Isabeau, A Novel of Queen Isabella and Sir Roger Mortimer

by Sasson, N. Gemini

  *****

  Shortly after midnight, Robert returned to my apartments and led me and my damsels away. Arnaud de Mone also escorted us, telling us that my son and Mortimer would meet us when we were safely outside the grounds. It would soon be discovered whose company we kept, but for now we would give the appearance of departing separately. The few sleepy-eyed servants and men-at-arms that we passed on our way to the outer wall kept their distance, as though we were lepers to be avoided.

  At a low door in the outer wall, Robert whispered to the watchman and we were all ushered through, then along a footpath across a sheep meadow. Before we reached the hedgerow which marked its perimeter, our shoes were slick with manure. In single file, we scrambled through a hole in the bushes. Thorny branches tugged at our hair and caught on our clothes. Once through, we stood at the edge of a stream. One by one, Robert and Arnaud helped us down the steep bank. Lifting our skirts to our knees, Patrice and I waded through the cold water. The bank on the far side was less steep, but thick with stinking mud. Bedraggled, we slogged along with our shoes squelching. Soon, we found ourselves in an orchard where green pears clung tightly to their branches.

  Behind me, Marie stumbled over a fallen limb and whimpered. I stepped aside and waited for her to come up beside me.

  “I do not think I want to leave France again, my lady,” she said woefully. She slowed her steps, frowning.

  I took her trembling hand in mine. “Then I will release you, but not yet. Come to Valenciennes. When we leave for England, you needn’t come with us.”

  She gasped. “Oh, I would never dream of leaving you, but ... but England is such a dreadful, horrible place and the winters so gray and cold and so – ”

  “How much further?” Patrice demanded of Robert, as she veered to the side of our ragged line.

  Robert jabbed his finger at her in warning. Then he held his hands wide to halt us. Thankful for the reprieve, I sank down. My shins ached from the long walk and the soles of my feet were tender from stepping on too many stones and sharp sticks. Robert brought a finger to his lips. Peering into the half darkness, I held my breath and heard, distinctly, footsteps on the path ahead. The night sky was veiled by wispy clouds, letting only patches of starlight shine through, and the moon was not out.

  A doe and her fawn appeared on the path before us. The moment Robert rose to his feet and gestured for us to follow, the deer and her offspring bounded off into the tangle of pear trees.

  A mile later, we came to a small farm in a clearing. There, we were joined by Young Edward, Mortimer and nearly a dozen of his men, among them Sir John Maltravers and Gerard d’Alspaye. We dressed ourselves in more humble clothes and took on the guise of a merchant’s household, journeying north on business. Patrice fussed over trading her beautiful embroidered gown and ivory hair adornments for a kirtle of itchy fustian and a wimple that covered her swirling ringlets of raven hair.

  We were provided with pack horses carrying bundles of linen. Within the bundles of cloth, however, were tucked bags of silver. We were also given a cart pulled by two red oxen that was stacked with barrels of wine from Gascony, salt from Bourgneuf and more silver buried beneath. Our leave-taking had been an event in planning long before Charles had penned compliance to the Pope.

  I glanced at my son’s face in the sheen of moonlight as we gathered between the whispering woods and the dark road leading away northward from Vincennes. He held his chin aloft, drawing the night air fully into his lungs.

  “You understand,” I began, keeping my voice low, “why we are going to Valenciennes?”

  Young Edward shrugged. “I understand that the Count of Hainault, who is a rich man with many soldiers at his bidding, has four daughters. You want me to marry one of them?”

  I nodded with a dose of trepidation. I had never truly asked Young Edward if that was acceptable, but had merely explained why he should accept a wife in exchange for ships and soldiers.

  “What if I will not?” he asked.

  “Then we ... I could not go back to England.”

  “But I could?”

  The teasing tone in his voice afforded me little reassurance. “If you wished.”

  “You would not stop me?”

  “No.” Although I would have expended every last shred of my energy trying to convince him not to go. “But you’ve stayed this long, haven’t you? Why? To please me? You could have left with Bishop Stapledon at any time and what could I have done to stop you?”

  “Please, I wouldn’t have. The Bishop of Exeter bores me to death. Always lecturing. I’ll be damned to hell when God says I am, not him. I never liked Lord Despenser. No one really does – except Father. And what’s bad for the king is bad for England.” He drew his shoulders up, sitting as tall as he could. “But you’ll allow me to speak with the count’s daughters and make up my own mind, yes? My wife will be passing fair to look upon and kind ... and clever, like you. And if I like none of them, then I shall choose none. We will go on to some other court, try again.”

  “That would be difficult.”

  “It would, yes.” He shot me a quick look. “But if I’m to have a wife, she must make a good wife for me and I must like her ... and she me.”

  If there was any blessing in what I had suffered through with Edward all those years, it was my children, most of all Young Edward.

  Before the silence that began to settle between us gaped uncomfortably, Mortimer rode around the corner of the byre.

  “My lord,” Mortimer addressed, dipping slightly from the waist in his saddle, “will you lead the way?” He raised his hand to indicate a road that plunged deep into the forest. Young Edward hesitated a moment, then rested the heel of his hand on the pommel of his untried sword and gave his mount a nudge in the flanks.

  A rising wind whipped the tree branches above us into a sudden clatter. Small trees swayed and bent. I brought the hood of my cloak up over my head. Our procession drew closer together, the nose of each horse touching the tail of the one before it, as we bumped along through the darkness.

  A violent gust ripped my hood from my head. The first of the rain came not in pattering drops, but slamming downward in heavy sheets as if we had plunged beneath a great waterfall.

  Part III:

  I bear the name of King;

  I wear the crown, but am controlled by them,

  By Mortimer and my unconstant Queen,

  Who spots my nuptial bed with infamy.

  Edward II,

  from Christopher Marlowe’s Edward II

  32

  Roger Mortimer:

  Saint-Denis – August, 1326

  AN AMUSING SUPPLICATION. YOUNG Lord Edward, in no attempt to hide the letter, handed it to his mother almost immediately. She, in turn, shared it with me:

  Our Fair Son,

  Daily I pray for your safe return to England’s shores, for the longer you remain in France, the greater, I fear, is the menace to your welfare. Your mother has fallen under ill counsel in Sir Roger Mortimer. For many years I gave him patronage and entrusted him with high stations and important duties, only to have him join in league with my false cousin, Thomas of Lancaster. Mortimer’s nature is one of brazen arrogance. He fails not only in gratitude, but flaunts his undeserved freedom in mockery of me. I can but imagine what fantastic lies he has told to delude the queen, your mother. Despite my pleas of concern, she rebukes me. Mortimer, as you know, is my sworn enemy. She cannot see her very life is in danger.

  I have knowledge of marriage negotiations, entered into on your behalf, of which I have offered no consent. Do not forsake the oaths you swore to me at Dover to withhold from all such contracts. They were requested and sworn for good cause. Honor your trust in me. Be not led astray.

  For you, out of love, I beg you to listen to me, your father and king. Cleave yourself from those whose sole purpose is to use you, an innocent, as their instrument of evil. They bear neither love for you nor care for your future. Be not disobedient. Come home. Shame me no more
by these vile associations. Relieve me of the grief that your continued absence has inflicted.

  Our Lord protect you,

  Edwardus Rex,

  Lichfield

  Four years had gone by since I knelt before Edward at Shrewsbury. Four years in which to think. Four years in which to design my revenge. Five hundred days and more rotting in the Tower have a way of filling a man’s head with malice. It also teaches a man patience.

  We went first to the Abbey of Saint-Denis. There, Isabella lit candles, knelt before the tombs of her father and two oldest brothers, and uttered copious prayers for their long-dead souls. Her son, Young Edward she often called him, mimicked his mother’s every reverent move. It was a ploy spurred by Charles’ insidious genius that had brought the boy to France – one that preyed cleverly on Edward’s dependable stupidity. Not only did Young Edward despise Despenser enough to wish him gone as much as I or his mother did, but in him there was just enough of ambition to entice him to our plan.

  The next morning, I joined Isabella in the cloister. I took her hands in mine and placed a cordial kiss upon her knuckles. Then she hooked her arm through mine and we turned to walk toward the little orchard of pear trees beyond the abbey walls. We paused to let a line of monks pass, their shoulders stooped forward and hands folded in perpetual prayer.

  When we stepped past the first row of trees, their branches hanging low, I plucked a half-green pear and turned it over in my palm, inspecting it for worm holes. We walked along side by side for awhile, until our steps slowed in unison. Before she could look at me, I moved to stand behind her, so that I could memorize the curve of her lower back, the indentation of her waist where only last night I had slid my arms around her and pulled her to me.

  “We will be apart, Isabeau, for weeks perhaps. You must go to Ponthieu. As for me – as soon as Gerard and Arnaud have readied the horses we will be on our way. To Amiens first, then Courtrai, then on to Zeeland.” To Zeeland, that soggy, reed-clogged spread of land along the coast, where I would commission the finest vessels from Sluys all the way to Dordrecht. Ships to carry men for the army that I would lead. The army that would overthrow Edward and Despenser. “Once you have collected your revenues from Ponthieu you can join me at Valenciennes. There the prince can pick his bride. For now, though, if we are to return to England in sufficient force, I need more men, and the means to pay them. Promises of plunder alone will get us little more than vagrants and criminals. I need trained men, fine horses, ample weapons and supplies. I cannot have less, Isabeau. I have waited too many years already.”

  “How long do you think I have waited?” She stepped away and leaned into a crook of the tree, her gaze intense. “I was suffering long before you fell from favor, Roger.”

  “Yet you have survived and risen. I swore to you I would not fail at this. And I will not. Do you believe in me?”

  A breeze lifted over the pastures surrounding Saint-Denis and teased long wisps of her hair from its pins. “I believe that you will do everything you can to see it through and beyond. But I also believe there are things not in our control, things we cannot foresee. I only wish it were a year from now, Roger. We would be back in England and all this would be done with.”

  “It will be over with ... one day. You realize, don’t you, that we will have to do more than just remove Hugh Despenser? Are you prepared to do what needs to be done?”

  Looking down thoughtfully, she blinked. “He will be tried by parliament for treason, among other things, and found guilty. There is only one outcome for that. His blood, then, will not be on our hands.”

  “And your husband, the king? What do you think will become of him?”

  That question was harder for her. “I do not know.”

  “If he is permitted to remain on the throne, then what happened with Piers de Gaveston, with Despenser, would happen all over again. Edward has a weakness. A weakness that cannot be cured. He depends on others who then take advantage of him. He should not be allowed to rule freely again. That is something you do know, isn’t it?”

  A crevice furrowed the narrow space between her brows. “Yes, you’re right. England would be better off with my son as king.”

  And with us as his regents. Finally, she had put all the pieces together.

  “Ah, there,” I said. “Gerard is coming to fetch me.”

  When Gerard d’Alspaye noticed the queen, her form molded to the tree, he stopped short and beckoned. I raised a hand in acknowledgment. “A moment, Gerard. Final orders from my queen first. Bring the horses this way.”

  He bobbed his head in reply and returned to the abbey.

  For several moments, we could not look at each other, Isabella and I. We simply stood there, close enough to embrace, saying nothing.

  At last I spoke, my low words intermingling with the rustling of leaves on the warm summer wind. “I must go.”

  She bit at her lip to keep it from trembling.

  “Think of it as only a day that we must be apart,” I said to her. “And when that day is done, one more day. And one more day. Until we are together again.”

  Sir John Maltravers, with his wounded hand curled into his chest like a battered claw, appeared first through the abbey gate on his horse, leading my train of armed men.

  I walked away, each step becoming heavier than the one before. I felt the pull of her stare, pleading for me to rush to her and take her into my arms. It was damnably hard, but I forced myself not to look back.

  The sooner everything was arranged for the invasion, the sooner Isabella and I would be together again.

  33

  Roger Mortimer:

  Hainault – August, 1326

  TWICE BEFORE, I HAD visited Count William of Hainault and his brother, Sir John, in Mons. Once soon after fleeing England. A congenial visit, and short, during which I made no requests. A second time, after Isabella had first arrived in Paris, to discuss business.

  Under a strong afternoon sun, Count William, Sir John and I took a leisurely ride through the Hainault countryside. I suspect the count wanted me to see his expansive dairy herd so he could explain to me the superiority of his cows to English ones – a suspicion which was born out. I listened to his bombast with dulled senses, occasionally inserting a polite question to pretend an interest in milk production and growth rates.

  Sir John sat upon his horse straight and strong, as if born to the saddle. His brother, who was much older, resembled an egg trying to balance on its bottom. Swaying with every stride of his mount, the count gripped its ribs with his knees and held the reins murderously tight.

  Finally, exhausted by his constant efforts, Count William halted his horse abruptly. He rested one hand above the protrusion of his belly, stifling a belch, and shaded his eyes against the August sun with the other. “Queen Isabella has attempted reconciliation with her husband, the king, has she not?”

  “On many accounts, my lord. In person, by letter, through her brother, King Charles ... even by appeal to the Pope to try to reach some compromise.”

  He dropped his hand from his brow and turned his shrewd, piggish eyes on me. “By ‘compromise’ you mean the banishment of this Lord Despenser?” The cows, with their bony hips and sagging udders, swished the flies away with their tails and chewed on great wads of cud. My horse dropped its head and nosed the hindquarters of a pregnant cow. I tugged at the reins, urging him away before he took a hoof to the foreleg.

  I nodded. “His Grace, Pope John, upheld Queen Isabella’s request. King Edward flatly refused to honor it.”

  “Naturally.” William shared a knowing smile with his brother. “Yes, we have heard of Edward’s unusual fondness for this Despenser, even here. Stories of the English court are ever a source of amusement and shock. We are simple folk, Sir Roger. We fish. We farm. We weave and dye. We place our lives at the mercy of the sea in the name of trade, so others might have the needed goods that cannot be purchased in their homelands. Between our prayers and our duties, we haven’t the luxury of e
njoying life’s pleasures. One is left to wonder how much more prosperous the English could be if they squandered less of their time in frivolity and spent more of it praising God’s grace and blessing His bounties.”

  Again, I nodded. In truth, I detected a sermon and I despised getting them from men who paid for my sword while they idled in opulence, protected by high walls. But the count had something of value to me – an army – and so I tolerated him. English exiles alone would not be enough. I needed the Hainaulters with their honed blades and well-trained horses. I needed their might. I needed his money. He needed a source of commerce to ensure his lasting wealth. And ... he wanted a legacy. A marriage pact. A daughter of his joined to England’s heir.

  “There are goods to be had in England, my lord,” I said, “from which you might earn a greater profit. Then, you could build more ships, more barns, more churches: to trade, increase your herds, give thanks to God, whatever you so please.”

  Like any man, Count William served himself.

  *****

  I endured his company for two more days. He talked too much, of nothing in particular, and when it came to money, he could not be shut up at all. He had amassed great quantities of it by driving hard bargains. His daughters, of whom he spoke with as much affection as he did his dairy herd, he had long ago figured were among his greatest assets. With twelve children of my own, I could well understand. Better to think of their rearing as an investment than a burden. My relief finally came when the count left for Valenciennes.

  The next day, Sir John and I rode out from Mons to greet Queen Isabella and Lord Edward. Although far from eloquent in speech or manner, I found Sir John to be less one-sided in his conversation. Like me, he realized the strength of his sword over that of his purse.