Harlot Queen

by Hilda Lewis

  Lancaster supreme.

  These days Isabella hated her uncle because, diminishing the power of the King, he had diminished the power of the Queen. Had she thought to influence him, to rise on the wings of his power? The more fool she! She’d not be so fooled again. One day he should pay for this. Meanwhile he was all-powerful and she must show herself gracious and friendly.

  Torrential rains ruined the harvests. There was neither meat enough nor corn enough, nor any to be bought in Europe; for all Christendom suffered likewise. Prices rose; they went on rising. Wheat was eight times the usual price; oats, peas and every common food followed the wheat. How soon, men wondered, would even the coarsest food be weighed in the balance against fine gold? And the corn—however much one paid—was of wretched quality; it must be baked in the oven before it could be ground. With hunger, with bad food, pestilence fell upon the land so that many died.

  Misery upon misery.

  ‘They are eating horseflesh which the church forbids; they are eating cats and dogs and mice and whatever vermin they can lay hand upon,’ Isabella said. ‘I hear that men murder each other for a little bread. And when they get it—no virtue in it!’

  ‘There are some that eat human flesh!’ Margaret shuddered. ‘Dear Christ, that in a Christian country man should eat man!’ She crossed herself; these days she wore a thin and stricken look.

  The sad year moved on. To hunger and sickness was added anger, bitterness and unrest. The King, frustrated and furious, distrusted his Council; the Council, grimly determined upon its rights, distrusted the King. And all the time food less and less, and all the time prices rising. In the fields where they had gone searching for rotten turnips, men lay down to die praying for death before the wild beast found them.

  The King and Queen fared none too ill. They travelled the country; the larders—such as they were—in one house emptied, they betook themselves to the next. A fretful Edward complained of quality, of flavour, of cooking; Isabella made no complaint. She had learned to complain only where she might mend matters; this matter was beyond her mending.

  The bitter year was nearing its end; the King was morose, and sullen; he would give way to sudden, unpredictable rages. Those that had offended—and many that had not—he punished with cruelty. Afterwards he would regret what he had done, though that he never would admit.

  He would take no advice; he could scarce bring himself to listen when others talked. Frustrated in his power to command great issues, he set his whole will upon having his way’ in small ones.

  A few days before Christmas he declared his intention of removing the body of Gaveston from Oxford where all this time it had lain.

  ‘Foolish, foolish! It will anger Lancaster and Warwick still further; reminder without words of their treachery!’ Isabella cried out to Queen Margaret. ‘Madam Aunt, could you not speak with him on this matter of Gaveston? To you he might listen!’

  But even to her, though he choked down his anger, he would not listen. ‘Leave the body where it is! Let the barons forget the thing they have done! And I, am I to forget it, also? No! Nor yet the oath I made to avenge his murder and thereafter to give him a King’s burial. Two years have gone by—and still the murderers go unpunished. Punished they certainly shall be; but for that I can wait no longer. No! There shall be a solemn procession to carry his body home to the house he loved above all others!’

  At Oxford the great procession assembled King, the Queen, Reynolds that, though Chancellor no more, was still Archbishop of Canterbury; and following him four bishops and priests aplenty, together with the Despensers and others of the King’s friends—few alas! And so they came to King’s Langley and there the body was interred with high ceremony… but barons and princes of the church were, for the most part, absent.

  The King shrugged their absence away; but he would remember it. The funeral over, he went to Cambridge, seeking the company of those he liked best—peasants, simple folk that had no part in politics. There he matched himself against them in all country sports; in skill and strength and grace he outdid them all, so that they worshipped him as he might be a god. Such warmth, such adulation touched him to the heart; he felt himself magnified so that he carried himself as though he were, indeed, a god. But he made no attempt to win the burghers, solid folk whose goodwill might have served him well.

  And now it was a new year; the year of grace thirteen hundred and sixteen. God grant us a better year than the last! Isabella made her prayer; Margaret and the people of England, gentle and common, prayed likewise… all save the barons. Apart from the famine and the sickness it had been a good year for them. ‘With their Ordinances they had brought the King beneath their thumbs.

  ‘We must see that we keep him there! He’s as slippery as quick silver!’ Lancaster warned them, Lancaster bent on humiliating the King, bent on showing all Christendom who ruled England.

  Later in the month the King must meet his Parliament in Lincoln; no help for it. The barons were, for the time being, his masters. Reluctant he tore himself from the delights of Cambridge. He commanded the Queen’s company and she went unwilling. She had neither love nor respect nor any hope to influence him. Nor did she relish the cold, troublesome journey; she fancied she might be with child. Yet go she must; and with a good grace. She was well-liked by barons and simple folk alike. It was good for the King to be seen in her company.

  In the bishop’s house at Lincoln he cooled his heels waiting for Parliament to assemble. Some barons had arrived—those that were the King’s friends and they were few enough; Lancaster was not there nor any that were of his mind.

  ‘I’ll say no longer; it’s a studied insolence to gall me!’ the King cried out.

  ‘Yet wait a little,’ she said. ‘Men are delayed for this thing and for that, against their will. Give them yet a little time.’

  Day by day she sought to keep him in Lincoln. ‘Sir, the weather is bitter; wait until the wind changes.’ Or, ‘The roads are bad; floods as high as a man’s knees.’ And when she could delay him no longer with her excuses, said, desperate, ‘Sir, I think I am with child!’

  For that he would stay; but he would not stay long.

  Day after day; and still no Lancaster. And still she kept him with her prime excuse. Sir, I am sick’. I dare not venture. Keep him she must lest he anger Lancaster further; such anger must bring him yet more humiliation. And waiting, there might be some gain. A show of courtesy might wring some advantage out of Parliament. Her pride was as great as his, but she was quicker to learn. She was learning to weigh every hairsbreadth of advantage in the scale against pride.

  The King had waited above a fortnight, he would wait no longer. She could not blame him; she made no more attempt to keep him. They were on the point of departure, bag and baggage already on the move, when Lancaster saw fit to arrive.

  The King’s temper—she had suffered from it these last days—was flayed raw. She sought, before those two could meet, to gentle them into some show of friendship.

  ‘Sir,’ she besought the King, ‘show some goodwill to Lancaster. For the moment he rides high; it will not be for long. He’s top-heavy with pride; soon he must overbalance and fall.’

  And to Lancaster, ‘Dear Uncle, if you love me, show due respect to the King. I ask it for your own sake. There are some—and not a few—that dislike a show of disrespect to him; the King is still the King. Take his hand in friendship; so you keep the goodwill of all to do whatever you may choose.’

  He looked at her in some surprise. Always he had seen her as a wilful, coaxing girl, of little importance. Now, for the first time he saw her—a woman; possibly a clever woman. That she was beautiful he did not notice; to women’s looks he was indifferent. But she had spoken good sense; he might do worse than make some sort of alliance with her. But, could he trust her? Might not the sharpness of her wits turn about to wound the man that trusted her? It was a matter to require thought. But for all that he smiled and kissed her hand and vowed himself to her service.<
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  And she? Could she trust him? His wits were not sharp nor was he honest; but what he lacked in both he made up in pride. Flatter his pride—the sure way to manage him!

  ‘Dearest Uncle!’ she said and bent forward to kiss him upon both cheeks.

  Now the King and Lancaster must woo each other with false and flowery words. In open Parliament the King declared, ‘Dear Cousin of Lancaster, doubt me no longer. In all things I am your good friend as I hold you to be mine. I pray you be chief in Council to direct all my affairs.’ And he wondered that the words did not blister his tongue.

  And Lancaster, no whit behind in false compliments, ‘I thank my lord the King. For love of him I consent to lead the Council.’ Yet he must add, ‘But if the lord King shall not heed my advice, I must hold myself free to leave the Council.’

  So, smiling above his hatred, the King must swear again to observe every Ordinance. And more bitter than ever it was, for they had added fresh demands. Now he must agree that any member of his Parliament who gave him what Lancaster called bad advice must at once be dismissed. Yes and Yes… humiliating himself, humiliating his friends.

  In Parliament it had been Yes and Yes; but when he burst into his wife’s closet it was No and No!

  ‘Lancaster seeks to chain me beneath his obedience—presumptuous fool! Let the fool beware!’

  She laid a finger to her lip lest with an unguarded tongue he might yet, in spite of all humiliations, undo himself. She lifted the arras and looked into the empty ante-room beyond. She said, very low, ‘Sir, this is Lincoln and Lancaster is its lord. Say nothing now; wait till we are back in Westminster. Pembroke has better wits than my uncle, and Pembroke is our friend; Pembroke will know how to deal with him! Between those two there’s no love lost.’

  Pembroke was wise and Pembroke was loyal, but Lancaster was supreme; she knew it, and within that knowledge she must work.

  XVI

  The worst of the famine was passing. Trees were breaking into healthy leaf, corn was growing straight, uncankered. Yet there was misery enough. Sickness still took toll and there was not enough food—nor would be for some time. The misery of the people showed itself in unrest; unrest everywhere. And with unrest—violence; violence spread like a plague throughout the country. Good honest folk, solid burghers who, in happier time had set their faces against crime, now supported gangs of robbers that supplied them with food. In the north the misery was even more intense. The Scots, drunk with success at Bannockburn were over the border, with every raid they struck further south; slaughter, rape, arson—the north knew it all. And, following the Scots’ example, the Welsh poured over the border and the west suffered with the north.

  Lancaster did nothing to put the violence down; he was facing trouble in his own household. For this reason he had not, as yet, come out in open enmity to the King.

  Division in Lancaster’s household! Isabella considered the matter. That must certainly hamper his plans for a while. Wise, perhaps to show him less kindness; wiser still to find out the truth.

  ‘Why this trouble among your husband’s people?’ she asked my lady of Lancaster.

  Pretty Alice, born de Lacy, lifted a pale face.

  ‘It is the steward, Madam; a violent man and greedy. He extorts as he will and punishes as he will; he does not stop at murder.’

  ‘And Lancaster allows it?’

  ‘Madam, he is much occupied with affairs. As long as the fellow fills his master’s pockets as well as his own, there’s no question asked.’

  ‘A hard man, Lancaster; a man not easy to love!’ She fixed Alice with a meaningful eye. Pale Alice went a shade paler.

  ‘I know well what you suffer at Lancaster’s hands,’ the Queen said, ‘but is it wise to leave Lancaster for de Warenne?’

  The red came up in Alice’s pale cheeks. ‘It is not de Warenne, Madam. It is his esquire… it is L’Estrange.’

  Isabella stared, unbelieving. The lame man, the landless man! Did the fool think to throw away her place, her fortune and her honour for this?

  Alice said, ‘A little kindness, Madam—it is all I ask; all I have ever asked… and L’Estrange is kind. Madam—’ and now she spoke with passion shocking is so pale a creature. ‘I am more than an animal to breed upon. But Lancaster! Even using me he has no tenderness. Nor would I welcome tenderness from him now. My flesh creeps at the sight of him!’

  ‘Can you hope to escape Lancaster—his anger and his revenge—you and your lover, both?’ Queen Margaret looked up from her stitching.

  ‘De Warenne will help us, Madam; he has promised.’

  ‘I knew your mother,’ Margaret said, ‘and I speak for your good. De Warenne helps you not from kindness but from hatred—hatred of Lancaster. To take you from your husband for himself—that had been bad enough; to take you for another man—and that man poor and humble…’

  ‘A gentleman, Madam; he loves me!’ Alice said gentle yet proud with the pride of the great house of de Lacy.

  Envying the woman, despising the woman that cast away everything for love, Isabella said, honey-sweet, ‘If you are sure of your heart then follow it.’

  ‘What have you done?’ Margaret asked when Alice had made her curtsey and was gone. ‘You send that woman to disgrace.’

  Isabella shrugged. ‘If she wants her cake let her eat it and not complain of bellyache later!’

  ‘You did it not out of kindness but to stir up angers between Lancaster and de Warenne.’

  ‘It needs no stirring.’

  ‘Then in God’s Name, why?’

  ‘Lancaster’s too proud. All the world laughs at the man that wears the horns; such laughter will help to bring him low.’

  Margaret stared as though she had never truly seen the girl before. So devious a mind, so ruthless a will, such quickness to seize upon her chance… and still so young. How would she grow with the years? What strange fruit might her tree not ripen?

  Lancaster’s wife had left him—and for so low a man!

  He was, he said, well content. Her rich lands, the titles her father had left were secured to him and to his house for ever. He was well rid of a strumpet; he said that, too. But men said otherwise. He shall he hope to rule any man—let alone the King—Lancaster that cannot rule the one creature all men should rule; his wife? Men asked the question laughing the while; but the laughter was behind his back; to his face they did not dare. But Lancaster knew well what they said of him and burned against the whole world.

  Now, as though at a challenge, he thrust himself ever forward; he loomed over the whole country like a black sky. Blind to the law, deaf to the law, he played the king, punishing whom he would and how he would. He set himself against the King in every way; and it was not ambition alone that drove him. Personal bitterness against both King and Queen went deep. He suspected she had encouraged his wife in her flight; and the King made no attempt to hide his amusement. ‘If no wedding, at least a bedding for Cousin Thomas’s wife!’ he said once where Lancaster must hear. They should pay for it—King and Queen, both! Lancaster swore it. Now he stirred trouble wherever he could.

  Trouble from the Scots gave Lancaster his excuse to march; march through Yorkshire where de Warenne sat thumbing his nose. Private quarrel between those two threatened to break into civil war.

  Lancaster command the armies; disaffected Lancaster! The King would have none of that. Himself would take command to punish the Scots. But already Lancaster had departed. Now with his forces he sat in his own city of Lancaster to stop the King’s advance. He blocked roads, he broke bridges, he dared to imprison the King’s messengers. Unlawful disturber of the peace, he declared it his duty to guard the peace of the realm.

  The King’s party was weak, Lancaster’s strong. The King must go to the wall unless… unless…

  ‘Pembroke could save us all—if the King would let him!’ Isabella told Queen Margaret. ‘He could put Lancaster down and set himself again in the leader’s place.’

  ‘I have long thought it. He
took overmuch of the blame for Bannockburn. Lancaster’s all noise and bluster. But Pembroke has a wisdom beyond most men. He’s clear in thought and moderate in demand. He’s reasonably honest and he’s steady; he doesn’t chop and change. He keeps the middle way… a good middle man.’

  ‘He could lead a middle party… a middle party!’ Isabella said, thoughtful, and coined a new name.

  A new name; a new party.

  In the ever-growing enmity between the King and Lancaster, Pembroke was steadily coming into his own. A man to be trusted. It was not only the two Queens that had come to recognise his virtues. He had stood unwavering by the Ordinances, he had never, since Gaveston’s death, shown friendship for Lancaster; yet he had not shown hatred, neither. A moderate man he had friends in both parties. Now these friends were turning towards him—their one hope; they were forming a party to put an end to the incessant quarrels and to all the miseries quarrels brought.

  ‘The church rallies to Pembroke,’ Queen Margaret said. ‘He’s got both archbishops in his pocket, yes even Reynolds that knows which side his bread’s buttered; and with them, naturally the most part of the bishops. He’s got de Warenne, of course; they’re brothers in this!’

  ‘Many of Lancaster’s friends have left him—if you can call them friends! They don’t trust him. Folk say everywhere that he had his own secret understanding with the Bruce; and because of it we lost Bannockburn. Hereford vouches for it; he heard it in Scotland while he was waiting for ransom. He says he’ll have nothing to do with my uncle. And he’s not the only one.’

  ‘You may count on the Despensers! Give them the chance and they’ll be back; Lancaster will have to reckon with them too!’

  Margaret told her. ‘Never look so black. And don’t underestimate them, neither! Greedy they are and insolent; but able, able both. Useful men—if the King would but show himself reasonable in his love of them!’

  ‘Reasonable—can you expect it?’ Isabella was silent, biting upon her lip. ‘Better for us all if he keep them at a distance; and for the King best. The people hate them; and hatred has spilt over upon the King. Now goodwill turns to him again; God send he doesn’t thrust it back!’ she cried out passionate. ‘The tide is turning, friends and servants are creeping back to the Treasury to the Wardrobe and to the Household… have you marked it?’