Harlot Queen

by Hilda Lewis

  ‘I have marked it; and I begin to hope,’ Margaret said.

  In the summer of the year of grace thirteen hundred and sixteen the two Queens went to Eltham; there in mid August, Isabella was brought to bed with her second son.

  Food might still be scarce and misery rife; there might be little in Wardrobe and Treasury. But the King’s son had been born and the King’s friends were back in office and there was enough money to fling about. The messenger had a hundred pounds for bringing the news, the midwife enough to keep her in comfort for the rest of her life. The Queen ordered a gown of white velvet, very rich and fine, five pieces went to the making of it; and all trimmed with minniver and pearls. Very lovely she looked when she went to her churching. There were some to mutter against her extravagance; but it was an extravagance most could forgive. She had given them a second prince; she was but twenty-two and well-liked. The mutterings were lost in the louder cry of love.

  XVII

  A new name had been added to Pembroke’s supporters; an unexpected name. Uncle and nephew had sent from the Welsh marches with assurances of friendship, of help at need.

  Mortimer! It was a name Isabella knew. A great name on the Welsh border. The uncle was Mortimer of Chirk, the nephew Mortimer of Wigmore; and baptised Roger both. One never saw them at court; their hands were full. Most powerful of marcher lords they kept peace on the Welsh Border. Isabella thanked God they had come in to Pembroke.

  The year moved on; the new year came in.

  Lancaster more bitter, more intransigent than ever still rode high in the saddle. But Pembroke’s Middle Party gathered strength, bishops and barons forever swelling its ranks. Mortimer; it was a name often heard now and Isabella listened with care, stored the information. Mortimer of Chirk was in late middle-age; a strong man of great authority. Mortimer of Wigmore in his early thirties was his uncle’s heir and both were very rich. Bonny fighters both of them; and the younger, one that knew how to use his wits. He was, they said, ambitious above all men. From Madam de St. Pierre the Queen had the personal, intriguing gossip about the man.

  ‘Women hate him or run mad for him!’ Théophania said.

  ‘And he?’

  ‘No woman-hater, certainly!’

  ‘Married?’

  ‘But certainly, Madam. His wife’s a good and pleasant lady—our country-woman. De Joinville she was; Jeanne de Joinville.’

  ‘A name I know. I hope to meet its pleasant owner soon.’

  ‘She’ll not come unless you command her. She’s not fond of courts—she has a growing family. They say he’s as faithful a husband as you can expect from a soldier—but he’s a man to like variety in women; and he’s able to take his pick!’

  ‘I hope to see this challenging man one day!’ the Queen said, indifferent.

  ‘Since, Madam, he’s of the lord Pembroke’s party he must soon come to court!’

  ‘Then let it be soon! Before God, I’m sick to the soul of the faces I know—the greedy, suspicious faces. Should this Mortimer prove no better than the rest, at least he’s something new!’

  The year of thirteen hundred and seventeen had worn its dreary way to December. Christmas was not enlivened for the Queen by the knowledge that she was once more with child. Nothing for it but to resign herself as best she might to the situation. Of her sons she saw little. Edward, turned five, and John, half-way through his second year, lived each in his own household. They had their governors and their tutors, their household officials and servants. Their father saw more of them than she; he liked children and little Ned he loved with an all-devouring pride. He visited them both whenever he could, he sent them playthings—a tiny boat, or a hound himself had carved with loving care, his strong, fine hands holding the knife with precision. But she? As long as the children were well she cared not how little she might see them.

  Of a third child she saw no need; two were enough to secure the succession. She resented the coming child; as with the others there had been no joy in its conception; this time, indeed, she had resented her husband yet more. Had he come to her in love or even in plain lust she might have welcomed him—it proved, at least, some need of her; she might have welcomed, also, the fruit of this need. But it was no such thing and everybody knew it; everybody knew of his passion for the young Despenser. It was the old story. Having sported with his love the King might remember his duty; at such times he would come to her bed to take her with indifference. Then he would be off and nothing more seen of him for weeks.

  Now she must count the weeks to June, watching the thickening of her body, enduring the discomforts of pregnancy. She was wearier than ever of Westminster, wearier of the faces about her. She thought she must scream at the sight of Lancaster back from his fastness, with his great hump and the great head sunk between his shoulders, and the fantastic clothing hard even for a handsome man to carry. She was sick of the sight of Pembroke, saviour though he might be, Pembroke with his yellow face and his beak of a nose. How aptly Gaveston had named him! She sickened still more at the sight of the Despensers—the father with his clever weasel-face and the pretty son with his girlish ways. And most of all she sickened at the sight of her husband with his grace, and the handsome, smiling face that hid the cold heart. Warwick, thank God, had gone to his grave. Blackdog; men need fear his bite no more. She found herself, to her surprise, regretting Gaveston; with him laughter had fled the court.

  The Middle Party was growing ever more strong. Lancaster must hold on tight lest he fall from the saddle. Isabella longed for the day. But a question troubled her—this new party once in power, would it, too, crack the whip over the King? She wanted him to be ruled—but by herself; her foresight, her wisdom covering his weakness, his instability and the light breaking of his promises; and the way he gave his heart to unworthy men—and the country’s treasure with it. The spectacle of the King of England bending to the barons’ whip was unendurable. Partner such a man she could not!

  She took her trouble to Queen Margaret. ‘Shall a new party treat the King with more honour than the old? To crack the whip, beat down an anointed King—it sickens me!’

  ‘You may trust Pembroke. Lancaster would have the King dance to his command; Pembroke will restore the King’s dignity.’

  Restore what was never there; it’s beyond the power of a man! Isabella bit her tongue against the thought.

  ‘Lancaster had best look to himself!’ Margaret said. ‘If he’s wise he’ll come in with Pembroke now—while there’s time. But he isn’t wise. He’s losing ground and he doesn’t know it. He thinks he can go on for ever flouting the law as he thinks fit, allowing none other to speak for the barons but himself, himself alone, treating the King with insolence. I tell you, madam niece, Pembroke will not tolerate it much longer.’

  ‘By God’s Face I weary of Lancaster and Pembroke alike! I weary of all those that set themselves to govern the King; and, most of all, I weary of the King that needs such governing!’ Isabella spoke with the irritability of a breeding woman; but for all that Margaret caught the ring of truth.

  Isabella was wearier of the court than ever. Madam Queen Margaret had gone into the country. She had not been well of late; unable to sleep, unable to eat, she could no long support the struggles and the quarrels and the fear of saying too much. She longed, instead, to set her thoughts on holy things; the pain within her breast of which she never spoke told her it was time. She was now at Marlborough Castle, her own house, where, free of court restriction, a sick woman could rest and make her peace with God.

  ‘You will come to Woodstock to be with me in June?’ Isabella had asked and it was less a question than a certainty. Margaret had been with her at the birth of both her sons; it was Margaret’s kind hands that each time had taken the child from the midwife, Margaret’s voice that had spoken the joyful tidings—a son. To go through her ordeal alone, alone to bear this undesired child—it was not possible.

  ‘I will come… if I am let,’ Margaret had said.

  Then al
l was well; for when the Queen commanded, who could say No?

  Now Isabella had no-one to comfort her with good advice. Madam de St. Pierre she could trust for a loving heart and for discretion; but scarce for understanding affairs of state; Théophania had not the keen wit to pierce through policies and come at the truth. Isabella longed for Margaret and her wisdom.

  In the third week of February, in the year of grace, thirteen hundred and eighteen, Margaret good withouten lack died. She was thirty-six.

  Isabella took the news with disbelief. She had not thought, she had not dreamed… Her aunt had tired easily of late but the peace of Marlborough would mend all! But Marlborough had not mended; it had ended. Forced, at last to the bitter knowledge that her aunt would come no more, Isabella gave herself to her grief. But grief was for herself; there was none to spare for the King, nor for Margaret’s two sons—Thomas of Brotherton eighteen years old and Edmund a year younger. Men all three! They had no need of woman’s comfort in woman’s ordeal But she… she! She felt herself cheated that Margaret could not be with her for the birth. One greater than the Queen of England had said No!

  The King had taken the news with grief, grief greater, he was sure, than that of Margaret’s own sons. As always, with him, grief flowed in easy words. ‘She was my mother, dearer to me than my own. When I offended my father—and dear God how easy he was to offend!—she would speak for me; without my asking she would turn away his wrath with gentle words. And now she is dead, my dear mother. There was never another so kind, so good… Margaret good withouten lack, and, Yes, Isabella said, Yes, letting him talk himself out until the flow of grief died with his words.

  ‘I will make a memorial for her, the most splendid in Christendom. There shall be continual offerings made in her name. I shall give an altar-cloth of crimson samite worked all of gold.’

  I shall… I shall…. He had talked himself cheerful again. But for all that he missed her intolerably; only toying with the young Despenser could he forget the one creature that had loved him with a pure heart; and a wise one.

  May deepened into June and the Queen ripened with the year. Early in June she betook herself to Woodstock to await the birth of her third child.

  Mid-June she was brought to bed of a daughter; boy or girl, she cared little. She was done at last with the inconvenience of pregnancy and her body come again to its sweet shape. But the King’s joy was deep; the birth of a daughter released in him a tenderness he had never known nor expected. Women he did not like; but this baby daughter filled him with an almost feminine love. And with it came gratitude to his wife; a gratitude he had not known since the birth of his heir. He could not do enough to pleasure her. He sent her three hundred pounds to spend on new clothes; he sent her a silver-gilt box of sugared violets for which, in pregnancy, she had developed a craving. He ordered new cushions for her charette—flame-coloured silk and gold tissue to become her beauty well. He could not stop sending her gifts. There were three pieces of satin worked with gold, and with them he sent shoes dyed to the same colours with tassels of pure silk and tags of silver-gilt. He sent her a message, also; the first message to come from his heart. He longed to see her and his daughter; he would have come at once, had, indeed, been upon the point of starting. Instead, he must, alas, meet his barons at Leake; he scented trouble.

  He did not ask her to join him, he had all a weak man’s vanity—but he prayed she would come of herself. With the grace of recent motherhood, added to the affection in which already they held her, she could surely influence the barons in his favour.

  The same thought had taken possession of Isabella.

  His kindness had come too late; she wanted none of it. But power she did want; and this was a step towards it. But dare she take it? Dare she join the King, unasked? And what of the barons; might they not resent her? Opinion had hardened against the King; her task would be more difficult than before. Was she ready?

  Margaret was no longer there to advise; it was a matter to think out for herself.

  … She was cleverer than the King, so much was certain; cleverer than any man of them all, more subtle, than Pembroke, even. Crooked was a word she would never admit of herself. She was clever, she was subtle, others were crooked. She and Pembroke together—she guiding! She could do it.

  For the first time she was not sorry that Margaret was dead. With Margaret she had pretended to goodness; pretended that her heart was set to help the King—that and that alone. She need pretend no more!

  She felt within herself like the stirring of a child, the stirring of freedom—freedom to act without pretence, to do exactly as she thought fit. Like a birthpang she felt within her the strong, unfolding will. Will to power.

  Mind and will; these were woman’s hidden weapons; with beauty she made immediate assault. Isabella searched her face in the looking-glass, knowing with love, her own beauty. But what of her shape after this third birth? Hands upon high, white breasts, hands sliding to slender waist and rounded hips, she was, she knew as fine as ever.

  And now she was for Leake. Had she been weary of the court? Now she could not get there fast enough! Would there be newcomers to charm? Had the Mortimers come yet from Wales? And if they had would she find them useful? Her mind took her again and again over the barons; some she could assault with her beauty, others undermine with her subtlety. Power. Power for herself! She would be satisfied with nothing less. To wield it in the shadow of the King would no longer serve. Power she must have within her hands to hold it fast. She and she alone.

  XVIII

  Things were unpleasant at Leake. The King was irritable and troubled, he and his barons distrusted each other. And among themselves they were divided. Pembroke made it clear that he meant to be master; Lancaster was bitter, intransigent. But beneath his unbearable pride Isabella sensed fear. Had his slow mind grasped at last the possibility that, if he did not come in to Pembroke, Pembroke would act without him? Bend or break.

  She did not wish Lancaster to break. Pembroke must not have it all his own way. When a man, be he never so moderate, rises to power, how long will he content himself with moderation?

  Lancaster must join the Middle Party. Outside it he would find himself over-ridden; within it he must be listened to; he was still a great prince. Lancaster she must have—a brake upon Pembroke. Only within the party could they balance each other, weaken each other. And the King would lose nothing. Whether those two were reconciled or not, he would have to accept the Ordinances, be made to dismiss those friends so lately creeping back—above all send the Despensers packing. On the other hand, with Lancaster and Pembroke working against each other within the same party he might gain much—if he had the wit to be guided. And what better guide than she with her new-found gift to reconcile enemies. To hold the balance even between Pembroke and Lancaster, to settle the King and barons in peace; to work, a hidden influence, for the country’s good—the thought filled her with a sense of power.

  But… reconcile those two! They bristled like angry dogs. Well, angry dogs can be coaxed; or else—the whip. One way or the other dogs be brought to obedience.

  She had time to consider that problem. There was little diversion at Leake—no feasting, no gay riding-parties, no hawking… and no new faces. The Mortimers had not come from their marcher lands; and that was something of a disappointment. They had made their legend those two and she longed to see them for herself. That the younger Mortimer had a way with him to turn the heads of women interested her not at all; she had no wish to have her head turned. She saw her way clear—and meant to keep it so. She had, besides, nothing but scorn for women that would lie down for the asking. It was the possible usefulness of the Mortimers that she meant to assess—usefulness to herself.

  The dull days stretched on. Pembroke and Lancaster were still immovable, the barons still distrustful and the King irritable. But to her he was pleasanter than ever before. She listened to him with seeming kindness, her cool, unfriendly mind at work. How best might she turn th
is to further her end—to reconcile those two fierce dogs?

  She came upon Lancaster, surly as a dog, walking the August garden, great head sunk between his shoulders, the whole man stiff with iron pride. Yet her subtle wits guessed at the indecision beneath the pride, the teetering of fear… Bend or break!

  ‘Uncle!’ She went across the grass, both long, jewelled hands holding the rose-and-gold gown above the dewy grass, her feet in the rose-coloured shoes themselves like roses upon the grass. ‘Why waste your strength fighting Pembroke? He’s not worth it; not he nor any man! We need you, Uncle, your strength and your courage. We need your wisdom to put a spoke in Pembroke’s wheel—and that’s not to be done by quarrelling. Take his hand; why not? The things you two want are the same things—that the King observe the Ordinance as he has promised; and shall promise again for you, for you, Uncle! And to rid himself of evil friends—that you can deal with, also, as you dealt before. You rid us of Gaveston; and I and all Christendom say it was well done!’

  She heard, with satisfaction, her smooth tongue utter those last words. She had meant to say them but had feared to choke upon them. Now, out they came clear and simple as truth. Devious she had been; need had taught her. Now, for the first time she truly perjured herself, denying the truth of her inmost being. She felt no shame; nothing but pride that she so well spoke the lie.

  ‘The Despensers are back, Uncle!’ she pricked at him sharply.

  ‘But your hand can thrust them where they belong. Without you, this poor country is torn between them—the ravening hounds.’