Harlot Queen (31 page)

Isabella’s pleasure in the longed-for event was spoilt. This homage, this peace was of her making; others had failed but she and she alone had brought it about. And now, the weak-willed fool her husband that had not lifted a finger in the matter, had dared summon her home; home to the insults—and worse maybe, that the Despensers chose to put upon her. He had commanded her to leave this court where she was treated with all a Queen’s dignity, where she was happy; this court and her lover.

‘Sir,’ she told her brother when, somewhat unwilling, he reminded her of her wifely duties, ‘I am not truly married; nor any way a wife. Marriage is a joining together of man and woman—a sharing of flesh and spirit. These wicked men, these Despensers have come between my lord and me. It is they, not I, that break the bond. The father sows his discord so that my husband is divorced from me in spirit; as for the flesh, I am banished my husband’s bed. Shame it is to say it, yet the thing must be said—the son takes my place therein. They have made me a widow, flesh and spirit.’

Something of this he had known, and had shown her the more kindness. Now, when he questioned her she said, ‘Brother, I fear the Despensers; I fear them for my life. Since they could not break my marriage one way, they mean to do it another. They have it in mind to put me to death; and they will do it, too. They hate me because I would stand between them and the King to protect him.’

Edward wrote courteously requesting the return of his wife; Charles made a reluctant stand.

The Queen came here of her own will and may freely return if she chooses. But, if she choose to remain, she is my sister and I refuse to send her away.

And, Edward writing more urgently, Charles replied,

I cannot permit her to return to you unless she is guaranteed from evil that is meditated against her by the Despensers…

Isabella awaited the next move. What she had told her brother was true. She did fear the Despensers—and with good cause. But what she had not told him was equally true. Were the impossible to happen; were Edward to dismiss the Despensers and seek his wife again, she’d have none of him. ‘Share his crown, I would!’ She told Théophania, breast heaving, eyes aflame ‘Share his board—that also if I must. But share his bed—never!’

No need to say it. Théophania understood perfectly. The Queen belonged to Mortimer. She was a woman in love for the first time; and, Théophania would swear, for the last. One could grieve at such folly, such fall from grace; one could disapprove. But one could not blame. Her husband despised her, her lover lusted after her, both alike insulting her womanhood. Between husband and herself—a gulf no woman could cross. Between lover and herself some human warmth, a giving and a taking. For so long spirit had starved with flesh. Was it not possible that, satisfying flesh, she might feed spirit also; through mortal sin to come at last to some excellence of soul? Théophania sighed. The matter was beyond her.

Isabella explained to her son why she dared not return home. She must, she knew, be careful what she said; he disliked Mortimer and made no secret of it.

‘It is the Despensers; accursed father, accursed son. Let me return and nothing would save me from death! Your father promises me safety; but in his heart he sees no need of such a promise. A foolish woman’s whim he thinks it. Well I cannot blame him; a man must trust his friends!’ And she was too clever to belittle father to son. ‘But let him turn his back a moment, let him but close his eyes—and goodbye Queen!’

He saw that she was shivering a little and put a comforting hand upon hers. ‘I hate them, also. When I am older—let my father do what he will—I will make an end of them for you. And Madam, dear mother, till there’s no more danger stay in France, I beseech you; come home no more.’

Edward was bewildered by his wife’s accusations. Danger to her life! What nonsense; none but a foolish woman could have thought of it. She had been angry with his two Hughs—and, perhaps, not unnaturally. But beyond sequestering her lands and cutting down her incomes—and both dictated by needful economy—they had done nothing to her hurt. All this he must make clear to his brother of France.

…You have been told, dearest brother, that our companion the Queen of England, dare not return to us, being in peril of her life from Hugh le Despenser. Certainly, dearest brother, she cannot have fear of him, or any other person in our realm. By God, if Hugh or any other man alive in our dominions would wish to do her ill and it came to our knowledge, we would chastise him in such a manner that it would be an example to all others…

‘But it would not come to his knowledge,’ Isabella told her brother.

‘They would see it did not; they are sly and secret as the grave.’

Charles nodded. He went on reading.

We beseech you, dearly beloved brother, that you will be pleased for your honour and ours and more especially for that of our consort, to return her to us with all speed, for certainly we have been ill at ease for want of her company in which we have such delight…

‘Such delight!’ she cried out. ‘By God he is forsworn!’

… And if our surety is not enough…

‘It is not enough!’ she cried out.

…then let her come on pledge of your good faith in me…

‘There is no faith. Brother, be warned. There’s no pledge can stand against the lies of the Despensers!’ And she wrung her hands.

‘My brother of England asks also for his son; with that you can have no quarrel. Listen.

…and we pray you suffer him to come to us with all speed for we have often sent for him and have great need of his counsel…’

‘His counsel—and he but thirteen!’ And now she was openly mocking both writer and letter. ‘Need of a hostage; more like, a hostage to bring me back! I take this to be further proof—if proof were needed—of Despenser perfidy and his own great foolishness.’

Letters. Letters. Letters.

Autumn gave way to winter, yet still there was no respite. Isabella had come to dread the arrival of the messengers; she wondered how long her brother would endure the perpetual bombardment.

And still it went on.

Edward, King of England, to Isabella Queen and consort.

Lady we have often informed you of our great desire to have you with us; and of our grief at your long absence. You do us great mischief by this. Therefore we will that you come to us with all speed and without further excuses. Before the homage was performed you made that your excuse. Now you will not come for fear of the Despensers…

Again, again the Despensers! Again the protestations that never had they shown her aught but honour.
Aught but honour!
And they daring their reproof in the King’s own presence; and all the time Edward sitting there and nodding and smiling. Had either of those two lifted a hand to strike her, still he would have gone on smiling. What safety if she were fool enough to return? She struck upon the letter with the flat of her hand.
What safety?

And now it was the Prince’s turn.

From Edward King of England to Edward Prince of Wales.

Very dear son, as you are young and of tender age we remind you of that with which we charged you at your departure. You answered then, as you know, with goodwill, that you would not disobey any one of our injunctions at any point, for anyone. Since your homage has been received by our dearest brother the King of France, be pleased to take your leave of him and return to us with all speed in company of your mother. If she will not come then come you
without further delay
. Stay not for your mother nor for anyone else on our blessing.

Given at Westminster on the second day of December, in the year of grace thirteen hundred and twenty-five.

Letters. Letters. Letters.

Letters written in anger and in anger received. And all the time the French court abuzz; sly words and laughter behind hands.
The Queen of England does her husband wrong; like any strumpet she’ll not leave her lover nor return to that honest good man her husband
. So quickly does the weathercock of regard turn with every wind!

The young Edward knew not what to do. His mother must not return to the anger of his father, to the hatred of the Despensers. But himself? His father had charged him to delay no longer. A son must obey his father, a prince his King; too long already he had disobeyed. But a son must protect his mother, a prince his Queen… and her enemies sought to make of him a hostage. He could not believe his father would use a son to injure his mother. But the Despensers might! He saw that very plain.

The gossip had reached his ear at last and he knew not what to think.
She is not to blame
. It was his first thought; she was his mother and he loved her, his Queen, and he honoured her. True he had often found those two alone. and the air uneasy for his coming… He had seen for himself the man’s familiarity; but in his mother nothing save a gentle dignity. He did not blame her now, not even after last night, when, troubled by this last letter from his father, he had gone somewhat late to ask her advice. He had heard voices from within; and a fellow wearing the Mortimer livery had suggested, with deep respect, that the lord Prince wait until morning. It was late and Madam the Queen at her prayers. Did God then, answer in a man’s voice familiar with the ring of the west country? And why did Mortimer’s men guard the Queen’s door?

He had pushed the fellow aside. He had found his mother rising from her knees; she was, he noticed, naked beneath her bedgown which was not usual this winter weather. She was flushed; she had not the look of a praying woman; and the bed had a tumbled look, as if rising to pray she had hastily smoothed the covers. He had felt himself an intruder; he had turned and gone without a word.

Now, all day, he had been wondering whether the fellow at the door had not raised his voice in warning… there was an outer staircase behind her bedhead and there had, he remembered now, been a slight draught as though someone leaving hastily had left the door ajar.

The voice, the tumbled bed, the draught of wind…

He was taken with anger against his mother for so belittling her dignity as to receive the owner of that voice alone. He dared not listen to his own inner voice that whispered something worse of her; he was still very young. It was Mortimer that received the full measure of his hatred; Mortimer that cared so little for her good name that he gave scandal yet more to feed upon. Now she must be made to return at once, to give the lie to foul gossip. Once safe at home he would breathe no word about last night for fear of his father, for fear of the Despensers. No great harm had been done; when she was gone the talk would soon die. Yes, he would carry her at once to England where Mortimer could never come.

Edward of England was angry. It was not the quick Plantagenet rage but a deep slow-burning anger that spoiled his sleep and ruined his pleasure. The year had moved to Spring; more than a twelve month since she had gone, this wife of his that thumbed her nose so that all Christendom laughed. He had no use for a wife, they said.

‘She stays in Paris enjoying her paramour and seeking to blind me with excuses!’ he told the younger Hugh. ‘That she fears you I don’t for a moment believe—she has no cause. She went into France to make peace and peace she has made. But if she doesn’t return and soon, that peace shall be broken; and it is we, we ourselves, that shall break it!’ He looked up at the young man, wondering how the Queen could pretend to fear so loving a creature; he missed, as always, the coldness of those eyes.

‘Sir,’ Hugh told him, ‘there’s news from France, There’s talk, that Madam the Queen—’ and he was careful to speak with respect, ‘is arranging a French marriage for the lord Prince of Wales.’

He had the satisfaction of seeing the King leap from his chair.

‘I do not believe it. She knows that we negotiate a match with Spain! No, I cannot believe it, double-dealer though she be!’

He set to pacing backwards and forwards.

‘She knows that matters are advanced for betrothal with Castile; that already we have asked the Pope’s dispensation. Can she be ready to offer this insult to Spain! Instead of the hand of friendship we shall have the hand of war!’

Backwards and forwards driven by his anger.

‘Always she sets herself against me; against my friends, my advisers and my heart’s desires. Play me false in this! Never! I tell you, never! I charged my son upon my blessing, to enter into no marriage-contract without my consent…’

He paused trying to calm himself. ‘I must write; I must write at once, put an end to her mischief before she does yet more harm. I must charge my son…’ He took his head in his hands. ‘I cannot think… I cannot think! Find me the words.’

Despenser hid the smile. Every letter, temperate or angry, he had dictated to the King. He began now, in his clear high voice.

Edward, fair son, remember well the charge we gave you not to contract marriage nor suffer it to be contracted for you without our knowledge and consent. Remember, also, at your departure from Dover you said it would be your pleasure to obey our commands, as far as you could, all your days. Fair son, if you have done this you have done well; if not, then you cannot avoid the wrath of God, the reproach of men and our own indignation. For no other thing you could do would cause greater injury and pain of heart to me…

You seem to say you cannot return because of your mother. It causes me great uneasiness of heart that you are not allowed to do what is your natural duty, the neglect of which must lead to great mischief.

Despenser’s voice came slow, and slower. So far the King had allowed no slur upon the Queen to be made to her son; might not this be the time? Voice gentle, he continued.

You know how dearly she would have been loved and cherished if she had come timely according to her duty…

Edward looked up and smiled; how well Hugh understood.

Despenser took in his breath; he knew well how to play upon the King. Now was the time to accuse the Queen!

We have knowledge of her evil doings to our sorrow. We know how she devises pretences for absenting herself from us, saying it is on account of our faithful Hugh…