Isabeau, A Novel of Queen Isabella and Sir Roger Mortimer

by Sasson, N. Gemini

  If we had landed near Norfolk’s manor at Walton in Suffolk and that was to our south, then the river nearby would be the Orwell. Three days’ march from London.

  “Your generosity overwhelms us, Lord Thomas,” she said, her words slow and thoughtful as she cast a swift glance over her shoulder at me, “and we are indeed fortunate, blessed I say, to have come upon you. I shall give thanks to Our Lord that we have found ourselves in good company after such a perilous voyage. But, if I may beg it of you ... we must have news first, before we decide any course.”

  “News, ah yes. Of your husband?” Norfolk gave me a sidelong glance and I thought I detected an impish wink. “I daresay you’ve not missed him at all.”

  Deftly, she deflected the barb. “Thomas, tell us, will the people of England welcome their prince home?”

  He returned his gaze to her. “Why ever would they not, dear sister?”

  “Because of them,” Young Edward broke in flatly. He tossed his head back, indicating the mass of soldiers looking on behind him, most not of English birth. By then, the Hainaulters were aware there were no ships to carry them back to the continent, should the tide of judgment turn against us.

  Norfolk tugged at his chin, one finely curved eyebrow dipping down. “Hmm, an interesting lot. Not a mere escort, then, are they?” He let out a ripple of laughter and clutched his stomach. “Oh, I have news ... yes, fantastic news indeed, fair sister. Edward has been expecting you for some time.”

  I scanned across the marsh, broken across its green expanse by only a weedy stream, and down the coastline for indications of a royal army encircling us. But I saw no horses hidden amongst the far away hazel copses to the northwest or soldiers hunched down in the reeds. Aside from a few cow paths through the tall grass and our bedraggled army of less than a thousand men crowded now between the south-lying dunes and the marsh, there was little sign of life at all.

  “My brother, mighty king that he is, ordered some two thousand odd men to Kent and as many here. But how many do you see? Any at all? Did any ships pursue you? Any? Not one, I venture. And do you know why? Because, plainly put, no one will heed a thing he says. Sad, truly it is. But is it any wonder when Hugh Despenser robs them all with my brother’s blessing? So, you ask, sister, if England will welcome their prince?” He strode over to Young Edward and threw his arms around his nephew, clutched him to his chest and planted a kiss upon his head before releasing the bewildered and slightly offended young man. “They will shove each other aside to have a look at you and proclaim their love. They will flood the streets with wine, feed your men with their last cow and offer their virgin daughters in thanks. By God’s ears, they will more than welcome their prince. They will do all but build shrines in his honor, so as not to blaspheme. To Walton, then? We’re wasting daylight, bantering about. Come, come.”

  He extended his hand to Isabella. She took it, but with reserve.

  “You’ll tell us more along the way?” she probed.

  A mischievous grin plied at his mouth. “Much, much more, my dear, sweet sister.” He laid a kiss upon her knuckles, then one on each cheek, brushing her lips as he pulled back.

  As soon as our column of disciplined mercenaries and once-exiled Englishmen was in formation, we began our march along the shoreline with Norfolk as our guide. In time, the flat marshes yielded to dryer, rolling ground spotted with clumps of heather and gorse. King Edward, we learned, was shut up in London with Despenser. The city was wickedly restless. Rumors of our coming had been sweeping across the land all summer long. Our delay in gathering funds had proven to our benefit, as any sympathies there might have been on the king’s behalf had trickled away with the mounting resentment toward Despenser.

  Not all the news was good, however. London’s masses were fickle, as swift to embrace as they were to exchange blows. It was not yet safe for us to go there. But within the Tower was Isabella’s young son John ... and likely living in less comfort were two of my own: my oldest, Edmund, and my namesake, my Uncle Roger. Isolated within the squalor and darkness. Deprived of their freedom. Just as I had been.

  *****

  We – or Isabella and her son, rather, as I took housing at a nearby abbey – stayed only the night in Walton, much to the displeasure of Norfolk’s wife Alice, for whom Isabella had much fondness. If, as Norfolk claimed, Edward’s summonses were going ignored and London was not decided in its loyalty, then we had to go where sympathies would assuredly be in our favor – to the Welsh Marches. Isabella’s letters to London and to her uncle, Henry, Earl of Leicester, were dispatched with great haste.

  As we went deeper into England, Isabella donned her widow’s weeds – a high-necked gown of plain, black serge and the modest veil to match. We followed the River Orwell to Bury St. Edmunds, where Isabella again prayed. What was offered to us in the way of food, she ordered, was to be promptly paid for. In those simple gestures performed over a few scant days, Queen Isabella began to win the battle that King Edward, in nineteen years, could not.

  None but a few dozen men rallied to the king’s banner, most of them pardoned murderers. Barely enough to guard his person even in the most impenetrable of fortresses. Norfolk stayed behind in Walton to further our cause, but he sent with us sixty men and along the way more and more joined with us.

  As we rode on to Baldock and then Dunstable, the people of England, who had at first scattered in confusion and reluctance, now began to greet us openly. Young Edward sat tall in his shining armor. While still a boy, he had changed during his stay in France, not so much in looks, although he had grown taller, but in his manner. He now strode with the confidence of a young man who had discovered his place and purpose in life. He spoke more boldly and commanded with stern glances, where once he had observed everything with quiet obedience.

  The belief that he was born to be a king had taken hold of him. Even though that was the very thing I had hoped for – a thirst to lead, a glimmer of vainglory – it carried with it the hazard of untold troubles, as well.

  Pride, if left untamed, could bring a man to his death. A king, even.

  36

  Roger Mortimer:

  Oxford – October, 1326

  BY THE TIME WE reached Oxford, hundreds lined the roads. The gates to the city stood gaping. Young Edward led the way like the Messiah delivering the promise of paradise.

  Our progress slowed to a crawl. We lurched and halted. Heralds shouted to clear the way, but the mob only pressed closer, clogging the streets and alleys. Faces smeared with grime and soot appeared in windows and doorways. Hands writhed from a twisting mass of bodies all around us, grabbing. Finally, at my orders, our pikemen lowered their weapons to clear a path. With his mother beside him, Lord Edward rode just behind the glinting sweep of blades, his shoulders drawn up tall and a smile on his face. Every now and then he nodded or raised his hand in greeting. They cheered him as he passed. They called out for their beloved Isabella.

  We had meant to make our way to the church – for, of course, Isabella would stop there to heap God with yet more thanks, as if He had forgotten those she had showered Him with that very morning – but by the time the church came into sight we found ourselves at a complete halt again. Cries rippled through the crowd. Around a corner I saw the curling, ornate tops of crosiers bobbing above the throng. The horde fell back as if on cue. Adam of Orleton, the Bishop of Hereford, led a small army of bishops and clergymen toward us.

  He bowed to the prince and they exchanged a few words of formal greeting. Arnaud helped Isabella down from her mount and she hurried forward, a haze of dust swirling around her.

  Orleton’s long arms encircled her with fatherly tenderness. “Child,” he breathed into her ear, “I have prayed for your safety every night and every morning since you left for France.” Then he kissed her once on each temple and held her at arm’s length. “I understand you had a rough voyage.” He scrunched his feathery, graying brows together in concentration, and then arched his left one high. “You look surprisingly
well.”

  “Oh, you are much too kind, your grace,” she replied. “I have suffered so much anguish this past year. If I look well at all, it is only because my spirits are lifted to see you at last.”

  Barely two weeks past, this very woman had feared whether England would open its arms to her or pelt her with stones until every bone in her body was shattered. Since then, the blush had returned to her cheeks, her eyes glinted with mirth and a beatific smile graced her lips at times like this. She thrived on the adoration of the masses. All the while, she had maintained her outward piety – to my increasing frustration. I much preferred her private, shameless side. Not since before we left from Dordrecht had we been alone together for a single night ... not even for a transient moment in which to steal a tantalizing kiss.

  “My lady,” Orleton said, “this is Frances Willington, Master of the Guildhall here in Oxford. He brings you a gift.”

  Before her stepped a short little man who looked down at the ground timidly. He glanced up, then back down and thrust out a silver chalice to her. “For you, my lady queen. An offering of peace and welcome from the citizens of Oxford.”

  She took it from Willington and looked inside. From it, she took only a sip of the blood-red wine, thanked him sweetly and then passed it along to her son. Young Edward savored a swig on his tongue. Then, he tipped the chalice back and guzzled down the remainder. When the last drop was drained he thrust the chalice above his head and the townspeople erupted in a roar of cheers.

  “Sir Roger,” Orleton said, approaching me so I could hear him above the din, “it has been long since we spoke in person. Years, has it not? It was never easy getting letters to you. You never stayed in one place. But what a great blessing to know you have arrived safely at last.”

  “I am indebted to you, good bishop, for letting me get away with my head still on my shoulders.”

  “You have it for now, my lord, but I warn you the king has placed a high price on it.” He motioned for us to follow him and his clinging flock of clerics to the church. The crowd slipped back, but Isabella and Young Edward suffered the occasional dirty hand pawing at their clothing and hair.

  “Has he? How much am I worth?” I said.

  “A thousand pounds sterling.”

  “Is that all?”

  “I am sorry, but yes. He attributes this insurgency to you alone, blaming no other. He wants you dead for it. The queen, the prince, even Kent, he has decreed, are to be left unharmed. By now he knows of Norfolk giving you succor, as well.” Orleton hoisted his crosier to clear the church steps of onlookers. As we ascended, I cast a glance behind us. A mother had thrust her infant to arm’s length at Isabella. She took the babe from its mother, held it aloft, then brought it gently down and kissed its fat cheek. Further back in the crowd, Young Edward strutted past a line of swooning maidens to stand at his mother’s side.

  We entered the church and Orleton and I stepped aside to let our following of clerics – two other bishops and a large cluster of abbots – pass as we waited for Isabella and the prince.

  “I hear his general summons went unheeded,” I said.

  “It did. He called upon thousands to array, but as soon as the barons heard Norfolk and Kent were ignoring him, they all spewed out excuses as if they were avoiding an invitation to supper. Desperate, he offered freedom to any criminals who would fight for him. That got him some response, but London turned a deaf ear. Even the bishops there are stalled in argument as to whether to stand behind the king or oppose him. Edward has since fled the city.”

  I imparted a smile to Bishop Orleton. “So, we have flushed the fox from his den?”

  “You have.”

  We paused at the broad archway beyond which lay the nave of the church. Isabella began up the steps, her son next to her. A growing throng of knights and nobles trailed them closely.

  “I believe the queen expects a Mass,” Orleton stated, “although it will not be long. I admit I am ill prepared today. Will you join us?”

  “I should ...” I fumbled for a plausible diversion. “I should see to the quartering of the soldiers. Pardon me, your grace. I should go.”

  He nodded in understanding and led the queen and her son to the front of the nave. I retreated into a vestibule as the barons trickled by. They all appeared eager to take Mass with the queen and prince to gain their favor. I searched for Maltravers in the passersby, but could not find him.

  “My lord?”

  I turned at the hoarse whisper to see Simon de Beresford in the shadows behind a column. The light from the open door fell upon only half his face. I waited until the last of the conveniently reverent drifted by before going to him.

  “I have news,” he said.

  “Go on.”

  He stuck out his hand. “You are in the queen’s pay now, not a penniless prisoner. I expect something for my troubles.”

  “You’ll get more than the occasional coin if the news is worth enough.”

  From inside the nave, Orleton’s words resounded:

  “Almighty God, to whom all mankind surrenders its will, we beseech thee, in your everlasting glory and power, to be our guide in this time of darkness. Grant us the wisdom and the goodness to overcome evil, and to – ”

  Simon pulled back into complete shadow as a monk poked his head through the door to the nave, then pulled it shut, muffling the bishop’s sermon.

  “A knighthood?” he asked.

  “It can be arranged.”

  “How soon?”

  “That is not up to me. Besides, you’ll earn it when I say you have. Now, what news?”

  “Of the king.”

  “How big is his army?”

  Simon’s teeth glimmered in the darkness. “Army? I would not call it that. He has with him but a skeleton guard and a smattering of archers. No more than twenty altogether.”

  Twenty retainers who must have all been cruelly aware how futile their duty was. “Who else is with him?”

  “Of importance? It is known he left London with his corrupt treasurer, Robert de Baldock ... and Lord Hugh Despenser, naturally. As for where they are all now ...”

  I slipped my hand into the purse at my belt and drew out two gold nobles bearing the likeness of King Edward. They would be worthless soon enough, but the gesture would placate my spy for now. I pressed them into his palm. “Where were they lately?”

  “In Wallingford not three days ago. They took the road to Cirencester.”

  West. Most likely to Gloucester. From there, they could take refuge in Wales, or Ireland even. If they fled England altogether, Edward’s son could be crowned in his place.

  “Find them. And if you can lead me to them – there will be a knighthood for you. I’ll see to it.”

  A desolate hour it was for King Edward. And an even worse one for Despenser.

  Bishop Orleton’s voice pried through the crack between the great oak doors:

  “ – snake has entered Eden and the seed of Satan infected our king. This ‘affliction’, Lord Hugh Despenser, has caused our king to do much wrong: in the governing of his kingdom and its people, in his private deeds, and in the estrangement of our dear and beloved queen, who has been only ever faithful to him and tolerant of his faults far beyond duty. We are blessed that Queen Isabella returns to us now, with our noble prince, Edward, at her side. Together, they will free us of this scourge, this plague of immorality and avarice, and return our beleaguered England to the right and true law of God. Our Heavenly Father, the Holy Spirit and Christ Jesus be with you all.”

  “Amen,” I rejoined.

  *****

  That night in the high-raftered guildhall of Oxford, there was a feast to celebrate the return of Queen Isabella and Lord Edward. Roasted pig, mince pies and puddings were served. Fresh straw had been strewn over the floor, making it smell like a well-kept stable, although the scent was barely strong enough to overpower the stink of too many knights crammed into too narrow a hall. At the head table, I sat next to Isabella. To her rig
ht was Lord Edward and to my left Bishop Burghersh of Lincoln, who quickly gorged himself on an excess of fresh herring and went to bed early with stomach pains.

  I was heady with my rising wave of good fortune and a generous helping of mulberry wine. I raised my goblet – my fifth of the evening – and shouted, “Two thousand pounds sterling for the head of Hugh Despenser!”

  “Allow me the honor!” boomed a gravelly voice from the back of the hall. “But do you want his ugly head with or without his body attached?”

  Laughter rolled through the hall and broke apart. The lute played on, while the little man with the nakers at his belt thumped a frenzied rhythm. Dancing girls flailed their scarves to catch men about the waists teasingly. One young man snagged his temptress, reeled her in and pinned her down on a table. She raked him across the face with her fingernails, prematurely ending his debauchery.

  I slid my chair back. On swaying legs, I climbed up onto my seat to see who had arrived to claim the prize for Despenser’s head. Isabella tapped lightly on my calf, but I ignored her, searching through the throng of overstuffed, lascivious merrymakers.

  “Come forward,” I commanded. My head was so light that faraway faces blurred together. I was answered by only a hush that very soon returned to a buzz of conversation. Cups clinked together. Dogs growled over fallen scraps.

  Isabella pinched the cloth of my leggings. “Please, Sir Roger.”

  I complied, sinking down into my chair with a long belch. I plucked up my goblet and raised it to her. “To England’s most beauteous of queens: Isabeau the Fair.”

  John of Hainault, seated down the table from her, lifted his goblet high. “To Queen Isabella!”

  She rolled her eyes. “You should sleep well tonight, my lord.”

  The prince, who minutes before had been seated next to her, had abandoned his chair and was enthralled with the antics of two small, trained dogs over by a side table. I leaned in close to the queen and whispered, sweet and unctuous, “Better than well, with you lying next to me. Do you not dream of it yourself?”