The Follies of the King Read online

  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―’

  Edward caught his breath. ‘My father is―dead?’

  ‘Nay, my lord. He lives, a prisoner in Kenilworth. There he is well cared for by the Earl of Lancaster. But because he has shown himself unworthy t
o govern he is to be deposed. You are the new King of England.’

  ‘But how is that possible when my father lives? He has been crowned the King of this country.’

  ‘The crown is too burdensome for his frail head,’ went on the Archbishop.

  ‘You are to be the King. You must have no fear. You are young and will have a Regency to show you how to govern.’

  ‘I have no fear for myself,’ said the young Edward. ‘But I have for my father. I would see him.’

  ‘That, my lord, cannot be,’ the Archbishop told him.

  The Queen said: ‘It would only distress him, Edward. It is kinder to let him be where he is. I hear that he is contented enough. More, he is happy to be relieved of the duties of kingship which have been too much for him.’

  ‘Yet he ruled for many years,’ said Edward.

  ‘And see to what state the country has come!’ replied the Queen. ‘Edward, you must remember you are young. For a little while you must listen to advice.’

  ‘It is well that you should be crowned with as little delay as possible,’ added the Archbishop.

  Edward looked into their faces. He felt the blood rising to his. ‘I would agree on one condition,’ he said.

  ‘Condition, Edward!’ cried the Queen. ‘Do you realize what honour is being done to you?’

  ‘I realize fully what this means, my lady,’ replied Edward firmly, ‘but I will not be crowned King of this realm until I have my father’s word that he gives me the crown.’

  There was consternation. The boy had shown firmness of purpose which they had not expected. He stood straight, drawing himself to his full height which was considerable even though he had not yet finished growing; his blue eyes were alight with purpose, the wintry light shone on his flaxen hair. It might have been his grandfather who stood there.

  Every one of them knew that it would be useless to attempt to coerce him.

  He was going to do what he believed to be right.

  They saw that they would have to get the old King’s permission to crown the new one before they could do so.

  The January winds were buffeting the walls of Kenilworth Castle. Outside the frost glittered on the bare branches of the trees. It was a break prospect but not so bleak as the feelings of the King as he sat huddled in his chamber in Caesar’s Tower in a vain endeavour to keep warm.

  He had heard the ciatter of arrivals in the courtyard below. He wondered what this meant. Every time someone called at the castle he feared the arrival might concern him and even these miserable conditions be changed for worse.

  This was an important visit.

  Lancaster stood in the doorway. ‘Your presence is required below, my lord.’

  ‘Who is it, cousin?’

  ‘A deputation. They are in serious mood. The Bishop of Hereford leads them.’

  ‘Adam of Orlton,’ cried the King. ‘This bodes me no good then. He was always my enemy. Who comes with him?’

  ‘Among others Sir William Trussell.’

  ‘Ay, an assembly of my enemies, I see. Tell me, do the greatest of them all come to Kenilworth to see me?’

  Lancaster was silent and the King went on. ‘You wonder who I mean?

  Come, cousin. You know full well. I mean the Queen and Mortimer.’

  ‘They are not here, my lord.’

  ‘Why do these men come, cousin? You know.’

  ‘They have not told me their business, my iord. Come, dress now. They are waiting.’

  ‘And the King must not keep his enemies waiting,’ retorted Edward bitterly.

  ‘Give me my robe, cousin.’

  He threw off the fur in which he had wrapped himselfand put on a gown of cheap black serge— the sort poor men wore in mourning, for he was mourning he knew for a lost crown.

  He faced the party— the traitors who no longer showed him the homage due to a King. Leading them were two of his most bitter enemies Adam of Orlton and William Trussell. How he hated Trussell, who had sentenced Hugh to the terrible death which had been so barbarously carried out!

  Trussell’s eyes— like those of Adam of Orlton— were gleaming with triumph. This was a moment for which they had been working in their devious ways for many years.

  They did not bow to him. They regarded him as they might a low-born criminal.

  Then Adam began speaking; he listed the crimes of the King. Events long forgotten were recalled and the blame for them laid at his door. Bannockburn― Would they never forget Bannockburn? How many had been blamed for that!

  He lowered his eyes. He did not want to look into those vicious faces. He wondered what they planned to do with him. Not what they had done to Hugh― beioved Hugh. They could not. They dared not. He was still their King.

  Their faces seemed to recede and he thought Gaveston was beside him― Gaveston― perhaps the best boved of them all. Gaveston Lancaster had caught him in his arms. He heard his voice from a long way off. ‘The King has fainted.’

  He was coming back to reality. The same chamber― the same faces about him. So it could only have been for a moment.

  They brought a chair for him. He was so tired. He did not want to listen to them.

  Vaguely he gathered that they were telling him that he was to be set aside, his crown taken from him, and that they wanted his consent to do so.

  How kind of them, he thought. They wanted his consent! Why? Could they not do with him what they liked? Cut off his head― Take him out and do to him what they did to Hugh― No, he could not bear to think of what they did to Hugh. It haunted his nightmares. Hugh― beautiful Hugh.

  ‘It would be well for you to give your consent,’ Adam of Orlton was saying.

  ‘If you do not, who knows what might happen? It could mean that the crown would be lost not only to you but to your family.’

  ‘My son,’ he whispered. ‘My son Edward―’

  ‘Would be crowned King at once, if you consented to abdicate.’

  ‘He is but a boy―’

  ‘There must be no delay.’

  ‘My son― he must be your King.’

  ‘So thought we,’ went on Adam. ‘Renounce your crown and he shall receive it forthwith. Refuse this and who knows what will happen.’

  He gripped the sides of his chair. He thought of fair-haired Edward, the boy of whom he had been so proud.

  He cried out: ‘I am in your hands. You must do what seems right to you.’

  The relief was intense. Sir William Trussell lost no time. He stood before the King to declare as he said on behalf of the whole realm that all the homage and allegiance owed to him as sovereign was now renounced.

  Trussell then took the staff of office and broke it in two as a symbol of the dissolution of the royal household.

  Edward Plantagenet was now a private person; his rights as King of England had been stripped from him. He felt humiliated and yet he knew that his own actions had brought him to this pass. He was glad his father was not there to see this day.

  His voice shook with emotion as he said: ‘I know that it is due to my sins that I am brought to this pass and it is a great grief to me that I have incurred the displeasure of the people.’

  His eyes were bright in his ashen face and his voice sounded firmer as he added: ‘But I rejoice that my son Edward is to be their King.’

  Neither Adam of Orlton nor Sir William Trussell made any attempt to bow.

  He no longer represented the crown; he was an ordinary knight. They owed him no especial respect.

  They left him and he sat on a stool and covered his face with his hands.

  Lancaster found him thus, and he was moved to pity at the sight of him.

  ‘Let me help you to your chamber, cousin,’ he said gently. ‘This has been a sad ordeal for you.’

  ‘Henry,’ Edward replied, ‘I am no longer your King.’

  ‘I know it,’ answered Lancaster.

  ‘He broke the staff before my eyes and in such a way, cousin, that I knew to him it was a pleasure.’


  ‘Rest a while. I will have food and wine sent to you.’

  Edward said: ‘My son is King now. Young Edward― He is young yet― only a boy.’

  ‘Yet old enough to force his will, cousin. He would not take the crown until he had your consent to do so.’

  A smile touched Edward’s ravaged face. ‘Is that so then?’ he asked.

  ‘‘Tis true. He said he must first have your consent and would have none of it without.’

  ‘Then someone still cares a little for me.’

  Edward once more covered his face with his hands. He could see the young boy— tall, so fair, his blue eyes flashing, his mouth stubborn as he knew it could be. He would have faced his father’s enemies as they tempted him with the crown.

  His hands were wet with his tears.

  ‘May God bless you, son,’ he murmured. ‘May you be happier than your father.’

  Lancaster led him gently to his chamber where he lay on his bed and, though his black thoughts crowded on him like lowering clouds, there was among them a bright streak of hopefulness.

  ‘My son, my son,’ he murmured. ‘You care a little for me.’

  ESCAPE

  THE Winter was passing. Young Edward had been crowned at the end of January by the Archbishop of Canterbury, that Walter Reynolds who had once been a crony of the new King’s father and who had now joined those who were against him. Walter Reynolds had always been a man who was ready to join the side where he could find the better advantage.

  The Queen was in good spirits. She might not be Regent but saw to it that she and Mortimer had great influence with the young King.

  Sir John of Hainault had returned with his troops to his native land, for they had become restive after being away from home for so long. As for Sir John who had been of inestimable help to her she gave him a pension of four hundred marks a year which he was loath to accept declaring that all he had done had been for love of her.

  She was at the height of her power and her beauty, for this had flourished since she had thrown aside the cloak of docility. She often laughed to herself to contemplate how everyone knew of her liaison with Mortimer and yet none raised a voice against it.