I pushed aside my food and leaned across the table. “What do you know of Mortimer’s escape?”
She pressed the point of her knife into a roll, disturbing the flies. “There were two guards outside his cell – asleep.”
“Drunk?”
“Drunk indeed.” She nodded knowingly. “With a potion.”
“How? In the ale?”
“Possibly. Or baked into the custard. No one knows for certain. Just that the whole garrison, everyone who ate or drank in the hall last night, fell dead asleep.”
“So that is why – ”
“No one would have heard a thing.” She laid her knife down and stared out the window again, her brows drawn together.
“Then someone has been planning this, someone inside ...” I was unsure how much to reveal. I yearned to tell Patrice what little I knew, but I did not want her involved.
“Arnaud,” she said almost in a whimper.
“What of Arnaud? You were supposed to meet him last night – at least that is what we all assumed when you left without a word. Did you?” I grabbed her hand, imploring her to look at me, but she continued to gaze out at the cloudless sky. “Patrice, what happened with Arnaud?”
It looked as though she might burst into tears, but she startled when Ida’s voice boomed from an adjoining room as she chastised Marie for being sloppy over some menial task. When Ida’s tongue-lashing finally ceased and the two women moved off, Patrice began with pained reluctance.
“I was to meet Arnaud in a storeroom of the Wardrobe Tower. He was late, but rather than worry – for he always comes – I busied myself inhaling the spices. I had my finger dipped in a jar of cinnamon when he finally arrived. But he told me very suddenly that he is contemplating devoting himself to the Church, because ... because he feels he has sinned terribly. That he must serve his penance.”
I went around the table to stand behind her and stroked her back consolingly. “How can he say such a thing? He is far from the first man to ...” I did not need to say what they had been doing or give her pause to think he was running away from her. “You could not change his mind?”
“He spoke of going to Rievaulx to live with the monks there ... joining the Cistercian Order, eventually – I have heard there were Templars in his family. He had an uncle, dead now, I think, who was an abbot with them. I don’t know. I stopped listening, truthfully. His words all ran together. I did not remember them until later. All I knew was that, that ... that he would not look at me. The more he talked, the more I felt as though ...” She shook her head emphatically. “I was going to tell him, going to ...” She slid from my hold and, cradling herself pitifully in her arms, sank to the floor by the window. “Tell him I was carrying his child.”
“Oh.” I sat down in her chair, facing her. I could hardly say I was surprised. In actuality, I had expected it for some time. “And did you?”
“I had no chance. Before I could say it, he told me he was leaving ... to go on pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela. After that, he would be studying for the priesthood. That it was what his father had always wanted. What he wanted.”
“But Patrice ... you must tell him.”
“I cannot. It is too late. Done.”
“What do you mean? Because he is gone? I’ll send for him. He cannot have gotten as far as any of the ports by now. He’ll do what is – ”
“No, no, noooo ... I’ve ruined it.” She shoved her face into her hands to contain her pain. Frail words leaked through the cracks between her fingers. “I told you – it is too late. Done. There will be no child.”
“I don’t understand. What do you mean?”
With a shaking hand, she reached into the side of her overkirtle and pulled out a leather purse the size of her fist. From it, she drew a tiny flask. “Mathilda, the cook’s wife, she knows of herbal remedies such as this that will end a pregnancy. I went to her last night ... asked her for it. She said after a while, I would only feel a little ill, that I would have some pains, small ones, sleep heavily, and it would be over with.” She began to rock back and forth, like people do when they are mourning the death of a loved one.
If Mathilda knew how to induce a miscarriage, then perhaps she knew how to make men sleep so hard nothing would rouse them. And if not Mathilda, then her husband Dicken, the cook.
I grabbed the flask from Patrice and looked inside, but it was empty and had only the faint, but distinctive odor of wild carrots. “Oh, Patrice, why did you do this?”
“Because, I wanted no part of him. Besides ... he lied to me. He was not going on a pilgrimage.” She gritted her teeth in anger. Her fingernails dug into her skirts so deeply they must have pierced her flesh beneath. “I saw him again afterwards. After I left Mathilda. After I had already taken the remedy. I passed through the inner ward on my way here. I was feeling nothing yet – no pains, nothing but emptiness. I wanted to sit a while, to think. Then I saw him atop the wall. There was a rope. They went down, to the other side. Disappeared.”
“They? Who was with him?”
“Two men. Nothing but shadows against the moonlight. I could not tell who. But this morning, I spoke to Juliana. Along with Sir Roger Mortimer, Gerard d’Alspaye is also missing, as well as Arnaud. And no one knew anything of Arnaud leaving on a pilgrimage or taking vows.”
I joined Patrice on the floor and held her, as sorry for the child she would soon lose, as I was that Arnaud had deceived her. I, too, had trusted in him, had relied on him, and now he had disappeared with Roger Mortimer and was on his way to France. To me, though, it made some sense that on any of his missions to carry a message to Bishop Orleton, he might have been convinced to take part in the scheme. Orleton would have recognized him for his courage and loyalty and made use of it. I only wished that somehow I might have known and so been able to spare Patrice this private agony.
But I could not tell her. If she knew anything, it would only endanger her. Some day she would find out everything. Not now, though. Not now.
By the time Ida came back into the room to see if we were done with our meal, Patrice was doubled up on her side and crying because of the pain shooting through her belly. I summoned my physician and told him in confidence that she might be miscarrying a child, but I said nothing of the flask and its contents. She bled heavily and although it weakened her, the pains soon began to fade and she slept the rest of the day.
*****
While I watched over Patrice, more details arrived in scattered bits. All gates had been closed and every room searched. A thorough scouring of the premises revealed a rope dangling from the wall near the Salt Tower to the outer ward. Most likely, the garrison soldiers, nursing headaches from too much ale and the disorienting effects of the potion, had walked past it more than once before noticing it. Another rope was discovered, this one on the roof of the Lanthorn Tower. The door of the south-eastern gate was found unbarred, indicating that Mortimer had indeed gained his freedom. How he got so far was a mystery. Some said that he was kin to the devil and had used magic. Others swore he had had help from within.
How right they were no one knew.
Eventually, there were reports of a boat being rowed across the Thames at a peculiar hour and horses waiting on the far shore. After that, the trail went completely dead. Messengers were sent with haste to the king at Kirkham. Edward dispatched soldiers to those places he thought Mortimer would be most inclined to go: to the Marches, further on to Wales and also to Dover. Ships were searched, letters read, suspects interrogated. For weeks they went on looking and yet no evidence of Mortimer was ever found.
Across Wales and England, fortresses were reinforced and readied for attack, for Edward feared a fresh rebellion. Tournaments were suspended because they might give Mortimer’s rebels a place to gather in arms. But it was all in vain. There was no trace of Sir Roger Mortimer. None at all. He had vanished into the night.
Every day the tales grew. Some said Mortimer had drowned in the Thames, while others said that he was a change
ling and had simply walked away from the Tower and from London in the shape of another person or an animal. One old woman babbled about a three-legged dog that dove from the wharf and swam the river before rising on the opposite bank as a man. She was later discovered to have thrown her own dog into the water, trying to drown it when it bit her after being beaten.
For me, it all provided a private kind of amusement. For Edward, however, it incited an obvious panic in him – so much, I think he even feared the people of London might oppose him, and so he kept from there for a very, very long time. I stayed, despite Ida’s loathing of the place. I did not want to suffer Edward’s moods.
If Edward ever learned of my doings, he would indeed know I had betrayed him. But there is a worse betrayal than keeping secrets from someone. It is a sickening sort of betrayal to me, beyond my comprehension and upbringing.
I did not have to witness Edward’s infidelity with my own eyes to know that he had engaged in it with Despenser and likely Piers Gaveston before him. The heart knows, sometimes, what the eyes cannot see. Edward could never give me his love because it had been reserved long ago for one such as Hugh Despenser. Despenser, who hated me. Despenser, who would do me harm at any cost.
I would have preferred that Edward frequent a brothel than be with Hugh Despenser. I might have forgiven him then, for whores have no ambitions. Despenser, however, did.
16
Roger Mortimer:
Paris – December, 1323
THE FIRST TIME KING Charles summoned me to the Palace de la Cité in Paris, I expected more ceremony upon my arrival. Not a tournament, nor even a feast. But something ... less casual than what I was greeted with.
King Charles of France was reclined in a green cushioned chair, his silk-shod feet stretched out before him while a courtier strummed at a lute. A red-haired young woman sat in Charles’ lap and trailed a teasing finger over his lips. In the corner behind the enamored pair, a clutch of pretty women in high-waisted gowns and jeweled chaplets tittered behind their hands. Around them hovered a dozen men, finely primped in their velvets and feathers. I wondered for a moment if I had not happened upon a Persian brothel. As I strode across the room, Charles finally noticed me and banished the object of his flirtation with a whisper. She pouted her fleshy lips and slipped from his lap, stopping at his side long enough to place a kiss behind his ear.
“Sir Roger Mortimer.” He held one hand out, palm open. In moments, a servant placed a goblet in his grasp and filled it with wine. “How do you find Picardy these days?”
I bowed. “Comfortable, sire.”
“Bearable, you mean?” He took a sip of wine and ran his tongue around his mouth.
“No, I mean comfortable – in a rustic, uncomplicated sense.”
Sniffing his drink, he cast his eyes upward. “Ah, boring.”
“One could call it that.”
For a moment, his attention drifted to the music as he inclined his head and tapped his fingers on his leg. Suddenly, his eyes narrowed and he waved me into a chair adjacent to his. “So, your son, Geoffrey – can I rely on him, now that he has been sworn to me?”
In early summer, Joan’s mother had died, leaving her Picardy estates to Geoffrey. When I arrived on the continent Geoffrey had been at the French court, paying fealty to his new lord, King Charles. But there was far more to the question than what he had asked. I gave him an equally vague reply. “As much as one can rely on a boy of fifteen years.”
Without breaking his gaze on me he called for one of his courtiers. “Bertrand.” He crooked his finger to beckon the man closer. “When we are seated in the hall for supper, will you see to it the lovely Colette is not in my direct sight? I have a hard time keeping my eyes from her, but the Count of Evreux and his wife will be in attendance this evening. Considering they have a daughter available for marriage, I would prefer they believe me as celibate as any monk.”
Bertrand nodded, but before he could scurry off, Charles added, “Leave us. Everyone.”
With that curt command, the room cleared.
“And you?” Charles said bluntly when the door closed behind the last person. “To whom do you give your loyalty?”
“I no longer hold lands in England. I place my loyalty where it best serves me.”
“Which is not with King Edward?”
“Which is with no one, for now.”
“Ah, but we have a common enemy?”
“One could say so.”
Emptying his cup, Charles rose and placed it on a small table. Then he poured wine into another goblet and handed it to me. “And what do you say?”
In one thirsty gulp, I drained my goblet. There was more to his question than the obvious. He twisted words, leading. I suspected he sought something more than my gratitude. I saw no reason to withhold that, or to evade the point of this meeting. Queen Isabella had told me that when I came to Paris, I would learn what was expected of me in return for my freedom. If Charles would only spit it out, I would have my answer.
“What is it, precisely, that you want from me?”
“Your cooperation. Your expertise.” Charles slipped into his chair, stretched his legs and touched his fingertips together. “Your influence.”
Amused, I scoffed. “And who is it that I, a vagabond, could possibly influence?”
“You have followers. Men who would throw themselves before the ancient legions of Rome at your merest bidding. I know many of their names already. Some have made their appearances at my court. Their grievances are common knowledge. Shall I read you the list of names, as a reminder?”
“I’m hardly as powerful as you suggest, but even so, what good are faithful friends when they have no more means to exact revenge than I?” For months now, I had been drifting without purpose. The scraps handed me by my wife’s relatives hardly amounted to an extravagant life. How was I to gather an army of followers and pay them?
“You will get what you need, Sir Roger, but you will have to beg for it.”
“Should I start with you, sire? On my knees?” I leaned back in my chair, mirroring his posture to show I had no intention of going down before him.
The first hint of a smile broke over his mouth. “No, no need. My sister has already vouched for you. Besides, you are neither desperate nor groveling. Nor am I, Sir Roger. Consider what I am about to propose to you, but do so with care ... and commitment, should you agree to it. Our desires are not mutually exclusive. You want your revenge on Edward and this Hugh Despenser. I want something as well.”
“Your proposition, then?”
“Edward holds lordships in Gascony and elsewhere, which makes me his overlord. As long as he acknowledges that, there can be peace between our kingdoms. However, he does not seem to want to drag himself from England. If, eventually, he will not, then I need you to remove Hugh Despenser from his company. My dear sister is much aggrieved over his constant presence at her husband’s side. A leech, I think she once called him.”
“You would go to war against England?”
“Me? Oh, no, no. I’m trying to avoid that. But a recognized traitor such as yourself, plus a growing number of other disaffected English knights ... with a little help, you could all regain what has been taken from you and make Edward bend to your will.”
“Civil war, then?”
“Strong words. I would be more inclined to say ... hmm, ‘a forced proposal’. But you have done it before,” he leaned forward, “which is why I chose you.”
“Yes, and although it began well, it ended very badly. Despenser has returned, greedier than ever ... and England has never been worse off.”
“Ah, well, perhaps there is something to be learned in all that, Sir Roger. Perhaps simply demanding the removal of Edward’s favorite was not enough. Perhaps you would need to be a little more, as I said, forceful this time? More ... permanent.”
“Meaning?”
“Merely a thought. Let it mean whatever you like.” He slouched back again, running his glittering ringed finger
s over his chin and down his throat. “Tomorrow I ride to Vincennes. My cousin, Philip of Valois, is to meet me there. He has persuaded me to go wolf-hunting, par force. A rather complicated affair that involves dragging a horse’s bloody carcass through the woods the night before and then tethering live quarry to lure the wolves to a feeding spot. It can go on for days, but a thrill if we succeed. I have chosen from the best of my running-hounds to give chase, but it will be Philip’s mastiffs that bring it down. If they do, he’ll claim the prize for himself and boast of it until this time next year. You will join us?”
So, I would have to play at sport to gain his favor. A small price to pay to get what I wanted. “If you’ll forgive my inexperience. I admit I’ve never hunted wolf before. You’ll not relegate me to blowing a horn, I hope?”
“If you are so brave, Sir Roger, you may thrust the spear into the wolf’s heart.”
“Nothing would satisfy me more, sire.”
*****
That night I supped at the high table of the King of France. The next day I went with Charles to Vincennes. There, I met not only his pompous cousin, Philip of Valois, but Philip’s sister Jeanne, who was married to Count William of Hainault – a very, very rich man.
I hardly cared about stirring up wolves to kill when there was money for the asking and alliances to be snatched at.
At dawn the next morning, the bait was set out. In a clearing, an iron stake had been driven into the ground. Chained to the stake was a half-grown lamb.
The morning mist drifted and broke. I crouched nearby in deep mud, the stink of horse blood strong. The far-away baying of hounds rolled through the wooded valley. I stood, wrapped my cold-cramped fingers tight around the haft of my hunting spear and held my breath to listen. A twig snapped. Then, a lanky wolf padded through the gray tangle of trees. The wretched thing looked near to starving. Nose quivering, it stopped to lick at blood-soaked earth. Slowly, it raised its head and fixed its yellow eyes on the bleating lamb. The beast lifted a paw and coiled back on its haunches, preparing to spring.
Isabeau, A Novel of Queen Isabella and Sir Roger Mortimer Page 15