by Hilda Lewis
To the blast he stands naked—a fool come to shame.
Of Isabel and her part in this, he found, anger driving, only too easy to write.
The greatest grief my heart must bear,
The chiefest sorrow of my state
Springs from Isabeau the Fair,
She that I loved but now must hate.
I held her true, now faithless she;
Steeped in deceit, my deadly foe
Brings naught but black despair to me,
And all my joy she turns to woe.
And he forgot that he had never loved her, that he had neglected her for his mignons, shamed her with his mignons.
He remembered only that a wife should be loving and true; and that she was unloving and false.
And since there was no hope in man he must turn himself to God and to sweet Jesus.
To Him I turn my contrite heart,
Who suffered for me on the cross.
Jesus, forgive my baser part,
Bend thou to me in my dire loss.
For all my sins and treacherous deeds….
Treacherous deeds. The words had written themselves; he stared at them astonished. Treacherous—he, so betrayed? His many sins he had, at last, faced; but treachery—never. Now, for the first time he must search his heart in the matter; and come to his bitter conclusion. Treachery, treachery was the word. He had forsworn the oath of his crowning, betraying his people and God Himself. His enemies had done less; far less. He had betrayed the King of Heaven; they but their earthy King. As he hoped for forgiveness he must learn to forgive them.
But it was hard, hard. His punishment was dire, was bitter, was never-ending; and he was but a man, and a weak one. There were backslidings when he cried aloud cursing them all—false wife, false friends. Then he must force his mind from their cruelty to thoughts of his young son, the boy that sat in his father’s place; and he would remember that Ned had refused that place until his father should consent. Then, tenderly, he would pray, beseeching Jesus to keep the boy against all traitors, that all his enemies be brought to shame; and the boy himself grow wise and strong to shine bright in the chivalry of Christendom. Then he would pray for his son until his strength gave way and he lay prone in the filth of the floor.
Day by day searching his soul, agonising for the truth, reshaping his verses, polishing. But for all that it was not a good poem; yet it was the stuff of true poetry since his soul’s agony reached out to move the hearts of those who should read it; even the heart of Isabella… some day.
And so he came to the last lines, asking the prayers of all men, wise and simple, entreating the ear of Mary, Mother of Mercies,
That she beseech the child she bore,
The Son that on her knee she sat,
His tender grace on me to pour,
And grant me mercy yet.
Gurney had received his orders. The Queen knew nothing of them; she desired to know no more of the affair. The prisoner’s life grew ever more bitter. Such captivity was not fit for a savage beast let alone a man—and a man that had been a King. From his dungeon, than which he had imagined nothing worse, he was removed to a cell above a cesspool; the stink was so foul that never for a moment, could he forget it. He tasted it in his food so that, racked with hunger, he must turn from his meat in loathing; it followed him into his sleep so that he awoke retching upon an empty belly. When he tried to pray it came between himself and God. The stink fastened upon himself—it was in his body, in his hair, it had become the breath of his nostrils; it had become himself. The last cell had been dark and cold; here darkness was so dense, the cold so bitter, that though it was high summer without, with him it was forever black winter. And, since they no longer allowed him to write, no candle-light ever penetrated the darkness. Damp straw his body had grown used to; but the straw on which he now lay was no longer damp; it was wet from the cesspool and his own urine. It soaked through his rags, through the flesh to the very bones; he was racked with a swelling in his joints. He could not sleep for pain; and let him fall, for a moment into uneasy dreaming, he was awakened by vermin. Rats rustled in the straw, lice fed upon the once-fair hair, the once-bright cheeks of Edward of Carnarvon.
His mind began to play him tricks. For long stretches of time there was no clear understanding of where he was or what had happened. Now he was a child, now a man, now a King to rule, now a boy to be punished. His father came, the great tall man with the old, cold face. His mother never came; it did not surprise him—he had never truly known her. But Madam Queen Margaret came and sat with him and held his hand; she loved him and he loved her and when she went away he cried like the child he had become.
He had a lot of sisters; how many he didn’t know. Elizabeth he remembered and Joanna because they came often. Elizabeth laughed a lot, even in this strange, dark place she laughed; her yellow hair lit the dark like a summer day. Joanna was loving and lovely. You mustn’t be afraid, Joanna said. Aren’t you afraid? he asked. She shook her bright head. Not even of our father? Well yes, she said; a little. But I hide it; when you’re afraid nobody must know.
His mind gave a leap, brought him back to the black and stinking
He wasn’t young any more. He was a man and his eyes were dim with darkness and with tears. There was no more father, no more Madam Margaret, no more Elizabeth nor Joanna. There was only the woman his wife, that flaunted herself—the Queen; that ruled for the young King, that slept with her paramour; lecherous and treacherous she dwelt in a world of her own making—a heaven of power, a heaven of lust.
He lifted his arm in one of his old, sudden angers, to strike; it fell upon the fur covering worn to the skin brittle, heavy with grease. He thought he struck with power; the blow fell light as a withered leaf. Yet for all that it was a blow of power; for with it vanished his last will to violence against her and her paramour, the last of his anger. He had no anger against anyone, not any more. He no longer wanted his crown nor his place of power. All he wanted was to be free. Freedom, clean air, a crust of bread so it were not mouldy, fresh water; and most of all his head bare to the wide sky.
Three people were anxious about the fate of Edward of Carnarvon.
The young King was anxious for news of his father. More than once he had spoken to his mother on the matter; and each time, ‘Soon he will be free!’ she had promised. ‘Until then he is well, and lodged as befits a King!’ And when he asked that, with his own eyes, he might see his father, ‘Soon,’ she said. ‘He’s best not disturbed until he’s free.’
Isabella was deeply troubled. Would to God the man was free of his prison—but not in the way she would have the boy believe. Yet she would lift no finger to take away his life. She had believed the rigours of his prison would do that work for her; but nothing seemed to put an end to this hateful man to whom she was bound. And she was the more troubled by ever-growing rumours of plots to set him free. His weakness and his vices forgotten in the bitter discontent, favour was turning ever more strongly towards the deposed King. And now it was not the common, the ignorant alone that favoured him. She knew the heavy anger of the barons, of the church. How long before the storm broke? It was a question she did not care to face.
Most troubled of all was Mortimer—and his anxiety was all for himself. He had played a leader’s part in driving the King from the throne. He had treated his prisoner with the utmost cruelty. He had defiled the King’s bed. He had put to death, in circumstances of horror, the King’s sweetheart. If ever Edward of Carnarvon came back to the throne he would see to it that for all these things Mortimer paid in full, in his own flesh to suffer the torment he had put upon dying Despenser.
‘The man must die; and at once,’ Mortimer said.
Isabella lifted a white, shocked face. She longed for his death, prayed for his death… if it might be natural. But in his murder she wanted no part. Let her lift no finger, let her have but knowledge, knowledge, only, of that death, then she was more bound to the murdered man than if he were alive and
in her very bed. He would take possession of her thoughts, possess her very life. Never in this world would she go free of him. And in the next? Of the next she dared not think.
‘Why in the name of God will he not die?’ she cried out and wrung her hands.
‘We have driven him from pillar to post,’ he said, sombre. ‘We have starved him, we have given him over to the cold, the darkness, the nauseous stinks. We have so dealt with him that even his own son would not know him. But still the man lives! And there are plots aplenty to bring him back. And this last plot we must take account of. For now the rabble has found a leader. It is my old enemy Rhys ap Gruffyd. He plans to restore your husband and to take his own revenge upon me—two birds with one stone. We can wait no longer. It is time; time to make an end altogether!’
And still she made no answer. Many things she had done that people would call evil—but murder was not one of them. She had never in her life consented to murder. Yet—and she could not but remember it—murder once committed, she had accepted it; she had even rewarded the murderers. Yet for all that she was guiltless of blood. But this! This was murder planned; and the man to die—her husband. She had no mind to be linked with a ghost all her life—and such a ghost. No! No! No! The word screamed through her mind; but still she did not say it.
‘The man must die for all our sakes!’ Mortimer said. ‘For your son’s sake, for the country’s sake lest the throne rock and all England with it. And for your sake he must die…’
And still she said nothing, staring at him out of her white face.
‘Let the man return,’ Mortimer told her, ‘and one of two things must happen. He will forgive you; or he will not. In the latter case you will spend your days in prison; in the former—pledge of his good faith and reconciliation—you’ll spend the nights in his bed!’
She put up a hand to stay the sickness in her throat; but still she could not say the word of consent.
‘Well if you are content…!‘ he shrugged. ‘I do not say think of me; but I beg you, remember the Despensers!’
At that she swallowed in her throat. ‘Do as you think fit,’ she said.
‘By God, no! Not as I think but as we think; we two together. For, if we are not in this together, then we are best apart—in all things and forever!’
She held out her shaking hands as though for mercy; her strange, wild eyes were desperate. He would leave her, not a doubt of it! He was her whole woman’s life; of his man’s life she was but a part. He had his wife, his children, his ambitions. His ambitions! By his lust for place, for power, for wealth—there, at least, she held him.
But even now she could not say the word.
He stood there implacable; the full strength of his male virility came to her—an aphrodisiac. For all her handsome looks she was in her mid-thirties—and the marks of a hard life upon her. She could not help but know it; he had told her often enough. She had never in her life loved any man but this. Him she must keep for her body’s need—love or lust, call it what you would. Without him she would dwindle to her death.
‘He must die,’ she said. ‘I will it!’
But, for all that, she was greatly troubled. The thing was for ever in her mind. At night it was worse. She could not sleep; not though she pressed close in the darkness, seeking courage from her lover. She could not rest for the fear of it.
At last, she said, greatly daring lest she anger him, ‘Leave this thing alone. It will bring ill-luck to us both. Die he must and soon. You have but to increase the rigours of his prison.’
‘There can be no more rigours!’
‘Then in such conditions a man must die. So still I beseech you let this thing alone.’ And still she would not call it murder. ‘Death by violence must leave its mark… and to whom shall those marks point but you?’ And in this moment she had no thought for the man that was to die; her fear was all for his murderer.
‘I do not mean to die for Edward of Carnarvon!’ He was contemptuous. ‘He shall die—and never a mark upon him!’
‘It is not possible. The cup or the dagger; the cord or a man’s bare hand—each must tell a tale.’
‘Trust me, I know the way—simple and secret. Listen.’
‘No!’ She covered her ears with both hands so that the jewels at her wrist and fmger glittered like small, wicked eyes.
‘But still you should know! Why should I take the blame of this to carry it alone?’
‘I am a woman. If I am sick or cry out in sleep…’
‘There’s reason in that! But the man must die; and die the way I choose. On that we are agreed?’
She made no answer. But still he held her eyes, pressing down upon her with his will.
‘We are agreed!’ she said and let out a great sigh. She had done her best. She dare no more in the matter.
PART FOUR
Mortimer and the Queen
Checkmate
XXXVIII
Edward of Carnarvon was dead.
The twenty-second day of September, in the year of grace thirteen hundred and twenty-seven—a year to the day of the Queen’s landing—he had been found dead in his cell.
The young King lifted a shocked face. His mother had promised all would be well with his father; she had promised.
‘He is truly well now. God Himself has set him free!’ she said and her eyes were full of tears; strangely the tears were real—tears for opportunities wasted, for graces cast away. She was remembering Edward so handsome and herself so young… so very young. She had been ready to love him; had, indeed, for a little while loved him. He need never have come to this. Or perhaps he must; within himself the flaw inherent.
Weeping like any boy that has suddenly, shockingly lost his father, Edward’s grief broke in upon her thoughts.
‘It is better so,’ she said gentle. ‘To wear his life away in prison. He should have been free as a bird. I longed to set him free, I prayed for the day. But I dared not; dared not give the country again to bloodshed. There were revolts enough as it was, God knows! He encouraged them and who could blame him? How could he content himself lacking the crown?’
‘I should never have taken it!’ he cried out guilty, desolate. ‘But you told me he wished it; you told me!’
‘I did tell you; and it was true. Your cousin of Lancaster heard him and all those that went to Kenilworth. The crown was his no longer; by the will of the people, forfeit. If it had not come to you, then it must have come to another!’
‘Would God that it had—so he put Mortimer down! But for Mortimer my father would not have died, I know it! Madam, you must send him away; the man offends me!’
‘Sir; my son. Let not grief carry you too far. You owe very much to the lord Mortimer. See to it you do not offend him!’
‘Mortimer! Mortimer!’ He struck fist upon palm; it was the very action of his grandfather, great Edward. ‘But for this same Mortimer my father would be alive and wearing his crown. Now he is dead, but Mortimer is alive and you are alive…’
‘Would you have me dead, too?’ she cried out, stung.
‘Not you,’ he said. ‘Not you!’ She was his mother; and if she had taken his father’s crown she had safeguarded his own. ‘Forgive me, Madam, I am not myself.’ He lifted her hand and kissed it; but it was a courtier’s kiss, not a son’s. He turned and left her.
How did the King die? It was a question on every tongue. He had been a healthy man, very strong; yet within a few short months—dead. Murder. There arose the usual cry; but this time, it seemed, with reason.
‘Murder?’ The King lifted a shocked young face, the word whispering from his throat.
‘The parrot-cry whenever a prince dies!’ Isabella shrugged. ‘It was always so; and so it will always be!’
‘But he was so strong; above all men strong!’
‘When Death puts his hand upon us the strength of man is of no avail.’
He said no more; young as he was he detected the insincerity.
Now he was utterly forlorn. He had s
o hoped to see his father again, hear his voice, touch his hand… and now his father was dead! Against the mother he did not trust and the man he hated, how could he stand; and who would help him?
The news brought Orleton hurrying.
‘But murder; murder, Madam!’ He spread his hands. ‘How is that possible? What man would—or could? What opportunity?’
She shrugged. ‘He had enemies everywhere. Those the Despensers did not make for him he made with his own tongue. Even you, my lord, had little cause to love him.’ And she pricked him gently with that long-ago reproof.
‘They suspect…?’ And he winced at the prick.
‘Everyone. Even you, my lord, may find yourself not exempt!’ She smiled into his face and he knew, for certain, that her hand had been in the matter; he knew that smile.
‘But of course,’ she said, ‘he was not murdered at all. There’s no sign of violence on the body.’
How did she know that? She read his quick suspicious look.
‘Oh my lord,’ and she was all gentle reproach. ‘That is the first thing I would enquire?’
‘If there’s no mark,’ he said thoughtful, ‘if you are sure there’s no mark, you must show the body to the people. It is the one way to scotch rumour!’
To Berkeley went the order. The King’s body to lie in state; all that so desired might pay their last respects.
In the great hall the King’s body lay beneath a royal mantle; the poor body that but yesterday had known naught but rags. The head was crowned, the face uncovered. No sign of violence. But the face! Frozen in so terrible a mask of pain—unrecognisable. So comely he had been, comely beyond all men! If this was, indeed, the King and he had not come to a sudden, violent death, he had been cruelly murdered inch by slow inch.
Showing the dead King to the people had done little to scotch rumour.
By command of Parliament and by the wish of the young King, the body was carried in state to Gloucester, to the minster Edward of Carnarvon had loved and where his name was cherished. The slow procession wound along the Autumn roads; a great pageant such as the dead man, himself, must have loved. Upon high-stepping horses, black and harnessed in black, the golden leopards emblazoned, rode the knights all in black and gold. Now came the hearse hung with black taffetas; in each corner stood a great gilded lion carrying a gilded saint. By the side of the saintly riders pretty boys, dressed as angels, swung their censers. Upon the coffin, itself, draped with black velvet, emblazoned with the King’s arms in gold, lay the carved and painted image of the dead man in all the pride of his handsome manhood. It was clothed kingly, and royally crowned so that all men wept with pity. Immediately following the hearse, in a charette all hung with black, came the Queen pale in her mourning weeds, grief-stricken, beautiful. Beside the charette walked the King, his young face drawn with sorrow; behind him Lancaster and the young John led the princes of the state, archbishop Reynolds the princes of the church.
