Harlot Queen Page 10

  Beneath sables from Muscovy the Queen sat silent and would speak to none; not even to Madam de St. Pierre. Her anger was continually pricked by the presence of Gaveston’s wife, riding by the King’s wish in the royal charette. The girl, Isabella must admit, was subdued enough, her spirit crushed beneath the Queen’s displeasure. Had the girl’s husband been any other, Isabella would herself have invited her into the greater comfort of the charette—the King’s own niece and her baby expected by the end of the month; it was a courtesy due. But she was Gaveston’s wife; the Queen would grant her nothing. Yet, for all her awareness of the Queen’s displeasure, she was even more aware—this wife of Gaveston—of her own dignity, the importance of her pregnancy. She is proud, too proud, the Queen thought, envying the girl, resenting the girl. Nor was her resentment lessened by Madam de St. Pierre, who, in common kindness, looked to the girl’s comfort, moving here a cushion, there a rug; still less when, at every halt, the midwife came to enquire of her lady’s comfort—Mary Maunsel that had brought the King into the world and should have brought the King’s son. And, at every halt, too, and between halts, Piers and the King would come riding back to enquire of her while she smiled out of pale lips and told them all was well.

  A long and tiresome journey. The horses slipped on the glassy roads so that the charette slid and jarred; and each time Margaret’s hands flew to her belly to protect the unborn child. Once or twice the Queen’s mouth opened to a kind word; and closed again, the word unsaid. And the journey was slower, even, than the weather allowed, for Gaveston’s wife must not be too many hours on the road. They would end the day’s journey at any hour did she show signs of fatigue; or a comfortable-looking house, be it castle or monastery or simple inn, come into sight. And the first thought of everyone was for the girl; the King, her husband and the midwife anxious for her comfort; yes, Madam de St. Pierre, even, that should think first of the Queen.

  No end it would seem to her humiliation. For when the people came out to greet the Queen and bring her into their city, they did not always know which was the Queen. She was young and fair—so much they knew; and who should it be but the fair, pregnant girl? When they understood their mistake they would come with all ceremony to welcome the Queen. In spite of all their welcome she knew they asked themselves why she had given them no heir—and she four years wed! This was the hardest of all to bear. On this long journey, thrust into second place, exposed to humiliation, she came to hate Gaveston’s wife.

  At York she was free of the sight of the girl at last! Here, the King come to meet his household and chancery officials, must remain several days; but Gaveston and his wife he commanded north with sufficient escort—the girl was near her time.

  It was peaceful in St. Mary’s Abbey where the King and Queen were lodged; away from the sight of that hateful pair she knew some peace. But not for long.

  When she heard the news she could not, at first, believe it.

  Gaveston was no longer a banished man; he was free to go or stay as he chose!

  The King had declared by proclamation to his sheriffs throughout the land that Gaveston had been exiled against the laws and customs of the land—which laws and customs the King was bound to maintain. My lord of Cornwall, therefore, was by royal command restored to liberty; and with his freedom was restored all lands and titles, all offices, dues and honours.

  Such a public breaking of his oath—how could she believe it? That he would break any oath if it pleased him she had long known; but that he would dare thus to flout his princes, to set against him the church—she had not believed even he was so witless. She caught the troubled looks of those few she knew to be his friends; saw the black looks, heard the angry words of his enemies and trembled. Now she must believe it.

  But the King did not tremble, not he! His own defiance had gone to his head; there was no holding him.

  ‘These Lords Ordainers—’ and he made of the name an insult, ‘think to treat me like an idiot. I’ll not endure it! I’ll dismiss no official, no servant, still less any friend at their command. No, but I will choose my own officers, my own servants, my own friends.’ And to prove he meant it and the pleasure of angering his barons intoxicating him still further, he recalled those household officials especially offensive to the Ordainers. And even that was not enough. To feed their anger he went further still; he bestowed upon Gaveston yet more honours, more lands more wealth.

  Utter defiance; barefaced thumbing of the nose.

  Pembroke, that moderate man, thrust down his rage. To Parliament assembled he spoke; but all his quiet could not hide his bitterness. Because he was a moderate man, and wiser than most, they listened as they did not listen to that rash and angry man, Lancaster, premier earl that should be their leader.

  ‘When the King recalled Gaveston that was, of itself, a declaration of war. Yet we sat still, we said nothing. Now he heaps upon the man more wealth and yet more; the country bleeds—and to that bleeding there’s no end. If we do not call a halt now we are lost; and all England is lost. For to Gaveston’s greed and the King’s foolishness there’s no end.’

  Recalling Gaveston had, indeed, been a declaration of war; the King knew it and cared little. He was glad, rather, in his mad Plantagenet pride to force the issue, to cut the bonds that irked his vanity.

  ‘The King forces war upon us; he throws down the gauntlet!’ in Parliament Lancaster cried it out. ‘He makes Gaveston governor of Scarborough Castle and on terms that’s plain declaration of war. He is to yield it to the King alone and to no other man. And more; more yet!’ Lancaster’s grin was a mask of rage. ‘If the King should die, the castle is for Gaveston and his heirs for ever. His heirs! He’ll beget no heirs—the eunuch!’

  ‘You’ve been from court too long!’ Gloucester could not forbear the smile. ‘My sister was brought to bed of a daughter three days since.’

  ‘We’ll not congratulate you!’ Lancaster told him, sour.

  ‘There’s more important things to trouble our heads. The King drums up his armies in the north… and not against the Scots!’ Pembroke stopped; he said slow and quiet, ‘He has sent to the Bruce, the Bruce, mark you! He offers friendship in return for help, help against us—his own lieges!’

  Sell out to the Scots! And for such a reason! They looked from one to the other. Not to be believed even of this selfish and foolish King.

  ‘He would if he could but he can’t!’ Warwick barking above the clamour justified, in some degree, Gaveston’s mocking name. ‘Have you heard the answer?’ His surly face was split by a grin. ‘The Bruce said, How shall I trust a man that cannot keep faith with his own liegemen?’

  ‘By God, I could love him for that!’ Lancaster said. ‘Well, it’s war—civil war, Christ save us! But it is the King that lets it loose. We march for the north!’

  Wife and child safe in Bamborough, Gaveston had seen to it that Scarborough Castle was well defended; a strong retreat at need. He thought there would be need; he was a soldier and no fool. Now, awaiting the King at Newcastle, he was aware of distaste for the meeting. These days there was a new seriousness upon him.

  His wife had borne him a child. He was a father; what that could mean he had not counted upon. It was as yet less tenderness than a dawning sense of responsiblity—remembrance of what his priest said. The fathers have eaten sour grapes and the children’s teeth are set on edge. Would this little one have teeth on edge by the grapes of her father’s eating? Even for himself those grapes, once deceitfully sweet, were already turning to verjuice. He was beginning to question the worth of his wealth, his titles and his treasure. Would not men say they came from a tainted source? And was it not a blot upon his honour, this friendship with the King? What would she make of it when she was old enough to understand—his daughter? There’d not be wanting tongues agog to make the situation clear. And himself; what could he say to explain to her… or to his son? For surely there must be a son to inherit his great position? Better his son should despise him, execrate him than gro
w like his father! He had dishonoured the King; he had made of himself an object of contempt, and bitterness to the barons, to the churchmen a thing utterly to be contemned. These things he had long known. But how deserved that contempt, that detestation, he had not known.

  And now he knew one thing more. He had not understood it until he saw his wife, the baby at her breast. To the Queen he had offered the worst of insults, the most cruel of wrongs.

  He must break with the King. But not now; this was not the moment, when the King risked all for his friend; so much loyalty he owed. But the Queen. He wanted to kneel before her, to entreat her pardon, to swear he’d offend no more.

  But they were still in York; he could do nothing. He was sorry… but not too sorry; he guessed that, accustomed to fatherhood, he might find his grapes sweet once more.

  It was growing towards March and the barons, led by Pembroke and de Warenne, moved steadily north. They were grim, they were determined, they were of one mind.

  Lancaster had charge of affairs at home. He had seen to it that the whole country was securely locked against the King and that the barons held the keys. Gloucester, hitherto so loyal, held London and the south, Hereford held the eastern counties; and to Lancaster himself fell the west. In the north Henry Percy had already deployed his forces; he was watching the Border lest Gaveston attempt to escape.

  It was Gaveston they wanted. And to lay hands upon him could not be difficult. When it came to it, there’d be none to help him, except the besotted King; for who would dare help an excommunicated man?

  The King and Queen had left York. The late March weather was little kinder than January. The cavalcade rode through high winds that parched throats and blinded eyes; it was cold enough to freeze the rain as it fell, but nothing could damp the King’s ardour—he was riding to his friend. He snapped his fingers at his barons; he threatened, by God’s Face, any that dared lay finger upon Piers.

  Isabella was sullen at this long journey made on Piers’ account. And she was fearful at the outcome: England’s princes in arms—church no less than state—what chance for the King? She was the more troubled that, at York, she had received word from Lancaster that he had not forgotten his promise. When first he had made it—how long ago?—she had been comforted; now she was troubled. It was more than Gaveston the barons attacked, more than the King himself. It was the sacred rights of royalty. If they should succeed what became of those sacred rights… and what might become of herself?

  She sat alone in the charette with Madam de St. Pierre; she was free, at least, of Gaveston’s wife! But when she remembered the new-born child, grief and anger all but overthrew her. Her rage smouldered against the King that had forced the issue with the barons for his worthless friend. And with every step northwards her grief increased that Gaveston’s wife had borne a child while she, the Queen, looked to be a barren tree. And all the time she raged against the King without words. You have broken the sworn oath for this worthless man. Had he been successful, this would not have troubled her unduly; with her, as with him, expediency was a word more pressing than honour. But he was not successful; he never would be. She wished with all the bitterness of her passionate heart that she had never set eyes upon his handsome face—nor yet upon this wild country through which they rode.

  As they journeyed March gave way to April. The wind was keen still but the rain no longer fell hard and cold as stones. It fell bright as silver spears and, when the sun shone out, trees and hedges flamed with tongues of green fire. But sweet Spring could not soften the Queen’s mood. With every step that brought her nearer to the sight of Gaveston anger flamed in her the more.

  Almost as if he felt her thoughts upon him, the King came riding up. ‘The wind has dropped,’ he said, ‘Madam will you be pleased to ride with me?’

  Madam would not. The rough winds had chapped her face and lips. She was petulant, refusal given before she knew it. He had turned and gone before she had time to recall her refusal. She did not need the look on Madam de St. Pierre’s face to tell her she had been a fool!

  ‘Madam, the Queen has been riding less of late,’ Théophania said.

  ‘Yes’, she said. ‘Yes… the rough moors tire me.’

  But… so tired? Isabella stiffened suddenly. Last month her rhythm had been broken. She had thought little of it; fatigue and distress had broken it before. But now it was April… and the rhythm not renewed.

  She began feverishly to count.

  These last weeks the King had come once or twice to her bed. He had needed comfort and that comfort she had tried to give. Since then she had given the matter no thought. She had supposed him impotent; or, at best, ineffectual with her. But was he impotent? Had Gaveston’s absence released the manhood in him? Had she been given the chance, at last, to clear herself of the monstrous charge of barrenness?

  Now Gaveston mattered little. Turned in upon her new, her terrible joy she was confident that now he must be thrust from his place. I carry the heir. Now the King must, in honour, cast off the man! And, if of himself he will not, then the barons will settle the matter… Of one thing she was certain. She must grow in importance— mother of the heir to England; and that growth nothing could stop.

  Théophania, in whose ear the laundress had whispered, sat very still lest she intrude; this moment was for the Queen alone. And it was indeed for the Queen alone. Even in this first moment of her joy she considered the child a pawn only in the Queen’s advance.

  The King and Queen had reached Newcastle; and there was Gaveston debonair as ever. Some of the newness of fatherhood had rubbed from him; he was more or less himself again. ‘I left my wife at Bamborough,’ he told them. ‘I could not bring her or her babe into the hazards of war however well-fortified we may be!’

  ‘You are right. War is no place for women and babes!’ the King said. Isabella nodded and made her mouth to smile… But, Gaveston’s wife to be cherished, to be made safe! What of herself then? She no longer wanted to accompany the King; his work was done. She wanted to be home again, to cherish the body that bore her child—her pawn to power.

  ‘Gaveston’s wife must be kept safe!’ She went storming to Madam de St. Pierre. ‘But what of me? Me he brings into danger?’

  ‘He does not know the Queen is with child. Madam, you should tell him.’

  ‘Should he not cherish me for my own sake; am I not a woman?’

  ‘Yet still, Madam, my darling, you should tell him.’

  ‘Not now.’ And she would not, all angered as she was share with him her secret. ‘A wise woman makes certain. I’ll wait till May is out; then he must send me home again—the weather will be fitter for travel. He must send me from this hateful north, from the sight of Gaveston and the dangers of war!’

  At first she thought Gaveston unchanged; yet soon, she was forced to admit it, he was different. He was quieter in manner; she found a new courtesy in him. It was the King that had not changed. He could not be near his sweetheart without touching; Gaveston neither invited nor encouraged it.

  ‘My master desires, humbly, to be received by the Queen’s grace.’ Her eyes narrowed at the sight of the boy wearing Gaveston’s intricate quartered arms. She was puzzled… humbly desires… Gaveston had never sought her company without his master, nor ever asked permission. Always he had come unasked, at the King’s heels; he had spared her none of his lewd jests, his stinging taunts. And now… humbly desires. What was this turnabout?

  Before she could make an answer, there he was, the man himself, kneeling before her. He knelt not upon one knee as a courtier but upon both knees—a suppliant.

  ‘I have done Madam the Queen great wrong and I beseech her pardon. Soon I shall take myself from her sight to trouble her no more.’

  She was utterly taken aback. Was this some new jest? She could not think it; could not mistake the truth in his voice, nor the way he knelt completely humble. Nor could she pretend not to understand him. He was asking pardon for the wasted years of her life. How could she forgive
him that? Yet, as he knelt debonair and contrite, her heart, in spite of herself, grew gentler towards him. She could afford to be generous; she was with child and this, her enemy, swore to trouble her no more. The wheel of her life was turning towards the sun.

  She stretched out a hand; she said, scarce believing this new turn of affairs, ‘Why then we might learn to be friends. But as for taking yourself from our sight, we must, first of all, take ourselves from this place. The barons are on the march!’

  The King burst in upon the sight of Gaveston kneeling before the smiling Queen and kissing the hand graciously extended. Already distraught, the sight added to his distraction; the world was spinning too fast!

  ‘Up, up!’ and he grasped Gaveston by the collar. ‘We must fly. Within the hour Lancaster, God damn him, will be knocking upon our doors. There’s but one way out. Down the river to Tyneside!’ Devil-may-care was out of him; it looked less of a game than he had supposed.

  ‘Sir,’ she said, ‘let Gaveston go alone. It will be safer for him. And for me, too. I cannot go!’ And how could she trust herself in a small boat on the deep river in her condition?

  He said nothing, only he grasped Gaveston by the arm. For the moment she did not understand. Then, ‘Do not leave me behind! You must not leave me!’ she cried out, desperate. For what might Lancaster not do, that angry man, finding his quarry gone—Gaveston and the King, both? He might lay hands upon herself; since he could not trust the King’s word, hold her to bargain with.

  ‘They will lay hands upon me!’ Hands upon my hallowed body! Unreasonable with the fears of a pregnant woman—and one to whom pregnancy meant so much, she clutched at the King. ‘They will hold me to ransom!’

  ‘Then we will pay the ransom!’ None-too-gentle, he pulled himself away. ‘Besides—’ over and above his fears for Gaveston, pricked with jealousy, he added, a little spiteful, ‘you’ve put yourself on the right side of these rebellious lords of mine! They’ll not touch a hair of your head! It’s Piers they want—and more than a hair of his head! And that they’ll not get! And me they want also, to bargain with; and me they’ll not get neither!’