24 September 1326
Paris, France
1:47 PM
Charles IV, the king of France, is surrounded by his knights in his French court.
The minstrels were putting on a good show, but Charles’s thoughts were firmly elsewhere. Soon his sister, Isabella would be reaching the coast of England.
He hadn’t felt comfortable letting her lead the invasion by herself, but unless he wanted to launch the entire kingdom into a war with England, he needed to be crafty and let events play out.
Isabella was his last remaining sibling. His brothers, Louis X of France and Philip V of France, had died a couple of years prior. Whilst he had mourned their loss, he would mourn the loss of Isabella even more.
Despite her marriage to Edward II at the tender age of thirteen, she had been the family’s little favourite. Her marriage had been a state decision, very much looked upon unfavourably by her three brothers. If the decision had been up to them, she would have stayed at home in France, where she belonged.
But the game of thrones was an inevitability in the House of Capet. It had been played for generations and would likely be played for generations to come. Their father, Philip IV, believed that true dominance came from having their bloodline on every throne in Europe, or at least as key figure in every courtroom. He had truly been le Roi de fer – the Iron King. Isabella had learnt about strategy from the moment of her birth.
Her marriage had cemented the uneasy peace between France and England, and the never-ending feud over Gascony and Flanders. Never had Charles imagined that she would subsequently fall for the heir she had married.
But now the breakdown of their marriage was playing itself out on the court scene of Europe. Charles took a deep breath and let it out.
Only a mere eight years ago, the French court had been rocked by the Tour de Nesle scandal. It had led to the imprisonment of his own wife, Blanche of Burgundy, and that of his brother’s wife, Margaret of Burgundy.
Charles was still not certain of the guilt of both wives and the knights who had been accused of leading them astray. He still remembered the execution, though.
Having been tortured, castrated, flayed alive and broken on a wheel, the men were still alive when they were hung. A gruesome business altogether.
The women were sequestered in Château Gaillard. Sentenced to life in prison, Margaret subsequently died mysteriously two years later; Charles, suspected it was his brother Louis’s doing.
Blanche on the other hand survived in the underground hell of the castle dungeon until Charles had her released to a nunnery after his coronation. But freedom was too much for her, and she died within a year.
The events of the past were still very fresh in Charles’ memory. Whilst the French court remained the court of love, a legacy left by Eleanor of Aquitaine, it had been disconcerting watching Mortimer’s seduction of his sister.
The rumours had been so rampant that he had finally sent her to the Hainaults. It had only been sheer providence that had ensured that an alliance could be had with the duchy that was of benefit to both Isabella and the French Crown.
Summer had served to set the scene. In the name of protecting his nephew’s right, Charles had occupied areas of Gascony from which he had earlier been withdrawing. Edward had of course retaliated, as expected. Charles smiled at no one in particular.
The destruction of Edward’s fleet at Normandy some weeks before would ensure that the resistance to the invasion force his sister was leading was minimal. This was one of the reasons Charles had not hesitated to send his beloved sister out to war on her own.
That young English pup was about to find out that, in France, women were passionate about everything.
Passionate in love, but equally passionate in hate.
He only regretted not being able to be there to see the English whelp brought to his knees.
23 September 1326
Suffolk, England
1:55 PM
The port of Orwell ahead. Not all mercenaries and soldiers are as happy to be on their way to war.
Martin Dubois was standing quietly at the stern of the ship, watching his homeland slowly disappear into the horizon. He spat out the rancid tobacco he was chewing and mused at the folly of kings.
He knew he was only a lowly soldier, to be dispatched every which way at the whim of his superior and his sovereign, but frankly, this latest venture had him perplexed.
Hainault had enough problems as it was. Why the Count would ever agree to send armed men to support that French shrew, Queen Isabella, was beyond him.
There was not a single peasant who had not heard the story of debauchery that had played out in France. Hadn’t the queen left her husband and king to take a lover in Paris? It was common knowledge that the French were debauched, but to support their bid to allow a woman to rebel against her monarch was lunacy. He had no wish to die for the likes of that.
This was his last mercenary voyage. He hoped England would not be his final resting place.
He caressed the pommel of his blade, praying it would stay true to him and bring him safely home. If he was lucky, Marie Dubois, the local tavern girl, would still be free and waiting for him.
They had not yet exchanged any words to that end, but he felt certain that, once he raised enough of a dowry on this mission, his proposal would be looked favourably upon.
That Marie, she was a good girl…with nice childbearing hips. Martin smiled to himself. He was looking forward to the day he would be able to explore those creamy hips.
His grip tightened around his sword. He just had to make sure he survived this damned war…with all his limbs intact.
23 September 1326
Suffolk, England
2:42 PM
On the approach to the port of Orwell, Queen Isabella’s destiny awaits her.
Isabella chided herself for the amount of time she had spent daydreaming and reminiscing about the past. What was done was done. Any moment now, she was to set foot on English soil. Her army awaited her.
Only the future mattered. Securing it for her son and his heir against Edward’s future follies came first.
Her allies had gathered around her, ninety-five ships with around a thousand men, not including the mercenaries recruited in Germany and Hainault by the brother of Count William of Hainault.
But power called forth ruthlessness. She could not achieve her goals if she appeased the Despensers, and Edward would not consent to any negotiations that took away his favourite or overruled the power of the Despensers. Within the hidden marrow of her body, she knew that the means for victory required bloodletting and violence.
She was bringing a mighty and growing force to the shores of England so that the English king could be overthrown. Deposed kings needed to be disposed of, or they became magnets for the dissatisfied, power-seekers, and the dispossessed. A living former king was a threat. She knew this, but refused to acknowledge what she might need to do to safeguard her son’s future.
As long as she was on board the ship, with the boundary of the water separating her from shore, she did not have to face what lay ahead, or the violence that was incumbent of an invading army. The water was her solace; the endless ripples of the waves that brought her to her destiny seemed calm and resolute now. She would arrive in England when the sea decided to bring her to shore, and until then, she was still innocent of whatever sins and crimes she was required to commit.
“The king keeps a knife in his chausses; he intends to kill you with it,” Mortimer whispered, his lips hot and searching against the soft, supple skin of her cheek. She had been so lost in her musing that she had almost forgot he was there. Discreetly she pushed him gently away…she could not have him display his affection openly. She was still the queen of England. She gazed down into her goblet.
How had they come to this point? Isabella did not know. How had she come to be here, on a ship financed with the money from the dowry given by her future daughter-in-law, with the intent
of overthrowing the king, her husband? How had the French bride turned into the English invader? How had the queen been driven back to France, and how had she then been made unwelcome at her brother’s court? How had this happened?
There was still time to bring the king to his senses, to dispose of the hated Despensers and convince Edward that he could not continue as he had been. He had incurred the enmity of his lords and the disapproval of the Holy Church. Perhaps he could be convinced that this was the path to ruin, that by driving away his wedded wife in favour of a hated favourite, he jeopardised the very throne that his ancestors had occupied with such resolution. Perhaps there was still time, before the North Sea waters brought her to her destiny and Edward’s doom.
“Your Grace.” The ship’s captain approached her and bowed, taking care to avert his eyes from the sight of Roger Mortimer’s hand upon her skin, his fingers below the jewels that encircled her neck and above the pearl-studded neckline of her gown.
“We approach England. We will disembark soon.”
It was too late. She closed her eyes, succumbing to the intoxicating pleasure of Mortimer’s knowing touch and her own fate.
The Queen of England had returned.
23 September 1326
London, England
3:52 PM
Residential quarters of the Tower of London.
The English palace is secure, and Edward feels safe here, confident that his efforts will thwart his wayward Queen’s ambitions. He has made preparations for the invasion, and the Despensers have assured him that his efforts are exactly what a strong king should do, even if that means repudiating his adulterous wife and his disobedient son. But what is easy for the Despensers, whose power depends upon the authority of the king, is not so simple for the king himself, who is husband and father to the two people who are now his enemies.
Edward II surveyed his surroundings with satisfaction. “My father himself fortified this palace,” he declared. “No one knew more about fortifying a castle than him. It cost him twenty-one thousand pounds, and it took him a decade, but look at the results.”
Hugh Despenser the Elder, who had served King Edward I well enough to have been made a baron through the monarch’s bounty, nodded his appreciation of the late king’s acumen in the art of fortifications.
Edward I had excelled in so many areas that it was almost tedious to recount them. He had been a paragon of kingship, to be sure, but it was Edward II who had made Despenser the Elder the earl of Winchester, and such a gift countermanded any obeisance to the dead Plantagenet.
Hugh Despenser the Younger nodded.
“Did not your royal grandfather also restore the Tower to magnificence?”
Eagerly, Edward launched upon this topic. “He did; yes, he did. My grandfather was a man of refinement, and he wished to reside in the comfort that the royal family had a right to enjoy.
“Yes,” Edward repeated, warming to the subject of construction, a favourite of his.
“King Henry III knew what his father had endured at the hands of the arrogant barons, and he wanted to ensure that his family would be safe from such insubordination. I wish I had known him,” Edward said wistfully. “We should have had much to talk about. What a sublime joy it would have been to converse as the building of Westminster Abbey began. I should have liked to have been part of that.”
“Your father would not have permitted it,” Hugh the Younger reminded Edward.
The King frowned. His father had never approved of what he regarded as his son’s rustic preferences. Edward I revelled in war and did not understand how a son of his body and blood could find more pleasure in thatching a roof than in the manly arts.
It had been futile to point out that building was a useful art and that surely the kingdom needed roofs more than it needed additional corpses.
But the sons of kings did not build bricks, or dig in the dirt, or engage in the rough plebeian labour of the commons. Not for the first time, Edward wondered what his life would have been like had he not been born to the purple.
What if he had been the son of a farmer? It would have been his duty to tend to the fields and maintain his humble cottage. Edward mused upon this idyllic vision. He would have been happy to have been born into that state, he thought.
The flickering candlelight, captured by the facets of the jewels gleaming around Hugh the Younger’s neck, caught Edward’s gaze. The idyll faded. Farmers could not afford to give their favourites such gifts, and it gave Edward great pleasure to bestow luxurious presents upon those around him, but particularly upon Hugh, who was so loyal and constant, and who provided such comfort to sustain him as he endured the fiendish behaviour of his turncoat queen.
“We will be safe here,” Edward promised, abandoning the discussion of his father’s displeasure as if it had not taken place. “There is no more secure palace in all of England.”
“And yet,” commented Hugh the Elder, “Mortimer escaped.”
Edward slammed his goblet down; droplets of wine spilled out upon the stately oaken table around which the three men sat.
“Mortimer was aided in his escape by my false queen!” he exclaimed. “The palace, and the prison, too, are inviolate. We are safe here. You forget that I am the king!”
“Sire, I never forget that you are the king,” Hugh the Elder replied.
“Of course not. And England will not forget that you are the king,” Hugh the Younger added quickly, giving his father a dark, warning glance. “The Queen is false, as you say. She has soiled the royal bed of England with her adultery. She has lured your son from his filial duty with her lies. You are the King, sire. You must behave as a king would, and despite your tender heart and your affection for the Queen and your son, Edward of Windsor, you must take action against them.”
“I have ships waiting upon the shoreline. I have ordered two thousand men to the coast to guard against the queen’s invasion,” Edward flung back. “Are two thousand men so paltry a defence? I have a force of sixteen hundred in Normandy to divert the queen and her troops. I am the King; I know how to protect my realm.”
“Yes, yes,” Hugh the Younger said soothingly, reaching out his hand to clasp the King’s wrist and then to caress the sleeve of the King’s robe. “But in order to be strong, must not the King steel his heart against the weakness of affection?”
Hugh the Younger’s touch was hypnotic and reassuring. He knew how to sooth the monarch, like no other. They were alone, except for Hugh the Elder, who was privy to the bond that his son and the king shared. Neither of them paid attention to the grimace Hugh the Elder made as he diverted his gaze.
23 September 1326
London, Aldgate
The House of Minoret Sisters
4:34 PM
The Dowager Badlesmere, Margaret de Clare, turned towards the abbess, Alice de Sherstede, and nodded. Today was a joyous day indeed. It had been almost five years since the incident that had led to the imprisonment of her and her children in the Tower of London. But the affront to her family was something she had no intention of forgetting, neither that nor the execution of her husband.
Plastering on a more neutral expression, she addressed the abbess. “These events are troubling, to say the least, Your Holiness.”
“To marshal an army and set forth to dethrone one’s king and husband is surely treasonous,” the abbess muttered.
“Without a doubt.”
“I find myself in a most uncomfortable situation. The Queen is our most valued patroness, but her actions go against God and Country,” the abbess continued to lament.
“The most prudent thing to do is surely to pray for their immortal souls,” Margaret offered in a pious voice.
“You are very right, my dear. We shall order four days of continuous prayer for the king and queen,” the abbess replied with a look of relief. She swiftly turned and walked away with renewed purpose.
Margaret strolled through the garden of the abbey, a small smile playing on her lips. Despite E
dward II’s provision of a stipend and the restoration of a significant portion of her late husband’s manors, she felt no loyalty to him.
She might not be adept at the game of thrones, but she had the self-awareness to know when she had been manipulated. The memory of that event at Leeds was burned into her mind. Her hands clenched.
She remembered it as if it were yesterday. She had still been reeling from her abduction and the assault on her servants in Hertfordshire two years prior to the event, when the king and his wife had made their move.
Never again did she have any intention of finding herself in such a vulnerable position as to let a known enemy get that close to her person. If circumstances had been otherwise, she still would not have wanted to extend her hospitality to that upstart, Isabella.
That the queen sought shelter at Leeds Castle, whilst her husband and lord was away, would have seemed suspicious to anyone. Margaret did not regret turning her away that day; she only regretted not having used more lethal force. The subsequent war because of her refusal, her imprisonment in the Tower, and the beheading of her husband had done nothing to mellow her feelings. It had taught her how to hide them, though.
Before she was fully immersed in her memory, she heard running footsteps. It was her twelve-year-old son, Giles.
“Mother! Mother! Is it true? Has the queen declared war on the king with the intent to march an army to the gates of London?” The words tumbled out of his mouth in a rush.
“Yes, my son. But do not let that bother you. The game of thrones will be yours to play sometime in the future. But today, all you need be is my beautiful knight,” she whispered as she embraced him tightly.
Giles squirmed at the affectionate display as he tried to pull loose. His mother laughed out loud and ruffled his hair. Together, they made for the main building in a jovial frame of mind.
Isabella- She-wolf of France Page 2