Isabeau
A Novel of
Queen Isabella
and Sir Roger Mortimer
N. GEMINI SASSON
Cader Idris Press
ISABEAU
Copyright © 2010 by N. Gemini Sasson
This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior written permission of the Author.
For further information about the author: www.ngeminisasson.com.
Also by N. Gemini Sasson:
The Crown in the Heather (The Bruce Trilogy: Book I)
Worth Dying For (The Bruce Trilogy: Book II)
The Honor Due a King (The Bruce Trilogy: Book III)
Cover design and Cader Idris Press logo by Lance Ganey
www.freelanceganey.com
For Reini and Mitchell -
Dreams are meant to be lived.
Prologue
Isabella:
Boulogne, France – January, 1308
THE FIRST TIME I saw Edward II of England was on our wedding day in the cathedral of Our Lady of Boulogne. He was twenty-three, a king newly come to his throne. I was not yet thirteen – a girl on the lip of womanhood: nervous, excited, and awestricken by my tall and slender groom. Far too curious to pretend coyness, I stole quick glances at him as we stood before the altar. Faint winter sunlight penetrated the vaulted expanse from high lancet windows and fell about him in a silver haze. The ivory satin of his tunic reflected the smoothness of his complexion and the jewels on his cloak glittered like the bright blue of his Plantagenet eyes.
I was the only daughter of Philip IV of France and, of all the kings in Christendom, Edward had been chosen for me. For years, I had waited for this day, dreamed of it, planned for it.
All morning my damsels had fussed over me, like bees humming about freshly bloomed clover: arranging my pale, silken hair beneath my gold caul with delicate care, plucking my brows into precise arches and rubbing my skin with rose-scented oil until it glistened. They dressed me in a gown of gold, to match my hair. Next, they hung a mantle of red lined with yellow sindon over my shoulders and secured it with a brooch encircled with sapphires and rubies. Then, with tears of joy, they hugged me and told me I was the fairest woman in all of France and any man who was not struck dumb by my beauty was certainly blind.
Not once during the ceremony did Edward look at me.
I stared intently at him, certain he would sense my tacit plea for attention and glimpse my way, but he kept his eyes fixed on the bishop, a look of sleepy boredom dulling his countenance. As the hour wore on, a chill seeped beneath my skin and gripped my bones. Frigid sweat dampened my chemise. I clasped the edges of my mantle and drew it closer to my shivering body. One of the pins that held the tightly wound plaits of my hair in place dug into my scalp. The beautiful coronet studded with amethysts, emeralds and pearls that I had donned so gleefully that morning began to feel like a jagged band of iron clamped across my forehead. I wiggled numb toes. My shoes were pinching my feet and my back ached from standing so dreadfully long.
Edward gazed up at the web of vaulting ribs that sprung from the fluted columns. He shifted on his feet. Yawned. And sighed.
When the bishop gave his final blessing, Edward’s cold kiss barely grazed my lips. He stuck his elbow out stiffly, flinching as I curled my fingers around his arm. We started forward down the central aisle of the nave, our steps mismatched. His stride was long and hurried, mine hindered by the long train of my gown. While a thousand eyes appraised us, I forced myself to match his pace and pressed the corners of my mouth into a false smile.
At our wedding feast, he leaned close and whispered, “You needn’t wear your dread so plainly. You are ... how should I say this – not yet ripe for the picking. There will be time, later, for that.” He attempted a half-smile of apology, but it looked to me more like a sneer of disdain.
We spoke no more that day. I fell asleep alone in my bed that night, thankful that he had kept his word and not come, but bewildered as to why he had paid so little attention to me, his new bride. Had I been thrust upon him against his wishes? Did he love another? Did the sight of me so repulse him that he could not bear my presence? Whatever the matter, I vowed to learn how to become a good wife and queen to him. It was my duty.
I was still young then ... and naïve. I had so much to learn.
*****
Thirteen days later, beneath a lowering sky, we disembarked at Dover, England. There, I discovered the cause for my husband’s distraction. Piers de Gaveston stood on the dock swathed in velvets and furs, waving a kerchief high in the air. Edward sprang across the plank, took Gaveston into his arms and showered him with kisses. Then, he showed him a trunk filled with gifts – gifts which only the week before had been given to Edward by my father. With a flourish of praise for serving as Keeper of the Realm in his absence, Edward draped a gilt chain around Gaveston’s neck, from which hung a lion of gold, each foot balanced on a shimmering pearl and its eyes set with two fiery rubies. If my father were to hear of this, it would be cause enough for war.
“That was meant for you,” I reminded him meekly as I approached. The weathered boards creaked beneath my feet and a cold sea wind nudged me toward the edge of the dock. My damsels were still aboard ship to oversee the unloading of my trousseau, but my brother, Charles, who had followed close behind, came abreast of me. I stood firm and pulled the hood of my favorite red, ermine-lined mantle up over my head.
Edward’s laughter broke off. The hint of a scowl twisted his mouth. “What did you say?”
I moved closer and raised my chin, trying to sound more confident than I actually was. I thought it only fair to warn him. “Those gifts – the jewels, the brooches and chains – they were given to you by my father. You cannot give them away like that. He would not approve.”
He scoffed and shook his head dismissively at me. “They’re mine now. I’ll do with them as I please.” Then, he threw an arm about Gaveston’s shoulder and together they walked away, laughing at jokes only they understood. Like an impertinent child, I had been dismissed. My chest burned with indignation.
Charles clasped my hand and said lowly, “If you ever need my help, Isabeau, you only need ask.”
I squeezed his fingers and tried to smile, but could not. Was it because my cheeks were too stiff from the cold, or because some dread had seeped into my heart and begun to blacken it like a frost that withers still green leaves?
Although only a year older, Charles had always been protective of me; however, the time for that would soon end. I had a husband now, a new home, new life. “But Charles, my coronation is in less than a fortnight and after that you’ll be gone. Who knows when we will ever see each other again? What help could you possibly be, so far away?”
“Come now, our father is King of France – and you ask what I can do?” He touched my face, his thumb stroking my cheek lightly. “Remember, I’m only as far as a letter. Already he neglects you, dear sister. I will not have it so.”
Neglect? That seemed too harsh a word. But had I not just done worse? In speaking my mind, I had made a poor start of our marriage. If there was ever to be some measure of affinity between us clearly it would have to begin with me. “Perhaps, perhaps I have made too much of too small a thing?”
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With a sigh, Charles kissed me on the forehead and offered his elbow. “Oh, Isabeau, are you truly such an innocent?”
A sharp voice cut above the roar of the sea wind. At the door of the aftcastle on the ship, my damsel Juliana clucked at a pair of pages as they carelessly hoisted a trunk filled with my gowns onto their meager shoulders. Beside her, Marie shivered within her cloak, her wide eyes darting shyly from one pale English face to another. I lowered my voice as I tucked my arm into my brother’s. “You mock me, Charles. Please don’t. It’s only that ... well, that there is so much Edward and I have yet to learn about each other. This Gaveston is an old friend, I hear. They were overjoyed to see each other. Surely, that is all?”
A bemused grin tilted the corners of his too delicate mouth. “You think you can change him, do you? That your marriage will get nothing but better? I wish you luck, then. Luck and a long streak of tolerance.”
We turned and walked toward the carriage that would carry me first to Dover Castle to refresh overnight, and then off to the Palace of Westminster for my crowning. Tufts of white drifted across my vision and I blinked. Snow tumbled down, melting as it touched the earth. I looked out over the somber, glassy surface of the harbor to one side and then far up at the imposing castle of Dover, its stout, gray walls shouldering a joyless sky. With Charles’ help, I climbed inside the carriage. Draping a fur across my lap, I peered out the back as my trousseau was loaded onto wagons to the rear.
Luck, as it turned out, I did not have. Tolerance? Too much for my own good, I dare admit.
Some things, some people – as I was to learn – they do not change, no matter how much we wish them to. We are foolish to even hope they might.
And to hope in vain is to live in despair.
Part I:
You know the King is so suspicious
As, if he hear I have but talked with you,
Mine honor will be called in question;
And therefore, gentle Mortimer, be gone.
Isabella
from Christopher Marlowe’s Edward II
1
Isabella:
Tower of London – September, 1312
I HEAVED MY UNWIELDY bulk upward, my legs cramping with fire. Pressure constricted my ribs, as though someone had clamped a set of irons around my middle and meant to squeeze the life from me. A surge of bile splashed at the back of my throat. I gritted my teeth, swallowing it back, and leaned against the cool, stone wall of the staircase. After a few strained breaths, my knees wobbling, I forced myself up the last few steps. When I reached the landing, I pressed a hand to my gown to blot away the sweat pouring down my breastbone.
The staircase of St. Thomas’s Tower was not any steeper than it had been just a few months before. I had simply grown fatter. Fat with child.
At just past seventeen years, I was vainly conscious of my size. Two months yet to go and my belly was as broad as a merchant’s ship. If set out to sea, I would most assuredly sink to the bottom however, not float. This morning, I could not put on my own slippers without Juliana’s help. And my seamstress had yet to stitch together a gown that flattered my bloated figure in any way, no matter how ornate or colorful. If this – this discomfort – was what it meant to be a woman and bring babes into the world, I would gladly have returned to my own childhood and dallied there interminably, giddy in my irresponsible innocence.
Within the first month of Edward’s visits to my bed earlier this year, I had awoken violently ill, unable to hold down my morning bread and wine. The episodes of vomiting were a fair exchange for the reprieve they brought, for Edward had carried out the act of bedding me with no more tenderness than a yearling ram would give a ewe in season. It was a marvel he ever got around to the business at all. For a time, I was convinced I would die not only childless, but a virgin as well.
Standing before the door to the king’s apartments, I nodded to the lone guard, his mouth carved in the lines of a permanent scowl. With a jerking bow, he swung it open. I squinted in expectation of a flood of sunlight, but the shutters were drawn. Instead, a thin haze veiled my vision. Wood smoke stung my eyes. Blinking, I focused on the limp figure some ten paces away. Edward, chin to chest, sat slumped in a chair by the hearth, his hands dangling down and his knuckles nearly scraping the floor. The rough shadows of unshaven whiskers darkened his cheeks. Blotches of spilled wine dappled his pale blue tunic.
He had been this way since that odious day in June: heavyhearted and listless. Not even the prospect of an heir had served to uplift his spirits in that time.
“Come closer,” he uttered thinly, his only movement a quick shifting of his pupils.
My footsteps echoed in the desolate expanse. The walls were bare of coverings. Even the tables and other furnishings had been removed – all but the carved oaken throne upon which Edward had not sat for three months – as if to discourage visitors or activity of any kind.
“Into the light,” he drawled.
There was little light to be found in that musty, suffocating room. The fire in the hearth had faded to sputtering embers and an early autumn draft fanned the smoke into every corner, tainting the air with the smell of ashes. I walked closer, into a knife of light where the sun stabbed through a crack in the shutters. He flipped a hand up to stay me.
“Turn around.”
Slowly, so as not to lose my balance, I turned in a circle, holding my breath while he studied me like a prize cow in calf.
“You need to eat more,” he said. “You’ll starve the child.”
Letting out a burst of air, I faced him. “Of course, my lord. I shall. The morning sickness has finally abated.” A lie. It had not passed at all. But there was no purpose in arguing with him. He only wanted a healthy child, an heir ... as any man would.
With a sound that was half whimper, half groan, Edward leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. As he drew forward the hand furthest from me, a glint of gold caught my eye. In his palm he clutched the jeweled lion pendant, the chain swinging freely from the open end of his fist. A sheen of sweat glistened on his blanched cheeks as he tilted his head to look at my belly from a different angle – like a robin would cock its head at a worm. “I pray this one is not a girl.”
“Daughters can bring strong alliances,” I countered defensively.
He scoffed. “Like you? I suppose, but little good that has done me lately. Where was France when they mur – ” The thought died on his tongue with a shudder. Slouching back against his chair again, he turned his face toward the dying flames and brought the lion pendant to his chest, laying it over his heart.
Even now, months later, he still could not say his name aloud. Not anymore. He had only spoken it one time since then – on the day he learned of Piers de Gaveston’s death.
For too many years, Gaveston had mocked authority. Twice, he was banished from the realm. Twice, Edward wooed his barons and proffered promises until they relented and Gaveston was recalled. Then a third time, Gaveston was sent into exile, warned never to return. But return he did. This time, however, the barons were implacable. Edward and Gaveston had fled from London, only to be pursued and besieged by the king’s own cousin Thomas, Earl of Lancaster. In the end, Gaveston gave himself up, sure he would receive a fair trial and reunite with Edward once more.
One month later, in the dark of night and stripped of his clothing, Gaveston was executed on Blacklow Hill with a blunt axe. It was said that he was wearing the lion pendant and chain and that Edward demanded its return when told of the murder. Now he clove to it like a starving man to his last loaf of bread.
“Lancaster should be brought to account for his crime,” I said, attempting to offer some compassion. But I stopped short of saying Lancaster should die for it. The question still stood of just how involved he had been in the cursory execution. Besides, bloodshed never ended bloodshed. It only perpetuated more of it.
Edward sniffed. “When our son is born, England will rejoice. And I will hold the upper hand. Because t
he more boys you can give me, my queen, the further from the throne my murdering cousin Lancaster will be.” Eyes clamped shut, he threw the back of his head against the chair. The veins in his neck throbbed blue against the scarlet rising along his throat. He slammed a fist against his thigh. “Red-handed, perfidious, donkey-swiving miscreant! May his testicles shrivel and turn to stone. He gave his word to Pembroke.” His eyes flew open and he jabbed a finger at me, punctuating each vitriolic syllable. “Gave ... his ... word!”
There would be retaliation. I had no doubt of that. But now was not the time. Better to let him simmer in despondency until his head had cooled. At least let him wait until our child was born. Already it was becoming clear that my duty would go far beyond bearing royal English progeny; my duty – unspoken though it may be – would be to bear influence upon my inconstant husband, upon whose unfit head the crown had fallen.
As if cued by my thoughts, the ache in my back fanned upward. The floor tipped beneath me. I spread my arms to steady myself and looked about the room for another chair, but there was only a low foot stool next to a rolled up tapestry at the far end of the room. The murals spanning the walls were obscured in smoky darkness, the figures adorning them now taking on the ghastly shapes of the eternally condemned struggling to escape the torments of hell. A chill rippled from my tailbone up my spine and I braced my shoulders against it to stop my whole body from trembling.
I could not remain in this dank, comfortless room for much longer without crumpling into a weary heap. With stiff fingers, I kneaded at my lower back to emphasize my condition. “My lord, I leave for Windsor in two days. If you will allow me to take my leave now, I need to oversee the packing of my things. Otherwise, Juliana and Patrice will want to take my whole wardrobe, most of which will do me no good. As you know, I will not be back in London for some time – not until my churching at Westminster.”
Isabeau, A Novel of Queen Isabella and Sir Roger Mortimer Page 1
