Hugh Despenser the Younger had heard the tale before. Too many times, if the truth be told, and he had no patience for worn-out stories of a dead king. He held out his goblet. “More ale,” he said to the king. “It’s an inferior brew, but I’ve raised a mighty thirst since we left Bristol.”
King Edward, still mulling over the story of his presentation to the Welsh, obligingly poured more ale for Hugh, oblivious to the fact that a king did not serve his subordinates.
“We shall go to Bristol,” Hugh the Elder stated confidently. “We shall raise a force, and we shall have the west behind us.”
“We shall have to go somewhere,” Hugh the Younger concurred sourly. “We can’t stay here, and we can’t return to London. That she-wolf has seduced the country. We never should have consented to let her go to France, and we were mad to let the Prince go.”
Despite his use of the pronoun, it was clear that Hugh the Younger did not regard the fault as his own. When the Queen’s letter had arrived, requesting that the Prince be sent to France to do homage for his father’s French lands, Hugh had been willing, just as he had been eager to see the Queen leave England. Edward would not bring that up now, but he remembered.
“We had her in our power,” Hugh went on, aggravation plain in his voice. “We knew when she wrote letters to her brother. She did not have the revenues from her lands because we were vigilant in denying her money that she would have misused. She could not turn the royal children against their father because they were in our care. We had everything we needed to maintain order in the realm. We were mad to lose control of the Queen. It was like a chess game, and any chess master knows to watch the queen, else she triumphs. All that has transpired since she went to France has happened because we did not keep her under our command. Women must be ruled.”
An image of the Princess Isabella as she had been on her wedding day came, unbidden, into King Edward’s mind. Young as she was, she had been a girl of blinding beauty. Even Piers, when he had met her after the bridal couple returned to England from France, conceded her beauty. She had been blessed not only with extraordinary beauty, but with wisdom, as well. She had mediated when Edward’s troublesome barons overstepped their bounds, and she had done so, he knew, for his own benefit.
She had given him four children. She had been a good queen during those years. He wondered if, perhaps, matters would have been less corrosive between them had she been less jealous of his friendships. Should she not have occupied herself with a woman’s duties and not sought to meddle in what she could not possibly understand?
Privately, Edward did not understand it himself. He could not explain why first Piers Gaveston, and then, after Piers was gone, Hugh Despenser the Younger, summoned the ardour and affection and loyalty that his wife did not. He clenched his fists as he thought these unkind thoughts. He loved Isabella, but she could never have been enough. If only she hadn’t come upon him and Hugh sharing pleasures right after he had left her in bed, unsatisfied. Nothing was ever the same after that.
Edward shook his head.
No. HE was KING. The fault was hers.
Had he been blessed with a woman as virtuous and supportive as his mother had been, surely he would have followed the path of his father, the brave king and warrior, the adored husband. Surely he would have done so.
“Women must be ruled,” Hugh said again.
Edward, lost in his reverie, simply nodded.
“I agree. But I cannot rule a woman who is leading an army against me.”
“She is not leading the army,” Hugh asserted. “She is merely a pawn. Mortimer is a man and a soldier, and it is he who brings the enemy against us.”
“They have my son,” Edward replied. Nothing could ease that pain; whether he resorted to anger or admitted to his hurt, he could not assuage this sorrow as readily as he excused choosing Hugh Despenser over his wife.
“Prince Edward is old enough to know where his duty and his loyalty lie. He is your son and your subject.”
Edward closed his eyes.
What would his father have said of this catastrophe? To have a son and a wife leading an army against their liege, lord, father, and husband was a blight of unknown measure. So many times in his youth, he had disappointed his father.
On his deathbed, Edward I had made his son promise that he would be strong against the Scots. But Bannockburn had seen the end of that. Edward II silently resolved that he would forgive his own son. When his armies were triumphant and the queen and Mortimer disposed of—he would give Hugh leave to take care of that as he chose—he would welcome the Prince back as that Biblical father had welcomed back his prodigal son. They would talk, and Prince Edward would be given the opportunity to acknowledge his guilt and his contrition.
As king, Edward would be magnanimous and forgiving. His father had not been so with him, yet Edward II, for all that he was not Edward I, would be a better father.
But first, he had to defeat his son and the forces of is wayward queen.
13 October 1326
Lord Powell’s residential quarters (Bristol), England
10:54 PM
Lord Powell looked to his wife, who was already tucked away under the sheets, and sighed. She had been locked up in their bedroom all day, feigning illness.
If truth be told, she wanted nothing to do with the king and was counting the hours until he and his entourage were on their way.
“Are you asleep, my lady-wife?” he whispered as he began to undress.
“How do you expect me to be asleep in this infernal racket?” his wife retorted sourly.
“You are quite right, darling, but as you well know, they will be gone tomorrow.”
“Hmph,” his wife snorted. “I hope you took an inventory of what they ate and drank, so His Grace can reimburse you once he is back in London.”
“There was no need, my love. King Edward had with him a chest full of coins. If I were a betting man, I would estimate that it was nothing short of thirty-thousand pounds.” Lord Powell finally had his wife’s full attention. She looked at him, wide-eyed.
“And this you tell me only now!” she shrieked.
Lord Powell winced. “Yes, dear, I found out a mere moment ago. But rest assured, any outstanding debt will be settled by the monarch on the morrow.”
His wife pursed her lips. But by now, Lord Powell had had enough. He was quite done talking about the king. The only reason he overindulged his wife was for these secret moments, when it was just the two of them, and she submitted willingly to his naked desire and will.
“Come here,” he whispered hoarsely. “I need tending to.”
His wife frowned and looked away, but they both knew it was all pretend; she needed his possession as much as he needed to possess her.
15 October 1326
Wallingford, England
09:32 AM
Continuing her inexorable march to the throne of England, Queen Isabella stops at Wallingford. Her army has grown, the king is in flight, and she no longer needs to hide her purpose. She envisions herself as the regent, ruling England as she mentors her son in the role of the future King of England.
“My people!”
The queen’s voice rang out over the crowd that had assembled upon her arrival. The nucleus of mercenaries and foreign troops that had made up her army when she had arrived in England had swelled to include English nobles and soldiers who saw in her the hope of the nation. The first Edward had inspired his people with his achievements, but the second Edward had none of his father’s virtues. Nor did he partake of the vices that one would expect of a king. The bond between King Edward II and the younger Despenser puzzled the ordinary Englishmen and troubled the nobles. Wenching, gambling, and drinking were all common sins that the titled lords shared and excused in one another.
Their confessors knew better than to expect their masters to seek forgiveness for the sins of manhood. But for the king, the sovereign symbol of England’s might, to behave as a woman in the company of
the despicable Despenser, was a violation of his royal blood. Prince Edward, tall and handsome, might be a mere youth, but he showed promise of following his grandfather’s character and not his father’s ways. His mother, the daughter and sister of kings, was merely a woman, but she was undoubtedly royal and would look out for her son. That was what women did.
“Men of England!”
The crowd quieted. The Queen was dressed in her royal finery. She was a beautiful woman, worth looking at. She stood on a platform in front of the people. At her side was her son.
“The trials of England cannot continue! Our nation has been plundered by the avarice of the Despensers, father and son. They have made themselves rich at the expense of the nation’s bounty. They have despoiled the treasury, squandered our military prowess, and trampled upon the rights of our people. They must be brought to justice!”
The crowd cheered at this. They were not enamoured of the barons, who were arrogant and lawless, but when did anyone ever expect charity from the likes of the wellborn? Yet nobles and ordinary folk could meet on common ground when the subject was the Despensers, who were known for their greed.
“The Despensers have done far more than that,” the queen continued. “They have violated God’s order, as well. Not only have they come between the king and his people, but they have come between the king and the vows he made to God when he made me his queen. Marriage is a bond between husband and wife, and as long as the Despensers divide us, I must protect my son’s rights, even if that means denouncing my duty as a wife. I must be a queen and a mother before I am a wife!”
The nobles who had flocked to the queen’s banner were listening closely. They rather liked the prospect of having a youth on the throne and his mother at his side. Edward I was not a monarch who could be ruled by his lords, but the boy and the woman would be easily managed. The nobles all had wives and sons, but they ruled their households, and they saw the prospect of rule over the crown, as well. As for Mortimer . . . They knew well enough what he was about. His ambition was not hidden. He influenced the queen, to be sure, but women were easy prey to their foolish notions of love. Doubtless, Mortimer was planning to become the power behind the throne, but the barons could have told him that the space behind that alluring structure was apt to be crowded.
“The Despensers must pay for their sins! They must not be allowed to circumvent my son’s rights as the heir. He is the rightful ascender to the throne. He will not be swayed by the vile profligacy of the Despensers; he will rule as his grandfather ruled. He will be mighty in battle, just in his rulings, generous in rewarding those who are loyal to him. I have watched my son grow into young manhood, and I have guided him as a mother who values the rites of kingship. I am a king’s daughter. I am a king’s wife. I will be a king’s mother!”
The men of the assembly, and the women, as well, who had gathered to see what weighty matters were taking place in the centre of their town, roared at this promise from their beautiful queen. She would restore the crown to order. She was a mother, and those who remembered Queen Eleanor, the stalwart, fertile, and beloved wife of the first Edward, were nostalgic at the memory Queen Isabella conjured.
“People of Wallingford! You have witnessed the story of England from this castle. As far back as the Saxons, Wallingford has been a bulwark of the nation. Wallingford Castle has watched as royal battles have waged, but Wallingford Castle has never fallen!”
The citizens of Wallingford cheered at this praise of their town. The battles between King Stephen and the Empress Matilda were long past, but it was through the line of Matilda and her husband that the Plantagenet line had come to power.
“Think back upon your history, people of Wallingford. You remember when Wallingford Castle was gifted to Piers Gaveston. When Gaveston was executed, King Edward gave the castle to me.” The queen nodded as the crowd clapped, whistled, and shouted, uplifted by the importance of their castle in this current struggle for justice. The comparison between the detested Gaveston and the rightful queen was well-placed; the citizens of Wallingford could take pride in their queen’s ownership.
“Wallingford shall be our mainstay,” Queen Isabella vowed. “From this castle and this town, we will set forth our just cause and trust to God’s providence for our success. My son will rule England with all the honour of his heritage, and he will make England proud of their heritage!”
She held out her arm to gesture at her son, who, at fourteen years old, was already taller than his mother. Edward’s youth was no obstacle to his poise; kingship was in his very veins, and he stood before the throngs, composed and regal, as the people showed their support. The crowd was wildly enthusiastic. The queen had made her purpose known, and the English were satisfied. She had been wronged by the Despensers; she, of royal birth, had been shamed and debased by the father and son who had deluded her husband in a manner that was unfathomable. But it was through the queen’s maternal guardianship of her son that England would be made right again, and the third Edward would follow the ways of the first Edward.
Reassured that all was well with England, few in the crowd noticed Roger Mortimer, almost hidden in the crowd. But the barons took note of him.
15 October 1326
Wallingford, England
11:32 AM
Eleanor de Clare 1st Baroness le Despenser, was running. Never had she thought she would have to surrender the Tower of London to an unruly mob, but this was about to become her reality.
Suddenly, she stopped in her tracks. She was the granddaughter of a king and the beloved niece of a king. She could not just run and hide.
She should have expected this end. Uncle Edward had taken her husband, Hugh the Younger, and now they were gallivanting about the countryside trying not to enter into a direct confrontation with Aunt Isabella. Eleanor knew the truth of it. She was Uncle Edward’s favourite, after all. He paid all her expenses when she was at court, and even sometimes when she wasn’t. That privilege had increased once he began to share her husband. Eleanor bit her lower lip.
The arrangement had taken some getting used to, but after all, she well knew that she shared her husband with not only the king, but with various wenches, as well.
Having married at the tender age of thirteen, she herself had known no other lover. Despite the numerous children she had borne him, Hugh’s insatiable appetites were not something she could quench.
Yet he still found time to regularly and diligently ensure that she had no need for a court lover, and that was all she demanded.
At the noise of the angry mob, she snapped back to reality. What would they do to her? London had been rife with untrue rumours of an unnatural relationship between her and her uncle; would the mob take out their anger upon her? No, she would seek protection from the prisoners. As she realised the brilliance of her idea, she smiled.
Currently, the late Bartholomew Badlesmere’s nephew, Sir Bartholemew Burghersh, was locked up in the Tower. His brother was Henry, Bishop of Lincoln, and he was currently with Aunt Isabella. If she liberated Bartholomew, surely he would protect her from the queen’s wrath.
15 October 1326
On a ship from Chepstow
England
11:32 AM
The King and Hugh Despenser, still seeking a base and an army, have crossed the border into Wales and are on board a ship, on their way to Lundy. They realise, but will not voice, the fact that England is denied them and they must seek support in Ireland.
“This foul weather will see us shipwrecked before we reach Lundy,” Hugh complained as the ship rocked upon the rowdy waves. He was in the king’s cabin; the ship’s captain had insisted that King Edward go below because it was too perilous on deck. But Edward had been reluctant to leave. He was no coward, he’d told the captain. But the captain had pressed his point; the men were better able to fight the storm if they were not worrying over the safety of the sacred person of the king. Conceding the wisdom of this, Edward had agreed to return to his cabin.
The cabin was small and confining. Edward felt as if the walls constrained his height. The movement of the ship and the noise of the storm made it difficult for him and Hugh to hear one another when they spoke, but Edward’s head was so filled with the recent events that his favourite was unable to command his full attention.
“She has made my son Guardian of the Realm,” Edward said, his voice almost breaking at the thought of his son usurping his kingdom. “She has pushed me aside as if I matter for naught.”
“When we raise an army in Ireland, she and the prince will both be made to remember that they live but for the pleasure of the king. The time for mercy is past, Edward. They must be punished for their boldness.”
“Guardian of the Realm.” Edward repeated his own words. “London, my city, my capital, is hers.”
“London was hers the day the mob stormed the Tower,” Hugh said impatiently.
“No, not formally. Yes, there was a mob, but they were not unified. Now they have declared for the queen. They have turned against us.”
Edward was seated on the bed. It was fortunate that he would not have to sleep in it, because his long, lanky form would have dwarfed the mattress.
“I have lost the city,” Edward mourned. “How can a king be restored if he has lost London?”
“Listen to me,” Hugh ordered, grabbing the king by his brocade doublet. “We will be restored to power. You will not lose heart! You are the king and the son of a warrior. Would you see a woman and a boy best you?” He shook the king angrily, but Edward, although his head and shoulders moved jerkily in response, was lost in the painful reality of what was to come.
Isabella- She-wolf of France Page 6