The Three Edwards (39 page)

The tendency in some historical records to blame everything indiscriminately on Isabella is noticed in statements that she favored her son’s submission because it would be to the advantage of her cousin, Philip VI. This may be termed the third absurdity in dealing with the relations between mother and son. Philip of Valois had been a mere hobbledehoy
when she left France to marry Edward II. It is not recorded that she saw anything of him during the time she lived in voluntary exile at the court of her brother Charles, and it is significant that the one member of the French royal family with whom she was on cordial terms was Robert of Artois. Philip VI is depicted as “hard and coarse” and was generally disliked. Why, then, would the queen work in his interests when her own were so clearly bound up in the claims of her son? She believed Edward should obey the summons, but for the same reason as Parliament, the fear that otherwise that hard and coarse king would confiscate all the French possessions.

The young king had been carefully coached. He came to Amiens Cathedral, where the act of homage was to be performed, and found that Philip of France had gathered a brilliant company to observe the ceremony, including the kings of Navarre, Bohemia, and Majorca. The choir of the cathedral, in fact, was filled with the nobility of France. The appearance of the young king was the cause of an immediate hush. Some of the spectators had seen him when he was at the court of France with his mother, but they were not prepared for the tall and handsome man who stalked proudly down the aisle. It has already been stated that Edward had an ostentatious side to him and that all his life he was fond of show. This was one occasion when he took every means to appear at his best.

He wore his crown on his head and his sword at his side, and he was garbed in a long robe of the finest crimson velvet, with the leopards of England emblazoned on it in gold. There were gold spurs on his heels. The French king had thought to array himself in what seemed regal state, with his crown and scepter and a robe of blue velvet, but he looked as dark and plain as a native warbler compared to the bird-of-paradise splendor of the young Plantagenet.

The English king proceeded to give his own version of the oath of homage. Reaching his place in front of the throne in the choir where Philip sat, he inclined his body in a bow instead of going down on one knee as was the custom.

“Philip, King of France,” he declared in loud and clear tones, “I, Edward, by the grace of God King of England, lord of Ireland, and Duke of Aquitaine, do hereby become thy man, to hold the duchy of Guienne as duke thereof, and the earldom of Ponthieu and Montreuil as my predecessors did homage for the said duchy and earldom to thy predecessors.”

Philip had difficulty in suppressing his surprise and dissatisfaction. He
whispered to his chancellor, the Vicomte de Melun, to inform the English king that this would not suffice.

“Let my liege man know,” he said, “that the only proper manner in which to approach me is to put off the crown and ungird the sword. He must do homage bareheaded and on his knees. His hands must be placed between mine and he must swear fealty to me
as his sovereign lord
.”

Edward’s instructions had been precise and clear. He must not acknowledge Philip as his sovereign lord nor place his hands between those of the French monarch. He protested now that he owed simple homage only and not liege homage. On his return to England he would consult the archives and find to what extent his ancestors had bound themselves for their French possessions.

“Cousin,” said Philip, “we would not deceive you and what you have now done contenteth us well until you have returned to your own country and seen from the acts of your predecessors what you ought to do.”

“Grammercy, Sir King,” answered Edward.

The oath was then administered and he responded,
“Voire”
(So be it).

Two years later letters were sent to the French king in which Edward declared that “the homage which he did at Amiens to the King of France in general terms is and must be understood as liege.” Thus was the point between them resolved.

T
HE nation was slow to wrath where Isabella and Mortimer were concerned, but in time the cloak of their iniquity was torn from them. When Mortimer came with an armed retinue to the Parliament at Salisbury on October 24, 1328, and began to display all the airs of a dictator, the Earl of Lancaster refused to attend. He stayed at Winchester with a small force and was joined there by the two royal uncles and many other national leaders. Mortimer demanded an immediate adjournment of Parliament to allow him time to punish the absent barons. He then ravaged the lands of Lancaster, an operation in which the young king joined. The opposition barons met at London and formed an alliance to offer armed resistance to the pretentious favorite.

Mortimer, who seems to have had all the instincts of a modern gangster, decided to strike back boldly, selecting as his victim the mildest of the royal uncles, Edmund of Kent. Ever since the death of Edward II there had been strange rumors circulating in England to the effect that the deposed king had escaped and was still alive. Mortimer used this story to draw the unfortunate Edmund into a trap.

The story current at the time was, briefly, that Edward II had been able to escape from Berkeley through the kindness of the owner of the castle, Lord Berkeley, but that he was still in captivity. Before proceeding with the use made by Mortimer of this rumor, it will be interesting to explain that the story, backed by substantial evidence, came to light again in the nineteenth century. Documents were discovered which stated categorically that the escaped prisoner went first to Corfe Castle, then ventured over to Ireland, and finally reached the continent. He visited Pope John XXII at Avignon and was kindly received and kept as a guest for a fortnight. He then journeyed to Italy, where he remained the rest of his life. The only piece of contributory evidence is the report from
Walwayn which was recovered from the records in recent years, as already explained, and which acknowledged that Edward’s release had been effected but that he had been recaptured.

An article appeared in the
Fortnightly Review
of December 1, 1913, by Ethel Harter which described evidence she had found on a visit to Acqui in Italy. The castle of Melazzo stands on a hilltop within a short distance of Acqui, and in the entrance hall are two marble tablets on facing walls. The first tablet (translated from the Latin) states that

Edward II Plantagenet, King of England, deposed from his throne by act of Parliament in MCCCXVII and imprisoned in Berkeley Castle, fled providentially from the knives of the assassins Sir Thomas de Gorney and Simon de Ebersford [clearly Sir Simon de Beresford, Mortimer’s friend], hired by his inhuman wife Queen Isabel of France, was afterwards hospitably received in Avignon by Pope John XXII and after many adventurous wanderings remained concealed for two years and a half in this Castle of Melazzo which then belonged to the diocese of Milan.

The second tablet is of later date and contains an explanation of a document discovered in 1877 by the French historian Alexandre Germain in a chartulary among the episcopal archives at Magueloni (which do not carry beyond the year 1368) and which he published in a brochure in 1878. This document purports to be a copy of a letter written by Manuele de Fiesco (or Fieschi) in 1337 to Edward III.

The Earl of Kent, who was with Isabella when she landed her army, had been repenting ever since the part he had played. He was a man of limited capacity, fickle and vain and easily led, although of decent instincts in the main. He had not recovered from the shock of the murder of the deposed king, his half brother, and he became interested at once in a story which a mysterious friar told him. The friar came to his house at Kensington and swore the devil had revealed to him in a dream that Edward II was still alive and being held in captivity at Corfe. To check on this strange story, the friar had gone to Corfe and had been shown through the bars of a cell a seated figure which resembled the former king greatly in stature and face.

The earl went at once to Corfe and demanded of the governor that he be allowed to speak with his brother, Edward of Caernarvon. The governor, a party to the conspiracy, did not deny that the deposed king was being held in the castle, but he declared firmly that he could not permit anyone to see him. The thought of his unfortunate brother being in such close confinement aroused in Edmund of Kent a deep desire to do something
for him. He sat down and wrote a letter which he requested be handed by the governor to his prisoner.

Edmund then stepped deeper into the net by telling others of his conviction that the ex-king was still alive. He seems to have convinced Archbishop Melton of York and Bishop Gravesend of London among others. He was even imprudent enough to make speeches demanding that something be done in the matter. On March 13, 1330, he was arrested and at an inquest held before Robert Howel, the coroner of the royal household, he acknowledged the authorship of the letter written at Corfe. This confession was taken before Parliament, which was sitting at Windsor, and he was charged with treason. The weak and undoubtedly befuddled earl was led in to hear his sentence, clothed in nothing but his shirt and with a rope around his neck. He made an abject plea for mercy but was declared guilty and sentenced to death. The clerical offenders were released under sureties.

To prevent any measures which might be taken in his behalf, it was decided to carry out the sentence the next day. This decision undoubtedly was made by Isabella and Mortimer. Two explanations are given in various chronicles for the failure of the king to intervene. One is that Isabella kept him so beset with matters of state that he had no time to think of the fate of his uncle, with whom, it should be pointed out, he had always been on affectionate terms. This, of course, is beyond the limits of belief. An impending execution is an event which grips the emotions and cannot be dismissed lightly from the mind, particularly when the condemned one is of royal rank and close in relationship. The second explanation is that the young king was away when this happened. The weakness here is that Parliament was sitting at the time, and duty would have kept Edward at his post. The writ of execution would need the stamp of the Great Seal. Had Edward allowed possession of the Seal to his mother and Mortimer?

There is a bare possibility that he had ridden to Woodstock, where his young consort was expecting the arrival of their first child and that this cruel travesty of justice was put through in his absence. This contingency is not mentioned in any reports of the case. It is the only explanation which would exempt the young king from a share of the odium.

Early the next morning the earl was led out to the block. Word of what was happening had spread and a sense of horror had gripped the immediate countryside. This was even felt by the official headsman, who was not on hand when the white-faced prisoner reached the place of execution in the light of dawn. It was found that the executioner, to avoid any part in this terrible act, had run away. The unfortunate earl was kept beside the block while efforts were made to find someone ready to take the place of the absconding headsman. For long hours no one could be induced to wield the ax, and in the meantime the pallid Edmund, hoping
against hope, believing to the very end that his nephew would intervene in his behalf, stood beside the instruments of death. Finally a prisoner under sentence of death was persuaded to perform the act in return for a pardon. It was nearly dusk when the head of Edmund of Kent rolled from the block.