Edward paused as the thought sunk in. “Yes, her children,” he echoed with a whimper. “Her children.”
And the crying of the king was muffled on the shoulder of the one who ruled England. The one who had taken my place.
As I hurried away, I heard the sliding of the bar across Edward’s door.
*****
The slashes of ink blurred before me in the pale light of a single candle. I squeezed my eyes shut, then pressed them open as wide as I could and dipped my quill once more into the inkhorn on my writing table. There came a knock at my door. My heart faltered.
“Who is there?”
“Patrice,” came a hissing whisper.
My heart resumed its pace and I went to the door.
“Where have you been?” I asked her as I pulled her in. “Midnight was hours ago.”
She gave a mirthful wink. “May I say only that I was with Arnaud? I was reluctant to leave him, even for you.” She sauntered over toward the table, swishing her skirts back and forth in the clenches of her two hands as she hummed. “I have decided to marry him. Although if my mother were still alive, she would not approve. He is too poor, but he has promise, don’t you think?”
There was an intimation cloaked behind her question – that I would in some way bestow favors upon him, but given what I had overhead earlier that night, it was unlikely I would be in a position to do so anytime soon. I evaded Patrice’s question with another one. “He’s asked you to be his wife then?”
She frowned. “No, not yet. Not quite. But he will, soon.”
“Not quite?” I felt a lecturing was timely. “Patrice, you stay with him half the night then think he will want to marry you? Why should he, given that?”
“He will if he thinks – ” She craned her neck to look past me, then started toward the writing table with curious determination. “What is that, Isabeau?”
I stepped between her and the table.
Patrice arched an eyebrow at me. “Who is it to?”
“My brother.”
“Hmm, it must be an important, secret letter to be up at such an hour writing it.”
“Not secret, no. But important, yes.”
“And you want me to make certain it is sent?” Proudly, she lifted her head. Great men such as bishops and earls were set on high by such simple correspondences. Or ruined. Hers could be the hand that delivered the nudge.
“This letter I will give to Lady Eleanor a week from now.”
She smirked in annoyance. “Then you could not have waited until morning to call on me?”
“For you, there is another letter. It must be sent immediately – without anyone knowing of it. I wish for Charles to receive it first.” I went to my bed, dropped to my knees and drew a leather bag from beneath it. I tugged the cord on its mouth tighter and then handed it to her. “Give it to Arnaud. Go to him now. He is to go at once to Scarborough where he will give it to Lady Juliana ... if she lives. She will know what to do with it.”
Juliana had been among those seized by the coughing fits, although hers had been the least. Her husband had served as my messenger to France all these years.
Patrice was slow to take the pouch. “You wish Arnaud to come straight back then?”
“Of course. I need him. And clearly, you can barely do without him for a day. The ride to Scarborough is not long. He will be back before week’s end.”
“Then I will wish him Godspeed,” she conceded. She must have thought my trust indicated I favored her lover. Perhaps she believed a knighthood would follow?
All I could have given him then was my thanks. Soon I would have nothing at all to give.
Our Dearest Brother,
Charles, I ask your forgiveness that I do not write on happier terms, but all has gone from bad to worse once more. I fear Lord Hugh Despenser will take my children from me. I am in peril, as are your nieces and nephews, your own blood, whom I know you love even from a distance.
Despenser’s greed and cruelty are notorious. Good and loyal men who had the courage to defy him will die if I cannot convince Edward to cease this bloodshed. He will never concede to your demands for homage while Despenser counsels him otherwise. If Despenser is not removed from his side, England will surely fall into ruin.
Send word that you will help me and I will do whatever you say. Or if you wish to keep my name clear of blame, do what you will and I will know when it is done. Only, help me, in whatever way you can.
Our Lord bless and keep you ... and keep us from war.
Your Dearest Isabeau
11
Roger Mortimer:
Tower of London – Summer, 1322
SEVEN RAVENS ALIGHTED ON the battlements of the Salt Tower. In the afternoons, they surveyed the Thames from their windswept perches, their crescent, blue-black wings stretched to warm themselves in the sun’s rays. At night, they roosted there. During last winter’s bitter cold, they had huddled wing to wing with beaks tucked against their glossy breasts. Whenever the sentries ambled past, the birds would burst upward in a confusion of black, their bellicose caws slicing the air. When I rose at dawn that summer morning and went to my window to look out at the world, as I did every day, there were seven arrayed in the same place on the battlements, black as Dominican friars. Always seven.
My uncle and I were taken in shackles to Westminster Hall to stand trial. Seven black-robed men were perched in their chairs on the dais at the far end of the high columned hall. Among them was Hamo de Chigwell, London’s mayor. A hundred barons stood before their benches on both sides of the hall, condescending in their silence. Chins forward, we shuffled past them. Our chains clunked as they dragged on the floor. Some of those who stared at us were the very same barons who had complained in private repeatedly about the king’s misrule; yet they had never taken a stand against it. They all knew what the outcome of the day would be. And they had all come to regale in their own fortune as my uncle and I marched to our doom. I was too numb of mind to fume with the contempt I should have felt toward them. Loathing is a lost cause for those soon to die.
We were given seats on two separate benches, each at an angle so we could see the judges and each other. It was the only time since we arrived at the Tower a few months ago that I ever saw my uncle. We were not permitted to speak to one another that day. Even so, my uncle did not afford me the slightest glance. He kept his face turned askance, his expression impassive. His gnarled fingers kneaded at his thighs like a kitchen maid’s at dough. Whenever he stopped rubbing his legs, his hands trembled. His body had wasted in the five months since we were parted. Blue-veined skin hung loose on his skeleton like an ill-fitting rag. The pugnacious old man who had ridden at the head of an army with me, from Wigmore to Kingston and back to Shrewsbury not so long ago, looked as though he could barely sit upright on his bench, let alone a saddle.
The charge was treason. We had waged war on the king, they said, and therefore were his enemies. We were told to stand side by side in the middle of the hall. One by one, the seven judges gave their verdicts. Seven times, the word ‘guilty’ was pronounced. The sentence: to be hanged and quartered.
I wanted them to take me then and finish it. But as my uncle and I stood next to each other, Chigwell opened a letter from the king and read it aloud. All our possessions had been confiscated and either sold or redistributed to those loyal to the king. Our close kin had been taken into
custody and everyone suspected of taking part in the rebellion had been tried and punished. Lastly, our sentences were commuted – to life in the Tower.
I was stunned. I heard the words and yet I could not comprehend them. Why had we been spared when a dozen other lords had met their deaths? Had Pembroke intervened on our behalf?
Suddenly, my uncle went limp and collapsed to his knees. I stooped to grab him by the arm before he fell forward onto the floor, but guards had already rushed forward. They wrenched me away from him and shoved me toward the back of the hall. I twisted around and tried to look over
my shoulder, but the chains tangled around my feet and I stumbled several steps before I went down.
I lay on the smooth, cool flagstones. The murmurs of the barons washed over me like the cool rush of an ebbing tide. Then, I mustered my dignity and drew my knees up beneath me. I waited for the guards to clamp hold of my arms and drag me to the outer door, but no one laid a hand on me. The barons’ voices faded to hushed whispers. Curious, I raised my head.
Before me stood Lord Hugh Despenser the Younger. Only a week ago I had been informed by Gerard that Despenser had been proclaimed the Earl of Gloucester – a prize he had coveted since Gilbert de Clare’s death at Bannockburn. At his shoulder stood his glowering father, Hugh the Elder, now known as the Earl of Winchester.
The younger Despenser was dressed in finest green velvet, with a chain of gold dangling across his chest. In his feathered cap were glittering jewels that caught the light streaming in through the high windows. “You may thank God in your prayers tonight,” he exhorted, his mouth drawn downward in contempt, “that you yet draw breath. It seems the queen took pity on your plight and begged for your life to be spared. She is a poor judge. To me, you are worse than worthless. You are a bane on England. An ulcer. A plague that infects all around it. If I had my way, you would have been disemboweled, castrated and beheaded when you showed your face at Shrewsbury.”
What stake does Queen Isabella have in my life?
Slowly, I stood. My foot throbbed where the chain had whipped across it. I let my weight gently down on that foot, not altogether certain it was not broken. I looked at him boldly, as if he was the condemned man and not me. “Perhaps, someday ... I will have the pleasure of watching your head roll from the block, instead. Arrogance deceives those who are afflicted by it, Lord Despenser. I vow it will be your death. If I can, in some way, hurry it along,” – I took a tender step, seizing my exit before the guards could force it on me – “I will.”
With an arrogant smirk, Despenser stepped aside, as if he deigned my monition unworthy of reply. Then a guard shoved me forward and I heard Despenser and his father laughing.
As they escorted me back to the Tower, a terrible grief welled up inside me. Although I had been given my life back, for reasons I could not comprehend, somehow I knew ... I would not see my uncle again.
*****
Tower of London – March, 1323
Outside the sun was high and bright, promising a final end to winter’s bleak skies and the damnable draft that cut across my room whenever the wind was fierce. From my window, I could not see to the west or north where newcomers to the Tower would pass. Perhaps that had been the notion behind putting me where I was. A punishment, of sorts. But I took what pleasure I could find in it and allowed my mind to wander beyond the walls and to places and days far, far away.
The outer bar scraped across its iron brackets. The door opened halfway and Lieutenant Gerard d’Alspaye peered around its edge.
“Gerard?” I broke from my place of vigil to welcome my keeper and unlikely friend. “Don’t linger by the door there. Do come in.” I scooted an oak barrel that served as my table between my chair and a lopsided stool I had recently acquired, thanks to the thievery of one of my guards. “I promised you another game of chess. You’ve become quite good at it since I taught you when I first came here. Relentless, almost. You may beat me yet. Perhaps this will be your day?”
He shook his head in regret. “Not today, my lord.”
I forced a laugh. Gerard was a man of few words and scarce humor, but he had become invaluable to me. From him I had learned of the battle at Boroughbridge, Lancaster’s swift trial and execution, Edward’s latest botched campaign in Scotland and Queen Isabella’s narrow escape from the ravaging Black Douglas. I relied on our daily discussions over a chessboard, and the rare cup of small ale. “Tired of losing, Gerard? Shall I throw the game this once, just for you?”
Again, he shook his head. “Someone to see you, my lord.” He backed away from the door.
A black-robed friar with his hood pulled up over his head shuffled in. They sometimes sent holy men to me, assuming I might want to shrive myself of past sins. But even if I had felt the need, I did not trust any men, secular or spiritual, remotely in the employ of the king. I might have thought nothing of the unprompted visit, except this was a friar I had not seen before. And either he was a very poor and lowly friar, or not one at all, judging by his oversized sandals and frock. In his arms, he bore a loose bundle of clothing. He dipped his head as he walked past and began to lay the clothing out on the bed in meticulous piles. Four tunics: two brown, one scarlet, one gray. A tabard of reddish brown. A hood. Three pairs of leggings. A pair of leather shoes, barely worn.
“Where did you get my things?” I ran my fingers over the cloth of the tabard.
“My lord purchased them,” he said, peeling his hood back to reveal a close-cropped shock of pale hair and stark blue eyes. “He thought you might need them.”
There was something strangely familiar about him, a flicker of memory, and yet I could not place him. I looked to the door, expecting to see Gerard there, but he had gone and the door was closed. “Tell me – who is your lord?”
“The Earl of Pembroke.” A surreptitious smile broke the tight lines of his mouth. “Although, I have at times served your uncle, as well.”
“Simon de Beresford,” I recalled aloud, remembering with a pang of regret the day my uncle and I rode over the bridge to Shrewsbury to kneel before the king and lost everything: our inheritances, our family, our freedom. “Have you any word from my uncle?”
He snapped out the last tunic and laid it on top of the others. “What would you expect to hear? He suffers the same circumstances as you, my lord.”
“Is he well?”
“Well enough ...” He turned away, his voice taking on a low growl. “For a man of his years imprisoned in the Tower.”
“Ah, he still thinks it was Pembroke who deceived us?”
Simon squinted one glassy blue eye. “He said nothing of the earl. We did not speak long. But he did send you a message.”
“Go on.”
“He said that although he may not live to see it done, he could forgive you should you make right on your many mistakes.”
Mistakes? Was everything my fault in his eyes?
“I hardly see how I can correct anything,” I said.
The scrape of footsteps sounded from beyond the door. He glanced toward it, flipped his hood back over his head and stepped away, until he was nearly at the far wall. His voice was but a raspy whisper emanating from the dark shadows beneath his hood. “You may yet be able to. Fortunes change. Sometimes swiftly.”
I circled the room, pausing by the door to listen. Confident no one eavesdropped, I approached him. “Speak plainly. What do you mean?”
“Many who fought with you against the king and Lord Despenser were killed to forever silence them. But many more remain. Among the nobility. The clergy. In high places, some. Abroad, even.”
His words were an enigma to me. Edward’s summary executions of his opponents had been so complete I would have thought all opposition totally annihilated. Yet my uncle and I had been spared the same fate. “Who? Pembroke?”
He shook his head slowly beneath his cowl. “Others. The earl is too close to the king.”
And too loyal to him. “Can you not say who?”
“You will learn, in time. For now, despair not.”
I was hardly in despair. That had passed long ago. I was skeptical of a spy who delivered cryptic messages. Skeptical of old allies who had turned their faces from me in shame at my trial. Too much did not make sense. “So what am I to do? Anything?”
“I leave London in the morning. Lieutenant d’Alspaye will bring you pen and parchment. I will carry messages for you. Be warned, though – the fewer the better.”
“And will you bring replies?” I could not refrain from sarcasm. If any of my letters were intercepted and they could even remotely be construed as t
reasonous, King Edward would have in his hands the perfect reason to hang me from the highest scaffolding he could find. Perhaps this was all concocted to entrap me? But if that was true, why so elaborate a ruse? A year had gone by in which time he could have sent me to my death.
I went to the window and looked toward the Salt Tower. Instead of the ravens, sparrows flitted from the merlons to the wall walk, chattering like young maids enthralled with gossip.
Could Edward be using me to ferret out more of his enemies? Again, why bother, unless there was some clear threat to his hold on power? Or on Despenser’s life ...
I rubbed at the scruff on my chin and neck. A letter to Joan would seem innocuous enough – a husband longing for his spouse. Sweet Jesus, I had not thought of her for weeks. I hardly missed her querulous company, but I had at times ached to have her willing body beneath mine.
“Can you get a letter to my wife?” I went closer to him, hoping I could catch a glimpse of his countenance beneath the overhang of his dark cowl and judge the depth of his deception.
Simon nodded. “I can get a letter to the Pope, if you so wish.”
With his fingertips he tapped at the sleeve of one of my garments. There was something inside it, a long lump. A roll of parchment? I approached the bed and reached for it.
The bar of the door moaned as someone slid it back. Simon grabbed me by the shoulders and slammed me to my knees.
Before I could recover from the bolt of pain, he placed both hands on my head and began to utter unintelligible words, which I determined to be mangled Latin.
The door opened. Two guards entered, followed by Gerard.
Isabeau, A Novel of Queen Isabella and Sir Roger Mortimer Page 11
