Harlot Queen Read online

  It was the first time he had wept since Gaveston’s death; and now, it seemed, he could not stay his weeping. The cruel waiting, the shocking death, flowed from him in tears. The wound still bled; it would bleed and go on bleeding until he found some other sweet friend. But the scar would remain; forever remain. For the moment he was blessedly eased. Of her great news she said nothing; it was too much for him, in this moment, to bear.

  That night he came to her bed and stayed till morning; no need to slip away to his own chamber, no-one awaited him now. They lay together like friends; quiet and gentle, she told him her news, quiet and gentle he listened. There was, she thought, a gleam of happiness upon that ravaged face; and for that she could forgive him much. She told him too, of her last speech with Gaveston and he wept again. ‘They shall embalm his sweet body and we shall bring it in all honour to King’s Langley, the house he loved best. My lord archbishop of Canterbury shall say the service—Piers is dead and the excommunication broken. And, if it is not, by God’s Soul, he shall still be buried with every Christian rite. And the house that received him—God’s House it surely is—I shall reward; the good friars that received his body I shall never forget. And those that betrayed him with false swearing I’ll not forget, neither—Warwick and Lancaster that did him to death; nor all those that raised no finger and stood by to let it happen. Let them beware; all of them beware!’

  So they lay whispering and weeping; and for the first time he found her woman’s body sweet and took comfort from it, so that she found him neither laggard nor listless. At last, dawn lightening the room, he fell asleep, but she lay awake wondering how long this new kindness would last; or how soon he would find himself another Gaveston.

  PART TWO

  The King and the Despensers

  Check to the Queen

  XIII

  But for all that, she had not won him. He came often to her bed; but it was less love for her than loneliness for Piers that brought him—and she knew it. Yet the promise of an heir had pricked him into some awareness of his manhood; he was roused to play a husband’s part. How long this happier state of affairs would last she did not know; she was not hopeful—his eyes for ever turned to the boyish charms of the young Despenser. Yet still he brooded upon his wrong; he grieved, she thought, more for the wrong done to himself than for the wrong done to Gaveston. She was beginning to know him.

  The summer days went by. In the gardens of Windsor the Queen, great with child, stretched herself indolent, triumphant. After five fruitless years she carried the heir to England; she had given the lie to the reproach of barrenness. If still she had no finger in affairs of state she had increased her stature; to her the people looked with ever-increasing love, in every church they prayed for her.

  She enjoyed her greater consequence, but her pregnancy she did not enjoy. Restless, irritable, she would turn upon the person nearest; she showed, at times, a disregard for others such as she had never shown before, a desire to punish however unjust the punishment. The natural peevishness of a breeding woman, those about her said; it will pass!

  But how if it does not pass? Madam Queen Margaret wondered. How if it grow with the years? I see in her her father and her grandfather. The death of Gaveston had strengthened the King’s position. It had split the ranks of baron and bishop. Against him, stiff in self-righteousness, stood Lancaster, Warwick, Arundel and Hereford whose hands still smelled of blood. ‘Sir,’ Lancaster told the King speaking for them all, ‘the man was a traitor thrice exiled. He knew well that to set foot in England meant death. It has always been the right of the King’s greatest subjects to take the law into their own hands for the safety of all, should the times require it. The times did require it. Gaveston’s death was just and lawful. Be content, sir; do not, I pray you, let loose the dogs of war.’

  At the King’s right hand stood Pembroke hot to mend his damaged honour and de Warenne whose spotted honour had been further stained. On his left hand de Beaumont—a great lord but not the greatest—speaking for all those that have cause to fear when the King’s greatest subjects take the law into their own hands.

  ‘Sir,’ de Beaumont said, ‘the thing was ill-done. There was no trial and no justice.’

  Pembroke said nothing. No need. All had been said before. ‘Sir,’ Lancaster said again, ‘do not, for the love of Christ, let loose the dogs of civil war!’

  ‘It is overlate for you to speak,’ the King said and turned his back. London was for the King; it promised fighting-men, horses and arms—not for love of him but in fear of his greatest subjects. And still the more level-headed of his barons implored him not to plunge the country into civil war.

  ‘Indeed, sir, how shall you fight?’Walter Reynolds bishop of Chichester, King’s treasurer and toady, asked. ‘The treasury is empty; wardrobe receipts have fallen heavily… and war costs money. Wait a little; the matter will settle itself.’

  The King stayed his hand and glad to do it. He had waved the big stick, he had no great stomach for fighting, and Reynolds spoke common sense. So back to Windsor he went.

  It was Autumn now. Like a ripe fruit herself, the young Queen ripened. Pregnancy became her. She had been too thin, now she had a sleek voluptuous look. She was no longer a pretty girl; she was a woman—and beautiful.

  Winter came in. At Windsor November mists rose from the river; within doors logs blazed, braziers stood everywhere lest the Queen take cold. These last days of her pregnancy the King made much of her; between the Queen and the young Despenser he was, they said, forgetting Gaveston. She could have told them better. More than once, in the night, lifting herself upon an elbow, she had turned to see whether he slept. There he lay silent and still; but the tears ran from under closed lids, down into his mouth.

  It is time to forget. She sent out her will a little despising him. It is time…

  The Queen’s labour had begun. All through the night lights burned at Windsor. She lay in bed, pale hair tangled and dark upon the pillow. A hard birth; she was small-made and the child large. When the pains took her, wrenching flesh and bone apart she bit into that full underlip of hers so that it showed bruised and swollen. So quiet she lay that, in spite of the jerking of her anguished body to reject torment, and the low moan forced through bitten lips, those that watched thought she slept.

  On the thirteenth day of November, in the dark of the morning, in the year of grace thirteen hundred and twelve, the cry of the new born babe bleated in the Queen’s bedchamber. The King’s son, heir to England, had opened his eyes upon the world.

  The cry thin, protesting, infinitely moving, caught at the father’s heart. He stretched out his hands, the strong, fine craftsman’s hands, and took the child; and the young mother, lifting weary lids, marked the tenderness with which he looked upon the little one and was content. Maybe now he would forget Piers.

  Prayers and processions; bonfires and fountains of wine in the streets. And all hearts turning to the King again, forgetting his weakness and his vices; and all hearts turning with yet greater love to the Queen, the fair young Queen, that had brought a little King into the world.

  A fine child, handsome and lusty; a true Plantagenet. Four days later he was baptised with royal pomp in St. Edward’s chapel at Windsor. To the great joy of the people he was named after his famous grandfather, his handsome father. Surely this little one, uniting all men in joy, would of himself bring peace into the troubled land.

  The King’s delight in his son amazed even himself; he could not enough honour the child. Upon the four-day infant he bestowed the great title of Chester with all its lands and appurtenances, together with the county of Flint and Gaveston’s castle at Knaresborough. For Gaveston’s young widow, for Gaveston’s orphaned child, he cared little; Gaveston alone he had loved.

  These days he was at his best, handsome and laughing, giving with both hands—gifts for the church, gifts for those that had honoured the ceremony of baptism, gifts for the midwife, and nurses; gifts for the messengers that had carried
the news—and all, all beyond reason. The treasury was empty; what of it? Money would be found; Reynolds, for all his chatter, would find it! No end to the King’s giving; he seemed to delight in the senseless pouring away of money. Once he came upon the Queen’s tiring-woman dressing her lady’s hair and stayed to watch the painting of lips, the shadowing of lids and lashes to make more lustrous the green-gold eyes. In his delights—a craftsman’s delight—at beauty made perfect, he gave the woman twenty pounds on the spot and as much again annually to make her, and her husband that looked to the Queen’s coils, comfortable for life, but many that had rendered greater service went unpaid.

  These days the Queen made herself content. She would never again love her husband as on the day she had stood with him at the altar and worshipped not God but his handsome looks. Yet, if he would continue kind, she would build what happiness she might.

  But he could not forever dally at Windsor; nor, for all the Queen had given him a son, did he much like women… and at Westminster Hugh, that pretty boy, waited. So back he came to find things much as he had left them—himself at logger-heads with his barons; and they at logger-heads among themselves. Lancaster and Warwick were, as always, fermenting trouble; the King, they proclaimed, had no cause for quarrel, they had done their plain duty by a traitor. Between King and rebellious barons lay a bitterness that threatened to devastate the whole country.

  The King sought to keep his enemies in check. Upon the barons there was constant restriction, they responded with instant anger. They were forbidden to move about the country carrying arms. Put by their arms! Such a thing had never been heard. How could a traveller defend himself at need? Without arms they’d not attend Parliament nor any council whatsoever; they did not trust the King.

  In the midst of the unease archbishop Winchelsey died. The King let out a great sigh of relief. ‘There goes my most dangerous enemy; more dangerous than Lancaster or Warwick because more honest, more able; he led the church by the nose. Well, he’s gone; and whether to heaven or hell it’s all one to me!’ Into the dead man’s shoes stepped Walter Reynolds, servile priest, the King’s tool.

  Edward and Isabella were for France; unbelievably for France! Her father had invited them for Easter; a great celebration to knight his eldest son and crown him King of Navarre.

  ‘France!’ the Queen said; it was a word of love and longing upon her tongue.

  Edward was surprised; he knew little of his wife—and cared less. Madam Queen Margaret could have told him how, in the empty years, she had longed for home; and how, though she died of her longing, nothing would have induced her to set foot there—a barren, humiliated Queen. Now her son was born and she was afire to go; pride was a splendid mantle to hide the shabbiness beneath.

  Gowns and crowns, jewels and furs; knights and courtiers; horses and hounds; beds and bedding, the Queen’s two baths and all the thousand things to make ready for the royal visit.

  ‘Do not go, sir,’ Pembroke besought the King, de Warenne and Percy besought him, and all that favoured his cause. ‘Your barons are at odds. That—and your absence may bring Scotland about our ears! And then what confusion, what disaster! Wait until there’s peace amongst us!’

  ‘Then you may wait till doomsday! Go sir!’ said Reynolds that had no desire but to please the King and to line his own pockets. ‘A holiday is, God knows, needful; after a holiday a man works better!’

  To the voice of pleasure the King was always ready to listen. And so to France. First to Aquitaine that England held of France, where they were received with flung bonnets, with garlands and with feasting. Thence through the green-and-white countryside to Paris, where Philip the Fair waited to welcome them. So handsome a family these Capets—Philip and his sons and his new-returned daughter!

  Feasting and jousting, pageants and progresses. What Philip thought of the man beneath the handsome figure of his son of England, he kept to himself. He paid them every honour so that Edward, and even Isabella that had a little forgotten the splendour of her father’s court, were alike dazzled. Happy days, free of the constant gnawing, How shall we pay? Where do we turn for money?

  Days passing, weeks and months. Edward put aside all thought of trouble waiting at home; Isabella had no concern save for her own pleasure—she had given England its heir, she had done her duty! But of their duties came constant reminder; and when it could no longer be ignored, home they must go.

  Back to autumn England, back to pinching and paring, to unresolved quarrels and an unsettled country.

  ‘Men will be forever at each others’ throats if women do not stop them!’ Isabella said admiring her long, fine hands in the brasier’s light.

  ‘And what can women do?’ Margaret drew the bright wool through the linen.

  ‘We have our weapon—our tongue. We can coax and cajole; we can talk…’

  ‘Then beware how you talk! A word can kill a man as surely as a sword!’ She was thoughtful looking at her niece. The girl had beauty, wit and goodwill; she was discreet beyond her years. Ever since she had set her feet in England, six years ago, a child, she had not put one foot wrong. King and country together were blessed in such a Queen.

  ‘You are over-young for such a task,’ Margaret said, gentle. ‘There’s too much bitterness, too much deceit, too much self-seeking. Try, if you will; but do not look to succeed!’

  ‘Cousin,’ the Queen said, very loving with Lancaster, ‘you are the greatest of the barons. They look to you for guidance; yes, even those upon the other side. For the sake of our kinship, come into the King’s peace. You’ll not lose by it; by God’s Face I swear it!’

  And when he said nothing, having no mind to bandy words with so young, so ignorant a creature, she said, ‘You could make your own party—take the best, both sides. All men honour you and would gladly follow where you lead. You could…’ and now she spoke softly, ‘rule all England.’ And when still he made no answer but went on scowling, great head sunk between high shoulders, she bent forward and kissed him upon both cheeks.

  To Warwick and to Hereford she spoke also, smiling and coaxing, showing them that obedience to the King—or some show of it—was not a humble poor-spirited thing, but brave and difficult… and rewarding; but whether rewarding in the spirit or in this world’s goods she left them to guess. To Pembroke, to de Warenne, to Arundel and Percy she spoke likewise, beseeching them to end the quarrel, cozening them that then there would be but one party—and that party strong to have its way in all things.

  And all the time she whispered in the King’s ear. ‘Sir, forgive your rebellious lords; or, if you cannot forgive them—then make a show of it. Gaveston’s dead and all your grief cannot bring him back. Think, sir, how desirable to have but one party, the great good to yourself! For, if any man propose to set himself against the King, then, the King’s friends will privately inform him. It could mean the end to the Ordainers—’ she named them with scorn, ‘and their so-called Ordinances. Sir, you would rule—their King and master.’

  So with her pretty looks and her coaxing and her flatteries and halflies; and, most of all, with her appeal to each man’s own advantage she won them—for the country’s good and for the King’s good and for her own good, also. For civil war—it could mean the fall of a King!

  She had made peace—of a sort. The King had published his pardon for all that had taken part in Gaveston’s killing; never mind how direct the hand.

  Pardon and remission is granted by the King through the prayers of his dearest companion, Isabella Queen of England.

  How could the people not love her, beautiful and gracious; Isabella the Peace-maker.

  Into Parliament came the insurgent peers to kneel, every one, before the King. He gave them the kiss of peace… but peace was not in his heart.

  ‘It is the King’s victory,’ Isabella told Queen Margaret. And mine, mine too! ‘Ordainers and their Ordinances—finished!’

  ‘Not finished. Laid aside for a time because the barons choose it so. Ordainers and
Ordinances still stand. Make no mistake! Not one baron—and Lancaster least of all—will accept defeat.’

  ‘Lancaster!’ Isabella shrugged. ‘He has a flaw of weakness in him—you told me yourself; such things I don’t forget. He’ll go so far and no further. He’ll crack…’

  ‘… like a louse between my fingers!’ The King had come upon them unaware. There he stood handsome and arrogant and laughing. Rising from her curtsey Isabella thought one might almost believe in his kingship. But had he learnt anything from his experiences? Would he ever learn? Well, no matter! Her part to cover his foolishness with her wits, his weakness with her strength. If he would but listen to her, men would forget the emptiness which lay beneath that commanding figure.

  If he would listen…!

  XIV

  Peace between King and barons, Ordainers and Ordinances forgotten… so it seemed. King and Queen were, alike, happier. He felt himself stronger than before, freer of his barons; she knew herself to be of consequence. If there was no love between them there was, on her side, goodwill and ambition for him; on his, friendship and some trust. The present tranquillity she laid, rightly, to her growing influence with both husband and barons.

  And in himself the King was calmer. He was over the worst of his grief for Gaveston; but never would he forget his friend nor forgive the manner of his dying. And still loneliness drove him to his wife’s bed. And still he would start up crying out the beloved name, sometimes with joy mistaking the sleeper at his side, sometimes all broken with grief. But the occasions were less frequent, the company of Despenser, the handsome young man, comforted him more than a little.

  But his greatest comfort lay in his small prince. He would send for the child, and taking him from the nurse, would fondle the little one, calling him love-names the while. Isabella thought it unkingly, unmanly. A man should love his child; but in reason, hiding his love. She, herself, loved the child; she loved him because he added to her stature, and because he was a kingly child and because he was her own. She safeguarded him as she might any treasure; but she had little fondness for children and, as long as he was healthy, cared not overmuch how little she might see him. But, from the day of his birth, his father called him by his little name—Ned. The babe—he swore it by God’s Body—even in those first days turned to the sound of that name and smiled upon his father. And, certainly, within a little, he did smile and jump to come to his father; towards his mother he made no move, preferring the warm, milky smell of his nurse.