with me? No, we may all go hang ourselves so he may keep his bawd. All Christendom is laughing; and by God I could laugh too… if the fool were not mine!’
‘Pity him; pity him rather. He must lose his friend.’
He could not desert Piers… but in the end he was forced to desert him.
‘I will never let Piers go!’ he cried out in the quiet of his closet, a Despenser on either hand. ‘Let the barons cut each other’s throat, let the country swim in blood, they shall not touch a hair of his head. I can no more forsake him than I can forsake my own soul!’
‘Sir,’ the older man said, ‘there’s a time to give way and a time to stand firm. If you do not give way now it is not only your friend you may lose… but your crown, also!’
He was forced to smile at that. ‘Even my great-grandfather—and there was a bad King for you!—didn’t lose his crown.’
‘No, sir. But there was Magna Carta; he was forced to sign it!’ the old Despenser reminded him. ‘And, if he didn’t lose his crown it was because he lost his life in the midst of an evil war—such a war as the barons will bring upon us now!’
‘Sir—Ned!’ It was the younger Hugh now, arm about the King’s shoulder. ‘If you would keep Piers, let him go… for the present. Even a King must shelter from the storm; when the storm is over you shall send for him again!’
The old man nodding, smiling; the young man whispering, promising… and both of them hoping the sun would never shine again for Gaveston, hoping for that light to fall upon themselves.
‘You are my good friends!’ the King said at last, and took a hand of each. ‘You two I trust; to you I must listen. But to part with him even for a little—it is like parting with my own life!’
He had signed and the decree proclaimed the length and breadth of the land. At Paul’s Cross and in every market-place, the people heard it with joy. There were some that did not know the nature of the love between Gaveston and the King; but all had felt the pinch in their bellies and knew whence the pinch came.
‘All Saints’ Day!’ Isabella made a little dancing-step, skirts lifted above long-toed shoes. She count
ed the days upon her fingers. ‘Let him linger beyond the time but one little, little day—and he suffers the fate of all traitors.’
‘Would you see him hang, drawn and quartered?’ Margaret asked, grave. The girl had reason enough to rejoice, yet there should be, if not pity, then at least some decorum.
‘I ask no more but that he should go. If he disobey?’ she shrugged. ‘I’ll not quarrel with the sentence. The man’s a traitor to the King and to the State. For what is he but a traitor that prevents the King getting a lawful heir. Even when the King is so obliging as to lie in my bed, his mind is forever on his friend; we cannot come together to get us a child. And once—and for shame I have never said it—the fellow came bursting into my bedchamber to drag the King from my bed. And the King went with him!’ She stopped, choking with shame. ‘I tell you he casts a spell upon the King. In France they burned his mother. The son, I swear it, inherits her filthy spells!’
Margaret said, unwilling, ‘That he has bespelled the King is true; but there’s no witchcraft in it. Have you thought… that much of the trouble lies within the King himself? We’re none the worse for facing the truth. And here’s a truth you may have to face. How, if Gaveston gone, the King find another such; or worse?’
‘There can be no worse; nor yet another such! Let me be rid of Gaveston and I’ll thank God forever.’
‘For ever’s a long time!’ the older woman said.
Gaveston must go, but there was all of two months for the King to show his love. Piers should have safe conduct from the north to come to his King. These last weeks they should have together; not a moment to be wasted day… or night.
Gaveston was back in Westminster and no man could say him nay. The barons, detesting this thumbing of noses, made no complaint; the limit of time had been set. Gaveston, himself, gave no sign of impending doom. Easy optimism buoyed him up. There was time yet—the King was the King. But if go he must he’d not break his heart. There were pleasures enough in the courts of Christendom; to pay for them he’d sent gold out of the country… and the King would always send him more. To tell the truth he’d not be too sorry to part with Edward; the man was cloying in his affections and the atmosphere about them far from pleasant. He’d not be sorry to part with his wife, neither; women were tiresome creatures. To live free of friend and wife—the prospect was far from uninviting. So he carried himself arrogant as ever, his tongue wagged as sharp; there was no sign of grief upon him.
The Queen kept her apartments and counted the golden autumn days. She sat with her ladies; Gaveston’s wife she had excused from attendance.
‘The man is shameless,’ she told Madam de St. Pierre. ‘Still he flaunts himself in my jewels, still he urges the King to greater extravagance. And the King, knowing they must part, cannot enough aid and abet him. God knows what parting gifts the fellow will take with him!’
‘There’s a courage in both of them, Madam. It is hard for you; but never grudge them this last, short time together.’
‘Who knows how short? Twice has Gaveston been banished and twice returned. God knows what trickery those two hatch together.’
‘You may leave my lords the barons to deal with it. Sure it is the man must go and the King cannot follow him. And Madam, may I speak that guided you as a child and would die to see you happy? Be gentle with the King. Let him remember your gentleness in his sad time and cherish it!’
Useless for the Queen to keep to her room. In Gaveston would come lounging with the King; and, remembering her governess’s advice, she would receive him with courtesy. He had not lost his old habit of teasing and, in spite of anger against him, she found it not wholly unpleasing; there were times when she must laugh at his wicked wit. He was at his old game of nicknames; and the King encouraged him.
‘How would you name Madam the Queen?’ The King asked once.
She sat over her stitching, her narrowed eyes green-amber. So far he had not dared! She was conscious of a prick of excitement.
‘I would call Madam the Queen… a kitten.’
She stiffened with annoyance. She had expected something rare and regal; a little dangerous, perhaps. A tigress or a panther. They treated her like a child, both of them!
‘A kitten grows to be a cat,’ the King said. ‘I do like a sleek well-fed cat.’
‘It is a little wild-cat!’ Piers laughed into her slitted eyes.
‘A wild cat. It is of all creatures to be avoided,’ the King said.
‘There’s one worse.’ And Piers was laughing still.
‘The lion? The tiger?’ the King asked.
‘No. Those we may catch and tame; you may go feed them in the Tower! There’s a creature you cannot tame nor keep from blood—and that’s the wolf.’
‘A man would be a fool to try?’ Isabella said, very sudden. ‘It is a coward that runs with the pack. At home we hunt him with dogs. But the werewolf—that’s another story.’ And she spoke as from a dream. ‘The creature we know… one of ourselves… yet not of ourselves. It lives with us, sleeps with us, smiles from a bloody mouth. Beware, my lord, the werewolf!’ And was it to Gaveston she spoke, or to the King? She did not know; she knew, only, that she had given some warning.
When they had gone and she, herself, a little calmer, she found herself troubled. Had she meant a warning? And to whom? And of—what? And still she did not know. Loneliness, neglect and frustration were growing like a canker within her; they brought thoughts to frighten her… thoughts too bitter for the mind to bear.
XI
Gaveston was gone. Upon her knees the Queen thanked God. The King had kept his friend with him until the last moment; and then, unable to endure the parting, had ridden with him as far as the coast.
The King was back looking sick and sad; he could eat no supper but sat drinking more than was good for him. He sat listless, upon his knees the beribanded lute Gaveston had left behind. Now Isabella could feel for him some pity, for herself some hope. Surely his forlorn state must bring him to her bed.
That night he did not come; nor the next night, nor the next. He sat within his closet the lute across his knees, plucking now and then upon a string so that it wailed throughout the room.
November was wearing to its end; the land was full of rumours; they echoed in the Queen’s sick heart. Gaveston is here. He did not go. Never an end to his mischief save by death…
‘It is all a piece of nonsense—would God it were not!’ the King said. ‘He’s in France, or Brabant, or Italy; who knows?’
‘You know!’ she said. ‘He is here.’
He is here. She had no reason to suppose it; but she knew it in her blood. Why else had the King not turned to her—his wife. Nigh on four years married and she nearing eighteen… and no heir nor any chance of one!
The rumours grew.
Gaveston was in Cornwall, he was in Somerset…
‘No!’ Isabella told Queen Margaret. ‘He is nearer, nearer.’
He was in his own castle at Wallingford…
‘No!’ The Queen said. ‘Nearer, nearer.’
The barons commanded a search for Piers Gaveston, supposed to be wandering from place to place. He was not to be found.
‘He is here,’ the Queen said, sniffing the air like a wild thing, ‘here, nearest of all; like a worm feeding upon my life.’
And so he was; he was in the King’s own apartments safe-hid. For the Christmas festival the King and Queen went to Windsor; and there, openly to meet them under safe-conduct from the King—who but Gaveston? And not Gaveston alone; his wife was with him. Isabella’s heart all but died in her breast. Bitter the sight of Gaveston, bitterer still—if that could be—the sight of his wife. Margaret could not be accused of wanting to flaunt herself—she was an elegant girl, well-bred; but her condition did it for her. She was with child. The thing for which the Queen longed, longed and prayed, had been given to Gaveston’s wife. The sight of the girl was a sword in Isabella’s heart.
‘He wasted no time at Bamborough!’ she said, bitt
er.
‘What did you expect?’ Madam Queen Margaret shrugged. To make a show of pity would be further insult.
Winchelsey kept his word; he pronounced excommunication. But still Gaveston remained, laughing with the King, making music and dancing as though he hadn’t a care in the world.
‘The King doesn’t mean to part with him ever again!’ Isabella told Queen Margaret. ‘Excommunication. They laugh at it. You’d think they had the Pope in their pocket. They mean to build up a party to overthrow the rebel barons. The Ordainers, the King says, shall ordain nothing but their own deaths.’
‘He dare not do it. He has sworn the oath!’
‘When did he ever keep the oath that irked him? And he’ll find support too! The barons are always at odds. Each looks to his own. Yes, the King will find support; the right word in an angry ear, the clink of gold in a greedy ear—’ Isabella shrugged. ‘He means to carry his sweetheart north out of harm’s way.’
‘So much I’ve heard; and more. I hear he takes you with him!’
Isabella gave no sign of pleasure.
‘You’ll be near him at least,’ Margaret said. ‘Take your chance!’
‘Woo him further? I sicken at the thought.’
‘Once you asked for just this chance. Use your wits, child, and take it!’
Immediately after Christmas the royal train set out. Lacking her aunt, Isabella felt forlorn. The journey was slow; they were forced to a snail’s pace by the frozen roads and by the baggage-carts lumbering ahead, heavier than ever this bitter weather with mattresses with pillows and coverlets, with gowns, with cloaks and furs. And the number of the royal wagons were outnumbered by those of Gaveston and his wife. Of food they carried little; they would honour the countryside. So they rode—the King and his sweetheart, the Queen and her servants, the captains, the men-at-arms, the King’s caged beasts and his fiddlers. And many a town and village, and many a household great as well as small, had reason to dread their coming.
