Isabella: Braveheart of France

by Colin Falconer

  “You told the King he was ill-advised.”

  “I said to be careful who he listens to. There are those who would counsel him to their own advantage.”

  “You refer to me?”

  “I refer to no one in particular.”

  He walks around the room, examines a little of his wife Eleanor’s embroidery, some of her French ladies” handiwork also. It appears that his hold on Edward is not absolute after all.

  She remembers this morning, the damp sheets, holding Edward in her arms as his breathing slowed. Does he think of me when he loves me, or of someone else? She doesn’t care. She would take him as he was, she will even share him with a ghost, but not with flesh and blood.

  The Despenser is looking worn of late. His youth is creeping away from him.

  He steps towards her, still smiling. She is unnerved by how close he stands. Suddenly he spins her around, clamps one hand across her mouth and pins her arms with the other.

  “Do not try to interfere with my plans, you fucking French whore,” he whispers.

  She struggles but he is surprisingly strong. She cannot breathe. He pinches her nostrils with his thumb and index finger and she thinks she is going to pass out.

  “I may do what I wish with you and the king would never believe you for a moment.”

  His hand squeezes between her legs, even through her dress it is painful. She tries to push his hand away but she cannot. There are black spots in front of her eyes, her knees will not hold her. Even as she goes down he is calling out for help.

  She blacks out. When her ladies rush in, he is leaning over her, cradling her head, and telling them that she fainted and that he fears she may have hit her head as she went down. Isabella wants to ask them for help but for the moment she cannot speak. Her ladies crowd in and then the Despenser is gone.

  Was it real? Did she just imagine this? He surely would not have dared to lay hands on his Queen.

  Her ladies help her to a bed. They bring water and spiced wine and wave towels over her. They whisper among themselves it might be the sweats.

  “He choked me,” she murmurs but her voice is so hoarse none of them can hear her. As her breath returns so does her rage.

  As soon as she is recovered, she goes to see the king.

  * * * * *

  “Whatever is the matter?” he asks her.

  “Your beast has showed his colours.”

  “Meaning?”

  “He assaulted me.”

  “Who?”

  “Your Lord Despenser. He was incensed that we spent the night together, it seems. He tried to choke me and he put his hands ... where no man should touch me but you.”

  There is a smile on his lips. This is not the reaction she was looking for. “Where did this happen?”

  “In my chambers.”

  “There were witnesses to this?”

  She shakes her head.”

  “Where were your ladies?”

  “I had sent them out of the room at Lord Despenser’s request.”

  An eyebrow is raised.

  “So there are no witnesses to this ... assault?”

  “He said that he could do what he wanted with me and you would never believe me.”

  The smile is replaced with cold fury. “This is what he said you would do.”

  “Your Grace?”

  “This is so like you. You have to have it all, don’t you? Anyone who competes with you, you have to destroy them.”

  “I am telling you the truth!”

  “Hugh would never do something like that.”

  “Why would I lie?”

  “To drive a wedge between us!”

  “But that is what he has done with us!”

  “And now you wish your revenge?”

  She realizes her mistake but it is too late. The Despenser was far cleverer than she gave him credit for. He has outwitted her again. Why did he assault her? From jealousy or because he knew the king would never believe him capable of such a thing, that women were not his true passion.

  He did this to entrap me and he has succeeded.

  “I thought we could yet be friends, you and I.”

  “Your Grace I do not lie to you.”

  He turns his back on her. There is nothing left to say so she bends her knee and leaves the chamber. The Despenser waits outside. He smiles at her.

  She smiles back.

  She would rather cut out his liver but she will not give him the satisfaction of letting him see her rage.

  Chapter 39

  The summer is returning just when she thought it wouldn’t. There are bumblebees in the garden and she does not have to huddle by the fires in the morning to get warm. She is summoned back to the king’s presence at Windsor. What is it now? Perhaps the Despenser has convinced him that she murdered Gaveston, dressed as a Welsh soldier. Or that she crucified Christ.

  She walks into the chamber and the king jumps to his feet, smiling broad. “Your Grace, we have missed your presence here at court. Welcome back.”

  Ah, he wants something.

  She refuses food and drink though this time Edward appears solicitous. A real king would not have taken no for an answer, he would have made her sit and forced lampreys and spiced wine on her.

  The Despenser stands in the shadows, his smile pains him, they might as well be drawing him on the rack. He looks mild but his eyes glitter like rubies. Pembroke is there too, though he has aged. She can hear his bones creak every time he moves and there are lines on his face like they were furrowed with a plough. Perhaps it is the new wife has worn him out, or more likely he is tired of kings.

  They sit and Edward fusses around her. He asks if she has brought Rosseletti with her and the moment he asks her that question, she knows what the favour is.

  It is the Despenser who is first to get down to business.

  “It is about the business in the Argenais,” he tells her. “Your brother the king of France has threatened to seize Gascony. The very reason for your marriage to Edward was to assure the peace. Now it seems we are to have war anyway.”

  “Are you saying that our marriage has failed?”

  Edward breaks in, cheerily. “He is saying nothing of the kind, just that your brother should be reminded of our union and how we might use it to create concord between us.”

  I feel like a court jester, she thinks. They only bring me out when they need a riddle or a good laugh.

  “This has nothing to do with me.”

  “Once you would have had suggestions to help us through this crisis, Your Grace,” Lord Pembroke says.

  “That was back in the days when I was invited to the counsel. But I have retired from affairs, Lord Pembroke.”

  “Then we should like you to renounce your retirement,” the king says.

  “To what purpose?”

  “Write to your brother. Remind him of the great affection England has for France, as evidenced that his sister is Queen of England.”

  “Am I? I thought he was,” she says and nods at the Despenser.

  “Come Isabella, don’t be difficult about this. England needs you. I need you.”

  “My brother knows the regard the people of England have for this man.” She nods at the Despenser. “He knows how you treat me.”

  Pembroke leans forward. “Men make war,” he tells her. “It is the woman’s role to make the peace. And you are the greatest woman I have ever met.”

  This declaration disarms her. Lord Pembroke is a kind man who has given too much of himself away in the service of his country. He forestalls her anger for the moment.

  Edward holds out his arm. She takes it and he leads her to the end of the hall, out of earshot. The Despenser cannot bear private conversation. He looks as if his head will burst.

  “Help me, Isabella,” Edward says. “Things can be as they were between us before. I will have you back with us on the Council.”

  “Your Grace, you know that is a lie. You have broken your word to me on this so many times.”<
br />
  “This time I mean it.”

  “No you don’t.”

  “Please, Isabella.”

  “Tell me what you want me to write. I’ll do it.”

  “Thank you.”

  She gives him a withering look. “Don’t thank me, thank my father. I’m just doing what he taught me to do.”

  She returns to the table, lets him follow behind. She is disgusted. She came here a queen, she will leave a pawn.

  * * * * *

  When Eleanor walks in she looks careworn. It is unlike her, for she is by habit unbearably cheerful. Isabella is playing “tables” with the other girls, but Eleanor does not come to join them. Isabella is distracted by her mood. Eleanor sits in the corner, as gloomy as death itself.

  “Whatever’s wrong?” she asks her finally, unable to contain herself.

  “It is the Lord Pembroke.”

  It is not hard to imagine what has happened. The last time she saw him the angels were already warming a spot by the hearth for him.

  “What happened?”

  “He died of apoplexy, they say.”

  One of her girls bursts into tears; some of them will cry if one of the cats dies. She feels old and jaded at twenty seven.

  But sad just the same, she liked old Pembroke. There, another ally gone at court. He probably died of fright, the Despenser knows a thing or two about frightening old men.

  The news depresses her. She leaves the game and decides to walk in the garden. Her ladies try to follow her but she sends them away.

  It is summer and the garden is alive with bees and fat flies, hovering sonorous over the windfall. A fat and lazy time to be doing your dying. She imagines Pembroke in heaven trying to make a conciliation between God and the Devil. Now come gentlemen, there is no need for this unpleasantness between you ...

  And where does his death leave Isabella?

  It is months since she has seen any of her children. She cannot bear this, this is a life fit for a nun not for a queen and a mother and a woman.

  Last night she dreamed she was back in France, she was in a lawyer’s chamber with her father and the Pope and her brother. The judge was Molay, the Templar her father had roasted over a fire for his heresy. He sat in his scarlet robes with the blackened flesh peeling off him in strips and pointed at each of them in turn.

  You shall die of the apoplexy, he said to her father, you shall drown in your own bed, he said to her brother. He completes a circuit of them all, delivering his curse, and finally the blackened finger falls on her.

  “And you, daughter of France, you shall die of boredom and grief.”

  Well, I won’t. She tears a daisy from the lawn by its roots. He loves, he loves me not. Well it’s clear he loves me not, not any more. I must force his hand. Dear Pembroke will not have died in vain.

  She goes to find Rosseletti.

  “What news do you have for me?” she asks him.

  He has rheumy eyes like a bloodhound. Did he even know what good news was? “Your brother has invaded Gascony, Your Grace.”

  “Well he no doubt thinks he has had provocation enough.”

  “It does not augur well for you.”

  “No, I imagine it does not. How did this come about?”

  “Edward delayed handing over the men who killed the sergeant at San Sardos. Your brother has lost patience with him and has sent an army to resume the castle.”

  “What is the problem with my husband, do you think? Is he incapable of reason? Can he not see any side of an argument but his own? Of course this is what my brother would do. If he wished deliberately to provoke him, I should understand it, but Edward cannot afford a war right now, neither financially or politically. I do not understand him.”

  “I believe it is the Lord Despenser who makes the decisions on these matters.”

  “No, we cannot blame this on the Despenser. This is typical of Edward, this is what he does. He courts disaster like a lovesick boy.”

  “Your position may become ... difficult.”

  “You should take a letter.”

  “Another missive to your brother?”

  “No, this to the Pope at Avignon. He will not wish to see two Christian kings at war over this. Suggest to him that he might find another peace broker now that the good Lord Pembroke is with our merciful God in heaven.”

  “Who did you have in mind?”

  “You are looking at her.”

  For the first time in all the years she has known him, Rosseletti smiles. The poor man has bad teeth and he quickly covers his mouth with his hand, as if to cover a cough. “You are thinking ahead of everyone here.”

  “It is not so difficult, even for a woman.”

  He has the grace not to laugh at this last remark. She means it only in jest and he knows it.

  Chapter 40

  It is wet for September and unusually cold. The winter will set in early this year. Bishop Stapledon is dressed in black furs and the rain glistens on him, he looks like a mole just burrowed his way out of some moist burrow. He is a mean man with thin lips and small eyes. Never trust a man with small eyes. If he were not a bishop you would swear he was a man sent to strangle you. He would make the public executioner look homespun.

  The bishop is the king’s man and if he is here then it is to impart some news that Edward does not venture to share himself. It can only be bad. She sits by the hearth and has a servant fetch spiced wine. She lets the bishop stand and drip. Her father would not have approved of her manners but her father is not here.

  Edward has made this creature his Lord High Treasurer. It is his job to tie knots in the strings of the public purse. All that is sure is she will be the poorer when he leaves.

  He looks cold standing there. She smiles and waits for him to begin.

  “The King sends his wishes for your continued good health.”

  She bites her tongue on a slick rejoinder and returns the warm wishes.

  “You have heard of the unfortunate events in France.”

  “If I am able to assist the king in his troubles, I am at his service.”

  The Bishop of Exeter blinks. He has doubtless been briefed to anticipate a she-wolf. But this woman is just a lamb. “We are now at war with France and it has become necessary to sequester your estates.”

  She has expected this but it is still a bitter draught to swallow. But she forces a smile. “Really? What makes it so necessary?”

  “Cornwall for instance. It has valuable tin mines and is susceptible to attack. It cannot be left outside of the king’s control.”

  He thinks I am his enemy? Not yet. But he is making one of me, he and the Despenser.

  “Is that all?”

  “The constraints of war has made it necessary to reduce the allowance the Crown provides for your expenses.”

  Her fingers tighten around the arms of the throne. “Oh? By what degree?”

  “We have allowed one thousand marks for the coming year, should it please Your Grace.”

  One thousand marks; down from eleven thousand. She feels the blood drain from her cheeks. “If that is the king’s pleasure.” She sips her wine. She would rather dash it in this creature’s face.

  “We thank you for your service,” she says. “My servants will now show you the kitchen if you need provisions for the journey back.”

  He dithers.

  Surely not ...

  “There is another direction I am required to pass on to you.”

  Another one? Surely this is enough humiliation for one day. Perhaps he requires her to dress in sackcloth and service the king’s infantry.

  “The parliament has declared that all French subjects must leave the realm, for the safety of the kingdom.”

  “You are asking me to remove my closest friends and servants?”

  “With great regret.” But Stapledon does not look like a man who harbours great regret, he looks like a man who is enjoying himself hugely despite his wet clothes.

  “We understand the king’s concer
ns. My household are all loyal servants of the king but it shall be as you say.”

  He looks disappointed. He would rather she throw the chamber pot at him, she supposes. But it seems he is done with his dressing down of the Queen of England. For a man who was once just the Bishop of Exeter this must be a day to remember, his family and friends will hear this recounted word for word for years to come.

  After he leaves she sends everyone out of the chamber and hurls an expensive glass goblet at the wall for the pleasure of watching its contents run like blood down the wall. She does not scream for fear that someone will hear her.

  She is a daughter of France, the King’s royal blood. How dare they!

  But it is not all.

  When the Despenser’s good wife returns to the household Isabella’s son John is given to her care. This is intolerable. When he shirks his lessons she does not scold him and she gives him sweetmeats whenever he asks for them. She is not even allowed to teach her own son his manners now.

  Eleanor is much changed from the woman that sailed with her from Tynemouth, who she held when she thought she would die in the tempest.

  She was persuaded to follow her conscience once, and go against her husband’s wishes in the service of Lady Mortimer; it is clear she is of a mind never to make the same mistake again. She resents the situation Isabella brought her to, she imagines that the Despenser made it clear to her with the flat of his hand that he did not much like his wife having a mind of her own.

  Isabella supposes he has turned Eleanor’s mind against her as well; she is a French spy, watch her well, any letters she writes you must open, any word she utters you must report to me. Provoke her if possible, we must know what is on the traitor’s mind.

  “Do you love him, your husband?” Isabella asks her one day, outright.

  Eleanor looks as if she has been caught secretly taking a chess piece from the board. “He is a fine husband and much misunderstood.”

  “I think you are like me, Eleanor. We both see ourselves as a Guinevere looking for our Galahad. And look what we married! I have a Greek and you have a banker.”

  “I am nothing like you, Your Grace,” she says sniffily, managing somehow to be subservient and condescending at once.