Isabeau, A Novel of Queen Isabella and Sir Roger Mortimer

by N. Gemini Sasson

  My damning words hung black and big in the air like a storm cloud that had burst and spent itself, but had not yet been ushered away by the wind. If I was relieved of having kept the truth to myself for so many years, why did I feel the urge to vomit and cleanse my throat of having spoken it?

  “So be it,” Stapledon proclaimed bluntly. “As King Edward no longer considers you as acting in his service, and defiant of his authority, your funds are heretofore ... discontinued.” He bowed to Charles and asked permission to leave.

  Charles brushed him away with an angry sweep of his hand, then he reached for me, but I backed hurriedly away, evading him.

  I spun on my heel so fast the colors in the room swirled around me dizzily. I shoved my way past the first few people, but soon they all fell back from me, leaving a wide aisle. A ripple of murmurs followed me. I did not look at the faces, did not know whether eyes stared in horror at my audacity or if chins hung low in pity of me. By the time I reached the end of the hall and the archway where the corridor began which led to the royal apartments, I was running, one hand trying to hold up skirts that were too full and heavy and the other pushing tears from my bleary eyes.

  It was when I reached the first turn in the corridor, slowed and paused for breath, that I stumbled and caught myself against the wall.

  Oh, what have I done now? What stupid, whining, childish thing have I done?

  I curled my fingernails deep into my palms, so that their piercing would stop my tears. Holding my breath, I heard the music again and the tinkle of laughter slowly rising. I needed to stop ... feeling and acting like a wounded little girl. I needed to summon my courage, to plan, to think, to, to ...

  “I say only my son Geoffrey had more convincing outbursts. Even so, he stopped them when he was five.”

  I turned to see that Roger Mortimer had followed me.

  26

  Roger Mortimer:

  Palace de la Cité, Paris – June, 1325

  QUEEN ISABELLA STRAIGHTENED, HER breathing quick and shallow. “Are you comparing my plight, Sir Roger, to that of a child who thinks he is being sent to bed too early?”

  “Not at all.” I approached her cautiously, afraid she might bolt again. As I neared her, I found it hard to fight a smile. In discovering her voice, she had mislaid her dignity. “But you were full of wrath. Fiery and alive. I found it very ... intriguing.”

  She pressed a hand to the wall and pushed herself away, as if trying to appear stronger and in control of herself. “I think you were right at first. I must have looked like a terrible child, a jealous one.”

  I was but a few feet from her now. “Do you always apologize for speaking your thoughts?”

  “I should ...” Blinking, she looked away. “I should learn to hold my tongue.”

  “You should learn that when you are right, you need not dart away like a timid fawn. You are the Queen of England. And the Bishop of Exeter is your subject, not your master. To have spoken to you like that, and on the occasion of your brother’s wedding ... why he should be stripped and flogged for it.”

  Her jaw twitched, as though she fought to quell her true thoughts. “Edward sent him. Gave him the orders.”

  I tugged at my chin, trying to pull down the corners of my mouth to keep them from creeping up into a smile, but I could not help myself and let out a small laugh.

  Turning her face toward me, she arched an indignant brow. “You thought it was amusing?”

  “My queen, no. I thought it was very ... bold of you. Brave, in fact.”

  “Then why are you laughing?”

  “I was thinking that perhaps King Edward is the one who ought to be stripped and flogged. But as soon as I thought that, the vision of it was rather ... well, disturbing.” Then, in a more serious tone, though forced, I said to her, “Your pardon, I should not speak so ill of the king.”

  “Why? Do you think that I am still enamored of him – or that I ever was?”

  Her directness startled me. Quickly, I cast a glance behind me to confirm we were still alone. Then I leaned in so close that the wine on her breath mingled with mine, the taste of it swirling around warm and sweet in my mouth.

  “Do you still wish to call me on my oath?” I uttered.

  My proximity must have made her uncomfortable, for she averted her eyes, even though during the wedding feast she must have looked my way a hundred times or more.

  Folding down onto one knee, I took both her hands, pressed mine flat together and slid them between hers in a gesture of loyalty. “Let me repay you for my freedom, my queen. From this day forward, I will be always at your side and I vow to forever undo the wrongs that have been done to you, to me ... to all of England.”

  Charles had often hinted at his sister’s misery and Edward’s treatment of her was known throughout the continent. Surely, she, too, had need of an ally?

  “I want my freedom,” she whispered.

  “From Despenser ... or from Edward?”

  “Both.”

  Ah, no. I was mistaken. Not bold, but desperate. Then she would be willing to risk much.

  “Done.” I tipped my head downward a moment so that my hair brushed her skin, as if by accident, before I looked up at her again. “Never again question yourself, my lady. I am your strength, your courage, your will. Always. In every way.”

  I rose, my hands still folded between hers – and it seemed she could not take her eyes from my face. In the curve where her jaw met her swan-like neck, a vein pulsed faintly, but rapidly. I lifted a hand to touch her there, when I suddenly heard slowing footsteps from behind. Taking a step back, I drew my hands to my sides and looked.

  “Isabeau ...” Her damsel’s voice was but a hoarse whisper. The woman hurried toward us and threw a worried look over her shoulder. Coming our way was a small party of wedding guests, weaving and tottering drunkenly through the corridor, their guffaws broken by bits of slurred and unrecognizable song. Her damsel whipped her head back toward us. “My lady, pardon, please, but the king sent me after you. I thought you’d be elsewhere by now, though.”

  “What is it, Patrice?” Isabella asked.

  “Bishop Stapledon has been sent on to Vincennes and told to wait,” Patrice continued. “King Charles will meet with him in a week, no sooner. You, however, are to go there on the morrow; it seems the bishop has details about Lord Edward’s forthcoming arrival in France that, in his haste to humiliate you, he omitted. For now, Queen Jeanne asks if you will return to the hall?” She glanced sideways at me with her dark, inquisitive eyes. “I can tell them you have retired for the evening, if you wish. A headache?”

  “Cousin!” The man I recognized as Robert of Artois stumbled forward from the group of merrymakers and swayed like a boat careening wildly on a rough sea. He hiccupped into his palm and snorted a laugh. Then, squinting at me, he puckered up his face. “Your pardon, Lord ... Lord? Do I know you?”

  “I don’t believe so.” I gave Isabella the slightest wink to let her know I understood the need for discretion.

  “An Englishman?” Robert belched and patted his belly in relief. “Ah, better.” He turned toward Isabella and cupped a hand to his mouth, as if I, two feet away, could not hear him. “Keep him from the hall, then. The English have been known to murder a cel-celebration with their s-s-sobriety.” He hiccupped again.

  “Indeed, they can,” Isabella agreed, winking back playfully at me, her mood now considerably lighter than when I had found her. “But there is such a thing as too drunk, too, Robert. I suggest you go to bed ... before you fall over.”

  “Hah!” He whirled around to face his companions, two of them leaning against each other and still nursing their wine goblets. “As you see, we are all standing, still. Simply enjoying ourselves – unlike this English mongrel.” As he turned back, he reached out to slap me on the arm, but the shift in his own weight sent him toppling forward. He landed on his knees with a bruising thump. Before he could pitch forward onto his face, I hooked a hand under his arm and helped hi
m to his feet. I gestured to Isabella’s damsel to take his arm.

  She guided him back to his companions and in one warbling, wobbling clump they continued on down the corridor and were halfway back to the hall when one of them remembered they had been headed in the other direction. Confusion ensued as they turned in a circle and when Robert lost his balance, lunging forward a step back the way from which they had come, they all took it as a signal of decisiveness and followed.

  Patrice wrinkled her nose in amusement. “Are you coming then?” she said to Isabella. “Everyone has quite forgotten about it. The bishop was very rude. The king was incensed. He ranted for several minutes. I’m certain he will reprimand the bishop even more severely when he sees him again.”

  “My lady, you need not go back to the hall,” I said to the queen.

  She tilted her head, pondering it. Stapledon would be gone, but there would be eyes upon her, questioning. “Tell them, Patrice, if you will, I am tired, or no ... Yes, tell them simply that I am tired and need to rest before leaving in the morning. My apologies to Jeanne. She was more beautiful than any bride I have ever seen.” Patrice gave a short nod and sauntered away, stealing a glance over her shoulder as she went. Then, her jaw taut, Isabella said, “I cannot go to Vincennes alone to sit across from that ferret while he spews his righteousness at me.” She turned pleading eyes on me. “Please, will you – ”

  “I told you – I will be at your side, always.” Then I looked to make sure Patrice had turned the corner to re-enter the hall before I took up the queen’s hand and kissed it lightly. “I will be there at first light. Before if you like. Call on me, anytime you desire me near. I will never be further away than the length of your shadow at noon.”

  Even when I drew my hand away, she was still staring at the ridge of her knuckles where my lips had brushed.

  “In the morning, Sir Roger.” She snatched up the hem of her flowing skirt and hurried away.

  Morning could not arrive soon enough.

  27

  Isabella :

  Palace de la Cité, Paris – June, 1325

  FROM DUSK THROUGH DARKEST night, I writhed beneath sheets that were slickened by my own sweat, taunted by a thousand thoughts, both exhilarating and disturbing. My body grew more fatigued with each lagging hour. Somewhere in the darkness, I heard Patrice’s muffled footsteps as she entered the adjoining outer room and stumbled to bed. Only when quiet followed did I still myself and enter into a world that was half sleep, half waking dream, so that the hours drifted by less torturously.

  I rose before dawn, dressed in comfortable clothes for riding and peered through my open window into the palace courtyard. The air was oddly lifeless, without wind or sound, as if all lay in slumber. All I could see were unmoving shapes of gray – high walls, the peaks and creases of crowded rooflines, scattered treetops – against a black draping pricked by scattered starlight. To the south, a wispy veil of clouds crept silently across the sky, dimming the heavens.

  In the outer chamber adjoining mine, Patrice was stretched out like a lazing cat on her pallet, dozing heavily in a wine-induced slumber. Her wrinkled gown was twisted around her middle and bunched up past her knees, one slipper lost and one only half on. The faint light of first dawn outlined every shape in traces of silver, even Patrice’s tangled curls and the downward lines of her face. I crept past her to the outer door and nudged it open.

  There, with arms crossed, was Mortimer, propped sleepily against the wall. Yawning, he glanced at Patrice in vague curiosity as he entered and went to the far side of the room. As he looked out the single window there, I closed the door behind him and slid the bar back in place.

  His voice was barely above a whisper. “Your English guards, upon hearing you had no more money with which to pay them, have apparently deserted you.” He glided to me, silent as a fox kit stalking a vole. “If Bishop Stapledon had wanted to abduct you last night and carry you kicking and screaming back to England, he would have had an easy game of it.” He eased closer, still studying Patrice who had not yet stirred from her death-sleep. “I will make sure you are looked after. My business here has afforded me friends by the dozens, mutual opponents of King Edward, if you will, who would gladly do me a favor. You’ve already paid me by getting me out of the Tower.”

  It was disconcerting to know even my guards had so readily abandoned me. But as for the rest, Cromwell and Boudon, I had expected them to leave once the treaty was signed. Already they had distanced themselves in anticipation of leaving France. But the remaining skeleton of servants I had been afforded, they had managed to hover even closer of late, to my increasing annoyance, mostly to inquire of their pay.

  “Your part in this was Charles’ idea,” I reminded him. “Bishop Orleton saw to the details.”

  “But you had your part in it, yes?” He inclined his head toward the door of my private chambers in suggestion, as if one more wall between us and the rest of the world would guard our secrets that much better. He came closer, his gaze unbroken, and hitched a shoulder at Patrice. “Can she be trusted?”

  “Patrice? More so yet than you.”

  Patrice mumbled and flopped over, her face now toward us. Her eyelashes fluttered. Drool trickled from the corner of her mouth and she wiped it away with the back of her hand. A few moments later, she was still again. Then a sound outside the door – footsteps passing by – set my heart aflutter. The outer door was barred, but there was no one there to warn us of visitors or to stop intruders. I hurried through my chamber door, letting him follow. Not until the door latch clicked into place did I turn around.

  Mortimer’s mouth curled upward in a faint grin of amusement. “I suppose I’ll have to prove myself, won’t I? But you’ve allowed me in here. We’re practically alone. That says something, does it not?”

  I backed a few steps away to distance myself. “You have been in Hainault a long time.”

  “And elsewhere.” He crossed his arms and, restlessly aware of everything around him, rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. His eyes darted from window to wall to door as he memorized his surroundings. “Too long in Picardy with my cousin and uncle, although I had the pleasure of spending time with one of my sons. Polite company, but their rustic habits inspire nothing but boredom. I’ve also been to Cologne, Koblenz, Toulouse, Boulogne ...”

  “And here – Paris?”

  “Frequently, yes.”

  “Then why have I not seen you until yesterday?”

  He stilled his movements and looked at me sincerely. “Because, my queen, I had pressing business – the forging of important connections, the raising of troops and funds. And all of it ... had everything to do with you.”

  I gave him a sidelong glance. “Do not evade me. I need answers, Sir Roger. Charles protects me like a small child. If I am to be a part of this – and the one without whom it cannot proceed – I must know everything.”

  “Very well. Your brother told me to keep my distance until the treaty was signed. To have been anywhere near you may have jeopardized it. Is that a satisfactory answer?”

  Logical, yes, but why Charles guarded the answer as if it were some great secret was a quandary.

  I paced before my bed where the disheveled blankets from my sleepless night lay half-strewn upon the floor. “How will we pay these troops? How many of them? Will it be enough against the army of England? What is our plan, once we are there?”

  “Ah, quite uninformed, aren’t you? But far-thinking. That impresses me. To arrogantly glide over the sea and tramp upon English soil without some kind of strategy… disastrous, perhaps. Too few fighting men and we could be crushed like grapes under the press. You and I would be taken captive – not long for this world, we can be assured of that. So then how many soldiers would be enough?” He scoffed. “If I had ten thousand men and the means to fund them, I would. But men cost money. So we will make do with what we can. However, it may not take as many men as one would think.

  “Rumor will feed a frenzy for u
s about where and when we’ll arrive, leaving Edward to guess, running to and fro for nothing, wearing himself into a state of carelessness, doubting after awhile that we’ll ever bother. Then, surprise and swiftness will serve us. That is our plan.”

  He gazed at me severely and, satisfied I had no protests thus far, he continued, “As for payment – my relatives and my wife’s will provide some. Your brother has arranged means to allot more from his own personal treasury, but slyly done so it cannot be traced directly to him. The rest will come from the Count of Hainault.”

  “Mercenaries?”

  “The count can ‘loan’ you the men, temporarily, yes. As an escort, if you wish to use that pretense. I assure you – they are the best fighting men on the continent. I would not have sought them out otherwise. The finest horses, the best arms. They are capable soldiers, disciplined. But yes, they are hired soldiers: ‘mercenaries’. His brother, John of Hainault, has volunteered to lead them. But once on English soil, they will not much be welcomed without an English presence beside them. Take no offense, but for as much as you are loved by the people, you are still French. Your son, Lord Edward, if he were with us, why the people would flock to him like starving mice to a newly filled tithe barn. Still, he is far too young to lead an army, should any conflict arise. My lady,” he said, switching abruptly from calm contemplation to fiery insistence, his lower lip drawn taut against his teeth. The glint of old battle memories sparkled from the darkness of his eyes. “I defeated the Irish pagans – with more success and certainty than any man before or since.”