“He escaped from the Tower. One must assume that he could not have escaped from so formidable a prison as the Tower of London unless he had assistance from someone of influence,” Hugh interjected.
“Yes, I know that! The Queen must have betrayed me even then. Perhaps she had taken him to her bed already. That is treason, do you hear me? It is treason! My queen is a traitor who seduces my own people with the promise of a restoration of order! What restoration can she possibly mean? I am the rightful king, and there is no one who can rule in my place as long as I am alive. And I am very much alive! Had I not already done so, I would have put another thousand pounds on Mortimer’s head!”
1 October 1326
Guy’s Tavern
London, England
5:48 PM
“If what you say is true, we’d best be about our business, and quickly,” Jimmy Granger muttered.
“If it be true? Why, half the country has been abuzz with the news all week. Where have you been? Under a rock?” Jane Granger exclaimed. Sometimes her brother could be a proper dunce.
“You know what this means, don’t you?” Jimmy asked, with a raised eyebrow.
“No, what does it mean, exactly?” his sister replied, looking at him suspiciously.
“A perfect opportunity for a revolution!” he exclaimed, before taking a swig from his beer carafe.
“A what? Have you gone and lost your marbles?” Jane was starting to wonder why she had even started this conversation with him. It was always the same thing with that one – revolution, revolution, revolution. As if any of it would count for naught. All you ever got from a revolution was dead poor people.
“All’s I know is that it has given my business quite a boost. When times are harsh, people drink even more,” Jane proclaimed, putting an end to the conversation.
2 October 1326
London, England
10:12 AM
The residential quarters of the Tower of London. The King must decide to march against his unruly family.
Messengers came daily with news of the queen’s invasion. It seemed to Edward as though they could not wait to bring him ever-worsening reports. Did the French woman have no sense of decorum? What sort of woman would set herself against her husband, invade his kingdom with an army, and appear in front of his subjects as if she were a widow? She was an aberration of nature; she was the vilest of her sex; she was a she-wolf, bent on the atavistic nature of an animal.
The massive doors to the king’s private chambers burst open. Alarmed, Hugh sat up from the throne, then relaxed. It was merely his father.
“Your Grace,” Hugh the Elder began in urgent tones. “We must flee. London has refused to rise in your support. The city has succumbed to madness.”
“What are you about?” his son demanded. “Why should London behave in such a manner? Have we not sent for the city leaders to raise forces on the King’s behalf?”
“I am telling you, our efforts have failed,” Hugh the Elder returned. “We must flee. The mob is attacking the city. Walter Stapledon has been killed in St. Paul’s Cathedral—”
“Killed?” Edward repeated, as if the word made no sense. Walter Stapledon had been one of Edward’s officials, his former treasurer. Why should anyone kill him?”
“Your Grace, we must be gone, or we will face the ire of the mob, as well. They have stormed the Tower and are releasing the prisoners.”
“But we are safe here,” Edward disagreed. “My father fortified the Tower to withstand an assault, and my father—”
“Was not set upon by an angry mob intent upon murder,” Hugh the Elder finished. “We must escape now, while we can. We must head west, where we can raise an army in the King’s name.” He was speaking to his son as if the decision were theirs to make and not a matter for Edward’s accord.
“I shall not leave! London is my city, and I shall stay here,” Edward replied irritated.
Hugh the Elder finally turned towards his king. “London is the mob’s city,” he explained, as if he were speaking to a witless child. “And soon it will be Isabella’s city. We must escape before that happens.”
“London—what—I called upon the city to rise in my support, to come to my aid! I must have an army if I am to defeat the Queen. Are they mad; do they fail to realise that their very safety and lives depend upon me?”
“They have refused your plea, Your Grace. Men who serve you are being slaughtered by an unleashed mob that cannot be brought to reason. If you stay here, you will be killed.”
Edward stared at the Despenser. “They cannot kill me. I am the king. Anyone who sheds royal blood will be punished in my courts and by the Church, as well.”
“Listen to me, Your Grace. If your blood is shed, much solace it will be to your unquiet shade to know that your murderer is being punished. And do not be so certain that the killer would suffer. Members of the Holy Church have joined the Queen. We must go west if we are to have any hope of surviving. Hugh, see that we have sufficient means to make our way. We shall need to buy allegiances. Your Grace, I suggest that you waste no time if you want to live to fight the Queen for your throne.”
In bewilderment, Edward turned to Hugh the Younger, who had already gotten down from the throne and was making his way to the doors. “Hugh, why are you leaving?”
“Because I’ve no wish to end up like King Edmund the Martyr,” Hugh replied. “There will be no miracles issuing from my dead body.”
“You are not a king,” Edward explained. “No miracles would come from you.”
Hugh paused at the door. “Edward,” he said, with ill-disguised impatience. “You must face facts as they are. We are hated in London, and you are despised. Now London can show us what it thinks of us, and the end to that is a coffin. I have no wish to die so that a hideous mob of madmen may vent their anger on my person.”
Edward followed Hugh out of the room.
“You are asking me to leave the capital city of my kingdom because of an unruly mob? Do you think me so craven?”
“I don’t care if you are or are not, Edward. I’ve told you; we can stay and die, or we can escape and fight. I choose the latter. You must choose for yourself.”
Edward stared at the man he loved, disbelief evident in his gaze. “You would leave me?”
Hugh sighed. “Not willingly,” he answered. “But I will not stay and meekly be slaughtered. We will go west, where we can marshal support for our cause. We will find soldiers and fighting men who have not been seduced by the madness of this unholy quest of the queen to take your throne.” Setting his hand on his monarch’s arm, Hugh the Younger continued his cajoling. “Is it not true that plans were laid for Your Grace to make his way towards the March of Wales to rouse the good and loyal men of that land towards his cause and to punish the traitors? We need to do just that.”
Edward gave Hugh an appraising look, then nodded.
“We shall go to Gloucester,” he finally conceded. “And I shall write to the Pope. He will not tolerate this unwomanly behaviour. He will chastise Isabella for her forwardness.”
“Write quickly when there’s time,” was the response as Hugh led the way out of the long, dark hallway. “But there’s no time now; a letter from a dead man will persuade no one.”
9 October 1326
Suffolk Countryside
England
10:08 AM
“Did you hear the latest?” Benjamin Rand asked the foot soldier who was standing next to him, polishing his equipment.
“The latest about what?” the man replied, looking bewildered.
“Them royals have gone and lost their minds. Now Queen Isabella’s put out her own reward. Two thousand pounds on the head of Hugh Despenser the Younger.”
The other man just shook his head in disbelief. “Let’s hope this insanity doesn't include hours of marching across marshlands. My equipment is already heavy as it is, and this blasted English weather is not only making my bones creak, but also ruining my leather!”
Oxfordshire, England
9:19 PM
Isabella is infused with the rush of success as she marches to Oxford. Mortimer senses the power that is within reach. But for Prince Edward, who realises that in order for him to be king, his father must be removed from the throne, the jubilation is hollow.
Queen Isabella was more demonstrative in her affections than she had ever been before in the presence of her servants and her son. She caressed the bearded chin of Roger Mortimer, letting her fingers linger over his lips.
“More wine!” she called. The colour in her cheeks was high, as if she had already had more than enough to drink. But the euphoria she exhibited would have shown itself even if she had drunk nothing more than water. Her son couldn’t understand what emotions were driving this strange and manic joy, but he didn’t like it.
The servant brought another bottle and filled their goblets, but when he approached the Prince, Edward shook his head. He had had enough to drink. There were no longer any limitations on him; he was nearly a man now, and if he wanted to get drunk, his mother would not protest. But he did not want to be drunk. He was not entirely sure that he wanted to be sober, either, however.
The queen dipped her little finger into the goblet and removed it. Raising it to Mortimer’s mouth, she inserted her fingertip between his lips. Mortimer, his eyes hot with desire, licked greedily as her finger went deeper into his mouth.
“Your head is worth one thousand pounds, my Lord,” she said, her French accent more noticeable today than usual. “I wonder what price the King has put on each delightful feature. Your eyes . . . your ears . . . your nose . . . ” As she listed each one, she dipped her finger once more into the goblet of wine, caressed him with that finger, and then leaned close enough for their breaths to intermingle without them touching. “I baptise you,” she laughed, kissing her fingers and then pressing them against his lips.
Prince Edward made a sound of disgust. Hearing him, the queen remembered suddenly that she was not alone. She drew back in her chair, pulling away from her lover.
“You must understand, mon fils,” she began in a tone of pleading persuasiveness, “that the dear baron was my only hope when I escaped to France. Had I not left, I don’t know what my fate would have been. The Despensers were determined to take everything I had; they had already taken the lands that were mine, that had been given to me by my Aunt Marguerite. If we are to right the wrong that has been done by the Despensers, surely you can see that we cannot be hesitant.”
Perhaps he would have more wine, after all. Prince Edward signalled to the servant, who drew near upon his command. The servants were obedient, Prince Edward noted. As they should be.
He’d noticed that his father’s servants seemed to wait to make sure that whatever King Edward told them to do met with the approval of the Despensers. His father hadn’t noticed, but Edward had, just as he’d noticed the sly, knowing smiles of the servants at his uncle’s court when they saw the Queen and Baron Mortimer together. It angered Prince Edward to see servants so bold that they dared to allow their thoughts to show. Prince Edward knew what they thought. They thought his father a weakling; they thought his mother a strumpet.
But when he was the king, he would rule as his grandfather had ruled. No one had sneered in his grandfather’s presence; the great Edward I was fair and generous to his servants, but never did he behave in a manner that failed to meet the expectations of kingship.
“I shall offer a prize of two thousand pounds for the head of Hugh Despenser!” His mother’s voice, louder than usual (due to the influence of the wine, Edward suspected) rang out in the hall.
Mortimer roared with laughter. “Which one?” he jested. “The son or the father?”
“The son,” the Queen said, and all at once, there was no mirth in her tone. “I shall see him executed. I shall watch as he is castrated, and I shall watch as his intestines are removed whilst he is still alive. I shall not even blink for fear of missing a single moment of his pain. I want to hear every cry and groan that comes from his lips. I shall watch as they draw and quarter him, and I shall—”
“Surely you will not,” Prince Edward objected.
“I will,” she insisted stubbornly.
“But you are a woman. Such sights are not for a woman.”
“I am a woman who has suffered much at his hands,” she whispered, looking neither at Edward nor at Mortimer, but at the flickering flames of the candles on the table.
They had eaten their fill, and the servants had cleared the platters away. The cooks in the kitchen were skilled at their craft; Mortimer had patted his stomach in pleasure after he had eaten. Prince Edward’s appetite was lacking; he ate a little, but what was left on his plate would give the dogs a hearty meal.
“I shall watch him die with the greatest pleasure, and it will still not atone for what I have endured.”
“The question is moot, Your Grace; you have already put a price on Hugh the Younger’s head, remember.” Mortimer’s cajoling voice rang clear. “Unless you would like to put another one?”
Isabella clenched her fists, then took a deep breath and shook her head no.
“What of the father?” Mortimer asked, taking a cluster of grapes from an ornate silver bowl that the servant had placed on the table. “Surely you want to see him die, as well. Despenser the Elder is as much your foe as the Younger.”
“Yes, but I do not need to watch,” Queen Isabella said carelessly, accepting a grape from Mortimer’s hands.
“The father did not steal my husband from me.”
“Any man who would allow himself to be stolen from the likes of you is a fool,” Mortimer replied softly. He took another grape and held it poised in front of the Queen’s lips.
“With the Despensers gone, we shall rule England as it should be ruled,” Queen Isabella said, turning her head to smile at her son. “There is much to change, but I am confident that you will do it.”
He wanted to smile back at her. She was his mother. But what of his father, now in flight from London? A son he owed his duty to his parent; as a prince, he owed fealty to his father. And yet, here he was, at the table with the man who sought his father’s downfall. Was he motivated by love for the queen, or the desire for the power that he envisioned?
Prince Edward thought of Philippa, loyal, docile, and kind. She would never have cause to turn against her husband this way. He would not be a perfect husband, the prince knew. But he would be a husband.
“With guidance, of course,” Mortimer added smoothly. “The Prince is young, and youth must be instructed properly. It will be good to be in power. Enough of this supplication at the courts of others. We shall not have to go a-begging.”
Isabella looked at him. “No, we shall not!” she agreed fervently. “To be a queen who begs is yet another affront caused by the Despensers that is unpardonable. God himself will bless me for what I have suffered. To have my mail read by that sneaky spy, Eleanor de Clare; to have my children placed under the authority of the Despensers; to have myself, a queen, the daughter and sister of kings, subjugated by those fiends . . . ” She stared into the flames of the candles again, as if there were something within the fire that only she could see.
“God will forgive me,” she said.
Mortimer’s knowing eyes met Prince Edward’s. “You have nothing to be forgiven for,” he assured her.
“Your husband failed you as a man. He failed England as a king. You have the courage to restore what has been lost. Boadicea herself was not more courageous than you. She rose against the Romans to defend her people and to avenge the abuse she and her daughters had suffered at their hands.”
Queen Isabella was not familiar with the legends of the English. She merely smiled at her lover’s flattery.
Prince Edward rose from the table.
“According to my tutors, Boadicea died,” he said curtly. “I do not wish to see my mother suffer the same fate.”
13
October 1326
Near Bristol, England
10:49 AM
The queen and her growing army are in Oxford; the king and the Despensers have fled Gloucester and are on their way west to raise an army, but their hopes and their options are dimming. King Edward finds himself peculiarly nostalgic, beset by memories of the past, when he was the one making the choices. He chose Piers Gaveston and Hugh over Isabella because he preferred their love to that of any other, and now he struggles to validate his choices. The queen should have been more obedient to her husband’s will; it was not her place to overrule him. The fault is hers, for her disobedience. To see matters otherwise would be to accept his failings, the failings that severed his relationship with his father.
He was a king in flight. It was all very well to say that he was raising an army to fight the invasion of the French-born queen and her Marcher lord lover, but the word was spreading that the English were flocking to Queen Isabella’s side. She and Mortimer had reached Oxford, and that was entirely too close to Gloucester. So Edward II and the Despensers were once again on their way west.
He still had supporters; he was not entirely abandoned. Lord Powell, a half-Welsh, half-English noble whose castle was near Bristol, had welcomed Edward warmly, offered him the sanctuary of his castle, and after ensuring that the King and the Despensers were fed and their needs seen to, had bid them good night.
“I was born at Caernarvon Castle. My father was fortifying the defences against the Welsh, and my mother was not a woman to allow the rigors of childbearing to intrude upon her duties as queen. Where the king went, she went. They say that my father promised the Welsh a prince who did not speak a word of English,” Edward reminisced. “I was three days old when he brought me out to the Welsh leaders and presented them with their prince.” He chuckled at the memory. He had heard the story so often that he no longer knew if it was true, or merely one of the many legends that had sprung up around Edward I. But it was a story that he enjoyed.
Isabella- She-wolf of France Page 5
