Part 1—- Chapter 5.
The Reign of King Roger.
“She is no sheep who goes walking with the wolf.”
Russian Proverb.
And now, were I inditing a very chronicle, should I dip my quill next in the red ink, and write in full great letters—“Here beginneth the reign of King Edward of Windsor, the Third after the Conquest.”
But, to scribe soothliness, I cannot do so. For not for four years thereafter did he in verity begin to reign. And what I should write, if I writ truth, should be—“Here beginneth the reign of King Roger de Mortimer, the First in England.”
Now, here cometh an other matter I have noted. When man setteth him up to do that whereto he was not born, and hath not used himself, he is secure to do the same with never so much more din and outrage (extravagance) than he to whom it cometh of nature. If man be but a bedel (herald, crier) he shall rowt (Shout) like a lion the first day; and a prince’s charetter (charioteer) shall be a full braver (finer, more showy) man than the prince his master. Sir Roger made a deal more bruit than ever the King himself; that during all these four years was meek and debonair (humble and gentle), as though he abode his time. He wrought what he would (which was mostly ill), and bare him like those of whom the Psalmist speaketh, that said, “Our lips are of us, who is our lord?” (Psalm 9 4, Rolle’s translation.) He held up but a finger, and first the King, and all else after, followed along his path. Truly, I fault not the King; poor lad, he was in evil case, and might well enough have found hard to know the way he should go. But I do fault them that might have oped his eyes, and instead thereof, as being smoother way, chose to run after King Mortimer with his livery on their backs.
“How many of them knew the man, thinkest?” saith Jack, that had come in while I writ the last piece.
“Jack!” cried I. “What, to see him do that he did, more in especial when his pride was bolned (swollen, pulled up) by being create Earl of March—when he had larger following than the King himself, having nine score knights at his feet; when he arose from the King’s table ere the King stirred, as though he were lord and master of all; when he suffered the King to rise on his coming into the presence, all meekly and courteously, yet himself, when the King entered, kept his seat as he micht afore a servitor; when he walked even with the King, and sometimes afore him; when he was wont to put him down, and mock at him, and make him a laughing-stock. I have heard him myself say to the King—‘Hold thy peace, lad!’ and the King took it as sweetly as if he had been swearing of allegiance.”
“I have eyes in mine head, my fair warrior, and ears belike. I saw so much as thou—maybe a little more, since I was something oftener in my Lord’s company than thou.”
“But thou sawest what he was?” said I.
“So did I; and sorry am I to have demerited the wrath of Dame Cicely de Chaucombe, for that I oped not the King my master’s even.”
“Nay, Jack! I never meant thee. I have somewhat more reverence for mine husband than so.”
“Then art thou a very pearl amongst women. Most dames’ husbands find not much reverence stray their way—at least from that quarter. I misdoubt if Vivien’s husband ever picks up more than should lightly slip into his pocket.”
“Sir James Le Bretun is not so wise as thou,” said I. “But what I meant, Jack, was such as my Lord of Lancaster and my Lord of Kent, and my Lord of Hereford—why did never such as these tell the King sooth touching the Mortimer?”
“As for my Lord of Hereford,” saith Jack, “I reckon he was too busied feeling of his pulse and counting his emplastures, and telling his apothecary which side of his head ached worser since the last draught of camomile and mallows. Sir Edmund de Mauley was wont to say he had a grove of aspens at Pleshy for to make his own populion (Note 1), and that he brake his fast o’ dragons’ blood and dyachylon emplasture. Touching that will I not say; but I reckon he thought oftener on his tamarind drink than on the public welfare. He might, perchance, have bestirred him to speak to the King had he heard that he had a freckle of his nose, for to avise him to put white ointment thereon; but scarce, I reckon, for so small a matter as the good government of the realm.”
“Now, Jack!” said I, a-laughing.
“My Lord of Kent,” went he forth, “was he that, if he thought he had hurt the feelings of a caterpillar, should have risen from his warm bed the sharpest night in winter to go and pray his pardon of his bare knees. God assoil him, loving and gentle soul! He was all unfit for this rough world. And the dust that Sir Roger cast up at his horse-heels was in my Lord of Kent’s eyes as thick as any man’s. He could not have warned the King, for himself lacked the warning.”
“Then my Lord of Lancaster—why not he?”
“He did.”
“Ay, at long last, when two years had run: wherefore not long ere that? The dust, trow, was not in his eyes.”
“Good wife, no man’s eyes are blinder than his which casts the dust into his own. My Lord of Lancaster had run too long with the hounds to be able all suddenly to turn him around and flee with the hare.”
“Soothly, I know he met the Queen on her landing, and likewise had the old King in his ward: but—”
“I reckon, Sissot, there were wheels within wheels. We need not judge my Lord of Lancaster. He did his duty at last. And mind thou, between him and his duty to King Edward the father, stood his brother’s scaffold.”
“Which never man deserved richer.”
“Not a doubt thereof: but man may scarce expect his brother to behold it.”
“Then,” said I, “my Lord Zouche of Mortimer—but soothly he was cousin to the traitor. Jack, I never could conceive how it came about that he ever wedded the Lady Alianora. One of the enemies of her own husband, and she herself set prisoner in his kinsman’s keeping, and to wed her gaoler’s cousin, all against the King’s pleasure and without his licence—canst solve the puzzle?”
“I can tell thee why he wed her, as easy as say ‘twice two be four.’ She was co-heir of the earldom of Gloucester, and his sword was nearhand his fortune.”
“Then wherefore wed she him?”
“Kittle (ticklish, delicate) ground, Sissot, for man to take on him to account for the doings of woman. I might win a clap to mine ears, as like as not.”
“Now, Jack, thou wist well I never demean me so unbuxomly. Tell me thy thought.”
“Then I think,” saith he, “that the Lady Alianora La Despenser was woman of that manner that fetch their souls from the vine. They must have somewhat to lean on. If an oak or a cedar be nigh, good: but if no, why then, a bramble will serve their turn. The one thing that they cannot do is to stand alone. There be not only women of this fashion; there be like men, but too many. God help them, poor weak souls! The woman that could twine round the Lord Zouche the tendrils torn from Sir Hugh Le Despenser must have been among the very weakest of women.”
“It is sore hard,” said I, “to keep one from despising such weakness.”
“It is full hard, soothly. I know but one way—to keep very near to Him that never spurned the weakest that prayed His help, and that tholed weakness amidst other meeknesses (humiliations), by reason that it behoved Him to resemble His brethren in all things. And some of His brethren are very weak. Sissot, when our daughters were babes, I was wont to think thou lovedst better Alice than Vivien, and I am nearhand secure that it was by reason she was the weaker of the twain, and pave thee the more thought.”
“Surely,” said I; “that alway holdeth good with a mother, that the barne which most needeth care is the dearest.”
Jack’s answer, I knew, came from Holy Writ.
“‘As by him whom his mother blandisheth, thus will I comfort you.’”
The Sunday after the Conversion of Saint Paul (February 1st, 1327) was the young King crowned in Westminster Abbey before the high altar, by Walter (Reynolds) Archbishop of Canterbury, that had been of old a great friend of King Edward the father, and was carried away like the rest by the glamour of the Queen. But his eyes were opened afore most other, and he died of a broken heart for the evil and unkindness which himself had holpen, the day of Saint Edmund of Pontigny (November 16th) next thereafter. Also present were nine bishops, the King’s uncles, and many nobles: yea, and Queen Isabel likewise, that caused us to array her in great doole (mourning), and held her sudary at her eyes nearhand all the office (Service) through. And it was no craft, for she could weep when it listed her—some women have that power—and her sudary was full wet when she returned from the Abbey. And the young King, that was but then full fourteen years of age, took oath as his father and all the kings had done afore him, that he would confirm to the people of England the laws and the customs to them granted by the ancient Kings of England his predecessors, the rights and offerings of God, and particularly the laws, customs, and liberties granted to the clergy and people by the glorious King, Saint Edward, his predecessor. He sware belike to keep unto God and holy Church, unto the clergy and the people, entire peace and concord to his power; to do equal and true justice in all his judgments, and discretion in mercy and truth; to keep the laws and righteous customs which the commons of his realm should have elected (Auera estu are the rather singular words used), and to defend and enforce them, to the honour of God and to his power. (Note 2.)
Six sennights we tarried at Westminster: but, lack-a-day! what a time had we at after! All suddenly the Queen gave order to depart thence. She controlled all things, and the King her son was but a puppet in her hands. How did we trapes up and down all the realm!
To Canterbury the first round, a-pilgrimage to Saint Thomas; then right up as far as York, where we tarried a matter of five weeks. Then to Durham, which we had scarce reached ere we were aflight again, this time to Auckland, and a bit into that end of Yorkshire; back again to Durham, then away to York, and ten days later whisked off to Nottingham; there a fortnight, off again to Lincoln. I guess well now, what I wist not then, the meaning of all this. It was to let the young King from taking thought touching his father, and all that had happed of late. While he was cheerful and delectable (full of enjoyment), she let him be; but no sooner saw she his face the least downfell (cast down) than she plucked him away, and put turn to his thoughts by sending him some other whither. It paid (Note 3) for a time.
It was while we were at Lincoln, where we tarried from the morrow of Holy Cross to Michaelmas Eve (September 15th to 28th), that Donald the Scots messager came from the southern parts with tidings. For some time—divers weeks, certes—afore that, had the Queen been marvellous unrestful and hard to serve. That which liked her yesterday was all out this morrow, and each matter man named for her plesance was worser than that had gone afore. I was nearhand driven out of senses that very morrow, so sharp (irritable) was she touching her array. Not a gown in her wardrobe would serve the turn; and when at last she chose which she would don, then were her hoods all awry; and then would she have no hood, but only a wimple of fair cloth of linen. Then, gramercy! such pains had we to find her a fillet: this was too deep, and that too narrow, and this set with amethysts should ill fit with her gown of rose-colour, and that wrought of lily-flowers should catch in her hair.
I wished me at the further end of the realm from Lincoln, ay, a dozen times twice told.
At long last we gat her filleted; and then came the mantle. First, Dame Elizabeth brought one of black cloth of Stamford, lined with fox fur: no, that served not. Then brought Dame Joan de Vaux the fair mantle of cloth of velvet, grey, that I ever reckoned the fairest in the Queen’s wardrobe, guarded with black budge, and wrought in embroidery of rose-colour and silver: she waved it away as though the very sight ’noyed (disgusted) her. Then fetched Isabel de la Helde the ray mantle, with corded ground, of blue, red, and green; and the Queen chid her as though she had committed one of the seven deadly sins. At the last, in uttermost wanhope (despair), ran I and brought the ugsomest of all, the corded olive green with border of grey; and forsooth, that would she have. Well-a-day, but I was fain when we had her at last arrayed!
When the Queen had left the chamber, Dame Elizabeth cast her on the nearest bench, and panted like a coursed hare.
“Deary, deary me!” crieth she: “I would I were abed.”
“Abed!” crieth Isabel de la Helde. “Abed at five o’clock of a morrow!”
“Ay, or rather, I would I had never gat out. Gramercy, but how fractious is the Queen! I counted we ne’er should have her donned.”
“She never spoke to me so sharp in her life,” saith Isabel.
“I tell you, I am fair dog-weary!” quoth Dame Elizabeth.
“Whatever hath took the Queen?” saith Joan de Vilers.
“Foolish childre, all of you!” saith old Dame Tiffany, looking on us with a smile. “When man is fractious like to this, with every man and every matter, either he suffereth pain, or else he hath some hidden anguish or fear that hath nought to do with the matter in hand. ’Tis not with you that my Lady is wrathful. There is something harrying her at heart. And she hath not told me.”
In hall, during dinner. I cast eyes from time to time on the Queen, and I could not but think Dame Tiffany spake sooth. She looked fair haggard, as though some bitter care were eating out her heart. I never loved her, as I said at the first: but that morn I felt sorry for her.
Sorry for her! Ah, I soon knew what sore cause there was to be sorry to the very soul for some one else!
It was while we were sat at supper that Donald came. I saw him enter from the high table where I sat, and I knew in an instant that he brought some fearsome tidings. I lost him in the crowd at the further end, and then Mereworth, one of the varlets of the King’s chamber, came all in haste up the hall, with a face that had evil news thereon writ: and Sir John de Ros, that was then Seneschal, saw him, and guessing, as I think, the manner of word he brought, stepped down from the dais to meet him. Then, in an other minute, I saw Donald brought up to the King and to the Queen.
I watched them both. As Donald’s news was told, the young King’s face grew ashen pale, and he cried full dolefully “Dieu eit mercie!” The news troubled him sore and sure enough. But the Queen’s eyes, that a moment before had been full of terror and untholemodness (impatience), shot out one flash of triumphant gladness: and the next minute she had hidden her face in her sudary, and was greeting as though her heart had broke. I marvelled what tidings they could be, that were tene (grief) to the King, and blisfulhed (happiness) to the Queen. Sir John de Gaytenby, the King’s confessor, was sat next to me at the table, and to him I said—
“Father, can you guess what manner of news Donald de Athole shall have brought?”
“Ay, daughter,” he made answer. “Would I were in doubt!”
“You think—?” I asked him, and left him to fill up.
“I think,” he saith in a low voice somewhat sorrowful of tone, “that God hath delivered from all labour and sorrow one of His servants that trust in Him.”
“Why, that were nought to lament o’er!” I was about to say; but I stayed me when half through. “Father, you mean there is man dead?”
“We call it death,” saith Sir John de Gaytenby—“we of this nether world, that be ever in sickness and weariness, in tene and in temptation. Know we what they call it which have forded the Rubicon, and stand safe on the pavement of the Golden City? ‘Multo magis melius,’ saith the Apostle (Philippians One verse 23): ‘much more better’ to dissolve and to be with Christ. And the colder be the waters man hath to ford, the gladder and welcomer shall be the light of the Golden City. They were chill, I cast no doubt: and all the chiller for the hand that chilled them. With how sharp thorns and briers God hath to drive some of His sheep! But once in the Fold, there shall be time to forget them all. ‘When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee’ (Isaiah 43 verse 2)—that is enough now. We can stay us upon that promise till we come through. And then there shall be no more need for Him to be with us in tribulation, since we shall reign with Him for ever and ever.”
Old Sir Simon de Driby came up behind us as the Confessor ended.
“Have you guessed, Sir John, our dread news?—and you, Dame Cicely?”
“I have guessed, and I think rightly,” answered Sir John. “For Dame Cicely I cannot say.”
I shook mine head, and Sir Simon told me.
“Sir Edward of Caernarvon is dead.”
“Dead—the King!”
“‘The King’ no longer,” saith Sir Simon sorrowfully.
“O Sir Simon!” cried I. “How died he?”
“God knoweth,” he made answer. “I misdoubt if man shall know.”
“Or woman?” quoth Sir John, significantly.
“The schoolmaster learned me that man includeth woman,” saith Sir Simon, smiling full grimly.
“He learned you not, I reckon, that woman includeth man,” saith Sir John, somewhat after the same manner.
“Ah, woe worth the day!” Sir Simon fetched an heavy sigh. “Well, God forgive us all!”
“Amen!” Sir John made answer.
I think few men were in the realm that did not believe the King’s death was murder. But nought was done to discover the murderers, neither to bring them to justice. It was not until after the Mortimer was out of the way that any such thing was done. When so it was, mandate was issued for the arrest of Sir Thomas de Gournay, Constable of Bristol Castle, and William de Ocle, that had been keepers of the King at Berkeley Castle. What came of Ocle know I not; but Sir Thomas fled beyond seas to the King’s dominions of Spain (Note 3), and was afterwards taken. But he came not to trial, for he died on the way: and there were that said he knew too much to be permitted to make defence. (Note 4.)
The next thing that happed, coming under mine eyes, was the young King’s betrothal and marriage. The Lady Philippa of Hainault, that was our young Queen, came over to England late in that same year, to wit, the first of King Edward, and was married the eve of the Conversion of Saint Paul, the year of our Lord 1327, after the computation of the Church of England (Note 5). Very praisable (lovely) and fulbright (beautiful) was the said lady, being sanguine of complexion, of a full fair face, and fair hair, having grey (grey) cyen and rosen colour of her cheeks. She was the same age as the King, to wit, fifteen years. They were wed in York Minster.
“Where hast reached to, Sissot?” saith Jack, that was sat by the fire, as I was a-bending the tail of my Y in York.
“Right to the King’s wedding,” said I.
“How many more skins o’ parchment shall I bring thee for to set forth the gowns?”
“Dear heart!” cried I, “must I do that for all that were there?”
“Prithee use thy discretion. I wist not a woman could write a chronicle without telling of every gown that came in her way.”
“Go thy ways, Jack!” said I. “Securely, if I set down the King’s, and the Queen’s, and thine and mine, that shall serve well enough.”
“It should serve me, verily,” quoth he. “Marry, I hope thou mindest what manner of raiment I had on, for I ensure thee I do not a whit.”
“Dost thou ever, the morrow thereof?” said I. “Nay, I wis I must pluck that out of mine own memory.”
The King, then, was donned of a robe of purple velvet, with a pair of sotlars of cloth of gold of Nakes silk; the said velvet robe wrought with the arms of England, of golden broidery. The Queen bare a robe of green cloth of velvet, with a cape thereto, guarded with miniver, and an hood of miniver; her hair falling full sweetly over from under her golden fillet, sith she put not on her hood save to leave the Minster. And at the feast thereafter, she ware a robe of cloth of samitelle, red and grey, with a tunic and mantle of the same. (Note 6.)
As for Jack, that was then clerk of the Wardrobe (Note 7), he ware a tabard of the King’s livery (the arms of France and England) of mine own broidering, and hosen of black cloth, his hood being of the same. I had on a gown of grey cloth of Northampton, guarded with gris, and mine hood was of rose-colour say (Note 8) lined with black velvet.
But over the inwards of the wedding must I not linger, for much is yet to write. The latter end of February was the Lady La Despenser loosed from the Tower, and in April was all given back to her. All, to wit, that could be given. Her little children, that the Queen Isabel had made nuns without any leave given save her own, could come back to her never more. I misdoubt if she lamented it greatly. She was one from whom trouble and sorrow ran lightly, like the water from a duck’s back: and I reckon she thought more on her second marriage, which had place secretly about a year after her release, than she ever did for her lost children. And here may I say that those sisters, coheirs of Gloucester, did ever seem to me the queerest mothers I wist. The Lady Margaret Audley gave up her little Kate (a sweet child she was) to the Ankerage at Ledbury with scarce a sigh; and the Lady Alianora, of whom I write, took but little thought for her maids at Sempringham, or I err. I would not have given up my Alice after that fashion: and I did sore pity those little barnes, of which the eldest was not seven years old. Folk said it was making of gift to God, and was an holy and blessed thing. Soothly, I marvel if God setteth store by such like gifts, when men do but cast at his feet that whereof they would be rid! The innermost sanctuary of the Temple, it seemeth me, is scarce the fittest place to shoot rubbish. And when the rubbish is alive, if it be but vermin, I cannot slack to feel compassion for it.
Methinks the Lady Alianora felt it sorer trouble of the twain, when she suffered touching certain jewels reported to be missing from the Tower during her governance thereof—verily a foolish charge, as though the Lady of Gloucester should steal jewels! Howbeit, she was fined twenty thousand pound, for the which she rendered up her Welsh lands, with the manors of Hanley and Tewkesbury, being the fairest and greatest part of her heritage. The King allowed her to buy back the said lands if she should, in one and the same day, pay ten thousand marks: howbeit, one half the said fine was after remitted at the intercession of the Lords and Commons.
That autumn was the insurrection of my Lord of Lancaster—but a bit too soon, for the time was not ripe, but I reckon they knew not how longer to bear the ill thewis (manners, conduct) of the Mortimer, which ruled every thing at his will, and allowed none, not even my Lord of Lancaster, to come nigh the King without his leave, and then he had them watched of spies. The Parliament was held at Salisbury that Michaelmas, whereto all men were forbidden to come in arms. Thither, nathless, came the said Mortimer, with a great rabble of armed men at his heels. My Lord of Lancaster durst not come, so instead thereof he put himself in arms, and sent to expound matters to the King. He was speedily joined by all that hated the Mortimer (and few did not), among whom were the King’s uncles, the Bishops of Winchester and London, the Lord Wake, the Lord de Beaumont, Sir Hugh de Audley, and many another that had stood stoutly for Queen Isabel aforetime. Some, I believe, did this out of repentance, seeing they had been deceived; other some from nought save hate and envy toward the Mortimer. The demands they put forth were no wise unskilwise (unreasonable). They were chiefly that the King should hold his revenues himself (for the Queen had so richly dowered herself that scarce a noble was left to the King); that the Queen should be dowered of the third part, as queens had been aforetime; and that the Mortimer should live on his own lands, and make no encroachments. They charged him with divers evil deeds, that he had avised the King to dissolve his Council appointed of twelve peers, he had wasted the royal treasure, he had counselled the King to give up Scotland, and had caused the Lady Joan to wed beneath her dignity.
“Make no encroachments!” grimly quoth old Sir Simon, when he heard of this; “verily, an’ this present state of matters go on but a little longer, the Mortimer can make no encroachments, for he shall have all England to his own.”
The Mortimer, that had yet the King’s ear (though I think he chafed a bit against the rein by now and then), avised him that the Lords sought his crown, causing him to ride out against them as far as Bedford, and that during the night. Peace was patched up some way, through the mediating of Sir Simon de Mepham, the new Archbishop of Canterbury, my Lord of Lancaster being fined eleven thousand pounds—though, by the same token, he never paid it. (Note 9.) That same Michaelmas was the King’s uncle, the Lord Edmund de Woodstock, create Earl of Kent (marry, I named him my Lord of Kent all through, seeing he should so best be known, but he was not so create until now), and King Roger, that was such, but was not so-called, had avancement to the dignity of Earl of March. There was many a lout and courtesy and many a leg made, when as my Lord’s gracious person was in presence; and when as he went forth, lo! brows were drawn together, and lips thrust forth, and words whispered beneath the breath that were not all of praise.
Now, whether it be to fall into the Annals of Cicely or no, this must I needs say—and Jack may flout me an’ he will (but that he doth never)—that I do hate, and contemn, and full utterly despise, this manner of dealing. If I love a man, maybe I shall be bashful to tell him so: but if I love him not, never will I make lout nor leg afore him for to win of him some manner of advantage. I would speak a man civilly, whether I loved him or no; that ’longeth to my gentlehood, not his: but to blandish and losenge him (coax and flatter), and say ‘I love thee well’ and ‘Thou art fairest and wisest of all’ twenty times in a day, when in mine heart I wished him full far thence, and accounted of him as fond and ussome (foolish and ugly)—that could I never demean me to do, an’ I lived to the years of Methuselah.
And another thing do I note—I trust Jack shall have patience with me—that right in proportion as a man is good, so much doth an ill man hate him. My Lord of Lancaster was wise man and brave, as he oft showed, though he had his failings belike; and he did more than any other against the Mortimer, until the time was full ripe: my Lord of Kent was gent, good, and sweet of nature, and he did little against him—only to consort with my said Lord of Lancaster: yet the Mortimer hated my Lord of Kent far worser than my Lord of Lancaster, and never stayed till he had undone him. Alas for that stately stag of ten, for the cur pulled him down and worried him!
My Lord of Kent, as I writ afore, had dust cast in his eyes by the Queen. He met her on her landing, and marched with her, truly believing that the King (as she told him) was in thrall to the old and young Sir Hugh Le Despenser, and that she was come to deliver him. Nought less than his brother’s murder tare open his sealed eyes. Then he woke up, and aswhasay looked about him, as a man roughly wakened that scarce hath his full sense. Bitter was his lamentation, and very sooth his penitence, when he saw the verity of the matter. Now right as this was the case with him, the Queen and the Mortimer, having taken counsel thereon, (for they feared he should take some step that should do them a mischief), resolved to entangle him. They spread a rumour, taking good care it should not escape his ears, that King Edward his brother yet lived, and was a prisoner in Corfe Castle. He, hearing this, quickly despatched one of his chaplains, named Friar Thomas Dunhead, a Predicant—for all the Predicants were on the King’s side—to see if the report were as it was said: and Sir John Deveroil, then Keeper of the Castle, having before his instructions, took the Friar within, seeming nothing loth, and showed unto him the appearance of a king seated at supper in hall, with his sewers (waiters) and other officers about him. This all had been bowned (prepared) afore, of purpose to deceive my Lord of Kent, and one chosen to present (represented) the King that was like enough to him in face and stature to pass well. On this hearing went my Lord of Kent with all speed to Avignon, to take counsel with Pope John (John Twenty-Two) who commended him for his good purpose to deliver his brother, and bade him effect the same by all means in his power: moreover, the said Pope promised himself to bear all charges—which was a wise deed of the holy Father, for my Lord of Kent was he that could never keep money in his pocket, but it flowed out of all sides. Then my Lord returned back, and took counsel with divers how to effect the same. Many an one promised him help—among other, the Archbishop of York, and the Lord Zouche of Mortimer (that wedded the Lady Alianora, widow of Sir Hugh Le Despenser), the Lord Wake (which had wrought much against the King of old, and was brother unto my Lady of Kent), and Sir Ebulo L’Estrange, (that wedded my Lady of Lancaster, widow of Earl Thomas), and the young Earl of Arundel, and others of less sort. My said Lady of Kent was likewise a-work in the matter, for she was not woman to let either tongue or hand lie idle.
Now, wherefore is it, that if man be rare sweet, gent, and tender, beyond other men, he shall sure as daydawn go and wed with woman that could hold castle or govern army if need were? ’Tis passing strange, but I have oft noted the same. And if he be rough and fierce, then shall he take fantasy to some soft, nesh (Note 10), bashful creature that scarce dare say nay to save her life. Right as men of high stature do commonly wed with small women, and the great women with little men. Such be the ways of Providence, I take it.
Jack saith—which I must not forget to set down—that he credeth not a whit that confession set forth as made of my Lord of Kent, nor any testimony of Friar Dunhead, but believeth the whole matter a pack of lies, saving only that my Lord believed the report of his brother prisoner in Corfe Castle. Howbeit, my Lord of Kent writ a letter as to the King his brother, offering his deliverance, which he entrusted to Sir John Deveroil: who incontinently carried the same to the Mortimer, and he to the Queen. She then showed it to the young King, saying that herein might he see his uncle was conspiring to dethrone him and take his life and hers. The King, that dearly loved his mother, allowed inquiry into the same, pending the which my said Lord was committed to prison.
The next morrow came the Mortimer to the Queen as she sat at dinner, and prayed instant speech of her, and that full privy: and the Queen, arising from the table, took him into her privy closet. Dame Isabel de Lapyoun alone in waiting. I had learned by then to fear mischief whensoever the Queen bade none follow her save Dame Isabel, for I do verily believe she was in all the ill secrets of her mistress. They were in conference maybe ten minutes, and then hastened the Mortimer away, nor would he tarry so long as to drink one cup of wine. It was not many minutes after that the young King came in; and I perceived by their discourse that the Queen his mother had sent for him. Verily, all that day (which was Saint Joseph (March 19th)) she watched him as cat, mouse. He could not leave the chamber a moment but my Lord of March crept after. I reckoned some mischief was brewing, but, purefoy! I guessed not how much. That day died my Lord of Kent, on the scaffold at Winchester. And so beloved was he that from noon till four of the clock they had to wait, for no man would strike him, till at last they persuaded one in the Marshalsea, that had been cast for (sentenced to) death, to behead him as the price of his own life.
A little after that hour came in Sir Hugh de Turpington, that was Marshal of the Hall to the King.
“Sir,” saith he to the King, “I am required of the Sheriff to tell you that my Lord of Kent hath paid wyte on the scaffold. So perish all your enemies!”
Up sprang the King with a face wherein amaze and sore anguish strave for the mastery.
“My uncle Edmund is dead on scaffold!” cried he in voice that rang through hall. “Mine enemies! He was none! What mean you? I gave no mandate for such, nor never should have done. Dieu eit mercie! mine enemies be they that have murdered my fair uncle, that I loved dear. Where and who be they? Will none here tell me?”
Wala wa! was soul in that hall brave enough to tell
him? One of those two chief enemies stale softly to his side, hushing the other (that seemed ready to break forth) by a look.
“Fair Son,” saith the Queen, in her oiliest voice, “hold you so light your own life and your mother’s? Was your uncle (that wist full well how to beguile you) dearer to you than I, on whose bosom you have lain as babe, and whose heart hath been rent at your smallest malady?”
(Marry, I marvel when, for I never beheld less careful mother than Dame Isabel the Queen. But she went forth.)
“The proofs of what I say,” quoth she, “shall be laid afore you in full Parliament, and you shall then behold how sorely you have been deceived in reckoning on a friend in your uncle. Meanwhile, fair Son, trust me. Who should seek your good, or care for your safety, more than your own mother?”
Ah verily, who should! But did she so? I could see the King was somewhat staggered by her sweet words, yet was he not peaced in a moment. His anger died down, but he brake forth in bitter tears, and so left the hall, greeting as he went.
Once more all passed away: and they that had hoped for the King to awake and discover truth found themselves beguiled.
Order was sent to seize my Lady of Kent and her childre, that were then in Arundel Castle. But the officers, there coming, told her the dread tidings, whereat she fell down all in swoon, and ere the eve was born the Lord John her son, and baptised, poor babe, in such haste in the Barefooted Friars’ Church, that his young brother and sister, no more than babes themselves, were forced to stand sponsors for him with the Prior of the Predicants (Note 11). Howbeit he lived to grow to man’s estate, yea, longer than the Lord Edmund his brother, and died Earl of Kent a matter of eight years gone.
The Castle of Arundel, and the lands, that had been given to my Lord of Kent when my Lord of Arundel was execute, were granted to Queen Isabel shortly after his ’heading. I think they were given as sop to keep him true to the Queen: not that he was man to be bought, but very like she thought all men were. Dear heart, what strange gear are we human creatures! I marvel at times whether the angels write us down greater knaves or fools.
Note 1. The crystallised juice of the aspen. Earl John of Hereford seems to have been a valetudinarian.
Note 2. Close Roll, 1 Edward the Third, Part One. The exact wording of the coronation oath is of some importance, since it has sometimes been stated that our sovereigns have sworn to maintain religion precisely as it existed in the days of Edward the Confessor. The examination of the oath shows that they promised no such thing. They engaged only to keep and defend to the people, clerical and lay, the laws, customs, rights, and liberties granted by their predecessors, and by Edward more especially. “To his power” means “to the best of his power.”
Note 3. Then not an unusual way of saying “the King of Spain’s dominions.”
Note 4. In my former volume, In All Time of our Tribulation, I committed the mistake of repeating the popular error that the Queen took immediate vengeance, by banishment, on the murderers of her husband. It was only Gournay and Ocle who were directly charged with the murder: the others who had a share in it were merely indicted for treason. Gournay was Constable of Bristol in December, 1328; and the warrant for his apprehension was not issued until December 3, 1330—after the fall of Mortimer, when Edward the Third, not his mother, was actually the ruler.
Note 5. By this phrase was meant the reckoning of the year from Easter to Easter, subsequently fixed for convenience’ sake at the 25th of March.
Note 6. I have searched all the Wardrobe Accounts in vain for the wedding attire of this royal pair. The robes described are that worn by the King for his coronation; that in which the Queen rode from the Tower to Westminster the day before her coronation; and that in which she dined after the same ceremony. These details are given in the Wardrobe Accounts, 33/2, and 34/13. It was the fashion at this time for a bride’s hair to be left flowing straight from head to foot.
Note 7. Chaucombe was in the Household, but of his special office I find no evidence.
Note 8. A coarse variety of silk, used both for garments and upholstery.
Note 9. Dr Barnes tells his readers that Lancaster was at this time so old as to be nearly decrepit; and two years later, that he was “almost blind for age.” He was exactly forty-one, having been born in 1287 (Inq. Tho. Com. Lane, 1 Edward the Third 1. 88), and 53 years had not elapsed since the marriage of his parents. We may well say, after Chancellor Oxenstiern, “See with how little accuracy history is written!”
Note 10. Tender, sensitive, either in body or mind. This word is still a provincialism in the North and West.
Note 11. Prob. aet. Johannis Com. Kant., 23 Edward the Third 76, compared with Rot. Pat., 4 Edward the Third, Part 1, and Rot. Claus., 4 Edward the Third.