Harlot Queen (13 page)

And now he knew one thing more. He had not understood it until he saw his wife, the baby at her breast. To the Queen he had offered the worst of insults, the most cruel of wrongs.

He must break with the King. But not now; this was not the moment, when the King risked all for his friend; so much loyalty he owed. But the Queen. He wanted to kneel before her, to entreat her pardon, to swear he’d offend no more.

But they were still in York; he could do nothing. He was sorry… but not too sorry; he guessed that, accustomed to fatherhood, he might find his grapes sweet once more.

It was growing towards March and the barons, led by Pembroke and de Warenne, moved steadily north. They were grim, they were determined, they were of one mind.

Lancaster had charge of affairs at home. He had seen to it that the whole country was securely locked against the King and that the barons held the keys. Gloucester, hitherto so loyal, held London and the south, Hereford held the eastern counties; and to Lancaster himself fell the west. In the north Henry Percy had already deployed his forces; he was watching the Border lest Gaveston attempt to escape.

It was Gaveston they wanted. And to lay hands upon him could not be difficult. When it came to it, there’d be none to help him, except the besotted King; for who would dare help an excommunicated man?

The King and Queen had left York. The late March weather was little kinder than January. The cavalcade rode through high winds that parched throats and blinded eyes; it was cold enough to freeze the rain as it fell, but nothing could damp the King’s ardour—he was riding to his friend. He snapped his fingers at his barons; he threatened, by God’s Face, any that dared lay finger upon Piers.

Isabella was sullen at this long journey made on Piers’ account. And she was fearful at the outcome: England’s princes in arms—church no less than state—what chance for the King? She was the more troubled that, at York, she had received word from Lancaster that he had not forgotten his promise. When first he had made it—how long ago?—she had been comforted; now she was troubled. It was more than Gaveston the barons attacked, more than the King himself. It was the sacred rights of royalty. If they should succeed what became of those sacred rights… and what might become of herself?

She sat alone in the charette with Madam de St. Pierre; she was free, at least, of Gaveston’s wife! But when she remembered the new-born child, grief and anger all but overthrew her. Her rage smouldered against the King that had forced the issue with the barons for his worthless friend. And with every step northwards her grief increased that Gaveston’s wife had borne a child while she, the Queen, looked to be a barren tree. And all the time she raged against the King without words.
You have broken the sworn oath for this worthless man
. Had he been successful, this would not have troubled her unduly; with her, as with him, expediency was a word more pressing than honour. But he was not successful; he never would be. She wished with all the bitterness of her passionate heart that she had never set eyes upon his handsome face—nor yet upon this wild country through which they rode.

As they journeyed March gave way to April. The wind was keen still but the rain no longer fell hard and cold as stones. It fell bright as silver spears and, when the sun shone out, trees and hedges flamed with tongues of green fire. But sweet Spring could not soften the Queen’s mood. With every step that brought her nearer to the sight of Gaveston anger flamed in her the more.

Almost as if he felt her thoughts upon him, the King came riding up. ‘The wind has dropped,’ he said, ‘Madam will you be pleased to ride with me?’

Madam would not. The rough winds had chapped her face and lips. She was petulant, refusal given before she knew it. He had turned and gone before she had time to recall her refusal. She did not need the look on Madam de St. Pierre’s face to tell her she had been a fool!

‘Madam, the Queen has been riding less of late,’ Théophania said.

‘Yes’, she said. ‘Yes… the rough moors tire me.’

But… so tired?
Isabella stiffened suddenly. Last month her rhythm had been broken. She had thought little of it; fatigue and distress had broken it before. But now it was April… and the rhythm not renewed.

She began feverishly to count.

These last weeks the King had come once or twice to her bed. He had needed comfort and that comfort she had tried to give. Since then she had given the matter no thought. She had supposed him impotent; or, at best, ineffectual with her. But was he impotent? Had Gaveston’s absence released the manhood in him? Had she been given the chance, at last, to clear herself of the monstrous charge of barrenness?

Now Gaveston mattered little. Turned in upon her new, her terrible joy she was confident that now he must be thrust from his place.
I carry the heir. Now the King must, in honour, cast off the man! And, if of himself he will not, then the barons will settle the matter…
Of one thing she was certain. She must grow in importance— mother of the heir to England; and that growth nothing could stop.

Théophania, in whose ear the laundress had whispered, sat very still lest she intrude; this moment was for the Queen alone. And it was indeed for the Queen alone. Even in this first moment of her joy she considered the child a pawn only in the Queen’s advance.

The King and Queen had reached Newcastle; and there was Gaveston debonair as ever. Some of the newness of fatherhood had rubbed from him; he was more or less himself again. ‘I left my wife at Bamborough,’ he told them. ‘I could not bring her or her babe into the hazards of war however well-fortified we may be!’

‘You are right. War is no place for women and babes!’ the King said. Isabella nodded and made her mouth to smile… But, Gaveston’s wife to be cherished, to be made safe! What of herself then? She no longer wanted to accompany the King; his work was done. She wanted to be home again, to cherish the body that bore her child—her pawn to power.

‘Gaveston’s wife must be kept safe!’ She went storming to Madam de St. Pierre. ‘But what of me? Me he brings into danger?’

‘He does not know the Queen is with child. Madam, you should tell him.’

‘Should he not cherish me for my own sake; am I not a woman?’

‘Yet still, Madam, my darling, you should tell him.’

‘Not now.’ And she would not, all angered as she was share with him her secret. ‘A wise woman makes certain. I’ll wait till May is out; then he must send me home again—the weather will be fitter for travel. He must send me from this hateful north, from the sight of Gaveston and the dangers of war!’

At first she thought Gaveston unchanged; yet soon, she was forced to admit it, he was different. He was quieter in manner; she found a new courtesy in him. It was the King that had not changed. He could not be near his sweetheart without touching; Gaveston neither invited nor encouraged it.

‘My master desires, humbly, to be received by the Queen’s grace.’ Her eyes narrowed at the sight of the boy wearing Gaveston’s intricate quartered arms. She was puzzled…
humbly desires
… Gaveston had never sought her company without his master, nor ever asked permission. Always he had come unasked, at the King’s heels; he had spared her none of his lewd jests, his stinging taunts. And now…
humbly desires
. What was this turnabout?

Before she could make an answer, there he was, the man himself, kneeling before her. He knelt not upon one knee as a courtier but upon both knees—a suppliant.

‘I have done Madam the Queen great wrong and I beseech her pardon. Soon I shall take myself from her sight to trouble her no more.’

She was utterly taken aback. Was this some new jest? She could not think it; could not mistake the truth in his voice, nor the way he knelt completely humble. Nor could she pretend not to understand him. He was asking pardon for the wasted years of her life. How could she forgive him that? Yet, as he knelt debonair and contrite, her heart, in spite of herself, grew gentler towards him. She could afford to be generous; she was with child and this, her enemy, swore to trouble her no more. The wheel of her life was turning towards the sun.

She stretched out a hand; she said, scarce believing this new turn of affairs, ‘Why then we might learn to be friends. But as for taking yourself from our sight, we must, first of all, take ourselves from this place. The barons are on the march!’

The King burst in upon the sight of Gaveston kneeling before the smiling Queen and kissing the hand graciously extended. Already distraught, the sight added to his distraction; the world was spinning too fast!

‘Up, up!’ and he grasped Gaveston by the collar. ‘We must fly. Within the hour Lancaster, God damn him, will be knocking upon our doors. There’s but one way out. Down the river to Tyneside!’ Devil-may-care was out of him; it looked less of a game than he had supposed.

‘Sir,’ she said, ‘let Gaveston go alone. It will be safer for him. And for me, too. I cannot go!’ And how could she trust herself in a small boat on the deep river in her condition?

He said nothing, only he grasped Gaveston by the arm. For the moment she did not understand. Then, ‘Do not leave me behind! You must not leave me!’ she cried out, desperate. For what might Lancaster not do, that angry man, finding his quarry gone—Gaveston and the King, both? He might lay hands upon herself; since he could not trust the King’s word, hold her to bargain with.

‘They will lay hands upon me!’
Hands upon my hallowed body!
Unreasonable with the fears of a pregnant woman—and one to whom pregnancy meant so much, she clutched at the King. ‘They will hold me to ransom!’

‘Then we will pay the ransom!’ None-too-gentle, he pulled himself away. ‘Besides—’ over and above his fears for Gaveston, pricked with jealousy, he added, a little spiteful, ‘you’ve put yourself on the right side of these rebellious lords of mine! They’ll not touch a hair of your head! It’s Piers they want—and more than a hair of his head! And that they’ll not get! And me they want also, to bargain with; and me they’ll not get neither!’

And when still she cried out, clutching him again by the sleeve, once more he pulled himself away but this time so roughly that she stumbled and all but fell. It was Gaveston that put out a saving hand, Gaveston looking from one to the other. They could hear, all three, Time’s wings beating in the room.

Gaveston came and knelt before her. ‘For this, too, Madam Queen, forgive me!’

She said no word. Eyes dark in her head with fear she watched them go.

She was glad, afterwards, she had made Gaveston no reproaches; their peace had been made.

They had escaped; but by the skin of their teeth. Captains gone, the garrison made no resistance; at the first note of the trumpet the castle surrendered.

Lancaster greeted his Queen with due respect; but the eyes in the great head were pin-pointed with rage. One hour; one little hour and his hand would have closed over them both!

‘Gaveston makes for Scarborough—it is his last hope!’ His voice was heavy with anger. ‘God send he be taken on the way!’

He had expected instant agreement; but there she sat, silent. He cast upon her a sour look. He had expected her warm thanks; but nothing from her, nothing. He said, the voice grating in his throat, ‘Let him reach Scarborough—which I doubt seeing Pembroke and de Warenne are on his heels if not already there and waiting—and he’ll not leave it alive. Or let him bribe his way out—he’ll find every road a death-trap!’

And still she said nothing. Since those last words with Gaveston she was not unwilling he should have another chance.

It was some time before he thought to ask of the King.

She shrugged. ‘I cannot say. They escaped together.’

‘Leaving you without protection?’ The question was, as he meant, an insult.

‘He knew I would be safe in your hands, uncle!’ And, indeed, in Lancaster’s hands safe she was. He was master now of this castle—fortress and everything in it—the Queen, the men-at-arms, the horses, the weapons, the treasure. All, all within his hands.

‘Why yes, Madam,’ he said at once. ‘Safer than with the King! With you we have no quarrel. You are free to go where you will; you shall have escort and honours due to the Queen.’

The King and his sweetheart were not together; they had parted for greater safety. Now the King was safe in the strong town of York; and there, as far as the barons were concerned, he might stay. It was Gaveston they wanted.

Through the green-and-white maytime southward went the Queen’s procession. She remembered how she had come this way eaten with anger against those two; now she was returning to Westminster touched with pity for them both. She had gone despairing; she returned high with hope.

Scarborough Castle had been taken. Gaveston had held out a full fortnight—longer than any man could expect. Lack of men, of food, of firing had forced him out at last; they had eaten the last of the meat raw.

In York the King waited for news of his heart’s friend. In Westminster the Queen waited with a strange anxiety for tidings of the man she had once hated. News, when it came, was more favourable than even the King had dared hope. Pembroke and de Warenne, in the name of the barons, had sworn to guarantee Gaveston’s safety until he should be brought to trial; meanwhile his own men were allowed to hold the castle. If by August no pronouncement had been made against him he might return to Scarborough to take undisputed possession.

‘I am glad of it,’ Isabella said, ‘if only for the sake of his new-born babe.’

‘He has, it seems, a gift to charm a bird from the tree!’ Queen Margaret said drily. ‘But on that charm he’d do well not to count. He deals with men driven by hatred… and there are three months yet to August.’

‘Still he need not fear. Pembroke and de Warenne have sworn to his safety on the blessed Host.’

‘But Lancaster has not sworn, nor has Warwick sworn; no, nor many another!’ Margaret said.

They were taking Gaveston to his own house at Wallingford; but though they were sworn to the prisoner’s safety, they were not sworn to his comfort. They set him upon a sorry donkey too low for his height and saddleless, Gaveston that had ridden fine and free. From Scarborough to Wallingford is a weary way; yet, though they had neared Oxford, he made no complaint. But he was weary to the bone; and the pain from blisters rubbed raw where his feet scraped the ground was greater than many a battle-wound. At Deddington, so weary he looked, so wretched, that de Warenne being for the time absent, Pembroke took pity; a pity sharpened, perhaps, because the lady his wife, that he had not seen these long months, lay nearby at Brampton.