The point where she allowed herself to go completely astray was, of course, in the murder of her husband. She undoubtedly was consulted in the decision and did nothing to protect the unfortunate Edward from his fate. It may have been, as history has unhesitatingly believed, that she and Mortimer hatched the plot against him. Aside from the fact that Mortimer did not hesitate to assume the direction of the foul deed, there is nothing to prove how the decision was reached. It must be borne in mind, moreover, that a rule of statecraft had persisted down the ages which taught that deposed kings were always a menace to the peace of the realm. It would continue to be recognized in later ages; and on several occasions, in the cases of Richard II, Henry VI, and the two princes in the Tower, the hand of assassins would be employed to rid the state of the threat they posed. The point is raised to indicate that Isabella and Mortimer were undoubtedly not the only ones in posts of authority who favored the elimination of Edward.
The queen acted throughout with an indifference which is hard to believe. If she had governed herself according to an obvious machiavellian rule she would have been careful to disassociate herself completely from the murder of her husband and then she would have cried aloud for the punishment of the perpetrators. From what is known of her character, she would have done this if her hands had not been tied. Mortimer, that blind and willful upstart, had plotted the death with a carelessness which seems to indicate that he considered himself beyond reach of reprisal or even criticism. He openly planted his confederates about the unhappy ex-king—Maltravers, Gurney, and the man Ogle, the latter an unknown but obviously a killer, perhaps from the dregs of London. There was never any doubt in the minds of the people of England that he had conceived and executed the crime. How did this affect the queen?
If she had been completely her father’s daughter in this crisis, she would not have hesitated about throwing Mortimer to the wolves, to use a modern phrase. There could be no doubt whatever of his guilt. The countercharges and recriminations he might have indulged in would not have penetrated beyond the walls of his cell. If his ultimate visit to the Elms of Tyburn had been anticipated by three years, Isabella could have succeeded in washing her hands of any stain. The public, suspicious at first, could have been led in time to condone the favors she had showered on the greedy Marcher baron and to accept him as the sole villain of the piece.
But Isabella the woman was infatuated with her gentle Mortimer. She did not raise her voice after the assassination, either in grief or condemnation. Her questioning of the woman who embalmed the body of Edward may not have been prompted by a desire to get at the truth so much as by a morbid interest in the grisly details. She kept Mortimer at her right hand and took only the most elementary precautions to hide the fact that he was not a stranger to her bed. It was Isabella the woman who held the reins from that time on.
As has been stated earlier, Edward, the son, could not have been unaware of what was happening about him, but he kept himself carefully aloof in every way. He did not even adopt the pose of a Hamlet whose hands were tied. This need not be accepted as a criticism of the young king. His hands were tied and he was in no position at first to oppose the imperious will of his mother. He could not have protected his father from physical harm without being completely in control of the administration of justice. That he did not come forward to demand justice for the murderers of his father, no matter where the chips of guilt might fall, was so entirely contrary to the firm character he displayed later as king that only one explanation can be accepted. He stayed his hand to protect his mother, fearing that complicity on her part would be revealed by a searching investigation. He was in a position of unenviable difficulty.
But it goes deeper than that. Young Edward had need of his mother to achieve what had become even at that early stage the great and compelling ambition of his life. They were working together toward an aim which would have made Edward the greatest king of the Middle Ages and would at the same time have placed Isabella higher in historical perspective than the woman she strove to emulate, Blanche of Castile. The throne of France was the prize they hoped to win.
The claim that Edward would soon thereafter make to the throne of France was based on the fact that all three sons of Philip the Fair had succeeded each other as king and had died without legal issue. Isabella was the sole surviving child of Philip, and it seemed to both mother and son that his case had a validity above all other claimants.
Young Edward knew that there would be a great reluctance on the part of the French people to accepting an Englishman as their king, particularly as it would mean the union of the two crowns. That reluctance would be heightened if Isabella’s reputation became tarnished in the meantime. They would hesitate to accept the son of a loose woman, even though she had been a daughter of France, the mistress of the man who had connived with her in the murder of her husband. Edward needed the glamorous Isabella of the past, the ill-treated daughter of Philip who was still remembered as beautiful, captivating, and brave. Edward’s skill in diplomacy would be one of his strongest assets during his long years as king, and it can be taken for granted that even at this early age he took a realistic view of his position as a claimant to the French throne.
2
While the French dynasty, known as the house of Capet, withered and died on the vine, the whole world began to ask a question: Had the curse pronounced by the Templar Grand Master as he perished in the flames been directed at the family as a whole? Certainly some malignant fate seemed to be pursuing them.
Philip the Fair left four children: Louis, born 1289; Isabella, born 1292; Philip, born 1294; and Charles, born 1294. A healthy and handsome family.
He was succeeded by his oldest son, Louis, called Le Hutin, or the Quarreler. He came to the throne a healthy man of twenty-five and died in two years. His second wife, Clemence (he had quarreled with his first and put her in prison), was with child when the spectral arm of the old Templar beckoned to him. A son was born named John and died in four days. It was believed by many that the second brother, Philip, who was acting as regent, had substituted a dead baby for the real one. Many years later a pretender turned up who claimed to be the real John but did not convince anyone.
Philip V, called the Tall, was a poet and surrounded himself by minstrels and students. He dodged his fate for six years and then died without issue, aged twenty-eight.
Charles IV, called the Fair, reigned another six years and managed to get himself married three times in that period. By leaving daughters only, he became the last of the Capetian line.
Was it any wonder that Isabella and her son watched with mounting interest as the royal brothers died in such rapid succession? When Charles the Fair gave up the struggle against fate, the path seemed to have been cleared. Who had a better right to the throne than Isabella or, if the French persisted in their refusal to allow women on the throne, her son Edward? There was, of course, a document of doubtful application (according to English jurists, at least) called the Salic Law which had been invoked on several occasions to exclude women from the succession. It was a survival from the laws of the Salian Franks and was, in reality, a penal code. Its value consisted of one chapter dealing with private property, in which it was declared that daughters could not inherit land.
Edward was prepared to claim that, even if daughters were excluded from reigning because of this ban on owning property, the prohibition could not be extended to their sons when all other claimants were farther removed in consanguinity. His first step in presenting his claim was to write vigorously to Pope John XXII. He acknowledged that his mother had no right to the throne as “the kingdom of France was too great for a woman to hold by reason of the imbecility of her sex.” But he claimed that he was the nearest male in blood to the deceased king, being related in the second degree of consanguinity. Philip of Valois, a nephew of Philip the Fair, who was his only serious rival, was related in the third degree. Pope John, who had been so helpful in the matter of Edward’s marriage, does no
t seem to have done anything about this claim. The issue was laid before the Twelve Barons of France, who decided in favor of Philip of Valois.
The new king promptly sent instructions to Edward to appear before him and swear fealty for the duchy of Guienne and his other holdings in France. No attention was paid to this, and a year later, 1330, a more peremptory summons was sent. Edward was following a rule, even at this early stage, of submitting his problems to Parliament. Accordingly he sought the advice of the next Parliament to meet and was advised to obey the summons. A secret admonition was added that his method of doing homage should not prejudice his claim to the French throne; a proof that the idea of combining the two crowns found general favor in England. On May 26 of that year the young king sailed from Dover, leaving his brother John of Eltham as guardian of the kingdom.
The tendency in some historical records to blame everything indiscriminately on Isabella is noticed in statements that she favored her son’s submission because it would be to the advantage of her cousin, Philip VI. This may be termed the third absurdity in dealing with the relations between mother and son. Philip of Valois had been a mere hobbledehoy when she left France to marry Edward II. It is not recorded that she saw anything of him during the time she lived in voluntary exile at the court of her brother Charles, and it is significant that the one member of the French royal family with whom she was on cordial terms was Robert of Artois. Philip VI is depicted as “hard and coarse” and was generally disliked. Why, then, would the queen work in his interests when her own were so clearly bound up in the claims of her son? She believed Edward should obey the summons, but for the same reason as Parliament, the fear that otherwise that hard and coarse king would confiscate all the French possessions.
3
The young king had been carefully coached. He came to Amiens Cathedral, where the act of homage was to be performed, and found that Philip of France had gathered a brilliant company to observe the ceremony, including the kings of Navarre, Bohemia, and Majorca. The choir of the cathedral, in fact, was filled with the nobility of France. The appearance of the young king was the cause of an immediate hush. Some of the spectators had seen him when he was at the court of France with his mother, but they were not prepared for the tall and handsome man who stalked proudly down the aisle. It has already been stated that Edward had an ostentatious side to him and that all his life he was fond of show. This was one occasion when he took every means to appear at his best.
He wore his crown on his head and his sword at his side, and he was garbed in a long robe of the finest crimson velvet, with the leopards of England emblazoned on it in gold. There were gold spurs on his heels. The French king had thought to array himself in what seemed regal state, with his crown and scepter and a robe of blue velvet, but he looked as dark and plain as a native warbler compared to the bird-of-paradise splendor of the young Plantagenet.
The English king proceeded to give his own version of the oath of homage. Reaching his place in front of the throne in the choir where Philip sat, he inclined his body in a bow instead of going down on one knee as was the custom.
“Philip, King of France,” he declared in loud and clear tones, “I, Edward, by the grace of God King of England, lord of Ireland, and Duke of Aquitaine, do hereby become thy man, to hold the duchy of Guienne as duke thereof, and the earldom of Ponthieu and Montreuil as my predecessors did homage for the said duchy and earldom to thy predecessors.”
Philip had difficulty in suppressing his surprise and dissatisfaction. He whispered to his chancellor, the Vicomte de Melun, to inform the English king that this would not suffice.
“Let my liege man know,” he said, “that the only proper manner in which to approach me is to put off the crown and ungird the sword. He must do homage bareheaded and on his knees. His hands must be placed between mine and he must swear fealty to me as his sovereign lord.”
Edward’s instructions had been precise and clear. He must not acknowledge Philip as his sovereign lord nor place his hands between those of the French monarch. He protested now that he owed simple homage only and not liege homage. On his return to England he would consult the archives and find to what extent his ancestors had bound themselves for their French possessions.
“Cousin,” said Philip, “we would not deceive you and what you have now done contenteth us well until you have returned to your own country and seen from the acts of your predecessors what you ought to do.”
“Grammercy, Sir King,” answered Edward.
The oath was then administered and he responded, “Voire” (So be it).
Two years later letters were sent to the French king in which Edward declared that “the homage which he did at Amiens to the King of France in general terms is and must be understood as liege.” Thus was the point between them resolved.
CHAPTER III
The Cloak of Iniquity
1
THE nation was slow to wrath where Isabella and Mortimer were concerned, but in time the cloak of their iniquity was torn from them. When Mortimer came with an armed retinue to the Parliament at Salisbury on October 24, 1328, and began to display all the airs of a dictator, the Earl of Lancaster refused to attend. He stayed at Winchester with a small force and was joined there by the two royal uncles and many other national leaders. Mortimer demanded an immediate adjournment of Parliament to allow him time to punish the absent barons. He then ravaged the lands of Lancaster, an operation in which the young king joined. The opposition barons met at London and formed an alliance to offer armed resistance to the pretentious favorite.
Mortimer, who seems to have had all the instincts of a modern gangster, decided to strike back boldly, selecting as his victim the mildest of the royal uncles, Edmund of Kent. Ever since the death of Edward II there had been strange rumors circulating in England to the effect that the deposed king had escaped and was still alive. Mortimer used this story to draw the unfortunate Edmund into a trap.
The story current at the time was, briefly, that Edward II had been able to escape from Berkeley through the kindness of the owner of the castle, Lord Berkeley, but that he was still in captivity. Before proceeding with the use made by Mortimer of this rumor, it will be interesting to explain that the story, backed by substantial evidence, came to light again in the nineteenth century. Documents were discovered which stated categorically that the escaped prisoner went first to Corfe Castle, then ventured over to Ireland, and finally reached the continent. He visited Pope John XXII at Avignon and was kindly received and kept as a guest for a fortnight. He then journeyed to Italy, where he remained the rest of his life. The only piece of contributory evidence is the report from Walwayn which was recovered from the records in recent years, as already explained, and which acknowledged that Edward’s release had been effected but that he had been recaptured.
An article appeared in the Fortnightly Review of December 1, 1913, by Ethel Harter which described evidence she had found on a visit to Acqui in Italy. The castle of Melazzo stands on a hilltop within a short distance of Acqui, and in the entrance hall are two marble tablets on facing walls. The first tablet (translated from the Latin) states that
Edward II Plantagenet, King of England, deposed from his throne by act of Parliament in MCCCXVII and imprisoned in Berkeley Castle, fled providentially from the knives of the assassins Sir Thomas de Gorney and Simon de Ebersford [clearly Sir Simon de Beresford, Mortimer’s friend], hired by his inhuman wife Queen Isabel of France, was afterwards hospitably received in Avignon by Pope John XXII and after many adventurous wanderings remained concealed for two years and a half in this Castle of Melazzo which then belonged to the diocese of Milan.
The second tablet is of later date and contains an explanation of a document discovered in 1877 by the French historian Alexandre Germain in a chartulary among the episcopal archives at Magueloni (which do not carry beyond the year 1368) and which he published in a brochure in 1878. This document purports to be a copy of a letter written by Manuele de Fiesco (or Fiesch
i) in 1337 to Edward III.
In the name of God. Amen. I have written here with my own hand what I heard in confession from your father and have taken care to make it known to your Lordship. First of all, your father said that finding England raised against him at the instigation of your mother, he fled from his family and repaired to the castle on the sea belonging to the Grand Marshal, the earl of Norfolk, called Chepstow; later, becoming alarmed, he embarked with Hugh le Despenser, with the earl of Arundel and some others and landed at Glamorgan, where he was made a prisoner by Henry of Lancaster, together with the said Hugh and Master Robert de Baldock. He was then shut up in Kenilworth Castle and his followers were bestowed in other places … Finally he was removed to Berkeley. There, the servant in whose custody he was, after a time said to your father: “Sir, the officers … Gourney and … Ebersford are come to kill you. If it please you I will give you my clothing that you may more easily escape.” So, at nightfall, thus disguised, your father came out of his prison and arrived without hindrance and without recognition at the outer door, where he found the porter asleep, and killing him took his keys, opened the door and went forth with the custodian.
The officers who had come to kill him, becoming aware of his flight and fearing the Queen’s anger, and for their own lives, took counsel together and placed the dead body of the porter in a coffin and after extracting the heart, presented it cunningly, together with the corpse, to the Queen as if it had been your father’s body. Thus the porter was buried instead of the King at Gloucester. When he left the prison your father and his companion were received at Corfe Castle by the Governor, Sir Thomas, without the knowledge of his superior, Sir John Maltravers, where he remained concealed for one and a half years. Hearing at length, that the earl of Kent had been beheaded for having asserted that King Edward II was still alive, your father and his companion, by the desire and advice of the aforementioned Thomas, embarked on a ship for Ireland where he remained for nine months. But fearing recognition there, he assumed the dress of a hermit and returned to England, landed at Sandwich, and still disguised, went by sea to Sluys. Thence he went to Normandy and from there through Languedoc to Avignon, where after giving a florin to one of the Pope’s servants, he managed to send a note to John XXII who summoned him and entertained him secretly and honorably for over fifteen days. Finally, after considering many projects he took his leave and went to Paris and thence to Brabant and on to Cologne to do homage at the Tomb of the Three Kings; then from Cologne through Germany, he passed on to Milan through Lombardy, and from Milan he went into retreat in a certain Hermitage in the Castle of Melazzo … where he remained for two and a half years. Then, as war broke out and reached that Castle, he removed to the Castle of Cecima another Hermitage in the diocese of Pavia in Lombardy, where he remained for another two years in strict seclusion, living a life of penitence and praying to God for us and other sinners.
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