Harlot Queen (38 page)

She proved to Mortimer the value of friends on the Council, himself absent. Parliament, urged by this same Council, made him the tremendous gift of Glamorgan and the lordship of Denbigh—all Despenser land.

‘I never thought to sleep with the lord of Glamorgan and Denbigh!’ she said and laughed.

‘I must have Gloucester lands and Gloucester’s title!’ he told her. ‘I’ll not rest until I’m earl of Gloucester!’

‘Have care, my love. There’s an old tale of the tinker that, for a good deed, might name his reward. And so he did. He asked and kept on asking; and got it, too. Until he asked too much…’

‘I am no tinker. I am Mortimer. And Gloucester’s title I mean to have!’

She sighed. She said no more.

The Queen could do no wrong; she ruled the country. Parliament and Council bowed to her bidding. The young King she kept beneath her eye; she chose his bodyguard. Wherever he went there went a bishop, an earl and two barons; they obscured his judgment with their specious arguments, they curbed his freedom, they reported upon his every word. So bound, so blinded, so deafened there could be little trouble from him.

The Queen and Mortimer in control.

In Kenilworth Edward of Carnarvon gave himself to alternate despair and hope. When he heard that his cousin Lancaster, his kindly gaoler, led the Council, his heart lifted; when he heard the names of those that sat with him, his heart sank—too many were Mortimer’s friends. When he heard that both the Queen and Mortimer had no place, up went his heart once more; when he heard that Orleton was not only of the Council but had been advanced to Treasurer, down it went again.

But nothing could keep that hopeful spirit down. When the sun shone in the winter garden where every twig sparkled like jewels in his lost crown how could he help but be cheerful? ‘I am not finished yet; by God’s Face not finished!’ he told Lancaster, ‘I have friends. I have friends, yet!’

‘Sir, I beseech you, put away such thoughts,’ Lancaster said. ‘The country has cast off its allegiance. Consider! You are a prisoner; but nothing’s so bad it couldn’t be worse! Here you are honourably treated; here you may walk freely and receive your friends. None but myself would, or could, allow it. This talk of winning back your crown could lead to much evil for you. A little patience and you shall fare better still—the lord your son has told me. Then you shall go free as the best gentleman in the land.’

‘I am the King! Kingship is sealed into my flesh and only with the flesh can it be dissolved.’

‘Is the prisoner comfortable at Kenilworth?’ the Queen asked. Neither King nor husband would she call him ever again.

‘Too much so!’ Mortimer said, gloomy.

‘So long as he’s kept fast I am content.’

‘Lancaster’s a fool!’ Mortimer said, spiteful. It irked him that Edward who had so rigorously confined him in the Tower should, in his own prison, find such comfort.

‘The man was my husband and a King. I’d not have him too harshly confined.’

‘And if Lancaster prove too much of a fool? If there should be danger of escape?’

‘Then it is upon the prisoner’s own head.’

On the first day of February, in the year of grace thirteen hundred and twenty-seven, the young King went to his crowning. He was scarce three months above his fourteenth birthday.

Walking beneath the blue velvet canopy his young face was troubled. Was it right to put a King from his place, a King anointed before God? It was a question he still must ask himself, and one new question he’d been forced to ask. It was last night in the Tower where he had lain to make his progress through London today. ‘If a King may be so easily cast from the throne, how might it go with me?’

‘It shall go very well, sir—if you will work with your princes and not against them,’ Lancaster had said.

Well, it was an answer; but it was not the whole answer. His father had lost his crown because he’d not been strong enough to keep it. Unsleeping, the boy had made his oath, beseeching God to help him keep it.
I will be strong. From these princes I shall learn the craft of Kingship. Thereafter I shall rule with a sceptre not of gold but of iron… the iron rod.
And, so vowing, he had fallen asleep.

It had not been a happy sleep. For his father that had lain in this very bed the night before his crowning, stood before him.
I cannot find the crown
, his father said, tears pouring down his face.
I will help you
. He wanted to say it, but the words choked in his throat. He had woken… and the tears on his father’s cheeks were the tears upon his own. It was long before he slept again for pity of his father. Tomorrow he would be crowned. Tomorrow, or the next day, he would take his father from prison and set him up with all royal state as befitted the father of the King. Tomorrow…

Now, walking, his brother with his cousins carrying the great mantle high above the frost-slippery cobbles, monks before him chanting and swinging censers, bishops and barons behind, each in his degree, he remembered his vow…
a sceptre not of gold but of iron
. He walked between Lancaster and Mortimer; each held a hand lest, in his great robes, he slip upon the cobbles. Dislike for Mortimer rose strong in the boy; it was as much as he could do not to pull his hand away. He had wanted to keep the man from the crowning, but Lancaster had counselled a still tongue. ‘To question the man’s presence would arouse Madam the Queen’s displeasure: Even a King at his crowning might find that a bitter burden.’ Well, he must wait. Today the sceptre of gold; tomorrow the rod of iron.

Across Palace Yard went the great procession while, forgetful of the bitter cold, the people stood and cheered.
So they cheered my father; yet they had put him from the throne. But they’ll not put me, so gracious and obedient… till it be time for the rod of iron.

He went through the long ceremony; he carried himself well. He knew exactly what he must do; his cousin of Lancaster had rehearsed it with him.

He had shown himself to the people and heard their joyful acclaim. He had sworn the oath his father had sworn, that same oath, word for word in the French tongue; the oath they now held against his father saying he had not been faithful. Now, taking the words upon his own lips, he felt himself exalted. This oath he would keep because it was a right oath; he wanted to keep it.

They were unrobing him; he felt upon the head and breast the sacred oils. They were leading him to the high altar. Lying there, offering himself to God, he felt exalted and strong; but he felt humble, too. And now the archbishop took him by the hand and led him back to the throne that they might robe him in the square mantle of majesty. It was heavy with gold and his young shoulders ached beneath the weight; but he carried himself upright. They brought the Sword of Mercy and the Rod of Peace; and they put upon his finger the ring that married him to his people.

And now they brought him the sceptre of gold. He saw it—his rod of iron—and grasped it until the knuckles showed white.

And now the supreme moment.

He felt the crown heavy upon his head and held himself rigid lest it slip. Exaltation fell from him. He knew himself young and weak and lonely. The crown was too heavy, and his robes were too heavy… and he wanted his father.

He sat at supper beneath the canopy of estate—the highest place of all. On one side sat his mother, on the other the archbishop that had crowned him this day. Behind his chair, stood, as was proper, his brother John; behind his mother stood, as was not proper, hated Mortimer, usurping Lancaster’s place of honour. Sitting there, he sensed the lust between those two—his mother and Mortimer—rising high; and, above that lust, triumph in today’s business not for his sake but for their own. They meant to use him for their own advantage and he must submit; for a while. Well, let them wait; wait for the rod of iron!

He was too young to understand that he who wields the rod of iron is loneliest of all.

Knights knelt offering him this and that; he scarce saw them. He was weighed down with fear—the burden of being a King. He was not ready; not yet. He was still a boy, a boy only. And like any boy he wanted his father; he wanted peace and goodwill between his father and mother. But what he wanted most and couldn’t have and never had had, he wanted a home.

Quite suddenly he remembered Philippa and was comforted. His thoughts came gentler now. He was the King and there was no going back. He would learn to be not only a strong King but a good one. It was as though she had whispered in his ear.

Philippa. She was his haven and his home; she was his conscience and his truth. His mother, he knew, thought little of his betrothed. Once, to serve her own ends, she could not enough praise Philippa; now, those ends gained, she did not trouble to hide her opinion that the girl had not an overflowing measure of beauty, nor the quickness to leap to a judgment. Maybe! Philippa considered a matter with her good heart and her good head. She was not quick to punish; there was mercy in her. And where there is no real goodness beauty grows weary to the eye. But Philippa’s face he loved; it would carry its own beauty ever fresh and new. That those two, Mortimer and his mother belittled Philippa he would remember; one more item in the long account!

In Kenilworth Edward did not cease to hope. He made use of his limited freedom to talk with all manner of men—with merchants and soldiers, with craftsmen and farmers; he knew the gossip of the outside world.

Hatred of Mortimer, growing doubt of the Queen were resulting in some turning towards the one-time King; a movement as yet unan-chored and frail. But there were some that, come within the circle of his charm and wishful to comfort him, said more of the matter than they knew; or even believed.

‘Plans are afoot. Soon I shall sit in Westminster again; the people will see to it,’ he told Lancaster.

‘Cousin, Cousin!’And would the fool never learn? ‘They have crowned the King; he sits upon the throne. You know it well.’

‘It is not his place; I am not dead. Nor would he keep it against my will—his father and his King; he has said it. He will himself step down and yield me my place.’

‘Your princes would not allow it!’

‘The common people turn to me.’

‘Never count upon them; they have no leader. And if they had? Against the sword of the barons and the cross of the bishops they could not stand.’

Edward paid no heed, how could he help but hope? Even here; in his prison, he had friends sworn to his cause; and chief among them he counted the Dunhevid brothers. Despenser men both; on that account Stephen the elder had lost his lands and would move heaven and earth to get them back. The younger, Thomas, a Dominican friar, had the gift of words to move the passions of men… foolish men. Upon the King, the King alone, depended not good fortune alone but their very lives.

‘Do not trust them, cousin,’ Lancaster said. ‘Yes, I have heard of their nonsense—tattlers and prattler both; their deeds do not match their words. And they are scoundrels, besides! But were they never so secret, never so brave, Kenilworth is strong to keep its prisoners. I tell you, again, there’s no hope in them!’

But still the prisoner could not leave his hoping.

And now he had much to make him hopeful. Day by day the people’s anger grew, and the more their anger, the more Mortimer pressed with cruel thumb. The Council could not stay his hand—he had too many sycophants there; and the infatuated Queen gave him his head. Still he searched out any that had stood by the King—combing them out, he said, like lice upon a comb. Once the King had used those words of him; now it pleased him to fling back the words; revenge worked like a madness in the blood. All those he so much as suspected he hanged with every obscenity of a traitor’s death—good loyal men. And any that, tongue slipping, ventured a good word for the King, was hanged likewise. Again the country was sown thick with gallows. Nor was this all. Among the Queen’s very followers dissension had spread. Come to know her better, some sickened of her rule, others thought they should be better rewarded. Nor was the country quite so pleased now with the good Queen. It was unbecoming that she should take a lover, more unbecoming her shameless flaunting of him, most unbecoming of all that he should be Mortimer the oppressor. Dissatisfaction grew daily; willing ears were bent to the stirring words of the irresponsible friar.

And the common people—Lancaster knew it well—did, indeed, pity Edward of Carnarvon. Now it was remembered how once he had sought out humble folk, delighting in their company, preferring them to his princes; for which reason his princes were angered against him!

Talk of rescue for Edward grew daily louder. Such plots must, in the end, come to nothing. They were planned by those with no knowledge, no resources and no leader. But they unsettled the country; they could bring death to plotters and innocent, alike. To the prisoner such plots must bring greater misery… if nothing worse.

Lancaster was not minded to shoulder responsibility any longer. He besought Mortimer to relieve him.

Nothing could please Mortimer more. Now it was not revenge alone that drove him; ambition forever pricked with wounding spur. Edward of Carnarvon dead, the Queen was free to take a husband. And who that husband but the man she so infatuatedly loved? And why not? Mortimer blood was as royal as her own, blood of the great Arthur himself. His wife? She was neither young nor strong… ailing they said. She’d not long stand in his way! The young King? Let him show himself obedient and he could keep his empty crown. If not; one could deal with him—and gladly. When everything pointed to one glorious end, how should so small a thing as a prisoner’s death stand in the way?

‘I shall remove the prisoner from Kenilworth,’ he informed the Queen. ‘I shall put him in charge of two watchdogs. If there’s any more nonsense, they’ll not hesitate to show their teeth—and use them, too!’

‘I’ll not have him hurt,’ she said; and meant it. As long as he made no trouble surely he was harmless enough! Even now her thoughts had not reached to his death.

‘They’ll not bite unless they must.’

To that she could make no objection; it was reasonable enough.