Harlot Queen (33 page)

‘Where do you take me?’ he asked now, half-resentful, half-fearful.

‘To a place that will please you well,’ Sir John said.

‘Home?’ And it was plain that home he had no wish to go. He should have gone these many months; he feared his father’s anger.

‘Not yet, sir. Soon; when we have made your peace with your father,’ Sir John said and believed it. That the Queen had any plan more serious he did not know. Half-asleep the Prince was glad to be persuaded.

Riding, riding through the quiet night the sound of their horses muffled in the dirt of the road. And now they were fording the Seine, the horses picking their careful way through the river. And so to Compiègne and a long rest in sanctuary; and in the evening on again, through Amiens, through Gerberoi and into Cambray. And now they were over the border and safe. Now they could sleep at night and ride by day, and rest where they chose. At Ostrevant they halted; and there a poor knight, one Eustace of Amréticourt rode out to meet them, to bring them into his own house and give them of his meagre best.

William count of Hainault was not willing to receive Madam the Queen of England. Overmuch scandal for his sober taste had gathered about her name. But his wife, the Queen’s cousin Jehanne of Valois, spoke gently to him. ‘Who can trust the tongue of scandal? Only too often the innocent have been smeared. Welcome her and judge for yourself whether scandal speaks truth or lies.’

He was still unwilling; the more so because of his four young daughters; but Madam Jehanne, like a good mother, was interested in the boy who would one day be King of England… and would most certainly need a wife. So still she laid out her arguments until Sir John went spurring back to Ostrevant to bring his lady back into Valenciennes.

She knew by his face that he had brought good news. Sitting in the dark and shabby house while twilight fell upon the flat land, her spirits had sunk low indeed. Mortimer was riding for Ghent and she missed him intolerably. But if she hoped for help here in Hainault she must keep him at a distance; she must not offend the good count and his virtuous wife.
Good, virtuous
; the words were sour to the Queen’s mind.

The young man knelt before his saint. ‘Madam, it is time to leave this poor place. My brother and the lady his wife are waiting to welcome you; the little girls, my nieces, long to see so beautiful, so royal a lady.’

‘Sir,’ she said, ‘words are poor things, but all I have to give at this time. But when I come into my own, be sure your goodness will not be forgotten.’

‘I am your knight,’ he reminded her. ‘To die for you at need is enough reward.’

‘Sir—’ and she was all honey and salt tears, ‘live for me and my cause.’ And wondered how long they must continue in this exalted strain. In the morning, Sir Eustace standing humble at her stirrup, she bade him Farewell, thanking him with a sweet grace and the promise of good to come.

Some three miles from Valenciennes the procession rode out to meet them—Count William and his wife, together with knights and ladies; and the burghers, also, very rich and sombre in velvet and furs. Garlands and flowers there were none; this was no triumphal procession; but there was kindliness and the promise of help.

For eight days Isabella and her son contented themselves as best they might while Sir John busied himself about help for his distressed Queen. He was forever riding the countryside, calling upon his friends to up and arm; he was forever dictating letters, assessing with his clerks the number of promised knights, of men-at-arms, of horses and weapons, of ships to carry all into England.

The young Edward was subdued and moody. It was not only that he feared to face his father; he was increasingly troubled by this mustering of arms.

‘What need of soldiers; of foreign soldiers? We are going
home
?’ he said.

Isabella looked at him, green-flecked eyes wide and candid.

‘It is not your father, we fight; God forbid such a thing! It is the Despensers—the country’s enemy and ours, yours and mine; and most of all your father’s enemy—did he but know it! Your father is a most loving man—’ and her mouth twisted remembering his love for the younger Hugh. ‘Where he loves he sees no fault. It is for us, his true friends—to save him.’

Like many older than himself he was taken by her subtlety, so that he doubted not only his own wisdom but the wisdom of his father.

She had quieted him for the present. Now she must keep him at arm’s length; she wanted no more discussions with him. It was vital that he did not understand before sailing that this mustering of forces would not stop at pulling the Despensers down; it meant civil war. She was, besides, deeply occupied with letters from England, welcome letters with unexpected offers of help—and these required careful consideration. Henry of Derby, his slow anger steady against the King, had written again offering love, offering loyalty, offering every resource he could command. There were letters, also, from the King’s brothers welcoming her return, and letters from Orleton listing all those sworn to her cause. A very great number, more than she had dared hope… and the less young Edward knew of her affairs the better! He needed to be managed, this son of hers with his boy’s ideas of truth and loyalty; he could be obstinate and troublesome. She had sufficient difficulties already without any of his making. He needed careful handling, and she had not the time.

These days she felt herself isolated: as though, she thought rueful, she sat in the centre of her web and spun her threads. In all the vast responsibility of this enterprise there was no-one here whose mind marched with hers, in whose companionship she could rest. The solid virtues of the count and his wife oppressed her; and she was more than a little weary of Sir John. Without doubt he was mustering forces; but he was forever striking poses, forever making speeches to which she must respond in kind. She knew the rules of the game. To him it was no game but a way of life; to her a piece of nonsense and a waste of time.

Her longing for Mortimer grew daily, longing that was a pain to rack her, body and soul. He played no games, uttered no flowery speeches. She thirsted for his plain speech whether in love or in war; and most of all she thirsted for the man—his body…
his naked body, his naked truth
. The words were her prayer, her talisman.

The day of her departure was fixed; she waited only for Sir John to bring in his troops. She knew exactly how many to expect from him and how many she might expect in England. She knew exactly where to land, which princes, on landing, to receive, what promises to make to them as a body, what rewards confirm to each man.
Death to the Despensers
, her battle-cry; the country’s first wish and her own. But what of the King? How did she stand in that? As a King she would treat with him, make her terms; as a husband—never, between husband and wife there could be no terms.

On this last thought every doubt, every hesitation, suddenly crystallised into clear fact. All this time she had deceived herself, deceived others. She was going into England to drive the parasites away, to free the King of their indignities, the people of their greed. So she had told herself, told Orleton, told those princes of church and state that had offered loyalty, told the young Sir John… above all told her son. And for that—save for the boy whom she had blinded to the full implications—they had been willing to bring upon the country the curse of civil war. Now she understood that this was but half the story; she meant to drive the matter to the ultimate, the only possible end. She meant to rid herself of Edward altogether—not as husband only but as King. She meant to put young Edward on the throne, herself the Regent. And she meant to keep her lover; the Regent could outface them all.

The first thing then, was to win her son from his coldness on Mortimer’s account, to bind him to her with love and gratitude. She must find out what the boy most ardently wanted; and that thing, however wild, she would promise.

Edward had been whiling his time away with the other boys. He hunted, he practised at the target, he played matches at the ball. Swift, sure of hand and eye, amiable in manner, he was well-liked and great things promised for him. At nights there was singing after supper, there were games and dancing. But even a boy cannot be on the move forever; there were times when he was content to sit and talk with his cousins. Margaret already past fifteen seemed to him a full woman; Jehanne at twelve was too young and Isabel a baby. Philippa, younger than he by some months was his best companion. Sometimes, skirts lifted, long fair hair flying, pink cheeks pinker, blue eyes bright with laughter, she seemed much younger. Yet she could be gentle and understanding; a listening heart, he thought, and then she seemed older than himself. She knew when he was troubled; she listened when he wanted to talk, or if she thought it wiser, would turn his mind to happier things. She knew that, at times, he longed to talk of his mother; she knew, also, that she must not listen. Having once spoken, embarrassment might drive him to avoid her. He found her utterly honest, utterly trustworthy—to him no small thing; he loved her for her honesty; even more for her gentleness. Gentleness became her, he thought, gave promise of the woman she would be—a woman as unlike his mother as possible. That this buxom pink-and-white girl was not the world’s beauty; and as like her sisters as peas in a pod, he would not have believed. This was the one girl in all Christendom. To her a man could come weary, heartbroken and she would make him whole again. And, indeed, she had a rare beauty of spirit his boyish eyes had been permitted to see.

Isabella encouraged the friendship; Her chief anxiety lay still with her son. Suppose, with his love for his father and his belief in the sanctity of kingship, he would have nothing to do with her accomplished plan? Suppose he refused to accept the crown? Or—and it was a thought to shrivel the heart—suppose having accepted it, he tried to send Mortimer away? It was a thing she dared not risk. She saw the way to win her boy.

Now, however engrossing her plans, she found time to be pleasant with her young cousins; but Philippa she singled out for special kindness, giving her now a riband, now some other trifle with loving words. She could, she thought, give herself a worse daughter-in-law than this gentle, unremarkable girl. No rival here! Indeed, winning this simple girl she could strongly influence her son. Her own integrity lost, she missed the integrity of the girl’s whole nature. And certainly, apart for the boyish affection for which she cared not a fig, the match would be for her son’s good, also. Philippa’s young comeliness would hold him awhile; and he would never know the moment’s unease on her account. As she grew older, bore her children, she’d thicken the way these Hainaulters did; he need never be afraid to wear the horns. In addition, there was the little matter of a dowry; her father’s wealth was known to all Christendom. To give his daughter a crown he’d be willing to dive deep into those gold-lined pockets of his!

Now she spoke often of the girl with great kindness… Phiippa was so gentle, so kind, so honest, so pretty.
Yes
, he said,
Yes
, his heart warm again because she praised his beautiful, his perfect Philippa.

But there were other things besides integrity Isabella had missed. This was a girl with a sturdy commonsense, a clear-seeing that, at times, came near to genius. Edward had already discovered it. Of late they had talked of their two countries.

‘Yours is so rich and mine, alas, so poor! The Despensers eat us out of house and home; and then, like rats, they pick our bones.’

‘Then you must drive them out! And that the lady your mother has sworn to do. But that won’t make you rich. You may fatten a little; but rich you’ll never be! A country grows rich on trade.
Gold on the sheep’s back
, my father says.
The old tale of the golden fleece with a difference
. So it is with us. We are rich because we make cloth and sell it. And where do we get the best part of our wool? From you; from England. Why don’t you set up your own looms; we cannot handle half the wool here. You could make your country very rich!’

Trade! Trade to build up a country’s wealth! Such an idea had never entered his head—a prince bred to the arts of war. Gold on a sheep’s back for the taking! Yes, he saw how it might be. Money saved carrying the wool across the sea, money saved on dyeing, on weaving, on the finished cloth, money saved shipping it back again… the golden fleece!

‘When all the fighting’s done—’ he said suddenly and stopped. He had meant to say this thing but not now, not like this! Yet now was the moment… and the way. He said—and he dared not look at her, ‘Could you come… one day… and help me set up such a piece of work?’

‘How could I? What could I do? You should speak with my father, ask his advice. He might lend you some craftsmen…’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes… but would
you
come?’

‘I don’t
know
anything!’ Suddenly she understood. He was offering her the crown of England’s future Queen.

She said knowing more than he of the coming-and-going of such a business—the policies, the endowments, the conditions, ‘It is not in our hands. We are not old enough.’

‘I am old enough; and one day I shall be King. But that’s too long to wait… for me at least. Could
you
wait so long?’

‘It is not for you or me to say. I cannot say it.’

‘But if were proper for you to say
Yes
; would it please you to say it?’

She looked at him with her true eyes. ‘It would please me. But I entreat you, I do entreat you, say nothing now. You are young and I am young and nothing is smooth. When the time comes, speak; and, for my part, you may be sure of me!’

He kissed her hand; it was not a boy’s kiss nor a courtier’s kiss. It was a lover’s kiss. No word of love had passed between them; yet all had been said… said and pledged. They knew it, both of them.

Isabella’s sharp eyes saw exactly how things were with those two. Now was the time to drop the word to trouble the boy, to make him fear for his love, to bring him openly out upon his mother’s side.