Harlot Queen

by Hilda Lewis

  No-one quicker than Isabella to catch the slightest changing of the wind.

  ‘The King must not be allowed to make his peace with London!’ she told Mortimer. ‘Be very sure his first condition would be your death!’ She closed her eyes against the thought of that beloved head rotting upon London Bridge. ‘We must summon Parliament at once. It must depose him—the useless King, and put my son in his place!’

  Walter Reynolds, primate of England and tool to whatever man sat in power, had already given the matter some thought.

  ‘Madam, without the King’s assent you can do nothing. So long as he lives he is still King; and, unless he give his consent, cannot be deposed. You must send to him, Madam, on behalf of the whole realm, to summon Parliament, and himself attend it. Of deposition—no word! Say merely that it is needful for him to discuss and dispose of… certain difficulties.’

  Let him ride the countryside! Let him show his handsome face in London. With the ever-growing anger against Mortimer who knew what might not happen? She was too clever to speak her fear; he too clever not to guess it.

  ‘Madam, he’ll not come,’ Reynolds told her. ‘I know him well! He’ll not come; but we must send: and those we send must speak for the whole country—barons and bishops and citizens from every shire.’

  The archbishop had prophesied truly. The King refused to summon Parliament—much less attend it. ‘I have no truck with traitors!’ he said.

  Back it came, the grand representative embassy. ‘The King is filled with that same evil purpose as in the past!’ they reported; and nipped the tender buds of affection beginning to unfold towards the King.

  The Queen smiled, and herself called Parliament. Early in the new year of grace thirteen hundred and twenty-seven Parliament met.

  Anger had turned once more against the King; anger more deep, more bitter and more lasting than before. He had refused to meet his Patliament, he had denounced the country’s embassy as traitors! Now every man that entered London, were it but for an hour, was made to swear upon holy relics to take his stand with the Queen.

  De Bettoyne, Mayor of London, put into high office by the Queen herself, petitioned barons, bishops and citizens throughout the land to beseech Parliament depose the King and set the Prince of Wales upon the throne.

  Things were moving… moving.

  January the thirteenth. The princes of church and state riding to Guildhall to hear my lord bishop of Winchester make public accusation against the King. The good bishop had been one of the embassy to Kenilworth and smarted still.

  The King’s offence lost nothing in the telling. Ugly the tale and cunningly he played upon his listeners. With one voice they swore to support the Queen and her son; to fight for them to the death. One by one they came forward to pledge their faith—bishops, barons and knights; judges, mayors, sheriffs and chief citizens. And, the news spreading, people came posting in from the country so that the swearing-in took three whole days.

  That first day, Orleton, striking while the iron was hot, preached against the King on Tower Hill to a congregation of humbler folk—a congregation larger than ever a church could hold. He took as his text, A foolish King shall ruin the people. Every foolishness, every weakness was held up to hatred; of any real kindliness, any real goodness—nothing! An eloquent preacher this Orleton, that knew well how to stir the people! And stir them he did so that they cried out in hatred Away with the King!

  The second day Winchester, also, preached on Tower Hill. He took as his text My head is sick. ‘When the head of a kingdom is sick beyond curing, then that head must be taken off!’ The crowd roared its delight.

  The third day of the swearing, my lord the primate of England preached in the great hall of Westminster; his audience consisted, for the first time, of all three estates—the church, the peers, and, represented by their members in Parliament, the commons. He took as his text Vox populi vox dei flattering them that the voice of the people was indeed the voice of God. ‘And now that voice has declared that the King must be put from the throne never to rule again. Therefore, in the name of the people, we, bishops, princes and commons do renounce our homage. And, in that same name, are agreed together that his first-born son shall wear the crown in his stead.’

  And with one voice the congregation roared its assent.

  They had reckoned without the boy—the Prince of Wales. He hated Mortimer, he did not wholly trust his mother… and he loved his father. The outcry against the Despensers he perfectly understood. But they were dead, they had paid for their sins. His father, he knew, was not a wise King nor even a wise man; but he was, for the most part, kindly; and, if he heeded his council could make a good enough King. Any way you looked at it he was a better person than Mortimer; and he was the King, the King crowned and sanctified.

  ‘I am not willing to step into my father’s shoes while he still wears them,’ he told his mother. ‘I am not old enough! The crown is too heavy; the throne too high… too hard.’

  She held herself in to patience. ‘The voice of the people is the voice of God; the archbishop has said it!’ she told him.

  He lifted his troubled face. ‘The voice of the people is the voice of wild beasts. I have heard it!’

  ‘Then it is wise not to offend them. Please them while they are willing to be pleased. The country is done with your father. Whatever you say, whatever you do, they’ll have no more of him. If you are not willing they’ll find another to step into his shoes.’

  She saw him start as though stung. Another to step into the King’s place, and that other not myself; not the Prince of Wales!

  She nodded. ‘And believe me, they’ll not have far to seek!’

  Someone… not far to seek! Can she mean Mortimer?

  She said nothing; but from her sly and secret smiling he thought that she did.

  He said, and he could scarce speak for anger and dismay, ‘Madam, you must give me time to think!’

  The more he thought about it, the less he liked it. He could see no way out. He could not thrust his father from the throne. Nor could he, by refusing, give up his own right to anyone on earth, not even to his brother. As for Mortimer—Mortimer that slept in the King’s bed—so long as there remained a son of the blood royal, the people would never accept him as King. And, if there were no such son, still they would not accept him—already they were likening him to the Despensers. Let his mother say what she would there was no question of King Mortimer. But suppose he himself went on refusing? Suppose they offered the crown to his young brother? Then Mortimer would be King in all but name; John would never stand up to him. No! Whenever their father gave up the crown—whether by death or his own act—then the Prince of Wales must step into his rightful place.

  But still he could not endure the thought of uncrowning a King—and that King his father.

  Isabella sent Orleton to him, the subtle bishop.

  ‘Sir,’ Orleton said, ‘be certain that the people will no longer endure your father as their King. And for him it would be better too. He would, believe it, be happy to put aside the cares of state; but happy, only, if he might put the crown into your hands, see his first-born son upon the throne. Kingship has taken overmuch of his leisure. He would be free to hunt, to sail his boats, to match his skills against others; free to choose whatever friends he please…’

  Orleton paused that the boy might reckon for himself his father’s lack of kingship, his father’s light pleasures.

  ‘If he were no longer King, freedom, leisure and respect would all be his. But only if you were King. But, if you are not King… if you are not King… it could be another story. Sir, I pray you consider the matter.’

  For the first time it came to him that they had his father entirely in their hands; that they might make him suffer more than he had suffered already. If he himself were King he would see to it that his father’s life was royal still. But, if he were not King? If he let them crown his brother?

  The thought of how his father might fare in Mo
rtimer’s hands sent him running to his mother’s closet.

  ‘Madam,’ he said, ‘if I must be King, so let it be! But I’ll not be led into this blindfold. If my father is willing I should have the crown, I’ll take it. But not otherwise. Before God, not otherwise!’

  ‘That is right and proper. Have you seen the articles of Deposition?’ And when he shook his head, not having heard of such articles and never believing it would come to that, she said smiling, ‘I think you should! Parliament wills that you should marry…’

  She saw him take in his breath.

  ‘Not Spain’s daughter,’ she said very smooth, reminding him that his father would have betrothed him against his will, ‘but to a daughter of—whom do you think? The count of Hainault—no less! There’s no mention of which daughter; it is not seemly that already you make your own choice. For here England marries Hainault, not Edward, Philippa. But for all that your choice stands.’

  And when for every surprise and joy he could not speak she said, ‘It is what I promised; I am one to keep my word, always.’ She dropped a light kiss upon his forehead and went softly away.

  Philippa. Philippa. Philippa. He found himself saying her name with a longing that brought him to the edge of tears.

  He stiffened himself. Not even to make her a Queen would he accept the crown against his father’s will; not though it meant losing her altogether. Nor would he agree to the littlest thing to his father’s hurt; nor would she wish it, neither.

  He cast his eye upon the document. It was very long; disturbed as he was he had not patience to read it through. His mother had marked the clause concerning his betrothal and upon that his eye lit and lingered… and we will that our lord the King shall wed a daughter of the count of Hainault…. It was enough; he would read the rest tomorrow.

  And so he missed the clause that followed… and because of the anguish she has suffered our lady the Queen shall continue to reign all her life.

  XXXIV

  In the comfort of Kenilworth and the courtesy of his host, Edward could not believe that his people were finished with him; not though he had heard of Parliament’s decision.

  ‘It is no Parliament. I did not call it. I do not recognise it.’

  ‘But the people recognise it. The whole country is set against you, cousin—’ and Lancaster no longer called him Sir. ‘Soon the embassy will be here to tell you so.’

  ‘I’ll not receive it. I sent the last one away with a flea in its ear.’

  ‘Had you received it with courtesy things might be better for you now. Now they will bring you a heavier message; and it will not be a request; it will be a demand!’

  ‘No demand can separate me from the crown. No man can take it from me. The sacrament was sealed into my flesh with holy oils. This embassy shall fare no better than the first, I promise you!’

  Wandering the winter walks of Kenilworth he thought that, after all, he would receive the embassy—and receive it with courtesy. He must, perhaps, bargain with them a little; accept a Council of their choosing if there was no other way—though God knew he’d had enough of their Ordainers!

  But what had they got against him? They said he lived a life of pleasure.

  Pleasure? What pleasure? Self-pitying—and not without cause—he took himself back over his life.

  Save for those two friends of his heart—a loveless life. For the boy the rod; for the young man humiliation upon humiliation. And always those he loved torn from him. From this place where now he lived, a prisoner, Thomas of Lancaster, liar and traitor, had dragged Piers out to die. An old story… but the heart, remembering, ached still.

  They blamed him for the loss of Scotland; Scotland that, for all his glory, his father had never won. Scotland was never lost because never won! They blamed him for extravagance. Extravagant—with what? His father had left the country bogged down with debt. Whatever he himself had spent upon his friends was nothing but a fleabite to what his father has squandered upon his useless wars.

  They blamed him for preferring men to women; well, who could blame him? Women were not to be trusted. Look at his wife—lustful, deceitful, cruel and wanton; and hard, hard with her ambition… through her Hugh had come to a cruel death.

  Well, what was done was done; no sense in weeping. He’d receive the embassy and come to terms. He’d call a fresh Parliament and choose a Council strong enough to keep it down. But first of all he’d deal with that bitch—the Queen!

  At the thought of her his mouth drew to a bitter line. Had a Queen’s head ever rotted upon the Bridge! If not hers should be the first!

  The embassy had reached Kenilworth. The King had worked himself into cheerfulness; he received them with courtesy. That these men making their humble salutations meant to take away his crown he could not believe. But when, at their request, he had withdrawn into his closet with my lord bishop of Winchester, no friend of his, and with Orleton of Hereford, still less a friend, he was forced to believe it.

  ‘Sir,’ Orleton said and minced no word, ‘the country will have no more of you. We are willing to put the lord Prince of Wales in your place. If you consent, so it shall be. But if you do not consent—we must choose some other.’

  ‘My lords,’ he told them, ‘I cannot think my son will take the throne without my goodwill.’

  ‘Sir, it is so. He asks your blessing; and you would be wise to give it. For, if the natural heir refuse, then our choice is wide. We may choose a King not of your house!’ He let that sink in. ‘The lord Prince John is very young; and why should we take a child when we can take a strong man? Yet the lord Prince of Wales promises well; with him we should be content. The choice is yours.’

  A strong man. Who but Mortimer? Courage fell from him like a rag.

  He had no choice; no choice. But, for all that, he could not force the bitter words upon his tongue. Dumb as an ox he nodded.

  Without further word the two bishops returned to the great hall to beckon Lancaster; and those three led the King back to face them all.

  There they stood—priests and nobles and common people. All, all inexorable, unpitying.

  It was the end. Even he knew it.

  He staggered and must have fallen save for the arms that upheld him. Tears pouring down his cheeks washed away the last remnants of his kingship. Voice strangled in his throat he spoke the words from which there was no going back.

  ‘For my many sins I am punished; therefore I beseech your pity in this my fall. My people hate me; and for that I must grieve. Yet I am glad my eldest son finds grace in your sight. I give thanks to God and to you, for choosing him to be King.’

  He was all-but swooning; and they carried him from the room.

  Next day, eyes sunk deep within an ashen face and all in black, the King met his lieges for the last time.

  It was Sir William Trussell that spoke the words to free England from its allegiance. He spoke them with pleasure; his life and lands had been declared forfeit for his part at Boroughbridge and he hated the King.

  ‘I, William Trussell, proctor of the earls, the barons and all these others, having full and sufficient power, do give back to you, Edward, once King of England, the homage and fealty of the people of this land. Hereafter they will account you as a private person without any manner of royal dignity.’

  And now Orleton, unpitying, presented the regalia they had brought with them; and with his own hands Edward of Carnarvon took the crown and the sceptre, took the orb and the spurs resplendent upon their cushion and placed them within those hands that had worked for his fall.

  Last step of all. Sir Thomas Blount, Steward of the King’s household, traitor that had betrayed his King in Wales, did the thing which is done only upon the death of a King. He broke his staff across.

  A King no more he let them lead him away.

  The new King’s peace had been proclaimed; the Council of Regency chosen.

  Isabella tapped with a jewelled finger upon the parchment.

  ‘The Council for my son’s
minority,’ she told Mortimer. ‘The names for me to refuse or accept as I choose. I can, it seems, do no wrong!’

  ‘Then we have them all—Council and people—fast in our hands!’

  ‘Only if we’re careful; only if we’re wise. For that reason I’ll take no place upon the Council!’

  He stared at that. Had she gone crazy to refuse herself place of power… the place of power; head of the Council, her right as Queen?

  She laughed in his face. ‘Oh Mortimer, Mortimer, consider! The country’s unsettled, restless. Some turning of the tide there’s bound to be—pity for a fallen King, blame for those that put him from the throne. Ebb and flow; it is the way of men! Let this Council prove never so wise, some offence it’s bound to give. If anger rises, when it rises let the Council take the blame; they, not us!’

  ‘Well enough for you! But what of me? A man must speak for himself!’

  ‘There’ll be plenty to speak for you—trust me for that! You’re a soldier; the best in England. Keep that image bright. But, state affairs! Let the Council bear all. In its shadow we two shall rule!’

  ‘It sounds well enough!’ And he was doubtful. ‘Before I agree let’s hear the names of our friends.’

  ‘There’s Orleton for one. I name him Treasurer—and a useful treasurer we two shall find him! His devotion to your house and especially to you has long been proved; and besides, he carries great weight. There’s Hotham of Ely—we’ll make him Chancellor; he’ll carry out our wishes, the good bishop…’

  She went through the list, adding or striking out as it seemed to them good.

  ‘I am content,’ he said at last. ‘Save for Lancaster. Him I do not trust!’

  ‘Nor I; but it makes no matter. With all our friends he’ll be outvoted; It is right and proper he should rule the Council; his kinship to the King and to me demands it. It will reassure the people. And when aught goes wrong, he’ll take the blame. The people’s patience is not eternal. It’ll not be long before Uncle Henry follow Uncle Thomas to a traitor’s death!’ Her lips lifted to a smile.