Isabeau, A Novel of Queen Isabella and Sir Roger Mortimer (36 page)

38

Isabella:

Vale of the White Horse – October, 1326

A COOL MIST HUNG IN the morning air as we crossed the bridge over the Thames and headed west toward Gloucester. Like a snake through wet grass, the column advanced silently. By afternoon the mist had become a steady rain, soaking us all to the bone and forcing our heads down.

Mortimer peeled back from the front of the line and came abreast of me on his mount. “You needn’t ride in the rain like this, my lady. Why not make use of your carriage?”

I kept my gaze forward. To the front, Young Edward’s standard flopped heavily at the top of its pole. Scattered throughout the length of our column were dozens of other standards: sodden rags dangling limp at the ends of sticks, their colors and emblems indistinguishable.

“The people must be able to see me, as well as their prince,” I said.

“There will be no one about on a day like this to see you, anyway. You’ll take ill.”

I lifted my hood from my head. Raindrops pelted my face and stung at my eyes. “I thank you, my lord, for your concern, but lately you seem to have appointed yourself my conscience, as well as my voice.”

He looked at me, momentarily perplexed, and then scoffed. “That? That was two days ago. It was an offhanded comment. I merely said what others there were thinking. If you were not as happy as I was to see Bishop Stapledon dead, you were at least relieved.”

The rain drummed on the soggy ground, on tree limbs, on shields and bodies, rising in a roar so loud no one more than a few feet away could have heard our conversation.

“You contradicted me,” I said.

“I disagreed with you. If I am to counsel you, then – ”

“If you are to be
among
my counselors, you must heed my wishes. When I need advice, I will ask it of you.”

He propped a hand on his hip above his sword and worked his jaw back and forth. Drops of water gathered in the stubble on his chin and streamed down his neck. “And is my advice of value to you?”

“Very much so. More than anyone’s.”

At that, the firm set of his mouth slackened. He dropped his eyes. “So if I disagree with you, if I have something that needs to be said, how am I to let you know?”

“When we are together, the two of us alone, you can say anything.
Anything
. Only, in public, I must be the one who says what is to be done, whether in truth it is you who decides it or me. We cannot, in front of anyone, even
appear
to disagree.” Water ran hard into my eyes and mouth and seeped into the fibers of my clothes. I shivered, but not from the cold and damp. “I will not have anyone turn against you, as they turned against Gaveston and Despenser. You mean too much to England and to my son’s future.
I
need you too much. So let it be me who speaks. Let it be me they question or confront. Not you.”

I reached out my hand. He looked long at it before he finally leaned out, took it and kissed it. He squeezed my fingers before letting them go. “Tonight, we will discuss our plans?”

“I cannot promise tonight, but most certainly soon. At length.”

“Alone?” he added, a playful smile on his lips.

I forced a serious look as I teased him. “I thought I might invite Bishop Orleton and Bishop Stratford. Would you mind?” But I could not stop myself from returning his provocative smile.

I lifted my face to the sky, expecting raindrops to patter on my forehead, but only a light drizzle brushed my cheeks. The downpour had passed. An easterly wind pushed along the low, broken clouds. In time they yielded to patches of deceptive sunlight, for it was hardly warm. Beyond Abingdon, we halted to take rest in a broad valley. Mortimer rode to the back of the column where it was reported that two wagons carrying supplies had become stuck in the mud. I noticed he often fussed over such details to busy himself, for thus far our ‘invasion’ had amounted to little more than a royal progression through the countryside.

Patrice brought me a dry cloak and food. While we sat on a stone fence, nibbling at soggy bread and cheese so moist it turned to mush in our mouths, I gazed absentmindedly at the view around us. Our army filled the valley, looking like the Exodus of Moses’ people from Egypt. Men sank to the wet ground to rest their weary legs and dry weapons on the scraps of cloth they kept tucked away. Squires and grooms tended to horses. Priests floated through the mass of bodies, sprinkling blessings on indifferent soldiers who were more intent on filling their bellies than purging their souls.

Some distance from the road on which we had come ran a long, low ridge, its thick mat of grass yellowed by autumn’s first hard frost a few days past. In the middle of the hill stretched a figure with sprawling limbs and a long body, carved from the turf to reveal the white chalk underneath. Had we not stopped I would never have noticed it, for we were passing in the opposite direction to which it faced. I puzzled over it for some time before Mortimer returned to relieve me of my curiosity.

“A horse,” he said. “Marked in the earth by those who lived here long ago. Before the Romans came.”

I handed Patrice the remains of my meal and told her to give it to some of the men. Mortimer joined me on the fence, gnawing on a hunk of salted pork and washing it down generously with ale.

“Why go to the trouble?” I stood and took a few steps forward, although my perspective changed not at all, since the horse carving was half a mile away. “I can’t see it serves any purpose.”

“Why do we build churches if God is all around us?” He swallowed the last of his meat and drained his flask, wiping his mouth clean with the tail of his cloak. “They worshipped a horse goddess. It was a tribute to her: Epona. Women prayed to her to make them fertile.”

I almost asked him if Joan had prayed to the horse goddess for her twelve children, but before jealousy took full hold of me, something caught my eye. I took several steps forward. To the north of the horse carving, riders crested the hill at a full gallop. I pointed to them. Mortimer squinted, peering into the distance.

“More men coming to join us?” I asked.

He shook his head. “No. We’ve stopped. They would not be in such a hurry for that. Messengers.” Only a handful, but they rode with determined swiftness. “They’ve come from the London road.”

A knot of dread drew tight around my chest. Immediately, he called to Arnaud, who still had his horse nearby, and told him to bring the riders to us. Arnaud had barely taken off at a canter when a scowl marred Mortimer’s face. Leicester was approaching
–
and with a dozen knights tripping along behind him.

“Ah there, dear niece,” Leicester hailed merrily. Then with a tip of his head to Mortimer, “My lord.” He lifted his face to the sky. “We’ll travel more swiftly now that the weather has broken. I took the liberty of sending men to gather news of the king. He came this way not a week ago. We’re on the right path. I wager we’ll find him before we get to Gloucester.”

“We’ll find him when he’s run out of places to hide,” Mortimer said mawkishly.

Leicester glared venomously at Mortimer, but just as Leicester took a step forward, shouts rang out from below. Mortimer bolted off, sprinting downhill, toward the sound of hooves sloshing through puddles. Halfway down the slope, he met the newcomers. One, a younger image of Mortimer, swung himself down from his saddle. In an instant, Mortimer embraced him.

“Edmund,” I heard him say.

As if abruptly aware others were watching, Mortimer let go and took a step back. Another young man stood shyly behind the first. Mortimer cocked his head at him. “Roger
 ...
is it
 ...
is it you?”

Edmund and the younger Roger Mortimer. His sons.

He embraced young Roger only briefly, before he thrust him, too, away. With a jerk of his hand, he motioned them to follow and led them to where I stood with Leicester and the others.

Edmund Mortimer patiently endured his father’s stilted introduction before he began spewing out his news. “Sir Henry de Beaumont is on his way. He was but a day behind when you left Oxford. He has a hundred and fifty with him.”

“No more?” Leicester questioned. “I expected better of him than that.”

“It is a hundred and fifty less for the king,” Mortimer said. “What news do you have from London, Edmund? Any of John of Eltham, the queen’s son?”

“Safe in the Tower, for now. Although no one dares to venture out into the city, as yet. It is still dangerous.”

I feared for my son. For now, however, there was nothing I could do to help him. Nothing any of us could do but wait and hope. “My daughters – do you know where they are?”

“At Bristol, my lady. I have that on good word.”

Relieved to finally know where they were, I crossed myself and said a swift prayer for their safety. “Whose word?”

“Lady Eleanor de Clare, it seems, was very willing to give out information to save herself. According to her, the Earl of Winchester was told by his son, Lord Despenser, to go to Bristol and hold it at all costs. Winchester left London only two days after the king did.”

My heart plunged into my stomach like a boulder shoved from a cliff. They were indeed in the hands of Despenser. He had used my children against me before; it should not have been any shock that he would do so again. Somehow, I had known it would not be easy to get my children back. Not even with an army at my bidding and the greatest lords in the land beside me. My hands shook as I pulled my cloak around me, trembling. Leicester and most of the others would still want to pursue Edward.

“My uncle?” Mortimer asked.

Edmund’s chin dropped. “They say he was taken away.”

“From the Tower?” Mortimer stared hard at him, confusion evident in the furrowing of his brow. “By whom? To where?”

“Winchester. To Bristol, as well. But he was not well.”

I touched Mortimer on the arm. “Why would he take your uncle with him?”

He spun away, raking his fingers through his hair. Suddenly, he gave a dry laugh of realization. “To bargain with. Bristol is a feint. A double one. Your children to use against you. My uncle against me. Cruel
and
clever.”

Henry of Leicester swaggered forward, his thumbs hooked in his sword belt. “It has already been decided. We’re going to Gloucester. To find the king and Lord Despenser.”

Mortimer rounded on the earl. “They will be found! After all, who do you think is going to hide them? The Welsh? More likely than not, they’ll stay out of this entirely. It would be their death warrant to come to the aid of a powerless king, running for his life. No, if the queen wishes it, we go to Bristol first. Get our hands on the Earl of Winchester, free my uncle and return the queen’s daughters to her.”

Like a sparring cock, Leicester puffed out his chest. “Bristol is protected by the Avon and the Frome. It has the thickest walls of any castle in England. You won’t be able to take it. No one ever has.”

“Then we’ll lay siege.”

A stale, broken laugh shook Leicester’s belly.
“A siege could go on for months.”

Mortimer thrust his jaw out, confident.
“So it could, if one were ignorant of Bristol’s weaknesses.”

“I told you, it has none,” Leicester argued. “And while you loiter outside Bristol for weeks on end, the king and Lord Despenser could escape to anywhere – to Ireland, to the continent, to – ”

“Can’t you understand?” he screamed at Leicester. “If the king abandons his kingdom without appointing someone to govern in his place and placing the Great Seal in their care, we have
every
right to put his son in his place. We could take England back without levying a single blow. So let them abandon England. Bloody let them.” He glanced at me, then lowered his voice. “And by God, Bristol will
not
resist me.”