ENGLAND UNDER EDWARD THE SECOND
King Edward the Second, the first Prince of Wales, was twenty-three
years old when his father died. There was a certain favourite of his, a
young man from Gascony, named Piers Gaveston, of whom his father had so
much disapproved that he had ordered him out of England, and had made
his son swear by the side of his sick-bed, never to bring him back.
But, the Prince no sooner found himself King, than he broke his oath,
as so many other Princes and Kings did (they were far too ready to take
oaths), and sent for his dear friend immediately.
Now, this same Gaveston was handsome enough, but was a reckless,
insolent, audacious fellow. He was detested by the proud English Lords:
not only because he had such power over the King, and made the Court
such a dissipated place, but, also, because he could ride better than
they at tournaments, and was used, in his impudence, to cut very bad
jokes on them; calling one, the old hog; another, the stage-player;
another, the Jew; another, the black dog of Ardenne. This was as poor
wit as need be, but it made those Lords very wroth; and the surly Earl
of Warwick, who was the black dog, swore that the time should come when
Piers Gaveston should feel the black dog’s teeth.
It was not come yet, however, nor did it seem to be coming. The King
made him Earl of Cornwall, and gave him vast riches; and, when the King
went over to France to marry the French Princess, Isabella, daughter of
Philip le Bel: who was said to be the most beautiful woman in the
world: he made Gaveston, Regent of the Kingdom. His splendid
marriage-ceremony in the Church of Our Lady at Boulogne, where there
were four Kings and three Queens present (quite a pack of Court Cards,
for I dare say the Knaves were not wanting), being over, he seemed to
care little or nothing for his beautiful wife; but was wild with
impatience to meet Gaveston again.
When he landed at home, he paid no attention to anybody else, but ran
into the favourite’s arms before a great concourse of people, and
hugged him, and kissed him, and called him his brother. At the
coronation which soon followed, Gaveston was the richest and brightest
of all the glittering company there, and had the honour of carrying the
crown. This made the proud Lords fiercer than ever; the people, too,
despised the favourite, and would never call him Earl of Cornwall,
however much he complained to the King and asked him to punish them for
not doing so, but persisted in styling him plain Piers Gaveston.
The Barons were so unceremonious with the King in giving him to
understand that they would not bear this favourite, that the King was
obliged to send him out of the country. The favourite himself was made
to take an oath (more oaths!) that he would never come back, and the
Barons supposed him to be banished in disgrace, until they heard that
he was appointed Governor of Ireland. Even this was not enough for the
besotted King, who brought him home again in a year’s time, and not
only disgusted the Court and the people by his doting folly, but
offended his beautiful wife too, who never liked him afterwards.
He had now the old Royal want—of money—and the Barons had the new power
of positively refusing to let him raise any. He summoned a Parliament
at York; the Barons refused to make one, while the favourite was near
him. He summoned another Parliament at Westminster, and sent Gaveston
away. Then, the Barons came, completely armed, and appointed a
committee of themselves to correct abuses in the state and in the
King’s household. He got some money on these conditions, and directly
set off with Gaveston to the Border-country, where they spent it in
idling away the time, and feasting, while Bruce made ready to drive the
English out of Scotland. For, though the old King had even made this
poor weak son of his swear (as some say) that he would not bury his
bones, but would have them boiled clean in a caldron, and carried
before the English army until Scotland was entirely subdued, the second
Edward was so unlike the first that Bruce gained strength and power
every day.
The committee of Nobles, after some months of deliberation, ordained
that the King should henceforth call a Parliament together, once every
year, and even twice if necessary, instead of summoning it only when he
chose. Further, that Gaveston should once more be banished, and, this
time, on pain of death if he ever came back. The King’s tears were of
no avail; he was obliged to send his favourite to Flanders. As soon as
he had done so, however, he dissolved the Parliament, with the low
cunning of a mere fool, and set off to the North of England, thinking
to get an army about him to oppose the Nobles. And once again he
brought Gaveston home, and heaped upon him all the riches and titles of
which the Barons had deprived him.
The Lords saw, now, that there was nothing for it but to put the
favourite to death. They could have done so, legally, according to the
terms of his banishment; but they did so, I am sorry to say, in a
shabby manner. Led by the Earl of Lancaster, the King’s cousin, they
first of all attacked the King and Gaveston at Newcastle. They had time
to escape by sea, and the mean King, having his precious Gaveston with
him, was quite content to leave his lovely wife behind. When they were
comparatively safe, they separated; the King went to York to collect a
force of soldiers; and the favourite shut himself up, in the meantime,
in Scarborough Castle overlooking the sea. This was what the Barons
wanted. They knew that the Castle could not hold out; they attacked it,
and made Gaveston surrender. He delivered himself up to the Earl of
Pembroke—that Lord whom he had called the Jew—on the Earl’s pledging
his faith and knightly word, that no harm should happen to him and no
violence be done him.
Now, it was agreed with Gaveston that he should be taken to the Castle
of Wallingford, and there kept in honourable custody. They travelled as
far as Dedington, near Banbury, where, in the Castle of that place,
they stopped for a night to rest. Whether the Earl of Pembroke left his
prisoner there, knowing what would happen, or really left him thinking
no harm, and only going (as he pretended) to visit his wife, the
Countess, who was in the neighbourhood, is no great matter now; in any
case, he was bound as an honourable gentleman to protect his prisoner,
and he did not do it. In the morning, while the favourite was yet in
bed, he was required to dress himself and come down into the
court-yard. He did so without any mistrust, but started and turned pale
when he found it full of strange armed men. ‘I think you know me?’ said
their leader, also armed from head to foot. ‘I am the black dog of
Ardenne!’ The time was come when Piers Gaveston was to feel the black
dog’s teeth indeed. They set him on a mule, and carried him, in mock
state and with military music, to the black dog’s kennel—Warwick
Castle—where a hasty council, composed of some great noblemen,
considered what should be done with him. Some were for sparing him, but
one loud voice—it was the black dog’s bark, I dare say—sounded through
the Castle Hall, uttering these words: ‘You have the fox in your power.
Let him go now, and you must hunt him again.’
They sentenced him to death. He threw himself at the feet of the Earl
of Lancaster—the old hog—but the old hog was as savage as the dog. He
was taken out upon the pleasant road, leading from Warwick to Coventry,
where the beautiful river Avon, by which, long afterwards, William
Shakespeare was born and now lies buried, sparkled in the bright
landscape of the beautiful May-day; and there they struck off his
wretched head, and stained the dust with his blood.
When the King heard of this black deed, in his grief and rage he
denounced relentless war against his Barons, and both sides were in
arms for half a year. But, it then became necessary for them to join
their forces against Bruce, who had used the time well while they were
divided, and had now a great power in Scotland.
Intelligence was brought that Bruce was then besieging Stirling Castle,
and that the Governor had been obliged to pledge himself to surrender
it, unless he should be relieved before a certain day. Hereupon, the
King ordered the nobles and their fighting-men to meet him at Berwick;
but, the nobles cared so little for the King, and so neglected the
summons, and lost time, that only on the day before that appointed for
the surrender, did the King find himself at Stirling, and even then
with a smaller force than he had expected. However, he had, altogether,
a hundred thousand men, and Bruce had not more than forty thousand;
but, Bruce’s army was strongly posted in three square columns, on the
ground lying between the Burn or Brook of Bannock and the walls of
Stirling Castle.
On the very evening, when the King came up, Bruce did a brave act that
encouraged his men. He was seen by a certain Henry de Bohun, an English
Knight, riding about before his army on a little horse, with a light
battle-axe in his hand, and a crown of gold on his head. This English
Knight, who was mounted on a strong war-horse, cased in steel, strongly
armed, and able (as he thought) to overthrow Bruce by crushing him with
his mere weight, set spurs to his great charger, rode on him, and made
a thrust at him with his heavy spear. Bruce parried the thrust, and
with one blow of his battle-axe split his skull.
The Scottish men did not forget this, next day when the battle raged.
Randolph, Bruce’s valiant Nephew, rode, with the small body of men he
commanded, into such a host of the English, all shining in polished
armour in the sunlight, that they seemed to be swallowed up and lost,
as if they had plunged into the sea. But, they fought so well, and did
such dreadful execution, that the English staggered. Then came Bruce
himself upon them, with all the rest of his army. While they were thus
hard pressed and amazed, there appeared upon the hills what they
supposed to be a new Scottish army, but what were really only the camp
followers, in number fifteen thousand: whom Bruce had taught to show
themselves at that place and time. The Earl of Gloucester, commanding
the English horse, made a last rush to change the fortune of the day;
but Bruce (like Jack the Giant-killer in the story) had had pits dug in
the ground, and covered over with turfs and stakes. Into these, as they
gave way beneath the weight of the horses, riders and horses rolled by
hundreds. The English were completely routed; all their treasure,
stores, and engines, were taken by the Scottish men; so many waggons
and other wheeled vehicles were seized, that it is related that they
would have reached, if they had been drawn out in a line, one hundred
and eighty miles. The fortunes of Scotland were, for the time,
completely changed; and never was a battle won, more famous upon
Scottish ground, than this great battle of Bannockburn.
Plague and famine succeeded in England; and still the powerless King
and his disdainful Lords were always in contention. Some of the
turbulent chiefs of Ireland made proposals to Bruce, to accept the rule
of that country. He sent his brother Edward to them, who was crowned
King of Ireland. He afterwards went himself to help his brother in his
Irish wars, but his brother was defeated in the end and killed. Robert
Bruce, returning to Scotland, still increased his strength there.
As the King’s ruin had begun in a favourite, so it seemed likely to end
in one. He was too poor a creature to rely at all upon himself; and his
new favourite was one Hugh le Despenser, the son of a gentleman of
ancient family. Hugh was handsome and brave, but he was the favourite
of a weak King, whom no man cared a rush for, and that was a dangerous
place to hold. The Nobles leagued against him, because the King liked
him; and they lay in wait, both for his ruin and his father’s. Now, the
King had married him to the daughter of the late Earl of Gloucester,
and had given both him and his father great possessions in Wales. In
their endeavours to extend these, they gave violent offence to an angry
Welsh gentleman, named John de Mowbray, and to divers other angry Welsh
gentlemen, who resorted to arms, took their castles, and seized their
estates. The Earl of Lancaster had first placed the favourite (who was
a poor relation of his own) at Court, and he considered his own dignity
offended by the preference he received and the honours he acquired; so
he, and the Barons who were his friends, joined the Welshmen, marched
on London, and sent a message to the King demanding to have the
favourite and his father banished. At first, the King unaccountably
took it into his head to be spirited, and to send them a bold reply;
but when they quartered themselves around Holborn and Clerkenwell, and
went down, armed, to the Parliament at Westminster, he gave way, and
complied with their demands.
His turn of triumph came sooner than he expected. It arose out of an
accidental circumstance. The beautiful Queen happening to be
travelling, came one night to one of the royal castles, and demanded to
be lodged and entertained there until morning. The governor of this
castle, who was one of the enraged lords, was away, and in his absence,
his wife refused admission to the Queen; a scuffle took place among the
common men on either side, and some of the royal attendants were
killed. The people, who cared nothing for the King, were very angry
that their beautiful Queen should be thus rudely treated in her own
dominions; and the King, taking advantage of this feeling, besieged the
castle, took it, and then called the two Despensers home. Upon this,
the confederate lords and the Welshmen went over to Bruce. The King
encountered them at Boroughbridge, gained the victory, and took a
number of distinguished prisoners; among them, the Earl of Lancaster,
now an old man, upon whose destruction he was resolved. This Earl was
taken to his own castle of Pontefract, and there tried and found guilty
by an unfair court appointed for the purpose; he was not even allowed
to speak in his own defence. He was insulted, pelted, mounted on a
starved pony without saddle or bridle, carried out, and beheaded.
Eight-and-twenty knights were hanged, drawn, and quartered. When the
King had despatched this bloody work, and had made a fresh and a long
truce with Bruce, he took the Despensers into greater favour than ever,
and made the father Earl of Winchester.
One prisoner, and an important one, who was taken at Boroughbridge,
made his escape, however, and turned the tide against the King. This
was Roger Mortimer, always resolutely opposed to him, who was sentenced
to death, and placed for safe custody in the Tower of London. He
treated his guards to a quantity of wine into which he had put a
sleeping potion; and, when they were insensible, broke out of his
dungeon, got into a kitchen, climbed up the chimney, let himself down
from the roof of the building with a rope-ladder, passed the sentries,
got down to the river, and made away in a boat to where servants and
horses were waiting for him. He finally escaped to France, where
Charles le Bel, the brother of the beautiful Queen, was King. Charles
sought to quarrel with the King of England, on pretence of his not
having come to do him homage at his coronation. It was proposed that
the beautiful Queen should go over to arrange the dispute; she went,
and wrote home to the King, that as he was sick and could not come to
France himself, perhaps it would be better to send over the young
Prince, their son, who was only twelve years old, who could do homage
to her brother in his stead, and in whose company she would immediately
return. The King sent him: but, both he and the Queen remained at the
French Court, and Roger Mortimer became the Queen’s lover.
When the King wrote, again and again, to the Queen to come home, she
did not reply that she despised him too much to live with him any more
(which was the truth), but said she was afraid of the two Despensers.
In short, her design was to overthrow the favourites’ power, and the
King’s power, such as it was, and invade England. Having obtained a
French force of two thousand men, and being joined by all the English
exiles then in France, she landed, within a year, at Orewell, in
Suffolk, where she was immediately joined by the Earls of Kent and
Norfolk, the King’s two brothers; by other powerful noblemen; and
lastly, by the first English general who was despatched to check her:
who went over to her with all his men. The people of London, receiving
these tidings, would do nothing for the King, but broke open the Tower,
let out all his prisoners, and threw up their caps and hurrahed for the
beautiful Queen.
The King, with his two favourites, fled to Bristol, where he left old
Despenser in charge of the town and castle, while he went on with the
son to Wales. The Bristol men being opposed to the King, and it being
impossible to hold the town with enemies everywhere within the walls,
Despenser yielded it up on the third day, and was instantly brought to
trial for having traitorously influenced what was called ‘the King’s
mind’—though I doubt if the King ever had any. He was a venerable old
man, upwards of ninety years of age, but his age gained no respect or
mercy. He was hanged, torn open while he was yet alive, cut up into
pieces, and thrown to the dogs. His son was soon taken, tried at
Hereford before the same judge on a long series of foolish charges,
found guilty, and hanged upon a gallows fifty feet high, with a chaplet
of nettles round his head. His poor old father and he were innocent
enough of any worse crimes than the crime of having been friends of a
King, on whom, as a mere man, they would never have deigned to cast a
favourable look. It is a bad crime, I know, and leads to worse; but,
many lords and gentlemen—I even think some ladies, too, if I recollect
right—have committed it in England, who have neither been given to the
dogs, nor hanged up fifty feet high.
The wretched King was running here and there, all this time, and never
getting anywhere in particular, until he gave himself up, and was taken
off to Kenilworth Castle. When he was safely lodged there, the Queen
went to London and met the Parliament. And the Bishop of Hereford, who
was the most skilful of her friends, said, What was to be done now?
Here was an imbecile, indolent, miserable King upon the throne;
wouldn’t it be better to take him off, and put his son there instead? I
don’t know whether the Queen really pitied him at this pass, but she
began to cry; so, the Bishop said, Well, my Lords and Gentlemen, what
do you think, upon the whole, of sending down to Kenilworth, and seeing
if His Majesty (God bless him, and forbid we should depose him!) won’t
resign?
My Lords and Gentlemen thought it a good notion, so a deputation of
them went down to Kenilworth; and there the King came into the great
hall of the Castle, commonly dressed in a poor black gown; and when he
saw a certain bishop among them, fell down, poor feeble-headed man, and
made a wretched spectacle of himself. Somebody lifted him up, and then
Sir William Trussel, the Speaker of the House of Commons, almost
frightened him to death by making him a tremendous speech to the effect
that he was no longer a King, and that everybody renounced allegiance
to him. After which, Sir Thomas Blount, the Steward of the Household,
nearly finished him, by coming forward and breaking his white
wand—which was a ceremony only performed at a King’s death. Being asked
in this pressing manner what he thought of resigning, the King said he
thought it was the best thing he could do. So, he did it, and they
proclaimed his son next day.
I wish I could close his history by saying that he lived a harmless
life in the Castle and the Castle gardens at Kenilworth, many
years—that he had a favourite, and plenty to eat and drink—and, having
that, wanted nothing. But he was shamefully humiliated. He was
outraged, and slighted, and had dirty water from ditches given him to
shave with, and wept and said he would have clean warm water, and was
altogether very miserable. He was moved from this castle to that
castle, and from that castle to the other castle, because this lord or
that lord, or the other lord, was too kind to him: until at last he
came to Berkeley Castle, near the River Severn, where (the Lord
Berkeley being then ill and absent) he fell into the hands of two black
ruffians, called Thomas Gournay and William Ogle.
One night—it was the night of September the twenty-first, one thousand
three hundred and twenty-seven—dreadful screams were heard, by the
startled people in the neighbouring town, ringing through the thick
walls of the Castle, and the dark, deep night; and they said, as they
were thus horribly awakened from their sleep, ‘May Heaven be merciful
to the King; for those cries forbode that no good is being done to him
in his dismal prison!’ Next morning he was dead—not bruised, or
stabbed, or marked upon the body, but much distorted in the face; and
it was whispered afterwards, that those two villains, Gournay and Ogle,
had burnt up his inside with a red-hot iron.
If you ever come near Gloucester, and see the centre tower of its
beautiful Cathedral, with its four rich pinnacles, rising lightly in
the air; you may remember that the wretched Edward the Second was
buried in the old abbey of that ancient city, at forty-three years old,
after being for nineteen years and a half a perfectly incapable King.