Isabeau, A Novel of Queen Isabella and Sir Roger Mortimer (25 page)

Stapledon remained smug. “He will come later, after you have returned to England.”

“My business in France is
not
done. Not until homage has been paid to my brother.”

“Your husband
 ...
your king has decreed otherwise. Besides, he never made any such agreement to that effect.”

“I will go nowhere. Nowhere!”

Charles grasped me from behind by both shoulders. My limbs shook with rage.

“My sister,” Charles began, before I could bellow any further protests, “came of her own accord, on her husband’s behalf, to perform
his
duties. Because he refused to come. She will remain until they are completed, if she so wishes. She’ll go nowhere against her will.”

The dancing had ceased. The musicians broke from their unison; the flute faded breathily away; the harp notes drifted off erratically until they stopped altogether; and the pulse of the drums died suddenly until the only sound was the lonely keening of a bow being drawn across the strings of a rebec. Even Jeanne rose from her seat at the head table and came to Charles’ side to find out what was amiss.

Effused with his purpose, Stapledon glared at the fresh, young bride. “It is a woman’s duty to obey her husband. Such is God’s word.”

“And is it not God’s word,” I shouted for everyone to hear, “that a man and a wife shall not be rent asunder? What has that pariah Hugh Despenser done but that?”

Charles pinched a tiny fold of skin on the inside crease of my elbow. “Isabeau!”

“I will not stay silent anymore! He will hear me. God in heaven will hear me!” I ripped myself from my brother’s hold. The words emanated not from my rage, but from a truth that had gone unspoken. “Hugh Despenser has poisoned my husband’s head and his heart against me. Cleaved our holy union. Threatened me, even. I have begged my husband to let go of Lord Despenser, pled with him to show me kindness, for I am guilty of no wrong. Yet it is because of Lord Despenser that I have been denied, not only my husband’s affections, but also the company of my children. Hugh Despenser has filled my husband’s ears with vile counsel – vicious words that imperil the kingdom of England and those in it. But none will speak against him for fear of falling into disfavor. So I will do it for them. England has lost its king to the egregious influence of Hugh Despenser – and I have lost my husband.”

My damning words hung black and big in the air like a storm cloud that had burst and spent itself, but had not yet been ushered away by the wind. If I was relieved of having kept the truth to myself for so many years, why did I feel the urge to vomit and cleanse my throat of having spoken it?

“So be it,” Stapledon proclaimed bluntly. “As King Edward no longer considers you as acting in his service, and defiant of his authority, your funds are heretofore
 ...
discontinued.” He bowed to Charles and asked permission to leave.

Charles brushed him away with an angry sweep of his hand, then he reached for me, but I backed hurriedly away, evading him.

I spun on my heel so fast the colors in the room swirled around me dizzily. I shoved my way past the first few people, but soon they all fell back from me, leaving a wide aisle. A ripple of murmurs followed me. I did not look at the faces, did not know whether eyes stared in horror at my audacity or if chins hung low in pity of me. By the time I reached the end of the hall and the archway where the corridor began which led to the royal apartments, I was running, one hand trying to hold up skirts that were too full and heavy and the other pushing tears from my bleary eyes.

It was when I reached the first turn in the corridor, slowed and paused for breath, that I stumbled and caught myself against the wall.

Oh, what have I done now? What stupid, whining, childish thing have I done?

I curled my fingernails deep into my palms, so that their piercing would stop my tears. Holding my breath, I heard the music again and the tinkle of laughter slowly rising. I needed to stop
 ...
feeling and acting like a wounded little girl. I needed to summon my courage, to plan, to think, to, to
 ...

“I say only my son Geoffrey had more convincing outbursts. Even so, he stopped them when he was five.”

I turned to see that Roger Mortimer had followed me.

26

Roger Mortimer:

Palace de la Cité, Paris – June, 1325

QUEEN ISABELLA STRAIGHTENED, HER breathing quick and shallow. “Are you comparing my plight, Sir Roger, to that of a child who thinks he is being sent to bed too early?”

“Not at all.” I approached her cautiously, afraid she might bolt again. As I neared her, I found it hard to fight a smile. In discovering her voice, she had mislaid her dignity. “But you were full of wrath. Fiery and alive. I found it very
 ...
intriguing
.”

She pressed a hand to the wall and pushed herself away, as if trying to appear stronger and in control of herself. “I think you were right at first. I must have looked like a terrible child, a jealous one.”

I was but a few feet from her now. “Do you always apologize for speaking your thoughts?”

“I should ...” Blinking, she looked away. “I should learn to hold my tongue.”

“You should learn that when you are right, you need not dart away like a timid fawn. You are the Queen of England. And the Bishop of Exeter is your subject, not your master. To have spoken to you like that, and on the occasion of your brother’s wedding
 ...
why he should be stripped and flogged for it.”

Her jaw twitched, as though she fought to quell her true thoughts. “Edward sent him. Gave him the orders.”

I tugged at my chin, trying to pull down the corners of my mouth to keep them from creeping up into a smile, but I could not help myself and let out a small laugh.

Turning her face toward me, she arched an indignant brow. “You thought it was amusing?”

“My queen, no. I thought it was very
 ...
bold of you. Brave, in fact.”

“Then why are you laughing?”

“I was thinking that perhaps King Edward is the one who ought to be stripped and flogged. But as soon as I thought that, the vision of it was rather
 ...
well, disturbing.” Then, in a more serious tone, though forced, I said to her, “Your pardon, I should not speak so ill of the king.”

“Why? Do you think that I am still enamored of him – or that I ever was?”

Her directness startled me. Quickly, I cast a glance behind me to confirm we were still alone. Then I leaned in so close that the wine on her breath mingled with mine, the taste of it swirling around warm and sweet in my mouth.

“Do you still wish to call me on my oath?” I uttered.

My proximity must have made her uncomfortable, for she averted her eyes, even though during the wedding feast she must have looked my way a hundred times or more.

Folding down onto one knee, I took both her hands, pressed mine flat together and slid them between hers in a gesture of loyalty. “Let me repay you for my freedom, my queen. From this day forward, I will be always at your side and I vow to forever undo the wrongs that have been done to you, to me
 ...
to all of England.”

Charles had often hinted at his sister’s misery and Edward’s treatment of her was known throughout the continent. Surely, she, too, had need of an ally?

“I want my freedom,” she whispered.

“From Despenser
 ...
or from Edward?”

“Both.”

Ah, no. I was mistaken. Not bold, but desperate. Then she would be willing to risk much.

“Done.” I tipped my head downward a moment so that my hair brushed her skin, as if by accident, before I looked up at her again. “Never again question yourself, my lady. I am your strength, your courage, your will. Always. In every way.”

I rose, my hands still folded between hers – and it seemed she could not take her eyes from my face. In the curve where her jaw met her swan-like neck, a vein pulsed faintly, but rapidly. I lifted a hand to touch her there, when I suddenly heard slowing footsteps from behind. Taking a step back, I drew my hands to my sides and looked.

“Isabeau ...” Her damsel’s voice was but a hoarse whisper. The woman hurried toward us and threw a worried look over her shoulder. Coming our way was a small party of wedding guests, weaving and tottering drunkenly through the corridor, their guffaws broken by bits of slurred and unrecognizable song. Her damsel whipped her head back toward us. “My lady, pardon, please, but the king sent me after you. I thought you’d be elsewhere by now, though.”

“What is it, Patrice?” Isabella asked.

“Bishop Stapledon has been sent on to Vincennes and told to wait,” Patrice continued. “King Charles will meet with him in a week, no sooner. You, however, are to go there on the morrow; it seems the bishop has details about Lord Edward’s forthcoming arrival in France that, in his haste to humiliate you, he omitted. For now, Queen Jeanne asks if you will return to the hall?” She glanced sideways at me with her dark, inquisitive eyes. “I can tell them you have retired for the evening, if you wish. A headache?”

“Cousin!” The man I recognized as Robert of Artois
stumbled forward from the group of merrymakers and swayed like a boat careening wildly on a rough sea. He hiccupped into his palm and snorted a laugh. Then, squinting at me, he
puckered up his face. “Your pardon, Lord
 ...
Lord? Do I know you?”

“I don’t believe so.” I gave Isabella the slightest wink to let her know I understood the need for discretion.

“An Englishman?” Robert belched and patted his belly in relief. “Ah, better.” He turned toward Isabella and cupped a hand to his mouth, as if I, two feet away, could not hear him. “Keep him from the hall, then. The English have been known to murder a cel-celebration with their s-s-sobriety.” He hiccupped again.

“Indeed, they can,” Isabella agreed, winking back playfully at me, her mood now considerably lighter than when I had found her. “But there is such a thing as too drunk, too, Robert. I suggest you go to bed
 ...
before you fall over.”

“Hah!” He whirled around to face his companions, two of them leaning against each other and still nursing their wine goblets. “As you see, we are all standing, still. Simply enjoying ourselves – unlike this English mongrel.” As he turned back, he reached out to slap me on the arm, but the shift in his own weight sent him toppling forward. He landed on his knees with a bruising thump. Before he could pitch forward onto his face, I hooked a hand under his arm and helped him to his feet. I gestured to Isabella’s damsel to take his arm.

She guided him back to his companions and in one warbling, wobbling clump they continued on down the corridor and were halfway back to the hall when one of them remembered they had been headed in the other direction. Confusion ensued as they turned in a circle and when Robert lost his balance, lunging forward a step back the way from which they had come, they all took it as a signal of decisiveness and followed.

Patrice wrinkled her nose in amusement. “Are you coming then?” she said to Isabella. “Everyone has quite forgotten about it. The bishop was very rude. The king was incensed. He ranted for several minutes. I’m certain he will reprimand the bishop even more severely when he sees him again.”

“My lady, you need not go back to the hall,” I said to the queen.

She tilted her head, pondering it. Stapledon would be gone, but there would be eyes upon her, questioning. “Tell them, Patrice, if you will, I am tired, or no
 ...
Yes, tell them simply that I am tired and need to rest before leaving in the morning. My apologies to Jeanne. She was more beautiful than any bride I have ever seen.” Patrice gave a short nod and sauntered away, stealing a glance over her shoulder as she went. Then, her jaw taut, Isabella said, “I cannot go to Vincennes alone to sit across from that ferret while he spews his righteousness at me.” She turned pleading eyes on me. “Please, will you – ”

“I told you – I will be at your side, always.” Then I looked to make sure Patrice had turned the corner to re-enter the hall before I took up the queen’s hand and kissed it lightly. “I will be there at first light. Before if you like. Call on me, anytime you desire me near. I will never be further away than the length of your shadow at noon.”

Even when I drew my hand away, she was still staring at the ridge of her knuckles where my lips had brushed.

“In the morning, Sir Roger.” She snatched up the hem of her flowing skirt and hurried away.

Morning could not arrive soon enough.