Isabella- She-wolf of France

by Georgiana Grier

  Hugh Despenser made no reply. He was clearly weak, but he had heard the accusations made against him, and his jaw tightened in response. Yet that was the only evidence that he was cognisant of the proceedings.

  “Withdraw, you traitor, tyrant, renegade, go to take your own justice, traitor, evil man, criminal!”

  With that pronouncement, the trial adjourned to the place of execution. Despenser knew what was about to happen; he had seen others sentenced to the punishment before.

  He was dragged by a quartet of horses through the streets and brought to the gallows. Crowds gathered along the route, eager to witness his destruction in the name of justice.

  The gallows was fifty feet in height, suitable in its morbid grandeur for a man who sought to rule a king, and ironic, as well. Despenser, who sought luxury and excess, could not have foreseen that he would begin the process of dying upon such a monumental structure.

  The noose was fastened around his neck, but the hanging was incomplete as intended; he was made to suffer, but not to die. Not yet.

  He was taken down from the gallows, panting from the hanging that had been meant only to strangle him, within an inch of his life, and from fear of what was to come. Were he the bravest in the land, he still would have quailed at what was about to happen.

  Did he think of those he had sentenced as he now awaited the culmination of his doom? the queen wondered. Her eyes scanned the assembled barons. Roger Mortimer was with his peers, handsome as always, and intent upon the man who had been his enemy as well as hers.

  Trussell called for a ladder, which was quickly delivered, demonstrating that the details of the trial had been planned well in advance. Two men bound Despenser to the ladder as a fire was lit.

  “For your unnatural practices, and for alienating the affections of the king against the queen,” Trussell continued, signalling to another man to come forward, “you shall suffer the removal of your manhood.”

  Realising what was about to happen, Despenser began to struggle against his bonds, but they had been tightly knotted, and there was no escape. The knife was quick, its wielder expert, and in full view of the barons, Despenser was castrated. His penis and testicles cut off mercilessly.

  It was a customary sentence, but for Isabella, this grotesque violation of intimacy was recompense for the manner in which the favourite had stolen her husband from her bed. She thought that she could have performed the castration herself if there had not been someone present to do it.

  It was an agonising process, and if Despenser had intended to remain stoic through his punishment, those aims were dashed as he cried out in pain, pleading with his judges to stop. He knew that his suffering was not yet done. He was eviscerated and his heart was cut off and thrown on to the fire. A judgment befitting a false-hearted traitor.

  Even when he could no longer feel the physical sensations of torment, his desecration would continue.

  His body was divided into four pieces, so that the sections could be delivered to four of England’s most prominent cities. The beheading was almost an anti-climax. As the bloodied head was raised and presented to the crowds, a cheer rose up. The people had been entertained by the gory spectacle. But they had also been privileged to witness the process of justice in its most visceral form.

  The head would be taken to London so that all who looked upon it would know that the wages of sin had been paid as decreed. With his body in pieces and his heart no longer beating, the tormenter was gone from life. He would meet his God and would suffer the unending persecution of eternal flames.

  The queen’s eyes met Mortimer’s, and he saw deep satisfaction in her gaze, as if what she had witnessed had finally calmed the rage that had burned in her heart.

  That night, they would commemorate their victory in secret.

  Mortimer was as good as his word that evening, boldly entering the queen’s bedchamber through the secret passage, as if it were his right to do so.

  Wearing only a royal, fur-lined robe, Isabella awaited her lover, her long, unadorned hair falling down her back as if she were a young girl.

  Mortimer unfastened the lacings of the robe and cast it to the floor. “Ma belle,” he murmured in a reverent tribute to his appreciation for her beauty. “We have won.”

  “Both of them dead,” she whispered as his kisses roamed across her body, setting fires of desire where his lips met her skin. “Dead.”

  Mortimer chuckled. “Quite dead, my beloved queen. Their stinking bodies will, alas, taint the sacred soil of England, but such is the just fate of those who violate the sanctity of royalty. We have triumphed, Isabella, and England is ours.”

  England would be her son’s, Isabella thought as she gave in to the ownership of Mortimer’s lovemaking. That was what he had meant, of course, even though he had not identified Edward among the winners.

  But her thoughts were soon focused only on Roger Mortimer and the salvation she had found in his arms.

  30 November 1326

  Monmouth Castle, Wales

  09:42 AM

  He is still the king, but for Edward II, his rule is over. He is a prisoner in the castle of his cousin, Henry of Lancaster. Hugh is dead. The queen and her lover Mortimer represent the ruling authority in England, but Edward knows that as long as he is alive, he is an obstacle. He is fatalistic about his future. What becomes of a superfluous king? He knows the history of his land, but there is no precedent for what has transpired.

  Isabella had had her revenge. No one bothered to spare Edward the recounting of what had happened to Hugh, nor had they skimped on the details. Even his cousin, Henry of Lancaster, in whose custody he was held, had been blunt.

  No one, it seemed, could honour the bonds of love that he had felt for Hugh. Everyone, determined to punish him for that love, sought to make him a witness to the event, until his head was crammed with the vile images of Hugh’s agony.

  The door to his room opened. Although he was not in chains, or imprisoned in a cell, his chamber was under constant guard, and there was no mistaking his status. He was fed and clothed, and his needs were attended to, but he was a prisoner.

  “My lord.” Edward remained seated as he greeted his cousin. He was the king, and he did not rise for lesser men.

  Henry gestured towards the chair across from the king, and Edward inclined his head. It was a ruse; his cousin could have sat down at any time without permission, but he appreciated the trappings of respect, even if they no longer had any foundation.

  “In time, Your Grace, we must decide what the future has in store for us.”

  Edward gave a mirthless laugh. “I have no future, Cousin Lancaster. I am a doomed man. I am but a kingly obstacle.”

  Lancaster did not assuage the king with meaningless promises that could not be kept. He was a realist with a glimpse of the future that exceeded the perspective of the king in his cell and the queen in her bedchamber. Henry looked to Edward the prince. “Your son,” he said. Edward was still a father. “He will rule England.”

  “The time will come when you will need to decide to formally how your reign will…conclude,” Lancaster went on. “It is too soon, just yet, for the lords to decide how to proceed.”

  “The lords to decide?” Edward repeated in a mocking voice. “It would seem, then, that you are all intent on treason. My son is the heir, and my son shall rule England, not a horde of nobles intent upon climbing over one another on their way to the throne.”

  “How matters proceed depends upon you,” Lancaster said.

  “How is that? Have you come for a royal audience? Do you seek my favour? Do you seek a boon? I hear that you have reclaimed your title.”

  “It is mine by right,” Lancaster returned. “But I did not come here to speak of my title.”

  “Do you seek another title? The title of king?”

  “I seek to serve King Edward III,” Lancaster replied deliberately.

  Edward said nothing. He gazed into the fire; it was a cold day in late November. Advent
had begun, the season of waiting for the birth of the Saviour. Edward knew that there was no saviour, human or divine, for him.

  At last, the king spoke.

  “Edward III. My father died knowing that I would succeed him. I grew up as the heir. His death was nonetheless a shock, but I was ready to be king. Perhaps you forget.”

  “I do not forget, Your Grace.”

  “My son.” The third Edward. How would he reign? He was a boy. He clenched his fists.

  “Mortimer will seek to rule through my son. The queen is besotted and will not see it.”

  “I will look out for my king.”

  “What will you do?”

  “I will do my duty to the royal family.”

  Well at least I can rest assured Isabella will ripped anyone who dares lay a hand on our son, Edward thought. He could fault her for much, but in this she had to be praised. The she-wolf would protect her own, fiercely.

  His gaze returned to his cousin. They were dancing around the subject, and Edward knew it. Yet he could not put into words what Lancaster wanted to hear.

  “A fine example of loyalty you set,” Edward accused him of instead. “I am a prisoner in your castle, denied my freedom and denied my place.”

  “Queen Isabella has made the same charge against you. You chose Despenser over your queen. It’s been said that you wished her physical harm.”

  “That is a lie!”

  “It has been said that you intended to strangle the queen and the prince.”

  Edward was aghast. “God knows I thought it never.” Grief overcame him. “I would I were dead. Then would all my sorrow pass.”

  “You are not dead. You have a duty to your son.”

  “Tell me what you want, cousin.”

  “After the Christmas season, decisions will be made. The country must have a king. It must be your son. But how to manage this?”

  “Why ask me? To feign as though my views matter is to mock me, cousin. What do you want?”

  “I come to you now, in private. What is discussed between us remains within these walls, where there is no one to hear. But I will come again, after the season ends, with a proposal. If you abdicate as king, your son can be crowned. If you refuse to give up the throne, I cannot ensure that the prince will take the throne as Edward III.”

  Edward, burdened by the proposal that his cousin presented, covered his face with his hands and moaned.

  “I am king,” he cried out. “And my son will be king after me.”

  “There cannot be two kings, Your Grace. I do not ask for your answer now. But in January, I will return to you, and then I will need your answer. I pray that when you answer, you will do so with your son and England in mind.”

  30 November 1326

  Hereford, England

  11:18 AM

  The month that has been bathed in bloodshed is coming to an end. The season of Christmas, the time of the Prince of Peace, is about to begin. For the queen, the uncertainty of the preceding months has given way to a glorious triumph, and in her company, the prince maintains a façade of pleasure at the success of her efforts. In private, however, he recognises complications that must be resolved if he is to know any serenity along the path his future is destined to follow.

  The hour was late. Prince Edward of Windsor dismissed his servants. They had left him, as he had requested, some ink and paper upon which to write. The flames in the fireplace provided warmth, and candles gave light. The castle was quiet. He was alone with his thoughts.

  It was easier, he had found, to understand what he was thinking if he wrote the words down.

  Dearest Philippa,

  I hope that you are well. I think of you often. So much has happened since my mother and I left Hainault. I think often of our time together and the kindness of your father. When we are married, you will be the Queen of England.

  Prince Edward paused. Would Philippa understand what he meant by those words? His father would not remain as king; his mother had told him as much, and his cousin Uncle Henry of Lancaster had said the same.

  Neither had told him precisely how this was to happen, and Prince Edward did not know how to ask. He thought he could trust both of them, but everything had changed so rapidly that it was better not to put his questions into words. But what he wrote was true. Philippa would be queen. What role his mother would have, and what would become of his father, Prince Edward did not know.

  I wish you were here, he continued to write. That was the truth. Philippa was honest and faithful, and he knew he could trust her. She would never engage in the sort of duplicity that had brought his mother to England at the head of an army.

  His mother had done what was necessary, he knew that. He was not a fool, nor was he an infant.

  His father had failed to serve the country as a king should do. His father had allowed royal favourites to dominate his reign…still he was his father and now he was prisoner at Uncle Henry Lancaster’s castle.

  When we are married, and we are king and queen, we will bring the holiness of wedlock back to the crown.

  I will travel much as king. My grandfather was devoted to the queen, his wife and my grandmother, and she travelled with him everywhere he went. I want our marriage to be so.

  I will follow my grandfather’s ways. I have made a vow to do this; you are the only one who knows that I have made this vow. My grandfather was a famous warrior, and I shall be the same.

  I intend to claim France. I am the rightful heir, through my mother’s line. My uncle Charles IV has daughters, but they cannot inherit the throne. I am the closest relative and the one with the most legitimate claim to the throne of France. I will seek the French crown so that I can honour both my grandfathers, Philip IV of France and Edward I of England’s memories and my mother’s heritage.

  England must not be given cause to compare Edward III to his predecessor. Edward knew that he had to divide his loyalties towards his father; he was and would remain a devoted son, but when he was King of England, he could not allow himself to be subject to the flaws of those that came before him. He would take back what was rightfully his and restore honour to the throne

  Did Philippa understand? Did anyone in Europe understand? His French aunts had been the scandal of the country for their adultery, and they had been punished for their sins. His mother’s liaison with Roger Mortimer was no less a dishonour to the crown.

  Why, Prince Edward asked himself silently, did royal parents dispossess themselves of the honour that the crown rightfully demanded? It was not necessary to behave as a monk; a man was a man, after all. Sins of the flesh were easily confessed.

  He would be a man of whom the English would be proud, and he would have a wife who shunned the licentious vices of the flesh. Women were to be more virtuous than men, least the paternity of their children be in doubt.

  I know that you will be an honourable queen. My grandmother was so, and King Edward I’s second queen, my mother’s aunt, was equally so. Queen Eleanor died, and Queen Marguerite retired to a convent, but they both upheld the honour of their station, and I shall depend upon you to do so, as well.

  Did he sound as if he were scolding her? Or would sweet, honest Philippa understand how much he needed to have as his consort a queen who was the epitome of all that was faithful? In order to rule, a king was called upon to wield justice and mercy, to be a warrior and a peacemaker, to command the loyalty of his subjects, and their affection, as well. If he had any hope of succeeding in these dual obligations, he would need to have a queen at his side who was unfailing in her dedication to him.

  I have seen much in these past weeks that often makes me doubt myself.

  He paused. Should he admit that? Did a king ever concede his own weaknesses? He considered striking the words, but then decided to allow them to remain.

  But I never doubt you. When we are old, you and I, and we think back upon these times, we shall remember that in the midst of calamity, we were united. We were faithful to our God and our duty. We w
ill bring honour to England, for you shall be England’s dear queen, and our subjects will cherish you as they cherished my grandmother, and I shall love you as my grandfather loved her.

  I cannot promise that I will be a perfect husband or a perfect king. But I shall strive to be a king who serves England well, and to you, dear Philippa, I pledge my undying honour.

  Prince Edward put down the pen. He did not know if he would send the letter to Philippa. Perhaps he would keep it to remind himself that he was about to undertake a sacred covenant with the people of England. The crown that would be placed upon his head would be a weighty reminder of his duty.

  But he would not fail.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  The affair

  Isabella Capet proved to be an extraordinary woman. She did something that was unprecedented, no king of England have ever been removed from his throne before. Much less by a woman.

  Whether or not she was romantically involved with her partner in crime, Roger Mortimer, is still a hotly debated subject. Clearly, to her contemporaries, there was no doubt. That said, there exists no clear evidence of any extramarital affair.

  Furthermore, when the queen was finally unseated a couple of years later and Mortimer was charged and executed, none of the charges listed against him included adultery with the queen.

  That said, whatever the nature of their relationship there is no question that somehow Mortimer had an undue influence upon the queen.

  The murder/disappearance of Edward II

  General speculation has it that Isabella was persuaded to turn a blind eye as her lover organised the death of her husband. However Isabella was never charged with the death of the king, neither by her son or by parliament.

  What we know, is that, despite removing him from his throne, Isabella sent the king small gifts and letters throughout his incarceration in 1327 and appeared to care for his welfare. By Easter that year she informed parliament that she was ready and willing to visit him. They promptly forbade it.