Harlot Queen

by Hilda Lewis

  And now it was all over. Now Edward of Carnarvon was dead and out of the way for ever.

  Now the Queen and her lover could breathe freely.

  All quiet… for the present.

  ‘My son-in-law sends in his bill. He’s a clever fellow!’ Mortimer chuckled. ‘He took care to be absent from home the day Ogle called at Berkeley—there’s none to point a finger at him.’

  ‘The bill?’ she interrupted, impatient.

  ‘Five pounds a day for the custody of the body, five pounds likewise for dyeing the silk upon hearse and coffin. He sets down, also, the cost of carrying the body to Gloucester. And, your son, it seems, ordered the bishop of Llandaff together with five knights to guard the body until after the funeral; the cost…’

  ‘The total?’ She had a growing dislike for paying her debts.

  ‘For the funeral items alone three hundred pounds.’

  ‘I’ll not pay it! You may tell him so!’

  ‘Would Madam the Queen haggle over the price of her husband’s funeral!’ Mortimer asked, sour. He made a sudden, irritable movement; a silver-stoppered vase upon a shelf went tumbling.

  ‘Pick him up. It’s Edward; his heart!’ Her laughter held a note of hysteria. ‘They sent it from Gloucester in the pious belief I’d cherish it. Hide it away, Mortimer; thrust it where I may never see it again! As for the bills, I’ll not haggle, though Berkeley makes us pay through the nose. Such a funeral must put an end to gossip; for that alone it’s worth the money!’

  The splendid funeral had not stopped tongues. Everywhere the questions. How was it that the King, that strong man, met a death so soon and so sudden? Why had Berkeley been absent from home at the time of the death? Why was he never questioned; nor Gurney the steward that ordered all things at the castle; nor Maltravers? Why, above all, is Maltravers raised to a great position—High Steward to the royal household—no less?

  To all these questions—one answer. Murder!

  Edward of Carnarvon is not dead. New rumours, even more disturbing to the Queen and her lover; to the young King infinitely distressing. Edward of Carnarvon is not dead. Unable to set his mind upon any other matter he went about half-hoping, wholly disbelieving—for had he not, with his own eyes, seen his father buried?

  And then the first bald rumour tricked out with details.

  The Welsh rescued him; they keep him safe until good time. The tale of his death—a lie, put about by those that should have better guarded him. The body that lay in state; who recognised the face? The funeral; a mockery. Whose body lies in the royal tomb? Some poor wretch that died; or was murdered to cover the King’s escape… For escape he did.

  Edward of Carnarvon is not dead…

  ‘Your father is dead!’ Isabella told him. ‘And fools must forever make false tales for their own amusement. But—a King! It behoves a King to put away childish nonsense and vain hopes. A King must face the truth however hard.’

  And when he made no answer said, ‘Think, my son. Were he alive should I not know it… here.’ And touched her breast. ‘I was his wife.’

  ‘You should know!’ he said; that and no more. And what, she wondered, did he mean by that?

  Edward of Carnarvon could not, it seemed, lie quiet in his grave… if it were, indeed his grave. There began to spread tales of wonders performed at the tomb of the dead man; tales of sickness healed, of lost things found, of prayers answered. Surely the late King lay in his tomb, he and no other! And, as surely, he had been murdered. Martyrdom had made of him a saint; Gloucester became a place of pilgrimage.

  Isabella said, ‘Your father was no saint; and would be the last to make such a claim! If we should make a saint of every man that comes to a sudden death the country would be crawling with saints as a peasant’s shift with lice. No. Simple folk look for signs and wonders; how else shall they endure their hard days? Now we must give them new events, new loyalties. We must give the people cause for other talk, joyful talk. I think, perhaps, my son, you understand my meaning.’

  The rush of colour to the young cheeks showed that he did.

  Mortimer came into the Queen’s bedchamber; he wore a dissatisfied air. He said, ‘Gloucester’s title; Parliament will not give it me!’

  She was not surprised; not though she and his friends on the Council had worked for it. Gloucester lands and Gloucester wealth he had; the Gloucester title he had not nor could look to have. It was a royal title; that Despenser had dared aspire to it had been remembered with mockery at his hanging.

  ‘But—’ and she was puzzled, ‘nothing? Nothing at all?’

  ‘They’ve made me earl of March. Well it must do for the present,’ he said ungracious and grudging still. ‘They must do better when I marry my Queen.’

  The winged brows flew upwards.

  ‘My wife’s taken of a consumption, my steward writes me; she’ll not outlive the winter.’

  Even she, knowing him as she did, was chilled by his unconcern. She felt the moment’s grief for Jeanne that had once been her friend. She felt the moment’s grief for herself. She could never marry him; he must know it as well as she. Her son would not allow it, nor Parliament sanction it. As for the people—she would lose the last of their waning love. Even to consider such a piece of folly would cost her dear; him, dearer still.

  ‘I must content myself till then!’ he said. ‘But what does not content me, is your son. You must speak to him, Madam. He carries himself towards me in a way I’ll not tolerate.’ And he spoke as a man that having put down one King might easily put down another.

  ‘You must win him: you have not tried.’

  ‘Win… him!’ The contempt in his voice pricked her on account of her son.

  ‘He is the King; it is not wise to ignore him. Young he is; but his memory, believe it, is long!’

  ‘I won him his crown; I. Now it seems he cannot forgive me the gift. He suspects me of some part in his father’s death; And no reason; he knows nothing.’

  ‘Instinct speaks louder than reason; but, indeed there’s reason enough! The more need then to win him.’

  ‘I’ll not truckle to any man, still less to a boy; not though he be a King—a King I made.’

  ‘But still you must win him.’

  ‘Your own efforts have not been crowned with success.’

  She flushed at the taunt. ‘Then I must make a greater effort; and you must help me. We must turn his coldness to affection; there’s a simple way. He pines for his Hainaulter. Let him have her! Give him the girl—and we win his favour.’

  XXXIX

  The young King was restless. The rumours had not stopped. Murder. An ugly word; and when one’s own father is named victim, the mind sinks beneath the weight of horror. And still there were tales of miracles performed at the tomb; miracles that pointed steadily towards martyrdom. And what is martyrdom but murder by torment? Yet he might have come to terms even with that but for those other rumours flying the length and breadth of the country. Edward of Carnarvon is not dead. He has been seen in Gloucester, seen in York, seen in Avignon, seen in Rome… not his ghost but his very self. It drove the boy to a frenzy of restlessness. Seesawing between despair and hope, he knew no peace. His restlessness, his misery, deepened his resentment against his mother and her lover. He could not bring himself to enter her closet lest he find Mortimer lounging in a state of undress.

  The King has been seen in Wales. This last rumour forced him to seek her out. And there the fellow was, paring his nails with a small dagger and making no attempt to hide his nakedness beneath a bedgown carelessly fastened and stiff with gold. Speak of his father to these two! The man, at least, knew more than somewhat of the matter! By God he longed to make him speak, to force the truth out of that lying, laughing throat. Sickened he turned upon his heel. Mortimer’s amused laughter followed him.

  On his way back to his own lodgings he saw his cousin of Lancaster and beckoned him. In the anteroom his attendants waited—the bishops, the earls, the barons the Council had forced upon h
im; he had given them the slip by escaping through the ruelle. Now, ignoring them, he went into the inner room taking Lancaster with him. He was about to speak, anger so fierce in eye and mouth that Lancaster shook a warning head; Lancaster opened the door to the anteroom and dismissed those that waited. They went unwilling. Never to leave the King—the Council had given its orders. But Lancaster led the Council and Lancaster must answer for this!

  Edward, said choking in his throat, ‘That man… Mortimer! His insolence grows beyond bearing. I cannot nor I will not endure him!’

  Lancaster said, ‘Sir, have patience, yet a little.’

  ‘Patience! Always it is patience, patience, patience! I am the King; yet always my will must wait upon others!’

  ‘It is part of the business of being a King… a young King. When you have learned to curb your will yet keeping your purpose firm; when you have learned patience until your hand closes upon the thing you mean to have—then you will, indeed, be a King; maybe a great King!’

  ‘And meanwhile that man has the laugh of me!’

  ‘Let him laugh while he may; he’ll not laugh long. Once your council was packed with his friends; the same men sit there—but they are no longer his friends. They refused him the Gloucester title; once they had not dared. True they created a new title; a so much lesser title. That’s the writing on the wall! Myself, you know well, I never liked the man; your uncles Kent and Norfolk have already withdrawn from him. Orleton stands in Mortimer’s black books. And the offence? Orleton accepted the see of Winchester and paid no fee to Mortimer. Orleton’s right; Mortimer’s wrong. The see is in the Pope’s gift, not Mortimer’s. Soon it must come to open quarrel—Mortimer’s a fool and for his foolishness must pay! Without Orleton he must fall; he needs the bishop both within and without the Council. In the Council Orleton carries the greatest possible weight—wise, knowledgeable and discreet as he is! And in private he’s Mortimer’s counsellor—wise, faithful and devoted. Soon Mortimer must go lacking that influence on the Council; must lack still more that shrewd advice. He quarrels with his last friend—the rest of us don’t forget the way he behaved at Salisbury, how he came storming into Parliament, his private army at his back, defying us to oppose his wishes on pain of death. No King ever dared so much!’

  ‘I do not forget, neither; nor yet the way he spits upon my royal dignities. He sits in my presence; he dares! Nor does he rise till I rise first. We sit and sit, each hoping to outsit the other. In the end I can endure it no more. It is I that must rise, I the King! When I walk, he comes up with me and walks step-by-step, cheek-by-cheek. And, if the path should narrow so that one of us must go first, it is he… he!’ The boy choked in his throat.

  ‘I have seen it; we have all seen it. He shall pay for it, never fear!’

  ‘But when? When? Who shall stand against him, my mother at his right hand, the army at his back?’

  ‘A while ago you might have added, the Council beneath his thumb! But that, for your comfort, is no longer true. Your princes are offended, the church displeased, the common people bitter. And who can wonder? He keeps such state no prince in Christendom can afford, nor King nor Emperor; no, not the Pope himself! His troops of knights, his private armies, his hordes of servants. He holds his tournaments more glorious than any yet seen. He has his Round Table—no less!’

  ‘He claims King Arthur as his forebear!’ the King cried out, scornful of such foolishness.

  ‘To keep up such state he drains the country dry; he’s greedier than both Despensers put together. When he rides abroad the people stand and gape; his train is richer, finer greater than your own.’

  ‘I know it; he sees that I do! He’s so rich and I’m so poor. Cousin, do I set my heart upon a horse or a hound, I must go without… or take it a gift from his hand. And that I’ll never do. Rather I’d go naked in my shirt!’ The boy’s voice rose high; he was near to tears.

  ‘Once he was the country’s saviour,’ Lancaster said, ‘come to bring freedom and prosperity to us all. For that freedom, for that prosperity, we wait still. Well, he has lost best part of his worshippers. Once when he rode through London the streets rang with cheers; now he rides in silence. There’s no favourite, ever, but he comes to a bad end! Wait, Ned—’ and at the little name the boy softened, ‘wait yet a little and you will see!’

  ‘My son is restless,’ Isabella said.

  Mortimer shrugged. He cared nothing for the restlessness of any fifteen-year-old!

  ‘He is no longer a child,’ she said. ‘We must look to his future… and our own.’

  ‘Who may plan for the future? Who knows what it may bring? Did your husband? Did Gaveston? Did the Despensers?’

  ‘Fools; fools all! But we are wise; we make our own future, shape it as we will… but only if we win my son. I have said it before, but you would not listen. Now you must listen; it is more than time. We have promised him his bride; but we have done nothing. We must busy ourselves about the affair. For, mark you, with this marriage we win not my son alone, but the girl…’

  ‘The Queen,’ he reminded her. ‘The Queen. Once she is here you take second place, I cannot think that will please you!’

  ‘You may leave that to me!’ Her mouth lifted to a smile.

  She should be careful, he thought, how she smiled. Read that smile—and you read her character. Implacable; despising the wisdom of others. To herself, indulgent; to him also… as long as he was faithful; but only so long. Besides, smiling no longer became her; she had lost a tooth. As long as she kept her mouth shut she was a handsome enough piece still.

  ‘Yes,’ she said again, ‘you may safely leave it to me! That she—the plain and plodding creature from Hainault—should put me from my place!’ She could not forbear to laugh.

  ‘Put you from your place, Isabella the Fair! Isabella the subtle! She’d have to change her face and her wits both!’ He laughed also.

  The joke was good; it was hard to control their laughter.

  When next the Council met, the Queen raised the subject of her son’s marriage.

  ‘It was agreed by you that the lord King should marry a daughter of the count of Hainault. It is a marriage for this country’s greatest good. It will bring us great prosperity. The most part of the wool trade is in Hainault’s hands; from it, indeed, comes the best part of Hainault’s great wealth. This trade has already brought us some measure of prosperity; marriage between our two countries will bring us wealth beyond counting.’

  ‘And with the bride, herself, the dowry will be great.’ And she omitted to mention that the greater part had been paid; and spent. ‘All the daughters of the count of Hainault are young, healthy and virtuous. Any one of them would bring sons and daughters to strengthen our royal house.’

  She had won them all. Lancaster alone asked his question, he did not trust his niece. ‘How says the lord King?’

  ‘He is content.’

  ‘He is old enough to speak for himself. How say you, sir?’

  ‘Kings marry where they must. I am content.’ He gave no sign of the joy within him; a King must hide his innermost heart.

  ‘The lord Pope must first grant dispensation,’ Lancaster reminded them. ‘Madam Queen Isabella and Madam the Countess are near in blood.’

  To the lord Pope went the request, with gifts, that his Holiness be pleased to grant dispensation; and, that being granted, Orleton that once worked evil for the father, now worked good for the son. Mortimer, angered still, had refused, at first, to send him; but the Queen, remembering the bishop’s good faith and subtlety, and hoping still for friendship between those two, had prevailed. ‘Sir,’ Orleton told the King, ‘I go to Hainault to choose your bride. But have no fear; my choice shall march with your own!’

  The bishop approved the King’s choice; he understood very well why the boy had set his heart on this girl. As like to her sisters as peas in a pod the Queen had said. And it was true; but it was not the whole truth. It was the steady look in those clear eyes, the bright intelligen
ce of the brow, the sweetness of the mouth and the strength of chin that had caught the King’s heart and held it.

  ‘Sirs,’ Orleton told Parliament, ‘amongst so much virtue, so much beauty it was hard to choose. After much prayer I chose the lady most fitted in age to wed the lord King—the lady Philippa.’

  The wedding treaty was signed, the bridal garments being sewn, jewels and equipages chosen. It was left to my lord bishop of Coventry to complete the arrangements. Orleton had, at last, fallen. He had failed to wring further gold from Hainault.

  ‘Now all is finished between them. The first nail in Mortimer’s coffin,’ Lancaster told his King.

  ‘God send it,’ the King said.

  ‘I am married!’ Edward said, awestruck. ‘I have not seen Madam Philippa since Hainault. She is as she was, and I am as I was; nothing is altered… yet everything is altered. I am her husband and she is my wife.’

  ‘Marriage by proxy—a wedding but no bedding!’ At Isabella’s laugh the boy’s face took fire. ‘Soon you shall wed her in your own person—wed her and bed her. But duty comes first. We are for the north!’