Harlot Queen

by Hilda Lewis

  ‘It is the order of Parliament,’ Lancaster said.

  Dressing hastily in the flickering light, Lancaster handing him his clothes, Edward could not rid himself of his dear hope. This was the rescue—though Lancaster did not know it.

  He followed Lancaster out into the courtyard. One look at the escort that waited—and his heart sank. The grimness of their bearing, the lack of respect that allowed him to stand unsaluted, the unwillingness to meet his eye told him the truth.

  ‘It would need an army to take you out of their hands!’ Lancaster said, pitying the man. ‘I warned you; but you’d not be warned. Now you are taken from my care. Pray God things go not too hard with you, Cousin. Farewell.’ He bent and unexpectedly, even to himself, kissed the prisoner on both cheeks.

  A hard journey, little stop for food and less for rest. Hard for any man on the rough tracks they followed instead of roads; for the prisoner that had not set foot in the stirrup for five months, bitter hard; and, though he swayed in the stirrup, there was no respite.

  Riding for the most part at night, hurried through such towns as they could not by-pass, the face of the prisoner was scarce seen. And, if it was? A man hurried to his doom was no new sight.

  Journey to break the heart. But even so there were compensations. He felt the free wind on his cheek, was aware of rising sap and the life of growing things; and, in those brief snatches of daylight, saw the willow golden by clear-running water and the new leaves tender and bright.

  On Palm Sunday they reached Gloucester and Llantony Abbey, where the monks, hiding their pity, served the prisoner with a loving respect. For them he was still the King; but for them only. Always half-a-dozen of the escort went with him, even into his bedchamber; and there they sat dicing and drinking, swearing, spitting, urinating, caring not at all that they disturbed the prisoner’s restless sleep.

  The next day saw them at Berkeley, its single tower thrusting upwards into the sweet sky like a finger of doom.

  An outer staircase led them to a doorway midway up the Tower, and there, in the guardroom, Sir Thomas Berkeley was waiting. He did not rise to greet his King nor speak a word of welcome; he motioned with a surly head and the gaoler led the prisoner away.

  When he saw his lodgings he could not, at first, believe his eyes and refused to enter, so small it was, so dark with its slit of a window set high in the stonework. But there was no help for it; enter he must and the gaoler locked the heavy door behind him. Soon, as was his way, his spirits began to rise. It was not damp and it was not so very dark; the narrow window let in more light than one would have thought. The rushes upon the floor were clean; the pallet, too, was clean and the blankets, though thin, were fresh. There was a stool and a table, also, with quills and ink—an encouraging sign; a bucket stood in a corner so dark that a man had his privacy.

  A prison cell; but a cell for an important prisoner, its furnishings not much worse that he’d endured many a time on the march. It was not a dungeon—and for that he was devoutly thankful; the dungeons, he reckoned, must lie beneath his cell. It would do well enough; he’d not be here long. He had seen Stephen Dunhevid along the road; Dunhevid had made a sign.

  And soon he had further cause for hope. The gaoler was a Gloucester man and friendly. He knew nothing of politics; a simple fellow whose loyalties must shift with circumstances. Now, like many another, he was taken by the handsome looks, by the gentle charm the prisoner knew how to exercise. And the prisoner was the King; and a King forever carries about him the glory of kingship. And more. There were plans on hand to set him free, rumours everywhere. If a poor man played his part, if only to show some kindness, what reward might he not look for?

  It was only too easy to find cause for kindness. But for him the prisoner must have gone hungry—the food was scant; the five pounds a day went to a worthier cause, in Berkeley’s opinion, than the well-being of the man that once been King. Often the gaoler brought him food from his own table, coarse but grateful to an empty belly; and sometimes there would be a little wine, thin and sour—but still wine. And he would bring a blanket, ragged but clean, so that the prisoner might lie warmer at night. In spite of Mortimer he was not ill-treated; Berkeley and Maltravers had other things to do than sit at home and watch the prisoner; they must ride the wide countryside watchful for signs of revolt. By July they had Dorset under the whip with Hereford, Wiltshire, Hampshire and Somerset besides.

  But for all that the conspiracy was growing.

  ‘And it isn’t only one place, lord King,’ the gaoler told him. ‘There’s Gloucestermen and Warwickmen and there’s men from Worcester and Stafford, aye, and from Oxenford, too. And it isn’t only poor men like me want to see you back where you belong. There’s lords and there’s knights and there’s priests. And, best of all, there’s friars that move quick about the country; they’re the ones to spread the news. All, all, lord King set to put you on the throne again!’

  ‘Friend, when that time comes I not forget you. By God’s Face I swear it!’

  With such a gaoler the room seemed ever less small, less dark. Through the high window he could see the summer sky, and through the bars the sunlight slanted in upon the rushes turning them to gold. And sometimes the gaoler would let him walk in the garden where he would lift up his eyes to the bright hills and feel the wind on his face. But for lack of exercise he tired quickly and then the small, bare room beckoned like home. And, best of all, the gaoler brought him news so that his fingers seemed to touch not freedom, only, but the very crown. Yet news was not always good; he must learn the hard way of patience, and, harder still, to control his passionate Plantagenet pride.

  Stephen Dunhevid had been arrested; Berkeley had put him to a hateful death. Berkeley himself, making occasion to visit the prisoner, had spared him no cruel detail.

  ‘Lord King do not grieve overmuch, there’s others aplenty to take his place!’ The kindly gaoler sought to comfort him; but he could take no comfort, grieving not only for plans gone awry but for the death of his friend—and so hideous a death! He prayed long for the souls of those that, worthless though men called them, had yet died for him. Thereafter he prayed for himself. Oh God release me from this place that I may prove a worthier King. But if it be Your will that I shall reign no more then he me to be a worthier man. I do repent me of my sins and follies and long only to serve You as You best wish. And he remembered Llantony quiet among the Gloucester hills and the clean, simple lives of the monks; and he thought he might be well-content to live among them serving God until he died. But at other times he longed, unendurably, to sit once more upon the throne, to feel the crown once more upon his head. Kingship is not lightly put off. It is sealed into the flesh with holy oils.

  It was night; what hour the prisoner could not tell. Unsleeping in the darkness he heard the noise—the shouts, the clash of steel, the unmistakable, sharp explosion of gunstones. Red flare from torches painted the high window, stole beneath the door; the cell was rosy with light. He heard footsteps; they were coming louder, coming nearer. He leaped from the mattress all—but suffocated by the mad beat of his heart. Was this the rescue; the rescue at last?

  The key turned in the lock.

  Friendly faces, God be thanked! No time for salutations. Hasty hands brought him his clothes, threw a cloak about him, drew on the riding-boots.

  He was free.

  He was riding in the night air, a good horse beneath him; a score of riders, friends, every one, closed about him. Beneath the good cloak his clothes were thin, were shabby; but much he cared for that! He rode free, free with his friends; nothing else mattered. Riding, he thanked God, muttering in his greying beard.

  Edward of Carnarvon was free. Mortimer cursed when they brought him the news; cursed Berkeley for a fool that had left the castle to he pillaged and the prisoner taken from beneath his nose, cursed Maltravers and, most of all, cursed Edward himself. Isabella took the news grey-faced. And all the time a voice spoke clear in her head. He must be found! Neither of u
s can permit the other to live.

  He must die. Her conscious mind refused the thought; her unconscious mind received it, accepted it.

  First terror passed, she addressed herself to God, promising gifts and alms without stint; for a King’s death a King’s ransom. But God helps those that help themselves; and, quieter now, she considered the matter. Two things she must do at once—calm Mortimer and reassure her son.

  High-painted, in full beauty, no whit troubled it would seem, she sought Mortimer. ‘These friends of his!’ And her scorn was high. ‘Already, be sure, they’re quarrelling over the prize. Well, they’ll not keep him long; soon we shall have him in our hands again!’

  ‘At which time,’ he cried out, harsh, ‘I trust you’ll not be so tender of his comfort.’

  ‘So you catch him and hold him fast, do with him what you will!’

  And to her son, the new young King, seeing him shaken and uncertain in his duty, she said, ‘Your duty is clear—to stand by the oath you swore at your crowning. Those that work upon your father to revolt are guilty of treason against you, the King they have chosen. And, would God I might not say it, the greatest treason is his that gave away the crown declaring his will it should pass to you. Do not think to give it back; for that you cannot do! You have been chosen and consecrated. You are the King. Two Kings there cannot be. It would mean war; no less! Civil war—there’s no war so bloody. For let which side win the country must bleed. We must find your father and keep him safe till all is quiet again. We must do it for his sake and for the country’s sake.’

  Torn with grief for his father, shaken by his own guilt, unable to trust her whom above all he should be able to trust, he made no answer. Time. He must have time.

  She made her last effort. ‘Sir… my son. When all is quiet again, your father shall live in honour and dignity. He shall have everything he asks, everything he can desire—’

  ‘Save his freedom. Save his crown!’

  When she would have answered to that he said—and there was a new authority in him, ‘Madam leave me! I must consider the matter.’

  Alone once more, in her closet the sweet reason she had shown to her lover and to her son fell from her. It was more than a rabble that marched with Edward of Carnarvon; and more, she guessed, would join him every day. The people were disappointed; and, like all disappointed people, angry. They’d expected, the Despensers gone, to find the land suddenly awash with milk and honey—the fools! Discontent—she’d call it nothing worse—was flowing towards herself and Mortimer. As yet there was no danger, but send Mortimer away. More than once Lancaster’s veiled words had suggested it. Scarce troubling to hide her anger those words she had disregarded. Send Mortimer away! A confession of weakness. To keep him by her side was a confession of greater weakness—subtle as she was, that she did not understand. Without Mortimer she could not live.

  Edward of Carnarvon’s following was increasing; in every town and village men fell in to march beside him. The cold light of reason told her that there was little to fear; for lack of arms, of money, of leaders it must all come to nothing. But the cold shadow of fear was stronger. Lying sleepless by her lover she would ask herself how it would all end? How could she forget her husband’s words that, no weapon being at hand, he would tear her with his teeth? And now could she forget how the younger Despenser had died—his member torn from him? What punishment then for him that had given that command; that had sinfully loved the Queen?

  No need for fear. Mortimer knew the risks as well as she. Even while she besought her son, he had acted. His armies were combing the countryside; everywhere in market-place and on church door a reward was posted—a King’s ransom for the man that had been King, dead or alive. With all her heart Isabella hoped it would be dead. There was neither spite nor revenge in the hope; merely the simple knowledge that it would be best for him, best for them all.

  The revolt was at an end; the ringleaders secured, the King taken.

  ‘He goes where there can be no escape!’ Mortimer said.

  Isabella nodded. Until now she had been glad to spare the prisoner the worst rigours of confinement; so she had assuaged the guilt that, in spite of reason, at times assailed her. Now, remembering her nighttime terrors, she was not minded to suffer them again. As before she said, ‘Do with him what you will!’ And this time she added. ‘I shall not enquire of him.’

  Young Edward had had time to consider the matter. He had listened to Henry of Lancaster and to Orleton; the one twice-bound to his father by ties of blood, and leader of the Council; the other prince and priest of God. Those two had made things clear. His father had played both son and country false. He had delivered up the crown to his son; now he would snatch it back again. He would give the country over to the sword and the horrors of civil war. Such a war must be averted.

  To step down from the throne stripped of his crown that though heavy was yet glorious, to be no more a King! It was a humiliation his spirit could not brook. This he would not, could not admit to himself. No. He must keep the crown because the people had chosen him; and because he must keep the oath sworn to them and to God.

  XXXVII

  The King’s dark journey had begun.

  Where he was no man knew. Hustled from prison to prison—and each worse than the one before—he never saw sweet daylight now; scarce knew when summer ended or winter began. Always the bitter journey by night that he be not recognised and again rescued.

  Riding; riding in the dark and the cold, the wind making nothing of his garments threadbare and in holes—those same garment in which he had been taken. Why give him better? If he died of the cold it would save himself and everyone else a good deal of trouble. They had shaved him—a further precaution against any man knowing the King; they had taken filthy water from the nearest ditch. His face, denuded of its beard, had a weak, womanish look; where they had cut him with the dirty razor, his face festered. Thin, grey, the once-clear skin scabbed and running; little fear of any man knowing the King!

  Berkeley to Corfe, Corfe to Bristol, Bristol to a destination unknown; thence back to Berkeley. When he saw again that grim tower blocked against the sky his poor heart rejoiced. His own small room waited to welcome him, more dear than any palace; the kindly gaoler waited, more dear than son or daughter. He was coming home.

  But it was a different gaoler. And it was a different cell… a dungeon cell.

  Of all the cruelties he had been made to bear and had stoically endured, this was the most cruel. When they thrust him into the dark he sat upon the wet and filthy straw and wept.

  Time was endless in the dark cell where he lay by the world forgotten. His eyes—the bright hunter’s eyes—were growing dim with darkness and with tears. One privilege he was allowed; he might write to his wife and to his son—but to none other. The gaoler, stone-faced, unfriendly, with no mind to follow his predecessor into the grave for kindness to the prisoner, would bring him candle, paper, quills and inkhorn. Crouched upon the low stool, writing upon his knees, weak eyes peering close in the dim light, he would pour out his heart.

  Whether they had received his piteous appeals he did not know; from neither of them an answer. He must wait, wait, wait, wear his heart out with waiting; but never an answer.

  That he had never heard from his son was not to be wondered at. The young Edward had never received his letters; could not even discover where his father lay. As for his wife—it was no wonder, either; she never answered. To put herself into any sort of relationship with him was physically impossible; revulsion and guilt alike, forbade it. But she sent him gifts—as it might be to a beggar, linen and a woollen cloak lined with fur, not too good a fur; and was glad to be thus easily free of her duty. He never got her gifts. Sir Thomas Gurney, now in charge of the prisoner, took them for himself. Too good by far for the poor wretch in the cell! With the cloak she forced herself to send a few false words. She would have visited him long ere this but Parliament had forbidden; yet she would come soon. Her message he did
not get, either, which was as well; she did not mean to set eyes again on that weak and handsome face. When she told Mortimer so, he laughed. If what Gurney wrote was true, that face was anything but handsome now! She heard it without pity; she had neither pity nor anger for him now, nor any desire for revenge. Nothing but a most deadly repulsion. She would die—or he should—before ever she endured the sight of him again.

  He had stopped writing his letters; his last hope he knew to be hopeless. But since speak he must, he was pouring his heart out in a poem—lament for a life ruined, for friends false, for a wife faithless and cruel. A long poem; he had much to say and time was endless. Through the long unsleeping nights he thought upon it, through the long unending days he worked upon it. Searching his heart for the truth, he moved slowly from bitterness to acceptance; acceptance, first agonising step in his long calvary. Step by painful step he came from acceptance to prayer for forgiveness. So he came at last, to affirmation of his belief in God and His goodness. For always beneath his frivolities and vices he had held fast to his religion; and for that reason the monks at Neath and at Llantony had forgiven him much. Now, alone in the dark cell, his faith centred upon God. He spent his waking hours praying and writing; and both were his solace in the endless hours.

  The Song of King Edward son of King Edward, that he himself made.

  So he called it, defying those that had declared him not great Edward’s true-born son. He wrote it in French, a tongue he held to be the true language of poetry—the tongue of his childhood, his innocence.

  The first lines came easily; he wrote them, the tears pouring down his grey scabbed cheeks.

  My winter has come; only sorrow I see.

  Too often, too cruel, Fortune has spoken.

  Blow after blow she rains upon me,

  Heart, hope and courage, all, all she has broken.

  Be a man fair or be a man wise,

  Perfect in courtesy, honoured in name,

  If Fortune forsake him, if his luck flies,