The Follies of the King (43 page)

He took away my friends; he deprived me of my rights. And now he is in my hands these are his just deserts.

There was little satisfaction though, for Hugh was so quiet. Once she heard a faint moaning, but there were no cries for mercy.

She reached for Mortimer’s hand. He seized it and pressed it.

This was the end of Hugh, they were both thinking. There remained the King.

Edward was numb with grief. Why was life so cruel to him? First they had taken Gaveston and now Hugh. Why was it his love always brought disaster?

And what now? He was too numb to care.

They were taking him to Kenilworth. His cousin Henry of Lancaster had come to him and told him that he was to be his guest.

Henry had looked at him with compassion. Strangely enough he seemed to understand.

So they rode side by side to Lancaster’s castle of Kenilworth which lay between Warwick and Coventry. Lancaster was proud of the place. Edward’s grandfather, Henry III, had given it to his youngest son and so Lancaster had inherited it.

‘Have no fear, I shall not harm you, my lord,’ he said, and Edward thought how strange it was that a subject should speak to his King in such a manner. He might have been incensed, he might have been apprehensive but he could think of nothing but:
Hugh is dead.

He lay in the room which had been prepared for him. There were guards at the door to remind him that he was a prisoner. An ironic situation indeed. A King the prisoner of his Queen!

Oh Isabella, Isabella
, he thought.
I never really knew you. those years you were so meek; you bore my children. You waited patiently until I had time to spare for you. Gaveston never knew what your real thoughts were. Too late Hugh discovered; and even then I would not believe it. And now Mortimer is your lover. You― Isabella.

She was like her father— Philip the Handsome, ruthless, implacable, feared by all until that final day of reckoning when he lay on his death-bed and knew that the curse put on him and his heirs by the Templars was being fulfilled.

Isabella was cruel. Isabella was ruthless. She hated him. He wondered what she and Mortimer would do now.

The days passed. Lancaster came to him— gentle and apologetic.
It is not my fault that you are here, my lord,
he seemed to say,
I but obey orders.

It was never wise to offend a King. However low he had fallen, who could know when he would come back into power again?

That was a heartening thought. Was that why Lancaster was always respectful? Oh no, it was more than that. Henry was his cousin; they were both royal; men who were close to the throne had the greatest respect for It.

Henry and he played chess together. It whiled away the hours.

‘Henry,’ he asked, ‘how long will you keep me here?’

Henry lifted his shoulders. Doubtless it would be for Mortimer to say.

Mortimer. That upstart from the Marcher country, a man who had been the King’s prisoner and escaped! Oh, what a fool not to have had his head long ago.

But when he looked back, it was over a lifetime of follies. A headless Mortimer would never have escaped from the Tower, would never have become the Queen’s lover, would never have captured the King.

But perhaps Mortimer was merely the tool. She would have found another lover, another man to lead her armies. She was his real enemy, the She-Wolf of France.

He tried to give himself to the game. Even in that he was beaten. He had never been able to plan an artful strategy Lancaster could beat him on the board as his brother had done in life. But Lancaster had come to a tragic end. He had not won in the end.

‘Checkmate,’ said Henry triumphant.

The King shrugged his shoulders. He said: ‘You are a kinder jailer than I might have hoped for, cousin.’

Lancaster rearranged the pieces on the board.

‘I do not forget your royalty, my lord,’ he replied.

‘You have never forgiven me for the fate of your brother,’ said Edward. ‘But I was not to blame. If he had not parleyed with the Scots― he would be alive today.’

‘He was a great man, my lord. His trial was hasty and he had no chance to defend himself.’

‘Let us not go over the past,’ said Edward. ‘It is over and done with. There have been many mistakes. Let us not brood on them cousin. You have been my enemy and it is for this reason that the Queen and her paramour have given me into your keeping. You have done everything you could to preserve your brother’s honour and that I understand. You built a cross for his soul outside Leicester. You proclaimed that miracles had been performed at his tomb and you tried to make a saint of him, knowing full well that the more men revered him, the more they would revile their King.’

‘It was your friendships, my lord, which made the people revile you.’

‘I have been maligned and condemned,’ cried the King. ‘I have lost those whom I loved best. But what I can say is that I have received kindness at your hands and I did not expect it. You and I have not been friends, Henry, cousins though we be. And it is because of the enmity between us that I am put in your care. Yet you show me kindness. It is something which moves me.’

His cousin lowered his eyes to the board.

‘Another game, my lord?’ he asked. ‘Would you wish to have your revenge?’

The King wanted to laugh aloud. His revenge. Yes, he would like to have his revenge― his revenge on the murderers of Hugh and his father. Oh the tortures they had inflicted on that loved body. His revenge on Isabella, the traitoress.

Ah, if only he could move the men and women of his kingdom to the places where he wanted them to be as easily as he could move the pieces on the chessboard!

* * *

The Queen rode out in her silken dress adorned with shining gold buttons; her skirt flowed over her palfry, and about her shoulders was an ermine coat.

She looked beautiful and royal. The people of London cheered her. She was their ruler now. It was time the King was set aside. From the day he had worn the crown he had shown himself unworthy. They had always loved the Queen.

She had responded to their admiration; she had shown them clearly that of all the people of England the Londoners held first place in her heart.

Beside her rode her son Edward— his young face stern. He had grown up quickly in the last weeks and was beginning to understand what would be required of him.

She was going to the Tower to receive the members of Parliament who would come to tell her what the decision had been.

Already she guessed it. They would depose the King and young Edward should be proclaimed Edward III. It was what she had worked for! Her son King and she and Mortimer the Regents who should control him and rule the land.

It was like the fulfilment of a dream.

She and Mortimer as they lay in bed the previous night had talked of their coming power. Edward would turn to them for advice and they would govern the land in his name. She often thought how wise she had been to remain meek and compliant until she had her children.

She said: ‘Edward is behaving strangely. He is quiet― too thoughtful.’

‘Oh come, love,’ cried Mortimer, ‘he is such a boy. He regards you as a goddess. You will have no difficulty in making him obey you.’

She allowed Mortimer to believe that she accepted this but she continued uneasy.

Yet how sweet were the cheers of the Londoners in her ears! She was foolish to have these doubts.

The prize was just about to be handed to her. A King who was but a boy and would need a Regent and who should that be but his mother who had raised an army and brought it from across the Channel to depose his father of whom they all wished to be rid?

She entered the Tower. In the royal apartments she and Mortimer awaited the coming of the ministers.

She received them eagerly and their first words sent her spirits soaring.

The Parliament had decided that Edward the Second must be deposed and his first-born son Edward crowned Edward the Third. This had the unanimous agreement of all the barons and the clergy.

Isabella clasped her hands together and tried not to show her jubilation.

‘My son is young yet,’ she said slowly.

‘There will be a Regency, my lady.’

A Regency indeed! The Queen. Who else? And she would choose her dear and gentle Mortimer to stand beside her.

‘The matter has been, given much consideration, my lady. The Parliament will select four bishops, four earls and six barons to form a Regency. It is the opinion that one bishop, one earl and two barons should be in constant attendance upon the young King.’

She could not believe she had heard aright. A Regency which did not include her! What were they thinking of? To whose efforts did they owe the King’s defeat? Who but Isabella had rid them of the worthless Edward?

With admirable restraint she hid her fury.

She dismissed them saying she would impart their decision to the young King.

She went immediately to Mortimer and her rage burst forth.

‘How dare they! I would hang them all. After all I have done. It does not occur to them to name me. Why? Because I am a woman? Is that it? Who raised the army? Who planned for years? Surely there is no one―’ she looked at Mortimer and added, ‘nay two who would be the natural Regents?’

‘My love,’ said Mortimer, ‘this is a cruel blow, but let us plan carefully. It is your son who will decide to whom he will listen. Let them give him his barons and bishops. You are still his mother.’

She held out her hand and he kissed it. ‘How you always comfort me, Mortimer,’ she said.

‘It is my purpose in life, my dearest.’

‘Yes, we shall defeat them,’ she said. ‘You and I will not be set aside for these men.’

‘Assuredly we shall not.’

They sat down on one of the window-seats and he put an arm about her.

‘How beautiful you looked this day in your regal ermine,’ he said soothingly. ‘A Queen in very truth.’

‘But not good enough to be their Regent,’ she said bitterly.

‘Isabella, my love. We shall outwit them all. Do not forget. We have young Edward.’

She nodded but she was not completely at ease. She had begun to have doubts about Edward.

* * *

She was right in thinking that the young Edward was becoming apprehensive. He was beginning to understand more of what was going on around him. He could not be proud of his parents and he now knew why people had constantly compared him with his grandfather.

His father had been weak and dissolute, favouring handsome young men and frittering away the kingdom’s wealth in extravagant gifts for them. His mother was living in open adultery with Roger de Mortimer, and they made no attempt to hide it.

He often thought of that brief period when they had stayed at Hainault and he and Philippa had talked together. He had told her a great deal about his perplexities and, although she had been very sheltered from the world and did not understand half those problems which beset him, she had shown him a wonderful sympathy, an adulation almost which had been very sweet to him.

He had told her that he was going to marry her. It was fortunate that there had been some arrangement between his mother and her parents that he should marry her or one of her sisters.

‘Rest assured, Philippa,’ he had vowed, ‘it shall be you.’

She had believed him. Although he was but a few months older than she was and they were only in their fifteenth year there was a resolution about him which she trusted would bring him what he wanted. To her Edward was like a god, strong, handsome, determined to do what was right. She had never met anyone like him, she had said; and he had replied that she felt thus because they were intended for each other.

Strange events were happening all around him. His father was a prisoner. It was wrong surely that a King should be made the prisoner of his subjects. But it was not exactly his subjects who had made him a prisoner. It was his wife, the Queen.

He had been fond of his father as he had been of his mother, for he had always been kind to him, had shown him affection and been proud of him. His mother, though, had charmed him. When she had taken him to France he had begun to feel uneasy because of the trouble about his father. Hainault had been a brief respite because Philippa was there. But since their return to England events had moved fast. There had actually been war between his father and mother and his mother was notorious. The Despensers had been brutally done to death and his father was a prisoner. Wliat would they do to him?

A cold feeling of horror came over him.

‘I like it not,’ he said aloud, ‘and by nature of who I am, I am in the centre of this.’

When his mother came to him with the Archbishop of Canterbury and his uncies the Earls of Kent and Norfolk he was ready for them.

They knelt before him; there was a new respect in their manner; he believed that something had happened to his father.

The Archbishop spoke first. ‘My lord,’ he said, ‘the King your father, showing himself unworthy to wear the crown―’