Harlot Queen (41 page)

‘The man must die; and at once,’ Mortimer said.

Isabella lifted a white, shocked face. She longed for his death, prayed for his death… if it might be natural. But in his murder she wanted no part. Let her lift no finger, let her have but knowledge, knowledge, only, of that death, then she was more bound to the murdered man than if he were alive and in her very bed. He would take possession of her thoughts, possess her very life. Never in this world would she go free of him. And in the next? Of the next she dared not think.

‘Why in the name of God will he not die?’ she cried out and wrung her hands.

‘We have driven him from pillar to post,’ he said, sombre. ‘We have starved him, we have given him over to the cold, the darkness, the nauseous stinks. We have so dealt with him that even his own son would not know him. But still the man lives! And there are plots aplenty to bring him back. And this last plot we must take account of. For now the rabble has found a leader. It is my old enemy Rhys ap Gruffyd. He plans to restore your husband and to take his own revenge upon me—two birds with one stone. We can wait no longer. It is time; time to make an end altogether!’

And still she made no answer. Many things she had done that people would call evil—but murder was not one of them. She had never in her life consented to murder. Yet—and she could not but remember it—murder once committed, she had accepted it; she had even rewarded the murderers. Yet for all that she was guiltless of blood. But this! This was murder planned; and the man to die—her husband. She had no mind to be linked with a ghost all her life—and such a ghost.
No! No! No!
The word screamed through her mind; but still she did not say it.

‘The man must die for all our sakes!’ Mortimer said. ‘For your son’s sake, for the country’s sake lest the throne rock and all England with it. And for your sake he must die…’

And still she said nothing, staring at him out of her white face.

‘Let the man return,’ Mortimer told her, ‘and one of two things must happen. He will forgive you; or he will not. In the latter case you will spend your days in prison; in the former—pledge of his good faith and reconciliation—you’ll spend the nights in his bed!’

She put up a hand to stay the sickness in her throat; but still she could not say the word of consent.

‘Well if you are content…!‘ he shrugged. ‘I do not say think of me; but I beg you, remember the Despensers!’

At that she swallowed in her throat. ‘Do as you think fit,’ she said.

‘By God, no! Not as
I
think but as
we
think; we two together. For, if we are not in this together, then we are best apart—in all things and forever!’

She held out her shaking hands as though for mercy; her strange, wild eyes were desperate. He would leave her, not a doubt of it! He was her whole woman’s life; of his man’s life she was but a part. He had his wife, his children, his ambitions. His ambitions! By his lust for place, for power, for wealth—there, at least, she held him.

But even now she could not say the word.

He stood there implacable; the full strength of his male virility came to her—an aphrodisiac. For all her handsome looks she was in her mid-thirties—and the marks of a hard life upon her. She could not help but know it; he had told her often enough. She had never in her life loved any man but this. Him she must keep for her body’s need—love or lust, call it what you would. Without him she would dwindle to her death.

‘He must die,’ she said. ‘I will it!’

But, for all that, she was greatly troubled. The thing was for ever in her mind. At night it was worse. She could not sleep; not though she pressed close in the darkness, seeking courage from her lover. She could not rest for the fear of it.

At last, she said, greatly daring lest she anger him, ‘Leave this thing alone. It will bring ill-luck to us both. Die he must and soon. You have but to increase the rigours of his prison.’

‘There can be no more rigours!’

‘Then in such conditions a man must die. So still I beseech you let this thing alone.’ And still she would not call it murder. ‘Death by violence must leave its mark… and to whom shall those marks point but you?’ And in this moment she had no thought for the man that was to die; her fear was all for his murderer.

‘I do not mean to die for Edward of Carnarvon!’ He was contemptuous. ‘He shall die—and never a mark upon him!’

‘It is not possible. The cup or the dagger; the cord or a man’s bare hand—each must tell a tale.’

‘Trust me, I know the way—simple and secret. Listen.’

‘No!’ She covered her ears with both hands so that the jewels at her wrist and fmger glittered like small, wicked eyes.

‘But still you should know! Why should I take the blame of this to carry it alone?’

‘I am a woman. If I am sick or cry out in sleep…’

‘There’s reason in that! But the man must die; and die the way I choose. On that we are agreed?’

She made no answer. But still he held her eyes, pressing down upon her with his will.

‘We are agreed!’ she said and let out a great sigh. She had done her best. She dare no more in the matter.

Edward of Carnarvon was dead.

The twenty-second day of September, in the year of grace thirteen hundred and twenty-seven—a year to the day of the Queen’s landing—he had been found dead in his cell.

The young King lifted a shocked face. His mother had promised all would be well with his father; she had
promised
.

‘He is truly well now. God Himself has set him free!’ she said and her eyes were full of tears; strangely the tears were real—tears for opportunities wasted, for graces cast away. She was remembering Edward so handsome and herself so young… so very young. She had been ready to love him; had, indeed, for a little while loved him. He need never have come to this. Or perhaps he must; within himself the flaw inherent.

Weeping like any boy that has suddenly, shockingly lost his father, Edward’s grief broke in upon her thoughts.

‘It is better so,’ she said gentle. ‘To wear his life away in prison. He should have been free as a bird. I longed to set him free, I prayed for the day. But I dared not; dared not give the country again to bloodshed. There were revolts enough as it was, God knows! He encouraged them and who could blame him? How could he content himself lacking the crown?’

‘I should never have taken it!’ he cried out guilty, desolate. ‘But you told me he wished it; you
told
me!’

‘I did tell you; and it was true. Your cousin of Lancaster heard him and all those that went to Kenilworth. The crown was his no longer; by the will of the people, forfeit. If it had not come to you, then it must have come to another!’

‘Would God that it had—so he put Mortimer down! But for Mortimer my father would not have died, I know it! Madam, you must send him away; the man offends me!’

‘Sir; my son. Let not grief carry you too far. You owe very much to the lord Mortimer. See to it you do not offend him!’

‘Mortimer! Mortimer!’ He struck fist upon palm; it was the very action of his grandfather, great Edward. ‘But for this same Mortimer my father would be alive and wearing his crown. Now he is dead, but Mortimer is alive and you are alive…’

‘Would you have me dead, too?’ she cried out, stung.

‘Not you,’ he said. ‘Not
you
!’ She was his mother; and if she had taken his father’s crown she had safeguarded his own. ‘Forgive me, Madam, I am not myself.’ He lifted her hand and kissed it; but it was a courtier’s kiss, not a son’s. He turned and left her.

How did the King die? It was a question on every tongue. He had been a healthy man, very strong; yet within a few short months—dead.
Murder
. There arose the usual cry; but this time, it seemed, with reason.

‘Murder?’ The King lifted a shocked young face, the word whispering from his throat.

‘The parrot-cry whenever a prince dies!’ Isabella shrugged. ‘It was always so; and so it will always be!’

‘But he was so strong; above all men strong!’

‘When Death puts his hand upon us the strength of man is of no avail.’

He said no more; young as he was he detected the insincerity.

Now he was utterly forlorn. He had so hoped to see his father again, hear his voice, touch his hand… and now his father was dead! Against the mother he did not trust and the man he hated, how could he stand; and who would help him?

The news brought Orleton hurrying.

‘But murder;
murder
, Madam!’ He spread his hands. ‘How is that possible? What man would—or could? What opportunity?’

She shrugged. ‘He had enemies everywhere. Those the Despensers did not make for him he made with his own tongue. Even you, my lord, had little cause to love him.’ And she pricked him gently with that long-ago reproof.

‘They suspect…?’ And he winced at the prick.

‘Everyone. Even you, my lord, may find yourself not exempt!’ She smiled into his face and he knew, for certain, that her hand had been in the matter; he knew that smile.

‘But of course,’ she said, ‘he was not murdered at all. There’s no sign of violence on the body.’

How did she know that? She read his quick suspicious look.

‘Oh my lord,’ and she was all gentle reproach. ‘That is the first thing I would enquire?’

‘If there’s no mark,’ he said thoughtful, ‘if you are sure there’s no mark, you must show the body to the people. It is the one way to scotch rumour!’

To Berkeley went the order. The King’s body to lie in state; all that so desired might pay their last respects.

In the great hall the King’s body lay beneath a royal mantle; the poor body that but yesterday had known naught but rags. The head was crowned, the face uncovered. No sign of violence. But the face! Frozen in so terrible a mask of pain—unrecognisable. So comely he had been, comely beyond all men! If this was, indeed, the King and he had not come to a sudden, violent death, he had been cruelly murdered inch by slow inch.

Showing the dead King to the people had done little to scotch rumour.

By command of Parliament and by the wish of the young King, the body was carried in state to Gloucester, to the minster Edward of Carnarvon had loved and where his name was cherished. The slow procession wound along the Autumn roads; a great pageant such as the dead man, himself, must have loved. Upon high-stepping horses, black and harnessed in black, the golden leopards emblazoned, rode the knights all in black and gold. Now came the hearse hung with black taffetas; in each corner stood a great gilded lion carrying a gilded saint. By the side of the saintly riders pretty boys, dressed as angels, swung their censers. Upon the coffin, itself, draped with black velvet, emblazoned with the King’s arms in gold, lay the carved and painted image of the dead man in all the pride of his handsome manhood. It was clothed kingly, and royally crowned so that all men wept with pity. Immediately following the hearse, in a charette all hung with black, came the Queen pale in her mourning weeds, grief-stricken, beautiful. Beside the charette walked the King, his young face drawn with sorrow; behind him Lancaster and the young John led the princes of the state, archbishop Reynolds the princes of the church.

And now it was all over. Now Edward of Carnarvon was dead and out of the way for ever.

Now the Queen and her lover could breathe freely.

All quiet… for the present.

‘My son-in-law sends in his bill. He’s a clever fellow!’ Mortimer chuckled. ‘He took care to be absent from home the day Ogle called at Berkeley—there’s none to point a finger at him.’

‘The bill?’ she interrupted, impatient.

‘Five pounds a day for the custody of the body, five pounds likewise for dyeing the silk upon hearse and coffin. He sets down, also, the cost of carrying the body to Gloucester. And, your son, it seems, ordered the bishop of Llandaff together with five knights to guard the body until after the funeral; the cost…’

‘The
total
?’ She had a growing dislike for paying her debts.

‘For the funeral items alone three hundred pounds.’

‘I’ll not pay it! You may tell him so!’

‘Would Madam the Queen haggle over the price of her husband’s funeral!’ Mortimer asked, sour. He made a sudden, irritable movement; a silver-stoppered vase upon a shelf went tumbling.

‘Pick him up. It’s Edward; his heart!’ Her laughter held a note of hysteria. ‘They sent it from Gloucester in the pious belief I’d cherish it. Hide it away, Mortimer; thrust it where I may never see it again! As for the bills, I’ll not haggle, though Berkeley makes us pay through the nose. Such a funeral must put an end to gossip; for that alone it’s worth the money!’

The splendid funeral had not stopped tongues. Everywhere the questions.
How was it that the King, that strong man, met a death so soon and so sudden? Why had Berkeley been absent from home at the time of the death? Why was he never questioned; nor Gurney the steward that ordered all things at the castle; nor Maltravers? Why, above all, is Maltravers raised to a great position—High Steward to the royal household—no less?

To all these questions—one answer.
Murder!

Edward of Carnarvon is not dead. New rumours, even more disturbing to the Queen and her lover; to the young King infinitely distressing. Edward of Carnarvon is not dead. Unable to set his mind upon any other matter he went about half-hoping, wholly disbelieving—for had he not, with his own eyes, seen his father buried?

And then the first bald rumour tricked out with details.

The Welsh rescued him; they keep him safe until good time. The tale of his death—a lie, put about by those that should have better guarded him. The body that lay in state; who recognised the face? The funeral; a mockery. Whose body lies in the royal tomb? Some poor wretch that died; or was murdered to cover the King’s escape… For escape he did.

Edward of Carnarvon is not dead…

‘Your father is dead!’ Isabella told him. ‘And fools must forever make false tales for their own amusement. But—a King! It behoves a King to put away childish nonsense and vain hopes. A King must face the truth however hard.’