Isabeau, A Novel of Queen Isabella and Sir Roger Mortimer (13 page)

Could Edward be using me to ferret out more of his enemies? Again, why bother, unless there was some clear threat to his hold on power? Or on Despenser’s life
 ...

 I rubbed at the scruff on my chin and neck. A letter to Joan would seem innocuous enough
–
a husband longing for his spouse. Sweet Jesus, I had not thought of her for weeks. I hardly missed her querulous company, but I had at times ached to have her willing body beneath mine.

“Can you get a letter to my wife?” I went closer to him, hoping I could catch a glimpse of his countenance beneath the overhang of his dark cowl and judge the depth of his deception.

Simon nodded. “I can get a letter to the Pope, if you so wish.”

With his fingertips he tapped at the sleeve of one of my garments. There was something inside it, a long lump. A roll of parchment? I approached the bed and reached for it.

The bar of the door moaned as someone slid it back. Simon grabbed me by the shoulders and slammed me to my knees.

Before I could recover from the bolt of pain, he placed both hands on my head and began to utter unintelligible words, which I determined to be mangled Latin.

The door opened. Two guards entered, followed by Gerard.

“Please, accept this charity,” Simon said, sweeping his arm above the clothing. “What you do not need can be sent to the poor.” He waved a hand in the sign of the cross before me. “God be with you.”

Without a backward glance, he left. Gerard followed him.

I remained on my knees with my head bowed, clasped my hands together, and turned toward the bed, as if to pray. One of the guards darted out and quickly back in, bearing a wooden platter with a cold bowl of beans in a fish broth, a heel of bread to sop it with and a cup of watered ale. No use in complaining of the fare. It was sustenance.

I thanked him, as I always did, rose and placed the platter on top of the barrel. Despite my leer, the guard sauntered over toward the bed to peruse the clothing covetously. I drew my tottering stool up close to my makeshift table and sat. Watching him from the corner of my eye, I brought the bowl to my lips and tipped it up. Beans and flakes of fish nearly gagged me as I consumed it greedily. There would not be another meal until the vesper bells rang. I spit out fish bones and suspect chunks onto the floor for the mice to steal. I wiped the bowl clean with the stale bread and washed my mouth out with a guzzle of ale. The guard leaned over the pile of leggings.

“Done,” I announced with impatience.

Startled, he straightened and blinked at me.

“You may take it away now,” I said to urge his departure. I stood, the platter between my outstretched hands. “Ask Lieutenant d’Alspaye if he will bring me the implements later with which to shave. I feel as though I’m sprouting a forest on my chin.”

He gave a grunt, which I took to be an affirmative.

After he was gone, I let a few minutes lapse before I pulled the letter from the leggings. Before I opened it, my heart bounded. It bore the wax imprint of my fifteen-year old son Geoffrey’s seal: a swan taking flight. A seal I had presented him with upon his departure from Wigmore.

The handwriting
 ...
was unmistakably his.

Dearest Father,

I pray this finds you in good spirits. I have often wondered how you fare through these long, dark days. It should please you to know I am well. My cousins here in Picardy have been unduly kind, although Grandmother ails. Our kinsfolk are sympathetic with your plight and wish you to know they will give whatever help they can arrange. I hear there are many lords who have fled England and taken refuge in the courts of Hainault and France, where they are welcomed. King Charles, however, is on poor terms with our King Edward. There is talk of war.

We may yet, one day, see each other again. I have hope.

God protect you,

Geoffrey de Mortimer

I rolled the letter up tightly and crammed it into the crack at the bottom of the wall from where the mice came and went.

Simon spoke the truth then. I had not been abandoned. There were those who yet sought to bring an end to Despenser’s grasping avarice and Edward’s oppression.

 I sat down on my stool in the middle of the room. Motes of dust swirled on a beam of sunlight that fell at a long, low angle from window to floor. I had not noticed the warmth of the day before then. I let it seep into me as my mind filled with uplifting visions of the many terrible ways I might make my enemies suffer for their offenses.

A day that might yet dawn.

12

Isabella:

Tower of London – June, 1323

CHARLES’ LAST LETTER HAD been given to me discreetly by Juliana only five days earlier:

Our Very Dear Sister,

Grant me only time. Such things should not be done in haste. I know you have convinced your king to spare the life of his fallen liegeman, Sir Roger Mortimer. Nonetheless, a traitor’s fate is still that of death, whether slow or sudden. You will go to this knight, bargain for his service in return for his freedom. Should he agree, you are to tell him his release will be arranged in secret. He will come to Paris. Here, he will learn his role.

First though, beseech the assistance of Bishop Orleton. He is an old ally of this Mortimer, from what I have heard, and as you have often said a loyal friend of yours. This will put you further from suspicion.

I shall send more details by word of mouth soon to both you and the bishop. Letters are too easily intercepted. The proof they bear too condemning.

The glory of France and the friendship of England are foremost in my mind. You and the children are always in my heart.

Our Lord God keep you,

Charles

The correspondence had made the sea crossing in a simple carved hatbox, folded and sewn tightly into the lining of a small, white silk pillow at its bottom. Within the hour, I had dispatched a messenger to summon the Bishop of Hereford, Adam Orleton.

I was standing alone at the back of the Chapel of St. John’s in the White Tower, counting the number of courses in the stones – nine high in the columns, eight in the arches above – when I heard him enter.

“My queen.” Bishop Orleton swept through the doorway of the chapel and received me into his arms with tender familiarity. Early summer sunlight flooded in through the arched windows in the upper-story of the chapel. Despite his fifty years, the flesh around his eyes barely creased as he squinted. Tiny beads of sweat dampened his forehead and trickled over his temples and cheeks, giving a saintly glow to his long, narrow face.

“Your grace.” I returned the embrace, closed the door gently but firmly behind us, and took his arm. “You are two days overdue.”

He surveyed the shadows as we walked the short length of the nave side by side. Our footsteps echoed against the bulging columns, every stone immutable, every window beaming with celestial light, every floor tile bearing the wear and worry of the footsteps of all the kings and queens since the time of William the Conqueror. We stopped before the altar and he touched his fingertips to his head and chest, making the sign of the cross in reverence and devotion. Then, he stilled his breath to listen for the rustle of intruders.

“We’re alone,” I assured him.

He turned to me, the corners of his mouth drawn downward in concern. “I wish I could plead it was nothing but church business which caused my delay.”

I knelt before the altar. “We must be quick. Tell
me
–
is there unrest in the Welsh Marches?”

“Unrest? Not outright. But it will soon come to that.” Orleton moved to stand before me. “Despenser cowed his own sister-in-law, Elizabeth de Clare, into handing over Usk to him in exchange for Gower, although I have no doubt he will have it back in short time. With the abolishment of the Ordinances and the forfeiture of Mortimer’s lands, given enough time, Despenser will be lord of Chirk, as well as Berkeley, Usk and Gower – and every rock, puddle and blade of grass between Chester and Bristol.”

Whatever Despenser wants, Despenser shall have.

I folded my hands, pretending to pray, and bowed my head. “What of Scotland? Did Pembroke succeed?”

“The truce has been agreed to by now. Thirteen years. Despenser himself even had a hand in it.”

“Despenser? I heard he was in the north, but ...
 why would Despenser attach his name to a treaty with Robert the Bruce?”

“I think even he has finally realized the war against the Scots cannot be won.”

No, not while this Edward sits upon the throne.

“Even more shocking,” Orleton added, “is that Bruce signed the treaty ‘as King of Scots’.”

I gasped. “Truly? And still Edward agreed to it?”

He nodded. That alone was unimaginable. If the barons of England were ashamed to lose to the Scots, they would have Edward’s murder on their minds now. Pensive, I tapped my fingertips together. “But there must be some further motive to it. Some plan. Thirteen years is an eternity.”

“An arbitrary number.”

“An unlucky one. Could they be weighing war with France? Charles wants Edward to pay homage for Gascony. Edward is loath to do it. He would sooner fling his army unprepared and ill-led upon the shores of France than go there and prostrate himself before my brother.”

“My lady ...” Orleton touched the soft veil covering the crown of my head. The gentle pressure of his fingertips drove the meaning of his words deeper. “I doubt the king wants a war with France any more than you do.”

“But it would unite his barons behind him. He needs that now more than ever. France is ever the enemy here, no matter who rules or what happens. When England’s fortune turns ill, blame France for it and the world takes order. Does it matter what it costs me if it serves him?”

“Hmm, I’ll not argue that, but still, if he could not manage Scotland, then he’ll not take on France.”

“ ‘Should not’ and ‘will not’ are different matters. Think of whom we are speaking about.”

“Agreed, agreed. But as for Despenser, you and I could postulate on his motives until we are both dust blown away by the wind. The man is led by nothing more than the whimsy attached to his greed. The king spoils him like a child with an unbearable temper.”

What I cherished about Adam of Orleton was not his piety or his power within the Church, but his candor. The bishop himself knew the danger in his directness and Edward resented him for it, accurate though it often was. Unlike my husband, however, I was neither so vain nor shortsighted that I could not take advice from someone who knew the answers when I did not.

 I bit at my lip, trying hard to draw conclusions where there were too few clues. “Then Harclay gave up his life for naught. Where is the sense in it, your grace? Where?”

“I know not, my child. I only know there are many things these days I do not understand. Probably, I never will. Nothing causes me surprise any more. Least of all Lord Despenser. Kings have let favorites run the kingdom before when they had not the head for it themselves, but never in so careless a manner and certainly not to their own ruin. God is our one true constant in this world. Place your trust in Him, my child.” Orleton bent slightly forward and let his fingers slip to my shoulders. “But why did you ask me here? Not for gossip, nor a simple blessing, I venture.”

“Indeed not, dear bishop. I need your promise of help to ...” I faltered, uncertain of how to say something so utterly important, yet so simple.

“To what?”

I lowered my voice to a whisper. “To save a life.”

His gaze was penetrating, perplexed. “Whose?”

“That of Sir Roger Mortimer.”

His hands fell away from my shoulders. A lengthy silence bespoke his reluctance. He turned his head away. “I am a man of the Church. Not everything is within my power.”

Defiant, I stood to challenge his momentary cowardice. “But much is. Court and Church have been brothers since the word of Christ became known to man. Both meddle in the other’s business.”

“Sometimes to their mutual detriment. I remind you of King Henry and Thomas Becket. Power breeds distrust. My lady, this is ...
an unusual request. Not the sort I am accustomed to granting. I fear, if I am to guess – which you leave me to do – you go against your husband’s wishes ...
or worse.”

I dropped my chin like a little girl chided by her father. Then I raised my eyes and looked straight at him. “A marriage does not make two persons of one mind. I would not ask if this ...
if this did not ...” I needed the bishop on my side more than strategically. I needed his sympathy. I needed him as my champion. Not even a prelate could harden his heart to a woman who had been wronged. With a lingering sigh, I began. “I cannot tell you how it is with him. How long I have tried to be dutiful – complacent in the marriage bed, nurturing in motherhood, in public agreeable ...
but in private I cannot bend to his blind arrogance forever. There are things you do not know of. Things I dare not give breath to. Things I leave to Our Lord to levy His judgment upon.”

“If the details are too difficult, then
–
”

“You are not my confessor, but they do concern the king ...
and Hugh Despenser.”

“In what nature?”

“The rumors, about them – they are not rumors. Believe what you hear. Believe more than you hear. I will not burden you with full divulgence. That has already fallen on my brother’s shoulders.”

“And what does he say?”

“That he shall help relieve us of Despenser. If we can free Mortimer, Charles will help him do just that.”

“Mortimer agreed to this?”

“He will. I have no doubt.”

“What makes you think he will not try to bring down Edward as well? Charles will only incite him.”

Naïve though it was, I had not thought so far as that. “I do not know.” It was the truth. I did not know what the end to all of this would be. I only knew the bond between Edward and Despenser must be forever broken, whatever the cost. “Promise me your help – or it will not be war with France we will need to worry about, but war with our own.”

The bishop studied me hard. Any other ecclesiast might have lectured me on the importance of a wife’s obedience, but Bishop Orleton perceived an opportunity even he could not deny.

He took both my hands in his. “You have my promise.”