Текст книги "The Follies of the King"

Автор книги: Jean Plaidy

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‘The King― against Warwick, Lancaster, Arundel and God knows how

many more! Do you want to plunge this war for the sake of that man?’

‘I gave my word.’

‘Then you should have taken more pains to make sure you kept it.’

‘It seemed safe enough. He was well guarded. Warwick came by night with

an overpowering force.’

‘You never should have left him. You should have taken him to the castle

with you.’

‘I know that now. But at the time it seemed safe.’

Gloucester shrugged his shoulders.

‘I have pledged my lands to the King for his safety,’ pleaded Pembroke. ‘I shall lose everything.’

‘Then mayhap this will teach you to be a better trader next time.’

‘But he was promised safe conduct.’

Gloucester turned away. He could not shut out the sight of Gaveston’s face, the eyes glittering, the mouth slightly lifted at one comer. ‘That Whoreson Gloucester―’

Gaveston would now pay for the fury he had aroused in the hearts of

powerful men.

It was their turn now.

–――――――

Lancaster, Hereford and Arundel had arrived at Warwick Castle.

‘So you have him here,’ said Lancaster.

‘He is in one of the dungeons. He has lost his bombast. He is now full of

fear as to what we have planned for him.’

‘So should he be,’ replied Lancaster grimly.

‘What shall we do with him?’ asked Warwick,

‘He must not be allowed to live,’ Lancaster pointed out. ‘Every day he is

alive could mean danger. What if the King mustered an army and came to take him? What would our position be then?’

‘We should be fighting against the crown,’ put in Warwick. ‘Civil war.

There was enough of that under John and Henry.’

‘There is one thing to be done,’ said Lancaster. ‘We must pronounce

sentence and carry it ont. The man is a traitor. He has stolen the crown jewels. A fortune was left behind at Scarborough. He is under excommunication. He

deserves death and at a trial he would be found guilty. My lord, there is one thing we must do. We must carry out the sentence before there is more trouble.’

‘He deserves the traitor’s death.’

‘Hanged, drawn and quartered. Yes, but how? Moreover, he is connected by

marriage with Gloucester’s sister which gives him a link with royalty. It is enough that he loses his head.’

‘Who will strike the blow?’ asked Hereford looking from Warwick to

Lancaster.

Arundel said: ‘The man who does that places himself in danger.’

‘It is no time to think of that,’ retorted Lancaster sharply. ‘The blow must be struck. He must lose his head.’

‘When?’ asked Arundel.

‘This night.’

‘So soon?’

‘Who knows what tomorrow could bring?’ cried Lancaster. ‘What if the

King arrived to take him from us?’

‘There will be no peace in this land while he lives,’ said Warwick. ‘The

people will rise against the King if Gaveston goes back to him. They like not this relationship between them. They want him to be with his Queen. They want another man such as his father was― a family man who will give the country heirs.’

‘Great Edward the First gave us our present King. He was great in all things save one– the giving of an heir.’

‘Hush my lord. That’s treason.’

‘Treason― among friends. We know it is all true.’

‘That may be. But let us rid the country of Gaveston and see what comes

then.’

‘He must go.’

They all agreed to that. And who should actually strike the blow? That man would be the enemy of the King forever.

They came to a decision. It should be an unknown hand that killed

Gaveston. The noble earls would merely be spectators and the men who struck the blows should be humble soldiers whose identity would be lost when they mingled with their fellows.

It was the only way.

–――――――

‘Come, Gaveston.’

It was Warwick who spoke to him.

‘It is time to go.’

‘To go where?’

‘Whither the Mad Hound leads.’

‘You never forget that, do you?’

‘There are some things which are never forgotten.’

‘You harbour more resentment against me for calling you that than for

snatching the championships at Wallingford.’

‘Have done. There is little time for such badinage. You should be saying

your prayers.’

‘So you are going to kill me?’

‘You are going to meet your deserts.’

‘And my fair trial?’

‘ I promised none of those things.’

‘You will have to answer to Pembroke.’

‘That will be no affair of yours, Gaveston. You should be praying for your black soul.

‘There is little time for that now.’

‘Tis so. Then use it.’

They took him out of the castle. He now saw the nobles earls on horseback

waiting. They were as still as statues cut out of stone.

They sat him on a horse. He savoured the smells and signs of the night. The good earth; the scent of grass, the dark star-speckled sky. He had never noticed their beauty before. He had loved the blue of the sapphire, the rich red of the ruby, the glitter of the diamond, because they had been the symbols of riches and power. Now he wanted to savour other beauties but it was too late.

Where were they taking him? Away from Warwick? Why, he wondered.

The Mad Hound had been eager to take him but perhaps he was not so eager to have a hand in his death.

He noticed then that Warwick was not among them.

It was Lancaster who rode ahead with Arundel. They were going into

Lancaster’s estates which bordered on those of Warwick and could not have

come more than a few miles.

Were they on the way to Kenilworth?

But no. They had stopped.

He was ordered to dismount. He did so and a troop of soldiers surrounded

him.

They walked forward; he with them then. They had come to a hill which he

knew from the past. Blacklow Hill. He remembered passing it when he was in Edward’s company. How strange that then he should have had no premonition

of this.

The three earls did not follow him. He knew what that meant. They were

afraid. They wanted him dead but they did not want to kill him themselves. That was a task for someone else.

This was the moment then.

The soldiers were all around him. He stood at the foot of the hill. He looked back. His last look at the earth: the dark hill before him; the silence of the night broken only by the ripple of a nearby stream. The smells of earth, the beauty of the earth― so much that he had never had time to notice before.

He glanced back at the figures of the earls seated on their horses. The

sentinels at the gates of the Earth, crying out to him: No admittance to you, Gaveston. You are banished― banished from life.

Someone had come close to him. He was just in time to see the flash of

steel. Then darkness and he was falling― His life had been ended by an

unknown hand but those men sitting on their horses, silent, still as stone, were the men who had murdered him.

He could hear a rushing in his ears. Vengance, Vengance, it seemed to say, and then something else― perhaps it was his own voice.

Edward― Edward― this is the end.

–――――――

Warwick waiting in the castle was afraid of what they had done. They

should have waited, given him his trial, for he must surely have been found guilty. But they had taken justice into their hands.

He had captured him, brought him to Warwick Castle and sent word to

Lancaster. But he had not gone out with them to Blacklow Hill.

There was a banging on the castle door. It echoed uncannily through the

vaulted roofs.

Warwick opened the door. Two men stood there. They were carrying a

headless corpse.

‘He is no more, my lord. The Earl of Lancaster has his head. We have

brought his body to you.’

Warwick stepped forward and looked at the grisly remains of that once

graceful body which had charmed the King.

‘Take it away!’ he cried. ‘Take it from here. I will have nought to do with it.’

‘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.’

―――――――

THE DESPENSERS

―――――――

YOUNG EDWARD

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.

May our Lord preserve you. Given at Windsor on the day above named.

She sent messages to say that she wished the city to have three days of

rejoicing in which to welcome the baby. Wine would be in the streets and she hoped that there would be none in the city who did not drink her child s health.

She believed they would know how to make a merry time of it and she would be glad to hear of their rejoicing.

‘God bless the Queen,’ cried the people of London. ‘God bless the little

Prince!’

There were few cheers for the King. But it was said that the timely arrival of the baby had averted trouble with the barons. Everyone was so delighted that there should be a male heir that it seemed hardly likely that those critics of the King would stand a chance against him now. As for the King, he should forget his grievances against those who dispatched Gaveston.

Gaveston was dead and a good riddance.

There was now a baby heir. Let the King settle down with his beautiful wife who was so popular with the people. Let him live a normal married life and beget more children.