Isabeau, A Novel of Queen Isabella and Sir Roger Mortimer (21 page)

Certain my life was already forfeit, that tomorrow would find me kneeling by the block, my hair shorn close to give the executioner’s axe a clean neck, I lashed out in a fit of bravery born only out of desperation. “Then you will lose Gascony, Aquitaine, the Agenais ...”

He flashed a sneer at me, and then slunk back to his chair. His head sagged between his narrow shoulders. Gradually, the slant of his lips lifted into another prancing smirk. “I may have already. But you will lose your children. Do as I say and you shall have them back. In time, I may be so kind as to return your lands, too. But my trust is no longer so easily given. Proof of your loyalty will be a long while coming, my unfaithful queen.”

And proof of your humanity, Edward, will be never. The devil has possessed you, enslaved you with lust.

I turned my head aside and closed my eyes. The dulcet notes from Einion’s harp encircled my numbed head, taunting me with dreams of sleep. I had been nearly two days without rest, snatching only minutes at distant intervals on the first leg of this awful journey from the Tower to Windsor and none at all on the way back here. Exhaustion overcame me. I could stand no longer. I folded my hands together and sank to the floor.

Let him think I am complacent and fearful of him. Let him. I will find a way to overcome this.

Edward slumped heavily, finished with me, depleted in his triumph. I expected to be escorted away then, but through the lacework of my eyelashes I saw Bishop Stapledon stoop before Edward. On the back of his chasuble, embroidered in heavy gold thread, was Christ on the Crucifix. He whispered long to the king. Edward’s reply came at first as a growl and then faded to an infantile mewl. His head swiveled back and forth in denial, but the bishop kept nodding and finally placed a firm hand upon the king’s shoulder.

I overheard Stapledon say, “Pope John wishes to free you of your troubles.”

“It is surrender,” Edward grumbled.

Stapledon sighed, straightened himself, hands locked behind his back, and reasoned, “It is compromise. A way of keeping what is yours.”

I braved a look at my son. His eyelids fluttered as he tried to keep them open.

Beside him, Edward writhed in his chair and kneaded at his thighs as if he were in bodily agony. “Tell her then,” he conceded with a scowl.

As Bishop Stapledon turned toward me, I could see the high forehead beneath his tall miter, revealing a balding pate. “The Pope suggests that you might be helpful in negotiating terms of peace with your brother King Charles.”

Charles! Charles, my hope!

He must have arranged this by communicating with the Pope on my behalf. Could it be? Yes, yes, it made some sense. Still, there had to be some trick to this, some cost to me.

I clenched my hands. “How am I to do that when I have not even the freedom to travel so far as Windsor?”

Stapledon sniffed at my insolence. “It would mean, yes, that you would need to journey to France. You would return to England as soon as the terms for a truce are arrived at.”

This had everything to do with the abduction of my children – to ensure my cooperation. If I had any thoughts of fleeing England altogether, my return would be guaranteed so long as Edward hoarded my children. I had more to lose if England went to war with France than Edward did.

“You will go then?” Edward prompted in agitation. “But not immediately, mind you. There are details to work over.”

I could not think fast enough. Was he
asking
me? Why not just order me? Dangle my children before me? What if I refused? I tested him.

“I don’t know. I
 ...
I would not know how to negotiate something as critical as a truce.”

Yes, let him think I have no confidence in the matter, that he is cleverer than me and I am nothing but the doting mother and obedient wife, desperate for his guidance and approval.

Stapledon replied, indicating they had already discussed this privately, “You will be informed of your role.”

Told what to say and do, more likely, I thought. “But how could I possibly be of help? Why send me? Why not another? Perhaps you, your grace,” I said, indicating the bishop, “would better serve? Or one of your brothers, dear husband?” I paused there to remind them of the Earl of Kent’s debacle.

Edward slapped the arm of his chair. “Listen, wife! Because the Pope has bloody appointed you – that is why. I suppose he thinks your brother would be more amenable to your sniveling, accursed female presence than that of a true Englishman.”

“But
 ...
you will come later?
I
cannot pay homage to Charles on your behalf, my lord,” I said in feigned innocence. “Perhaps I do not understand the situation fully, but is that not the root of the problem?”

As if my words had scoured a festering wound with salt and vinegar, Edward flung his goblet sideways. It clattered across the floor and skidded to a halt at his bard’s sandaled feet. “Damn you, man! Do you not know anything more pleasant to the ears? Next time I shall call on my kennel keeper to play his fiddle. The dogs will join him in a chorus more uplifting than anything I have yet to hear from you. Now get out of here before I strangle you with your own strings!”

Einion, accustomed to Edward’s shifting moods, gave a subtle bow, and tucked his instrument gently beneath his arm. Then, he felt his way along the wall until he reached the door and left.

The bishop cleared his throat. “That is a
 ...
a matter we have not yet resolved. There are many complexities.”

Meaning Edward would never leave his dear Hugh for fear of losing him to assassins.

I glanced at my son, who looked away the moment his eyes met mine.

In the span of a day, I had been robbed of my worldly possessions, my freedom, the friends of my childhood and my children. A princess of France and Queen of England and I had nothing left – nothing but the thinnest thread of hope that somehow, by God’s favor or some miracle of circumstances
 ...
somehow, with the help of others, I would overcome this.

20

Isabella:

Tower of London – 1324-25

THAT WINTER, IDA RETURNED to my service, but I heard nothing of Patrice, Juliana or Marie. I slept away much of the daylight hours alone in my bedchamber in the Tower of London and come nightfall, plagued by headaches, sleep eluded me. From my window, I watched clouds of thickest gray banish the sun. There was no snow that winter, only rain. A persistent, miserable rain that turned the streets of London into rivers and drove its dampness deep into every stone of every building. The roof of the Tower leaked, the cellar flooded, the hinges on the doors rusted. In his avarice, Despenser had so depleted Edward’s funds there was nothing to spare for simple repairs.

For six months I waited, while letters delicately inked with diplomacy traveled from London to Paris and back again. The only letters I sent to Charles were those Edward directed me to write. Their voice was so unlike my own, I had no doubt Charles would deduce their true source.

I hoped that at Christmas the children might return to London, even if only briefly. But my fantasy faded to disillusionment when the day came and I was told they were all at Kenilworth with their father. I was not permitted to join them.

One January morning, sleet turned to ice and the sun broke through the clouds to set the world aglitter, but the spectacle did nothing to save me from my sorrow. Even as Ida ogled over the dazzling sheen of ice on the garden trees, I could not stir from my bed and hugged a pillow to my chest while a storm of tears streamed down my cheeks. Without my children, there was no wonder in the world. I only wanted time to pass. For something to happen. For an end to my despondency.

In Ida’s motherly care, I felt some comfort, but she did not know my heart and thoughts like Patrice did. My days were bleak and hollow. I tried to read, but could not concentrate on the words. I worked at embroidery, but pricked my finger so often I abandoned the task. All of my normal duties had been stripped from me by Hugh Despenser and put into the hands of one of his many clerks. I was, effectively, under arrest, my every movement monitored, my every word inspected, my every habit scrutinized. Every hour of every day was a test of my faith and every endless night a challenge to my courage.

I saw Young Edward only sparingly and then always in the intrusive company of the king. I heard so little regarding the younger children that I lived in perpetual worry.
John, I had been told, had been given over to Despenser’s wife, Lady Eleanor.
I wrote to the children, but the only response I received was one from Lady Monthermer,
Despenser
’s sister, in whose care the girls had been placed at Pleshy. It spoke only of their lessons – not that they had grown, or whether they were well or ill, or if they asked for me.

Daily, I doubted my plans and whether I would ever see my children again.

But they had already been taken from me, as had everything else. If I had to risk surrendering my life to have them back, so be it. Pride inspired what little courage remained in me. Pride became my reason for revenge. Revenge for the confiscation of my dower lands; for the abduction of my children; the lies spread about me; the severance of any bond with my husband; the usurpation of the duties and privileges due a queen
 ...
revenge for the death of Thomas of Lancaster.

Revenge for my honor.

Finally, I wrote to Charles of my own accord in early February, begging haste, even though I was certain the letter would never reach him.

His reply, however, came within the fortnight.

My Dearest Isabeau,

I am overjoyed to hear that you are to come to France. It has been too long since you and I were in each other’s company, although our reunion, I regret, will be more business than pleasure and undoubtedly too short. We have much to accomplish. A truce between France and England has been long in coming and a prolonged peace shall mean lasting prosperity for both our kingdoms.

My prayers for your family and friends. I await your arrival with an anxious heart.

Our Lord bless you,

Charles

I read it until the candlewick was nearly consumed, searching for some further meaning, even though I knew Charles was too shrewd to chance anything. I inspected the seal, imagining Lady Eleanor or
Despenser
breaking and then repairing it with meticulous skill. But the wax bond had been tight, the paper without tear or crimp.

As the candle flame sputtered and threatened darkness, I folded the letter back up. Even though I had not uncovered any signs of tampering, I was sure Edward already knew its contents. Charles had likely written directly to him at the same time. The moment my brother and I were alone, everything would begin to –

A cold draft rushed over me. Darkness engulfed the room. I thought at first a window had been blown open, but there was no breeze, no chill – only the stillness in which I could hear my own heartbeat
 ...
and a soft rustle from behind. Slowly, I turned toward the door.

“Who is – ”

An arm grabbed me around the waist and yanked me into its deathly hold. Cold steel crushed my throat. Vile breath warmed my ear with words of loathing.

“Do not think,”
Despenser
hissed, “that you will slip away and gain your freedom. I have your children, Isabella. Have them and will keep them for as long as need be. Now swear an oath to me, that you will do nothing so foolish as to put their lives in danger. Swear to me an oath of loyalty.”

Arrogant swine. Did he think he could extort oaths of allegiance from me? His own were as flimsy as the parchment in my hands.

Words were trapped behind my tongue and nothing but a croaking sound came out of my mouth. He released just enough pressure from his blade to let me reply.

“Harm them ...” I said, “and Edward will hang you.”

He laughed softly. “No, no, I think not. I am
everything
to him: the earth on which he stands, the light of the sun and the expanse of the sky. Mortimer is the one he hates and fears. Already, two assassins sent for me by Mortimer have been executed. If any harm comes to the king’s children, who do you think he will blame? His devoted servant and friend
 ...
or some cowardly traitor hiding far away?” He gripped my body tightly to his, so that I felt every seam of his clothing, every protruding bone and taut muscle in his body. “Such is my confidence in the king’s love for me, that I think, if I wanted to, I could do just about anything – even to you.
Anything
.”

His lips brushed my neck and then I felt the wet tip of his tongue flick at my earlobe. I shuddered in repulsion. Even violating a queen was not beyond him.

“And if I cry out,” I said, “what will you do? Kill me?”

“I could. If I wanted to.”

“Do it then. They would more than just hang you. They would strip you bare and cut off your head, just like they did to Piers Gaveston. I would trade my life to give the world that gift.”

Gradually, he lowered the blade from my throat and loosened his grip on me. “I came to remind you, Isabella, of what could happen if you misbehave. Do as you have been instructed: make peace, gain back the land that is Edward’s and return to England without a day’s waste. Swear that you will and everything
 ...
everything will be fine.”

“It is you, Lord
Despenser
, who ought to swear an oath to me.”

He spun me around and ripped the letter possessively from my fingers. I could see nothing of him but the faintest outline as he darted to the door.

“Remember,” he said, his voice fading with each strike of his feet, “whatever you do there, whomever you talk to
 ...
we will know.”

I knew he was right. But it is easy to forget.

One moment we run from what we detest and perceive to do us harm, as I was doing. At other times, we cling to what we desire and love it as fiercely as if it were our last breath. Then, what we think, what we know
 ...
those things change. They change us, as well.

And what we envision that our lives will be – never is.