“I have your word on this?” he asks Pembroke.
“I pledge my estates and my honour,” Pembroke answers, solemn. “The Lords Ordainers act under law,” Pembroke sniffily adds. “We are knights of the realm, not animals!”
This is not enough persuasion for Edward. He has him swear on the Bible he will keep his prisoner safe.
Next day she watches from the window as Edward says his farewells. The king and his dearest cling to each other desperately. Finally Gaveston pulls away and jumps on his horse.
Then he is gone, surrounded by a squadron of armed knights in Pembroke’s colours. Edward runs alongside the troopers for as long as he can, and then waves after him until he is out of sight.
Surely a king does not behave this way.
Chapter 17
Old Hugh comes to York, the only one of the earls to remain unflaggingly loyal. He shuffles into the Great Hall with sweat on his upper lip. He has a letter from the rector at Deddington. He is my son’s man, he says. My son, Hugh. You remember Hugh?
The King stares at him, as if he is mad. He has not heard of Deddington and cares for its rector even less, particularly at this moment.
Isabella puts a restraining hand on his arm: hear him out.
“The Earl of Cornwall has been taken by my Lord Warwick,” he says.
Edward frowns, leans forward. What is this old fool saying? “Perro is at Wallingford. Pembroke has him under house arrest.”
“I only know what the messenger tells me. I thought Your Grace should know.”
The king jumps to his feet. He calls for a messenger to be sent to Pembroke immediately. It is two days ride, perhaps three. His eyes are wild. Warwick? The Black Dog has Gaveston? How is this possible?
It is just some foul rumour, surely. But he is panicked.
Isabella shudders to think what Warwick would do to Gaveston if he ever had him in his power. Yet she is torn; she wants Edward’s favourite out of the way, without him she is sure she would have the Edward she has always desired.
She puts a hand to her belly, and the restless son of England. One does not know which outcome best to wish for.
Edward begs her on his knees to appeal to her father. What if this perverse news is true? He promises he will return to France half of Gascony if Phillip will save Gaveston’s life. What can she do? She sends the letter, as he asks, in the cold certainty that no one across the sea will lift a finger to save Edward’s favourite. Even a sixteen year old girl can see the inevitable. He has got in everyone’s way. Edward’s love is the kiss of death.
The king cannot sit still, even for a moment. He has barely slept since old Despenser brought his news. He sits on a throne in the Great Hall, cursing the servants if his wine cup is ever less than half full and has his clerks dash off letters to every prince and nobleman he can think of.
It is summer and the days are long, a violet dusk clings to the dales. Six days after the messenger was sent she hears a rider enter the castle gates. The shouts and the ring of hooves on the cobbles stirs Edward from his wine rosy lethargy; he has drunk too much at dinner and was presently asleep at the table. She runs to the window.
In fact not one messenger but two; their horses have been ridden almost to death and there is foam on their flanks. The couriers themselves are covered in sweat and dirt, evidence of a hard ride indeed.
She turns to Edward, sees the fear in his face. The servants sidle up to the walls, keeping to the darker corners. She can see it in their faces; they feel sorry for the man who bears the message and not one of them wishes to be in Edward’s sight when the fateful words are spoken.
Old Hugh intercepts them at the door. There is a whispered conversation and then he comes in quiet. “These men have news for you, Your Grace.”
“Who are they?” Edward says.
“They say that they are, they were, in the employ of my Lord Gaveston.”
They throw themselves in the rushes at the king’s feet.
There is a long silence.
He finally gives them leave to speak. “Tell me,” he says, finally, in a strangled voice.
The men look at each other. Neither of them wants to be the one to say it. “My Lord Gaveston has been brought to trial,” the braver of the two says.
A muscle in Edward’s cheek twitches. “Trial?” He is absolutely still. “Who presided over such a trial?”
“The Lord Lancaster, your grace.”
“But where was Pembroke? I don’t understand.”
“He was at Bampton, your Grace.”
“Wasn’t Gaveston at Wallingford?”
“He was taken from Deddington rectory by Lord Warwick.”
Edward shakes his head. What are these men talking about? “But this is impossible. Pembroke was sworn to protect him!”
“Lord Pembroke was not there. He had left Deddington overnight to visit his wife. That’s when Warwick came and took him.”
Edward is white. But he is in no hurry to hear what must be told. While it is not said, it is not done. “On what charge?”
“That he had contravened the twentieth Ordinance.”
“An ordinance I have since revoked! There was a trial, you say? And what did my lord Gaveston say in his defence to this “charge”?”
“Your Grace, they did not allow him to speak.”
“But Pembroke gave his word to me!”
“The others of your nobles would not honour his negotiation. Not even Gloucester.”
There is the sound of choking; it appears to come from Edward, but she cannot swear to it. His face is implacable.
“What have they done?”
“Your Grace, he is beheaded.”
Edward sinks into his seat as if he has been struck by a mace. “You saw this?”
“We were imprisoned, we heard of it when we were freed.”
“Where is he?”
“The monks took him to Oxford.”
“To Oxford? They killed him in Oxford?”
“No, in Warwick.”
“In the castle?”
“On a hill.”
“Hill? What hill?”
“Lancaster came for him late one night and took him from the dungeon and brought him in irons to Blacklow Hill. It is a mile from the castle, on Lancaster’s land.”
“On Lancaster’s land? But where was Warwick?”
“He stayed behind, at the castle.”
“He had the venom for this act, but not the stomach.” Edward mutters this to himself, into his beard. His eyes look mad.
The messenger is breathing hard. He wants to finish this and get out but must wait for the king’s leave to speak again. It is a long time before he receives it.
“And then?”
“He was handed to Lancaster’s guards and taken up the hill in full view of the crowds-.”
“The crowds? He made this a public occasion?”
“There was a large gathering. It was festive. Some blew horns.”
Isabella closes her eyes. Do not say that to him! Think fit to leave out such painful embellishments, you fool. Because he asks you for such details does not mean he needs to hear them. Do you not have sense enough to lie to him, man?
“Lancaster observed all this?”
“And my lords Hereford and Arundel.”
“And what of Perro ... what of my lord Gaveston?”
The man looks to his companion. It is your turn now, his eyes are saying.
The other takes up the rest of the story. “He begged Lancaster for mercy, Your Grace.”
“You saw this?”
“We heard of it later.”
“Tell me what you heard. All of it.”
Isabella shakes her head: no, don’t. But he is not looking at her.
“He begged Lancaster for mercy on his knees. He wept.”
“And the crowed saw this?”
“They seemed all the more happy for it.”
Isabella wants the story to end. Edward, Gaveston is dead, let this be over with.
Edward sighs and regards the ceiling, sighing deep in his chest. “How was it done?”
“One of the guards pierced him through the chest with his sword. The other cut off his head and showed it to Lancaster.”
Edward taps a forefinger on the arm of the throne. Isabella waits for the outburst but there is none.
“Who told you this?”
“One of the shoe menders.”
“Shoe menders? What would a shoe mender have to do with this?”
“He was charged by the monks with sewing the head back on.”
The silence stretches for an eternity. Old Hugh thinks it is politic at this point to tap the men on the shoulder and point to the door. Never has she seen two men more happy to leave a room.
Edward is absolutely still. He hardly seems even to breathe. His eyes are fixed at some point high in the ceiling.
Finally he shakes his head and says, in a quiet voice: "By God’s soul, he acted like a fool. If he had taken my advice he would never have fallen into the hands of the earls. This is what I always told him not to do. I knew this would happen! What was he doing with the Earl of Warwick, he never liked him." He gets to his feet. “Make sure those men are fed and paid for their service to us.”
He leaves the hall. No one moves. Isabella hurries after him but he has already gone to his bedchamber and the door is locked. She hears him though on the other side of the door, it sounds as if someone is slaughtering a pig.
She sends the servants away. She wants none of them hearing this.
A man who knew the shoe mender.
She hears his dogs on the other side of the door yelping and scratching to get out. They are clearly terrified. She edges the door ajar to release them and they flee scampering down the passage. She glimpses Edward, drooling like a lunatic, he overturns an oak table it took four men to move the day before. He tears down a recess curtain and breaks a holy picture over his knee.
She shuts the door and sits in a chair outside, listening to him rage. She sends orders to old Hugh that no one is to be allowed entry to his chambers.
She finds him the next morning among the wreckage. It looks as if his apartments have been ransacked by marauders. Edward lies in the middle of it, clutching a goblet, wine spilled on the carpets and all over his clothes.
She goes out again, lets him sleep.
For days he wanders the halls and gardens, mindless in grief. Once she sees him from her window, sink to his knees in the rain, then keel onto his side there in the mud. Grief owns him totally.
She feels the child kicking in her belly. It will be all right, she tells him. Gaveston is gone. Everything will be all right now. We just get through these dark days and then all will be well.
Chapter 18
“Isabella, by the grace of God, Queen of England, Lady of Ireland and Duchess of Aquitaine, to our well-beloved the Mayor and aldermen and the commonalty of London, greeting. Forasmuch as we believe that you would willingly hear good tidings of us, we do make known to you that our Lord, of His grace, has delivered us of a son, on the 13th day of November, with safety to ourselves, and to the child. May our Lord preserve you. Given at Windsor, on the day above-named.”
* * * * *
She looks so small under the bedcovers, and pale. She manages a smile. They tell him the birthing was difficult, she so small in the hips and this her first, a lusty boy, and carried long.
“Isabella ...”
“Your Grace.”
“You have given us a son.”
“I hope it pleases you.”
He leans over the bed. She has not seen him smile like this since the year before, when Gaveston returned from Brabant. There was a time she thought never to see him smile again. If this was what it took, then it was worth it.
“They say you lost much blood.”
“You have your battlefields, I have mine.”
“And you were valiant on it.”
“Once it has begun a woman has no choice but to bear it. What shall we call him?”
“I was thinking ... Piers.”
She looks at her baby, better arranges the blanket around his face. The room has turned cold.
“Your suggestion?” he asks her, finally.
“I thought Phillip, after my father.”
He stands up, crosses his arms. “What about Edward?”
“Well, he is your son.”
“So he shall be Edward, then.”
He smiles and kisses her. She closes her eyes. If he would only tell her he loves her, as she had once heard him say to Gaveston, the moment would be perfect.
* * * * *
The threat of civil war has ended with Gaveston’s death. The manner of his kidnap and execution brings Pembroke, outraged and humiliated, back to the king’s side, Surrey and old Hugh’s son with him. It horrifies even those who despise Gaveston, and many call it murder. Warwick sulks in his castle and Lancaster returns to Kenilworth, snarling with contempt at any who dare question his motives.
Edward mean while decamps to Oxford, where he pays for cere cloths to wrap the body and then has it embalmed with balsam and spices. He commissions an elaborate coffin for Gaveston’s body for he will yet be awhile above the ground. He died excommunicate, so he cannot be buried in hallowed ground.
“You know they left the body there in the open?” he shouts at her, as if she is to blame. “Some shoe-menders took him on a ladder to Warwick Castle and our good Earl turned them away!”
“Will there be war now?”
“If I could not defeat them before, how should I do it now? But the wheel will turn, Lancaster will part with his head and so will Warwick, I shall swear it on my father’s tomb. They will pay for every drop of blood, by God’s soul they will!”
The king makes overgenerous financial arrangements for monks in Oxford to keep him at their friary and to pray for his unhallowed soul. He hires two men to watch over the coffin night and day. Margaret and Gaveston’s former servants are all awarded pensions.
Lady Vescy returns, no longer outlawed, and then Winchelsea dies. More good news, then, Edward says, clapping his hands in delight when the messenger brings him the missive. Edward makes his friend Walter Reynolds Archbishop of Canterbury in his place with the pious hope that his predecessor will moan everlasting in hell on the end of a hot pitchfork.
Hereford and Arundel come snivelling back, and old Hugh encourages the king to make peace with Lancaster and Warwick, for the good of the realm.
“I cannot do it,” he tells her. “I cannot forgive them.”
“Just make a show of it,” she says. “You have the other barons on your side now. If you were to take an army and defeat the Scots, your kingship would be unquestioned. You could then turn the army on them. Hold your hand till then.”
“But I have vowed to see them dead!”
“Vengeance cannot be rushed. Have patience, take their submission and when you are stronger then you can make them pay you in full measure for what they have done.”
The birth of her son thaws the frosty relationship between her husband and her father. Gaveston’s death does no harm to it either. Now Phillip sends the king a letter, inviting him to Paris, so that he can see his new grandson and talk about Gascony.
Edward is delighted. He senses the possibility of concessions. As soon as his wife is recovered, they will take ship to France.
Chapter 19
Paris. March, 1314
“He is so handsome!” Marguerite squeals, peering between the curtains.
Pentecost Sunday and Isabella’s brothers are to be knighted by their father, Phillip. But it is Edward who attracts the attention; tall, strong and handsome it seems at last Isabella is envied, as she never is in England. And he does carry it well; working on a roof or a field may not be regal but it has made him a physical specimen to be admired.
She thinks Marguerite should instead have eyes for her husband Louis, for it is his day; but she and Charles” wife Blanche have always been this way, flighty girl
s, though pleasant company. The silk purses she has made for them warrant barely a glance. Once they treated her as a little pest; now they behave as if she is all but invisible.
Neither do they try to hide the looks they give the two young men on the other side of the church. Isabella makes a point to find out who they are; they are brothers by the name of d’Aulnay, both knights and outrageously handsome. They pretend not to notice that the two sisters are watching them.
They do not pretend very well.
Her sisters-in-laws” gossip is about the Templars; all arrested and put to the torture, at the Pope’s behest. Marguerite and Blanche are not concerned about the politics of it, their talk is of how the Order encouraged their members to have sexual dalliance with a cat and worship a disembodied head.
Really, she could have more intelligent conversations with her horse.
Neither Marguerite or Blanche has many kind words for her brothers, their husbands. “All Louis ever wants to do is play tennis,” Marguerite says.
Her father has not aged at all. His nickname is Phillip the Handsome, and he still is, frighteningly so. He actually smiles when he sees her, a rare compliment indeed.
“You have grown beautiful,” he says and nods with approval. This she did not expect.
They are in the White Chamber, so named for its pure white walls. The windows of thick stained glass bear the armorial insignia of the royal house of France, a wheel of candles burns overhead. Théophania enters, holding the new prince for the king’s inspection. He pronounces himself well pleased and then calls for wine to celebrate. She has waited five years to make him so proud.
Afterwards, her father takes her aside, and they talk in whispers beside the raging fire. He is much consumed by the state of her marriage to Edward. “Things go well between you now?”
Isabella: Braveheart of France Page 7
