Harlot Queen (32 page)

Yes, the King was writing it, every word, save that he had added
dear
to
faithful
.

…our dear and faithful Hugh who has always so well and truly served us, while you…

And now was the moment to test his power over the King, to make an end of the ridiculous courtesy towards this hateful, dangerous woman.

… Fair son, you—and all the world with you—have seen how openly, notoriously, and knowing it to be contrary to her duty, and against the welfare of our crown, she has attracted to herself and retains in her company Mortimer, our traitor and mortal foe, proved, attainted and adjudged. And him she accompanies in the house and abroad…

The King nodded, mournful; another man had stolen the thing that was his own. Want her he did not; need her he did. He needed her to ride by his side, be seen with him, seen by all at his side. He needed a Queen; and he needed this Queen, that the people so unaccountably loved. Remaining from him she lessened him in the eyes of his people. She did him great injury.

Despenser’s voice drove him on.

And worse than this she has done—if worse could be! She has allowed you to herd with our said enemy in the eyes of the world, thus doing very great dishonour to yourself and to us and to the crown itself.

Despenser stopped. The King had allowed it, allowed the word
herd
with all it suggested. Now his voice came hard, deliberate.

Therefore, sweet son, desist from a part which is so shameful and may be dangerous to you in many ways. We are not pleased with you. Your mother has written to us that, if you wish to return she will not prevent it. Do not then delay to come to us. Our commands are for your good and honour. Come then at once without further evasion.

And, when the King would have signed, Despenser added a further threat.

Trespass not against our commands, for we hear much you have done that you should not…

And now it was finished. And the King, having signed, Despenser added,

Given at Lichfield the 18th day of March this year of grace 1326.

Two other letters Despenser dictated—one to the Queen of England the other to the King of France.

Isabella tossed her letter aside. Let her fool of a husband send her a hundred such she would not stir; it could not be expected, she told her son; she was in fear of her life! Young Edward was sullen and sad. He wanted desperately to please his father, his gentle good father. True his mother said he was free to go; how could he return—a hostage, she swore it, to bring her back to punishment; maybe to death itself? The truth in his father’s accusations he knew; it had grown upon him since that night he had gone to her chamber. And still she sought to blind him to her passion for Mortimer! He was ashamed of her; yet, for his own sake, he was relieved to have the decision taken out of his hands; fear of his father lay heavy upon him.
We are not pleased with you
. Fear for his mother, fear for himself inhibited him—he was not yet fourteen.

Charles was weary of the incessant letters, weary of the constant complaints of husband and wife, weary of replying, weary of the sly laughter of his court and the shocked faces of the ambassadors. And to crown it all, his wife new-returned to court, disliked his sister.

And now this last letter had settled the matter; a very proper letter reminding him that the Queen of England had been in France above a year and that her work there was finished. Besides, he recognised her bad behaviour. As long as it had gone unremarked he had been content to let it pass—himself was not so virtuous! Now he could let it pass no longer. He did not mean to embroil himself with his brother of England—a quarrel that might well go deeper than the question of homage. Still less did he mean to embroil himself with Spain; already her ambassadors were casting sour looks, were threatening to return home.

Isabella must leave France at once; if not by her own will, then by force. He was the King.

‘Sir, brother!’ She lifted green—gold eyes aswim with tears. ‘By God’s Face I fear these Despensers—so besotted is my husband, so full of deceit are they! And, if I feared them before, now my fear is greater still. I have accused them of infamy; and for that they will murder me. Brother, if you send me to England now, you send me to my death!’

He looked at her with distaste. She was the cause of all his embarrassments; her behaviour allowed no shadow of excuse.

‘Sir—’ and now she was kneeling, holding him ridiculously by the knees so that he dared not move for fear of stumbling, ‘Sir, give me a little time, I beseech you, for the love of God. The people of England love me. They know of my wrongs; the lies of my enemies do not deceive them. Nothing can injure the love they bear me.’

‘Then—’ and with care he withdrew from those clutching hands, ‘you have nothing to fear!’

‘Have I not, brother? When has the love of the people kept a man from his death?’

‘Then how shall time profit you?’

‘My lords the barons will intercede for me. They will see to it that the Despensers do me no wrong.’

‘So be it!’ and angry with himself he turned away. ‘But I’ll not give you long. We are in the third week of March; by the third week in April you must be gone!’

She took his hand and covered it with kisses.

A month; a little month! Still, with luck it would do! If not, she’d stay until it pleased her to go!
My lords the barons will intercede for me
. And so they would; but not in the way she had given her brother to understand. He knew nothing of the secret news forever passing between Orleton and herself; nothing of the ever-growing band of England’s rebellious princes. Finished their attempts to counsel the foolish King; ready, the most part of them, to march with the Queen, to take her for leader. Had he understood the half of it, he would, she knew, have put her under guard and despatched her home at once. King does not countenance treachery against King, especially treachery from a wife!

‘Good news from England and every day growing better! Orleton does his work well!’ Isabella told Mortimer. ‘My lord and husband—’ and, as always, she made of the words an insult, ‘steps every day into hotter water. The whole country’s aboil—and can you wonder? The army goes unpaid; soldiers savage town and country. Empty bellies make desperate deeds. And everywhere, the gallows thicker than ever before. You’d think, God save us, the country was an orchard heavy with foul harvest. The barons stand ready to fight for us, the bishops to bless us. If we muster a thousand men, they’ll do the rest.’

‘A thousand! There’s several hundred English here who’ve either fled justice or cannot stomach the Despensers. But—a thousand! They don’t grow on blackberry bushes!’

She smiled. She knew well how to charm men to her cause. She was a woman beautiful and unfortunate. She was a Queen beautiful and unfortunate. And she had a shrewdness to weigh men and a honey-sweet tongue; she knew well how to promise each man the thing he most desired… when she should come into her own. She had drawn to her not only refugees that longed for home and soldiers of fortune that looked for reward but many a chivalrous young heart; and of these, the chief, Sir John of Hainault.

‘I think I know where to put my hand on fighting-men!’ she said.

‘You mean your young fool of Hainault?’

‘He and his friends are dying to die for me! But such things take time. Thank God for a month!’

‘News from England grows better and better!’ Isabella lifted a face of triumph from the letter before her. ‘My uncle Henry of Derby—Lancaster if he had his rights—has joined us. The foolish King withholds the best part of his inheritance. I promised him full rights if he would come in to us. And I promised him more. Thomas of Lancaster died a traitor’s death; I have sworn the word
traitor
shall be cut from the records. It was that, I think, finally won him. He’s a good man to have; honest and far from rash. People trust him; he’ll bring many in to our cause.’

She went on reading.

She lifted a face of triumph. ‘Orleton keeps best for last. This I have prayed for, longed for… and with little hope. The King’s brothers have joined us—Edmund and Thomas, both! By God’s Fade this strengthens us! We’ve but to set foot on English soil, to raise my standard—and we bring the King to heel!’

‘And if he’ll not lick the hand that holds the whip!’ He was sour lest, in such royal company, great Mortimer shine less bright.

‘He shall lick it. You will see!’

‘Very well for him! But what of me?’

‘You and I are one.’ And when he did not appear wholly satisfied, she said, ‘The Queen’s lover may well become her husband—and at no great distance of time. The King must make at least a show of fighting; and in that fighting who knows how or when death may come?’

She had spoken idly to placate the man. For young, strong, and avoiding danger, how should the King die? And, besides, Mortimer was married! She had forgotten the thought almost before she had finished speaking. Not so he.
The Queen’s lover may become her husband
. Why not? His wife had been ailing lately; she was far from strong. And the King? Who knew how or when his death might not come?
The Queen’s lover may become her husband
. Until her husband was dead he was to know no peace.

She had been commanded to leave by the third week in April; now it was May and she showed no sign of going. Charles was finding his position intolerable. It was not only the upbraiding of the injured husband, it was not only the reproaches of his own wife; now there were admonitions from the Pope himself to countenance her no longer. Yet short of force there seemed no way of getting rid of her.

May passed into June. And still the King of England troubled his brother of France with bitter complaint, still Madam the Queen of France reproached her husband; but now the Pope’s admonition had become command. If Madam the Queen of England were not sent out of France at once, the King of France should find himself cut off from God and man. Excommunication.

‘Two weeks, two little weeks—it’s all we need!’ Isabella laughed. ‘So much time my brother will surely allow me. He’ll never turn me from his door!’

‘Will he not?’ Mortimer asked, grim. ‘Will he lose his soul’s salvation for you? How loving has he been of late? How long since you’ve as much as set eyes on him?’

A knock fell upon the door. Sir John of Hainault came in and knelt before her; it was as though he knelt to the Madonna.

‘Madam, I bring you ill news. The lord King has made a proclamation. Whoever shall assist Madam the Queen of England, or speak a word on her behalf, shall forfeit all possessions and be forever banished!’

She cried out at that, one hand at her heart. Mortimer laughed; his laugh was sour. ‘There’s no Frenchman will follow you now! All those protestations of love and service—you may kiss them Goodbye!’

‘My love and service still stands!’ Sir John said at once. ‘I am a Hainaulter, I have little here to lose. But were it a thousandfold, I am still, Madam, your loving and obedient servant.’

She said no word; she bent forward and kissed him full on the mouth.

‘How long does my brother give me?’

‘A fortnight, Madam.’ He lifted his dazzled eyes; it was as though he had drunk from the grail.

‘Then all is well,’ she said.

‘Thank God my brother’s a fool!’ she cried out to Mortimer when the young man was gone. ‘There will go with us, if not the thousand we’d hoped, at least five hundred English. Certainly we shall return to England—but in a way the King of France doesn’t expect; no, nor the King of England, neither!’

Charles was not the fool his sister thought.

Two nights later they were awakened by a low knocking upon her door. Isabella, cheeks white as her naked breast, started up; Mortimer, instinct warning him, stood already by the door, sword in hand.

‘Let them come in!’ he said. ‘For enter they will with our
yea
or without.’

Sir John of Hainault came in.

‘Madam—’ and he was all breathless with his haste. ‘The King your brother plays you false. He says nothing; but I think he knows our plans. In the dark of the morning you are to be taken, all three of you—yourself, Madam, the lord here, and the lord Prince. You shall be put upon a ship, it lies already in harbour. You are to be carried into England by force!’

She was whiter now—if whiter could be. She stared at him with great golden-green eyes.

‘Madam,’ he said, ‘fear nothing. I am your good knight.’

Even in that moment she managed a smile so sweet, so piteous, so trusting, it ravished the young man. That he had all-but found Mortimer in her bed troubled him little—save that he could wish himself in that same place. He had expected to find the man there; the whole court knew they slept together. He had no blame for her; she could do no wrong. She was his chosen lady and an injured wife; in every tale of chivalry the most worthy knight bore away the prize.

‘Madam the Queen,’ he said, ‘will it please you rise and dress?’ To Mortimer no need to speak; already he was drawing on his hose. ‘I have sent to summon the prince. I will take you, all three, to a safe place. The horses are waiting.’

‘What place?’ Mortimer asked, sharp. If he could have trusted any man it would have been this one; but he trusted none.

‘Hainult. My brother, the count, shall give you good welcome.’

‘I bless you for that!’ Isabella said. ‘His wife is my own cousin.’

Robert of Artois came in with the Prince; the boy was pale and only half-awake. At the sight of Mortimer dressing himself there in his mother’s bedchamber, a sullen look closed down upon his face. That Mortimer slept in his mother’s bed he knew by now, but to have the knowledge thrust before his eyes! He was resentful, he was mortified.

Down the narrow staircase that led from the ruelle and across the garden, and out through a postern where the horses waited. At the gate, the sleepy watchman hearing the password let them through. And so out into the summer night—the Queen of England, her paramour and young son; and with them Robert de Artois and Jobn of Hainault and no other—not so much as a tiring-woman, the Queen must manage as best she could. Edward sat his horse, swaying a little with sleep; dragged from his bed, clothes bundled upon him, he’d had not time to ask what was afoot.