Isabeau, A Novel of Queen Isabella and Sir Roger Mortimer
Page 34
“I said come out!”
Low voices, more than one. Footsteps scraping. The whisper of a blade being drawn.
“Who are you?” a rough voice demanded.
“Sir Roger Mortimer,” I replied, hopeful my name would stoke an ember of fear. But my days of distinction on the field of battle had passed long ago. Of late, I had done little more than see to the gathering of provisions and the quashing of brawls between arrogant mercenaries and petulant Englishmen.
“You should have bloody said so sooner.” The hulking shadow of Sir Thomas Gurney emerged from the darkness of the alcove. He shoved his short sword back into its scabbard and scratched at his roll of belly fat. A broken-toothed grin twisted his ugly face. “Lord Leicester told us to guard the lambs if we found them – to the death. I was hoping you were one of Winchester’s men, so I could.”
I rounded the bulky column from behind which he had appeared. There, two quivering girls, still in their nightclothes, clung together behind the spindly legs of William Ockle. Of the two men, they had apparently perceived him to be the lesser evil and thus claimed refuge with him. Ockle, however, cringed at their touch. The older girl peeked around his waist, her mouth agape and her eyes, the same green as her mother’s, wide with terror. A trembling child was not the sort of fear I had wanted to inspire by my reputation. Then I remembered I still had my sword drawn and my helmet on.
“Lady Eleanor, I’m sorry,” I offered, returning my weapon to its resting place. Then I removed my helmet, laid it at my feet and held my empty arms wide, palms open, to show I meant no harm. “I did not mean to frighten you. I am Sir Roger, in the service of your mother, Queen Isabella. I will take you to her.”
Then the other girl poked her head around Ockle’s other thigh. She sucked at her fingers, her cheeks still plump as an infant’s. Around her shoulders was a ragged square of lambskin. It must be Joanna. And not much older than my own daughter, Beatrice, whom I had never laid eyes on.
My hand held out, I eased toward them. Eleanor pulled her sister back, but Joanna struggled against her grasp, tore free and flung herself forward. The lambskin fell to the floor. Just as I reached down to pick it up, Joanna grasped my wrist between her chubby hands and, without warning, sunk her teeth into the meat of my thumb. I let out a curse and jerked my hand away as she scuttled backward to rejoin her sister.
Ockle fought a smirk. Behind me, Gurney guffawed uncontrollably. Between snorts, he said, “I had a mind to tie that one up in a sack and toss her in the river. Feisty little brat, isn’t she?”
I rounded on him. “She is the queen’s daughter!” I lowered my voice, mindful of the girls. “Say any such thing again and it’s you who’ll be drowning in the river.”
“She’s spirited, is all I meant,” he grumbled. “Wasn’t an easy thing keeping her quiet. She nearly gave us away more than once.”
“Best guard your own tongue, Gurney.”
Eleanor stomped her foot. “Take us to our mother. Now!”
She raised her chin and glared at me. In the wan light, her hair shone like spun honey. She had her mother’s fair looks and her father’s fiery temper. I would have known whose whelp she was without being told.
A purple crescent of teeth marks had appeared at the base of my thumb and I rubbed at it, although that only made it throb worse. I forced a tepid smile, trying to win them. “Lady Eleanor, I said I’d take you to her. She won’t find you hidden in here, will she?”
“I don’t trust you,” Eleanor snapped.
“Let’s leave it go, shall we? We start over. Follow me, out into the nave, and we’ll wait for your mother there. Agreed? I’ve already sent for her.”
Impatient, Ockle wrung Eleanor by the arm and swung her forward. Joanna he dared not touch, instead simply trusting she would follow her sister. Gurney marshaled them with a leer. This time, my aching fist clutched at my side, I hung back. As they whirled past me, Joanna latched onto her sister’s hand and dug her heels in. Eleanor stumbled. Soon, Ockle was dragging them both. Gurney flung curses unfit for the ears of babes. A snarl twisted Ockle’s lips. For a moment, I thought the two men might turn on each other.
Risking harm to myself again, I wrenched Joanna from her sister and snatched her up. She turned surprised eyes on me, but before she could take another chomp, I teased her to my advantage. “You don’t want to anger them, Lady Joanna. They’ve been known to throw little girls, like you, into boiling pots, pepper them and eat them for supper.”
Her hand flew up to cover her mouth. A tiny whimper escaped her throat and she latched her arms around my neck.
Free of the added dead weight, Ockle clenched his fingers around Eleanor’s thin arm and hauled her out the door and into the church nave.
I was shushing little Joanna, when Ockle suddenly let go of Eleanor. She bolted past the tall columns at the back of the church, where daylight streamed in from the open door and freedom promised.
I nearly shouted at Ockle to go after her. Then I saw a long shadow flying down the center of the nave, gaining speed, skirts flaring out.
Arms outspread, Isabella plunged to her knees and Eleanor tumbled into her mother’s waiting embrace.
43
Isabella:
Bristol – October, 1326
“MOTHER! MOTHER!” ELEANOR CRIED.
My heart pounded with joy as my daughter squirmed in my hold. Two years ago she had been torn from my arms by Hugh Despenser. Two years in which she had grown. Two years lost. But my Ella, she had not forgotten me.
“Have you been well, Ella?” I asked, not knowing how else to begin.
“Eleanor, please,” she softly corrected, still holding me tight. “No one calls me ‘Ella’ anymore.” At last, she leaned back to study my face. Her nightclothes were crumpled and her hair mussed, wisps of it springing wildly from her plait. She looked as though she had been roused from her bed in the middle of the night. Gently, she wiped at my tears with the sleeve of her gown. A furrow of concern formed between her brows as she took me in. “I’ve been very well, Mother, and I’m so happy to see you. Aren’t you happy, too?”
I attempted a smile, but it melted under the flood of my tears. “Oh, yes. Never more so.”
Everything ... everything I had done was for this moment. I crushed her slender body to mine again. Steady footsteps echoed against the high, vaulted ceiling of St. Martin’s Chapel. Mortimer strode toward us, holding little Joanna.
“My sweet Joanna.” I beckoned for her. “Will you come to your mother?”
But Joanna was only three the last time she had seen me. My face and voice were no longer familiar to her. She shook her head wildly and buried her face against Mortimer’s shoulder. With a wry grimace, he tried to pry her loose, but she twisted her fingers in the back of his surcoat, clinging for dear life.
“It’s all right,” he promised and carried her to me. Then he knelt down at an angle, so that her face was turned toward me, but her eyes were shut tight.
Eleanor reached out and stroked her hair. “It is her, Joanna. Truly, it is. Mother had to go away, to France, where she grew up. But she’s come home now. She won’t ever leave us again. Ever.”
I cringed at those words. I had hurt them. More than anything, I needed their forgiveness. But it would be hard with Joanna. She was too young to understand.
Eleanor nudged Joanna to me. Fingers shoved in her mouth, she shuffled forward until she stood shyly before me, looking down at the floor. Great blotches of red encircled her eyes where she had rubbed at them and she clutched an undersized piece of lambskin to her chest for warmth. As I drew my youngest to me, I could see the confusion in her face and feel the reluctant stiffness in her body.
A shaft of daylight intruded as the door to the nave flew wide open behind us. Outside, screams still filled the air. Joanna threw her arms around my neck and squeezed, a ripple of fear running through her small body. I scooped her up and stood. A dozen armed men tromped toward us, their spurs chinking.
; “My queen, Sir Roger – Bristol is ours!” Leicester proclaimed from the doorway, sweeping his helmet from his head. “I give you ... our prize!”
The soldiers closed on us, Wake triumphantly leading the way. He threw a stout arm up to halt the men behind him, and then stepped aside. In their midst cowered an old man, frail-looking and wobbling from exhaustion and a battering. He wore a nobleman’s garb: a dagged edged cape draped over his shoulders and across it a heavy golden chain, but his leggings were rent at both knees and one sleeve was half shredded and stained red-brown. Blood seeped from a fresh wound on his arm. Someone shoved him from behind and he stumbled forward, his knees and then hands striking the floor. When he raised his bleary eyes to meet mine, it took me a moment to recall who he was: Hugh Despenser the Elder, Earl of Winchester.
His hair had turned a shocking white, his cheeks were hollowed and the shadows beneath his eyes gray and sunken.
“Please, my lady,” he implored, his thin voice crackling with strain, “in God’s holy name, I beg, have mercy on me. I swear – I sought to return your daughters days ago, but my offers were refused. I would not have kept them from you, otherwise.”
“You asked for clemency without conditions,” Mortimer said. “Did you think – ”
I silenced him with a swift glare. Bowing his head, Mortimer clasped his hands behind him and took a step backward. It was not easy for him, I knew, to hold his tongue, especially when one of the men responsible for depriving him of his possessions knelt powerless before him.
Leicester swaggered past the clump of soldiers until he was before Winchester. He stooped forward, hands on hips, and cocked his head sideways to look at the earl straight on. “If you wanted to give yourself up, Lord Winchester, why did we find you crouched beneath a table weeping your eyes out?”
Winchester sniveled. Blood dripped steadily from the gash in his arm and pooled in the cracks between the tiles, seeping outward in fine rivulets of shimmering red. “I feared for my life.”
“I suppose now,” Leicester said as he straightened, “you’ve decided you do value your life more than your possessions. Pity you didn’t figure that out sooner.” The toe of his boot met Winchester’s cheekbone with a loud crack.
Winchester crashed to the floor, wailing. He threw an arm over his face and rolled up in a ball.
Bellowing, Leicester gripped the pommel of his sword and drew it partway. I thrust my daughters away and grabbed his forearm. “My lord, no! Stop this! Now! He deserves a fair trial.”
“A trial?” Leicester’s jaw quivered in rage. He glared down his nose at me. Reluctantly, he slipped his sword back into its scabbard. “Yes, a trial. But a swift one – and soon. No sense letting him chew on his fate and that of his son like slimed cud. Today?” His fiery eyebrows lifted in suggestion. Suddenly, a scowl dragged the corner of his mouth downward. “Then we can get on with finding the king.”
I thought perhaps Mortimer flinched upon hearing Leicester’s words, but figured I must have imagined it, that he was merely fighting fatigue.
Small arms twined around my waist and I looked down. Her eyes round with fright, Joanna pressed her cheek to my thigh. I took her hand, then reached out to Eleanor and drew her to my side. “I’ll be at St. Augustine’s with the girls,” I said to Mortimer. “They shouldn’t bear witness to this. Send someone to fetch their clothes. I assume they came with some belongings.”
His eyes were dulled by some distant thought, his lips drawn tight against his teeth, but after a few moments he nodded. “And the prisoner, Lord Winchester?”
At the sound of his name, Winchester twitched. I took some pity on him, for he was an old man now. He had followed his son’s ambitions, not forged his own. I sighed and closed my eyes momentarily. I did not want this weight on my shoulders: the life of another. Rather, I would leave it to others. “The earl will be tried by his peers. Gather a tribunal at the chapter house of St. Augustine’s at midday ... and bring Lord Winchester. Until then” – I gave Leicester a warning glance – “Lord Wake, will keep him in his care, unharmed.”
I tugged my daughters forward. The soldiers scattered before us, but Leicester scrambled angrily into our path. “How many on this tribunal – and who?”
“I don’t know, Henry! Now, please, get out of my way.”
“But they’ll have to be found and assembled,” he insisted.
I had wearied of his doggedness, but more than that, I wanted a moment’s peace with my girls. “Do as you wish. Now let us by.”
With my girls at my side, I pushed past him. As we emerged from the church, the sun’s glare nearly blinded me. I paused at the top of the steps to let my eyes adjust. Earlier, I had been intent on finding my daughters and so my surroundings had been a blur, but the carnage that now met my eyes horrified me. The mangled bodies of garrison soldiers were strewn across the outer ward. At the base of the church steps, one of the slain lay sprawled in a pool of blood. His shattered jaw dangled by a flap of skin. A ragged trail of blood marked his final progress as he had struggled toward sanctuary, unsuccessful.
Joanna burrowed into the folds of my skirt, whimpering. Bravely, Eleanor raised her chin and pulled me forward. I swept Joanna up in my arms. The cadence of Eleanor’s strides increased as we neared the bottom, going wide of the dead soldier. She yanked harder. Her hand slipped from mine and she sprinted across the ward, the long plait of her hair unraveling behind her. A clump of captive garrison archers cowered on their knees. She ran past them and through a swarm of soldiers hauling sacks of coin by the armload.
“Eleanor, stop!” I called, certain she would heed me.
My eyes lingered a moment on the impressive treasure mounding in the ward. The Despensers must have decided to store their hoard here in Bristol, the one place they thought could not be taken. The clink of coins rang out as more sacks were flung onto the pile. Near the wall, the prisoners were being stripped of their armor and clothing, down to their breeches, and their weapons were cast upon a heap for sorting.
Hooves thundered over the cobbles. A mounted knight galloped between where I stood and the treasure. Beyond, I saw a tangle of horses’ legs as more mounted men gathered. Eleanor disappeared amongst them. My breath caught at the back of my throat. A horse reared, its dark gray fetlocks dancing as its hooves circled in the air, drawing my attention. Then, Eleanor leapt out of its way and plunged behind a cart.
I pushed Joanna down onto the last step. “Stay here,” I told her, even as she gazed up at me with wide, frightened eyes.
Frantic to find Eleanor and herd her to safety, I started forward, but Father Norbert stumbled in front of me and caught me by the arms. Blood stained his hands. “My lady, where is Sir Roger?”
His fingernails dug through the cloth of my sleeves and into my flesh. I shook my head and tore myself from his clawing grip.
“Please, my lady,” he shrieked after me, his voice rising to a desperate pitch, “please, I need to find him!”
“The church!” I hurtled myself through the confusion. The cart Eleanor had run past blocked my path. I could not see her. Could not remember which way she had gone. My panic rising, I stopped and searched around me, disoriented. My blood raced through my veins, my breath came in rapid gasps.
Finally, I saw the cause for Eleanor’s urgency. Young Edward had cantered into the middle of the ward, Montagu beside him and a string of mounted nobles clipping along close behind. He raised a hand to halt them and slipped from his saddle.
Eleanor sprang into his open arms. As if she weighed no more than a bird, Young Edward lifted her off the ground and swung her around. She trilled with laughter, her head thrown back. When at last he set her down, she reached up on tiptoes, pulled his face down and planted a kiss on his cheek.
“Dear Lord in heaven!”
I spun around to see Ida waddling toward me, barking at soldiers to get out of her way. Joanna was propped on her hip, her lower lip trembling in terror as she gawped at the chaos and gore around her.
“Ida, hush, please.” I put my arm around her and pulled her close. “You needn’t worry anymore. They’re safe.”
‘I’m going to give you your daughters back, Isabeau,’ Mortimer had said.
And he had.
*****
They were delicate hours in my room at St. Augustine’s, those first few, filled with long periods in which I simply stared at my girls, wondering if I would awaken from a dream and find myself back in France, or worse ... in the Tower under the incessant scrutiny of Hugh Despenser. But each time Joanna or Eleanor stirred from their nap and stretched, my heart would suddenly flutter and a surge of warmth would flood my entire body, reminding me it was real. But I regarded it as a very fragile reality. Over and over, I thanked God for giving them back to me – and my gentle Mortimer for seeing that God’s will was carried out.
I had not heard from Mortimer since leaving him in the church. The silence began to weigh on me as I recalled Father’s Norbert’s frantic urgency, although Arnaud arrived at my door late in the morning with some of the girls’ clothes from the castle, so I knew Mortimer had followed through on my request. Blushing as her hands brushed his, Patrice took the clothes from Arnaud. I noticed how his eyes lingered on her, tired though he must have been from a fight that had begun well before dawn.