Isabeau, A Novel of Queen Isabella and Sir Roger Mortimer

by Sasson, N. Gemini

  I circled him within the tight confines of the cell. It was easier to stare at the back of his head than meet his gaze straight on and had always been thus for me when near him, even when I was a newly arrived bride and barely a woman.

  “I do indeed come to give you time to think about your future, Sir Roger. My brother, King Charles, has agreed to receive you at his court.”

  “Paris?” Mortimer spun on his knees, catching my hand as I moved by. “I ... I don’t quite follow. You arranged this on my behalf? Why?”

  The warmth of his fingers singed my flesh, but this time I did not pull my hand away. “You were wronged – like Lancaster, like Harclay. England has been drowning in its own blood. I’ll have no more spilled.”

  “Why did you plead for my life?” he asked abruptly.

  I did not answer. Indeed, I had begged Edward to spare Mortimer’s life, reminding him it was Mortimer who had wrested Ireland from the Scots, Mortimer who had stood by him while others, even at times his own brothers, vacillated in their loyalties like grass bends one way and then another in a blustery wind, praising him in one breath and condemning him in the next.

  “Your eldest sons are – ”

  “My wife, Joan? What of her?”

  A spark of envy kindled within my breast. “At Hampshire for now, with your youngest son, John. She was never in any great danger. I have made certain that the allowance for her care has been increased. I sent her some of my gowns, as well. As for your sons: Edmund is here, of course. Your son, Roger, is under heavy guard at Windsor. Your daughters have been dispatched to various nunneries. Your mother – ”

  “Joan – she was expecting another child when I left her last.” There was a desperate longing in his voice, but I could not tell if it was because he longed for his wife, or that he regretted never having seen his youngest child.

  “A girl, healthy. She named her Blanche.”

  “After her sister.”

  As he held my hand, I told him more about his sons and daughters, at least those I knew of, for there were twelve in all, and where they were being kept.

  “I must ask you to make a choice, Sir Roger ... take a risk, rather. I can offer you your freedom, but it will put the safety of your family in jeopardy. If the gamble is too great, say so and I will withdraw my offer.”

  “Ah, I see. This clemency comes from you alone. Done in secret. And the price is the peril of those I love.” He gave up my hand. “What choice do I have? Any? If I refuse my own freedom, fair queen, I will most certainly die ... and then so will they. Oddly, it’s not death I dread so much, as the waiting for it. The boredom of not knowing what is going on beyond these walls – that alone can drive a man mad. The helplessness ... the solitude ...”

  He withdrew into himself for a moment, deeply. I touched his shoulder. “Gentle sir, I wish I could guarantee you their safety, but I put even myself at risk by being here.”

  Feebly, he nodded, as some bleak realization took hold of him. “If you set me free I swear I shall make the trouble very worth your while.” He met my eyes with a stark sincerity and vulnerability that could have convinced me of anything at that moment. “If my murder is imminent, then refusing you for my family’s safety would indeed be thoughtless, wouldn’t it? My enemies may have deemed me rash in the past, but never a fool. Only ... how is my freedom to be delivered? And when?”

  “Be patient, Sir Roger. You have allies. Many. Besides, already you have received and sent messages from here. I am well aware of that. So is Lord Despenser. Your letter to the Abbot of Wigmore was intercepted, which is perhaps why Despenser sees an urgent need to end your life. Care must be taken. In the meanwhile, Bishop Orleton of Hereford often inquires of you. I shall ask him to say a prayer for your wellbeing.”

  At that, Mortimer gave the first hint of a smile, understanding my tiny clue that the bishop was involved. “A prayer, yes. But tell me – why this boon?”

  “You were loyal to Edward for many years. In his anger, he has forgotten.”

  “And you defend him even now? You contradict yourself.”

  “And you speak too boldly, my lord.”

  “Ah, I do. I daresay that is why I am here. I should take a lesson in humility from you. But, may I ask one thing? Tell me – how shall I return the favor?”

  “Charles will speak further with you when you arrive in Paris.”

  “You cannot tell me?”

  “Even if I knew, it would be best not to say.”

  The sound of a mouse scratching came from behind Mortimer, but he took no notice. He rubbed at the stubble on his cheeks with his knuckles. “So, I am to agree without knowing what it is I owe you?”

  “You’re an honorable man. I’m a fair woman. My brother is reasonable, as well. Think on it.”

  “If I inform the king you were here ... that you made me an offer?”

  “You won’t. Besides, it would spare you nothing. Despenser would still have you killed for ravaging his lands and threatening his power.”

  “They were not his lands.”

  “I know that. We all do.” Everyone except Hugh Despenser. And Edward.

  Sensing that too much time had passed and I should stay no longer, I took a step back. “Forget that I was ever here. When you find your way to Paris, say it was by chance. Remember – Edward would have never sent you here of his own volition. He has failed only in his judgment of whose advice he follows. Despenser is to blame for your plight ... and for England’s misery.”

  “Yours as well?”

  I could have launched into a tirade about my hatred of Hugh Despenser, but I answered him merely with a doleful look. Already, we were beginning to understand each other.

  Gerard stood aside and took the torch from its sconce, even though it would leave the room in darkness and no daylight yet pierced the narrow window of Mortimer’s cell.

  Before I reached the door, I heard a single word: “Yellow.”

  I stopped short and cast a quizzical glance over my shoulder.

  Mortimer’s face, his unshaven chin resting on his chest, was dark with shadows. As he raised his head, I could see only the bare outline of his strong nose and lips, the firm ridge of his brow. His eyes met mine. This time I did not look away.

  “On your wedding day. I was there, did you know? It was long before we Mortimers fell from favor. A face in the crowd to you, perhaps. You didn’t know me then. Ah, but I remember. You wore a gown of yellow to match your hair. The day was bright, though January, and your hair shone, even beneath your veil. The trim was blue. Darker than your eyes, but not nearly so brilliant.”

  Hardly aware I was doing so, my hand drifted up to touch a stray strand of hair. “I ... I was only a girl then. You remember more than I.” And differently. He saw a young bride beginning a new life. I saw a groom ... who saw me not at all.

  “You were radiant. And frightened nearly to tears.”

  So he did know. Had I been so poor at hiding it? “A long time ago. I didn’t know what it would be like – ” As Edward’s queen. I did not know. Hastily, I added, “What it would be like in England.”

  “Not at all like you envisioned. Nor what you deserved.” His words faded to a dreamy whisper. “Shall I see you in Paris?”

  “No. I have not been there for years.”

  Although I would have given up anything then to go there and leave Edward and England behind. Anything, except for my children. So I thought.

  14

  Roger Mortimer:

  Tower of London – August, 1323

  A MASON’S CHISEL PINGED on stone, fracturing the silence of the night. I sat up in bed, my heartbeat quickening. Slowly, I turned my head, trying to locate its source. From behind me, metal rasped at mortar. I went to my cell door and listened. Only the snores of a sleeping guard. I crept to my window. A watchman was slumped against the wall of the battlements, dozing soundly. Beyond the wall walk and the Salt Tower, nothing else stirred. Not even the ravens on the merlons. They were not there.


  I slid my bed over the floor planks and away from the wall. Bending down, I probed with my fingers and detected the first fine crack between the stones. I searched the dimly lit confines of my room frantically for some crude tool to hurry the work along, but there was nothing that could have served. And so I watched and waited, keen to the alarm of guards’ voices or the scuff of boots.

  So it was true. Soon, I would be free, just as Queen Isabella had promised. Almost four months had gone by since she stood before me like a dewy angel in the darkness, beguiling and beautiful. At that moment, I thought God had indeed smiled on me. But why would such a heavenly creature cast favor on a troublesome rebel like me when she herself stood to lose so much? A pity I might never have the chance to thank her. An even greater pity that I would not come to know her better.

  Finally, one of the stones groaned as it was pulled from the other side. I strained to push it free with my fingers. It was half way out when it became wedged at an angle against the other stones. I tried to rock it from side to side, but it would not budge. From the other side of the wall, something hammered at it, like the butt end of a weapon striking its base. Suddenly, the blows stopped. A long pause followed. I crouched nearer. Then, the scraping and pinging started anew.

  At last the stone moved again. I pried my fingers into the mouse hole beside it to gain leverage and with the other hand maneuvered it until the block slid away, pinching two of my fingers in the crevice. As I wrenched my throbbing fingers loose, I bit back a howl of pain. Candlelight flickered through the dark hole. Cautiously, I peered into it. The outline of a familiar face greeted my eyes.

  “That’s one,” Gerard huffed. “The rest will come easier, my lord.”

  “Hurry,” I whispered back.

  He disappeared. I heard the low murmur of another voice. When Gerard reappeared he slid a length of heavy metal through the hole: a crowbar. “With your help.”

  I chipped at mortar and swept the dust and jagged flakes aside by hand. Twice, I stopped to listen at the door, but all was as strangely dead as before. Another block fell away, and another, each one loosening more easily. Gathering an armful of my clothes, I arranged them lengthwise beneath my blanket. Not entirely convincing, but if anyone glanced over it in the darkness they might assume I was still asleep there. When the hole was barely big enough, I put the bed back in place and crawled under it. Arms before me, I wriggled forward. Sharp stones scraped at my shoulders and caught on the cloth of my shirt, tearing it. When my torso had cleared the opening, I dragged my hips and legs through.

  Arnaud de Mone hauled me to my feet. We were in the adjacent room, lit by a single candle. The room, much like the one I had inhabited for a year and a half, appeared as though it were used for nothing more than the storage of spare furniture.

  A haze of dust billowed from my shirt as I pounded at it. “I gather you could not get the keys to the door?”

  “The castle’s lieutenant keeps them on his person,” Gerard said, “and since there is more than one lock on the door, we would have made far more noise trying to get you out that way. Besides, this room is closer to the kitchen.”

  “The kitchen?”

  Gerard lifted the lid of a chest and tossed me the clothes of a kitchen servant, drenched with the smell of grease and rotting refuse.

  “There are men,” Arnaud explained, “waiting on the far side of the Thames with horses to take you to Portchester. Then on to the Isle of Wight. There, you’ll find a boat which will take you across to France.”

  I smiled as I rubbed at the stains on my borrowed tunic. So Orleton had held true on his promises. King Charles, as well. Perhaps my days of being betrayed had at last come to an end? I thumped Arnaud on the arm. “You’re coming, I trust?”

  Ignoring my question, he handed me a belt with a sheathed long knife attached. He knelt down and shoved the bottom stone back into place.

  I helped him with the rest, but he bore the brunt of the work with easy strength. My muscles had withered from imposed idleness. If the ride to Portchester did not break my back in two, I would consider myself fortunate. “I’ll make it worth your while once we get to Picardy, Arnaud.”

  He checked his sword with the heel of his hand and motioned me to the door. With a puff, he blew out the candle. “I’ll come, but not because of the money.”

  My eyes adjusted to the dim glow of starlight coming in through the single small window. Although grateful for Arnaud’s company, I sensed he was not coming along out of pure loyalty to me. “Why else?”

  “Later, my lord.”

  Carefully, Gerard lifted the bar of the door. He stuck his head into the corridor, and then hitched a shoulder at us.

  I snagged Arnaud by the sleeve. “We’re going to get my uncle and son now.”

  He shook his head. “No time.”

  I leapt forward and blocked Gerard’s way, my arm across the door. I pulled it shut. “We cannot leave without them.”

  They exchanged a swift look, but the shadows veiled their faces and I could not read the meaning that passed between them.

  “We were told,” Gerard said blandly, “to get you out of here. Not anyone else.”

  In one sudden, twisting motion, I grabbed Gerard by his jerkin and slammed him up against the wall. The side of his head glanced a sconce. He winced sharply.

  “They staked their lives alongside mine,” I growled. My fingers dug deep into his padded jerkin. A shining bead of blood trickled down his cheek.

  “My lord, please.” Arnaud laid a hand on my arm pleadingly. “There is no time ... no way to get to them. Your uncle is housed in the White Tower. Your son on the far side of the grounds from here. We cannot risk that distance. Too many doors, too many walls between here and there. We must get beyond the outer curtain, quickly. Every minute that we – ”

  “No! We don’t leave without them.”

  “There is no time,” he repeated with calm restraint. The rest of his words came more hurriedly. “There was a feast tonight. The cook put a sleeping potion in the ale. The entire garrison is sleeping soundly, but any one of them could awaken at any moment. We’ve already used too much time. We may not get more. If we try to rescue your uncle and son, we would put all our lives in peril. We cannot save them if we’re dead.”

  And I would not be able to save them from France.

  I let go of Gerard and pulled my hands down over my face, gathering my senses. How could I go without them and reason it was the right thing to do? Yet how could I risk even more than I already did? I circled the room, my mind spinning, even as time slipped dangerously away. I knew my uncle would more than despise me for abandoning him.

  No, even if it was possible to free him, the old goat would not want my help. He would curse and turn his back on me. But my son, Edmund ...

  Too many doors, too many walls between here and there.

  At the window I paused and leaned on its ledge to look down into the seemingly empty outer ward below. I had no view to the inner ward, but I remembered the gaping expanse of the Tower Green.

  There is no time ... no way to get to them.

  No, if I risked saving my son and my uncle, then England’s woes would forever be upon me. It simply couldn’t be done.

  “From whom did you take your orders for this night?” I asked Arnaud.

  “Bishop Orleton.”

  “And the queen?”

  “She will not learn of it until morning.”

  When everyone else would.

  “Then let us hope,” I said, pushing away from the window and crossing the room, “she hears Roger Mortimer is nowhere to be found. Gerard, lead the way.”

  Arnaud fell in behind me and we slipped out into the corridor, around the corner – stopping often to listen above the creaking of the floorboards beneath our weight – and crept, step by step, down the tightly winding stairway of the Lanthorn Tower. We came to a landing where Gerard halted. Torches flamed brightly in their sconces on either side of the door. Gerard knocked t
wice, waited, and knocked twice again. A fine, ragged line of dried blood marked the near side of his face.

  The latch clicked and the door, slowly, swung open without a sound.

  A black cat darted out with a silver fish’s tail dangling from its mouth. From where I stood, I saw only a wall with pigs’ carcasses on hooks and strings of onions hung along its length.

  Gerard entered the kitchen cautiously. “Do you have the ropes, Dicken?”

  A tall, hunch-shouldered man appeared, mumbling. The fire in the cooking hearth had burnt out hours ago, but torches threw ample light throughout the spacious, high-ceilinged chamber. One table was strewn with dirty pots, another with the remnants of the night’s meal: a bowl of eggshells, baskets of leeks and cabbages, scattered apple peels. Casks of ale were stacked along another wall.

  Arnaud and I stepped beneath the low lintel of the door, closing it behind us. Dicken shuffled over to a row of barrels and lifted the lid from one. He stooped over it and plunged his huge hands inside. With a careless heave, he hurled a coil of rope, reeking of salted fish, at Gerard’s feet. The hook tied to its end clanked on the stones.

  Gerard lifted the coil over his head and slipped an arm through it. Then he dug beneath his jerkin and produced a pouch. “More than you asked for.” It jingled as he tossed it to the cook, who snatched it out of midair with surprising reflexes.

  Dicken untied the pouch and ogled the treasure within. Then he tucked its bulge beneath his apron, went to the hearth and ducked beneath its broad, stone arch. He fumbled above his head and the knotted tail of another rope dropped down. He emerged wearing a scowl.

  Ignoring him, Gerard scooped up a pile of ashes and smeared them on his forehead and cheeks, avoiding the still seeping gash.

  While Gerard grasped the rope above his head and scrambled up, Dicken went about cleaning up his tables, brushing the waste into a bowl at his hip. I passed by him, grabbed a strip of dried dough and heard a low rumble in his throat. Although I stepped wide of him, he leered at me.