by Hilda Lewis
‘The King covets the title for his paramour,’ Isabella said; she spoke beneath her breath for Eleanor Despenser was back, forced upon an unwilling Queen. ‘So far he has not dared. But there are no more Ordainers. Will he not dare it now? They’ll not rest, those Despensers, until best part of England is in their hands. Already they’ve got Lancaster’s stronghold of Denbigh, they’ve got Swansea, town and castle. They own between them, the whole of South Wales. They’ve got all the Bigod lands beyond the Severn. They’ve got the ransom of half-a-dozen kings salted down with foreign bankers and they know well where to put their hand on more. No money comes amiss, not though it be slippery with blood. Will there never be an end to their wickedness?
Their latest wickedness she had yet to learn.
They had sent a secret embassy to the Pope praying him to dissolve her marriage. It was not so secret but that my lord bishop of Hereford had got wind of it—that same bishop the King had publicly rebuked. Orleton had his friends in Rome; he knew that same embassy to urge the Queen’s divorce, urged also his own removal. He did not believe the Pope would grant either petition—his friends had the Pope’s ear. It did not make him love the King or the Despensers more. His own future, it was clear, lay with the Queen. She had shown him some kindness since that public reproval; a man smarting under humiliation and devoted to the house of Mortimer might prove useful. A devious man she found him; shrewd and discreet.
When he told her of the embassy, anger and fear battled with disbelief. For her husband she cared little; for her position and her honour, very much. The loss of her crown, disgrace and the smearing of her name, herself shut within a convent or worse; or else crawling back dishonoured to France! The frightful possibilities battered at her frightened heart. It could not be!Yet with glib tongues and sufficient bribes—who knew what might not happen?
‘The charge, my lord bishop, the charge?’
‘Their lies will serve them—so they think. But the lord Pope is no man’s fool; he knows how to value these Despensers! Besides, Madam, I have my friends; they have his ear—and tongues to speak into that ear.’
She turned her lovely, troubled eyes upon him—even in this moment of fear she knew how to use them. ‘If I am unhappy in all else, I am happy, my lord, in your friendship. Never in this world shall I forget it!’ She bent and kissed the sapphire ring of his office. He was a man—she knew him—to feed upon praise, greedy for honours and place. Reminder of her sad state with promise of reward in happier condition was salutary.
She said, ‘I must go at once to the King; I must demand the reason of his request.’ She had no intention, subtle as she was, of any such thing; it was the bishop’s own subtlety she tested.
‘Madam, under your pardon, no! Much harm could come of it! Silence is best; ignorance in the matter your strong weapon. The lord King, of himself, is not willing; he fears to offend your brother of France. It is the Despensers that want it; and the lord Pope is no man’s servant to obey an idle whim. The lord Pope knows—Madam, I have sent to tell him—the people of England would not endure it. It would cost the King his crown. The people love you, Madam—the Queen without fault. Say nothing; show no disquiet. You are safe leaving all to me.’
But for all that she trembled; it was long before she could calm herself; thereafter she set her set wits to work. This bishop was shrewd and cunning; he was a man of influence. He had the ear of the Pope, he had lost no time championing her cause. A cautious man that for all his anger had not criticised the King by so much as a lifted brow. What better helper could she find? This was a man to use!
Her mind gave a sudden leap so that for a moment she forgot her own troubles.
He hates the Despensers and he loves the Mortimers.
In that moment, without a shadow of reason Mortimer’s fate became linked with her own. If he were free, the ugly threat of divorce would pass her by; if he died that unspeakable calamity would fall upon her. She must save him to save herself.
The Mortimers had been in the Tower six months. Mortimer of Chirk was no longer there. He was dead. The rigours of his prison had killed him as surely as axe or rope. The King laughed when he heard the news. ‘He saves me some trouble! The other, though, shall die the traitor’s death. That is a trouble I shall relish!’
The death of the elder Mortimer troubled the Queen little save as a pointer to prison conditions. Mortimer of Chirk had been hale enough; now he was dead. How long before the younger man followed him to the grave? Now Mortimer of Wigmore was forever in her thoughts; she was obsessed with desire to save him and the sense of her own guilt. Had she not urged the King to arms Mortimer would not be languishing in prison. The sense of guilt possessed her utterly, strengthening beyond any reason her certainty that upon his fate hung her own. They stood or fell together.
The country was growing ever more restless. Impossible to set foot out of doors without remembering the King’s cruelty; every chance wind brough the stench of it. And, resenting their poverty that fed the bottomless greed of the favourites, men sickened yet more at the pitiless arrogance of the Despensers. And this resentment was sharpened further by rumours—set afoot by my lord bishop of Hereford—that those two urged the Queen’s divorce; their good Queen!
But most of all they resented the casting-aside of the Ordinances; now they had had time to understand what it meant. The Ordinances had stood between them and the King’s excesses; now between them and those excesses—nothing.
For the Despensers were ruling like Kings; no curbing them. Many of those that had worked for the Ordinances were dead or fled. Henry of Lancaster, had he been man enough, might have taken his brother’s place—leader of the barons. But he had been granted Thomas’s lesser titles—he was my lord earl of Leicester and Derby—and hoped for the rest; above all the great name of Lancaster. Moreover he remembered his brother’s death and was not minded to die the same way; he was not likely to make much trouble. Pembroke, the one man to be trusted, had died in France; de Warenne no man was foolish enough to trust. Richmond was a foreigner and in the King’s pocket. Thomas of Norfolk and Edmund of Kent were too young, and too-lately forgiven for their part in the later revolt.
No-one to stand between oppressor and oppressed.
In the north, the people were, as usual, in worse plight; besides the trouble they shared with the whole country, they had troubles of their own. Border-raids were savage and without respite; those that escaped slaughter by the Scots died more slowly by famine, poverty and pestilence. Worn with constant suffering, weary of a King that left them to their suffering, encouraged by their own archbishop of York, they declared their willingness to acknowledge the Bruce King of Scotland.
England, it was clear, could no longer hold Scotland. The Despensers, able men when not blinded by greed, advised the King to let it go.
Edward flew into a Plantagenet rage. ‘Scotland is mine and I will keep it.’
‘Move now—and you lose it forever. In our own good time when least he expects it, we shall take it again. You have nothing to do but sit quiet.’
The King nodded; he saw the point of that!
Peace on the border at last. And, for the first time in his life, the King of England free of the burden of the Scottish wars. But the country did not take the loss lightly. We have lost Scotland, men told each other puzzled and amazed. Scotland is lost… we have lost it. And cursed the Despensers that had made the truce.
‘We have lost Scotland!’ the Queen cried out and wrung her hands. Shame she felt and anger; and it was not all patriotism. She could never endure to let go anything she considered her own. ‘I am ashamed. I am ashamed.’
‘Madam, under pardon, Despenser’s wife is in the anteroom,’ Théophania said. ‘She is all ears!’
‘Then let her hear; she can do me no more harm! They would have had my marriage dissolved, but God’s Mouthpiece is not their mouthpiece to set a scandal on foot to shake all Christendom! Since he’ll not serve their turn they set their spies to scaven
ge some tit-bit. Well, let them try! For all their spying they’ll find no fault. My life is barren and desolate, God knows; but still they’ll find no fault. Yet were I to take comfort from any man who should blame me? Who husbanded me, ever, who cherished me? The life I lead is bitter, bitter!’
The Despensers had promised to make the King free of Parliament. The only use of Parliament was to supply the King with money; money they knew where to get! Beneath renewed extortion the country bled.
The Queen saw it all with satisfaction. ‘How much longer will the people endure it?’ she asked Orleton; she had been seeing much of him of late. ‘Surely they must see that this is worse, far worse, than the repeal of the Ordinances. To make the King free of Parliament—for them the worst betrayal of all!’
‘Madam, the people suffer like animals; they are slow to act. But they pray. They forever make their pilgrimages to Pontefract. They wait for a voice to speak from Lancaster’s grave. One day that voice will speak—or so they believe; and when it speaks they will follow!’
People were laying flowers beneath the gallows where corrupting bodies still offended eye and nose. Parliament besought the King for his own sake to take down these breeders of bitterness. He had, of himself, been willing enough; his resentments, as a rule, were not enduring. The older Despenser counselled him otherwise.
‘Sir, it will be taken for weakness in you!’
And the younger, ‘Sir, we have freed you from this Parliament. Pay it no heed. Let it not vex my King; for when my King is vexed I cannot sleep nor eat.’
And how should the King refuse his sweetheart, all troubled for his King? The bodies should hang until the last rag of flesh fell from the bones.
He had done better to listen to his Parliament. As the bodies rotted, so more surely the people’s anger increased against the King. Now all their loyalty, all their affection, all their duty turned towards the Queen, the Queen alone. Men everywhere recounted her virtues and her wrongs. She had a heart to grieve for her people pressed beyond bearing. She felt the shame of Scotland lost. She was wise, she was good. She was persecuted by the Despensers. She was a wronged wife, a wronged Queen. And she was the mother of the heir.
She had become a symbol of justice, of mercy.
So dumb, so hidden this turning towards the Queen, none but the sensitive mind could register it. Isabella recognised it, Orleton recognised it. The Despensers recognised it.
Ridden more than ever by the belief that her luck rose and fell with Mortimer, she dared risk that luck no longer. Fail him now and God would perhaps fail her; change His mind about her divorce and say so through His Mouthpiece; or he might turn the people’s heart from her. Her plan had long been ready; she waited only to be sure of her accomplice. She had been weighing up Orleton—his caution against his courage; his ambition against his honesty. In him these qualities balanced—more or less; she could have wished him more courage. But let her wait till kingdom come she’d find none better for her purpose. But for the unrest throughout the land Mortimer must already have come to his death. That he was unwell she had heard from Orleton. ‘Madam, his strength grows daily less. I fear he will die of his weakness.’
She must move—and at once lest death find him first.
XXV
The King had declared his intention of putting an end to Mortimer. A public execution; a warning to traitors.
The Queen sent for Orleton; she came to the point at once.
‘The lord Mortimer will not die of his weakness; he’s to die by the rope!’
‘Madam, I fear it. But—the rope!’ He looked at her out of a sick face.
She nodded. ‘The day is not yet named; but it will be soon. Neither insult nor torment will be spared.’
‘It is a man not afraid to die—though he will live as long as he can. But—a shameful death; it will break heart and pride together!’
‘Then—’ and she looked him full in the face, ‘we must see he does not come to such a death. My lord, we can do it!’
‘How, Madam?’ He lifted a shocked face. ‘It is the strongest prison in England—triple walls, many towers, a great keep and a deep ditch. How can a prisoner escape thence? And, if he could? Then he must cross the river in full sight of the guards. The thing’s impossible!’
‘Not impossible; difficult, difficult, only!’
My lord bishop of Hereford spread long, fine hands. ‘Madam, man’s wit cannot encompass it. The Tower. It has stood above two hundred and fifty years and no man has ever broken free.’
‘There’s always a first time. And if man’s wit cannot encompass it then a woman’s can. Tell me where he lies, who are his gaolers and what men have access to him.’
He looked at her; he was deeply troubled. He knew her—the quick wits, the single-mindedness, the strength of will; but this was beyond even her powers. As for himself, he dare not move in this; he was answerable to the Pope himself, and already the King had complained of him to Rome.
And still she pressed him.
‘The cell; where?’
‘Beneath the White Tower—the bottom-most dungeon; hard by the great sewer. A man could die of the stench.’
‘Good!’ she said, surprising him. ‘Now! Let us consider. First of all, Segrave. He’s a fool. Never in my life would I make him Constable of the Tower. Well, for his foolishness, God be praised!’
‘Then, Madam, there’s young Alspaye his lieutenant. He cannot help us—though his will is good. He hates Segrave for a drunken brute and a cruel one; endlessly cruel to the poor wretches he has in care. Care, God save the mark!’
‘Goodwill is somewhat!’
‘Not enough. He can do nothing. He complains that Segrave treats him as a child; will not allow him to handle keys nor even to know where they are kept. The gaolers have their own keys—but only to the cells; keys to the outer gates they never see. To find these keys, much less use them—impossible! There’d be an instant hue and cry; and before a man could take in his breath, young Alspaye would be hanging. He’d not face it were much to be gained; but when nothing’s to be gained save a hateful death for himself——! Madam, you cannot expect it!’
‘Yet I do expect it. I know young Alspaye; we were friends when I lodged in the Tower.’ She smiled remembering the young man’s infatuation. ‘And many a game of chess we had together!’ She smiled again remembering that sometimes she had let him win. Now it was the Queen’s turn to win. ‘With Alspaye I can deal. Now for the turnkey; what of him?’
‘Only this; he, too, would suffer death were he discovered—and discovered he must be!’
‘Who else has access to the prisoner?’
‘Myself, Madam; but only upon special occasion. And Ogle the barber; he goes in once a week to shave such prisoners as desire it; and also those about to die.’
‘I know him. He shaved my servants in the Tower.’
‘A man, Madam, without compassion. To save a child, even, he’d not lift a finger without reward.’
‘We must see he has his reward. So then there’s Ogle and Alspaye. And there’s you, my lord bishop. You will, I take it, hear his last confession; where is the gaoler then?’
‘He must wait without; in view but not in hearing. Confession is between a man and his God.’
‘One last question. Is it allowed to take the prisoner some small comfort… white bread, perhaps, or a bottle of wine?’
‘It is not allowed this prisoner. Yet—a last confession and there after the man to die! It could be managed.’
‘Now, my lord bishop, leave me. I have to think awhile.’
‘Madam!’ And again he spread his hands so that the ring flashed and glittered. ‘You cannot help him. I beseech you do not meddle in the affair. I have great love for the lord Mortimer—but even more for my Queen!’
And most of all for yourself! Well she could not blame him. He was a cautious man and already high in the King’s displeasure. But once he gave his word he would stand by it.
She said, gentle and de
vout, ‘My lord, this is God’s work. He will help us. If I did not know that, I would not dare put my hand to it; much less bring another into danger—and especially one I revere as my father in God.’ She knelt and pressed her lips to the ring; hand upon the bent head he blessed her. But he had not, as yet, vowed himself to the work.
When my lord bishop came to her again she said, ‘Mortimer dies on Saturday—if we allow it. Well, we do not allow it! The plan is perfect and complete.’
When she had laid it before him he shook his head.
‘Madam, it is not possible; the thing’s too involved, too complicated.’
‘Not so, my lord. Take it step by step—and it is simple.’
‘Madam, you must allow for chance. The slightest thing untoward—!’ He shrugged. ‘I cannot think luck will be with us!’
‘Fie, my lord. There’s no such thing as luck—must I remind you? God either smiles or He frowns. In this matter I do not think He will frown! And if He should; who’s the worse? Not Mortimer. If we do nothing, he must die. To die without at least a bid for freedom—and such a death! Can you think he’d hesitate? And for ourselves; we are safe enough. I cannot see how suspicion should fall on you or me—God’s bishop and the Queen! Well?’ she held him with her strange compelling eyes.
He made no answer; and still she held him with that gaze.
‘So be it!’When he spoke at last it was without his own will. ‘Now for the first step. I have slept ill of late. The lord King sent me a physician; he gave me a sleeping-draught. I did not take it. The Despensers—’ and it was as though she spat, ‘would give much to find me so sound asleep they could do with me what they would. This—’ and she drew from the bosom of her gown a packet wrapped in silk, ‘will put the gaoler to sleep.’
He searched her face… Beautiful, clever, and for all her talk of God, hejudged unscrupulous.
‘It is distilled from the poppy and harmless; the physician told me. Before God I’d not offend Him with any man’s death.’
That was good sense; he must believe her. He took the package wishing himself well out of this.
