Harlot Queen (49 page)

In the midst of her laughter, her son’s face as she had seen it last, rose before her—the rigid jaw clamped down upon bitterness; in his eyes the sickness, the disgust. He had all the intemperate passion of his house, all the cruelties. Suppose she were too late? Suppose he saw to it that she was too late? All their promises would not help her then?

She flew to the door; the hasp would not lift. She tried until her hands were bruised, crying aloud the while. There was no answer. She called again, called and called; her own voice, hoarse with calling, was the only sound. She went across to the window. Surely someone would see, someone would hear…

She looked down into the courtyard with some surprise.

It was morning; already it was morning and she had not known it. In the thin light servants were astir; behind her the candle flickered and went out. A man was sweeping; she heard plainly the drag of his broom on the cobbles. But when she wanted to call out to him the wind took her voice away. He went on sweeping.

Now other sounds split into the quiet. Dogs barked, horses neighed and stamped in the chill Autumn air, voices commanded; waggons came rumbling laden with furnishings, baggage was being carried out, baskets strapped upon sumpters… food for a journey.

Then she heard it; a quite different noise, stealing in upon the clatter of departure; a low noise, sustained… a sort of growling; the noise by which a crowd shows its anger. The noise rose, rose…

When she understood the cause she put out both hands to save herself from falling.

It was for Mortimer, the noise of their hatred. They were leading him out. The breath stopped in her lungs; she thought she must die. She could not look; yet look she must, see him before they took him from her sight.

They had bound his two hands together and a fellow led him as though he were a dancing bear. They were thrusting him upon a beast of some sort… a mule? a donkey? She could not, for the blinding of her eyes, be sure; she could see only that it was a sorry sort of beast. They were strapping him upon the creature, they were handling him roughly. The animal was too low; his rider’s feet scraped upon the cobbles. And now a fellow went before holding the reins.

A long, low moan escaped her. To this he was come—Mortimer,
the King’s master, the Queen’s paragon
, proudest of men! Well, but he was proud still! He held his head high; proud he was and debonair. It was they that looked mean and shabby—not only those that so rudely handled him but Lancaster and Salisbury come to watch the fun. They, and all that had had a hand in this, her son even, should rue this day! On her own soul she swore it.

She saw the armed guard move to close him in; heard the grating of the portcullis raised, the drawbridge shut down. And worse, worse; she heard the growl of anger swell to a roar… all Nottingham gathered to spit upon great Mortimer brought low.

The courtyard was empty again; impossible to believe she had seen the hateful happening. But she had seen it… she had seen it! She turned back into the room, flung herself upon the disordered bed that held still the imprint of his body, the very smell of him; she laid her head upon the pillow where his head had lain. Now she was alone, forever alone! How should she endure them, the dreary procession of days lacking him?

By God she’d not endure them! She had forgotten herself—Madam Queen Isabella that ruled England.

She stopped weeping. She must be about her business! She crossed again to the door; this time the hasp lifted. In the anteroom a solitary waiting-woman lifted a pale, scared face; a page stared still through the narrow window though the show was over. He swung about as she came in and she bade him open the outer door. It was not locked; but a man stood either side, halberds crossed. She bade the boy run for the governor; run, run,
run
! For him the halberds dropped. She saw him go running.

How long before Holland comes? How long? How long? Every moment counts, every smallest moment… and the moments are flying, flying, the precious moments!

She beat her two hands together. Where were they taking him? Holland must tell her; she must be ready to follow on the instant. It came to her that, if she were to ride abroad, she must show herself unfrightened, debonair. She called to the tiring-woman. The woman laced her, brushed the long, tangled hair, brought water and towels, brought the paint, the unguents. When she asked for her looking-glass the woman hesitated; it was already packed she said.

She let it pass. No time to hunt among the baggage now! No doubt she looked well enough—the woman knew her work. The woman pinned the coif brought the hooded cloak, the gloves… and still Holland did not come. Why?
Why?
Every moment was precious and he knew it. And there was her answer! He meant to make sure she was too late!

She went to the outer door. Behind the crossed halberds she called his name; and when still he did not come, screamed it aloud, screamed and screamed. They were to say afterwards that the taking of Mortimer from her very bed had crazed her wits.

When Holland stood, at last, before her she saw he could not meet her eyes. She didn’t wonder at it—the traitor! Rage boiled within her; she hated him with a hatred violent as birthpangs. But long dissimulation instructed her to speak him fair; afterwards she would deal with him.

‘Sir Robert,’ she said, ‘I hold you blameless. That you are still my friend I make no doubt!’
Judas, Judas!
‘Where does the King ride? Does he take my lord earl of March with him?’

‘The lord King’s for London, Madam; and the earl, also. And you, Madam, are to follow later.’ And still he could not meet her eye.

‘At once!’ she commanded; and, at the refusal in his face, besought him. ‘At once; I implore you!’

He shook a regretful head. ‘I have the lord King’s commands. You must await the appointed hour. You are to travel, Madam, by charette, the curtains drawn!’

She took in her breath at that. Why? Did her son fear that her sorrowful state would arouse the people’s pity; turn their hearts to her again?

‘You shall have honourable escort.’ His cold lips touched her hand. ‘Madam, Madam, forgive me,’ he cried out. ‘Would to God I had no hand in this!’

‘By that same God, Holland, you shall have cause to wish it; and soon!’

He bowed and turned upon his heel.

She sat within the charette, curtains drawn. Men-at-arms enclosed about her, Montague rode in charge.
Honourable escort!
It was all of a piece with Holland’s lying. As she took her slow way, news of her coming went before. That day, and every day, crowds gathered to hiss, to shout their insults. Now she knew why her son had commanded the charette, the drawn curtains.
They hate me
. The knowledge fell with all the shock of surprise. Their diminished love she had known, but
hatred
! That she had not dreamed. Well hate her or not, still she was Isabella the Queen; and Mortimer she would save.

That first night they lay at a monastery. When the tiring-woman had removed the coif and brushed out her hair, Isabella asked for her looking-glass. Again there was hesitation, again excuses; this time she would take none.

She stared into the looking-glass; she did not know the strange face. She could not believe it was her own; her hand went up to rub the mirror clear. And still the strange face stared back. And now she saw, with horror, it was her own… and the hair was grey, quite, quite grey. Dead hair. She wanted to cry out in pity for her hair as though it were some treasure, separate from herself, some lovely, lost thing… Mortimer had loved it once. It has its own life, he used to say; it lives, it moves, it changes with every changing light. Those early days in France he would shift the lamp this way and that watching her hair move from green-gold to ripe corn. Now it would never change again. Dead hair. That her face was yellow, the eyes staring from bruised sockets, she held of little account; it would pass. But her hair, her hair…

Terror on Mortimer’s account was, for the moment, diverted to herself. What value in life to a woman that has no beauty to offer her lover? Though ambition drove Mortimer to her bed, some beauty he did demand—pride in his manhood required it. And, for all he pricked her with her age, when they lay together her beauty stirred him still. In the net of her golden hair she had taken him, held him. And now? What had love, passion, lust—call it what you would—to do with old, dead hair? Mortimer would come no more to her bed; and without him she did not want to live. But we are not free to choose; nor would she dare to die, her sins upon her. She was but thirty-five; and the years stretched ahead, the empty years.

She put her hands to her face and wept like a child.

It was the tiring-woman that brought her from the worst of her grief. ‘Madam I have a brew; I had it from my grandmother, a noted wise woman. Soon Madam Queen Isabella will look herself again!’ The promise restored her courage. The years ahead were good years. First of all she would save Mortimer; then she would gather her friends, plan fresh victories.

But, for all that, she did not sleep that night nor any night of this tormenting journey. If, for a little, she drifted into sleep she would awaken herself with weeping… Mortimer’s body swung before her; and sometimes it lay headless in the black pool of his own blood.

The slowness of the journey maddened her; she was in a fever to reach London. She commanded Montague to halt nowhere, to ride through the night. He informed her that, by the King’s orders, they were to travel by easy stages to save Madam Queen Isabella the fatigues of hasty travel. He was the perfection of courtesy, but it was clear that her wishes did not count. She knew now with anguish and desolation that the King meant to have Mortimer executed without the nuisance of her tears. She had comforted herself that without trial they could not judge him, without her signature dared not kill him. But could they not, dare they not? Dare they, indeed, allow him to live?

She forced herself to sit quiet in her place, to thank Montague for his courtesy; for all his dislike he must admire her. This slow, hopeless journey was a most cruel punishment; that the punishment was inevitable, the natural consequence of her own ill deeds, did not make it less cruel.

Through the Autumn weather went the slow, tormenting procession; on either hand lay the golden harvest. It should, she thought, be her own harvest-time; she should be gathering her own golden fruits. It came to her with appalling desolation that, if they killed Mortimer it must be winter with her now and for ever.

London at last. After the week of torment she saw its walls and towers black against the pale night sky. As she neared the northern gate she was taken, without reason, by a fit of shivering. The gates opened to let her through; the streets were all-but empty. She was glad of that; demonstrations along the road had not been pleasant. Had her son commanded so late an entry to spare her the ignominy of a hostile crowd? If he had she might expect grace from such gentleness.

He had, indeed, commanded it and for that reason. But the gentleness was Philippa’s; there could be no grace from him.

Some few citizens were taking the evening air. The riders, the men-at-arms challenged attention; the royal charette was recognised. Suddenly the street was black with people, the air menacing with noise. Two sounds repeated over and over, sharp, ugly, scarce to be recognised as words. But all the same she recognised them. Spiteful as flung stones, heavy as blows, blows upon the heart.

She-wolf! She-wolf!

Pale, Montague rode up to take his place by the charette; God alone knew how long the mob would content itself with insult! She showed no fear; only the curled lip, the pinched nostril showed her disgust; for what were they but barking dogs? And she forgot that once she had courted their favour, enjoyed their love; she forgot, also, it is in the nature of dogs to bite.

She said, ‘I care
this
for them!’ And snapped her fingers. ‘I am blind to them, deaf to them; their stink, however, I cannot escape!’ ‘But
fear
them?’ She pulled the curtains wide; and since she could not be well seen through the horn of the window, rose and flung upon the doors.

She stood there, the lines of grief, of fatigue, of ill-living washed from her face by the gentle dusk. Unflinching, royal and most beautiful she dared them all; and the crowd that had gathered to do her injury fell silent. And in that silence she passed. It was, perhaps, the greatest single triumph of her life.

Through London, between crowds silent and hostile she passed—an image dedicated to her own Queenship. The Tower, its walls and keep rose before her. In this place Mortimer had languished and she had contrived his escape. Could she save him once again? Had he already come to the block; and did the ravens already pick at his bones? Or did he hang upon the gallows, her son refusing him the nobler death? She remembered the king’s face as she had seen it last. She was not hopeful.

Why were they bringing her to the Tower? Did they intend to imprison her—Madam Queen Isabella? Or even to quiet her for ever? If it suited their book they’d put an end to her here and now; afterwards they would make all good with fair words.
Put her to death!
Her son would not allow it. But Lancaster would allow it; would, taking a leaf out of her own book, hurry the business on. Her son would know nothing until the thing was done. Her heart was down; but her head was high as the procession halted.

At the royal entrance the governor stood to receive her. She was to enter as a Queen; that, at least, was reassuring. All was as usual. Yet it was not quite as usual. There was neither smile nor any sign of welcome; above due courtesy his face was blank as an egg. But for all that the Queen’s lodgings were ready and waiting. A good fire burned; there was bread-and-meat on the table, there was a flagon of wine and a dish of apples. Not lavish entertainment for a Queen but it would do. In the inner chamber the bed stood ready, the linen fresh and smooth; when the woman tuned back the sheets the bed was warm with heated bricks.

Eat she could not; she longed for the waiting bed but restlessness forbade her; restlessness and disquiet. The woman dismissed, Isabella knelt upon the window-seat. Little enough to see; all-but bare branches against the night-dark sky, dark mass of wall and tower and the gleam of the river heavy and oily beyond. There was little sound either beyond the creaking of boughs, the footsteps of the watch, the password demanded and given. The very ravens slept, gorged, no doubt, with flesh…
whose
flesh? She shuddered. And now breaking upon the small noises, the long roar of the lions within their cages. For the first time she pitied them, the royal beasts caged and confined. Like them, too, she was caged and confined. And she remembered that, from this very room, Mortimer had escaped to freedom; but though the door opened at her touch, for her there was no escape unless her son chose to set her free!