Harlot Queen Page 19

  ‘I put my trust in the King.’ The younger Despenser bent and kissed the King’s lips; but the darkness did not lighten in his father’s face.

  July. The month Parliament was to meet. And the King had not yet set a date. Nor intended to. For at this Parliament he had sworn to produce the Despensers for judgment.

  The date had been fixed. But not by the King. It was Lancaster that had set it, Lancaster and his friends assembled at Westminster.

  ‘By God, Lancaster shall lose his head for this!’ the King burst out. ‘It is for the King to summon Parliament, the King and no other man. This is no Parliament. I will not go!’

  I will not go! Parliament had met. The King was absent; so also were the Despensers. Pembroke, so long loyal, turned from the King; and with him many more besides. It looked more than ever like a national rising. In mid-August, the Despensers standing by, Pembroke, that patient man, had audience of the King.

  ‘Lord King, you must meet your princes. Take heed of the danger that threatens you. Sir, for the good of the land you must free it of wicked men; and this you swore at your crowning.’

  The King sat still as stone.

  ‘Sir, if you will not listen to your princes,’ and now Pembroke’s words came battering like stones, ‘then, sir, I think you will lose your crown. Sir, I entreat you, meet your Parliament.’

  ‘Parliament!’ The King’s laugh, splitting that face of stone, was shocking in the silence. ‘What Parliament? There is no Parliament unless the King call it. Pembroke, you and your friends speak treason. Go, warn them!’

  Pembroke stood looking at the King. Then, in the silence, Pembroke bowed very low and walking backwards, as is seemly before the King, left those three alone.

  ‘I will not go, I will not go, I will not go!’ When he so repeated himself it was time for those that knew him to doubt his word. ‘They’ll not rest until they’ve robbed me, as they robbed me before, of the thing I love best in the world. Oh Hugh, Hugh—’ and he took the young man’s hand, ‘what shall I do and whither shall I turn? Already they have judged you. I shall lose you both—my father and my brother. Oh Hugh, Hugh, what shall I do?’

  He thinks not at all of us—our loss, our danger. It is of himself he thinks, himself alone. The thought was instant to both father and son.

  They turned and left him; and, as they went, they heard him asking still, What shall I do? Asking and weeping.

  I will not go. I will not go. But go he must. Let him go on refusing and his princes would act without him; they had sworn it. That they would put the Despensers from their place, and he powerless to stop them—he knew well. That they would put him, the King, from his place, he did not for a moment believe.

  Parliament had spoken. The King’s attendance had not carried a hair’s weight; he might as well have stayed at home. Those two were banished men.

  Hugh the elder left England at once; he had funds aplenty salted abroad.

  ‘Whither he’s gone no man knows and no man cares! He’s gone. It is enough!’ The Queen said, joyful.

  ‘But where the son is no man knows, neither!’ Théophania said. ‘They say everywhere he hasn’t left the country.’

  ‘I fear the King will find a way to keep him near, a curse upon the land! Till he is gone I cannot breathe!’ Isabella laid a hand upon her breast.

  ‘If he stay, he must die. The barons have spoken.’

  ‘They reckon without the King. I tremble lest he find a way—a way so devious none but he could think of it.’

  Certainly she knew the King better than any other. He had found a way to keep his sweetheart safe; a way so ingenious none but he could have thought of it—a way cursed by merchants and sailors and by all that must cross the narrow seas.

  The King had given him a fine ship well-found; if Hugh must not rest on English soil he should rest near it—nothing had been said as to that! The ship lay at anchor near the south-east coast and by the King’s command the men of the Cinque Ports must guard her safety. For the King’s sweetheart had turned pirate and no ship went free of him. Crews he attacked and killed, goods he took for himself… and left the King to pay the damage.

  But still the barons had had their way. The King had bent to their power; the Despensers were not to be found on English soil. Now, surely now there would be peace.

  The King had graciously allowed the Queen to leave the Tower. Now that the Despensers were not at his elbow to poison him with accusations against her he was disposed to be kind—he was a lonely man. And, indeed, he could scarce object. She was making a pilgrimage to Canterbury to give thanks for safe delivery from childbirth. She had other thanks to give too; but these she did not mention. She meant to make offering to God because the hated Despensers were gone at last; and because she was rid, also, of those other thorns in the flesh—the Badlesmeres. The husband had left the court, he was now openly Lancaster’s man; and his wife had gone with him. Isabella wished the creature’s household joy of her! Life, at last, looked to be supportable.

  The first week in September the Queen’s procession took its way through the golden countryside. A great procession as befits a Queen—ladies, knights and pages, men-at-arms and servants; horses, charettes and laden wagons. Within the charette the Queen sat at ease, Madam de St. Pierre with her and no other. Eleanor Despenser had gone no-one knew whither; no need to guard one’s tongue.

  The rich countryside flowed steadily past. Tomorrow they would reach Canterbury; she was glad of that, recent childbirth had left her easily tired. Last night they had lain at Rochester and she had not slept well; tonight they would lie at Leeds Castle, the Queen’s Kentish house and very comfortable.

  ‘Madam we shall soon be there!’ Théophania gently touched her arm; and there were the castle towers black against the skyline.

  It was growing towards dark when they stood before the walls; the castle had a closed and shuttered look. No sign of life; neither men-at-arms nor sound of trumpet. Between travellers and castle lay a ditch foul and deep.

  The Queen stared unbelieving. She had made her intention known. Was this the way to receive the Queen; and into her own house? Anger began to rise. She was by now utterly weary; this last hour the shelter of her own house, a good supper and a comfortable bed had grown ever more needful. For this piece of carelessness someone should pay!

  She bade a servant sound the horn. The clear demand rose in the quiet air and died; silence flowed back. Again the horn sounded and again. And always the silence returning and never an answer.

  At long last a man appeared on the turrets; and at him the Queen stared in even greater amazement. She knew him by his shape; there was not another such in Christendom. A long, lanky fellow with a head like a pea set between unequal shoulders. None other than Colepepper, seneschal to Badlesmere. And now her anger was hot and high. At Westminster the fellow had copied his master’s insolence as much as he’d dared. What did Badlesmere’s seneschal do in the Queen’s house?

  She was to learn at once.

  I cannot admit Madam the Queen.

  Not admitted! Into her own house, not admitted!

  The words fell upon incredulous ears. Now, her almoner came riding up. ‘Madam, Lord Badlesmere—I have this moment heard it—is constable of the castle.’

  ‘Constable. Of my own house! And I not know it!’

  You were absent from Westminster, Madam; I fancy it was the lord Lancaster’s doing.’

  Lancaster. He had been so long from court he could not know the injury he had done. She would let him know at once. Meanwhile the house was hers; she must get inside and send Colepepper packing. She stepped from the charette.

  ‘This is the Queen’s house!’ she cried high and clear. ‘I command you, let down the bridge!’

  The figure on the turrets stood as though he had not heard. And now John de Fontenoy, clerk to the Queen’s chapel, came riding up. ‘Madam, the lord Badlesmere is away; he is with my lord of Lancaster. I heard it in the village as we came through. Since the
re’s dispute between the King and the barons Badlesmere is not minded, so they say, to have the gates opened lest it be some raiding-party to take it by surprise.’

  ‘I am no raiding-party. I am the Queen. And this house is mine. Who takes charge in Badlesmere’s absence?’

  To that she had her answer at once. For now the lady herself appeared upon the battlements, her bold figure black against the pale night sky. Cupping her jaw in both hands that her voice might carry she cried out, ‘Madam, you must seek some other shelter. I can admit no-one, not even the Queen’s self, without order from my lord!’

  At this piece of insolence hands flew to swords—a useless gesture since the ditch lay between. Suddenly, before a man could take in his breath, from the castle walls flew a volley of arrows. Before the Queen was safe within the charette six of her escort lay dead in the dust.

  Along the dark country road went the Queen’s procession, her escort shocked and furious, her ladies shocked and frightened. Within the charette, where now light from the torches flickered through the horn panes, the Queen sat unmoving; in her white face the red paint of her lips and the dark circles beneath her eyes, the only colour. Her whiteness was not the whiteness of fear; it was the white heat of her rage.

  XXIII

  For this insult the Badlesmeres should pay, husband and wife, both; the Queen vowed it. And the seneschal whose tongue had dared the message should have that tongue torn from his throat. But who should make them pay? Not Lancaster. He had offered no apology; nor given reproof to Badlesmere. He had need of every man; and Badlesmere had a respectable following.

  ‘Insult to the Queen is insult to the King!’ Edward said, forgetting the countless insults himself had condoned. ‘The matter goes beyond the Badlesmeres. It lies between Lancaster and me!’ Ever since he had been forced to bow to the barons in the matter of the Despensers, pride ate within him like verjuice. Now he would teach them—Lancaster and all those that sought to belittle the King’s dignity! Now he would gather his forces and no man could deny the right, nor would deny his right—the Queen was well-loved.

  ‘And, sir,’ she said, gentle as a dove, ‘when you have gathered your forces and punished this insult, who shall question what you do next? And if they do? The King in arms shall answer them.’

  To his well-beloved peers the summons went forth. Isabella smiled; herself had drafted it.

  We, Edward, lord of England, Ireland and Scotland, duke of Aquitaine, lord of Ponthieu and Gascony, by reason of the contempt which our beloved consort, Isabella Queen of England, has been treated by the family of Bartholomew Badlesmere who insolently opposed her in her desire of entering Leeds Castle a general muster of all persons between the age of sixteen and sixty is called to attend the King in an expedition against Leeds Castle..

  Isabella had become London’s darling. There was no man great or small that would tolerate insult to their Queen. Almost she loved lady Badlesmere whose insult had carried her still higher on the tide of the people’s love.

  Within Leeds Castle the lady laughed. ‘We have food, we have water, we have firing aplenty. Does he think, the foolish King, that the barons will suffer him to take this castle? Let him try!’

  The barons had no intention of supporting her insolence. Their quarrel was with the King; in the Queen they found no fault. Lancaster forbade his followers to march; and that was as well since many of them had already joined the King. Badlesmere, himself, that useful man, Lancaster kept safe in the north. Let his ill-mannered shrew stew in her own juice! So across the quiet Kentish country no man came riding to her aid; armed men aplenty came riding, but they were all the King’s men.

  On the last day of October the castle surrendered. Before those gates where he had refused entrance to the Queen, Colepepper was hanged and eleven men with him; and those eleven, robbers and murderers that had, at last, met their just fate. To the Tower went my lady to remain at the King’s pleasure.

  At this last Isabella found herself shaken by a storm of rage; herself she was surprised at the violence of her desire to punish. Why had the woman not shared the fate of her steward? He had obeyed the slut’s orders!

  ‘I shed no woman’s blood,’ Edward said. ‘But when I get my hands on Badlesmere he shall pay for both!’

  And with that she must make herself content. But she would not forget! Revenge was beginning to taste sweet in her mouth.

  The insult was avenged; but the King did not disband his forces. Make an end of the rebels. Again and again Isabella urged him, sending out her will to strengthen his. For, it was clear from the barons she could hope little. Lancaster was in the ascendant—and he had done nothing to avenge the insult to the Queen. Nor in the ever-shifting loyalties of the barons themselves, their constant changeover from side to side, could she expect much. What then of the wayward, inconstant King? Him—the Despensers gone—she might influence; she could not count upon it. Her one hope was in herself. She saw, very clear, the pattern of her own behaviour. To watch each side, to balance one against the other, to stand at the fulcrum and hold things steady—if she could do that her power was assured.

  For a woman and young, a big if. She knew it.

  Make an end of the rebels. Shorn of his dignities the King made a poor showing; she found the sight offensive. The country must see him strengthened, honoured.

  ‘Now that many remember their duty—Arundel, de Warenne and the others, the rest will follow. You have the army; you have but to march.’

  ‘Yes, they will come; all of them will come!’ He was all complacency so that she longed to strike him. That they had returned for love of herself never troubled his conceit. Yet she was shrewd enough not to count upon that love. Had they not been already weary of Lancaster they’d not have stirred on her behalf. Well, whatever the reason, here was the King at the head of an army well-found.

  Through the grey November weather rode the King, the army at his heels. He was for Cirencester to keep an eye on the Welsh marches; he had commanded the Queen to join him to celebrate the Christmas festival. Robbed of the Despensers he was not unglad of her company; that he ever went to her for advice, much less took it, never entered his head. But one thing he did know—the King and Queen in good accord strengthened the goodwill of the people towards him.

  On his way he made good use of the army. The castles of those that remained with Lancaster he attacked, their lords being for the most part absent. And those within he punished so harshly that, the word spreading, none dared resist the King.

  And now it was Christmas; at Cirencester the Queen was waiting. It was a larger court than she had dared hope. Yet more of the rebels had returned. Richmond had come in; and the King’s half brothers, Thomas of Brotherton now Earl Marshal and Edmund earl of Kent. These last were a great asset—they were young, they were valiant, they were well-liked. And, best of all, Pembroke had returned. It was good to know that once more Pembroke stood with his King. Things were beginning to take a sweet turn, Isabella thought. And the King himself had shown courage and determination. Was the fainéant beginning to show himself a King? Respect for her husband, so long withered, threw out a small, green shoot.

  The shoot barely green was dead.

  The Despensers were back. Reynolds, unworthy archbishop, had declared their cause just, their excommunication void.

  The Queen took in her breath when she heard it. She turned her back upon the King all joyful with his news and, like a blind woman, sought the refuge of her closet. She leaned against the door and stood looking at Madam de St. Pierre. She tried to speak and could not speak; her lips just moved. Théophania led her to a chair and there she sat, staring, it would seem, at nothing. When she could speak at last she said—and there was wonder in her voice, ‘Have I not suffered enough? Does it begin again, the humiliation and the spite? I had hoped… dear God how I hoped! Yet still the King shows himself for what he is—the dog that returns to his vomit!’

  Théophania said nothing; only her hand went to her mouth as i
f that gesture could silence the Queen.

  ‘I’ll not be silent!’ Isabella cried out, passionate. ‘Let the whole court hear! Let all Christendom hear! The King’s a fool! When all’s set fair, he must damn his own bright fortunes!’ And she wrung her hands.

  Grief, anger, dread of further insult had loosened her tongue. She could not, though she died of it, keep silent now.

  ‘Fourteen years, fourteen hateful years! Yet I never forgot I was a Queen and I never forgot I was a wife—though by God’s Face there’s been plenty to make me forget both! This King and his sweethearts! Yet as a Queen I have carried myself; as a true wife no less. I have endured this King that was never a King, this husband that was never a husband—save when he used me to breed upon. Years of misery, years of insult! And now when there’s hope of dignity, hope of peace, he must cast it all away!’

  She stopped to take in her breath, her voice rose higher; nothing could stop her now. She must spew out this poison or die!

  ‘Oh God that the rebels had stayed of one mind! They could have put him from the throne, this unworthy King that plays with his mignons, that breaks the sworn word, that listens to none but those two—wicked father and foul paramour!’

  ‘Madam, Madam, I implore you!’ And Théophania was on her knees before the Queen. ‘Last time it was the Tower; but the palace, only. Next time—Madam you speak sedition—who can say?

  But still she would not, could not be stayed. Too long misery had eaten into her, the acid of her bitterness.

  ‘Did I call the King a fool? I am the fool, I, I! The fool that bade him summon the barons. I should have closed my mouth upon the Badlesmeres’ insult. I should have kept him dallying in London. But no! I must advise him to march against the rebels. Had I held my peace the barons would have marched united—Lancaster hates the King! And all, all alike hate the Despensers. And for that I love them all—be they rebels, be they what they may! They would have put the King from the throne, they would have crowned my son; they would have chosen me—Regent. Not Lancaster but me—me the Queen the people love. I would have held the reins and held them well. Peacemaker they call me; and peacemaker I have been. But peacemaker no more. Let the King dig his own grave!’