Harlot Queen

by Hilda Lewis

  ‘For us both. All Christendom loves a brave man and pities a wronged woman!’ As always he put himself first.

  A national rising.

  Within Bristol castle the King and the younger Hugh sat and trembled.

  ‘Have no fear,’ the King said, talking above his own fear to comfort his friend, ‘your father and Arundel command the city. It is well-garrisoned and there’s food and firing aplenty! Your father will know how to deal with this Queen and her traitors!’

  The elder Despenser had no chance to deal with the traitors—they outnumbered him ten to one; it was they that dealt with him. Bristol was for the Queen. Without a blow the city surrendered; the city but not the castle.

  On the twenty-seventh of October in the year of grace thirteen hundred and twenty-six, Edward, Prince of Wales, unwilling and distressed, was proclaimed Keeper of the Realm.

  ‘And that means you, dear love; you and me!’ the Queen told Mortimer. ‘Now, now we are on our way!’

  ‘But not yet arrived. We have still to deal with the King.’

  She shrugged at that. ‘We’ll send him to some far place where he can make no mischief.’

  ‘He will always make mischief so long as he lives!’

  ‘Then we must see to it that he cannot!’

  He sent her a sharp glance. Did she mean…?

  ‘Keep him fast!’ she said. ‘Some pleasant place, castle or monastery, I care not which, so long as it be far enough, secure enough!’

  She had not meant the thing he saw clearly must be done! Her mind did not march with his in this matter; not yet. She must come to it; of that he was certain.

  That same day the older Despenser was brought before the Queen; Lancaster, Mortimer and the King’s two brothers—these and these alone, stood by to pronounce sentence. Without trial nor any pretence of one, he was sentenced to death. It was Lancaster that spoke for them all; Henry of Lancaster speaking each word with satisfaction. At last, at last, revenge for the smear upon his name and his brother’s dishonoured death.

  ‘Sir Hugh—’ and he would grant no greater title, ‘this court denies you the right of answer; for you, yourself, made a law that a man could be condemned without right of answer. This law now applies to you.

  ‘You are an attainted traitor; and, as a traitor, you were judged and banished by consent of the King and all the barons. And never has that sentence been revoked. Against the law of the land you have taken to yourself royal power. You have counselled the King to disinherit his lieges, most notably Thomas of Lancaster whom you put to death for no cause. By your cruelty you have robbed this land, wherefore all the people cry vengeance against you. You have advised the King to the hurt of Holy Church and treacherously taken from her liberties.

  ‘Therefore the court decrees that you be drawn, hanged and beheaded. And that your head be sent to Winchester of which place—against law and reason—you were made earl. And because you have dishonoured the order of chivalry, you are to be hanged in a surtout quartered with your arms and thereafter those arms shall be destroyed for ever.’ Ignoble in his living, he was yet noble in his dying.

  ‘Madam—’ he said and he ignored Lancaster, ‘would that God had granted me an upright judge and a just sentence. Well, if we cannot find justice in this world, we shall find it in the next.’

  ‘Such justice would chain you forever in Hell.’ she said.

  So they took him away and, in full armour hanged him and thereupon cut him down that he might suffer the full rigours of the bitter sentence. And that it might be the more bitter, they hanged him in full sight of the King and his own son.

  ‘They should have shown more courtesy,’ the King said, hand across his eyes that he might not see. ‘An old man… nigh upon ninety years. They might, at least, have let him say Goodbye to us that loved him.’

  The Hugh that was left turned his sick face. ‘That woman… no mercy in her. A she-wolf. and leads the pack…’

  There was a long silence. Then the King said, ‘I had not dreamed it would come to this! I had thought, at worst, to parley with them, to come to terms.’ The sight of his sick and shaking friend brought him sudden understanding of what those that had so barbarously used the father might do to the son. There was, as yet, no thought of what they might do to himself.

  ‘We must get from here!’ he cried out. ‘We came here of our own free will; we are not prisoners…’

  ‘… not yet!’ Hugh covered his face with his hands and wept.

  ‘Not now; nor ever. God be thanked I have a boat. We make for Chepstow and Wales. The Welsh will shelter us, the Welsh will fight for us. I am Edward of Carnarvon, their own prince!’

  ‘Why should they help you? What love have you ever shown them? No! There’s no help but in ourselves. We must make for Lundy, my own island and my own castle.’

  ‘Yes, yes! And thence to Ireland. Ireland and safety. We are King of Ireland; in Ireland we shall gather our forces! By God’s Face the woman shall pay for this!’

  ‘Do you think the Irish will welcome you? Or that they will cross the sea to fight for you? Or that England will receive you again? By God you have built your house upon shifting sand!’

  But still the King looked lovingly upon his friend and bade him be of good cheer. For he was still King of England and Ireland and Wales, yes and Scotland, also. It would go hard, indeed, if he could not muster enough loyal hearts to put the traitors down!

  ‘It will go hard, indeed!’ Despenser said and would not be comforted.

  They had left the castle and embarked—the King, his sweetheart, Baldock the chancellor and Sir Thomas Blount the King’s steward.

  ‘Throw Blount overboard,’ Despenser spoke low in the King’s ear. ‘I do not trust him.’

  ‘You are jealous—and no cause!’ The King took his friend by the hand. Despenser pulled it away. This fool of a King that lived in his own dream world! Did he suppose so poor a thing as jealousy—or so low a thing as Blount—would trouble a man flying for his life?

  A small boat upon a wide sea; but the water was calm and the wind favouring. God has us in charge, the King said and watched the outline of Lundy grow darker. Despenser said nothing. He knew his channel and its sudden changes of wind.

  They were so near Lundy now, a man could count the men-at-arms upon the turrets. A few hundred yards from shore the boat began to turn; nor could all their efforts bring her round again. They took in the sails, they bent to the oars, the King himself taking a hand. The wind blew yet more strong. Between island and boat the water forever broadened: the clear outline dimmed. Now came the rain. Lundy island was lost… forever lost.

  The rain stopped. The sun shone from a clear sky. But the wind drove them still. Now the coastline shone clear. They saw the mountains of Wales.

  ‘God knows best. And still He has us in charge!’ the King said.

  Men on the run. Hiding breast-high in wet bracken by day, travelling footsore by night.

  Day after day; night after night.

  Full fifteen days running before the hunters. By the second week in November they were in Neath Abbey, thankful to shelter from the driving rain. Here the monks made them welcome; here they might rest. This was sanctuary.

  It was not until supper that they found Blount missing.

  ‘He will come,’ the King said, cheering the troubled Hugh. ‘I blame myself that we did not miss him before. He could not keep up with us I suppose; he has more flesh to carry than the rest of us. Still he will surely come; he knows where we’re to be found.’

  One day and the next; three and four days… and still Blount did not come.

  ‘Still he will come!’ the King said.

  And come he did. And Lancaster with him.

  The King was walking in the garden with Despenser. Out of sanctuary, both!

  ‘You are my prisoner,’ Lancaster told Despenser. ‘You are for Gloucester!’

  For Gloucester and the Queen. Despenser’s doom had been spoken.

  And now it
was the parting between those two. The King threw his arms about his friend as though to protect him still; but the soldiers pulled them apart and closed in about the prisoner. The King stood and watched them go; he shivered so that the teeth rattled in his head… and it was not the chill of the November morning; it was the shock of parting with his heart’s love. He stood until his eyes could see them no longer; then he turned about weeping for his friend. What would they do to Hugh? For himself he had no fears. He was the King.

  Lancaster broke in upon his weeping. ‘Sir, we are for Kenilworth. It is for your safety. You shall be my guest.’

  Through Monmouth, through Ledworth to Kenilworth rode the King. Fresh-clad, well-horsed, Lancaster attentive by his side, he might, indeed, have been an honoured guest… save that he rode under guard. And, as they went, he might have seen for himself that it was not London, alone, that had turned against him; for through every town and village he rode in silence, silence broken now and then by hisses and foul words. But he noticed nothing; he was in bitter grief for his friend.

  Kenilworth at last, where Lancaster saw to it that his charge was comfortably lodged and courteously served. But though he allowed the King all bodily comfort, Lancaster granted him no peace of mind; for he spared the King no detail of Despenser’s last, dreadful journey.

  Despenser had been taken to Gloucester, to join the Queen’s train. They had chained him hand and foot; and strapped him upon a sorry nag so low that the man’s legs scraped the ground.

  So they did with Piers. It all came back to the King clear as yesterday. He remembered the end of Piers. To that Hugh should never come; weeping, he swore it.

  To taunt Despenser still further they had put upon him a tabard emblazoned with the arms of Gloucester—reversed; a taunt upon his hope of that earldom, he that had no blood of the Clares. And to jeers, foul words and filthy missiles, he that had sat so high went upon his last journey.

  That this could be the last journey the King, deceiving himself as was his way, would not admit. ‘When I am in London,’ he told Lancaster, ‘I shall set him high again!’

  ‘We shall set him higher still!’ Lancaster promised. And even now it did not occur to the King that he, himself, stood in some danger.

  Trumpet and drum and banners flying, the Queen left for London. Before her, alone, as though he were a leper, rode the prisoner—first object of all eyes; before Mortimer, before the Queen, before her even. Eyes closed against the hatred of the mob, its hatred yet reached him; his ears he could not close to their screams of fury, of derision. He heard, too, as he passed, cheers for Mortimer and blessings upon the Queen that together had rid the country of his father and himself.

  Day after day the dreadful journey. Mercifully a man may endure so much—and no more. As they neared Hereford, though still the crowds cried their insults, pelting him with filth, the prisoner knew nothing. He lay slumped across the nag and would have fallen save for the straps that held him. Since he had been taken he had eaten nothing; now he let the nag carry him and did not stir from his dreaming. When it rained he did not know it; nor that his bare feet—his shoes cut to pieces dragging upon the road—bled. Outside noises filtered through his dreaming… He was riding with the King; the crowd must cheer whether it would or no.

  He was all but senseless when at Hereford they took him down and thrust him into a cell.

  ‘He will die before we reach London,’ Mortimer told the Queen. ‘If we are to taste the full sweetness of his death we must hang him at once!’

  She hesitated. She was a woman and there was mercy in her. The man was suffering most bitter punishment. If he died beneath it—though he died senseless—she was satisfied. She had no further desire for revenge. She said, ‘He is beneath contempt.’ And since Mortimer was a soldier and within his rights, added, ‘Do with him what you will!’

  On the twenty-fourth day of November, Hugh Despenser stood before his judges that already had judged him. Some wag had crowned him with nettle that stung whenever he moved his head. But so dimmed he was with fear, with fatigue and with hunger, he felt no pain nor understood much of what they said to him. The long list of his crimes flowed over his all but senseless head.

  ‘We’ll bring him to his senses soon enough!’ Mortimer promised. Isabella’s eyelids flickered. Revenge might be sweet; but of revenge she had had enough. She looked with distaste upon the poor broken thing that had been Hugh Despenser; she was weary of the whole affair.

  ‘The sentence is just,’ Mortimer reminded her. ‘And you must be present to see it carried out.’

  She wanted to cry out No! This death the man deserved; but from the sight of so hideous a dying she should be protected. But, let her falter now and she lost Mortimer’s respect; and with it his love for ever.

  She nodded.

  The gallows, forty feet high and the greatest ever seen, stood waiting. Naked the prisoner was led forth; and still he moved as in a dream. But soon—as Mortimer had promised—he was brought back to his senses. The traitor’s death was enlivened by little tricks of Mortimer’s devising. Despenser had been the King’s lover; now his member was torn from him. The air was rent with his screaming.

  ‘Now he comes to his senses!’ Mortimer said. Isabella sent him a sidelong look; he was clearly well-satisfied. She bit upon her lip to thrust down the sickness. She held it back while the screams came fainter and then died. She was thankful the man was dead before the disembowelling; thankful for her own sake rather than for his.

  She held back her sickness until she reached her closet; and there the vomit burst forth. She drew the bolt upon the door and sponged her hands and face; her women must not see a chicken-hearted Queen.

  She was herself when she faced Mortimer again. She was more than herself. She had not shirked one moment of that hideous dying; she was stronger now than ever before… stronger and more woman. And so Mortimer found her when he came to her that night. A new lust stirred in her blood.

  XXXIII

  The King wept for his love and would not be comforted. As always his grief flowed into words. ‘She shall pay for it! By God’s Face she shall pay! A woman present at his death—and such a dying! From such a dying God preserve all good men.’ He crossed himself. ‘A woman? No woman but a wolf——he said that, Hugh. And he said right. Wolf she is and those that trust in her shall rue it. She… she…’

  The words died in his throat. He stood there, his body shaken with long shuddering sighs, his face purple with the congestion of blood. Lancaster thought he would take a fit—and could not but wish that he would. Better the King fall senseless never knowing the thing they purposed against him.

  ‘She… she…’ The hot wrath of the Plantagenets burst through, drying his tears. ‘By God I’ll make an end of her! If I have no knife I’ll tear her with my teeth!’

  ‘Sir, leave such talk. Should it reach the ears of Madam the Queen, it could do you no good!’

  ‘Good? What good from her, she-wolf that she is! And what evil can she do me now? She has murdered my only friends. Hugh was a father to me—more loving than my own father, that man of stone. And his son was a brother to me—truer than my own false brothers. He was both brother and son; a better son than my eldest that stands with his mother to betray me! Now I am alone, alone. Well—’ and in his grief he screamed aloud, ‘what more evil can she do me, what?’

  It was clear he had no notion of the evil intended—the taking of his crown.

  ‘Comfort yourself, sir,’ Lancaster said. He had come to some unwilling pity; the man was, after all, his cousin and his King. He treated the King with kindness, allowing him every freedom he might. Though guards were posted on wall and gate the King might walk in the gardens at his will; he dined with his host and, when the royal mood allowed, they played chess together. A pleasant enough prison… but still it was prison; it was prison.

  Feverishly the King waited for news; but for him it was always bad. Those that had followed their King had come, all of them, to a trait
or’s death.

  ‘They stood by their allegiance; to follow his King is a man’s bounden duty!’ the King cried out. ‘And yet they died as traitors—and no trial; no word allowed in their defence. It is against the law!’

  ‘It is the law; the Despensers made it!’ Lancaster said and thought of his brother.

  It is against the law. It was not the King alone that cried out upon these executions; everywhere men were saying the same thing. Those that loved the Queen said, It is Mortimer! Mortimer rules the armies and gives his orders—Mortimer and not the Queen! And those that feared lest the future be worse than the past said, Shall King Mortimer reign over us? And shall he be more merciful than the Despensers? Have we exchanged a hard yoke for a harder?

  Shut within Kenilworth the King had time to think. The whole country, it seemed, hated him. Why? What had he done? Lancaster told him.

  ‘Cousin, it was your friends. You did not protect us from the Despensers, their cruelty, their greed; you did not see to it that the people, high or low, had simple justice. Why should they love you?’

  ‘But hate. Such hatred! They murdered my good Stapledon for no reason but that he was my friend. And for that London shall suffer, the whole city. I’ll forgive them, never!’

  And he doesn’t understand, Lancaster thought half-pitying, half-angered, that London wants no forgiveness from the King, nor any truck with him. Finished. Finished with him for ever!

  The slow months went by. Autumn was golden in the land. The leaves fell and cold winds blew. Soon it would be winter.

  Anger against Mortimer was growing; his arrogance, his harshness, his greed a continual exacerbation. He openly played King, yes, even in the Queen’s bed. Opinion in that matter was changing also; he befouled her name. Even in London some remembered with regret the imprisoned King. In himself he had been well enough—an easy good-natured fellow for the most part; a kind way with simple folk. The Despensers dead, he might, with good counsel, yet do well. Surely he had learned his bitter lesson.