Isabeau, A Novel of Queen Isabella and Sir Roger Mortimer

by N. Gemini Sasson

  I plucked up a sprig of mint, pinched at a leaf and held it to my nose. “I know that – better than you think I do. But who am I to trust? Am I to review with you every person, every move, every thought before acting?”

  “What I am telling you is to be careful. You trust with your heart and not your head. Hearts can be deceived.”

  “It was my heart that told me to trust you. Was it wrong then?”

  He hung his head, perhaps sensing the futility of this argument. “I’ve spent too many days, weeks ... nay, years agonizing over this to let it be too easily undone.”

  “Sir Roger – ”

  He held up a single finger to hush me. “We’re alone. ‘Roger’ will do.”

  “Agonizing over what, Roger? Revenge?” His name felt thickly strange upon my tongue, but in my mind I practiced saying it over and over until it became an incantation.

  He thumped the pomegranate on the ground between us. “You think I am doing this only for revenge?” The look he gave me then was grave and foreboding. “I risk your life as well as mine by being here.”

  ‘By being here’? I didn’t know whether he meant by being in France or by being here right now, with me. I only knew that I felt suddenly, overwhelmingly panicked. Why was it that when I was with him, one moment I was never more myself and the next I could not have leapt from my own skin fast enough? Roiling in confusion, I shrugged. “What other reason could there be?”

  The pomegranate tumbled away with a push of his fingers. “This,” he whispered, raising himself up to kneel before me. He slid the palm of his hand across my cheek, down my neck and around until his fingers were entwined in my hair, pulling my face to his.

  “Isabella,” he whispered. His breath washed over me in a flood of awakening.

  I tilted my chin upward. His lips sought mine and found their answer readily as I returned his kiss.

  His kiss.

  I sank back onto the ground, pulling him with me, bits of leaves entangling in my hair, the sweet scent of crushed grass and wild mint surrounding me ... and I did not stop him, but encouraged him, invited him, to do as he wished ... as I wanted ... as I had ached for.

  As I had longed for all my life.

  *****

  Every day I went and found him, begged his advice, echoed it ... not because I needed it immediately, but because I needed an excuse to be with him. He came to me as much as I sought him. Sometimes, I had merely to think his name and he was there. At my request, Mortimer was given the room next to mine. Between his bedchamber and my wardrobe room was a secret panel, concealed on my side by rows of gowns and on his by a wide tapestry.

  There were times when all was dark and quiet that I would go to him. And he would take my hands, pull me to him, cover me in kisses – my lips, my neck, my breasts – peeling away my clothes until they lay in a tangle at my feet. Then he would carry me to his bed and make love to me, slowly, gently, fiercely. Afterwards, we held each other and spoke in drawn-out whispers. Our fingers wandered over one another’s bodies. We savored every moment of our togetherness, knowing that daylight would come and usher us back to our separate roles: the cast-off queen and her… we had not quite established to the rest of the world what he was to me yet. A counselor, perhaps? My commander? In private, at least, Roger Mortimer was my lover.

  During the day, there were also stolen moments, rarer ones, but all the more feverish in their brevity – usually in my wardrobe. It is not a simple thing for a queen to accommodate her lover at will. Most often, it had to be arranged in advance, coordinated. That was where Patrice and Arnaud came to be of help. Marie was far too virtuous to entrust with the details of our affair. I could have trusted Juliana, but she had departed for Corbeil for the birth of her third child. It was unlikely she would return to attend me afterwards.

  Although I had confided to Patrice the unhappy story of Arnaud’s wife and child, she still refused his attempts at anything more than a casual friendship, so it was yet bitter between them. Otherwise, there was nothing the two of them would not do on my or Mortimer’s behalf. Clever spies that they were, they guarded our doors and our secrets, concocted alibis for us, and kept us acutely abreast of Stapledon’s whereabouts.

  There was one more way in which Patrice helped. I was frightfully aware that what Roger and I were doing could result in a pregnancy and that was a risk neither of us could afford. So it was that I sought Patrice’s advice on the matter.

  “You wish, then, to prevent this altogether?” She drew a stitch slowly through a piece of embroidery that she had picked up out of boredom, for Patrice usually loathed such tedious domesticity, preferring to gossip instead. “Or to ... take care of ‘it’, should the need arise?” She tilted her head at the word ‘it’, which only accentuated her highly arched brow more.

  “I ... I don’t know. It seems as though, after my first child at least, I conceived almost every time I was with Edward.” I sat down on my stool, running my fingers over the teeth of a jeweled and silver hair comb. I had considered the giving of my body to Edward to be a sacrifice of sorts – I loathed his touch every odious time, fought nausea and tears as he ground his hips into me and then ended with a grunt and a twitch. My only consolation was in the brevity of his lovemaking, if one could even call it that. I put my duty as a queen above my repulsion and learned to absent myself in mind. Yet now, with Mortimer, I was never more enthralled in each moment, eager for the next.

  A child could come of it and ... already I could be ...

  Patrice jammed the needle into her thumb, squealed and gave me a serious look. “Then I will tell you how to keep it from happening. But you must do it every time afterwards, within hours, or else you will grow a baby inside of you and then ... that is more dangerous to take care of. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “I need rue from the herb garden. Vinegar from the kitchen.”

  I sent a servant to fetch me both and a few other ingredients Patrice requested. Within the hour she made me a preparation out of the rue mixed with wine. This I was to drink every day. The vinegar was stirred with finely ground willow bark into a watery paste. This I was to wash my private parts with after being with Mortimer. The elixir of rue, as Patrice warned me, did make me bleed more heavily during my cycle, which sometimes left me light enough in the head to keep me in bed. Despite that, I was religiously observant of these practices. The Church may have frowned upon them, but so it did adultery, too. And I meant to give no proof of that to the world.

  Bishop Stapledon, I knew, collected information and fed it to Edward at every instance, augmenting the rumors that were already rampant: that I had no intention of returning to England on congenial terms, that my son’s filial devotion to me had displaced his fealty to his own father, that a scheme was afoot to either overthrow him or murder his favorite, and that I had taken a lover – a traitor to Edward, no less.

  In every rumor, they say there is a grain of truth. Sometimes, ‘they’ are not altogether wrong.

  30

  Isabella:

  Vincennes – October, 1325

  AS THE WEEKS WORE on, like a pestering horsefly Bishop Stapledon appeared more and more frequently, demanding to speak with me on insignificant matters. I began to delay and then avoid him, perturbed at having my privacy so frequently invaded. When I did meet with him, I was brusque, wickedly pointed and liberal with my arguments. He chafed at being defied by a woman, inserted his strict interpretations of scripture repeatedly and fulminated, comparing me to Eve and Mortimer to the serpent in the Garden of Eden. But if I felt any trace of sin, I denied it completely.

  In late September, Young Edward was formally invested with the titles of Duke of Aquitaine and Count of Ponthieu and Montreuil. A day later he placed his hands between Charles’ and swore homage. He conducted himself with the aplomb of one twice his age, but it did not go without notice that instead of bowing his head in obeisance throughout the ceremony, he kept his chin up and his eyes directly on Charles’, a
s if already he considered himself his uncle’s equal – or perhaps even his superior. When Charles withdrew his troops from Gascony in terms with the treaty, again Bishop Stapledon demanded I return to England, since there was nothing more to be done in France. Once more Charles openly denied him.

  Young Edward also refused to go back to England. It was then that events began to precipitate more rapidly.

  *****

  Morning had not yet arrived. I lay in Mortimer’s bed, his arm lightly over my waist, his chest warm and hard against my back, his breath stirring the hair at the nape of my neck. For hours sometimes, I would feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat as he held me, listen to the intake of his breath or memorize the lines in his hardened face, the shape of each muscle, the length of every finger – for the only thing I had come to fear was the prospect of being without him. I moved gently from beneath his arm and looked over the edge of the bed for my clothes.

  “Back to sleep,” he murmured, reaching out and pulling me to him. “All’s quiet now. I’ll not let you go, Isabeau.” He had taken to calling me by my childhood name. Coming from his lips, it had an entirely different sound. Sweeter, more longing.

  “I should go back, Roger.” I felt compelled to return to my own room. We treaded dangerously, flouting discretion by the frequency of our trysts – all of which only heightened their intensity and made the promise of being together again even more powerful and undeniable.

  “But I’m not done with you,” he whispered.

  He kissed my neck, beneath my chin, and began his way downward. Before he reached my collarbone, I had forgotten about going. I was so easily persuaded.

  His knee wedged pleadingly between my legs. I put my hands around his neck and pulled him over me.

  “Say that you will love me like this forever,” I said, “no matter what happens.”

  He smiled as if in a dream. “Isabeau, there is only now – only you and me.” Then, he chased away the uncertainty of the future as if it was but a pebble flung from his hand.

  I was lost within our lovemaking when a pair of fists banged upon his door and toppled us from our heaven.

  Mortimer ripped himself abruptly from me and rolled from beneath the sheets, so that a blast of cold air shocked me into both fright and awareness. He leapt into a pair of breeches, fumbling with a knot in the cord as he went to the door. The single candle on his nightstand, burnt down to a stub, wavered and struggled.

  “Who is it?” Mortimer said gruffly. A low voice answered him, but the words were unintelligible to me.

  I began to get up to put my clothes back on and hurry through the secret door back to my wardrobe, but he gestured for me to stay. I burrowed beneath the blanket and pulled it up over me, certain the door would crash down and soldiers rush in to arrest us. But I heard only the click of a latch and the creak of hinges as Mortimer let someone in and locked the door again. I peeked from beneath the blanket. It was Arnaud.

  “The bishop,” he said, catching his breath. “He left. Said he was going back to England.”

  “Did he say why?” Mortimer asked.

  “He told Maltravers his life was in danger – that he had received a letter warning him he would be murdered if he did not quit the country at once.”

  “And who sent him this ‘letter’?”

  Arnaud drew a piece of crumpled parchment from inside his sleeve and handed it to Mortimer, who gave it a cursory look. “It was not signed, my lord.”

  A threat upon the bishop’s life? Certainly this was not Charles’ doing?

  “I trust you let him go?” Mortimer suggested.

  “Should we have stopped him ... or followed him? Should we now?”

  “No, no. It is a relief to be rid of him.” He thanked Arnaud for his swiftness in reporting the matter. As soon as Arnaud had left, Mortimer came and sat down on the bed.

  When I finally looked, he was holding the letter over the candle. The flame licked at its edge and then curled upward, turning the yellow parchment to floating wisps of burnt black.

  I raised myself up, clutching the covers to my bosom. “He will accuse you.”

  “I shall deny it absolutely. All that matters now ... is that he’s gone.”

  “Back to England – where he shall tell Edward of us.”

  “Hmmm, he shall, I suppose. But I am sure Edward already knows. What’s important is that Stapledon left without you. And you’re still here with me.”

  31

  Isabella:

  Vincennes – July, 1326

  MANY LETTERS WERE CARRIED abroad as a long winter passed into a fleeting spring. Then summer arrived prematurely on an arid, unrelenting wind, and replies began to pour in. Several more times Edward demanded my return. I called for Despenser to be banished forever from England. Edward again refused. Meanwhile, I also engaged in lengthy correspondences with Count William of Hainault regarding both the hand of one of his daughters for Young Edward and to implore his help. Those letters were met with enthusiasm and openness. But there were other letters – letters that were to threaten our plans. From Edward to Pope John. And from the Pope to Charles. Letters regarding my relationship with Mortimer.

  Even worse, I did not realize to what lengths Bishop Stapledon would pursue revenge until my cousin Robert of Artois arrived in my solar at Vincennes unexpectedly. In the long golden light of a summer evening, Robert’s face appeared ashen with concern. He turned his feathered cap in his hands, hunting for the proper words. I could not ever recall seeing him without a glint of merriment in his eyes or a grin teasing at the corners of his lips.

  “Trouble from England,” he mumbled, his mouth suddenly plunging in a sullen frown, “and elsewhere.”

  “Should that surprise us?” I tried to make light of it, but the slump of Robert’s shoulders said that the news would be a heavy blow. “Does Edward order me back again? Or does he threaten to steal his heir back from beneath Charles’ nose?”

  “Lord Despenser told Pope John the only reason you have stayed in France until now is because Roger Mortimer has threatened your life, should you leave.”

  “That’s a lie,” I said, incredulous. “I choose to stay and I have been plain about why I am here and not in England. Because of Despenser. Oh, it does not surprise me one whit to hear him deflect the blame. Well then, I shall offer no retort. He may as well have accused me of witchery for putting a pinch of herbs on my pillow.”

  Robert cleared his throat. “The Pope has demanded that King Charles turn Sir Roger, and you, out.”

  On the stool next to me by the window, Marie laid down her needlework. Patrice, who had been straightening the clothes in the wardrobe, dashed into the room, aghast.

  “What say does the Pope have in where I am or what I do?”

  “Complete say where it concerns morality.” Robert ran a finger along the spine of the pheasant feather on his cap. “King Edward has written to the Pope repeatedly. It would seem, fair cousin, that your relationship with Sir Roger is much talked about, both on the continent and in England. King Edward claims” – he lowered his eyes – “that Charles is harboring adulterers. The Pope, by indication of his decree, gives credence to the accusation.” Robert tugged a letter from beneath his overtunic and held it out, but did not move toward me.

  I crossed the room on weak knees, took the letter and read it.

  Our Dearest Sister,

  Your work here has been of immeasurable value. We have reached an agreeable peace with England. You services are, however, concluded and I have no cause to continue to support you. It has come to bear that I can no longer grant you refuge, either. Pope John has decreed that your behavior, as a married woman, is intolerable and sinful. To disregard him on this delicate matter would be to accept excommunication. My faith is foremost. I cannot afford estrangement from the Church or the relinquishment of my soul. With even greater regret, I have forbidden any of my subjects to give you aid, on pain of banishment. I pray one day we will both be resolved of these unfortunate i
ssues. Therefore, I ask you to go, but in peace and with my blessing.

  God grant you a good and long life,

  Charles, by the grace of God, King of France

  Fontainebleau

  I held the letter, my heart slowly going cold. My own brother, who had so vehemently defended me, given me succor, supported me in my grievances against my husband – he, too, was abandoning me?

  I staggered toward the closest chair and crumpled into it, my body as limp as my will to go on. I wanted to call Mortimer to me that moment, wanted to throw myself into the comfort of his arms. He could put everything right. But I could not, not now – not with Robert here before me and this condemnation, this damning sentence of adultery and treason, swinging above my head as God’s absolute and eternal judgment.

  Robert came to me, kissed me on the forehead and brought his mouth close to my ear. “Count William of Hainault is expecting you and Sir Roger in Valenciennes. You are to leave this very night. Everything has been prepared for you.” As he drew back, his hand lingered on my shoulder.

  Charles? I mouthed.

  He nodded in answer.