Виктория Холт - The Follies of the King

‘It may be that you will enjoy a change of castles.’

‘Who, cousin?’

‘Berkeley. Thomas Berkeley.’

‘Did he not marry Mortimer’s daughter?’

‘I think that was so.’

‘You see, cousin. I am to be put with my enemies. Berkeley! He was no friend of mine.’

‘His lands were confiscated,’ said Lancaster. ‘I beleive they were bestowcd on Hugh le Despenser.’

Edward shuddered. ‘No friend of mine,’ he murmured. ‘And they will take me from here.’

‘To Berkeley Castle, I doubt not.’

‘Oh cousin, do not go. Do not leave me. Let us stay here together. You have made life bearable for me here.’

‘My dear lord, I must obey the King.’

‘I am your King, Thomas.’

But Lancaster shook his head sadly, and silence fell between them. It was Edward who broke it. ‘Maltravers did you say?’ he asked.

‘Sir John Maltravers. A natural choice because he married Berkeley’s sister.’

Edward shook his head. ‘Another traitor― to me. He fled from England and joined the Queen in France.’

‘It is hardly likely, my lord, that they would choose your friends.’

‘Oh, cousin, a great foreboding bas descended on me.’

‘It is the thought of change.’

‘Nay, cousin. Here I have accepted my fate. I have grown accustomed to your company which has become very agreeable to me. And now― and now― I feel closing in on me, cousin― a darkness, a horror―’

‘My lord, it is this sudden shock. All will be well. When you first came here we were not such friends― In time you and Berkeley and Maltravers―’

Edward shook his head.

‘Oh, cousin,’ he said, ‘pray God to help me.’

Lancaster took Edward’s hand and knelt and kissed it and it was as though Edward had become his king again.

‘I shall pray for you, my lord. Be of good cheer. It may well be that life will be good to you yet.’

But Edward continued to shakc his head. The deepest melancholy had settied upon him.

Lancaster had gone and his new custodians had arrivcd. Maltravers was outwardly insolent, Berkley almost shamefacedly so, as though he could not stop himself remembering that this poor emaciated man had once been his King.

‘Rouse yourself,’ said John Maltravers. ‘There is a journey to be made forthwith. Should he be bound with ropes, think you, Thomas?’

‘Let be,’ replied Berkeley. ‘He is hardly in fit state to run away from us.’

He who had once been a king before whom men bowed was now talked of in his presence as though he were a piece of merchandise to be moved whichever way suited his possessors. Humiliation indeed! But he was beyond humiliation. The terrible fear which had come to him when Lancaster had told him he was going would not leave him. He feared these men.

To Berkeley Castle they rode. How different it looked from when he had last seen it. Then he had ridden in as the King and there pageants and festivities greeted him. How different now! Gloomy! Foreboding! An impulse came to him to shout that he would not enter. Let them kill him here― on the spot. He would not go inside that stone-walled fortress. His whole being cried out against it. He wanted to turn back to Kenilworth, to beg them to send his cousin Lancaster back to him.

Maltravers jerked his head as he might to a groom.

‘Why the hesitation?’ he cried. ‘You waste our time, Edward Plantagenet.’

How they loved to show him that he who had once been their King was no longer of account!

He entered the outer court and went under the machiolated gatehouse. He wondered if he would ever come out a free man.

His horse was taken from him— a poor miserable creature to denote his state and the contrast between it and the steeds ridden by his captors was pathetic. Maltravers laid ungentle hands on him and hustled him forward. ‘This way,’ he muttered.

High-born Lancaster had never shown him such disrespect. He must now think of his days at Kenilworth as happy ones.

He was in the baronial hall— a fine place at the end of which was the chapel.

‘I would like to say a prayer,’ he said. ‘Allow me to go to the chapel and kneel before the altar.’

‘You can pray in your room,’ said Thomas Berkeley.

Maltravers sneered: ‘You should have thought more of praying when you had the time. You could have knelt before your altars then instead of before little Hugh.’

They were determined to torment him. He knew they would be cruel jailers.

He was mounting the great staircase leading to the keep and passing along a gallery when they came to a room which was heavily locked and barred.

‘Your new palace, my lord,’ said Maltravers with a mock bow.

Berkeley unlocked it and the door swung open with a creak suggesting it was long since it had been used. It was dark. The only light which came into the room was from a slit high in the wall. It was narrow with enough room for a man to get his arm through, nothing more. On the floor lay a straw pallet; there was a stool and a small wooden chest which would serve as a table.

‘You cannot mean to lodge me here! cried Edward.

‘The man is ungrateful,’ cried Maltravers turning his eyes to the ceiling.

Berkeley looked uneasy.

‘My lord,’ he said, ‘it has been chosen as the room you shall occupy while you are here.’

Edward shivered and said no more.

They left him and he heard the key turn in the lock. This was abject misery.

He knelt down and prayed. ‘Oh God,’ he said, ‘let me die― now. Let this wretchedness end. God help me.’

He rose from his knees and lay on his straw pallet. And then it seemed that God answered his call for help for he began to think of his son. That dear boy had loved him. It was true he himself had neglected the child. There had never seemed to be time to concern himself overmuch with children in the schoolroom. Hugh had demanded so much of his attention. But he had always shown his son love and affection. Edward could not know that his father was being treated thus. He would never allow it.

Hope had entered the dismal room.

Edward, the King, would save him. If he could but know what was happening to his father he would come and rescue him.

If he could only get word to Edward. Meanwhile he was here in Berkeley Castle in the hands of men who hated him.

And how they hated him! It was their pleasure to heap indignity upon him.

Maltravers was the worst. Sometimes he thought he detected a gleam of pity in Berkeley’s eyes and when he visited him without Maltravers he behaved almost humanely. The discomfort of his room was intense. Fortunately it was summer.

He did not think he could live through a winter in such quarters. But perhaps by then Edward would have come to save him. If he could only get a message to his son!

The food they brought him was almost inedible— the leftover slops from the platters of the serving men, he believed. They brought him cold muddy water from the moat in which to shave himself and Maltravers had brought with him a wreath of ivy to place on his head to resemble a crown.

He had steeled his mind against their mockery.

He had always enjoyed physical health. Like his father he had in his youth been full of vigour. He had preferred the outdoor life to study. So had his father but he had never let that preference prevent the attention to state matters and the study of documents which were part of a King’s duties.

Lying on his bed, drifting back into the past, he knew he had failed miserably. He knew he deserved to lose his crown, but not this degradation. No, no man whatever his sins should suffer thus.

He could not eat the foul food they sent him. Sometimes he thought of Kenilworth as a kind of paradise. So it had been in comparison.