Neath'
“Will you offer him terms, my lady? The Abbot of Neath is waiting at the palace to carry a reply back to King Edward.”
The bishop had found me there, in the Lady Chapel of Hereford’s church, while I knelt at the altar deep in my evening prayers. I straightened the creases from my loose-fitting, gray gown of fustian. If not for the rich red of my mantle, which I wore only for warmth, I might have been mistaken for a nun. Since my return to England, I had dressed in widow’s weeds. So that all would know that Edward of Caernarvon was no longer a husband to me.
“I think he means to offer me terms,” I said, bewildered by the irony of it. Once, I would have snatched at compromise. However, the time for making amends was long gone. “He says nothing of Hugh Despenser. I am not sure what to make of such a glaring omission.”
“Perhaps the king thinks you will overlook that in light of his conciliation?”
“If he believes for even a moment that I might pardon any of Despenser’s transgressions, then he is not only arrogant, but deluded. And he comprehends nothing of why I left England.” Nothing, indeed. It had cost me my children and earned me the admonishment of the Pope. What woman would suffer such anguish and humiliation if not for good reason?
Orleton returned the letter to me. “They say he tried to raise an army from Gower. No one came to join him.”
I cupped my left palm and tapped the letter against it. “Which would explain his desperation, but if ... if I do as he asks, dear bishop, and send someone to talk with him – what does he expect? If Despenser is still with him, surely he must know that ...”
Could it be so easy?
I clenched my fingers around the letter until it crimped in the middle. My greatest hope was that Despenser had not abandoned Edward and escaped to Ireland or the continent. I wanted him found and I wanted him brought to me.
Orleton arched a silver eyebrow at me. “Who shall we send back with the Abbot of Neath as our ‘envoy’?”
Without hesitation, I answered, “Leicester.”
My uncle, Henry, would bring them to me. He had his own matters to settle with Edward and Despenser. The denial of his hereditary titles, for one. His brother’s murder another.
Bishop Orleton opened the door and stood aside. A chill draft wrapped around me. I pulled my mantle tight and clutched the letter to my breast.
He offered his arm. “Will you come with me to the hall, my lady? A feast has been prepared in your honor. The guests are waiting.” A short walk from the church stood the bishop’s palace overlooking the River Wye, where he kept residence and entertained guests. By now the hall would be filled with cries for retribution. “I will offer the Abbot of Neath a room for the night where he can take his supper in private. He is merely the messenger, but I fear there are a few here who might take it upon themselves to prevent his return. In the morning, we will send him on his way. With the earl, of course.”
It was inevitable. It would be done. If it was what I had so long wanted, why then did I not feel joy well up inside me, ready to burst in triumph? I searched Orleton’s erudite face for solace, some logical reassurance that I had set my feet on the right path; but all I saw in his unclouded eyes was the mounting tally of Edward’s wrongs. To falter now, to overlook any of it, was the very weakness that Edward depended on.
I slipped the letter beneath the side opening of my cyclas and tucked it beneath my belt, then hooked my arm inside his. “Revenge, dear bishop – does it ever end?”
He patted my hand. “It ends when we trust in Our Lord and allow Him to deliver – ”
“Justice?”
Lightly, he squeezed my hand in correction. “Judgment. God, my child, does not seek justice. That is something he leaves to men.”
If justice was the realm of men, then I knew of one man in particular who would be eager to dispense it and without remorse: Roger Mortimer. He would see it done. Just as he had sworn to do.
We walked across the yard in fast falling darkness to the great Norman hall of the bishop’s palace and ascended the steps. I lifted the hem of my skirt. Cool November air brushed my ankles. I shivered. The guards bowed, signaled at the door with a knock and it opened. At the threshold, I pulled in a deep breath. So lost in thought I was, that I barely recognized the familiar faces of great lords and knights who rose upon our arrival and smiled at me. We went forward. The torchlight grew brighter, the smells of roasted meats and spiced wine stronger, the sting of smoke sharper, and the sounds of voices louder and louder until all my senses swirled in confusion.
How was it that it had all come to this? How would I ever know that what I was about to do ... would be right?
I curled my fingernails into the soft flesh of my palm and I remembered ... everything.
Everything.
*****
The great salt was carried aloft in a nef of pearls and rock-crystal, mounted on a stem of gold. Murmurs of delight and light applause rippled through the great hall of the bishop’s palace, as servants bearing silver platters swarmed from table to table. Spit-roasted venison and capons stuffed with breadcrumbs seasoned with rosemary and sage were laid out, sliced and served. Quinces, filled with honey and wrapped in pastries, glowed golden with saffron. I had never known Orleton to be an extravagant man, but on this rare occasion he meant to impress. He straightened in his chair and smoothed the gold-tasseled end of his red silk stole flat against his abdomen.
I laid my hand over Young Edward’s, who was seated to my left at the high table. Bishop Stratford, next to him, bestowed me with a welcoming smile and I leaned forward to look further down the table to catch Mortimer’s eye, but he was engaged in a lively debate with the Earl of Norfolk.
“Sir Roger,” I called above the rising din, but he took no notice. Since returning to England, and particularly since I had reprimanded him on our way to Bristol, Mortimer had been diligent about stepping back into the shadows, so much so that he would not even meet my eyes if I looked at him across a room filled with people. I waved a knife in the air and called his name again, louder.
Stiffly, he turned his head. “My lady?”
“If it is not an inconvenience, I should like to meet briefly with you and Lord Leicester after supper. I have need of your advice regarding a document.”
Mortimer arched a skeptical brow at me and nodded. “As you wish, my lady.” Then he turned back to Norfolk and said, “I say we hurry no one home, least of all the Hainaulters. It is might in numbers that will keep the peace until – ”
“I heard rumor today, my queen,” Leicester interposed, as he sawed at his venison, “that the king is making his way to Scotland to throw himself at the Bruce’s feet to beg sanctuary there.”
“Did you, Lord Henry?” I replied with a small laugh, wishing it were true, for King Robert would have probably locked him up in a dungeon for a very long time, just as he had Edward’s cousin, the Earl of Richmond. “Do you think they will join forces and march on York?”
Rumbling with laughter, Leicester elbowed Lord Wake. The ewerer poured wine from a silver-gilt flask into his goblet. Then Leicester hoisted his drink, drained it in a single gulp and slammed it down. Dragging the back of his hand across his mouth, he stifled a belch before imparting more. “I also heard he joined a monastery. That would be more like him, wouldn’t it – hiding beneath a cowl?”
I settled back and pressed my right hand to my middle, feeling the crinkle of parchment beneath my clothing. Everything rushed back to me with frightening suddenness: the years I wasted trying to be the loyal, dutiful wife; Edward’s constant neglect of me; seeing Despenser hold his face with familiarity and place a tender kiss upon his cheek, then close the door to carry on privately; Despenser tearing my children from my arms and little Joanna crying for me; his knife pressed to my throat ...
“Mother?” Young Edward turned his hand over, so that my palm was cupped in his. “What troubles you?”
“I’m not troubled,” I said, curling my fingers aroun
d his and giving his hand a squeeze, “not at all.”
“Then anxious? Fatigued? Not ill, I pray?”
I looked down at my right hand, still pressed against the letter, and sighed. “On the contrary – I have never felt better, never more certain of things than I am now.”
And strangely, it was true.
“More wine?” I enquired, raising a hand to beckon the ewerer.
Chin lowered, Young Edward nodded. “I was wondering,” he began, somewhat shyly, “when Philippa can come to England?”
“I cannot say precisely, my dear.” When my cup was filled I sipped from it, its fruity aroma making my head go light. “Certainly you’ll want to be able to lavish her with your full attention when she does arrive, yes? And her father will want to see that all the conditions have been fulfilled before he puts his daughter on a ship to England. You understand, don’t you? There is so much to do before that can happen.”
One day my son would be a king among kings, but he was only a boy. His dreams were simple. He did not understand that to do what was right, what was best – it was not always easy. That was a burden that I took onto my own shoulders, so he would not have to.
Vexed, he wrinkled his forehead. “Such as?”
I set my goblet down and smoothed a stray hair from his temple. “We will talk of it later, my dearest. Until then, you needn’t worry yourself. It will all be taken care of.”
At that moment, Mortimer reached across his plate, looked my way, and smiled broadly.
*****
Bishop Orleton closed the door of the meeting room behind him, shutting out the lingering clamor of the great hall. One hand shielding the flame of the candle he carried, he crossed the room and placed it on the large oak table there. I drew the letter from beneath my cyclas, opened it and laid it on the table. Mortimer leaned over it, Leicester squinting over his shoulder.
“From Edward,” I said, seating myself on a bench at the far end. “You’ll find his proposal interesting.”
When they finished, neither said a word. Mortimer went to stand closer to the hearth and gazed into its pale blue flames, while Leicester paced, fists braced on his hips.
“Hugh Despenser was at Neath with him,” the bishop elaborated, “when the letter was sent, along with Chancellor Robert de Baldock. The king tried again to raise troops, but to no avail.”
Leicester swiveled on his heel, stomping his foot thunderously on the tiles. “Did he even receive the prince’s letter?”
“Most assuredly, he did.” Orleton clasped his hands beneath his sleeves. A pale shine of starlight lit the bishop’s features as he drifted toward the only window in the room. The lines on his face, although not numerous, had etched themselves more deeply during the time that I was away. The last few years had been easy for no one, not even a pious and scholarly man such as Adam Orleton. “Maltravers delivered it into the king’s hands, saw him open it and read it. The king protested that his son would never have made such a request – that the ‘she-wolf’, and that ‘traitorous bastard Mortimer’, put him up to it.”
“And he wrote this in answer?” Leicester opened his arms wide, incredulous.
“Three days later,” Orleton said. “According to the Abbot of Neath, the reason it took so long for the king to reply was that he and Despenser were at odds. An argument, of some sort. He did not hear the full details of it, but he knows that once Lord Despenser learned of his father’s fate, figuring his would be the same, he had no wish to parley with the queen. The king, however, rather than submit, since it is obvious even to him that his hold on power has dissolved, seeks to reconcile with the queen.”
Mortimer indicated the letter with a tilt of his head. “Does the prince know of this?”
“No,” I said, “he does not.”
“So, what will you do?” Mortimer stroked at the bristles on his chin and neck. “Call a council meeting? Write back to him?”
“And say what? What is left to be said? Certainly not that I will return to him.” My heart racing at the terror of the thought, I tapped a finger heavily on the edge of the table. “No, there is nothing more to be said ... and if I put this before council, it would only drag on for days.” Although I had already laid out my plans, I had avoided recognizing their urgency until that moment. “Time is critical. We have not the luxury of wasting it. I have already decided what is to be done.”
For once, Leicester was silent. I returned his penetrating gaze. “Henry, you and Lord Wake are to escort the abbot back to Neath. You will place King Edward, Chancellor Baldock and Lord Despenser under arrest. Lord Wake shall bring Despenser here, to Hereford. I should like to say a few things to Hugh Despenser, before he is sent on to London to stand trial before the people.”
The thick line of his eyebrows lifted as he nodded in acceptance, subduing the thrill that must have rushed through his veins at the prospect of hunting down the very man who had decided his brother’s fate. “And the king, my lady?”
“You will take him to Kenilworth, my lord, and see to it that there is no way for him to get out, or for anyone to get in. Can you do that?”
It required will, at that moment, not to share a fleeting smile with Mortimer. For in sending Leicester after the king, I kept him from interfering while Mortimer and I laid out my son’s future.
As if he was inspecting every angle of my proposition, Leicester took his time answering. Finally, he scoffed. “And you ... trust me to keep watch over the king?”
“There is no one I trust more, Henry.”
A mischievous grin curved his lips beneath his full, red mustache. He nodded once and strode from the room.
I gave the letter unto Bishop Orleton’s care, with instructions that no one else was to see it until the king was taken into custody. Then the bishop left to return to the great hall to bid his guests a good night. I rose to follow him, but Mortimer placed himself in my way.
The door slightly ajar, he drew me back toward the table and kept his voice low. “Edward’s greatest mistake was not in ignoring your beauty; it was in failing to realize your cleverness.”
I sank back down onto the bench and rested my elbows on the table as the weight of my decision and what would ensue began to seep into me. “Clever, perhaps. But not without conscience,” I confided. “At one time, I thought I would go to any lengths to have my children back. Any length to find happiness.” Mortimer laid a gentle hand on my shoulder and I realized that with him I could speak my mind as I never could with Edward. “Now that I have those things, I find it is not all so simple. I fear that what we are doing ... it will all come back on us – if not immediately, then some day, in some terrible way. God forgive me, but I am not sure, anymore, what is right and what is wrong.”
“Do you think anyone does?” He circled the table, until he stood on the other side. Candle-flame danced between us. His eyes intent on me, he leaned forward and spread his fingers on the table. “Do not cling to your guilt, Isabella. It serves no one – least of all you.”
When he went from the room, the draft from the door closing snuffed out the candle.
48
Isabella:
Hereford– November, 1326
IN THE DAYS THAT followed, as I waited to learn of Leicester’s mission, measures were taken to secure my son’s accession to the throne. As much as everyone wanted Edward of Caernarvon shrived of his crown, we flouted law and custom if we took it from him. It would need to be handled delicately, but resolutely. Evidence that Edward had not fulfilled his duties of kingship, however, would not be hard to conjure. Despenser’s transgressions even easier. Writs were issued in the prince’s name, summoning parliament to Westminster in December. Bishop Stratford, who had been newly named as Treasurer, was dispatched to London. There, Richard de Bethune, who had aided in Mortimer’s escape from the Tower, would replace Hamo de Chigwell as mayor.
Then, the day came. The day everything I had planned for, since I first wrote to Charles and begged for his help.
&n
bsp; Joanna and I were tucked away in a window seat on a stair landing of the bishop’s palace. The light from the afternoon sun was strong, although winter’s chill slipped its fingers between the cracks of the window panes to tease at the back of my neck. My daughter was sitting in my lap, copying the letters of the words I had written for her to practice. Distracted, she gouged the clay tablet with the point of her stylus.
“Mother?” She twisted around to look over my shoulder and then wriggled from my hold. The tablet tumbled to the floor. She pressed her fingertips to the frosty glass. “Do you hear trumpets?”
“A hunt, perhaps,” I said, as I bent forward to retrieve the tablet. “But that would be far away. You have keen ears, my little one.”
“No, down there,” she insisted, her small jaw working back and forth. “Who is that?”
Trumpets blared. I peered over her curly head of yellow hair, beyond the low walls of the bishop’s palace, where a crowd was rapidly gathering in the market square. What I saw made my heart flame with hatred.
Hugh Despenser rode tied to the back of a nag that was so old and lame it could barely walk. He wobbled side to side, as if too weak to stay upright. From the front of the party, Lord Wake dismounted and strode back to Despenser. He grasped the chain linking Despenser’s hands and yanked him down. Despenser’s limp body flopped sideways and disappeared below the crowd.
“Ida! Ida!” I called up the stairs as I pulled Joanna away from the window. “Come quickly!”
A few moments later, Ida crabbed sideways down the stairs, muttering to herself. She pressed one hand against her ribs as she gasped from the effort of hurrying and the other hand against the wall to keep her balance. “Yes, my lady?”
“Keep Joanna and her sister in their room. They are not to come out unless I send for them. Do you understand?”
“Something wrong?”
Isabeau, A Novel of Queen Isabella and Sir Roger Mortimer Page 38