Isabeau, A Novel of Queen Isabella and Sir Roger Mortimer (44 page)

If there was anyone Edward would concede to, it would be his son and heir.

“There is no other way,” Young Edward finally said, his head hanging low.

We returned to the gathering. “It will be done,” I announced.

We went on through Hereford’s wide gates to a heady welcome, but I was only vaguely aware of the cheers that greeted us. My son seemed not to hear them at all.

*****

That night, after I had sat with my son for hours as he labored over every word of the letter he was writing, I retired to my room in Bishop Orleton’s palace and summoned Mortimer. As soon as the door closed behind him, I flew into his arms. I pressed my ear to his chest and listened to the strong thumping of his heart and let the warmth of his body spread through me. He lifted my chin with a finger, his breath brushing my cheeks. Then his lips touched mine and my hands wandered around his back and downward until I felt his hips pressing into my belly. With a shower of kisses, all the maddening turmoil of the day was washed away. For a while, I only wanted to know the oneness of lying in his arms and the fleeting fallacy that such bliss could last for an eternity.

Later, we lay in my bed, his lean, scarred body pressed to my back, his arm draped over my waist, our legs entwined. I tried to cling to my happiness, to not allow mere worries of what may or may not come to pass to chase it away, but moment by moment, the brief rush of ecstasy faded, yielding to a shadow, the source of which I did not want to look upon.

Why is the good in life so fragile, shattered by the slightest touch, and the bad so hard to overcome? As if there are forces ever working toward chaos, ready to destroy the steady order and simple pleasures we yearn to hold on to. Father Norbert would say it was the devil at play. But I do not think so. I think that suffering is a disease. Edward had suffered all his life, or rather imagined he did, and so he had infected those around him – most of all me.

Mortimer traced a finger from the curve of my neck to my shoulder. “You do not think Edward will agree to it?”

So long we had lain unspeaking after our lovemaking that the fire in the hearth had dwindled to glowing embers. Cold, I pulled the covers up to my neck. “No, I do.” How could he not?

“Then why so troubled, my love?”

“Because we’re not in France anymore, Roger. We cannot be alone like this. Not whenever we want to.”

“Isabeau, if we truly want – ”

“No, Roger, it doesn’t matter what we want. Our lives were decided long ago. I have a husband who is king. You have a wife.”

“So then, we go back to being as we were – before all this? Living unhappily. Is that what you want?”

“It is what I dread.”

“Do not worry about Joan. I will make certain she is well cared for. But my place is beside you.”

“She is your wife.”

“And Edward your husband. Does that mean you love him as you do me?”

“Far from it. But what if they make me return to him, stay with him? I am sick at the thought of it.”

“With your son as king? I think not. The prince would never allow it to happen if it made you unhappy.” His breath curled around in my ear, soothing me. “Nor would I.”

“How are we to take Edward’s crown from him, Roger? I don’t see how it’s possible.”

“
We
will not do it, Isabeau. If he does not willingly give it up, as his son asked him to, parliament will take it from him. And then, do you think they will allow him to roam freely? Too much danger in that.” He withdrew his arm from around me to lie on his back.

His indrawn breath hissed between his teeth. I turned over to see his eyes squeezed tightly shut, his jaw tensed, his whole body rigid, as if he dared not twitch a muscle.

“Roger, what is it?”

A few moments later, he expelled a breath. “It is
 ...
nothing,” he murmured, eyes still closed. “A small pain. It will pass. All things do, my love.”

I eased my head back onto the pillow, studying him closely in the dying glow of the hearthfire.

*****

Before the first sliver of dawn rimmed the horizon, Sir John Maltravers departed Hereford. He carried with him the letter in Young Edward’s own hand, imploring the king to give himself up peacefully, relinquish his crown in favor of his son and promising that no harm would come to him. It made no promises of sparing Hugh Despenser’s life.

While the Herefordshire hills dulled to dun-brown and the sky grew ever thicker with the leaden clouds of winter, I waited for an answer. Barons and great lords, deacons and archbishops, all flocked to Hereford to talk of what would become of England and who would rule it.

Every day, I went to the Lady Chapel of Hereford’s church, sank to my knees before the altar and prayed for Edward to come to his senses.

47

Isabella:

Hereford – November, 1326

MY CHIN BRUSHED THE fur lining of my mantle as I turned from the altar.
At last, God answers me.

Bishop Orleton took the letter from me and moved closer to the row of beeswax candles on the altar. The candlelight played faintly off the two stained glass windows high up on the wall behind him. There, the Virgin Mary, robed in a flowing gown of blue and white, implored Heaven for her son’s return. Beside her, St. Ethelbert wore a crown of gold and in his arms he held gifts – gifts for the bride whom he would not live long enough to marry. The bishop held the letter at arm’s length, as if to consider the scope of its meaning, and read it aloud:

“My Queen,

Why, Isabella, have you so forsaken me? To what end? I am broken. At your mercy. I have nothing. My sorrows grow by the day. Take joy in that, if it pleases you.

But can we not have peace between us? I will forgive your betrayal, if that is what you desire, so that we may be as husband and wife again. Let us reconcile then and begin anew. Send me word of where and when. Or send an envoy to speak on your behalf. It matters little. Only, please, let us call an end to this senselessness.

Edwardus Rex

Neath'

“Will you offer him terms, my lady? The Abbot of Neath is waiting at the palace to carry a reply back to King Edward.”

The bishop had found me there, in the Lady Chapel of Hereford’s church, while I knelt at the altar deep in my evening prayers. I straightened the creases from my loose-fitting, gray gown of fustian. If not for the rich red of my mantle, which I wore only for warmth, I might have been mistaken for a nun. Since my return to England, I had dressed in widow’s weeds. So that all would know that Edward of Caernarvon was no longer a husband to me.

“I think he means to offer
me
terms,” I said, bewildered by the irony of it. Once, I would have snatched at compromise. However, the time for making amends was long gone. “He says nothing of Hugh Despenser. I am not sure what to make of such a glaring omission.”

“Perhaps the king thinks you will overlook that in light of his conciliation?”

“If he believes for even a moment that I might pardon any of Despenser’s transgressions, then he is not only arrogant, but deluded. And he comprehends nothing of why I left England.” Nothing, indeed. It had cost me my children and earned me the admonishment of the Pope. What woman would suffer such anguish and humiliation if not for good reason?

Orleton returned the letter to me. “They say he tried to raise an army from Gower. No one came to join him.”

I cupped my left palm and tapped the letter against it. “Which would explain his desperation, but if
 ...
if I do as he asks, dear bishop, and send someone to talk with him – what does he expect? If Despenser is still with him, surely he must know that ...”

Could it be so easy?

I clenched my fingers around the letter until it crimped in the middle. My greatest hope was that Despenser had not abandoned Edward and escaped to Ireland or the continent. I wanted him found and I wanted him brought to me.

Orleton arched a silver eyebrow at me. “Who shall we send back with the Abbot of Neath as our ‘envoy’?”

Without hesitation, I answered, “Leicester.”

My uncle, Henry, would bring them to me. He had his own matters to settle with Edward and Despenser. The denial of his hereditary titles, for one. His brother’s murder another.

Bishop Orleton opened the door and stood aside. A chill draft wrapped around me. I pulled my mantle tight and clutched the letter to my breast.

He offered his arm. “Will you come with me to the hall, my lady? A feast has been prepared in your honor. The guests are waiting.” A short walk from the church stood the bishop’s palace overlooking the River Wye, where he kept residence and entertained guests. By now the hall would be filled with cries for retribution. “I will offer the Abbot of Neath a room for the night where he can take his supper in private. He is merely the messenger, but I fear there are a few here who might take it upon themselves to prevent his return. In the morning, we will send him on his way. With the earl, of course.”

It was inevitable. It would be done. If it was what I had so long wanted, why then did I not feel joy well up inside me, ready to burst in triumph? I searched Orleton’s erudite face for solace, some logical reassurance that I had set my feet on the right path; but all I saw in his unclouded eyes was the mounting tally of Edward’s wrongs. To falter now, to overlook any of it, was the very weakness that Edward depended on.

I slipped the letter beneath the side opening of my cyclas and tucked it beneath my belt, then hooked my arm inside his. “Revenge, dear bishop – does it ever end?”

He patted my hand. “It ends when we trust in Our Lord and allow Him to deliver – ”

“Justice?”

Lightly, he squeezed my hand in correction. “Judgment. God, my child, does not seek justice. That is something he leaves to men.”

If justice was the realm of men, then I knew of one man in particular who would be eager to dispense it and without remorse: Roger Mortimer. He would see it done. Just as he had sworn to do.

We walked across the yard in fast falling darkness to the great Norman hall of the bishop’s palace and ascended the steps. I lifted the hem of my skirt. Cool November air brushed my ankles. I shivered. The guards bowed, signaled at the door with a knock and it opened. At the threshold, I pulled in a deep breath. So lost in thought I was, that I barely recognized the familiar faces of great lords and knights who rose upon our arrival and smiled at me. We went forward. The torchlight grew brighter, the smells of roasted meats and spiced wine stronger, the sting of smoke sharper, and the sounds of voices louder and louder until all my senses swirled in confusion.

How was it that it had all come to this? How would I ever know that what I was about to do
 ...
would be right?

I curled my fingernails into the soft flesh of my palm and I remembered
 ...
everything.

Everything
.

*****

The great salt was carried aloft in a
nef
of pearls and rock-crystal, mounted on a stem of gold. Murmurs of delight and light applause rippled through the great hall of the bishop’s palace, as servants bearing silver platters swarmed from table to table. Spit-roasted venison and capons stuffed with breadcrumbs seasoned with rosemary and sage were laid out, sliced and served. Quinces, filled with honey and wrapped in pastries, glowed golden with saffron. I had never known Orleton to be an extravagant man, but on this rare occasion he meant to impress. He straightened in his chair and smoothed the gold-tasseled end of his red silk stole flat against his abdomen.

I laid my hand over Young Edward’s, who was seated to my left at the high table. Bishop Stratford, next to him, bestowed me with a welcoming smile and I leaned forward to look further down the table to catch Mortimer’s eye, but he was engaged in a lively debate with the Earl of Norfolk.

“Sir Roger,” I called above the rising din, but he took no notice. Since returning to England, and particularly since I had reprimanded him on our way to Bristol, Mortimer had been diligent about stepping back into the shadows, so much so that he would not even meet my eyes if I looked at him across a room filled with people. I waved a knife in the air and called his name again, louder.

Stiffly, he turned his head. “My lady?”

“If it is not an inconvenience, I should like to meet briefly with you and Lord Leicester after supper. I have need of your advice regarding a document.”

Mortimer arched a skeptical brow at me and nodded. “As you wish, my lady.” Then he turned back to Norfolk and said, “I say we hurry no one home, least of all the Hainaulters. It is might in numbers that will keep the peace until – ”

“I heard rumor today, my queen,” Leicester interposed, as he sawed at his venison, “that the king is making his way to Scotland to throw himself at the Bruce’s feet to beg sanctuary there.”

“Did you, Lord Henry?” I replied with a small laugh, wishing it were true, for King Robert would have probably locked him up in a dungeon for a very long time, just as he had Edward’s cousin, the Earl of Richmond. “Do you think they will join forces and march on York?”

Rumbling with laughter, Leicester elbowed Lord Wake. The ewerer poured wine from a silver-gilt flask into his goblet. Then Leicester hoisted his drink, drained it in a single gulp and slammed it down. Dragging the back of his hand across his mouth, he stifled a belch before imparting more. “I also heard he joined a monastery. That would be more like him, wouldn’t it – hiding beneath a cowl?”

I settled back and pressed my right hand to my middle, feeling the crinkle of parchment beneath my clothing. Everything rushed back to me with frightening suddenness: the years I wasted trying to be the loyal, dutiful wife; Edward’s constant neglect of me; seeing Despenser hold his face with familiarity and place a tender kiss upon his cheek, then close the door to carry on privately; Despenser tearing my children from my arms and little Joanna crying for me; his knife pressed to my throat ...

“Mother?” Young Edward turned his hand over, so that my palm was cupped in his. “What troubles you?”

 “I’m not troubled,” I said, curling my fingers around his and giving his hand a squeeze, “not at all.”

“Then anxious? Fatigued? Not ill, I pray?”

I looked down at my right hand, still pressed against the letter, and sighed. “On the contrary – I have never felt better, never more certain of things than I am now.”

And strangely, it was true.

“More wine?” I enquired, raising a hand to beckon the ewerer.

Chin lowered, Young Edward nodded. “I was wondering,” he began, somewhat shyly, “when Philippa can come to England?”

“I cannot say precisely, my dear.” When my cup was filled I sipped from it, its fruity aroma making my head go light. “Certainly you’ll want to be able to lavish her with your full attention when she does arrive, yes? And her father will want to see that all the conditions have been fulfilled before he puts his daughter on a ship to England. You understand, don’t you? There is so much to do before that can happen.”

One day my son would be a king among kings, but he was only a boy. His dreams were simple. He did not understand that to do what was right, what was best – it was not always easy. That was a burden that I took onto my own shoulders, so he would not have to.

Vexed, he wrinkled his forehead. “Such as?”

I set my goblet down and smoothed a stray hair from his temple. “We will talk of it later, my dearest. Until then, you needn’t worry yourself. It will all be taken care of.”

At that moment, Mortimer reached across his plate, looked my way, and smiled broadly.

*****

Bishop Orleton closed the door of the meeting room behind him, shutting out the lingering clamor of the great hall. One hand shielding the flame of the candle he carried, he crossed the room and placed it on the large oak table there. I drew the letter from beneath my cyclas, opened it and laid it on the table. Mortimer leaned over it, Leicester squinting over his shoulder.

“From Edward,” I said, seating myself on a bench at the far end. “You’ll find his proposal interesting.”

When they finished, neither said a word. Mortimer went to stand closer to the hearth and gazed into its pale blue flames, while Leicester paced, fists braced on his hips.