Harlot Queen

by Hilda Lewis

  Given at Westminster on the second day of December, in the year of grace thirteen hundred and twenty-five.

  Letters. Letters. Letters.

  Letters written in anger and in anger received. And all the time the French court abuzz; sly words and laughter behind hands. The Queen of England does her husband wrong; like any strumpet she’ll not leave her lover nor return to that honest good man her husband. So quickly does the weathercock of regard turn with every wind!

  The young Edward knew not what to do. His mother must not return to the anger of his father, to the hatred of the Despensers. But himself? His father had charged him to delay no longer. A son must obey his father, a prince his King; too long already he had disobeyed. But a son must protect his mother, a prince his Queen… and her enemies sought to make of him a hostage. He could not believe his father would use a son to injure his mother. But the Despensers might! He saw that very plain.

  The gossip had reached his ear at last and he knew not what to think. She is not to blame. It was his first thought; she was his mother and he loved her, his Queen, and he honoured her. True he had often found those two alone. and the air uneasy for his coming… He had seen for himself the man’s familiarity; but in his mother nothing save a gentle dignity. He did not blame her now, not even after last night, when, troubled by this last letter from his father, he had gone somewhat late to ask her advice. He had heard voices from within; and a fellow wearing the Mortimer livery had suggested, with deep respect, that the lord Prince wait until morning. It was late and Madam the Queen at her prayers. Did God then, answer in a man’s voice familiar with the ring of the west country? And why did Mortimer’s men guard the Queen’s door?

  He had pushed the fellow aside. He had found his mother rising from her knees; she was, he noticed, naked beneath her bedgown which was not usual this winter weather. She was flushed; she had not the look of a praying woman; and the bed had a tumbled look, as if rising to pray she had hastily smoothed the covers. He had felt himself an intruder; he had turned and gone without a word.

  Now, all day, he had been wondering whether the fellow at the door had not raised his voice in warning… there was an outer staircase behind her bedhead and there had, he remembered now, been a slight draught as though someone leaving hastily had left the door ajar.

  The voice, the tumbled bed, the draught of wind…

  He was taken with anger against his mother for so belittling her dignity as to receive the owner of that voice alone. He dared not listen to his own inner voice that whispered something worse of her; he was still very young. It was Mortimer that received the full measure of his hatred; Mortimer that cared so little for her good name that he gave scandal yet more to feed upon. Now she must be made to return at once, to give the lie to foul gossip. Once safe at home he would breathe no word about last night for fear of his father, for fear of the Despensers. No great harm had been done; when she was gone the talk would soon die. Yes, he would carry her at once to England where Mortimer could never come.

  XXIX

  Edward of England was angry. It was not the quick Plantagenet rage but a deep slow-burning anger that spoiled his sleep and ruined his pleasure. The year had moved to Spring; more than a twelve month since she had gone, this wife of his that thumbed her nose so that all Christendom laughed. He had no use for a wife, they said.

  ‘She stays in Paris enjoying her paramour and seeking to blind me with excuses!’ he told the younger Hugh. ‘That she fears you I don’t for a moment believe—she has no cause. She went into France to make peace and peace she has made. But if she doesn’t return and soon, that peace shall be broken; and it is we, we ourselves, that shall break it!’ He looked up at the young man, wondering how the Queen could pretend to fear so loving a creature; he missed, as always, the coldness of those eyes.

  ‘Sir,’ Hugh told him, ‘there’s news from France, There’s talk, that Madam the Queen—’ and he was careful to speak with respect, ‘is arranging a French marriage for the lord Prince of Wales.’

  He had the satisfaction of seeing the King leap from his chair.

  ‘I do not believe it. She knows that we negotiate a match with Spain! No, I cannot believe it, double-dealer though she be!’

  He set to pacing backwards and forwards.

  ‘She knows that matters are advanced for betrothal with Castile; that already we have asked the Pope’s dispensation. Can she be ready to offer this insult to Spain! Instead of the hand of friendship we shall have the hand of war!’

  Backwards and forwards driven by his anger.

  ‘Always she sets herself against me; against my friends, my advisers and my heart’s desires. Play me false in this! Never! I tell you, never! I charged my son upon my blessing, to enter into no marriage-contract without my consent…’

  He paused trying to calm himself. ‘I must write; I must write at once, put an end to her mischief before she does yet more harm. I must charge my son…’ He took his head in his hands. ‘I cannot think… I cannot think! Find me the words.’

  Despenser hid the smile. Every letter, temperate or angry, he had dictated to the King. He began now, in his clear high voice.

  Edward, fair son, remember well the charge we gave you not to contract marriage nor suffer it to be contracted for you without our knowledge and consent. Remember, also, at your departure from Dover you said it would be your pleasure to obey our commands, as far as you could, all your days. Fair son, if you have done this you have done well; if not, then you cannot avoid the wrath of God, the reproach of men and our own indignation. For no other thing you could do would cause greater injury and pain of heart to me…

  You seem to say you cannot return because of your mother. It causes me great uneasiness of heart that you are not allowed to do what is your natural duty, the neglect of which must lead to great mischief.

  Despenser’s voice came slow, and slower. So far the King had allowed no slur upon the Queen to be made to her son; might not this be the time? Voice gentle, he continued.

  You know how dearly she would have been loved and cherished if she had come timely according to her duty…

  Edward looked up and smiled; how well Hugh understood.

  Despenser took in his breath; he knew well how to play upon the King. Now was the time to accuse the Queen!

  We have knowledge of her evil doings to our sorrow. We know how she devises pretences for absenting herself from us, saying it is on account of our faithful Hugh…

  Yes, the King was writing it, every word, save that he had added dear to faithful.

  …our dear and faithful Hugh who has always so well and truly served us, while you…

  And now was the moment to test his power over the King, to make an end of the ridiculous courtesy towards this hateful, dangerous woman.

  … Fair son, you—and all the world with you—have seen how openly, notoriously, and knowing it to be contrary to her duty, and against the welfare of our crown, she has attracted to herself and retains in her company Mortimer, our traitor and mortal foe, proved, attainted and adjudged. And him she accompanies in the house and abroad…

  The King nodded, mournful; another man had stolen the thing that was his own. Want her he did not; need her he did. He needed her to ride by his side, be seen with him, seen by all at his side. He needed a Queen; and he needed this Queen, that the people so unaccountably loved. Remaining from him she lessened him in the eyes of his people. She did him great injury.

  Despenser’s voice drove him on.

  And worse than this she has done—if worse could be! She has allowed you to herd with our said enemy in the eyes of the world, thus doing very great dishonour to yourself and to us and to the crown itself.

  Despenser stopped. The King had allowed it, allowed the word herd with all it suggested. Now his voice came hard, deliberate.

  Therefore, sweet son, desist from a part which is so shameful and may be dangerous to you in many ways. We are not pleased with you. Your mother has written to us that,
if you wish to return she will not prevent it. Do not then delay to come to us. Our commands are for your good and honour. Come then at once without further evasion.

  And, when the King would have signed, Despenser added a further threat.

  Trespass not against our commands, for we hear much you have done that you should not…

  And now it was finished. And the King, having signed, Despenser added,

  Given at Lichfield the 18th day of March this year of grace 1326.

  Two other letters Despenser dictated—one to the Queen of England the other to the King of France.

  Isabella tossed her letter aside. Let her fool of a husband send her a hundred such she would not stir; it could not be expected, she told her son; she was in fear of her life! Young Edward was sullen and sad. He wanted desperately to please his father, his gentle good father. True his mother said he was free to go; how could he return—a hostage, she swore it, to bring her back to punishment; maybe to death itself? The truth in his father’s accusations he knew; it had grown upon him since that night he had gone to her chamber. And still she sought to blind him to her passion for Mortimer! He was ashamed of her; yet, for his own sake, he was relieved to have the decision taken out of his hands; fear of his father lay heavy upon him. We are not pleased with you. Fear for his mother, fear for himself inhibited him—he was not yet fourteen.

  Charles was weary of the incessant letters, weary of the constant complaints of husband and wife, weary of replying, weary of the sly laughter of his court and the shocked faces of the ambassadors. And to crown it all, his wife new-returned to court, disliked his sister.

  And now this last letter had settled the matter; a very proper letter reminding him that the Queen of England had been in France above a year and that her work there was finished. Besides, he recognised her bad behaviour. As long as it had gone unremarked he had been content to let it pass—himself was not so virtuous! Now he could let it pass no longer. He did not mean to embroil himself with his brother of England—a quarrel that might well go deeper than the question of homage. Still less did he mean to embroil himself with Spain; already her ambassadors were casting sour looks, were threatening to return home.

  Isabella must leave France at once; if not by her own will, then by force. He was the King.

  ‘Sir, brother!’ She lifted green—gold eyes aswim with tears. ‘By God’s Face I fear these Despensers—so besotted is my husband, so full of deceit are they! And, if I feared them before, now my fear is greater still. I have accused them of infamy; and for that they will murder me. Brother, if you send me to England now, you send me to my death!’

  He looked at her with distaste. She was the cause of all his embarrassments; her behaviour allowed no shadow of excuse.

  ‘Sir—’ and now she was kneeling, holding him ridiculously by the knees so that he dared not move for fear of stumbling, ‘Sir, give me a little time, I beseech you, for the love of God. The people of England love me. They know of my wrongs; the lies of my enemies do not deceive them. Nothing can injure the love they bear me.’

  ‘Then—’ and with care he withdrew from those clutching hands, ‘you have nothing to fear!’

  ‘Have I not, brother? When has the love of the people kept a man from his death?’

  ‘Then how shall time profit you?’

  ‘My lords the barons will intercede for me. They will see to it that the Despensers do me no wrong.’

  ‘So be it!’ and angry with himself he turned away. ‘But I’ll not give you long. We are in the third week of March; by the third week in April you must be gone!’

  She took his hand and covered it with kisses.

  A month; a little month! Still, with luck it would do! If not, she’d stay until it pleased her to go! My lords the barons will intercede for me. And so they would; but not in the way she had given her brother to understand. He knew nothing of the secret news forever passing between Orleton and herself; nothing of the ever-growing band of England’s rebellious princes. Finished their attempts to counsel the foolish King; ready, the most part of them, to march with the Queen, to take her for leader. Had he understood the half of it, he would, she knew, have put her under guard and despatched her home at once. King does not countenance treachery against King, especially treachery from a wife!

  ‘Good news from England and every day growing better! Orleton does his work well!’ Isabella told Mortimer. ‘My lord and husband—’ and, as always, she made of the words an insult, ‘steps every day into hotter water. The whole country’s aboil—and can you wonder? The army goes unpaid; soldiers savage town and country. Empty bellies make desperate deeds. And everywhere, the gallows thicker than ever before. You’d think, God save us, the country was an orchard heavy with foul harvest. The barons stand ready to fight for us, the bishops to bless us. If we muster a thousand men, they’ll do the rest.’

  ‘A thousand! There’s several hundred English here who’ve either fled justice or cannot stomach the Despensers. But—a thousand! They don’t grow on blackberry bushes!’

  She smiled. She knew well how to charm men to her cause. She was a woman beautiful and unfortunate. She was a Queen beautiful and unfortunate. And she had a shrewdness to weigh men and a honey-sweet tongue; she knew well how to promise each man the thing he most desired… when she should come into her own. She had drawn to her not only refugees that longed for home and soldiers of fortune that looked for reward but many a chivalrous young heart; and of these, the chief, Sir John of Hainault.

  ‘I think I know where to put my hand on fighting-men!’ she said.

  ‘You mean your young fool of Hainault?’

  ‘He and his friends are dying to die for me! But such things take time. Thank God for a month!’

  ‘News from England grows better and better!’ Isabella lifted a face of triumph from the letter before her. ‘My uncle Henry of Derby—Lancaster if he had his rights—has joined us. The foolish King withholds the best part of his inheritance. I promised him full rights if he would come in to us. And I promised him more. Thomas of Lancaster died a traitor’s death; I have sworn the word traitor shall be cut from the records. It was that, I think, finally won him. He’s a good man to have; honest and far from rash. People trust him; he’ll bring many in to our cause.’

  She went on reading.

  She lifted a face of triumph. ‘Orleton keeps best for last. This I have prayed for, longed for… and with little hope. The King’s brothers have joined us—Edmund and Thomas, both! By God’s Fade this strengthens us! We’ve but to set foot on English soil, to raise my standard—and we bring the King to heel!’

  ‘And if he’ll not lick the hand that holds the whip!’ He was sour lest, in such royal company, great Mortimer shine less bright.

  ‘He shall lick it. You will see!’

  ‘Very well for him! But what of me?’

  ‘You and I are one.’ And when he did not appear wholly satisfied, she said, ‘The Queen’s lover may well become her husband—and at no great distance of time. The King must make at least a show of fighting; and in that fighting who knows how or when death may come?’

  She had spoken idly to placate the man. For young, strong, and avoiding danger, how should the King die? And, besides, Mortimer was married! She had forgotten the thought almost before she had finished speaking. Not so he. The Queen’s lover may become her husband. Why not? His wife had been ailing lately; she was far from strong. And the King? Who knew how or when his death might not come? The Queen’s lover may become her husband. Until her husband was dead he was to know no peace.

  She had been commanded to leave by the third week in April; now it was May and she showed no sign of going. Charles was finding his position intolerable. It was not only the upbraiding of the injured husband, it was not only the reproaches of his own wife; now there were admonitions from the Pope himself to countenance her no longer. Yet short of force there seemed no way of getting rid of her.

  May passed into June. And still the King of E
ngland troubled his brother of France with bitter complaint, still Madam the Queen of France reproached her husband; but now the Pope’s admonition had become command. If Madam the Queen of England were not sent out of France at once, the King of France should find himself cut off from God and man. Excommunication.

  ‘Two weeks, two little weeks—it’s all we need!’ Isabella laughed. ‘So much time my brother will surely allow me. He’ll never turn me from his door!’

  ‘Will he not?’ Mortimer asked, grim. ‘Will he lose his soul’s salvation for you? How loving has he been of late? How long since you’ve as much as set eyes on him?’

  A knock fell upon the door. Sir John of Hainault came in and knelt before her; it was as though he knelt to the Madonna.

  ‘Madam, I bring you ill news. The lord King has made a proclamation. Whoever shall assist Madam the Queen of England, or speak a word on her behalf, shall forfeit all possessions and be forever banished!’

  She cried out at that, one hand at her heart. Mortimer laughed; his laugh was sour. ‘There’s no Frenchman will follow you now! All those protestations of love and service—you may kiss them Goodbye!’

  ‘My love and service still stands!’ Sir John said at once. ‘I am a Hainaulter, I have little here to lose. But were it a thousandfold, I am still, Madam, your loving and obedient servant.’

  She said no word; she bent forward and kissed him full on the mouth.

  ‘How long does my brother give me?’

  ‘A fortnight, Madam.’ He lifted his dazzled eyes; it was as though he had drunk from the grail.

  ‘Then all is well,’ she said.

  ‘Thank God my brother’s a fool!’ she cried out to Mortimer when the young man was gone. ‘There will go with us, if not the thousand we’d hoped, at least five hundred English. Certainly we shall return to England—but in a way the King of France doesn’t expect; no, nor the King of England, neither!’