The Vow on the Heron
Виктория Холт
Jean Plaidy
The Vow on the Heron
THE HAUNTED QUEEN
IN the ancient castle of York, Queen Isabella lay sleepless beside her lover. There was nothing to fear, he assured her. This castle of York, this great fortress which was said to have been built by the Conqueror, with its deep moat, its drawbridge and its palisades, was invulnerable. The watch from the top of Clifford’s Tower would warn them of the approach of any enemy; none could break through the massive stone walls, and those circular turrets. But it was not an invading army Isabella feared; it was the ghost of her murdered husband.
Since they had brought her the news of that night when his agonized screams had been heard, so she was told, even by those outside the walls of Berkeley Castle this terrible unease had settled upon her. Sometimes she would awake and fancy she saw a tall shape in the room. He had been a tall man and she would picture his face in the darkness distorted by an expression of hideous anguish. Sometimes she dreamed that his lips moved and that he uttered curses on those who had condemned him to such a brutal death. In the sighing of the wind she heard his voice.
‘Isabella, you are the guilty one ... you ... with your lover Mortimer. I know he was your paramour. I know you live with him in blatant sin, you, the She Wolf of France. How long did you deceive me? How long did you plan my murder?’
How long? she thought. As soon as it had become necessary. You blame me. Have you forgotten the way you treated me ... how you humiliated me and passed me over, when I was ready to love you, ignored me to be with your pretty boys? You deserved what came to you.
No, not that. No one could deserve such a death. Why did they have to do it in such a way?
She pictured the sly face of Ogle. ‘But, my lady, it was on your orders ... yours and my lord’s. No marks on his body. None must know that he had died by any but a natural death.’
It was but a settle she saw in the darkness. It took on its own shape as her eyes grew accustomed to the gloom. Only briefly had she thought it had the shape of a man and was Edward come forth from the grave to mock her. But because he lived on in her mind, he would not let her forget him and he came unbidden ... in the dead of night.
‘Mortimer,’ she whispered, ‘are you awake? Gentle Mortimer, wake up for me.’
Gentle Mortimer sighing turned his big body to face her. ‘What is it, my love?’ he murmured sleepily. ‘More dreams?’ ‘Dreams,’ she answered. ‘Always dreams.’
‘They are of no substance then.’
‘I cannot sleep,’ said the Queen. ‘I think of him there ... on his bed. They placed a table over him so that he could not move. It was an iron spit red hot in a case of horn to leave no mark ... and with it they burned his entrails.’
‘Death would come quickly,’ soothed Mortimer.
‘And agonizingly,’ she answered. ‘They say his screams penetrated the walls of Berkeley Castle.’
‘Tis nonsense. Remember Berkeley ... built like a fortress.’
‘I would I could forget Berkeley. Mortimer, listen. In the castle they talk. The servants ... they whisper together.’
‘There will always be rumours when a man dies and if he is a king these rumours go on for a while. Give them time. They will pass away.’
‘What if they should reach the King’s ears?’
‘He would never believe them. We could deal with that. Has he not always listened to you? He is but a child.’
‘But he will grow up.’
‘By then your husband will be forgotten. Your son will have heard of his father’s death by now.’
‘Messengers were sent to him and they will surely have
reached him. He will be told that his father died peacefully in Berkeley Castle, and that he had been ailing for some time.’ ‘By God, how he clung to life!’
‘Making it necessary to remove him, I know, but the means ...’
‘Now Isabella, my queen, you must not dwell on this. It would have been swift, I know. Young Edward will accept what he is told. He has his own wounds to nurse just now. The peace with Scotland will occupy him. This little exercise should humble him a little, should show him how much he depends upon us. I believe he thought he was marching north to glory.’
‘There is something about the boy, Mortimer. Something his father never had.’
‘God be praised for that.’
‘I have heard it said that he has a look of his grandfather.’
‘I doubt the First Edward would have made much of a ruler at the age of fourteen.’
‘He is growing up fast.’
‘But he has a lot of growing to do yet. Isabella, my love, stop plaguing yourself. All is well. Think of the plans we made. Think of our victories. Here we are ... rulers of this realm. They did not make us regents, did they, but we outwitted them. The King is ours to guide and that is how we wanted it to be. Come, take heart. We shall never be troubled by your husband. He is dead. Forget him. He is no longer of importance. Rumour. There are always rumours. But we are strong enough to quell them. He was a danger to us. He had to die. It was better for the sake of the country that he did so. Now we have our third Edward, your promising son, who has much to learn and I promise you this, he will return from his Scottish enterprise considerably chastened and he will turn to us and we shall continue to guide him. That is how it will be, my Queen. Leave it to your gentle Mortimer.’
‘Oh gentle Mortimer, you comfort me as always. Soothe me now to sleep and all my fears will be gone by morning.’
But it was not so, for very soon the ghost of her murdered husband was back to haunt her.
THE SCOTTISH ADVENTURE
WHEN young Edward, a few weeks after his coronation, had ridden out at the head of his army to meet the Scots his father had been alive, and Edward believed comfortably lodged in Kenilworth Castle as the guest of his cousin, the Earl of Lancaster.
It was somewhat disconcerting to find oneself a king at the age of fourteen, but Edward had always been aware of his destiny and was determined to show them that he could be his grandfather all over again. Throughout his life he had been compared with his grandfather. ‘He grows more like Great Edward every day.’ How often had he heard that whispered. It was never ‘How like his father.’ And he had learned that that would not have been a compliment, for he had realized that all was not well with his father.
He had never really felt at ease with the tall fair-haired handsome man who had always been kind to him, though often absent-minded as though, much as he delighted in his son, he was not really interested in him. Hugh le Despenser was constantly with him and it seemed to the boy that they shared private jokes and that anyone who came near them was intruding.
When he had joined his mother in France he had been ready to believe that his father was not a good man and to accept the fact that she could no longer love him. There had been so many to convince him that she was right. Roger de Mortimer, Earl of Wigmore and now the Earl of March, was one of them and, although there was something about Mortimer which he did not like, the Earl was a powerful man with a convincing way with him and his mother said that he was their most faithful friend.
Sir John of Hainault was another and he was a great soldier. Then there were his uncles, the Dukes of Kent and Norfolk. They had come to help her; and with so many supporters and the people of England acclaiming her, he was certain that she had done right when she came to England with an army and his father was forced to give up the crown.
Then had come the moment when he had had to make his decision and something had told him that he must not take that which was his father’s unless his father first gave his consent; and it was not until they ca
me to him with his father’s agreement that he had allowed himself to be crowned. It was his first act of defiance and it had surprised them a little. It had taken a certain firmness to insist on that but being about to become a king he was determined to act like one.
Almost immediately he was setting out on the Scottish campaign for Robert the Bruce had agreed to meet him to discuss peace terms. Robert the Bruce was a man he had heard mentioned throughout his childhood and he knew that there was a leader to be reckoned with in spite of the fact that, according to rumour, he was dying of leprosy, which was probably the reason why he wanted a permanent peace. He was a bold man and it was soon realized that in spite of his desire for peace he was determined to have it on his own terms and if he could not achieve this then he would invade England. For this purpose he had gathered together a large army and there must only be one reply to this. Edward must march at the head of his army and be ready for action if the talks should fail.
Newly crowned and with the knowledge that his father was the guest of his cousin the Earl of Lancaster in Kenilworth he had set out for the North. With him and his army came his mother and Mortimer, his eleven-year-old brother John, and his two sisters, nine-year-old Eleanor and six-year-old Joanna. They would not of course go into battle with the army but remain in York while the troops, with Edward at their head, marched up to the Border and into Scotland.
They had been joined by Sir John of Hainault, a rather exuberant romantic-minded knight, brother of the Count of Hainault, who had taken pity on Queen Isabella when she was exiled from her brother’s country of France and needed help to begin the invasion of England. Sir John was so overcome with admiration that he had persuaded his brother to provide the money for Isabella and Mortimer to raise an army.
That was not entirely the truth. There had been an understanding between Isabella and the Count of Hainault and it concerned Edward’s marriage. They had bargained in secret and strangely enough Edward had felt no resentment and this for a very special reason. When he had arrived at the Court of Hainault, after having somewhat humiliatingly left the French Court where they had become unwelcome guests, Edward had enjoyed one of the most pleasant weeks of his life. This was due to the happy time he had spent with the Count’s four charming daughters, and there was one of these daughters who had become his special friend. That was Philippa. He had found her elder sister Margaret charming and her two younger sisters Jeanne and Isabella pleasing; but it was Philippa who had affected him most deeply. She was a tall girl, brown-haired, brown-eyed and with a dazzling pink-and-white complexion, and he had been struck by a certain simplicity lacking in the girls of her age he had met at the Court of France. Not that she was by any means stupid, far from it. She was lively and laughed easily and was so frankly honest that he could not help being charmed by her. Perhaps too his delight in her company was enhanced by her admiration for him. When he had left Hainault she had astonished everyone by bursting into tears because she had to say goodbye to him; and she did this before her parents and their entourage who had gathered together to wish him, his mother and their followers well.
So the fact that his mother had contrived to get the means to raise an army from the Count of Hainault on the condition that her son should marry one of his daughters, and the money supplied was in truth the dowry of that daughter, did not greatly perturb Edward.
One thing he would insist on was that when one of the Hainault girls was chosen for him that girl would have to be Philippa.
When he thought of Philippa and his marriage which must take place soon he felt a rising exultation. It was true he was not yet fifteen but his age would be no deterrent. Philippa was some months younger than he was but when they had ridden out together and he had come to know her he had seen that she was as ready for marriage as he was. It would be gratifying to offer her the crown of England, and he wanted to return from Scotland a conqueror. When he thought of these matters he could easily suppress uneasy thoughts about his father. Had he not given up the crown of his own free will? He preferred a life of ease at Kenilworth in the company of his cousin Lancaster to ruling a country. There was no need to wonder or worry about him. He had always been rather strange, different from other men; and the Queen had assured him that all had been done for the best.
He could believe that, and when Philippa came to him it would be wonderful to have her crowned as his Queen.
Once this Scottish matter was over he would insist on marriage and that his bride must be Philippa of Hainault.
He welcomed Sir John to York. He was delighted to see him not only because he was Philippa’s uncle but because he came with a great army.
His mother greeted Sir John with great affection. She would never forget what he had done for her and she constantly told him so. Sir John was in love with the Queen which made the situation charmingly romantic.
Edward found his mother in her private chamber. Roger de Mortimer was with her. It was becoming more and more impossible to see his mother without Mortimer’s being there too.
‘My dearest son,’ said the Queen embracing him, ‘is it not good to see these men of Hainault in the town?’
‘I welcome them,’ replied Edward.
‘They have been good friends to us,’ commented Mortimer. He was a little forward, Edward thought. He behaved as though he were a member of the family. Mortimer’s manner often irritated him, but his mother did not seem to notice that there was anything wrong and Edward felt too unsure of himself to show he was aware of it.
‘Indeed, it is so,’ said Edward with a certain hauteur. ‘The Count of Hainault proved himself most hospitable to us.’
‘At a time we most needed it,’ went on the Queen. ‘Now I would show similar hospitality to Sir John. I am arranging a banquet to welcome them to York.’
Young Edward inclined his head. Perhaps they should have asked his permission first. Not his own mother surely! He was of course the King but he had to be guided by them in most things. It was not so had when it came from his mother, but he was not sure that he liked to see Mortimer there all the time nodding as though he himself had been the main judge in what should be done. He wondered whether he should speak to his mother about Mortimer. Whenever she mentioned the man there would be a very special note in her voice. What was it? Respect? Admiration? Affection? Well perhaps Mortimer had stood by her when she most needed friends.
‘Sir John will be lodged in an abbey belonging to the White Monks,’ said Mortimer. ‘His men will be close by in quarters allotted to them. It is well not to have them too close to our English troops.’
Edward looked puzzled.
‘There has been a certain amount of friction,’ explained the Queen. ‘The Flemings do certain things differently from the English and it seems that people are inclined to sneer at those who are not exactly like themselves. A strange trait of human nature ... but one commonly found I believe.’
‘How stupid,’ said Edward.
Mortimer smiled his slow rather patronizing smile. “Tis so, my lord, but so many things in life are.’
As though, thought the King, reminding me that I have much to learn.
‘Where is the banquet to take place?’
‘In the house of the Friars Minor,’ his mother told him. ‘It seemed suitable—both the Earl of March and I were of the opinion that it was the best place.’
The Earl of March! Roger de Mortimer. He was nothing but a Marcher Baron until he made his escape from the Tower—where he was being held a prisoner—and was joined by the Queen in France. Then they had gone to Hainault and found help there and come to England, as a result of which his father was a guest at Kenilworth Castle and he was a king.
‘Sir John has been invited?’ he asked coolly.
‘Yes,’ replied his mother. ‘And he is delighted.’
‘Perhaps it would have been proper for the invitation to have come from me.’
‘My lord,’ cried Mortimer with mock consternation, ‘but of course it was given in your
name.’
‘Without my knowledge! ‘
‘Such a trivial matter seemed far beneath the notice of the King, my lord.’
Mortimer was smiling that rather sly smile. His mother laid a hand on his arm. ‘You have no objection to this banquet, Edward?’ she asked anxiously.
‘Oh no, no. It is merely that ...’
He looked from one to the other. They managed to assume expressions of concern. He was unsure. Oh how he wished he were not fourteen years old. He had the feeling though that Mortimer was laughing at him.
He said quietly: ‘I shall be glad to welcome Sir John and his men to the House of the Friars Minor.’
* * *
There was a certain tension in the hall of the House of Friars Minor. In the centre of the table on the dais sat the King and on one side of him was Sir John, on the other his mother. Beside his mother was Roger de Mortimer and men of rank made up the rest of the table.
From the tables in the main body of the hall it soon became obvious that the men of Hainault did not mix with the English. It was almost as though two enemies had met for a banquet rather than two allies, for it was impossible not to be aware of the contemptuous looks they bestowed on each other and Edward heard a few insults flung from one side of the hall to the other.
The Queen did not appear to notice. She was chatting amiably with Mortimer, but Sir John was alert.
He whispered to the King that his men were getting restive. They had been away from home too long.
‘After this campaign,’ he added, ‘they must be disbanded. They need to go home to their families.’
‘We should not be long in Scotland,’ said Edward. ‘They say Robert the Bruce is a sick man.’
‘A sick man,’ agreed Sir John, and added: ‘but a shrewd one. Let us not delude ourselves into thinking this will be an easy victory.’
‘I am determined to win back all that my grandfather won.’
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