by Hilda Lewis
She lay senseless in his arms. She was dead, he knew it. Such happiness as his could not last long. Now, with her, his life had come to an end.
Her lids fluttered, she stirred in his arms.
She was not dead. God be thanked she was not dead! A terrible joy took him, thereafter a terrible rage.
She was not dead. But she might have been… she might have been. Men shrank from his face as he passed carrying his burden—the fixed jaw, the unseeing eye, the face of stone. In his anger terrible; those that had never seen his grandfather saw him now.
They had brought a litter; he walked, his hand upon it. He could trust none but himself to watch over her, lest still she slip from life. He and he alone could keep her safe.
She was lying in the Queen’s lodgings in the Tower. He could not enough look at her, could not enough thank God. But, for all that, he had lost none of his anger; he was sick and shaken with anger. He would have the lives of those responsible for this—foremen and labourers that had not sufficiently tested their work.
‘They shall hang, every mother’s son!’ he cried out looking upon her he had so nearly lost.
Every mother’s son… She had so lately borne a son; the words played havoc in her heart. She raised her gentle head. ‘There’s no harm done!’ she said.
‘You might be lying dead,’ he said and shook at the thought.
‘But I am alive. It was an accident; a thing no man could foresee.’
‘It should have been foreseen. Carelessness, bad work—it’s no excuse. It might have killed you!’
‘God shows His mercy. But, if yourself show none, how shall we deserve it of God?’
He turned his face from her. He loved her; and how nearly he had lost her! Those responsible must answer; he would not remit their just punishment.
A little unsteady she rose from the bed. A bruise marked the white skin of her forehead. Freed of the coif, her hair flowed free, her pretty brown hair. She looked little more than a child.
And she might have died, trampled beneath those brutish feet! He could not listen to her prayer.
She went down upon her knees; like any suppliant she knelt. She said no word. She took his hand and kissed it.
‘I can refuse you nothing!’ he said from a grim mouth.
XLIII
Henry of Lancaster heard the tale; the King himself told it, shame-faced that he had not meted out deserved punishment. The Queen’s mercy, Lancaster thought, should add to her image. He told the tale everywhere. Londoners heard it and blessed the Queen; and blessed the King that had not turned his ear from mercy. The tale spread throughout the land; minstrels sang the ballad of the good Queen.
Isabella heard the tale and shrugged. ‘Do you, for one moment, believe it was compassion with her? No, Mortimer, no! A show… a show only. I begin to wonder whether she isn’t cleverer than I think!’
‘You my dear, are not as clever as you think! You do not know real goodness when you meet it. To make a show of compassion—that’s your way and my way and the way of most of us. But it is not her way; hers is the way of true goodness! It is her strength and you must reckon with it!’
‘Goodness! Goodness!’ she cried out goaded. ‘If you admire it so much maybe you’d like to sleep with it!’
‘It would be a change!’ As always he lost no chance to flick her on the raw. ‘But—’ and now he applied the unguent, ‘I didn’t say I admired it; goodness bores me. But I do say it must be reckoned with!’
‘It is not goodness!’ she said again, obstinate. ‘It’s a slyness in her. She plays her game to win the people from me; to make an end of us both. Let her try! Clever she may be; but you and I, together, cleverer still!’
The King was in France. He had gone, all unwilling, to pay homage as peer of France to the new King. He had been bitterly set against it. Why should he pay homage for part of France when the whole of France was rightly his; yes, the throne of France, itself! For King Charles was dead and his cousin Philip of Valois ruled in his stead. But Edward’s claim was greater—the only direct descendant through his mother.
‘To pay homage is to deny my right!’ he had cried out in anger.
‘To refuse it is to assert your right—and we are in no state for war!’ Madam Queen Isabella said. ‘When we are stronger we will push your claim!’ And in that she was wise, though it was not England she thought of, but herself. She had lost the trust of the whole country; let her declare war and the barons might well refuse to follow her. Thus defied and without an army at her back, what became of Mortimer, what of herself?
To her he would not have listened.
‘We are in no state for war.’ Lancaster said, repeating her very words. ‘You have first to win England. Pay your homage now; when you truly rule here, we shall see about France!
To Lancaster the King must listen. He had left England, bitter for France lost. But some comfort he had. His affairs he had left in safe hands; Lancaster and Philippa worked together in his cause.
‘Madam,’ Lancaster told her, ‘our time is coming soon; very soon. While the King’s in France all suspicion is lulled; when he returns, all will be ready. The lord Pope approves; he sent us, by secret messenger, his blessing. That, when we make it known, will put courage into all—priests, princes and common folk alike. Meanwhile all goes better than we planned. The good bishop of Durham has the privy seal and will hold if for the King. Salisbury has long worked in our cause and many a baron he has brought in to us. Burghersh has brought over the barons of the Cinque Ports and with them all the harbours. And, best of all, Parliament is for us. There’s scarce a man in Parliament, earl or baron or simple knight, that will not lift his sword at the signal.’
‘And the Council; what of the Council?’
‘There Mortimer has not a friend left. Some make a show to stand by him now, because they must; but let danger threaten him and you’ll see how many will be faithful. As for the common people—the galled shoulder will no longer bear the yoke. Save in his own marches there’s not a man but longs to be rid of the tyrant. And he knows it. He grows uneasy; he shows it in his crazy arrogance. Men bow before him; behind his back they laugh at him… It is not a pleasant laughter. Soon the King will be home; we heat the iron against his coming. The hand that strikes upon that anvil is strong; a King’s hand.’
‘You make it sound too easy,’ she said. ‘Mortimer’s a proved captain; and in all England there’s no man so rich to bribe, so powerful to have his way. How if those that flatter him are afraid to leave their flattery… how if the iron, for all our heating, grow cold?’
‘I have a plan to strike at white heat. A simple plan. I think it cannot fail.’
He went softly to the door of the closet; in the ante-room her women, Hainaulters for the most part, sat industrious at the needle. Guileless they looked and faithful they were, but for all that, he drew the heavy curtains that hung upon the door; he brought his stool close and whispered in the Queen’s ear.
‘A clever plan,’ she said, ‘simple and subtle; but it hangs overmuch on the honesty, the discretion of one man.’
‘I know my man. He’s for the King body and soul. I am not one for rash action; I’m tired and near-blind, but yet I hold life too sweet to throw it away.’
‘But still,’ she said, ‘I cannot like your plan!’ And out came her true objection! ‘To persuade the lord King to lift his hand against his mother—I cannot do it.’
‘Not against his mother; against Mortimer, archtraitor and murderer of his King. His hand directed that murder; how long—let him go unpunished—before he lift it once more against his King?’
At that she trembled and he went on, ‘With Mortimer, Parliament shall deal; with his mother the King shall do as he chooses.’
And when still she hesitated, he said, ‘Free Madam Queen Isabella from this wicked man and you may save her soul.’
‘We cannot free her; she loves him.’
‘She is entangled by lust as in a web. There’s but
one hope to save her soul—to cut her free.’
There was silence between them. Then, knowing her so well he said. ‘Not for the sake of the country, nor for the King and your child; but for the sake of a woman who otherwise must burn in Hell, I implore you, Madam, advise the King in this matter.’
‘I will think upon it.’
The King was home again; he burned with two separate angers and both of them against his mother.
He had done homage according to her command. He had placed his hands between those of Philip of Valois. He had been asked, Will you become liegeman of the King of France as duke of Guienne and peer of France? And voice strangled in his throat, I will do it, he had said.
And this anger was fed by that other, older anger, fuelled afresh by the new facts he had learned in France. The scandal concerning his mother and Mortimer he had long known. What he had not known was the way she had lied to her brother and to the whole court, making now a monster of his father, now a clown. He had not known that by the Pope’s command she had been turned out of France. He had thought the old scandal no longer news; to find it very much alive, to hear the new tales, to find tongues bawdy about his mother, raised him to a pitch of madness against her. He was more than ready to listen to Lancaster.
Mortimer was growing uneasy. A man that thrusts himself into so high a place must, if he is to keep that place, be sensitive to every slightest wind that blows. He was watchful, he was irritable, he trusted no-one; and he carried himself more arrogantly than ever. Isabella wondered why still her heart was set upon him; why she endured his boorishness and not seldom his insults. But one look from those cold eyes, one touch of that unloving hand and she would risk her hope of heaven—a slight enough hope and therefore the more precious.
The Great Council—not the King’s private advisers—was to meet in Nottingham. Frowning, Mortimer scrutinised the names. ‘They call themselves friends; but which of them is to be trusted?’
‘Those we pay best!’ Madam Queen Isabella said. ‘Unless, indeed, Lancaster pay more!’
He shrugged. ‘I doubt Lancaster is much interested. He hates us, yes; but he’s too old, too blind. His own affairs take all his time. It’s as much as he can do to go on living.’
‘You don’t understand Lancaster,’ she said. ‘You never did. A stubborn man… a stubborn house. His business is the King’s business—and to that he’ll hold till the last breath’s out of his body. And those half-blind eyes of his! They see more than many a man with clear sight.’ More than you, my love; more than you! ‘We should have sent him to join his brother long ago and so I told my son. But he’d not listen. He was all for “justice!”We must render to Lancaster all that is Lancaster’s, he said; lands, honours, unstained name. Unstained name—traitor Thomas! Well, my son had his way and now we must deal with brother Henry… and that will be hard, and hard, indeed! Look at it how you will, he’s no traitor.’
‘There’s more than one opinion about that! Meanwhile, Madam, your son is too close to Lancaster; it could spell danger to us.’
She looked at him with still-beautiful eyes. She was tempted to lie to him, to assure him that the King would obey his mother—but he was eighteen now and a father. To lie in this spelt danger to them both.
She said, ‘He is restless beneath my hand. He took the peace with Scotland hard; harder still his homage to my cousin of France—nor can I wonder! It is my son that should sit upon the French throne. Of all claims in Christendom his is the best—grandson to my father in the direct line. Still I dissuaded him and I was right. Peace brings more prosperity than fighting about a crown however just the cause.’
‘Peace! Prosperity!’ His laugh was like a fox’s bark. ‘It’s glory he’s after, my dear! He snuffs at glory like a dog at a juicy bone. Keep him from Lancaster at all costs; Lancaster aids and abets him—the man’s our enemy, so is the virtuous Philippa! But I fear our greatest enemy is your son, himself!’
‘I told you to win him, I begged, I prayed, but you’d not listen. Now that unlucky visit to France has rubbed his anger raw. He hates me; but more than me, he hates you!’
‘I did not force you to my bed; you were willing enough!’
She flared into sudden anger. ‘It isn’t only that! It’s you, yourself—the ambition that’s an itch in the blood. The way you carry yourself prouder than a King; and the way you live, finer than any King in Christendom—you with your Round Table and your knights and your private tournaments! And the way you claim to be descended from King Arthur—King Arthur himself! What’s the use of it… unless you mean to claim the crown!’ She laughed at the thought; saw with some surprise he did not join the laughter.
She said, a little fearful, ‘That’s a great nonsense—I did but jest. But Mortimer, dear Mortimer, be a little careful. Watch how you anger my son. The old trick of making him rise first—it’s played out. It is for him to sit, for you to rise. And still, all uninvited, you walk close to him; upon occasion—in front, leaving him to follow. You catch him by the arm, interrupt him when he speaks. You are unwise to scant his dignities; you anger not my son alone but our princes. Earls and barons, bishops and abbots—all are incensed. Show yourself a little humble….’
‘Humble? To him? That boy!’ He could scarce speak for spleen.
‘Boy no more; it’s a man you must reckon with; a husband, a father and a King. Make light of all three if you can! A husband—that can scarce move you; your wife had little joy of you. A father’; she shrugged. ‘A child is easy begot. But the crown! the crown’s another matter. Even great Mortimer cannot afford to slight it. Young my son is; but a King with whom you must reckon. His grandfather all over again. The same courage, the same integrity… the same rages, the same fits of cruelty. I saw the old man once when I was a child in France. I’ve never forgot him. A frightening man; yes, even for you. Watch, watch yourself; give the King his due. Soon he goes to Nottingham; it is our duty to be there. Treat him with all courtesy; and God send it be not too late!’
He said with that arrogance that, like a cancer, had fastened upon him to bring him to his death, ‘I humble myself to no man—not King nor Emperor nor Pope himself!’
Useless to urge him further. She could but hope that some shrewdness as yet uncorrupted, might save him still. She hoped; she dared not count upon it.
Before ever the King could arrive Mortimer had taken possession of Nottingham Castle; the King and his officers must find lodgings elsewhere. ‘Make what excuses you choose,’ he told Isabella, ‘I’ll not have my enemies within these gates.’
‘We have no right to refuse the King admittance into his own castle; nor any man he choose to bring with him. The gates are his—not yours.’
‘And still I say again—I’ll not have him here—him and his men!’
The King must find lodgings elsewhere. Madam Queen Isabella did not put it like that. The castle, she sent word, was old and cold; was damp, was rat-infested—unfit for the lord King, unfit for old Lancaster; for herself, it was well enough. And well enough it was, with great fires blazing and all the braziers flaming and warm hangings to keep out the October mists rising from the river at its foot.
In the fortnight before the King’s coming she wasted no moment. Letters went out to all she believed she could trust. To Hereford she wrote twice; he had always been her supporter. The first time he sent his excuses; he was, alas, ill. Must she, she wondered, take this—a warning? She wrote again putting aside his excuses, demanding his presence; it was his duty to the King and Council. She sweetened the letter with promise of profit to himself. Profit. It was with her a word to speak louder than honour!
Hereford she must have. High Constable of England; a man of great influence and many friends. Let him show himself staunch and her cause would be safe. Yet much depended upon Mortimer. Dear God, let him carry himself more pleasant towards men; let him not anger his equals with self-destroying arrogance! No man might now address him save by his great title; when he walked abroad, he walke
d in greater glory than the King—the King whose treasure he wasted. Wherever he walked, my lord earl of March, a magnificent procession followed at his heels; friends, you might think—save that friends he had none. The gorgeous surtout hid cold steel.
The King was in Nottingham; his train was not so great nor so magnificent as Mortimer’s, but friends, friends all. And like Mortimer, each man’s surtout hid cold steel.
He had no intention of lodging within the castle. Shut himself in with those two and their armed men! Such a lodging was not to his taste; nor did it suit his plans. When he heard that they had shut the castle against him he laughed aloud; but for all that, he vowed Mortimer should pay dear for the insult. Meanwhile he was comfortably housed in the city with Lancaster and his friends—among them his cousin of Hereford; Hereford that knew which way the wind blew, had seen duty and profit go hand-in-hand. Armed forces were lodged near by at need; the King hoped there would be no need.
Isabella knew, as well as her son, the gross impropriety of denying the King entrance. Too late now to regret it; but still they could make some show of respect.
‘You have walked your own way so far, now walk a little in mine. I beseech you, Mortimer. It is for your good; for you alone!’
The blackness of his brow did not deter her. She remembered her own rage, her own humiliation being shut out from Leeds Castle, and the bloodshed it had brought. Though all seemed quiet enough she knew in her blood the urgency to placate her son.
‘You cause much anger by your bearing towards the King. They call you the King’s Master; and truly it is as though you stood over him with a whip!’
‘God’s pity I cannot use it! Your son must be brought to obedience.’
‘You talk of the King,’ she reminded him. ‘To be called the King’s Master may flatter you; but they call you something else—the Destroyer of the King’s blood… That cannot give you so much satisfaction. But like it or not, the names are dangerous, both!’
