“Oh, I think we are very like. I wonder what it is with your husband, do you think? Where did such greed come from? I suspect it a surfeit of pride. All his life he has passed unnoticed and now he wishes to make the world pay.”
“You do not know him as I do,” Eleanor says and feels so secure in the Despenser’s primacy that she turns her back and leaves the room without asking leave.
* * * * *
It has become a lonely vigil. Many of the servants she has had since she first saw Dover as a child bride flee back to France; she sends Théophania home, Rosseletti too, for his own safety. Just a handful remain in defiance of the new regulations.
As the winter nights draw in, Isabella stares at the logs crumbling in the grate and sees her life come to nothing. She was once one of the greatest landowners in the realm, now she is a pensioner.
Her two daughters are removed from her household and are taken into the care of Edward’s brother-in-law at Marlborough. She is virtually a prisoner now, she has lost her lands, her income, her children, her husband, her influence and her friends. She supposes the Despenser will not be truly content until she is dead and she wonders if he is planning that too.
* * * * *
She is finally summoned to the king’s presence.
She is taken by barge up the Thames. Fifteen years ago, when she first came to London, there were not so many houses. Now the Exchequer has moved from Winchester and the spaces between Westminster and London are filling up. The Archbishop of York has his house on the Strand, there are big houses for the bishops of Norwich and Durham, soon there will be no land at all between London and the palace. Where shall it all end?
Arriving in the Great Hall it feels as if she is hauled before the saints for final judgment. The whole crowd is there, like crows sitting on a fence, waiting to pick at her eyes; the Despenser is there, and Stapledon of course; old Hugh as well, he has seen the chance of quick money and been led by his son into this devil’s bargain.
But there are some friendly face, at least; the Archbishop of Vienne and the bishop of Orange, the Pope’s men in England; and the bishops of Norwich and Winchester as well as the Earl of Richmond, just returned from their embassy in France, where they have tried to repair the king’s diplomatic missteps.
Edward is slouched on his throne, bored and resentful. He meets her eyes briefly then looks away. It is like that first time in Boulogne cathedral, she knows what that look is now. He is embarrassed.
She cannot believe his malice, she had expected it of the Despenser, but not Edward. Why would he do this to her? All her servants, those who did not abandon her, are now detained and shut up in religious houses. She is quite alone.
He had never been deliberately cruel to her before; he had been guilty of neglect, but only of her affections. But what he had done in this last six months was venomous. Had the Despenser really taken his mind so much?
“Dearest consort,” he manages.
“Your Grace.”
“We trust we find you well.”
“May I first enquire about my children?”
He flushes with anger, that she should have the temerity to raise the subject of their offspring in front of these others. “They are well.”
“I have not seen my daughters for three months. And Edward, he prospers?”
Old Hugh cuts in. “May we to the business at hand?”
Pembroke tells them all in bald terms their situation. It has been suggested that she travel to France to negotiate a peace for England with her brother, the King of France. Charles has promised that he will make Prince Edward the Duke of Aquitaine if he comes to France and pays homage to him there. This arrangement has been ratified by the French council.
“This is the general principle. But he will only confirm this arrangement in the presence of either the king or queen.”
“Impossible.” Despenser shouts. “If we let her out of the country she will foment unrest in the French court against us.”
“Should I go then?” Edward asks him but the Despenser baulks at this also. Without the king who will protect him from the barons and earls he has robbed? And he dare not set accompany him and set foot in France himself, her father would have him hanged from the nearest tree before his boots were dry.
“She is sister to the King of France and has already proved her worth in such negotiations,” Richmond points out. “It was she who had the Earl of Lancaster make peace with the king when a civil war seemed inevitable.”
Heads nod in agreement. The Despenser scowls.
“How do we know we can trust our wife?” Edward says to her.
“I have been a good and faithful wife to you, Your Grace. As these gentlemen recount, I have helped you with the Earl of Lancaster and many times before and after. I understand your suspicions, for I am of France, but you must know that it is my duty and my heartfelt desire to serve you and only you, and has been from the day we were married at Boulogne, a day I carry in my heart always.”
The nuncios nod and smile, well pleased with this speech. Stapledon looks as if he has bitten down on a lemon. The Despenser can see the debate rushing away from him. But what is he to do? Someone must go, the King of France has made it plain, else the king loses Gascony. It is him or the queen.
Old Hugh speaks over the top of all of them. “May I remind you all that as we speak Mortimer is in Hainaut raising troops for an invasion. The Duke has given him levies and he is using his wife’s money to get more soldiers from Germany. We cannot afford a war with France at this moment. Anything is preferable.”
“You know about this?” the king asks her.
She wants to say: I am virtually a prisoner, how would I know what goes on in the world? But this is not entirely true, nor is it the answer the king is seeking. She shakes her head and looks resigned.
“This is madness to let her go,” the Despenser says. “She will only hatch more mischief,”
“My lord, I understand your apprehension,” she says, “and I acknowledge there has been bad blood between us in the past. But in this matter we are in agreement. We both want peace for England and for Edward and this war serves neither my brother nor my husband. I only wish for there to be peace again between us so our lives can be as they were before.”
This little speech astonishes the Despenser. Richmond smiles and nods approvingly. The nuncios turn to the king.
Her poor tortured Edward. He looks as if he would rather be mending thatch than sitting here weighing such dilemmas. His hands grip the edge of his throne and he looks at the ceiling. “I will think on it,” he says and finally he gets up and leaves the chamber.
* * * * *
It is a Sunday and she is at her prayers when Eleanor disturbs her there. She prepares herself for the news. Eleanor’s face is a study in equivocation. She is unsure if she is witnessing the queen’s rise or her downfall.
“You are going to France,” she says.
Isabella smiles and thanks her for the news and returns to her prayers. She would call her friends for a celebration but there are none left, not in England.
Chapter 41
March, 1325
The wind is cold and there are whitecaps on the Narrow Sea. They say that on a clear day you can see all the way to France but she has never been in Dover on a clear day. Servants bring spiced wine and bread. She refuses it all. She will not keep it down long, once she is aboard the ship.
Her retinue is thirty strong, mostly spies masquerading as servants; Joan of Bar and Countess Warwick are her chief attendants. She feels as if she is about to be released from prison and is terrified that her gaolers will change their minds at the last. Her hands are shaking and she tries to conceal them beneath her cloak.
“The King of France has offered to make the prince Duke of Aquitaine,” the king reminds her. “In return he will pay homage to your brother in person. For this you will demand that he withdraw his army from Gascony and cede the province to the king’s control.”
“This last he did not promise,” Isabella reminds him.”
“It is up to you to negotiate the details,” the Despenser says. “Your children are here in England, ransom to your good conduct and intentions.”
Edward puts a restraining hand on his arm. “No need to talk of ransom, she knows where her duty lies,” he says and it is the first time she has seen this gentleness from him in many months. She nods her head in acknowledgment but directs her reply to the chamberlain.
“You want what is best for England,” she says, “and so I understand your concerns. But I shall do all in my power to bring this matter to a peaceful resolve.”
“Once it is done, young Edward will join you in France to conclude the matter. Not before.”
She looks at Edward. “I will give you reason to trust me again, Your Grace, on this I give my word. I am sorry for our differences in the past.”
The Despenser has the grace to blush at this. He sits back, having failed to provoke her. Edward looks rueful. He wonders if he has misjudged her.
He is right; he has.
* * * * *
The King joins her at the dock, the Despenser stands a little way off. She makes her obeisance and he kisses her chastely on the cheek. She lingers, though she is eager to be aboard. Even the churning sea is welcome after so long wandering like a spectre in the towers and gardens at Langley.
“Help me, Isabella,” he murmurs.
“I will do all I can.”
“Do this for me and all will be as it was between us. You have nothing to fear from the Lord Despenser. You will always be my Queen.”
She watches him from the rails of the ship as it leaves the harbour. He stands at the dock’s edge until she is out of sight, the loneliest king she ever saw.
Chapter 42
Boulogne depresses her; she has bad memories of the town. Her household is soon overblown, the thirty bodyguards and servants who accompany her from England swells to a retinue of hundreds as supporters come to welcome her, among them a good many knights sent at her brother’s command to ensure her safety.
Her retainers from England stick close. She will not believe she is free of England and Despenser until she sees her brother again.
The crossing was rough and her nervous energy is exhausted. The countryside beyond the town is rutted and badly made roads ploughed through ice-bound pasture and soaring hedgerows. Finally, late one afternoon, they arrive at Charles’ camp, a sprawl of fine pavilions flying banners bearing the golden fleur-de-lys of France.
Isabella emerges from her litter in her widow’s weeds, carefully trimmed with Bruges lace at the cuff and neck. One needs to look dowdy but not too dowdy; she is greeted by boisterous shouting from the French side.
Charles is reclined in a cushioned chair in his pavilion, his slippered feet resting on a stool. A clutch of tittering women watch her from behind his throne and courtiers in velvets and silks whisper about her behind their hands. .
She sinks to her knees. He looks like her father; the resemblance is uncanny. It is like seeing him again, in a younger time. Charles is the last one left, the rest of her family are dead.
He does not let her stay on her knees long. He jumps up and takes her hands, keeping her on her feet, preserving her dignity. He smiles and brings her close. “Sister, do not be downhearted. We will find some remedy for your condition.”
She rediscovers her resolve. It has been so long, she has almost forgotten who she is, and where she is from.
* * * * *
The negotiations are a public spectacle; the Pope’s nuncios are there, as well as Stratford and Richmond, Edward’s envoys, Sully and all the French ministers. She bargains hard for Edward but even if she had not a prior understanding with her brother she doubts if she would have had much sway, any more than she would have had with her father. The Capets did not become royal by being soft at the bargaining table.
It is one thing to give assistance to your family; another to sell the birthright.
Eventually a treaty is agreed: if Edward comes to France to pay homage before the end of summer then Charles will return Ponthieu and Montreuil. But he will not give up the Agenais, its fate he leaves to a court of French judges “at some future time.”
She knows the vagueness of this last resolution will set Edward’s teeth on edge, and at the last Charles feigns to argue over the terms of the existing truce. He is playing for time. His intransigence is reassuring.
The nuncios, Norwich, Winchester and Orange, are charged with taking the resolution to Edward. She does envy them their task. He will erupt when he hears it.
She says she will stay in France until it is all settled.
After all the diplomats and professional dilettantes have gone and she is alone once more she walks out onto the terrace with her cloak wrapped around her shoulders and watches the moon rise over Poissy.
We make such plans for our lives, she thinks, and this is the way they turn out, nothing like what we imagine.
It seems I am not the woman I thought I was. I wonder what it would be like to have a man who wants me? But this is a thought she can share with no one. She is ashamed for even harbouring it.
And yet, just once I should like to know.
* * * * *
April finds her in Paris, in the king’s salon, among friends again. Life here is simple, the king is the king and the magnates do not stamp about with threatening looks. The women though are empty-headed. She thinks of Marguerite and Beatrice; that is where an empty head gets a woman. There should be a law.
“It is a terrible position you are in,” Charles tells her. “What are you going to do?”
“I cannot go back to England, not while Despenser is there.”
“You think if you threaten to stay here then he will send him away?”
“If he does, he will only invite him back again and I shall be worse off than before. He has done it twice before, he will do it again.”
“Then what will you do?”
“I don’t know.”
“A wife is a husband’s property and his honour is invested in her no matter how wronged she may be. This is true if he is a king or a carpenter.”
She thinks of Marguerite, how she laughed and flirted with d'Alnay. Empty-headed women do not anticipate the risk. She imagined her in a bare cell in her sack cloth, seeing the shadow fall over her face when her assassins came for her. They said she was half mad by then and didn’t understand what was happening even when they put the pillow over her face.
She imagines them dragging her out by her feet, her head bumping on the stones down the stairs. This was a woman who might have been queen of France if she had kept her legs closed.
A lesson for us all.
Stratford returns from England. He is supposed to be the king’s man but she sometimes catches him regarding her with a quizzical expression, as if he is imagining what life might be like if she were his employer and not Edward.
He looks ecclesiastical and businesslike; he spells it out. The king is not happy that the Agenais is not returned. He is blaming the Pope’s legates for holding out false hope of success. They had suggested her mission and now it seems to him the queen may as well have stayed home.
But he has agreed to the terms she has negotiated, he will come to France and do what must be done. Now he should like his queen to return at once to England and let’s be done with it. That is the gist of the message.
Isabella looks at Richmond, and Richmond looks at Stratford. “Does the king say when he shall make his journey to France?”
“He says he will do it by the end of August.”
“And the Lord Despenser will let him go?”
Stratford shrugs. “He is not well pleased by it, as can be imagined. He fears being left alone in England like a child fears being left in the dark without a candle. But with much better reason.”
“I hear,” Isabella says, “that he has cheated Pembroke’s widow out of twenty thousand acres of her estate.”
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br /> “Your Grace, he has cheated everyone at some time or other. But while the king protects him, who is there to gainsay him? The only men who can stand up to him are in France.”
Richmond leans back, sighs and looks at the ceiling. “I once had a dog,” he says. “I used to toss it morsels from my plate. And every time my wife’s cat would jump on the titbit first, take it from between his very paws. And he would just lie there and watch her do it. Sometimes she would eat it, right under his nose. And he was a fearsome dog, I used him for hunting. But never once did he chase the cat away, no matter he was twice her size.”
“Perhaps the dog loved the cat,” Stratford suggests.
“Perhaps. But to truly know the answer for his behaviour, you would have to be the dog.”
“Why did you not stop tossing him the meat,” Isabella asks Pembroke, “if you knew the cat would always steal it?”
“Because I hoped one day he would learn. But he never ever did.”
“And neither has Edward,” she says.
He smiles. “No. Neither has he.”
* * * * *
It’s a windy night, summer has still not found France, and there is rain on her visitors” cloaks. Isabella is dressed in her widow’s weeds, all in black with a veil. She has made it clear to the nuncios and to all of France that she has been supplanted in her husband’s affections by another and so she has retired to live as a nun. Some are very affected by the position she has taken; there is much disgust about how Edward has treated her.
The King of England meanwhile says he wants Isabella back in England. Charles refuses to expel her.
Her guests in the palace tonight need no persuasion to her cause. They are England’s disaffected, those who have fled or been expelled by the king’s favourite. They are all men who are guests here but would find themselves in chains in their own country, desperate men living as landless exiles.
Isabella: Braveheart of France Page 16
