Isabella- She-wolf of France

by Georgiana Grier

  Copyright © Georgiana Grier 2017

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher and writer except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a contemporary work of fiction. All characters, names, places and events are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

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  22 September 1326

  Drodrecht

  11:30 AM

  As the French coast disappears behind her;

  Queen Isabella stands aboard the flagship of an invasion force made up of eight warships and mercenaries supplied by her son’s father-in-law to-be, the Count of Hainault. She is looking towards the coast of England and recalling how, as a girl of twelve, she sailed the North Sea as the newly-married bride of Edward II of England. Now she is thirty-one, a queen, a mother, and an adulteress.

  “You are the Queen now.”

  He could not have known what she was thinking, but as he so often did, Roger Mortimer was able to sense where Isabella’s thoughts had gone when she was unaccountably silent.

  There were so many memories to accommodate that she had spent the entire voyage from the Low Countries enslaved by the past, the distance to England not long enough to hold back the images that hurled themselves at her pained recollections.

  The monotony of the sea should have soothed her, but she was on an errand of vengeance, one that called upon the legacy of her royal blood, the primacy of her womanhood, and the ancient rite of motherhood.

  She sought the throne for her son and revenge for herself.

  In order to be victorious, she would have to bring about the downfall of her husband, Edward II, the anointed king of England.

  Success depended upon violating the laws of God, of king and of country. But failure would allow tyranny to triumph, and she could not permit that to happen.

  Her besmirched honour demanded restitution, but her pride demanded revenge. No other way would it be assuaged.

  “Yes,” she replied. She was indeed queen now.

  He was so close to her that, although their bodies did not touch, his physical presence once again cast its spell over her, owning her thoughts and intervening between her recollection of the past and her resolution for the future.

  “I was so young. A mere girl, full of a girl’s unfounded dreams. I could not have foreseen these events coming to pass,” she whispered.

  She was thirty-one years old now, the mother of the fourteen-year-old heir apparent, Prince Edward of Windsor. The years that had come and gone had taken their toll. But now, in charge of her destiny and armoured with the means to defeat her enemies, she felt young again. In Mortimer’s arms, she was ageless.

  “I was so young…so naive” she concluded.

  The waves of the North Sea seemed eager to bring her to her destination as they lapped relentlessly against the hull of the ship, advancing like soldiers to a rhythm that struck her as martial.

  She knew much of war: the battles with the Scots, the conflicts with the English barons, Edward’s disputes with the King of France. They had made her a warrior.

  Not all battles were fought with steeds and spears, however, and that child bride of twelve had not guessed that she would one day be engaged in a frightening and fierce war with a foe who could not be bested the way that an enemy in war could be defeated.

  When she had crossed the English Channel as a bride in 1308, she had simply been Isabella the Fair, so named because of her beauty. Despite this, she held no arrogance, besides that which her birth right as a princess of France afforded her.

  “’The beauty of beauties…in the kingdom, if not in all Europe,’” Mortimer quoted.

  Isabella smiled at the memory of the words of Geoffrey of Paris. She had been buoyed by his flattery, and those words had carried her across the waters from England to France, instilling her with confidence that, even though she was leaving her native land and her father’s royal court, she was bringing with her a pedigree of merit that would - she had childishly thought then - inspire her handsome Plantagenet husband to fall passionately in love with her, just as the bards of old had sung.

  Her uncles had been with her then, full of reassurance that, although she was going to a country that was unknown to her, she would not be alone. Her Aunt Marguerite was the Queen Dowager of England, the second wife to the deceased Edward I. She had seemed content in her marriage with a Plantagenet, so there was no reason Isabella would not be content in hers.

  Isabella sailed to England intent on being the cherished queen of Edward I’s son. It was a match that, fiercely negotiated, had culminated in an uneasy alliance between the England and the France.

  She had already been the wife of the king on her voyage to England, their wedding in Boulogne, a hazy memory.

  That said she had enjoyed the elaborate ceremony that had celebrated her rise in prominence, and she had looked forward to a coronation that would be equally elaborate when the ship arrived on shore. Her uncles, Charles de Valois and Louis d’Evreux, were members of her royal entourage and would be present at her coronation, so she would not be alone.

  Then Piers Gaveston had met them on shore. She had noticed the glances her uncles had exchanged as her husband had flung himself upon the man who had been granted special powers as regent, in his absence.

  She had never seen such a display of affection between two men, but in her youthful inexperience, she had merely assumed that this was the custom among the English. It was not until she had seen the wedding presents that her father had bestowed upon Edward now adorning Piers Gaveston, who had dressed so opulently for her coronation that he was more resplendent than the king, that she began to perceive that something was not as it should have been.

  She was too young, too inexperienced, to understand fully how much was amiss in her marriage.

  Edward had sired children upon her; but it was not her company he sought in the middle of the night. It was Piers Gaveston’s, the man he called his brother.

  She had not known that such a dual nature was possible, that a man could both father children and give his love to a man.

  The lessons she had learned as a young bride had been painfully taught and slowly absorbed. She had not been a willing student. But life was a merciless tutor.

  23 September 1326

  Paris, France

  1:30 PM

  The Archbishop of Norwich, William Airmyn is musing about the queen’s departure.

  William Airmyn sat in his temporary residence in Paris and sipped at the mulled wine that had just been prepared by his manservant. It was with great effort that he managed not to laugh aloud. By now, Queen Isabella would be on her way from Dordrecht to England to lay siege to her husband, King Edward II and bring him to his knees. William was to follow in a merchant ship in a couple of days. He should have felt unease at this act of treason, but he didn’t.

  He still smarted from the unjust treatment he had received at the hands of his monarch. Grimacing at the memory, he took another sip of his brew.

  The relationship between England and France had been a complicated one for nearly a hundred years, the feudal obligations to the Duchy of Aquitaine being at the centre of it.

  The king of England, Edward II was a mere vassal to the king of France, Charles IV, when it came to the Duchy of Aquitaine. This meant that he was under obligation to pay homage to Charles IV as hi
s liege, something previous kings had successfully avoided doing.

  Things had come to a head a little over two years ago, when Charles IV had insisted without relent that Edward II personally pay homage to him.

  William had no doubt that sneaky man knew exactly what he was doing, by demanding his due.

  Why else would he have provoked an incident with Gascony shortly after - an incident that then justified his confiscation of the Duchy of Gascony and the County of Ponthieu, from Edward. Not even the surrender of Montpezet castle as a peace offering had appeased his ego.

  Edward II’s subsequent sorry attempt to raise an army to resist the French found no takers. With the English Channel controlled by French shipping, he did little to nothing to remedy the situation.

  As the French entered Gascony in August 1324, the earl of Kent shut himself up in the fortress of La Réole without firing a shot.

  William clenched his fists. If it had not been for the interception of the Archbishop of Dublin, who persuaded Kent to surrender and the subsequent diplomacy of the Bishops of Winchester (John Stratford) and Norwich (John Salmon), there would have been no peace in England, and a war would have started that even the papacy could not contain. Irritated by his own thoughts, William rose and stared out the window.

  The French king and his sister played the game of thrones like master chess players. A truce was agreed in which Prince Edward of Windsor would pay homage on behalf of his father. Gascony was intrusted to the young English prince. The King had had no choice but to send his son and only heir to France to pay homage at Bois-de-Viencennes.

  Once they arrived, however, Queen Isabella had used her son as a bargaining chip for the removal of the Despensers from her husband’s court. The King, whom many (including William) had believed lacked a spine, refused. William shook his head in amazement.

  Instead, he had declared the lands of Prince Edward to be forfeit, along with the lands of any whom he believe supported the Queen and her followers in Paris.

  William had suddenly found himself lumped in with dubious characters, such as Roger Mortimer, the Earls of Kent and Richmond, Henry Beaumont, and the Bishop of Winchester, John Stratford.

  Despite sending numerous missive to the royal court, it was to no avail. King Edward blamed William for the treaty and refused to restore the temporalities of Norwich. Not even the interception of Pope John XXII bore fruit. Instead, by June, William’s brothers were arrested, all in an effort to force him to appear before the king’s bench to answer charges of treason.

  William had no choice but to flee to France and present his case and his full support to the Queen of England.

  It had taken no time at all to accept his exile – since he had no intention of continuing to be in exile. Indeed, it had taken no time at all to start influencing the Queen to take action. Monarchs were prone to pride, and Queen Isabella and King Edward were no exception.

  Soon, the invasion party would land on the soil of England, intent on disposing of Edward II. Soon, this entire ordeal would be over, and he would be headed back home.

  William smiled, took another sip of his mulled wine, and continued to enjoy the view.

  24 September 1326

  The English coast

  1:16 PM

  The Suffolk port of Orwell ahead, the Queen is in deep conversation with her trusted advisor Roger Mortimer.

  “The Despensers will be in flight, if they are not already,” Mortimer said confidently, again exhibiting his uncanny ability to excavate the latent fears that lay buried beneath the layers of the Queen’s troubled memories.

  His body was close to her, his cloak brushing hers, and although she knew she should not have allowed this in plain sight, his leg pressed against hers, reminding her anew of the delight to be had from a man who knew how to please a woman, a man who had not shared himself or his love with a male rival who could not be vanquished in the manner of women because he possessed an allure that she could not match.

  Roger’s hand, possessive and reassuring, rested upon her shoulder. She should have forbidden him such familiarity, but she could not deny herself the comfort of his masculinity. Beneath his touch, she was again Isabella the Fair, a woman of renowned beauty, not the pathetic, ignored wife who could not keep her husband’s affections.

  She felt her body recline against his, and even though she ought not to have permitted it, she surrendered to the mesmerising power of his kiss as she felt his lips bury themselves in the indentation of her slender neck.

  She hoped they were alone on the deck of the ship, but she knew it was unlikely. Everyone would see the proof of her adultery as they watched the knowing manner in which Baron Mortimer, revealed his intimate acquaintance with the person of the Queen.

  Mortimer, a man who had mysteriously escaped death in the Tower following the revolt of the English barons and fled to the French court. A man with the devil’s own luck.

  She was playing with fire and once in England she knew it had to stop. She sighed deeply,

  Would her marriage have been different had she not been introduced so quickly to the poison that Piers Gaveston had brought with him? She had endured his arrogance for four years, but she had not been alone in her resentment of the man her husband called his brother. The English lords despised him, as well.

  Warwick, Lancaster, Hereford and Arundel had executed Edward’s favourite four years after she’d become England’s queen. She had thought then that her problems were solved. How foolish she had been.

  “My Queen,” Mortimer murmured, his words a rallying cry to her senses, reminding her of her status as queen even as her body declared him her ally, her beloved, her lord, her master. She was indeed a queen, but that meant that she was a woman, and it was the nature of her sex to seek strength and boldness.

  Was she to blame because Edward had been so lacking in the attributes that Roger Mortimer possessed in abundance? Even as the unkind thought flitted through her mind, she knew she was grasping at straws. Edward might prefer the company of men, but he was anything but effeminate. He had strong muscles from the manual work he so loved and was a towering presence. He should have found solace and whatever else he needed between her loins!

  She would have forgiven him anything, supplied him with wenches if that was what he needed. But to be replaced by a man, her counsel belittled? She, the granddaughter of kings?

  No, Edward was physically strong. His weakness lay elsewhere. She sighed.

  She had been in England so long that she felt as if she were England’s last hope. She knew that the English were in despair that their king had proven to be false. Weak in his dealings with his subjects, Edward II was gelded by his inability to rule with his father, Edward I’s strength. His exclusive royal preference of the Despensers had only served to enrage his barons.

  There had been a season when she had been able to mediate between the warring barons and her husband, but that was during the time of the first favourite, Gaveston. With his death and the rise of the Despensers, her influence had become so meagre as to be insignificant.

  The Despensers.

  It was strange to think that her life as queen had been more tolerable when her only rival was the vainglorious, sharp-tongued Piers Gaveston.

  He had certainly been her enemy but had not claimed Edward as thoroughly as had his successor, Hugh Despenser the Younger.

  The Despensers, the son as favourite and the father as mastermind, had made a mockery of her role as queen. They had persuaded Edward to confiscate her lands; they had convinced him to reduce her allowance until she felt as powerless as a servant.

  She, doubly royal as the daughter of two monarchs in their own right – Philip IV of France and Joan I of Navarre - was the discarded queen, reduced to beggary and ignominy so humiliating that English clerics had pleaded with the Pope to intervene on the queen’s behalf.

  She had had no choice but to retaliate. In doing so, she had accumulated power. She was the leader of the rebellion, the protector
of her son, Edward of Windsor, and no longer the impotent, scorned queen.

  “The people will rise against the King,” Mortimer murmured, his lips warm against the skin of her temples.

  “You are England, and they see you as their deliverer.”

  How did he do that? How did Roger Mortimer respond with his words to the thoughts inside her mind? Was it witchcraft? Had he come to possess her in mind, as well as in body? Did he know how utterly transformed she was by the alchemy of her remembered powerlessness and the surging force of Mortimer’s passion…love?

  Sometimes, the Queen wondered if all women were meant to be forever subjugated by love. Was this the real curse that had been inflicted upon Eve in the Garden of Eden, the pain of seeking a master in the man she loved?

  Men did not understand how completely a woman’s emotions simultaneously empowered and vanquished her.

  She had borne a son, an heir to the throne, and for England, she had fulfilled her duty as the queen. She had supported the King as his wife, his consort, his advisor; it did not matter that their household was in England or that their works decided the fate of a nation. She had been born to be a queen; royal purple was in her bloodlines, and she had passed those bloodlines on to her son, who would rule as the third Edward in the Plantagenet line.

  She was English in her goals. Her brother had only daughters, and the law of France did not permit women to ascend to the throne. Therefore, her son was the rightful heir, not only to the English crown, but also to the crown of France. She would be the means by which England and France would become a kingdom under the rule of her son.

  She served the ends of the English by virtue of her French blood. And, through the alliance she had formalised with Philippa of Hainault, her son’s dynastic ties would extend beyond England and France to the lucrative trade kingdoms of the Low Countries.