Isabella- She-wolf of France

by Georgiana Grier

  But he had been deliberate in his planning, although that was nothing to bring up to Hugh.

  Thomas, one of the Lords Ordainers so intent upon separating Edward and Piers, and so determined to reduce the power of the throne to nothing so that their own insolent arrogance could thrive, had had Piers taken to Blacklow Hill; there he had been run through with a sword and beheaded. His death had been ignominious and shabby.

  Had Thomas of Lancaster noticed that his death mirrored the execution? Edward had ordered a chaplet placed upon his head, a mocking parody of a crown, and had had him placed upon a run-down mule. Facing Scotland, a fitting dishonour for a traitor, Lancaster had surrendered his head. It had taken more than one swing of the axe to do it, but that had only made the punishment more fitting, the vengeance for the sake of Piers all the more memorable, even if no one but Edward perceived it.

  And now, Henry, brother to the disloyal Thomas, had followed suit and turned against the king.

  “I intend to,” was Edward’s long-awaited reply.

  “If ever we can leave Wales,” Hugh interjected.

  “You have lands here,” Edward reminded him. “I should think Wales is where you would seek to be.”

  He had thought Wales would be rife with Despenser loyalists who would rally to the crown, but he did not say this. Hugh had been oddly truculent on the subject of his Welsh holdings and people, and it was apparent that this was not where he wished to be.

  “Wales is not England, and Cardiff is not London.” Walking away from his king, he said over his shoulder, “The Queen has sent for your young son John of Eltham.”

  “I heard,” Edward answered wearily. Did Hugh think him deaf? They had both been present when the spy had returned with the account of what had gone on in London. Now both their sons would be under Isabella’s control.

  “Eleanor could not hold the Tower.”

  “How could a woman hold the Tower against a mob?” Hugh asked with a raised eyebrow. “She was at risk.”

  That cut.

  When they left London, they had not expected the city to fall into such chaos. London was the bedrock of English heritage. It had withstood all manner of violations, invasions, and ills. And Edward certainly would not have left Eleanor de Clare, of all women, to such danger had he been aware of what was going to happen.

  Eleanor was his dearest, most beloved, favourite niece. Had he not given her, his most treasured niece, as a wife to his dear and best friend?

  She was Hugh’s wife, but Hugh had not thought of her safety when fleeing the Tower and leaving her there with the king’s ten-year-old son, John.

  Edward was glad that Isabella had sent for their son, he was safer with her, than with a crazy London mob. He did not, nor did Hugh, mention that Eleanor had been imprisoned in the Tower. She was not allowed to leave, the spy had told them, lest she be pregnant with the King’s child.

  Edward had protested volubly against such a pernicious rumour. Hugh had been strangely silent. The spy had been paid and sent on his way, and the matter was not brought up again. Edward’s thoughts turned back to the matter at hand. Lancaster, the Bishop of Hereford, and so many others were marching with the queen, on their way to Bristol.

  But Hugh the Elder would hold Bristol. He was ruthless and shrewd, and he would not be defeated. Isabella would know that she was beaten when she failed to take the city, and that would be the turning point that Edward was waiting for.

  18 October 1326

  Wallingford, England

  10:44 AM

  The queen, her son, and her lover are heading for Bristol, where they know that Hugh Despenser the Elder is defending the castle. They are confident of victory, but this will be the first time that the queen will encounter one of her hated enemies, and she must make her case to her supporters. She instinctively knows that what will work here is what worked at Bury St. Edmunds, where, dressed in mourning for her lost marriage, she successfully established the guilt of Despenser the Elder. Roger Mortimer agrees, and her lover’s approval is all that Isabella needs.

  “Perhaps my son should address the troops,” Isabella suggested.

  She and Mortimer were finally alone in the queen’s bedroom. The day had been spent meeting with the English lords who had come to her side, vowing that she had risen against her husband the king because he had failed her as a husband, and then broadening her charge to detail how he had failed the land as its monarch. She was left to protect her son’s inheritance against the Despensers.

  Then she had met with the clergy, assuring them that she had sought nothing so much as to be an obedient and faithful wife. She had reminded them of the episodes when she had mediated the quarrels between her husband and the English nobles. She had travelled with him and on his behalf, risking her life; she had nearly been captured by the Scots. When returning from a pilgrimage to Canterbury and in need of a place to rest for the night, she had been denied entrance to Leeds Castle by the king’s enemies. Isabella’s history was well known, but now the men who had left her husband were hearing for themselves what she had endured as a faithful consort.

  Mortimer shook his head. “That would be unwise,” he told her.

  “But why? Surely the lords will be more likely to reckon the justice of our cause if they know that they are serving the true heir.”

  “They already know that, my love. Has young Edward not been at your side as you have presented yourself to the people? But it is unwise to remind battle-tested nobles that they go to war against a king who, however flawed his judgment, is nonetheless a man, and not a boy. If you allow the boy to speak as their king, they will see for themselves that he is callow and green.”

  “My son will rule wisely,” Isabella argued. “Although he is but a boy, he will grow into manhood.”

  “Where he will be guided by us,” Mortimer reminded her. “He will benefit from our knowledge so that, when he is old enough to serve without a regent’s supervision, he will know what to do and how to avoid the mistakes of his father. He has far to go, however, before he can match his mother in wisdom. You were brilliant, my beloved queen, in having the prince brought to France to do homage for his father’s lands.”

  He rose from the bed and went to her side. “No seasoned counsellor could have made such a shrewd decision. You are as wise as Deborah, my dear one. Who better to guide a prince on his way to becoming a king? But if you let the boy address the troops, who among the nobles will recognise the sagacity of a mother? They will seek power amongst themselves, and their quest will be for their own gain, not for England’s weal. They do not have a mother’s love; would you subject your son to their machinations? He must govern, but he must not fall prey to their rule. You would not wish for the prince to become, like his father, the victim of a favourite like the Despensers or Gaveston, who will rule the realm from the royal bed.”

  Isabella clenched her fists. “Do not!” she begged. “Do not speak of it!”

  “We must, my love,” Mortimer returned. He curled his hands around the circumference of her head, miming a coronation. “You are my queen,” he told her in a low, husky voice that presaged the state of his desire. “The queen of my heart, and of my homeland. I will be ruled by you, and by the son born of your body. But you, knowing the weakness that comes from the king, must be vigilant against its manifestation.”

  “There is no indication, Roger—you have not seen any signs, have you? Roger, you must tell me!” Isabella clung to her lover, finding, as she did, solace in his physical strength.

  “No, no,” he soothed, as his fingers ran through her tresses. “Nothing. But he is yet young, and he must be guided by his mother. Would you cede your authority to that of the English nobles, who are apt to have motives that are less than pure?”

  “Hold me,” she whispered, looking at him beseechingly. “When you hold me, I can forget all that has happened and all that Edward has done.

  “You’ve been a gracious queen and a forgiving wife,” Mortimer murmured.


  “Piers Gaveston was not vile like the Despensers,” she replied, knowing to what he referred. “But after he was gone, we were content together for a while. Piers Gaveston never sought to deprive me of my rights as the queen.”

  “Gaveston was not the fiend that Despenser is,” Mortimer agreed. “I have cause to be grateful to Gaveston, for when my father died, I was placed under Gaveston’s guardianship by King Edward I. But I can recognise the difference between Gaveston and the Despensers. Can your son? They have been with his father for much of his life, and he is but a boy.”

  “Edward heeds my counsel,” Isabella insisted.

  “Of course he does.” Holding her in his arms, Roger Mortimer was a fortress protecting her from the calumny outside their intimacy. “Of course he does. But do not delude yourself, beloved; to the lords of England, you are but a woman, and you have already performed your duty by giving birth to the heir. They will not regard you as an equal in the game of thrones.”

  Mortimer continued to embrace her with one arm, while the fingers of his other hand stroked her lovely hair, combing through the abundant locks to bring the tresses tumbling to her shoulders. “But you with me is yet another matter altogether. Together, we will guide your son wisely.”

  Assuaging the queen’s fears whilst conjuring her passion was an unfailingly successful means of managing her emotions. Mortimer was adept at plying her body with his touch, as he reminded her of how great her need was for him.

  Surrender was bliss. Isabella allowed him to lead her to the bed and undress her in the sweet fury of desire. Her anxiety faded, replaced by the hunger for his touch and the power of his body ruling over her. He was correct in his assessment, of course; she was a foolish woman to have thought that Edward, her son, should be put forth as the leader of this war. He was a boy with much to learn from a seasoned warrior like Mortimer, a man who would protect her son from the selfish motives of the nobles, who would line their pockets with plunder if they could manipulate a boy king.

  Mortimer trailed his hand over the queen’s pink nipples; she moaned like a tavern wench. With little preamble, he snaked his hand down and inserted a finger into her hairless quim. She was already juicing copiously. He would mount her hard today, just the way she liked it.

  Even as he pumped his hard member at a relentless pace in and out of her, his thoughts were elsewhere. When she cried out with her release, Mortimer smiled but did not desist. He liked the thought that, after her pleasure, she was now naught but a woman forced to service his needs. In fact, he made sure this was always how their trysts ended, by covering his member in a special ointment that kept him hard for longer. The queen moaned at his continued use of her. Mortimer ignored her.

  It would be as he planned. The queen would rule her son, and Mortimer would rule the queen. For he, better than any man alive, knew how much she feared the flaw in Edward that had allowed the Despensers to suborn him. He knew her fear; he knew her need. She loved her son and wanted him to be a good king. Her motives were pure. But she was a woman, and women were subject to men; the Bible said so, and who could dispute the word of God? Mortimer was now panting. The thought of how sore the queen would be from his misuse made his member even stiffer. He pumped harder.

  Adam had fallen because he listened to his wife; therefore, men were designated as the lords of the earth. Mortimer would fulfil his destiny, a destiny that would make him, through the queen and her son, the ruler of England. That final thought pushed him over the edge, and he emptied his bollocks deep inside the Queen of England, ensuring she received every drop of his seed.

  20 October 1326

  Bristol, England

  2:32 PM

  The siege of Bristol has begun. The queen and her forces, now grown from a small invasion force to a representation of the most notable families in England, have assembled outside Bristol. Inside the city is Hugh Despenser the Elder. Isabella, mother and queen, must deliver herself to the lords as a woman capable of resolute action. She must convince them that she is not a weak and powerless female; she is the future regent.

  What were they thinking inside the castle? Isabella wondered. What was it like to be powerless after years of overweening might and to look out upon an assembled army, knowing that the Queen of England was the leader?

  Did Hugh Despenser the Elder tremble at the thought that the woman he had despised and abused was now in the ascendancy? The king could not shield him; the king wasn’t even with him.

  “We wait him out,” her uncle, Henry of Lancaster, said in response to her unspoken thoughts. “He cannot stay inside forever. We will wait. You will be free of your tormentor soon, Your Grace. His tyranny will soon be over.”

  The Queen nodded. The city of Bristol would not surrender without a fight; Despenser would not be cowed. She could not speak for fear that her emotions, which could not be forestalled by the unfeeling prudence that men displayed, would overwhelm her. Mortimer had warned her that she could not succumb to her tender side.

  “You are a mother, and the queen,” he had said, “but you must be staunch in your goal. Despenser is your target, and nothing can sway you.”

  She had wept under the strain, but Mortimer had stayed firm. If she would rule, she would only convince the lords that she could do so by doing away with her tender emotions.

  When she appeared in front of her army, she kept Mortimer’s words in the back of her mind.

  “He has wronged our person greatly,” she said. “As he has wronged us all,” she added, mindful of the need to remind her supporters that they were all victims of Despenser’s greed and ruthlessness.

  The earl of Norfolk, who had chosen the queen over his half-brother the king, looked on in grim silence. Hard choices were for strong men to make, and he had made his, but there were always consequences to decisions that involved royalty.

  Yet even the mightiest king could be petulant; the nobles could not be toyed with. It remained to be seen how this grandson of Edward Longshanks would suit the throne. In the meantime, the nobles would not be sitting idly by. But first, the nation had to be rid of the contagion that the Despensers had infected upon it.

  “England’s very air will be purer when the Despensers are no longer breathing it,” muttered the Earl.

  The barons and lords had long memories. It was not, after all, so long ago that they had forced the Despensers into exile. After the execution of Piers Gaveston, the nobles believed that they had effectively conquered the problem of royal favourites.

  But the Despensers coveted power in a way that Gaveston had not. They wanted power and wealth, and the King had been willing - nay, eager - to give them both, at the expense of the lords themselves, who lost estates and money so that the Despensers could be supplied.

  The Marcher lords, a law unto themselves, opposed the rise of the Despensers; it was then that Roger Mortimer had rebelled against the King with the intention of bringing down the Despensers.

  “Had we prevailed in 1321,” Thomas of Brotherton, the earl of Norfolk said to no-one in particular, “we would not be here today.” It did not sit well with him, this coupe d’état against his half-brother. But he knew well its necessity.

  Rapacious and insatiable, the Despensers had wanted more. After taking land from England’s nobility, they had then won the Queen’s lands, as the King willingly deprived her of her possessions and revenues, all to please the Despensers.

  Barons were executed, women were imprisoned and deprived of their lands, others were charged with debts of sums so enormous that payment was impossible. In the end, five months after they were sent away, the Despensers came back from exile more powerful than they had gone away.

  “Whatever we need to do to win, we shall do,” Norfolk concluded, his voice ringing of resolve.

  Isabella, fortified by the knowledge that she and Mortimer had already concluded this, nodded.

  The announcement, false but effective, that the queen and her army travelled with cardinals and a papal bull g
ranting absolution to those who fought against the king, with excommunication being the fate of any who opposed the queen’s army, was convincing.

  It carried a whiff of logic, as Prince Edward, the undisputed heir, was with them. The undecided viewed the presence of the heir as confirmation of the ecclesiastical authorisation; to fight to put the rightful king on the throne was to serve God.

  “With the Despensers gone, England will be rid of its tyrants.” Roger Mortimer strode to the front of the group.

  He did not reference the King; he referred to the Despensers. The vagueness of his speech, coupled with his unexpected but not unintentional positioning at the Queen’s side, conveyed multiple messages to the lords.

  “Where is the Prince?” Henry of Lancaster asked pointedly. “Should he not be here?”

  “He is here,” Queen Isabella assured him. “There is no need for him to be with us now, however.”

  Mortimer had schooled her well.

  The prince should not be present among the council as they carried out the martial plans, or he would think himself experienced, when he was but a novice.

  He should not be in the company of the leading nobles because they would find a way to manipulate him. He must remain under the authority of his mother.

  He was, after all, a boy, not a man, and this war was a man’s business. Besides, Mortimer had said, what if he were regarded as a rebellious son, violating the commandment to honour his father? Such a transgression could be held against him by the church.

  “This is kingship,” growled Norfolk. “He needs to learn. His boyhood is about to come to an end.”

  “Of course,” the Queen said brightly. “He is the heir.”

  “He’ll be among us the next time we meet,” Lancaster stated firmly. He didn’t ask the Queen to confirm this, and he deliberately ignored Mortimer, who was not a man to take kindly to being ignored.