Isabeau, A Novel of Queen Isabella and Sir Roger Mortimer (22 page)

Part II:

My lord, perceive you how these rebels swell?

Soldiers, good hearts, defend your sovereign’s right,

For now, even now, we march to make them stop.

Edward II,

from Christopher Marlowe’s
Edward II

21

Isabella:

Dover – March, 1325

AT DOVER, I SWORE my loyalty to my husband, promised a swift resolution and then clung to the railing, waving a kerchief, as the ship pulled away from shore on that chilly but bright March morning.

Before then, the sea had always been my tormentor, delivering me first to an ignominious fate – my new life with Edward after our marriage at Boulogne – and then further flaunting its powers when I was nearly drowned while fleeing Tynemouth. But on that day, I embraced a new love of the sea: the endless water, the froth of broken waves upon the shore, even the creak and moan of the ship’s hull and the snapping of its sails.

The sun climbed higher, its light breaking from above through scattered clouds of fleece-white. I stayed on the deck, the salt air whipping through my hair like the breath of newfound freedom, the gentle heave of the waves lifting me up along with my heart. I was so enthralled with the sight of the gigantic cliffs diminishing until they were nothing but a thin white line on the horizon that Stapledon’s unctuous voice startled me.

“This must be difficult for you, my lady,” the bishop said. Beneath his chasuble, his hands were clasped together before him. With his gaunt cheekbones and those frightful bulging eyes that followed me everywhere, he reminded me of the elongated carvings of martyred saints which flanked the transept walls of Chartres. As a child, I had attended Mass at Chartres often with my parents, but I had always left there more in fear of those skeletal saints than inspired by them. Saintliness, I had concluded, must mean starvation and misery. Stapledon always bore that same look of perpetual suffering for his faith.

“What do you mean?” I asked, half-hoping to provoke an argument with him.

A grim smile broke over his mouth like a jagged crack through stone. “Leaving your children so far behind. But, God willing, it will not take us long to settle matters with France. He is on our side.”

“On England’s side, you mean? Then why did God not give the Earl of Kent victory when Philip of Valois pursued him to La Réole and laid siege?” The reason, I already knew, was because Despenser had not allotted enough money for relief troops. I could hardly see where God would favor Edward’s childish obstinacy and Despenser’s negligence.

“Your grace,” I went on, “if Edward had come to pay homage himself, as he once promised King Charles he would, then I would not have been forced to accept this task. I would never have left my children had it not been thrust upon me.”

“Kings cannot abandon their kingdoms at will.”

“Richard the Lion-Heart did.”

“He did so in the name of God.” The reddish fringe of Stapledon’s hair had been trimmed so short the blustery sea wind did not stir it at all. Only the rippling of the folds of his vestments betrayed he was not the statue of a suffering saint. “But he was also taken prisoner and held for ransom, during which time Prince John tried to steal his brother’s kingdom. Evil is everywhere. It surrounds us even now.” His mouth tilted into a smirking slash of condescension.

He reeked of holy superiority. I made the sign of the cross over my breast. “Have we a sinner among us, your grace? Where?”

“It was an observation of mankind, my lady. I did not intend to accuse anyone.”

I exhaled with a loud puff. “Ah, I feared, for a moment there was a murderer aboard. But tell me – what does keep the king at home? Is there a plot to usurp the throne from Edward? Please, if there is I – ”

“I meant, my queen, that too much can go awry while a king is abroad. My lord king has his own reasons for remaining in England.”

Many and good ones
, I mused to myself.
His crown, for one. Despenser’s life for another.

And I ... I have my reasons for leaving England.

If only to be rid of him, I thanked the bishop and returned to the railing. Impatient, I stared toward the southeast, waiting for France to rise magically out of the water, wishing the sight of it might erase the burden of guilt I now bore, even as I rejoiced in the breaking of my shackles. Ida and Patrice would have been a comfort, b
ut instead of the many friends who had once been my solace, I was now surrounded by Edward’s spies: Lord Cromwell, who placed himself an inch from me every moment that Stapledon was not keeping guard; William Boudon, whose paramount duty was to stingily apportion money for the maintenance of my retinue; and two highborn ladies,
Alicia and Joanna
– one a widowed countess and the other a cousin of Edward’s. The knights that accompanied us were not of my own guard, but those who owed their station to Edward’s favor. A small army of servants, most of their faces unfamiliar, also surrounded me. I would not be able to squander a single penny, sneeze or even scratch at my head without someone conveying the details of my every expenditure, the hourly state of my health and the location of my every itch back to Edward.

Ever since I had been taken at Windsor, they were always there around me. Always watching. Listening. Whispering to one another.

“A fair afternoon, is it not, m’lady?” Cromwell inquired. Beside him, a green-faced Boudon clamped both hands on the rail and swayed.

“For seagulls, yes,” I replied, precisely as Boudon vomited into the sea. I moved further away to avoid the stink of Boudon’s weak stomach and the scrutiny of Cromwell. Stapledon, apparently, had gone below deck and I found a small breath of relief in his temporary disappearance.

The clouds were gathering to the east in dark, shifting drifts of purple and red. I looked there, toward the horizon, and saw
 ...
France.

My home. And somewhere there – my hope.

*****

Poissy, March, 1325

A favorable wind had filled the sails and delivered us swiftly to Wissant on the northern coast of France. With my English entourage, stiff-shouldered and short of conversation as was their usual demeanor, we lodged there overnight and then made the short journey along the coastal road to Boulogne. There, while candle flames swayed in the silver light of evening, I gave copious thanks unto Our Lord for bringing me safely home at last. The altar at which I knelt was that of Our Lady of Boulogne – the very same place where I had traded my girlhood freedom for a wretched life with Edward II of England. On that occasion, it had been filled with the gaily dressed nobility of Christendom in celebration of a new beginning: a union of two great powers, the promise of peace. Now it echoed emptily within, as if this time was neither a beginning nor an end, but simply a pause, a breath before the next great event.

When I emerged from the church, I was not prepared for the warm greeting I received. News of our arrival had spread like water over a burst dam. The citizens of Boulogne poured out into the streets in droves. We stayed on for several days while knights and lords from all around came to join my escort. Finally, we began southward to Poissy, where the talks for peace would begin again.

It began to pour, heavily, hours after we left Boulogne. Although I changed cloaks frequently, the wind drove a damp chill into my bones that I could not shed. I yearned to seek shelter and wait out the weather, but I was so eager to reach Poissy I would have braved ten such storms to get there. We lodged at Montreuil the following night and the rain faded to a fine spit of a mist. I slept deeply, warmed by a crackling fire. But I awoke to another torrent of rain, which followed us all the way to Beauvais. It was then, at last, that the storm broke and a flirting sun appeared between jagged bands of gray-blue. The wind lived only long enough to chase away the dark, wet clouds, then died a thin, whispering death. Everywhere around us, there was birdsong, the bleating of newborn lambs, and the faint gurgle of water seeping into saturated earth.

I could smell the Seine long before it came into sight. It was the smell of mud and mossy rocks at the water’s edge and the pungency of new spring growth in broad valleys that by summertime would be lush with grain and pasture.

At Poissy, I saw him waiting on the crest of the arched bridge that spanned the River Seine. Although my heart recognized my only remaining brother, Charles IV, King of France, my eyes gazed upon a stranger, for he looked nothing like how I remembered him. He was strongly built with flared shoulders and sculpted facial features, no longer the tall-thin boy on the cusp of manhood. We were barely more than children when we last embraced – the day he departed London shortly after my arrival in England as a hopeful bride.

He sat astride a snowy stallion, its hide flecked with dried mud and its mane the same pale gold as his hair. The day was barely warm, for it was still early springtime, but the sunlight, so bold it was almost blinding, seemed to emanate as much from him as it did from above. Behind him were hundreds upon hundreds: noblemen and women, soldiers of France, holy men from many lands. Banners of every color fluttered in a capricious breeze. Trumpets called out a greeting. Horses, startled, shook their manes and tossed their tails from side to side.

Where road met bridge, I tumbled less than gracefully from my saddle and ran the half-span of the bridge to my brother, holding my skirts nearly to the top of my shins to gain my full stride. Charles dismounted and held his arms wide, ready. But as I reached him, instead of falling into his welcome embrace, I threw myself to the ground before him and wrapped my arms about his calves, pressing my forehead to his knee.

“Charles!” I cried.

His knees unlocked, as if he thought to stoop down and hold me, but he was too much the king, even with me, to do more than get down from his horse. As I looked up at him, his pale-lashed eyes emanating compassion, he raised me gently and rested his hands upon my shoulders. I thought it was the sun glinting off his ringed fingers or the garnet-encrusted amulet dangling from a chain of gold upon his chest that made me blink uncontrollably, but it was not. Tears of joy and sorrow stung at my eyes. Joy for the love I felt in his presence. Sorrow for all I had suffered since last I saw him.

“My beloved Isabeau,” he said softly, brushing the back of his fingers across my moist cheek, “welcome home.” He kissed me lightly above each eye, as if to chase away my troubles with his touch. Then he pulled my head to his shoulder and held me.

“Oh, Charles,” I breathed, my voice softening. “I know not where to begin. Or even how to say it, but that
 ...
Oh, I have waited so long to speak with you. They took everything from me. Made a prisoner of me. I could go nowhere. Had nothing
 ...
nothing.”

“I know everything,” he whispered above my ear. “So do not worry, Isabeau. You will be avenged. Edward of England will pay, dearly. I shall see to it. Already, you are free. Can you not feel it?”

I could not stop my weeping then, for as soon as I heard the word ‘free’ I could think of nothing but my children and how I had left them behind to gain that freedom.

As I looked back at where I had left my mount, I saw Cromwell and Boudon, their eyes wide, jaws clenched. Stapledon wedged his horse between theirs, dismounted and hurried anxiously toward me. He scuttled forward, his head bowed only slightly so that his miter did not topple off. “The queen – is she unwell?”

Charles leered at him harshly. The bishop edged backward, uttering an apology.

It was then that I felt the slight hand upon my back and heard the sweet voice familiar to my youth. “My lady, I am here.” Patrice embraced me hard.

I held her at arm’s length to look upon her. My heart filled with joy. “You look well. You look
 ...
happy.”

“I am now. Half a year it has been. When I heard you were on your way, I could hardly wait to see you again.”

“Oh, Patrice. I have missed you so.”

In the press of onlookers behind Charles on the bridge, I saw Juliana and Marie peering on tiptoe from between the shoulders of two noblemen, their faces glowing with delight. How frightened I had been for them on the night they were taken away. I knew nothing of how they had been treated or where they had been sent.

Then, Charles swiveled on his heel and, hand held aloft, indicated for his horse to be brought forward. He issued a few curt orders, including the retrieval of my palfrey and one for Patrice. He waited until we were astride our horses to remount his own.