Isabeau, A Novel of Queen Isabella and Sir Roger Mortimer (31 page)

32

Roger Mortimer:

Saint-Denis – August, 1326

AN AMUSING SUPPLICATION. YOUNG Lord Edward, in no attempt to hide the letter, handed it to his mother almost immediately. She, in turn, shared it with me:

Our Fair Son,

Daily I pray for your safe return to England’s shores, for the longer you remain in France, the greater, I fear, is the menace to your welfare. Your mother has fallen under ill counsel in Sir Roger Mortimer. For many years I gave him patronage and entrusted him with high stations and important duties, only to have him join in league with my false cousin, Thomas of Lancaster. Mortimer’s nature is one of brazen arrogance. He fails not only in gratitude, but flaunts his undeserved freedom in mockery of me. I can but imagine what fantastic lies he has told to delude the queen, your mother. Despite my pleas of concern, she rebukes me. Mortimer, as you know, is my sworn enemy. She cannot see her very life is in danger.

I have knowledge of marriage negotiations, entered into on your behalf, of which I have offered no consent. Do not forsake the oaths you swore to me at Dover to withhold from all such contracts. They were requested and sworn for good cause. Honor your trust in me. Be not led astray.

For you, out of love, I beg you to listen to me, your father and king. Cleave yourself from those whose sole purpose is to use you, an innocent, as their instrument of evil. They bear neither love for you nor care for your future. Be not disobedient. Come home. Shame me no more by these vile associations. Relieve me of the grief that your continued absence has inflicted.

Our Lord protect you,

Edwardus Rex,

Lichfield

Four years had gone by since I knelt before Edward at Shrewsbury. Four years in which to think. Four years in which to design my revenge. Five hundred days and more rotting in the Tower have a way of filling a man’s head with malice. It also teaches a man patience.

We went first to the Abbey of Saint-Denis. There, Isabella lit candles, knelt before the tombs of her father and two oldest brothers, and uttered copious prayers for their long-dead souls. Her son, Young Edward she often called him, mimicked his mother’s every reverent move. It was a ploy spurred by Charles’ insidious genius that had brought the boy to France – one that preyed cleverly on Edward’s dependable stupidity. Not only did Young Edward despise Despenser enough to wish him gone as much as I or his mother did, but in him there was just enough of ambition to entice him to our plan.

The next morning, I joined Isabella in the cloister. I took her hands in mine and placed a cordial kiss upon her knuckles. Then she hooked her arm through mine and we turned to walk toward the little orchard of pear trees beyond the abbey walls. We paused to let a line of monks pass, their shoulders stooped forward and hands folded in perpetual prayer.

When we stepped past the first row of trees, their branches hanging low, I plucked a half-green pear and turned it over in my palm, inspecting it for worm holes. We walked along side by side for awhile, until our steps slowed in unison. Before she could look at me, I moved to stand behind her, so that I could memorize the curve of her lower back, the indentation of her waist where only last night I had slid my arms around her and pulled her to me.

“We will be apart, Isabeau, for weeks perhaps. You must go to Ponthieu. As for me – as soon as Gerard and Arnaud have readied the horses we will be on our way. To Amiens first, then Courtrai, then on to Zeeland.” To Zeeland, that soggy, reed-clogged spread of land along the coast, where I would commission the finest vessels from Sluys all the way to Dordrecht. Ships to carry men for the army that I would lead. The army that would overthrow Edward and Despenser. “Once you have collected your revenues from Ponthieu you can join me at Valenciennes. There the prince can pick his bride. For now, though, if we are to return to England in sufficient force, I need more men, and the means to pay them. Promises of plunder alone will get us little more than vagrants and criminals. I need trained men, fine horses, ample weapons and supplies. I cannot have less, Isabeau. I have waited too many years already.”

“How long do you think
I
have waited?”
She stepped away and leaned into a crook of the tree, her gaze intense
. “I was suffering long before you fell from favor, Roger.”

“Yet you have survived and risen. I swore to you I would not fail at this. And I will not. Do you believe in me?”

A breeze lifted over the pastures surrounding Saint-Denis and teased long wisps of her hair from its pins. “I believe that you will do everything you can to see it through and beyond. But I also believe there are things not in our control, things we cannot foresee. I only wish it were a year from now, Roger. We would be back in England and all this would be done with.”

“It
will
be over with
 ...
one day. You realize, don’t you, that we will have to do more than just remove Hugh Despenser? Are you prepared to do what needs to be done?”

Looking down thoughtfully, she blinked. “He will be tried by parliament for treason, among other things, and found guilty. There is only one outcome for that. His blood, then, will not be on our hands.”

“And your husband, the king? What do you think will become of him?”

That question was harder for her. “I do not know.”

“If he is permitted to remain on the throne, then what happened with Piers de Gaveston, with Despenser, would happen all over again. Edward has a weakness. A weakness that cannot be cured. He depends on others who then take advantage of him. He should not be allowed to rule freely again.
That
is something you do know, isn’t it?”

A crevice furrowed the narrow space between her brows. “Yes, you’re right. England would be better off with my son as king.”

And with us as his regents. Finally, she had put all the pieces together.

“Ah, there,” I said. “Gerard is coming to fetch me.”

When Gerard d’Alspaye noticed the queen, her form molded to the tree, he stopped short and beckoned. I raised a hand in acknowledgment. “A moment, Gerard. Final orders from my queen first. Bring the horses this way.”

He bobbed his head in reply and returned to the abbey.

For several moments, we could not look at each other, Isabella and I. We simply stood there, close enough to embrace, saying nothing.

At last I spoke, my low words intermingling with the rustling of leaves on the warm summer wind. “I must go.”

She bit at her lip to keep it from trembling.

“Think of it as only a day that we must be apart,” I said to her. “And when that day is done, one more day. And one more day. Until we are together again.”

Sir John Maltravers, with his wounded hand curled into his chest like a battered claw, appeared first through the abbey gate on his horse, leading my train of armed men.

I walked away, each step becoming heavier than the one before. I felt the pull of her stare, pleading for me to rush to her and take her into my arms. It was damnably hard, but I forced myself not to look back.

The sooner everything was arranged for the invasion, the sooner Isabella and I would be together again.

33

Roger Mortimer:

Hainault – August, 1326

TWICE BEFORE, I HAD visited Count William of Hainault and his brother, Sir John, in Mons. Once soon after fleeing England. A congenial visit, and short, during which I made no requests. A second time, after Isabella had first arrived in Paris, to discuss business.

Under a strong afternoon sun, Count William, Sir John and I took a leisurely ride through the Hainault countryside. I suspect the count wanted me to see his expansive dairy herd so he could explain to me the superiority of his cows to English ones – a suspicion which was born out. I listened to his bombast with dulled senses, occasionally inserting a polite question to pretend an interest in milk production and growth rates.

Sir John sat upon his horse straight and strong, as if born to the saddle. His brother, who was much older, resembled an egg trying to balance on its bottom. Swaying with every stride of his mount, the count gripped its ribs with his knees and held the reins murderously tight.

Finally, exhausted by his constant efforts, Count William halted his horse abruptly. He rested one hand above the protrusion of his belly, stifling a belch, and shaded his eyes against the August sun with the other. “Queen Isabella has attempted reconciliation with her husband, the king, has she not?”

“On many accounts, my lord. In person, by letter, through her brother, King Charles
 ...
even by appeal to the Pope to try to reach some compromise.”

He dropped his hand from his brow and turned his shrewd, piggish eyes on me. “By ‘compromise’ you mean the banishment of this Lord Despenser?” The cows, with their bony hips and sagging udders, swished the flies away with their tails and chewed on great wads of cud. My horse dropped its head and nosed the hindquarters of a pregnant cow. I tugged at the reins, urging him away before he took a hoof to the foreleg.

I nodded. “His Grace, Pope John, upheld Queen Isabella’s request. King Edward flatly refused to honor it.”

 “Naturally.” William shared a knowing smile with his brother. “Yes, we have heard of Edward’s unusual fondness for this Despenser, even here. Stories of the English court are ever a source of amusement and shock. We are simple folk, Sir Roger. We fish. We farm. We weave and dye. We place our lives at the mercy of the sea in the name of trade, so others might have the needed goods that cannot be purchased in their homelands. Between our prayers and our duties, we haven’t the luxury of enjoying life’s pleasures. One is left to wonder how much more prosperous the English could be if they squandered less of their time in frivolity and spent more of it praising God’s grace and blessing His bounties.”

Again, I nodded. In truth, I detected a sermon and I despised getting them from men who paid for my sword while they idled in opulence, protected by high walls. But the count had something of value to me – an army – and so I tolerated him. English exiles alone would not be enough. I needed the Hainaulters with their honed blades and well-trained horses. I needed their might. I needed his money. He needed a source of commerce to ensure his lasting wealth. And
 ...
he wanted a legacy. A marriage pact. A daughter of his joined to England’s heir.

“There are goods to be had in England, my lord,” I said, “from which you might earn a greater profit. Then, you could build more ships, more barns, more churches: to trade, increase your herds, give thanks to God, whatever you so please.”

Like any man, Count William served himself.

*****

I endured his company for two more days. He talked too much, of nothing in particular, and when it came to money, he could not be shut up at all. He had amassed great quantities of it by driving hard bargains. His daughters, of whom he spoke with as much affection as he did his dairy herd, he had long ago figured were among his greatest assets. With twelve children of my own, I could well understand. Better to think of their rearing as an investment than a burden. My relief finally came when the count left for Valenciennes.

 The next day, Sir John and I rode out from Mons to greet Queen Isabella and Lord Edward. Although far from eloquent in speech or manner, I found Sir John to be less one-sided in his conversation. Like me, he realized the strength of his sword over that of his purse.

His deeply set eyes took on a faraway look. “I hear Queen Isabella is beautiful.”

“Some say she is.” Only I knew how much so.

Beyond an expanse of farmland lay a village that was no more than a blacksmith’s shop, a few houses, and a mill on the nearside of a bridge at stream’s edge. From between the houses, a party of riders approached at a gentle walk. Before they reached the bridge, I knew who it was. I gave my mount a sharp prick of my spurs and took off at a canter, Sir John quickly beside me.

Before Isabella and Young Edward were within a stone’s throw of us, Sir John had dismounted, rushed forward and dropped down on one knee in the middle of the road, his head bowed. Although Isabella’s eyes were on me, she brought her gray palfrey to a halt before Sir John. Young Edward came abreast of her.

“Sir Roger.” Isabella’s face broke into a broad smile.

“My queen.” I leapt to the ground and returned the smile. Then I bowed to her son. “My lord.” I was about to go forward to help her down from her horse when she dropped her gaze to Sir John and stayed me with her palm.

“Who might you be, sir knight?”

Still, he kept his head down. “John of Hainault, good lady, and I swear I shall defend you all my life.”

“Then stand, Sir John.”

In one motion, he was on his feet and lifting her by the waist as if she weighed no more than a bird.

“Your kindness is too much,” she said. “I thank you, a thousand times over, although my gratitude hardly seems sufficient.”

“It is, my lady. It is. I need no more.”

“Sir John,” the prince said, clenching the reins of his horse impatiently, “you came to escort us to Mons?”

“Yes, my lord.” Sir John gave a cursory bow. “If you will follow me.”

*****

When Isabella came to me that first night in Mons, we wasted no time with words. Eager to press my flesh to hers, I tore the layers of clothes from her body roughly. We tumbled onto the bed as my own garments flew through the air, her hips arched high, her legs wrapping invitingly around mine as I knelt before her. I explored her, caressed her, kissed her as she writhed on crumpled sheets. Her moans of pleasure became a plea for ecstasy. Open-mouthed, her hands slid down my back and clamped hard around my buttocks as she pulled me greedily to her. I lowered myself over the length of her body, seeking entry, finding it with one strong thrust. She shuddered, her fingernails imprinting into my skin. I drew back, feeling the crash of blood with my heartbeat. Then I drove again, and again, she moving with me, her hips rocking in rhythm with mine, until the pace of our coupling reached an uncontrollable frenzy. Each wave hurled us higher, further. Until at last we were both drowning in each other, gasping for air, as if crashing toward the depths of a bottomless waterfall. One, falling together. Her breath came quick and shallow, but still she held me to her. As she lay beneath me, I was not thinking of war or revenge – only her and how it was to be with her.

I reached over the edge of the bed to retrieve the wad of sheets that had fallen to the floor and pulled it up over us in false modesty. “Have you spoken further to your son about the count’s daughters?”

 Isabella rolled to me and nuzzled against my shoulder. “I have.”

“And?”

“He says, quite adamantly, that he will not marry until he is twenty-five.” She giggled like a girl of ten. “He does not know what he is missing.”

“Did you tell him that is too old? I’ve known men that were grandfathers before thirty.”

Her fingers wound into the knot of hair at my neck. “You are almost forty and you are not.” She kissed me playfully on the underside of my chin.

“The count wants to join his house with that of Plantagenet and Capet. Besides, your son is old enough to discover the pleasures of having a wife in his bed every night.” It seemed a very logical device to me. At the same age Young Edward was, I had been betrothed. At fourteen, I was married. On our wedding night, I bedded Joan. In less than a year our first son was born.

Isabella slipped her hand from me and rolled away. “When we return to England, will you go back to Ludlow?”

Ludlow. Where my wife would be waiting. I had tried not to think of that. I had other plans. There was too much else to do. I caressed her shoulder, as if I could sweep away her worries with a touch. “Isabeau
 ...
I want nothing between us to change. I will write to her that my duties are too many. She will live comfortably. It will be understood.”

She lay still, without response, as though she were waiting to hear more.

“Isabeau
 ...
Isabeau,” I whispered, stroking her hair, “I love you.” I had never spoken the words before, not even to Joan.

She turned her face toward mine, seeking a kiss. “And I” – her legs slid around mine as she pulled me onto her – “love you, my gentle Mortimer.”

But where she discovered contentment and joy, I felt a great burden settled on me. To say that you love someone is far different than to live as though you do.

*****

At Valenciennes, Count William and his wife, Jeanne, welcomed us formally in their great, glittering hall. Count William presented Isabella with a bronze unicorn aquamanile. To her son he gave a silver-gilt plate from Byzantium, depicting David’s triumph over Goliath. Young Edward gave the count’s daughters identical ivory-backed mirrors and their mother embroidered silks from Persia, courtesy of King Charles.

Three fidgeting girls ranging in age from fourteen to nine
–
the fourth being noticeably absent, although no one had yet mentioned it
–
stood lined up like a collection of dolls near a row of windows to the east. The morning sunlight struck harshly upon their blanched complexions.

Young Edward, seated by then between his mother and the count, appeared wholly unimpressed.

Eighteen months had passed since I had visited the count’s court and looked his daughters over. Then, I had thought them promising enough, but in truth, I admit, they were more pleasant and healthy than pretty
–
the three present, at least. Margaret, the oldest, had grown more broad than tall in that time. She resembled Sir John more than her father, with stout arms and broad shoulders and a silver-yellow rope of hair that hung all the way down her back and to her knees. She was robust and sturdy, like a well-bred ox. Good perhaps for bearing children, but not altogether enticing to a young man entertaining his choice of brides. The youngest two, named Joan and Isabelle, huddled close to one another, too frightened to speak, and neither of them old enough to have burst forth with the first firm, budding curves of womanhood. Both still had the plump bellies of overfed babes, not unlike their father. In different clothes and with cropped hair, they could have passed for boys, so plain and un-maidenly were their faces.

The countess uttered profuse apologies for Philippa’s tardiness. While we waited for them to find the girl, the queen and countess exchanged compliments on the gifts. Too soon, the awkwardness was replaced by stone-dead silence. It was not going well
–
rather badly, in fact.

“Margaret,” I broached, beginning with the oldest, as I turned to Count William, “does she hunt or hawk?”

Margaret took a step in retreat.

The count looked at his wife blankly, awaiting her help to answer the simple question. Clearly, he left the raising of his daughters to his wife. Countess Jeanne rescued her husband from his ignorance. “She rides when she must ... and she has a lapdog that she will not part from, but she is ... she is of a fragile nature and prefers gentler pursuits.”