Isabeau, A Novel of Queen Isabella and Sir Roger Mortimer (34 page)

36

Roger Mortimer:

Oxford – October, 1326

BY THE TIME WE reached Oxford, hundreds lined the roads. The gates to the city stood gaping. Young Edward led the way like the Messiah delivering the promise of paradise.

Our progress slowed to a crawl. We lurched and halted. Heralds shouted to clear the way, but the mob only pressed closer, clogging the streets and alleys. Faces smeared with grime and soot appeared in windows and doorways. Hands writhed from a twisting mass of bodies all around us, grabbing. Finally, at my orders, our pikemen lowered their weapons to clear a path. With his mother beside him, Lord Edward rode just behind the glinting sweep of blades, his shoulders drawn up tall and a smile on his face. Every now and then he nodded or raised his hand in greeting. They cheered him as he passed. They called out for their beloved Isabella.

We had meant to make our way to the church
–
for, of course, Isabella would stop there to heap God with yet more thanks, as if He had forgotten those she had showered Him with that very morning – but by the time the church came into sight we found ourselves at a complete halt again. Cries rippled through the crowd. Around a corner I saw the curling, ornate tops of crosiers bobbing above the throng. The horde fell back as if on cue. Adam of Orleton, the Bishop of Hereford, led a small army of bishops and clergymen toward us.

He bowed to the prince and they exchanged a few words of formal greeting. Arnaud helped Isabella down from her mount and she hurried forward, a haze of dust swirling around her.

Orleton’s long arms encircled her with fatherly tenderness. “Child,” he breathed into her ear, “I have prayed for your safety every night and every morning since you left for France.” Then he kissed her once on each temple and held her at arm’s length. “I understand you had a rough voyage.” He scrunched his feathery, graying brows together in concentration, and then arched his left one high. “You look surprisingly well.”

“Oh, you are much too kind, your grace,” she replied. “I have suffered so much anguish this past year. If I look well at all, it is only because my spirits are lifted to see you at last.”

Barely two weeks past, this very woman had feared whether England would open its arms to her or pelt her with stones until every bone in her body was shattered. Since then, the blush had returned to her cheeks, her eyes glinted with mirth and a beatific smile graced her lips at times like this. She thrived on the adoration of the masses. All the while, she had maintained her outward piety – to my increasing frustration. I much preferred her private, shameless side. Not since before we left from Dordrecht had we been alone together for a single night
 ...
not even for a transient moment in which to steal a tantalizing kiss.

“My lady,” Orleton said, “this is Frances Willington, Master of the Guildhall here in Oxford. He brings you a gift.”

Before her stepped a short little man who looked down at the ground timidly. He glanced up, then back down and thrust out a silver chalice to her. “For you, my lady queen. An offering of peace and welcome from the citizens of Oxford.”

She took it from Willington and looked inside. From it, she took only a sip of the blood-red wine, thanked him sweetly and then passed it along to her son. Young Edward savored a swig on his tongue. Then, he tipped the chalice back and guzzled down the remainder. When the last drop was drained he thrust the chalice above his head and the townspeople erupted in a roar of cheers.

 “Sir Roger,” Orleton said, approaching me so I could hear him above the din, “it has been long since we spoke in person. Years, has it not? It was never easy getting letters to you. You never stayed in one place. But what a great blessing to know you have arrived safely at last.”

“I am indebted to you, good bishop, for letting me get away with my head still on my shoulders.”

“You have it for now, my lord, but I warn you the king has placed a high price on it.” He motioned for us to follow him and his clinging flock of clerics to the church. The crowd slipped back, but Isabella and Young Edward suffered the occasional dirty hand pawing at their clothing and hair.

“Has he? How much am I worth?” I said.

“A thousand pounds sterling.”

“Is that all?”

“I am sorry, but yes. He attributes this insurgency to you alone, blaming no other. He wants you dead for it. The queen, the prince, even Kent, he has decreed, are to be left unharmed. By now he knows of Norfolk giving you succor, as well.” Orleton hoisted his crosier to clear the church steps of onlookers. As we ascended, I cast a glance behind us. A mother had thrust her infant to arm’s length at Isabella. She took the babe from its mother, held it aloft, then brought it gently down and kissed its fat cheek. Further back in the crowd, Young Edward strutted past a line of swooning maidens to stand at his mother’s side.

We entered the church and Orleton and I stepped aside to let our following of clerics – two other bishops and a large cluster of abbots – pass as we waited for Isabella and the prince.

“I hear his general summons went unheeded,” I said.

“It did. He called upon thousands to array, but as soon as the barons heard Norfolk and Kent were ignoring him, they all spewed out excuses as if they were avoiding an invitation to supper. Desperate, he offered freedom to any criminals who would fight for him. That got him some response, but London turned a deaf ear. Even the bishops there are stalled in argument as to whether to stand behind the king or oppose him. Edward has since fled the city.”

I imparted a smile to Bishop Orleton. “So, we have flushed the fox from his den?”

“You have.”

We paused at the broad archway beyond which lay the nave of the church. Isabella began up the steps, her son next to her. A growing throng of knights and nobles trailed them closely.

 “I believe the queen expects a Mass,” Orleton stated, “although it will not be long. I admit I am ill prepared today. Will you join us?”

“I should ...” I fumbled for a plausible diversion. “I should see to the quartering of the soldiers. Pardon me, your grace. I should go.”

He nodded in understanding and led the queen and her son to the front of the nave. I retreated into a vestibule as the barons trickled by. They all appeared eager to take Mass with the queen and prince to gain their favor. I searched for Maltravers in the passersby, but could not find him.

“My lord?”

I turned at the hoarse whisper to see Simon de Beresford in the shadows behind a column. The light from the open door fell upon only half his face. I waited until the last of the conveniently reverent drifted by before going to him.

“I have news,” he said.

“Go on.”

He stuck out his hand. “You are in the queen’s pay now, not a penniless prisoner. I expect something for my troubles.”

“You’ll get more than the occasional coin if the news is worth enough.”

From inside the nave, Orleton’s words resounded:

“Almighty God, to whom all mankind surrenders its will, we beseech thee, in your everlasting glory and power, to be our guide in this time of darkness. Grant us the wisdom and the goodness to overcome evil, and to – ”

Simon pulled back into complete shadow as a monk poked his head through the door to the nave, then pulled it shut, muffling the bishop’s sermon.

“A knighthood?” he asked.

“It can be arranged.”

“How soon?”

“That is not up to me. Besides, you’ll earn it when I say you have. Now, what news?”

“Of the king.”

“How big is his army?”

Simon’s teeth glimmered in the darkness. “Army? I would not call it that. He has with him but a skeleton guard and a smattering of archers. No more than twenty altogether.”

Twenty retainers who must have all been cruelly aware how futile their duty was. “Who else is with him?”

 “Of importance? It is known he left London with his corrupt treasurer, Robert de Baldock
 ...
and Lord Hugh Despenser, naturally. As for where they are all now ...”

I slipped my hand into the purse at my belt and drew out two gold nobles bearing the likeness of King Edward. They would be worthless soon enough, but the gesture would placate my spy for now. I pressed them into his palm. “Where were they lately?”

“In Wallingford not three days ago. They took the road to Cirencester.”

West. Most likely to Gloucester. From there, they could take refuge in Wales, or Ireland even. If they fled England altogether, Edward’s son could be crowned in his place.

 “Find them. And if you can lead me to them – there will be a knighthood for you. I’ll see to it.”

A desolate hour it was for King Edward. And an even worse one for Despenser.

Bishop Orleton’s voice pried through the crack between the great oak doors:

“ – snake has entered Eden and the seed of Satan infected our king. This ‘affliction’, Lord Hugh Despenser, has caused our king to do much wrong: in the governing of his kingdom and its people, in his private deeds, and in the estrangement of our dear and beloved queen, who has been only ever faithful to him and tolerant of his faults far beyond duty. We are blessed that Queen Isabella returns to us now, with our noble prince, Edward, at her side. Together, they will free us of this scourge, this plague of immorality and avarice, and return our beleaguered England to the right and true law of God. Our Heavenly Father, the Holy Spirit and Christ Jesus be with you all.”

“Amen,” I rejoined.

*****

That night in the high-raftered guildhall of Oxford, there was a feast to celebrate the return of Queen Isabella and Lord Edward. Roasted pig, mince pies and puddings were served. Fresh straw had been strewn over the floor, making it smell like a well-kept stable, although the scent was barely strong enough to overpower the stink of too many knights crammed into too narrow a hall. At the head table, I sat next to Isabella. To her right was Lord Edward and to my left Bishop Burghersh of Lincoln, who quickly gorged himself on an excess of fresh herring and went to bed early with stomach pains.

I was heady with my rising wave of good fortune and a generous helping of mulberry wine. I raised my goblet – my fifth of the evening – and shouted, “Two thousand pounds sterling for the head of Hugh Despenser!”

“Allow me the honor!” boomed a gravelly voice from the back of the hall. “But do you want his ugly head with or without his body attached?”

Laughter rolled through the hall and broke apart. The lute played on, while the little man with the nakers at his belt thumped a frenzied rhythm. Dancing girls flailed their scarves to catch men about the waists teasingly. One young man snagged his temptress, reeled her in and pinned her down on a table. She raked him across the face with her fingernails, prematurely ending his debauchery.

I slid my chair back. On swaying legs, I climbed up onto my seat to see who had arrived to claim the prize for Despenser’s head. Isabella tapped lightly on my calf, but I ignored her, searching through the throng of overstuffed, lascivious merrymakers.

“Come forward,” I commanded. My head was so light that faraway faces blurred together. I was answered by only a hush that very soon returned to a buzz of conversation. Cups clinked together. Dogs growled over fallen scraps.

Isabella pinched the cloth of my leggings. “Please, Sir Roger.”

I complied, sinking down into my chair with a long belch. I plucked up my goblet and raised it to her. “To England’s most beauteous of queens: Isabeau the Fair.”

John of Hainault, seated down the table from her, lifted his goblet high. “To Queen Isabella!”

She rolled her eyes. “You should sleep well tonight, my lord.”