Isabeau, A Novel of Queen Isabella and Sir Roger Mortimer (20 page)

In the span of a day, my world had shrunk to only Ida. Soon, I would sit before Edward, his judgment of me already tainted by the poison of Despenser’s forked tongue.

My marriage to Edward had been intended to keep the peace between France and England. Since the very day my father had told me of it, I had accepted my role with pride and honor, later giving more of myself than Edward could ever return, always fixing the pacts and relationships he had broken without him ever acknowledging it, sometimes without him knowing. Instead, our union had pre-ordained me to this fate: an enemy by birth.

I crumpled against the side of the carriage and covered my face with my hands. Soon, they were drenched with my tears.

No, no, no, no ... Edward would rather squander his days away hunting or quaffing ale with mummers and minstrels. Hugh ... Hugh Despenser ... he has done this.

Despenser ripped my children from my arms. Despenser took them away.

19

Isabella:

Tower of London – October, 1324

IDA AND I WERE given nothing to eat or drink that day except for a nearly empty flask of water, tasting of old leather, a bruised pear and a fist-sized hunk of moldy cheese when we made a short stop in sight of Westminster. I feared we might be headed there, that I would be brought before parliament on some fraudulent charge, but it was only long enough to water the horses and then we were off again toward London. I nibbled at the cheese, then gave it to Ida, who stuffed it behind a cushion. She held my hand all the way and said not a word. The fear was plain on her face, as it must have been on mine, although neither of us spoke of it.

We arrived late at night at the Tower of London. The rear curtain was flung open. I stepped out and before I could turn to wait for Ida, the horses were whipped forward, leaving me alone in darkness. My legs trembling with exhaustion, I was escorted by a mob of brutish guards, their countenances as grim as any executioner’s, to the king’s apartments directly above the watergate in St. Thomas’s Tower.

They prodded me to the center of the room. Behind me, a hundred candles lined a long wall of windows overlooking the Thames. It felt as though I had walked into my own death chamber and at any moment a priest would float forward to utter last rites. If not for the boom of the door as the guards left, I would not have noticed them going, for all my attention was drawn to the end of the room.

I stood before my judge.

On a low dais at the end of the room where he usually gave audiences, Edward sat slumped in his tall throne. His sigh was as loud as the crashing of ocean waves upon a rocky shore.

At the king’s right, on a similar, but smaller throne, sat our eldest son – Young Edward. He fidgeted, his mouth sunken in a frown, as if he no more wanted to be there than I did. No one could ever have questioned who his sire was, so striking was his resemblance to his father. But there the similarities ended.

I swayed on my feet. It must have been after midnight by then. The sun had disappeared many hours ago while I was still on the road, shut up in my carriage like a caged chicken headed to the butcher’s. Edward, though, had apparently been waiting up for my return, expecting me.

On the far end of the dais sat a blind harpist, his voice hauntingly beautiful. Einion, he was called, and although I had often heard him sing, I had never heard him speak. It was as if he could not form words without music.

The Welsh harpist plucked sadly at the strings of his hand-carved instrument and sang of two lovers torn apart by their feuding fathers, only to have the young woman escape her prison and find her lover had killed himself out of hopelessness. Edward was adrift in melancholy. He liked such tales – those that ended miserably. I glanced around the room, counting candles, waiting for him to blame, accuse or interrogate me. But when the ballad ended, Edward requested a gayer tune. The change in music, however, did nothing to alter his mood.

I could tell from the way Young Edward barely held my gaze that there was confusion roiling around in his head. The last time my son and I had been reunited, not two weeks ago, he had run to my embrace and bowed his head for a kiss. Now he sat there aloof, immured by some invisible wall between us, and I wondered what lies his father might have fed to him in my absence.

At the king’s left shoulder stood Walter Stapledon, the Bishop of Exeter. His rigid, blanched form resembled a statue chiseled onto the façade of a marble column. Of all England’s prelates, I liked him least.

“Dear, dear Isabella.” Edward clicked his rings on the arm of his chair, his voice patronizing. He yawned, showing the cavernous back of his throat, and rubbed at reddened eyes. Then he reached for his goblet, took a long sip and peered at me over the brim. By the slur of his speech, he had staved off boredom by emptying several pitchers of wine. “I return here after an arduous session at Westminster, wanting to enjoy my family, and I find you nowhere. Gone. My children vanished without a word. How utterly upsetting. And disappointing. But then, you have often disappointed me. I expect it.”

He leaned forward from his velvet-padded chair, elbows on his knees, the empty goblet dangling sideways from his hand. “
What
were you thinking?”

There was little point in answering his question, so I ignored it. He would tell me anyway. Along the length of the wall behind him, a painting of a hunting scene showed three men in pursuit of a stag. Edward had commissioned the painting. The hunter poised for the kill was supposed to be Edward himself, but it bore only a faint likeness to him, being much more muscular. The second was clearly his old favorite Piers, although Edward claimed it to be one of his brothers, and the third was his nephew Gilbert de Clare, who was killed at Bannockburn.

Edward leaned back in his chair and cast his eyes toward the ceiling. The long, twig-like fingers of one hand caressed the indent of his temple. There was an ethereal sort of beauty in his delicate look and he wore a king’s clothes like the adornment they were meant to be, in luminous colors that drew attention to his ashen hair and translucent eyes. But in his finery, he also gave the impression of something frail and defenseless: the fawn needing its spots and tall grass for protection.

“Why must your brother complicate matters?” Edward’s face went taut with distress. “He thinks I can run to him whenever he beckons – as if I had nothing better to do? I am the King of England. I grovel to no one. Besides, the bastard knows precisely what will happen if I leave my kingdom to kiss the hem of his robes.”

Young Edward stared expressionless at his hands, pressed flat in his lap. Something had transpired between him and his father. But unlike the father, the son had learned to master his emotions, to keep his outbursts private and his troubles subdued.

“What will happen, Edward?” I said in a toneless voice. The ride from Windsor had afforded me time to think. I did not want him to read anything into my words, although doubtless he would anyway.

He kept his chin tilted up. His gaze was accusing. “You know what will happen. The moment I set foot on French soil and take the road to Paris, assassins will slip a knife into Hugh’s chest.”

“Then why not take Lord Despenser with you?” A stupid question, but he expected it of me. Edward more than needed him; he could not exist without him.

Edward, however, did not answer. Bishop Stapledon did.

“The king believes both their lives would be in danger, if either were to go to France.”

I gave the bishop a look of defiance. “Charles would never order the taking of a life.”

“Mortimer would,” the king mumbled.

“You know this as fact?” I probed.

“Oh, I do.” Edward lifted his goblet to his mouth, then paused, realizing it was empty, and stared into it dreamily. “You will fix this for me, Isabella. You will make amends with Charles. Write to him. Tell him
 ...
tell him there are rumors of rebellion at home. That my life is in danger. The children’s, as well. That we have to keep them in hiding and they must be closely guarded.”

I nearly bit through my own tongue at the lie. My fingernails sliced at my palms. This was more than Despenser plying for power and Edward being duped by his charm. This was Edward choosing to give him all. For so long I had seen Edward as some wretched, pining creature, gullible enough to yield to whoever flattered him and made him feel needed. Now I could see that he was weak because it was easier for him. He could not make a decision for fear of being wrong. So he would let Despenser do it all and then he would defend him to his dying breath. If Hugh Despenser stole the sun from the sky and proclaimed it was still day, Edward would concur, despite the darkness.

The king let his chair engulf him. He closed his eyes, sighing wearily, and muttered, “Your brother clutches a traitor to his breast. I cannot go to France while that slime-tongued Mortimer roams freely there.”

I played the innocent. “Charles is not in league with Mortimer. There is too much at stake between England and France to – ”

“Mother of God, woman!” He rolled his eyes at me like an impertinent child. “Do you think me that stupid? Of course he would not openly declare him an ally, or even give the appearance of it. He pretends that Mortimer is nowhere on the continent, when it is well known that the snake was seen slithering about your brother’s court in Paris.” Edward leaned to one side of his chair, smirking with some inner, amusing secret. “Come, wife, tell me what you know of this.”

“Less than you, I would say. I have heard nothing more than that Mortimer escaped and was last heard to be in Picardy. Do you think I employ spies across the continent? You know as much of this as I do.” What I did know I had learned from my damsels. Mere gossip. Charles had guarded me from the real details for a purpose such as this. Still, I would always harbor the fear that somehow my duplicity, however small, would be discovered. Perhaps I felt guilt not so much for what I had already done, but for what I might do, if driven to it.

At last Young Edward met my gaze and held it. Whether he believed me or not, I could not tell, but in his eyes there was the soft look of fondness. A slight tilt of his head and barely parted lips said that he understood that his father had pressed a knife to my throat.

I spoke to my son. “I know nothing of Mortimer being in Paris, if he was ever even there, or what Charles would want with him.” Then I directed my words to the king. “But if you believe these rumors, I will write to Charles and advise him against such associations.”

“Yes. Tell him to keep the traitor far away.” Satisfied, Edward glanced over his shoulder at Stapledon, smiled nervously and then said to me, “And you will tell him the rest – why it is impossible for me to leave England now?”

I nodded.

“Ah, I knew you would. I will make an obedient wife of you yet.”

How have I not been obedient?
I dug my fingernails into my palms to silence my thoughts, lest I speak them.

I would be compliant, but only to a point. I could not let him believe that I would give up everything out of fear of him. “First though, you will let me go to my children and allow my servants to return to me. If you prefer me close by, Windsor is agreeable.”

It was a step too far.

All I saw of him when he propelled himself from his throne were the whites of his eyes blazing yellow in the half-light. Every cord in his neck was stretched taut against the delicate skin of his neck like arrow strings stretched for the pull. His hands shot toward me. I stumbled backward, expecting him to grab me by the throat and squeeze until the last breath of life died in my chest. I should have screamed out and fought back, but like cornered quarry, I threw my arms over my face and quivered.

Moments passed. His hands never touched me. I heard only the broken rasping of his breathing. Slowly, I dropped my forearm to look. He was still standing there – his hands outstretched in a grasping gesture, his jaw jerking with unspoken oaths.

“You will do as I say!” he finally screamed at me.

His own rage seemed to have frightened him. His hands drifted downward, his mouth went slack. Edward was always the sheep, never the wolf.

“When I believe that you are as loyal and innocent as you espouse, then Is-s-sabella,” he hissed, “
then
I will let you see the children, but only when and where I say. As for your pilfering, spying French rats, they are already on their way to France. Back to the ungodly shithole they came from. Where they belong. Out of my land.”

I saw him for the first time then as he truly was. Not what I wanted him to be, nor believed he could be with me at his side. He was too cowardly to be a tyrant, too arrogant to admit he had not the courage or intelligence to make his own decisions. Strangely, I pitied him. But also, I feared him, for one who is so desperate for the approval of another will do anything to fill that need. He would find a way, any way, to be rid of me. Edward and I would never again be as husband and wife. We had long ago ceased to be, long before I had accepted the fact. But more than having ruined our marriage, Hugh Despenser needed to be disposed of for the good of all England. However, I was also aware that removing Despenser from Edward’s side might abate England’s woes only temporarily – until the next favorite-to-be cast himself to bathe in the rippling pool of Edward’s tears.