Isabeau, A Novel of Queen Isabella and Sir Roger Mortimer

by N. Gemini Sasson

  Whenever the rain let up, our archers lobbed their missiles from rooftops at sentries on the castle walls, while the garrison archers returned the volleys. Within their homes, the townspeople huddled as stray arrows thwacked against their roofs. If not for the frequent rain, undoubtedly the garrison would have returned flaming arrows and burned Bristol to the ground in its own defense.

  Meanwhile, east of the castle and within plain view, we hauled timber, sawed it and fit it together as we built our siege engines. But the carpenter’s work was woefully slowed by the heavy rains that soaked the earth and turned the fields into marshes, a situation that rankled the engineer I had brought all the way from Koblenz for just such a purpose. He threatened to quit England when I forbid the machine from being moved into range the moment it was finished, until he found the point of my sword pressed to his throat. His mind changed quickly.

  For six days straight, Winchester offered to give himself up, although he made no further mention of his son. And every time I sent back the same answer – that his life and his son’s were forfeit.

  On the seventh day, I returned no answer. He would have it soon enough.

  40

  Roger Mortimer:

  Bristol – October, 1326

  ISABELLA STOOD ON A grassy knoll to the east of the city, the hood of her mantle pushed back onto her shoulders and her feet braced to withstand the buffeting wind. She surveyed the vast army that engulfed the town and the high walls behind which her daughters were. Beside her was Bishop Orleton, his gold embroidered amice pulled up over his head to cover his ears and ward off the cold.

  “My lady,” I hailed as I tramped over the slick, wind-bent grass of the small hill. “Your grace.”

  A polite smile curved Orleton’s fine lips as he nodded in greeting. “Will we see you at Mass tomorrow, Sir Roger?”

  “Is tomorrow Sunday?” I figured if I needed to speak with God, He would know where to find me, whether I was at church or not.

  “No, but it’s All Hallow’s. We will honor all the saints and martyrs who – ”

  “Your pardon, good bishop, but I regret I must tend to my querulous flock of misfits, even on holy days, lest they add murder to their litany of sins.”

  “You have been engrossed in other details as well, I see.” He turned his gaze to the open area at the western foot of the hill.

  There, rising from the marshy meadow like a dragon out of the earth’s messy bowels was the monstrosity which had consumed me lately: the trebuchet. I had finally ordered the great machine to be moved into position. The threat of it would distract from other goings-on within the town walls.

  Isabella quailed visibly. “What are they loading in the trebuchet, Sir Roger?”

  “A horse’s head, my lady. It was an old cart horse with a bad leg,” I added, trying to convince her that a lame beast was more useful dead than alive. It had taken a small host of footsoldiers to haul on ropes as the counterweight of the trebuchet was brought into place. Large shields covered in wet hides had protected the workers from the garrison’s arrows. “Its injury became infected. It was a kindness to put it out of its misery.”

  She turned sorrowful eyes on me. “And you will ... throw it over the castle walls?”

  “Where it will rot and raise a holy stink.” The horse had been put down two days ago and already its corpse was emitting a stench strong enough to bring the buzzards circling. I omitted mention of the other grotesque warnings that would follow, should other plans fail. Shortly after our arrival, Sir John Maltravers had captured a small reconnaissance party of Winchester’s. If the captives did not provide more useful information than what had so far been extracted from them, their severed heads would be the next thing lobbed over the walls.

  Pulling her fur-lined mantle tight to her breast for warmth, Isabella looked at Bristol’s stout walls. “Why do we not offer the earl terms? Let it all be over with.”

  “The ladies Joanna and Eleanor will not be harmed,” I assured her, although I avoided arguing with her about Winchester. I meant to see the man’s head on a stake for all he and his son had cost me. “Trust me in this. You’ll have them sooner than you believe.”

  “My faith in you, Sir Roger, is not in question.” Her voice was airy and strained. “My daughters are still in danger. That is all I know or can think of. It robs me of sleep and wrings the blood from my heart.”

  A gust of wind, carrying the faint tang of salt air, ripped across the open ground. Golden strands of hair lashed at Isabella’s face. She ran her tongue over chapped lips, as if to speak, then turned away and took the arm of Bishop Orleton. They descended the hill, where horses awaited to take them back to the abbey.

  I did not tell her that before noon tomorrow, Bristol would be ours. If I had, she would not have believed me anyway.

  Overhead, gulls shrieked and dove against a clearing afternoon sky where high clouds raced eastward like tufts of lamb’s wool tumbling in the wind. In the meadow below, the crank of the trebuchet’s winch screeched as the men gave it one more turn. The beam groaned in answer against the strain. Father Norbert waved his hands in a blessing of the machine – although I was sure he had been dragged there and forced to do it. Then, the engineer released the pin. As the counterweight slammed downward, the sling flew through its chute, and then arced out and up. Father Norbert dropped to his knees and raised his hands to heaven, crying out for God’s wisdom to rain down and make the Earl of Winchester relent of his evil ways.

  A pleasing sentiment ... but inside the castle was probably another priest, asking for God’s protection.

  *****

  Clods of mud packed the soles of my boots as I trudged to the Earl of Kent’s pavilion. He expected a report on the trebuchet and so I went, hoping it would be short. As I stopped before the earl’s quarters, Gerard d’Alspaye hailed me and approached, his feet flinging streaks of mud against nearby tents with each stride.

  “Leicester’s men will be ready, come morning,” he reported.

  I drew my sword, scraped the mud from my soles and slipped it back into its scabbard. “Good. Make certain, though, that they are all in place well before nightfall.”

  Gerard went and I nodded to the young man standing guard before Kent’s pavilion. He announced me and drew aside the flap.

  “Come in, Sir Roger.” Edmund, Earl of Kent, pushed a map across the table at me with the point of his knife.

  It was dark inside the pavilion, despite being midday. Rain had fallen weeklong and although a drop had yet to fall that day, heavy clouds still cloaked the sun. A rising wind hammered at the walls, threatening to topple the pavilion. Already two had fallen that afternoon, one of those being Leicester’s, which had sent him into a terrible dudgeon.

  “Did it work?” he asked.

  “Well enough,” I said. “But the mud is shin-deep in places. Moving the trebuchet into better positioning to hurl stones at the walls or towers will be near to impossible. We’ll have to be content with sending them putrid offerings of peace. Just as well, though. The queen does not want her daughters put in danger.” The whole industry, however, was no more than a ploy, meant to convince Winchester that he should accept his fate. Kent was better left in the dark until the assault began. If he learned of it beforehand, he might ruin it simply by trying to take part in it.

  Kent twirled his knife between his thumb and forefinger. “He brought this upon himself.”

  “Winchester?” I bent over the map to study it – a map of Wales and the Marches, with a tattered hole where Gloucester should have been.

  “Edward.” He scratched furiously at the table with his blade, making a deep gouge in the wood. “I tried to tell him it would come to this. Everyone did.”

  “Ah, and I thought you’d asked me here to discuss the accuracy and range of our beloved war machine.” A sneer flitted across his mouth, telling me he did not share in my sarcasm. I smoothed the torn edges of the map with my fingertips, trying to push them back together. To appease him,
I sobered. “The king, your brother, does not accept blame readily. When you gave him advice he didn’t want to hear, he took it as an attack on his person. So instead, he chose to believe the one who flattered him when he doubted himself, consoled him when he felt offense.”

  “And why did you not do that, Sir Roger?” Kent arched a pale brow and tilted his head to one side. “You were high in his favor once. You could have been the one sitting at Edward’s right hand, had you said what he wanted to hear. Yet you defied him.”

  “For the same reasons you did, my lord. Because I could not curry favor with a man who had been led so far off the path of what was right and just.” Besides, Despenser held a power over Edward that no one else ever would. “But it is as you said – you tried, I tried, others did. To no good end.”

  Kent, however, was only half listening.

  “My lord,” I said, “why did you ask me here?”

  He slammed the knife into the table, embedding its point. “My brother’s rule has been nothing but disaster,” he blurted out. “Someone else, someone more fit to wear a king’s crown, should sit in his place.”

  For a moment, I wondered if he meant himself. Like me, Edward’s brothers had been cheated out of much in favor of Despenser. They would want their due, and the opportunity was at hand. But there were three in line ahead of Kent: the princes, Edward and John, and his full brother, the Earl of Norfolk. Kent was hardly arrogant enough to reach that far.

  I plied carefully. “You speak of removing Edward from the throne. Is that wise? There may be some yet who would consider it treason.” While England had rushed to our aid, eager to cast away Hugh Despenser, the question still remained of what to do with Edward. In one aspect, Kent was completely right: Edward was incapable of governing his kingdom properly.

  With a loud sniff, he looked down sulkily and shrugged. “I didn’t want to turn against him, you know. How does a man betray his own brother?”

  So Kent doubted himself. That made him unreliable. Still, it perturbed me to come here for no more reason than to absorb his guilt. A tavern whore would have more compassion for him than I did. Bristol Castle was about to fall and with it the Despensers. I preferred not to waste any more time in this manner, yet I needed to know where he stood. “Are you willing to carry through, my lord, once they are found?”

  “I see no other way to end it. The earldoms of Gloucester and Winchester – they should have been given to Thomas and me, not to those ingratiating weasels.” He threw himself onto a pile of furs, locked his hands behind his head, and gazed up at the ceiling pensively. Outside, boots slurped through the mud. Two soldiers complained of the snoring of a third as they passed by, bantering ideas about as to how to silence him. As the voices faded into the lazy hum of camp noise, Kent flipped over, propped himself up on his elbow and jabbed a finger at me. “A word of warning, Sir Roger: do not aim too high.”

  “I aim at nothing,” I replied tersely. “I only mean to correct the wrongs that have been done.”

  “Do you?” His fine lips tilted into a curious smirk. “Oh, I think you’re like any other man who has stepped into the circle of power. Temptation calls your name. It whispers promises of immortality in your ear. Speaks to you of glory and greatness. What man wouldn’t harken to that?”

  I did not answer. If Kent wanted to accuse me of ambition, it was only because he lacked the ability to take action himself. And if not me, then who? Yes, I had failed before, but this time I would succeed. A blast of damp air tossed the map onto the ground and I bent to pick it up.

  “My lords.” An apologetic guard peered through barely parted tent flaps. “Sir Roger, a messenger to see you.”

  Before Kent or I could reply, Simon de Beresford slipped past the guard and entered, the rank smell of wet horse and rotting leather wafting after him. Mud was splattered over his legs and chest.

  “You bring word of the king?” I asked.

  Ignoring me, Simon edged closer to the side of the table where an untouched loaf of bread and a flagon of wine sat. He wore the gaunt, weary look of one who had been on the road too long and needed the relief of strong drink.

  I scooped up the loaf of bread and tossed it to him, but left the wine where it was.

  Simon caught the bread in his grimy hands and tore it in two. “Stale,” he proclaimed, yanking a forearm across his snotty nose. Then he tore off a piece with his teeth and gnawed on it. “Something to wash it down with?”

  Indignant, Kent tucked his chin in. “Who is this ... this dung-fly?”

  “Simon de Beresford.” With exquisite slowness, I poured a cup of wine and gave it to Simon. “A spy. Mine.”

  At that, Kent scrambled to his feet, his eyes wide with curiosity. “Well, then, what have you to say, Simon de Beresford? By your looks, I say you’ve come a long way without rest. Important news?”

  “Important news deserves good pay,” he returned sharply, “especially when it involves England’s future.” He guzzled his drink, then pushed the cup along the edge of the table, wanting more.

  “You’ll get your reward,” I reminded him, ignoring his gesture, “later, as we discussed.”

  “And a hefty one it will be, I don’t doubt. Although I have, at times, wondered if you haven’t offered me things which are not yours to give away. Still, a man has to eat, to drink ... to partake of small comforts along the way. I cannot accept other duties when my every waking hour is spent on uncovering the king and his pet snake.”

  Nearly tripping over his pile of furs, Kent turned and went to a small chest on the far side of the pavilion. He flipped the lid open, snatched up a trinket and hurled it in Simon’s direction.

  A band of gold flashed in the dimness. Simon flung a hand out and caught the ring. Palm open, he nudged at it with a finger. “Coin is better, but this will serve ... for now.”

  “Your news?” Kent probed in an irritated tone.

  Simon slipped the ring into a pouch at his belt beside the long knife he wore. “King Edward and Hugh Despenser set sail from Chepstow two days ago.”

  I took a step back, absorbing his words. Gone? To where? Bloody hell ... bloody damnable hell. Those who would not be overjoyed to hear it, those who wanted bodily revenge on Despenser, would blame me for letting them go.

  “They’ve left England, both of them?” I questioned. For a week I had held hope that Despenser was inside the castle. With him in our hands, Edward would do whatever we begged of him, including giving up his throne. But if Despenser had slipped away under our noses, or left before we even arrived, it was a grand opportunity missed and Leicester would use that failure against me. “You’re certain of this?”

  “Leicester said he was here,” Kent muttered.

  “He was here,” I retorted, tired of Kent’s childish sulking. If allowed to, Kent would kick at the dirt and whine about this for days before a sound thought for action entered his head – days that could not be wasted.

  Kent stomped his foot. “All this, this ... waiting and wasting time. Turning away from Gloucester, where we might have had them. To come here. For nothing.”

  “It wasn’t for nothing. Your nieces are inside.” And my uncle. But I said nothing of him. This siege could not be regarded as my personal blood feud, whether it was or not. My every move would be scrutinized by not only Kent, but others grappling for position in the rising momentum of this upheaval.

  “We could have had him,” Kent whined.

  “Unlikely,” Simon calmly interrupted, “unless you would have sent a small party ahead after him. You missed him by less than a day.” He took the flagon of wine, brought it to his mouth and downed its contents in one long swallow. “Despenser came to Bristol to retrieve his money. Sacks of gold, most of it hidden here. Some in Gloucester, too. But when he learned you were coming, he left in the middle of the night. Couldn’t take it all with him.”

  Even desperate and running for his life, Despenser could not abandon his hoard. It was the only means they had left. Wherever they w
ere going, even if no one would voluntarily give them succor, not many would turn down money.

  Then, it struck me with the force of a well-aimed lance blow to the chest.

  England was without a king.

  41

  Roger Mortimer:

  Bristol – October, 1326

  TOO LATE, I REALIZED my mistake in allowing Simon to deliver his news in the presence of Kent. I had but one means to circumvent the damage that could be done and turn it into opportunity. One way to preserve what I had so far gained.

  I went to St. Augustine’s in search of Isabella, but was curtly reminded by an agitated monk that it was All Hallow’s Eve. The queen and Lord Edward were within the Lady Chapel, praying in honor of all the martyrs since before the time of Christ. For nearly an hour I waited, expecting her to emerge from her devotions. Impatient, I paced the length of the cloister court. From somewhere, the faint scent of wood smoke drifted on a dying breeze. I looked up to see a sky that was black for lack of star or moon. Drifting clouds were edged in silver. They must have already lit the bonfire in the market square to ward off the wandering souls who had not yet found their way to heaven or hell. A passing beggar, who was leaning on a crutch fashioned from a weathered branch, his teeth half gone and a putrid wound on his neck seeping puss, offered to share his blood pudding with me. I refused, telling him if I wanted to gorge myself on pig’s offal I would gut him. He limped away in a hurry.

  Finally, Patrice came to fetch me, saying the queen had already taken to her quarters for the night, but would see me briefly. She led me to the queen’s room within the abbey, where Arnaud stood guard at the door. His presence took me by surprise, although a welcome one it was. If Isabella had intended to grant me nothing more than a few minutes, she would not have posted her most trusted squire outside her door. The moment I was through the threshold, Patrice closed it behind me.