by Jean Plaidy
Gloucester turned away. He could not shut out the sight of Gaveston’s face, the eyes glittering, the mouth slightly lifted at one comer. ‘That Whoreson Gloucester―’
Gaveston would now pay for the fury he had aroused in the hearts of powerful men.
It was their turn now.
* * *
Lancaster, Hereford and Arundel had arrived at Warwick Castle.
‘So you have him here,’ said Lancaster.
‘He is in one of the dungeons. He has lost his bombast. He is now full of fear as to what we have planned for him.’
‘So should he be,’ replied Lancaster grimly.
‘What shall we do with him?’ asked Warwick, ‘He must not be allowed to live,’ Lancaster pointed out. ‘Every day he is alive could mean danger. What if the King mustered an army and came to take him? What would our position be then?’
‘We should be fighting against the crown,’ put in Warwick. ‘Civil war.
There was enough of that under John and Henry.’
‘There is one thing to be done,’ said Lancaster. ‘We must pronounce sentence and carry it ont. The man is a traitor. He has stolen the crown jewels. A fortune was left behind at Scarborough. He is under excommunication. He deserves death and at a trial he would be found guilty. My lord, there is one thing we must do. We must carry out the sentence before there is more trouble.’
‘He deserves the traitor’s death.’
‘Hanged, drawn and quartered. Yes, but how? Moreover, he is connected by marriage with Gloucester’s sister which gives him a link with royalty. It is enough that he loses his head.’
‘Who will strike the blow?’ asked Hereford looking from Warwick to Lancaster.
Arundel said: ‘The man who does that places himself in danger.’
‘It is no time to think of that,’ retorted Lancaster sharply. ‘The blow must be struck. He must lose his head.’
‘When?’ asked Arundel.
‘This night.’
‘So soon?’
‘Who knows what tomorrow could bring?’ cried Lancaster. ‘What if the King arrived to take him from us?’
‘There will be no peace in this land while he lives,’ said Warwick. ‘The people will rise against the King if Gaveston goes back to him. They like not this relationship between them. They want him to be with his Queen. They want another man such as his father was― a family man who will give the country heirs.’
‘Great Edward the First gave us our present King. He was great in all things save one— the giving of an heir.’
‘Hush my lord. That’s treason.’
‘Treason― among friends. We know it is all true.’
‘That may be. But let us rid the country of Gaveston and see what comes then.’
‘He must go.’
They all agreed to that. And who should actually strike the blow? That man would be the enemy of the King forever.
They came to a decision. It should be an unknown hand that killed Gaveston. The noble earls would merely be spectators and the men who struck the blows should be humble soldiers whose identity would be lost when they mingled with their fellows.
It was the only way.
* * *
‘Come, Gaveston.’
It was Warwick who spoke to him.
‘It is time to go.’
‘To go where?’
‘Whither the Mad Hound leads.’
‘You never forget that, do you?’
‘There are some things which are never forgotten.’
‘You harbour more resentment against me for calling you that than for snatching the championships at Wallingford.’
‘Have done. There is little time for such badinage. You should be saying your prayers.’
‘So you are going to kill me?’
‘You are going to meet your deserts.’
‘And my fair trial?’
‘ I promised none of those things.’
‘You will have to answer to Pembroke.’
‘That will be no affair of yours, Gaveston. You should be praying for your black soul.
‘There is little time for that now.’
‘Tis so. Then use it.’
They took him out of the castle. He now saw the nobles earls on horseback waiting. They were as still as statues cut out of stone.
They sat him on a horse. He savoured the smells and signs of the night. The good earth; the scent of grass, the dark star-speckled sky. He had never noticed their beauty before. He had loved the blue of the sapphire, the rich red of the ruby, the glitter of the diamond, because they had been the symbols of riches and power. Now he wanted to savour other beauties but it was too late.
Where were they taking him? Away from Warwick? Why, he wondered.
The Mad Hound had been eager to take him but perhaps he was not so eager to have a hand in his death.
He noticed then that Warwick was not among them.
It was Lancaster who rode ahead with Arundel. They were going into Lancaster’s estates which bordered on those of Warwick and could not have come more than a few miles.
Were they on the way to Kenilworth?
But no. They had stopped.
He was ordered to dismount. He did so and a troop of soldiers surrounded him.
They walked forward; he with them then. They had come to a hill which he knew from the past. Blacklow Hill. He remembered passing it when he was in Edward’s company. How strange that then he should have had no premonition of this.
The three earls did not follow him. He knew what that meant. They were afraid. They wanted him dead but they did not want to kill him themselves. That was a task for someone else.
This was the moment then.
The soldiers were all around him. He stood at the foot of the hill. He looked back. His last look at the earth: the dark hill before him; the silence of the night broken only by the ripple of a nearby stream. The smells of earth, the beauty of the earth― so much that he had never had time to notice before.
He glanced back at the figures of the earls seated on their horses. The sentinels at the gates of the Earth, crying out to him: No admittance to you, Gaveston. You are banished― banished from life.
Someone had come close to him. He was just in time to see the flash of steel. Then darkness and he was falling― His life had been ended by an unknown hand but those men sitting on their horses, silent, still as stone, were the men who had murdered him.
He could hear a rushing in his ears. Vengance, Vengance, it seemed to say, and then something else― perhaps it was his own voice.
Edward― Edward― this is the end.
* * *
Warwick waiting in the castle was afraid of what they had done. They should have waited, given him his trial, for he must surely have been found guilty. But they had taken justice into their hands.
He had captured him, brought him to Warwick Castle and sent word to Lancaster. But he had not gone out with them to Blacklow Hill.
There was a banging on the castle door. It echoed uncannily through the vaulted roofs.
Warwick opened the door. Two men stood there. They were carrying a headless corpse.
‘He is no more, my lord. The Earl of Lancaster has his head. We have brought his body to you.’
Warwick stepped forward and looked at the grisly remains of that once graceful body which had charmed the King.
‘Take it away!’ he cried. ‘Take it from here. I will have nought to do with it.’
‘My lord, where would you have us take it?’
‘Take it―’ He tried to think. ‘Anywhere,’ he cried, ‘but away from here.
‘Take it to the Dominicans of Oxford. They will give it temporary refuge.’
So wild did he look with the foam at his mouth― Gaveston’s mad dog indeed.
The men hurried off. They knew that Gaveston could not be buried in concentrated ground. He had died excommunicate and with all his sins upon him.
* * *
Lancaster alone took
responsibility for the death of Gaveston. He despised the others for their fear. He had disobeyed the laws. He had filched a fortune from the King. No― Nothing could have saved him.
‘I have no fear,’ said Lancaster. ‘The King will hate me for this but the people will be with me. The Queen will applaud me. I promised her to rid her of this man and I have done so. Why should I fear the King? I have my private army. I am as royal as he is. If the King cannot rule this land, then must others do it for him.’
Thomas Lancaster believed he could boldly admit to the judicial killing of an outlaw and a thief and a man who had threatened the peace of the country.
‘Gaveston is dead,’ said Lancaster. ‘We will go on from there.’
THE DESPENSERS
YOUNG EDWARD
WHEN the King heard of Gaveston’s murder those about him thought his grief would drive him mad. For days he shut himself into his chamber and would see no one. His attendants heard him wailing in his misery. He found some relief in calling vengeance on Lancaster, Warwick, Hereford and Arundel who had been responsible for the death of the finest man on Earth.
No one could soothe him in those first days but later the Queen insisted on going to him.
She was large with child now and the sight of her seemed to give him some comfort.
She feigned compassion but she felt none, only exultancy because Gaveston was dead. She had thought often of Lancaster and the ardent look in his eyes when he had said: ‘I will rid you of this man.’
He had taken great risks, and had removed Gaveston from their lives forever.
Edward was babbling of his talents. She pretended to listen and she let her hand rest on the child and to herself she said: We will show this man for the fool he is, when you are born, my child. You will grow up and you will be a great King and your mother will always be beside you. The people despise your father but I will give England another King such as the first Edward and the people will welcome you in place of your ignoble father.
How she despised him— his eyes red with weeping, his stupid babbling about the virtues of Gaveston. Gaveston had no virtue. All he had was a talent for self-aggrandizement and he was not even clever enough for that, for all that he had had a few years run he had ended without his head on Blacklow Hill.
Edward said to her: ‘To kill him so. To treat him thus. Oh Isabella― I cannot bear my life without him.’
She stroked his hair. What a fool he was! Like a girl. But he was indeed handsome. Who would have believed that those strong golden looks― inherited from his father― should disguise such a girlish nature. A poor weak creature masquerading as a king.
He should be her puppet now. She had powerful friends. Lancaster was undoubtedly one and when the child was born if it were a boy― She willed it to be a boy. And if not― Then she must get more and more until she had her boy.
‘What can I do without him, Isabella? You know what he meant to me?’
She said: ‘He should be given a decent burial. Why do you not have his body taken to Kings Langley? You have constantly spoken of the happy days you shared there with him in your boyhood.’
He seized her hands. ‘Oh, Isabella, you are good to me. You give me courage. You give me hope.’
Inwardly she laughed. You fool. Don’t you know that I hate him more than any of them? He had earned Warwick’s enmity by sneering at him and calling him the Mad Hound of Arden. He maddened others with his serpent’s tongue.
But none was humiliated as much as you have humiliated me, and I shall remember even as those barons did.
‘Well then,’ she said. ‘let us consider his tomb and should not prayers be said for his soul? Remember,’ she added maliciously, ‘he died with all his sins upon him.’
‘Gaveston will charm the angels. He need have no fear.’
‘They may not share your tendencies, Edward,’ she said sharply. Then she added quickly: ‘It would be well to have masses said for his soul. I am sure you see what I mean.’
‘It shall be done. Oh Isabella, it must be done quickly. Nothing― simply nothing must be forgotten.’
“We will arrange it together,’ she said.
‘I will have Lancaster’s head for this.’
‘You must be watchful of Lancaster, Edward. He is the most powerful man in the country.’
‘But I am the King, Isabella. Have you forgotten that?’
‘Not I. But others might. Much as you loved Gaveston, the people did not.’
‘They were fed lies.’
‘Oh they liked not his influence with you. Barons like Warwick and Lancaster were determined he should die. He should never have come back.’
‘Oh, no, no. If he had not, he would still be alive.’
‘Now he shall rest peacefully in Kings Langley. Edward, the barons are ready to rise against you. You will have to be careful with Lancaster.’
‘Lancaster! I will have his head.’
‘Your own cousin. He is popular with the people.’
‘I must remind you again, Isabella, that I am the King.’
‘Kings fall. Remember your grandfather Henry. There was a time when Simon de Montfort made him a prisoner. Your great-grandfather John was in even worse plight.’
‘I wish people would not always talk of those two. Look at my father. Men trembled at the sight of him and the sound of his voice.’
‘Edward, you are not your father.’
He was silent. Even the mention of the old man could subdue him still.
‘Listen,’ she said. ‘Pembroke and Warenne are disgusted with Warwick, Hereford and Arundel. Pembroke moans that he was forced to break his word and he fears he will lose his estates to you.’
‘He should have taken more care.’
‘He should indeed. Bind Pembroke to you, Edward. Don’t you see that this split between the barons can be your salvation? Pembroke and Lancaster are engaged in a feud which is greater than that between you and Lancaster.’
‘Nothing could be greater than that. I regard Lancaster as Perrot’s murderer.’
‘Yes, yes. But Pembroke is a powerful man. The people admire him. And because of what has happened he will be with you― not against you. Don’t you see, this has not turned out so badly. Oh, I beg of you, do not start again on the virtues of Gaveston. We must put that behind us. Give him the best burial we can and a good chance in heaven by exhortations to the saints. Let us set up our candles and let prayers be said for his soul, but Gaveston is gone and we are here.’
Even as they were talking, messengers came hurrying to the King from Pembroke. Lancaster, Hereford, and Warwick were marching on London. They knew full well that the King would want to take action against them and they were taking action first.
Isabella smiled secretly. Lancaster was a bold man. This was not the time however to depose Edward. Her child must be born first. He must have a son, a symbol, a new King before the old one was set aside.
Gloucester was without. An earnest young man and loyal to the king. He knelt and kissed Edward’s hand.
‘Well, cousin?’ asked Edward.
‘My lord, Lancaster marches on London. He has strong support. He must not be allowed into the city.
‘Let him come,’ retorted Edward. ‘I would have his head. I would show him what I feel for him now that he has robbed me of my best friend.’
Gloucester said: ‘If he came to London there could be civil war. Let the gates be closed my lord and warn the Londoners to be on guard.’
Isabella interrupted: ‘Our cousin is right, Edward. This is no time for conflict.’
So it was done and Lancaster himself was somewhat relieved that there should not be open conflict. Now there would be conferences between the barons which could last for weeks and meanwhile the King could subdue his grief and perhaps forget his ire; and it might well be that the difficult situation could be eased somewhat. It was hardly likely that the King would ever forgive the murderers of his beloved Gaveston but it was always better to let matters
settle down before rash action was taken.
* * *
The Queen had gone to Windsor for her lying in. At last the waiting was over and her desire to hold her child in her arms obsessed her.
She had chosen Windsor for the birth. It was one of her favorite palaces as it had been for Queen Eleanor who had brought the children there because she had thought the draughtiness of the Tower of London was bad for their health.
Isabella now lay in her bed and thought of how her life would be changed when this child was born. If it were a boy, everything would have been worthwhile.
Her pains were beginning. She welcomed them. She was praying to the Virgin, who should intercede for women.
‘Oh Holy Mary, give me a son. I have waited long. I have suffered humiliation which has been hard to bear for a woman of my proud nature.
Please give me my son.’
Pain engulfed her. She did not shrink from it. Anything― anything but give me my son.
She lost consciousness and was aroused to the sound of voices about her.
Then― the cry of a child.
She heard someone say, ‘Look, the Queen opens her eyes.’
‘My lady―’
How long they were. It seemed as though time had slowed down.
‘My― child―’
Then the blessed words: ‘A boy, my lady. A healthy boy― sound in limb and in good voice. A fine boy.’
A smile of triumph was on her lips as she held out her arms.
* * *
She caressed him. She examined him. He was perfect.
‘His legs are long,’ she said. ‘He will be like his grandfather.’
They noticed that she did not mention his father.
‘He is beautiful. Look― his hair is already so fair. Like a golden down. He’s a Plantagenet. It is obvious already.’
They agreed with her. The nurses clucked over him. They had never seen such a child, they assured her. He surpassed all other children.
Of course, he did. He was to be a king.
She said: ‘I have decided he shall be called Edward.’
