Harlot Queen Read online

  ‘Now!’ she said. ‘On Friday morning you hear Mortimer’s confession. Later Ogle will go shave him; he will take with him a bottle of wine. Why not? The prisoner’s to die in the morning. You’ll need to pay Ogle well—he’ll have to get out of the country!’ She put a purse into his hand. He emptied the silver and handed it back. ‘The Queen’s purse could have a long tongue!’ he told her. He handed back also, the one gold piece. ‘Gold is for princes, not barbers!’ he said. ‘This could betray us all!’

  She smiled; until this last moment she had been testing his discretion. ‘You are wise, my lord! Now here is your part; it is simple enough—to hear a confession and to bribe a barber. Alspaye’s part in this he knows and will perform it. I have his promise. When you have heard the confession you have nothing to do but wait until Mortimer has crossed the river.’

  ‘That, Madam, I fear he’ll never do’.

  ‘Then, my lord, you are saved some trouble! But I believe he will; and you must be ready. Once he leaves his cell comes the hardest part. Ten paces to the left there’s a shaft; Alspaye told me. The shaft—from two privies I regret to say—opens upon the drain that carries the filth into the ditch. The drain that has caused him such discomfort shall bring him the greatest comfort of all—freedom. The shaft is wide enough to take a man; up this shaft he must climb—he’s nimble as a cat, I hear. The shaft runs as far ‘as the Queen’s lodgings. He must climb until the shaft branches—and a long climb it will be! That branch he must not take—it leads to Segrave’s lodgings. He must climb until he reaches the second branch and that is the one he must take. The second shaft—mark it! It leads to the Queen’s privy. From the privy he may come into the Queen’s closet and there a short staircase leads to the leads. How often I have used it to take the air! There Alspaye will leave a rope.’

  ‘One question, Madame; what of Segrave?’

  ‘One Friday night he sups with me. It is a courtesy long overdue; he was, in some sort, my host when I lodged within the Tower. Mortimer’s road to freedom is not salubrious; but it offers life. The rest—when he reaches the Southwark side—my lord bishop I leave to you!’

  The lord Mortimer of Wigmore was sunk in melancholy. Tomorrow he must die; a tormented, hideous death. A clean death he could face. But the shameful rope; and being cut down half hanged, the entrails torn from his bleeding body while yet he lived! He all-but vomited. And thereafter—no Christian burial; his mutilated body quartered, his head fixed high upon the Bridge—a warning to traitors! He was no traitor, not he! He’d done an honest man’s best against a dishonest King. Had Lancaster played his promised part, he’d not be lying here with a filthy death coming hourly nearer. He had grieved to see his uncle die, reduced within a few short months, from sturdy middle manhood to frail old age. Now he wished passionately that he might die likewise, sinking into merciful sleep. No hope of it. Weakened he was; but strong enough to face tomorrow.

  Tomorrow…

  Round and round the thoughts beating through his head, rats in a cage running round and round.

  He heard the grind of bolts, heard the key turn; saw the pale light creep, lie along the filthy floor, heard the scamper of vermin away from the light.

  The gaoler had brought his food—stale crust, stale water, salted meat.

  ‘Sir,’ the fellow said, ‘your priest sends word he will confess you; and you may have the barber, also—the rope slides sweeter for a shave.’ He laughed and was a little annoyed that the prisoner did not join in the joke. A dull dog, this lord Mortimer! He set down the food; the door clanged, the light went with him.

  The prisoner fingered the loathsome food; his belly craved it, yet rose at the smell of it. He put a piece of bread in his mouth; it tasted of mould.

  Tomorrow… tomorrow… tomorrow. How long till tomorrow? Was it—the sickness came up into his throat—already tomorrow? In this dark place one lost track of time. It could not be tomorrow; Orleton had not come, nor yet the barber…

  He dozed and woke and dozed again.

  Once more the grating of locks, the grinding of bolts.

  He awoke in sick terror. They had come to take him to his death!

  The gaoler set down the lantern; Orleton came in. He was dressed as a simple monk, his face half-hidden in the cowl; he was carrying the Sacrament. He bade the fellow go. ‘Stand where you may see; but on peril of your soul, where you can hear no word. A dying man’s confession is between himself and his God. Overhear one word, one word, only, and your soul shall burn in Hell.’

  When the fellow had withdrawn, securing lock and bolt, Orleton prepared for Extreme Unction; Mortimer knelt to confession; but it was Orleton that spoke. When all was finished he gathered up the holy vessels, blessed the prisoner and was gone; and the gaoler with him.

  Mortimer waited until their footsteps had died away. Slowly, painfully, he struggled to his feet. Amazed he heard no clanking of chains, felt no weight dragging at his legs. The fellow had unlocked the fetters that the prisoner might kneel more seemly and forgotten to fasten them again. Supporting himself against the wall the painful blood forced its way through vein and artery so that he could have cried out with the pain, he yet remembered to thank God for this blessed piece of luck. Presently he sat down in the straw, rubbing his legs to help the circulation. He looked to be the same man as before—gaunt, unshaven, dirty, utterly forlorn; but within him hope screamed like a mad thing. He brought both hands to his mouth to forbid the sound.

  Now, now he could eat; must eat. But still he could not force himself to the food. Excitement tightened his throat and the food stank. But he needed it to strengthen himself. God had given him his chance—he must not throw it away. Tomorrow he might be free… At the thought tears rained down his face.

  He sat in the stinking straw and weighed his chances. He was grim, he was determined; he was scarce hopeful. No man had ever escaped the Tower. He stiffened his spirit. Then he would be the first. He was Mortimer of Wigmore and Chirk and he had good friends. And luck was with him—the matter of the fetters had made that clear. But suppose luck had not smiled; suppose it mocked, merely? Suppose they took him on his way to freedom? Of one thing he was certain—there’d be no traitor’s death for him! He’d dash his head against a stone wall; or send himself spinning from the top of the keep—if he got so far. He preferred it to spinning on the hangman’s rope. Excitement and foul food were making him sick; he thrust down the vomit and waited.

  He lay in the dark considering each step in the escape; over and over again. What time was it? Time crept so that he could not tell whether hour after hour passed or minute after minute. He awaited the barber as he waited salvation. Yet how he had hated the fellow with his dirty water and the stinking hands and the blunt razor that took skin as well as beard. Even now there was a nasty place where dirt had caused an open cut to fester. But today… today! Let the fellow do his worst—he’d be as welcome as a saint from heaven!

  Time unmoving, time eternal.

  Sudden, violent in the silence—grinding of bolts, creaking of key. He had expected the moment, longed for the moment; yet the sudden noise shocked his heart into wild beating.

  The gaoler put his lantern down in the straw where it gave a faint gleam. ‘Master Barber’s here, my lord. He’s late. But better late than never! Were he much later, though, for you it would be never; come tomorrow there’ll be no need to shave!’

  The prisoner made a shift to laugh, laughter stuck in his throat like a bone.

  ‘It’s good to hear you laugh, sir; now you shall laugh heartier still. Master Ogle has brought you a bottle of wine—a friend sent it. And since tomorrow’s the Day—we’ll stretch a point as well as a neck!’ And he laughed again. ‘It’s a large bottle. And my lord—’ he made a grotesque bow, ‘would not wish to go drunk to … wherever he’s bound; that would never do! So let’s drink turn and turn about!’

  Ogle, pouring the wine, stumbled in the fitful light; the lantern fell upon its side and went out. Cursing the clumsine
ss, the gaoler felt for his flint; by the time the lantern was lit and the light steady, wine stood in three mugs. Before the others had set lip to mug, the gaoler’s was empty and held out for more.

  ‘Good wine.’ He smacked his lips. ‘Some body to it!’ He held his mug for a third filling. ‘Now here’s a funny thing! Beer has head and wine has body and man has both… till it comes his turn for the axe. But that don’t trouble you, my lord!’ And again that grotesque bow, unsteady now. ‘You keep your head—even if the neck’s stretched a bit!’ And laughed at his own wit.

  Laughing, belching, hiccoughing, the fellow was enjoying himself. In the middle of a lewd joke directed at the prisoner his head nodded; he fell upon the straw.

  Mortimer bent to take the keys from the fallen hand. Again he blessed his luck in the matter of the fetters; it had given him extra minutes of time and the blood flowed sweetly in his veins. Luck had played its part; the rest was up to himself.

  Ogle stepped from the cell carrying the lantern; alone in the cell, darker now than ever, Mortimer heard his footsteps grow fainter; heard him call a cheerful Goodnight to the guard, heard the answered greeting.

  It was the signal. And the moment.

  He stepped from darkness into darkness; the man’s drugged snores followed him. He locked the door behind him carrying the keys.

  To the left. Ten paces Orleton had said. He’d know the direction by the ever-worsening stink. His foot struck against something hard and jagged so that he all but stumbled into the filth of the drain. It was the heavy stone weighting the dangling rope Alspaye had left. A not salubrious climb Orleton had said; he had, Mortimer thought grim, understated the case. But nothing was likely to be cast into the privy tonight; the royal apartments were empty and Segrave out for the night. That, at least, was a blessing!

  He cast the key into the drain; let them search for it there! He put his head into the shaft and brought it back at once; it was an instinctive movement of disgust. He took in his breath and began to climb.

  He was weaker than he had thought. Hand over slow hand up the slimy alley of the stinking shaft. Time stood still. Soon, grown used to the stink and the darkness, he climbed more quickly. He seemed to be climbing for ever; it seemed as if forever he must climb. How long before he reached the branching of the shaft?

  Before ever he reached the first branching he found himself uncertain, confused by excitement, by the long climb and the stink. Two branches Orleton had said; one some ten feet above the other… the one led to Segrave’s lodgings, the other to the privy of the Queen’s apartments. But which?

  Which? Which?

  He couldn’t remember… he couldn’t remember! Suppose he chose wrong? Suppose he came out in the Governor’s lodgings? The odds were that some servant about his business or a man-at-arms would came upon the leads. Three the alarm. But even if luck held and he met no-one at all, how in the darkness would he find the waiting rope? The directions would be useless…

  For the moment he felt like weeping. A man could take great risks, put forth all his courage, all his strength and then! Which? On so small a thing his life could hang… and hang, indeed!

  Climbing fearfully he came upon the first branch. And now he that since childhood had relied upon himself, his own strength, his own wits, breathed the name of God.

  That steadied him. And now he remembered. Three steps up from the Queen’s bedchamber you came upon the leads. Three steps… and then the leads. It was the upper branch.

  The short distance seemed endless so that he feared lest in the darkness he had missed the branch. But he came upon it at last. It was narrower than the main shaft and he must force his way through. He thanked God for the poor food that had reduced not only his strength but his girth.

  A faint light rewarded him; it was the rushlight Alspaye had left. He dragged himself through the mouth of the shaft and up the privy basin. Twenty paces—and he was through the Queen’s chamber and up the three stone stairs and out upon the battlements.

  For the briefest moment he was lost in wonder at the wide sky and the multitude of stars; a miracle he had never considered before. Moon there was none; he remembered to thank God for this before he leant upon the battlements and vomited. He felt better now though weak and wet through with sweat. He put back the hair from his forehead and one hand upon the coping, walked, counting his steps. At twenty he stopped as he had been told. For the moment he saw nothing and once more could have cried like a child with weakness and disappointment. Then he saw it; the rope well-secured and dangling in the shadow of a buttress. He put out a hand; he could not see the end of it in the darkness, but it felt taut in his hand. It was well-secured below. Alspaye had taken some trouble.

  This, this was the supreme test—the downward climb—and be not seen nor heard. But the night was blessedly dark and Alspaye had chosen the place well. Within the deep shadow of the buttress a careful man might well move unseen.

  He took the rope in his hand. He stepped over the coping.

  He knew the moment’s blind panic as he took off. The river, faint-gleaming in starlight seemed no more than a thread, an immeasurable distance below.

  He began the downward climb.

  Slowly… slowly! It was agony to check his frantic desire to go down quickly and make an end of it… and an end, indeed! A swift-moving object could not fail to challenge attention.

  The rope slid slowly through his hands; he felt the palms grow hot, swell, blister.

  Down… down.

  The blisters were rubbing raw; the smell of his own stench came up to him. But now he did not care for either. The ground was coming nearer. The worst was over. Soon, soon please God he would be free!

  He stood upon blessed ground; almost he could bend to kiss it. Behind him the grim walls went up to the sky; behind him lay the Keep and below it the prison. Before him lay the moat. It was wide, it was deep and it stank; well, to that last he was well-inured.

  He slipped into the moat. With slow and silent strokes he made for the other side.

  And still the silence held, the blessed silence.

  He climbed his careful way out of the moat. He stood upon the strand; before him lay the river… the wide river flowing between him and safety.

  He turned to the right, he counted a hundred paces. Hidden within the creek he found the boat and within it Alspaye and Ogle.

  He had come to the end of his strength. His legs all but gave way. Alspaye put out a hand.

  With long, steady strokes, Alspaye and Ogle sent the skiff across to the south bank. The night was still blessedly dark, the muffled oars made no sound. Crouched low, shivering with cold and utter exhaustion, Mortimer could not, even yet, believe his luck.

  On the Southwark bank six horsemen were waiting—his own men to be trusted to the death; Orleton, too, had done his part well. Through the night, keeping ever south and west, they galloped; when day broadened they lay hid, at night they rode again. Refreshed and cleansed, good bread-and-meat inside him, Mortimer was his own man again.

  And so to Southampton and there a ship was waiting. John de Gisors and Richard de Bettoyne, silk merchants of London, had arranged it all; they owed the lords Despensers a grudge for unjust lightening of their pockets. Across the narrow channel towards the Isle of Wight; let them go seeking Mortimer there! Half-way across they changed course to a ship anchored at the Needles.

  And so to France and safety!

  PART THREE

  The Queen and Mortimer

  Check to the King

  XXVI

  The King, as always, took his bad news badly; first with disbelief and then with a fury that must, until better times, satisfy itself in words. ‘We shall comb the country inch by inch—and especially the west and the marches. Louse that he is, he’ll not escape my combing!’And anger was the greater that there was no-one to punish. Segrave could not be held responsible; that night he had supped with the Queen—a royal command. Alspaye and the barber were nowhere to be found; true, the wre
tched turnkey had been well-flogged—and lucky to be alive! But there was little satisfaction in that.

  From the first the Despensers suspected the Queen—without reason, as they themselves must admit. She had never set eyes on Mortimer save for that one brief moment he had come to kiss hands; she had never shown the slightest interest in him. Yet Segrave had been commanded from the Tower that particular night—surely cause for suspicion here! But how could a woman carry out such a plan from her closet, a woman alone? It was clearly impossible. And alone she had been! According to Eleanor Despenser she had not walked abroad, had seen no-one for weeks, no-one save… her confessor.

  Orleton. Orleton again! No friend to the King that one, nor ever had been! They were certain, father and son alike, that the Queen and the bishop knew more than a little of the matter. They could prove nothing… at present; but for proof they would not cease to look.

  These days Isabella walked with care. She showed concern that the King’s enemy had escaped; that all their searching had come to nothing. No flaw in her behaviour. The Despensers suspected her yet more strongly; her subtlety they had long recognised. They must content themselves, for the time being, with a second petition to Rome praying for the dissolution of the King’s marriage and the unseating of Orleton of Hereford.

  Mortimer was in Paris. Charles le Bel, Isabella’s brother, made much of him—as indeed he might. Mortimer, famous captain, was pledged to serve the French King, to fight for him at need. Alspaye, too, was in France where his pleasant manners were already serving him better than in London. Ogle was another to find Paris to his taste. He had set himself up as a barber, gotten himself a wife and turned respectable citizen.

  Suspicion that could not be proved deepened the Despensers’ hatred against the Queen. One day… one day they would have her head! Until that happy time they made her life unendurable—and not with insult alone. Now it was clear persecution. By their advice her lands—lands of the Queen’s dower—were sequestered; her income pared to the bone. At times she was hard put to it to order a new pair of shoes. Worse than robbing her of her money, they robbed her of the last of her friends. Everyone she trusted was removed; even Madam de St. Pierre, dear, comfortable friend, sent back to France—a mischief-maker, the King said. Despenser toadies were set in their place; and, chief of her ladies—Eleanor Despenser. Now the Queen was all alone; in her household not a single soul her friend.