Then the executioner, selecting a longer and broader knife, ripped the chest across and the stomach lengthwise, as he might have done a pig; the pincers found the heart, that had barely ceased to beat, tore it from its place and it, too, was thrown into the brazier. The busines rang out and then the herald declared that ‘Despenser had been a traitor and false in heart, and by his traitorous counsels had brought shame on the realm’.
The entrails were then removed from the stomach, unrolled and shaken, glistening, nacreous, and held up in front of the public because ‘Despenser had fed upon the possessions both of the wealthy and of the poor’. And in their turn the entrails were transformed into the thick acrid smoke that mingled with the November drizzle.
After which the head was cut off, not with a blow from a sword, since it was hanging backwards between the arms of the cross, but detached with a knife, because ‘Despenser had had the greatest barons of England beheaded and from his own head had come all the evil counsels’. Hugh Despenser’s head was not burnt; the executioners set it aside to send to London, where it would be impaled at the entrance to the bridge.
And, finally, what remained of the long pale body was cut into four quarters, an arm with its shoulder, the other arm also with its shoulder and the neck, and each leg with half the stomach, that they might be sent to the four greatest cities of the realm after London.
The crowd left the stands, relaxed, released and exhausted. Surely the pinnacle of cruelty had now been reached.
After each execution on their bloodstained path, Mortimer had found Queen Isabella more ardent in love than ever. But on the night following the execution of Hugh Despenser, her demands on him and the hysterical gratitude she expressed to him could not but disquiet him. To have hated the man who had taken her husband from her so much, she must surely once have loved Edward. And in Mortimer’s suspicious mind a plan was born which he determined to put into effect, however long it might take him.
The next day Henry Crouchback, who had been appointed the King’s gaoler, was ordered to take him to Kenilworth Castle and imprison him there. The Queen had not seen him again.
4
Vox Populi
‘WHO DO YOU want for your king?’
This terrifying question on which depended the future of the nation was asked by Adam Orleton on 12 January 1327 in the great hall at Westminster, and the words echoed high among the beams in the roof.
‘Who do you want for your king?’
For the last six days the English Parliament had been sitting, adjourning and sitting again. Adam Orleton, acting as Lord Chancellor, was leading the debates.
During its first session, a few weeks ago, Parliament had summoned the King to appear before it. Adam Orleton and John de Stratford, Bishop of Winchester, had gone to Kenilworth to present Edward II with the summons, and King Edward had refused to accept it.
He had refused to come and give an account of his actions to the lords, the bishops, and the members for boroughs and counties. Orleton had announced his reply to Parliament and no one could tell whether it was due to fear or contempt. But Orleton was profoundly convinced, and had told Parliament of his conviction, that if the Queen were to be coerced into a reconciliation with her husband, it would mean her certain death.
And now the great question had been asked. And Orleton concluded his speech by counselling Parliament to adjourn till the following day so that the members might conscientiously consider their choice during the silence of the night. Tomorrow the House would determine whether it wished Edward II Plantagenet to retain the crown or whether it should pass to his eldest son, Edward, Duke of Aquitaine.
There was, however, not much silence for conscientious thought in the hubbub of London that night. The houses of the lords, the abbeys, the homes of the great merchants and the inns were to resound till dawn with the noise of passionate argument. All these barons, bishops, knights and squires, these representatives of boroughs selected by the sheriffs, were, in law, members of Parliament only by the King’s appointment, and their function, in principle, was merely advisory. But now the sovereign was an incapable defaulter, a fugitive who had been apprehended outside his kingdom; and it was not the King who had summoned Parliament, but Parliament which had summoned its King, though he had refused to obey its orders. The supreme power was therefore for a moment, for a single night, in the hands of these men of disparate origins and unequal fortune, who came from every part of the country.
‘Who do you want for your king?’
The question was a very real one, and even for those who had wished publicly for Edward II’s early death, who had cried, at every scandal, at every new tax, at every war lost: ‘May he die! May God deliver us from him!’
But now it was no longer a question of God intervening; everything depended on themselves, and they were suddenly aware of the importance of their collective will. Their wishes and their curses had been accomplished, and here was the sum of them. Could the Queen, even supported by her Hennuyers, have been able to seize the whole kingdom as she had done if the barons and the people had responded to the levy Edward had ordered?
But to depose a king and strip him for ever of his vested authority was an important action. Many members of Parliament were afraid of taking it because of the divine nature of the coronation and the royal majesty. Besides, the young Prince, for whom it was suggested they should vote, was very young. What was known of him, except that he was entirely in his mother’s hands, who was entirely in the hands of Mortimer? And even if one respected, indeed admired the Baron of Wigmore, the former Justiciar and conqueror of Ireland, if his escape, exile and return, even his love affair, had made of him a legendary hero, and to many he appeared as a liberator, nevertheless his character, his hardness and his mercilessness were feared; already that severity in punishing, which he had shown during these last weeks, was being made a reproach to him, though he had but conformed to the people’s will. Those who knew him well feared his ambition above all. Had he no secret desire to become king himself? As the Queen’s lover, he was very close to the throne. There was some reluctance to invest him with the great power that would be his if Edward II were deposed. Indeed, there was much argument round the lamps and candles, over the pewter pots that were so frequently refilled with beer, till everyone went home exhausted to bed, without having really made up his mind.
The people of England, that night, were sovereign, but somewhat embarrassed at being so; they did not know to whom to hand over the exercise of that sovereignty.
History had taken a sudden step forward. Questions were being argued whose mere discussion was significant of the admission of new principles. A people does not forget such a precedent, nor a Parliament that it had exercised such power; a nation does not forget that, through its Parliament, it has had occasion to be the master of its destiny.
But the following morning, when Bishop Orleton took young Prince Edward by the hand, and presented him to the members assembled at Westminster, a great ovation rose echoing from wall to wall and up to the roof.
‘We want him, we want him!’
Four bishops, among whom were those of London and York, protested and argued about the juridical problems of homage and the irrevocable nature of the coronation. But Archbishop Reynolds, to whom Edward II, before taking flight, had confided the Government, and who was now particularly anxious to prove the sincerity of his adherence to the new dispensation, cried: ‘Vox populi, vox dei!’
And for a good quarter of an hour he preached on this text as if he were in the pulpit.
John de Stratford, Bishop of Winchester, drew up and read to Parliament six articles showing cause why Edward II Plantagenet should be deposed.
Primo: The King is incapable of governing. Throughout his reign he has been influenced by detestable counsellors.
Secundo: He has devoted all his time to employments and occupations unworthy of him and has neglected the affairs of the realm.
Tertio: He has lost Scotland, I
reland and half Guyenne.
Quarto: He has wronged the Church whose ministers he has imprisoned.
Quinto: He has imprisoned, exiled, disinherited, or condemned to a shameful death many of his great vassals.
Sexto: He has ruined the kingdom, and is incorrigible and incapable of amendment.
In the meantime the burgesses of London, who were both anxious and divided among themselves – had not their bishop declared against the dethronement? – were assembling in Guildhall. They were less easy to control than the representatives of the counties. Were they going to checkmate Parliament? Roger Mortimer, who was nothing by title and everything in fact, hurried to Guildhall, thanked the Londoners for their loyalty and guaranteed the maintenance of the customary liberties of the City. But in whose name, in the name of what, did he give this guarantee? In the name of a boy who was not yet King, who had indeed only just been accepted by acclamation. Nevertheless, Mortimer’s prestige and personal authority had its effect on the London burgesses. He was already being called Lord Protector. But whose protector was he? The Prince’s, the Queen’s, the realm’s? He was Lord Protector, and that was enough; he was the man chosen by events and into his hands everyone was prepared to place his own portion of power and judgment.
And then the unexpected happened. The young Prince, whom people already looked on as King, the pale boy with long eyelashes who had kept silence through all these events, and who, so one supposed, was thinking of nothing but Madame Philippa of Hainaut, suddenly declared to his mother, to the Lord Protector, to Orleton and the bishops, indeed to everyone about him, that he would never assume the crown without his father’s consent and without the latter having written officially to proclaim his abdication.
There was utter stupefaction; everyone was aghast. Were all their efforts to come to nothing? Some were suspicious of the Queen. Had she perhaps brought pressure to bear secretly on her son, owing to one of those unforeseeable recurrences of affection to which women are prone? Or had there been some quarrel between her and the Lord Protector during the night in which every man was to consult his conscience?
But it was neither of these things. It was simply that this fifteen-year-old boy, completely on his own, had been reflecting on the importance of the legitimacy of power. He did not want to be looked on as a usurper, nor hold his crown by the will of Parliament which, since it had given it to him, might equally take it away. He insisted on the consent of his predecessor. It was not that he had any tender feelings towards his father; indeed, he had formed his own opinion about him. But then he formed his own opinion about everyone.
So many wicked things had been done in his presence over the years that he had been forced to begin forming his own opinions early. He knew that crime was not entirely on one side and innocence on the other. Of course, his father had made his mother suffer, had dishonoured her and despoiled her; but what sort of an example was his mother giving with Roger Mortimer now? Suppose one day, because of some fault he had committed, Madame Philippa acted thus? And all these barons and bishops, who were so ruthlessly opposed to King Edward today, were they not the very people who had governed with him? Norfolk and Kent, his young uncles, had been given and had accepted appointments; the Bishops of Winchester and Lincoln had carried on negotiations in King Edward’s name. The Despensers had not been everywhere at once and, even if they gave the orders, they had not carried them out themselves. Who had taken the risk of refusing to obey? Cousin Lancaster Crouchback had undoubtedly had the courage to do so; and Roger Mortimer, too, who had paid for his rebellion by a long sojourn in prison. But, as opposed to these two, how many lackeys there were who had quickly changed sides and were eagerly seizing every opportunity to exculpate themselves.
Every other prince in the world would have been intoxicated at his age to see one of the great crowns of the world falling to his lot, and held out to him by so many hands. But he raised his long lashes, looked at them steadily, blushed a little at his audacity and held to his decision. Then Orleton summoned the Bishops of Winchester and Lincoln, as well as the Great Chamberlain William Blount, ordered the crown and sceptre to be brought from the Treasure House in the Tower, where they were kept, had them placed in a box on the pack-saddle of a mule and, taking his ceremonial vestments with him, set out on the road to Kenilworth to obtain the King’s abdication.
5
Kenilworth
THE OUTER WALLS, which were built round the base of an extensive hill, enclosed gardens, meadows, stables and byres, a forge, barns and bakehouses, a mill, cisterns, the servants’ lodgings and the soldiers’ barracks; indeed, a whole village, which was almost larger than the village proper, the tiled roofs of whose cottages clustered close together outside. It was as if these cottages beyond the walls were inhabited by a different race of men from those who lived within the formidable castle that raised its red fortifications to the winter sky.
For Kenilworth had been built of a stone the colour of dried blood. It was one of those fabulous castles, dating back to the century after the Conquest, when a handful of Normans, the companions of William, had had to overawe a whole population with these huge fortresses built on hills.
The keep of Kenilworth, square and immensely high, reminded travellers from the Orient of the pylons of Egyptian temples.
The proportions of this enormous building were so great that large rooms were contained merely within the thickness of the walls; but the keep, on the other hand, could be entered only by a narrow staircase in which two people could barely walk abreast. Its red steps led to a door protected by a portcullis on the first floor. Within was a garden, or rather a grassy court, of some sixty feet square, open to the sky, but entirely contained within the keep.42
No military building could have been better conceived to withstand a siege. If the invader succeeded in breaching the outer wall, the defenders took refuge in the castle itself, behind a moat; and if the inner wall was breached, then the defenders would abandon the usual living-quarters, the great hall, the kitchens, the lords’ chambers, the chapel, to the enemy, and retire into the keep built round the well of the green court which was sheltered by an enormous thickness of wall.
The King was living there as a prisoner. He knew Kenilworth well, for it had belonged to Thomas of Lancaster and had once served as a rallying centre for the rebellious barons. After Thomas had been beheaded, Edward had seized the castle and had lived in it himself during the winter of 1323, before giving it back to Henry Crouchback the following year, when he had returned to him all the Lancaster estates.
Henry III, Edward’s grandfather, had in the past besieged Kenilworth for six months to recover it from the son of his brother-in-law, Simon de Montfort; and it was not to the military that it had fallen, but to famine, plague and excommunication.
At the beginning of the reign of Edward I, Roger Mortimer of Chirk, who had so recently died in prison, had been its constable, in the name of the first Earl of Lancaster, and had given his famous tournaments there. One of the towers on the outer wall, to Edward’s exasperation, bore the name of Mortimer Tower. It stood there, a mockery and a defiance, in the centre of his daily view.
But King Edward II had still other memories of the district. Only four miles to the south, in Warwick Castle, whose white keep was visible from the summit of Kenilworth’s red keep, Gaveston, his first lover, had been put to death by the barons. Had this neighbourhood changed the tenor of the King’s thoughts? Edward seemed to have forgotten Hugh Despenser completely; on the other hand, he was obsessed by the memory of Piers Gaveston, and talked of him unceasingly to his gaoler, Henry of Lancaster.
Never had Edward and his cousin Crouchback lived so close together for so long, nor in such isolation. Never had Edward confided so much to the eldest member of his family. He had moments of considerable lucidity in which he judged himself dispassionately, and this sometimes astonished Lancaster, and touched him too. Lancaster was beginning to understand many things which seemed incomprehensible to the
people of England.
It was Gaveston, Edward admitted, who had been responsible for, or at least the origin of, his first errors and of the deplorable path his life had taken.
‘He loved me so much,’ said the prisoner King; ‘and at that time, young as I was, I was ready to believe anything and to trust myself entirely to so great a love.’
And even now he could not help being moved by the memory of the charm of that little Gascon knight who had risen from nothing, ‘a mushroom sprouting in a night’, as the barons said, and whom he had made Earl of Cornwall to the disgust of all the great lords of the realm.
‘He wanted it so much!’ Edward said.
And how splendidly insolent Piers had been; it was an insolence that delighted Edward. No king would have dared treat his great barons as his favourite did.
‘Do you remember, Crouchback, how he used to call the Earl of Gloucester a bastard? And how he used to shout to the Earl of Warwick: “Go and lie down, you black dog!”’
‘And how he insulted my brother by calling him a cuckold, which Thomas never forgave him, because it was true.’
Piers had been frightened of nothing. He had pillaged the Queen’s jewels and thrown insults about as others distribute alms, because he was sure of the love of his King. He had had a greater effrontery than anyone in the world. Moreover, he had used his imagination in his diversions: he had stripped his pages naked, loaded their arms with pearls, rouged their lips, allowed them no more than a leafy frond for modest concealment, and had organized erotic pursuits through the woods. And then there had been his escapades in the low districts in the port of London, where he wrestled with the porters, for the fellow was strong, too. Oh, what splendid youthful years he had given the King!
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