The Follies of the King (18 page)

‘My lord, where would you have us take it?’

‘Take it―’ He tried to think. ‘Anywhere,’ he cried, ‘but away from here.

‘Take it to the Dominicans of Oxford. They will give it temporary refuge.’

So wild did he look with the foam at his mouth― Gaveston’s mad dog indeed.

The men hurried off. They knew that Gaveston could not be buried in concentrated ground. He had died excommunicate and with all his sins upon him.

* * *

Lancaster alone took responsibility for the death of Gaveston. He despised the others for their fear. He had disobeyed the laws. He had filched a fortune from the King. No― Nothing could have saved him.

‘I have no fear,’ said Lancaster. ‘The King will hate me for this but the people will be with me. The Queen will applaud me. I promised her to rid her of this man and I have done so. Why should I fear the King? I have my private army. I am as royal as he is. If the King cannot rule this land, then must others do it for him.’

Thomas Lancaster believed he could boldly admit to the judicial killing of an outlaw and a thief and a man who had threatened the peace of the country.

‘Gaveston is dead,’ said Lancaster. ‘We will go on from there.’

WHEN the King heard of Gaveston’s murder those about him thought his grief would drive him mad. For days he shut himself into his chamber and would see no one. His attendants heard him wailing in his misery. He found some relief in calling vengeance on Lancaster, Warwick, Hereford and Arundel who had been responsible for the death of the finest man on Earth.

No one could soothe him in those first days but later the Queen insisted on going to him.

She was large with child now and the sight of her seemed to give him some comfort.

She feigned compassion but she felt none, only exultancy because Gaveston was dead. She had thought often of Lancaster and the ardent look in his eyes when he had said: ‘I will rid you of this man.’

He had taken great risks, and had removed Gaveston from their lives forever.

Edward was babbling of his talents. She pretended to listen and she let her hand rest on the child and to herself she said:
We will show this man for the fool he is, when you are born, my child. You will grow up and you will be a great King and your mother will always be beside you. The people despise your father but I will give England another King such as the first Edward and the people will welcome you in place of your ignoble father.

How she despised him— his eyes red with weeping, his stupid babbling about the virtues of Gaveston. Gaveston had no virtue. All he had was a talent for self-aggrandizement and he was not even clever enough for that, for all that he had had a few years run he had ended without his head on Blacklow Hill.

Edward said to her: ‘To kill him so. To treat him thus. Oh Isabella― I cannot bear my life without him.’

She stroked his hair. What a fool he was! Like a girl. But he was indeed handsome. Who would have believed that those strong golden looks― inherited from his father― should disguise such a girlish nature. A poor weak creature masquerading as a king.

He should be her puppet now. She had powerful friends. Lancaster was undoubtedly one and when the child was born if it were a boy― She willed it to be a boy. And if not― Then she must get more and more until she had her boy.

‘What can I do without him, Isabella? You know what he meant to me?’

She said: ‘He should be given a decent burial. Why do you not have his body taken to Kings Langley? You have constantly spoken of the happy days you shared there with him in your boyhood.’

He seized her hands. ‘Oh, Isabella, you are good to me. You give me courage. You give me hope.’

Inwardly she laughed.
You fool. Don’t you know that I hate him more than any of them?
He had earned Warwick’s enmity by sneering at him and calling him the Mad Hound of Arden. He maddened others with his serpent’s tongue.

But none was humiliated as much as you have humiliated me, and I shall remember even as those barons did.

‘Well then,’ she said. ‘let us consider his tomb and should not prayers be said for his soul? Remember,’ she added maliciously, ‘he died with all his sins upon him.’

‘Gaveston will charm the angels. He need have no fear.’

‘They may not share your tendencies, Edward,’ she said sharply. Then she added quickly: ‘It would be well to have masses said for his soul. I am sure you see what I mean.’

‘It shall be done. Oh Isabella, it must be done quickly. Nothing― simply nothing must be forgotten.’

“We will arrange it together,’ she said.

‘I will have Lancaster’s head for this.’

‘You must be watchful of Lancaster, Edward. He is the most powerful man in the country.’

‘But I am the King, Isabella. Have you forgotten that?’

‘Not I. But others might. Much as you loved Gaveston, the people did not.’

‘They were fed lies.’

‘Oh they liked not his influence with you. Barons like Warwick and Lancaster were determined he should die. He should never have come back.’

‘Oh, no, no. If he had not, he would still be alive.’

‘Now he shall rest peacefully in Kings Langley. Edward, the barons are ready to rise against you. You will have to be careful with Lancaster.’

‘Lancaster! I will have his head.’

‘Your own cousin. He is popular with the people.’

‘I must remind you again, Isabella, that I am the King.’

‘Kings fall. Remember your grandfather Henry. There was a time when Simon de Montfort made him a prisoner. Your great-grandfather John was in even worse plight.’

‘I wish people would not always talk of those two. Look at my father. Men trembled at the sight of him and the sound of his voice.’

‘Edward, you are not your father.’

He was silent. Even the mention of the old man could subdue him still.

‘Listen,’ she said. ‘Pembroke and Warenne are disgusted with Warwick, Hereford and Arundel. Pembroke moans that he was forced to break his word and he fears he will lose his estates to you.’

‘He should have taken more care.’

‘He should indeed. Bind Pembroke to you, Edward. Don’t you see that this split between the barons can be your salvation? Pembroke and Lancaster are engaged in a feud which is greater than that between you and Lancaster.’

‘Nothing could be greater than that. I regard Lancaster as Perrot’s murderer.’

‘Yes, yes. But Pembroke is a powerful man. The people admire him. And because of what has happened he will be with you― not against you. Don’t you see, this has not turned out so badly. Oh, I beg of you, do not start again on the virtues of Gaveston. We must put that behind us. Give him the best burial we can and a good chance in heaven by exhortations to the saints. Let us set up our candles and let prayers be said for his soul, but Gaveston is gone and we are here.’

Even as they were talking, messengers came hurrying to the King from Pembroke. Lancaster, Hereford, and Warwick were marching on London. They knew full well that the King would want to take action against them and they were taking action first.

Isabella smiled secretly. Lancaster was a bold man. This was not the time however to depose Edward. Her child must be born first. He must have a son, a symbol, a new King before the old one was set aside.

Gloucester was without. An earnest young man and loyal to the king. He knelt and kissed Edward’s hand.

‘Well, cousin?’ asked Edward.

‘My lord, Lancaster marches on London. He has strong support. He must not be allowed into the city.

‘Let him come,’ retorted Edward. ‘I would have his head. I would show him what I feel for him now that he has robbed me of my best friend.’

Gloucester said: ‘If he came to London there could be civil war. Let the gates be closed my lord and warn the Londoners to be on guard.’

Isabella interrupted: ‘Our cousin is right, Edward. This is no time for conflict.’

So it was done and Lancaster himself was somewhat relieved that there should not be open conflict. Now there would be conferences between the barons which could last for weeks and meanwhile the King could subdue his grief and perhaps forget his ire; and it might well be that the difficult situation could be eased somewhat. It was hardly likely that the King would ever forgive the murderers of his beloved Gaveston but it was always better to let matters settle down before rash action was taken.

* * *

The Queen had gone to Windsor for her lying in. At last the waiting was over and her desire to hold her child in her arms obsessed her.

She had chosen Windsor for the birth. It was one of her favorite palaces as it had been for Queen Eleanor who had brought the children there because she had thought the draughtiness of the Tower of London was bad for their health.

Isabella now lay in her bed and thought of how her life would be changed when this child was born. If it were a boy, everything would have been worthwhile.

Her pains were beginning. She welcomed them. She was praying to the Virgin, who should intercede for women.

‘Oh Holy Mary, give me a son. I have waited long. I have suffered humiliation which has been hard to bear for a woman of my proud nature.

Please
give me my son.’

Pain engulfed her. She did not shrink from it.
Anything― anything but give me my son.

She lost consciousness and was aroused to the sound of voices about her.

Then― the cry of a child.

She heard someone say, ‘Look, the Queen opens her eyes.’

‘My lady―’

How long they were. It seemed as though time had slowed down.

‘My― child―’

Then the blessed words: ‘A boy, my lady. A healthy boy― sound in limb and in good voice. A fine boy.’

A smile of triumph was on her lips as she held out her arms.

* * *

She caressed him. She examined him. He was perfect.

‘His legs are long,’ she said. ‘He will be like his grandfather.’

They noticed that she did not mention his father.

‘He is beautiful. Look― his hair is already so fair. Like a golden down. He’s a Plantagenet. It is obvious already.’

They agreed with her. The nurses clucked over him. They had never seen such a child, they assured her. He surpassed all other children.

Of course, he did. He was to be a king.

She said: ‘I have decided he shall be called Edward.’

‘The King will be pleased.’

She thought:
Not after him. After his grandfather. I pray he may not be like his father. No, he should not be. Tall, fine, manly. A great king. But one who would listen to his mother.

Edward came. He stared at the child and none had seen him so delighted since Gaveston had died. He was smiling. Just for a few moments he forgot his beloved friend.

‘He is― perfect,’ he cried incredulously.

‘In every way,’ the child’s mother assured him. ‘Give him to me. I cannot bear not to have my eyes on him all the time.’

‘
My
son,’ said Edward as though bewildered. ‘My own son.’

‘Your son,’ she answered, ‘and mine.’

‘There is rejoicing throughout the land,’ he went on. ‘They are talking of it at Court. They want him to be named Louis.’

‘I will not have it,’ said the Queen. ‘His name is Edward. Louis is not the name of a King of England but a King of France. He is Edward. I will have no other name.’

Edward knelt by the bed and kissed her hand. ‘I am so proud of him,’ he said. ‘My son.’

‘Yes, Edward,’ she answered, ‘and mine also.’

He took the child in his arms and walked about the room with it.

He has forgotten Gaveston― momentarily,
she thought.

She was glad to see his delight in the child, but her intentions towards him had not changed at all. He had fathered the child, and they must have more. But little Edward was hers, entirely hers.

As she lay in bed with her baby beside her, she thought of the future. The people would be with her. They liked her youthful beauty as soon as they set eyes on it and the King’s treatment of her had incensed them so that they had immediately taken her part. That she had apparently forgiven him for his disgraceful behaviour with Gaveston and now actually given them the heir they wanted, made her seem something like a saint in their eyes.

She must never lose the respect of the people and in particular those of the City of London.

She therefore decided to acquaint them with the arrival of her son, to send them a personal message and to order that there be rejoicing throughout the capital.

She wrote to the citizens of London.

Isabella, by the grace of God Queen of England, Lady of Ireland, and Duchess of Aquitaine, to our well-beloved mayor and Alderman and the Commonality of London, greetings. Forasmuch as we believe you would willingly bear good tidings of us, we do make it known to you that our Lord in his Grace has delivered us of a son, on the 15th day of November with safety to ourselves and to the child.