“No one in this room,” Isabella says. She cannot look at him these days without thinking of Lady Mortimer, who thought her a friend.
“You are hardly a paragon yourself,” he bites back.
“At last something you and the king agree on.” They sit in silence, listening to the wind howling from England.
* * * * *
But when she sees the young prince, he is of no mind to be hurried. “Must I marry?”
“It is a good union, Edward. You surely understand the importance of it?”
“But Father said I mustn’t.”
“Then I shall put you on a ship for England and we must part. For you know very well that I cannot ever return with things as they are.”
“What would you do?”
She holds her breath. The question is asked in earnest. Would he yet even contemplate leaving her? Would she allow him to do it, or is she bluffing? “I don’t know. All I know is that I fear for my life if I return to England.”
“Father would never harm you.”
“There are other men who would and your father has a habit of looking the other way.”
“Uncle Hugh,” he says. Uncle; the name grates with her as much as “Bella.” She wants to shake him: He is not your uncle! Instead she watches him make calculation.
How royal he has become. He holds out a hand for a cup and a steward brings it. He lets him pour a little wine and add water to it. The future King of England does not even look at the man, just taps his foot with impatience when he is slow about it.
The prince says: “You’re right, I believe he might do it. “
The Despenser has surely considered it, a little poison in a cup would do the trick. Edward may not sanction it but he would be relieved to be rid of her if someone else would do it for him and bear the guilt. There would not be the need for rough men with knives or ropes, she would feel unwell one day, and then take to her bed, complaining of cramps in her belly.
Just as Warwick did.
“Philippa,” the prince says.
He says it so softly she misses it. He has to repeat himself: Philippa, he will marry Philippa. There, it is decided. They may move to contracts, they can load the ships.
God grant them a fair wind.
Chapter 51
By the end of summer the contract is signed, and the dowry - troops, ships, horses, money - is paid in advance. That night Mortimer takes her with breath-taking ferocity. Afterwards she eases herself from beneath him while he snores and wraps a fur around her shoulders. She gets out of the bed and pours water from the silver ewer on the night stand. Mortimer stirs. He groans and snakes out an arm, stroking her thigh.
“You are a hell cat,” he murmurs.
“And you, sir, make me purr like a kitten.”
“I live to serve my queen.” He raises himself on one elbow and she shares her cup with him. He grimaces. He does not want water, he would rather wine. “This time next month we shall be lying in the keep at Windsor.”
“Or dead in a field.”
“I perhaps, but not you. I shall not let them take me alive for I know what they will do to me. But he will not harm you. The worst for you is you will be divorced and sent back to France.”
“Where Charles will have no choice but to put me in a nunnery.”
“Better than your head on a pike above London Bridge.”
The prospect makes him thirsty. He gets up and goes to the table by the fire and gets a jug of wine. So much muscle and hair; he is a bear to Edward’s sleek, smooth stallion. “But it will not come to that,” he says. “When the country knows their queen has returned, they will flock to you. They all pray for deliverance from the Despensers.”
“I have pledged no harm to my son’s father.”
“Once the Despensers are taken care of and you are regent for your son, then Edward may retire to some country manor and take his pleasure of as many favourites as he wishes and none shall come to harm.”
It all sounds so simple.
There were days since she had come to Hainault when she woke in the morning and wondered if her children would curse her for what she is about to do. She has angered the Pope and is about to overthrow a king. This is not what her father had raised his daughter to do. Your job is to obey, Isabella.
“England will mob you,” Mortimer says, as if reading her mind. “The only men that will decry what you are about to do are the Despensers.”
“And my husband.”
“Oh Edward,” he says airily, waving a hand in the air, “Edward will be all right. We’ll set him off to making thatches. He will be happier on a roof than on a throne.”
* * * * *
Mercenaries arrive at Dordrecht from all over Europe; there are Flemish, German and Bohemian. With Hainaut’s men she counts a little more than a thousand, but not much more; not an army, just as Mortimer had said - a bodyguard. They have more on a night watch on a Welsh castle.
There are under a hundred ships, not the hundred and forty that Mortimer had claimed. The soldiers, baggage, and high Flemish horses are all loaded on board.
There is wine and salted beef, enough to last them the journey over the Narrow Sea and a little longer if they have to fight. But with a thousand men they are unlikely to settle in for a long campaign. They will eat English beef and drink English wine or they will not be eating at all.
It is a blustery morning in autumn when they pull up anchors and slip out of Holland. Dark clouds choke the horizon and there are whitecaps on a grey sea. The wind whips the yards and sailors mutter under their breath.
Spray crashes over the bows. Somewhere out there, through the storms and the churning waves, is England. Soon she will know what her fate holds. Edward and his lover are waiting.
Chapter 52
The mist lifts; she hears a gull cry overhead. A shoreline comes into view. Mortimer comes to stand beside her. She is so weak from sea sickness that she has to support herself on the aft rail to keep from falling. Her knees shake.
“Where are we?”
“I don’t know, Your Grace.”
“There is an estuary to the north of us. Could that be the Stour?”
“I doubt that very much. If it was, there should be land on our starboard side.”
For three days they have been battered by storms, they have come early this year. Has God pronounced judgment on her plans? They are supposed to meet Edmund of Kent at Thanet. Instead they could be in Norway for all the captain knew. They have lost two ships, they count themselves fortunate to make landfall at all.
Mortimer orders them ashore, he is first with the men and supplies that head for the beach in small rowing boats. She shivers in her cloak, watching them. The first bite of autumn is in the air.
Finally she can stand the rocking of the ship no longer and demands to be let ashore. She has changed into her widow’s weeds, if there is to be a welcome, she wants England to know she comes as a wronged wife, not as conqueror.
Mortimer comes out to meet her, wading through the grey and cold sea to carry her ashore. She could never imagine Edward doing that; though he might have done it for Gaveston. She smells cooking fires, her stomach growls, none of them has eaten for days. They are all so weak, if Edward finds them now he could slaughter them all with an army of laundrywomen.
They have pitched her a tent, laid carpets on the sand beneath it. She stands within, out of the wind, watching the waves rush up the shore, sucking at the shingle stones. Plovers dip and cry.
Mortimer stands, hands on hips, barking orders. She summons him. “How do we fare?” she asks him.
There is fire in his eyes, he has waited three years for this moment and the campaigner in him is warming to the task. “We have the last of the horses to bring ashore. Then the fleet will be ready to sail.”
They want them the ships away from here, so the mercenaries are not tempted to turn back if the business goes hard. It is probably already too late to work the element of surprise. Edward has posted
watches all along the coast and someone will have spotted them.
“Riders,” the prince says, pointing along the beach to the north where horsemen approach, their armour glinting in the sun.
They come armed. A sergeant rousts the men from their huddles around the fires and forms up a defensive line of pike men but before it is even half done a sentry shouts: “It’s Norfolk’s men!”
Mortimer grins. “We’re saved then.”
Isabella gathers her skirts and is about to run down the strand to meet them but Mortimer puts a restraining hand on her arm. Let them come to you, he murmurs. You are still Queen of England.
The young prince comes to stand beside her and she puts her arm around his shoulders.
Norfolk has an escort of a dozen knights. When they reach her he throws himself from his mount, beaming, as if he has just beaten all comers in a jousting tournament. He marches up the sand and kneels in front of Isabella and the prince. “Your Grace,” he says. “I came as soon as I heard the news. We were not expecting you so far north.”
“We were expecting to land in Kent but the weather thought otherwise.”
“Then the wind and tide has brought us great honour. Let me escort you to my castle, I have rooms waiting.”
“We are glad to see you and not Edward’s army,” Isabella says.
“Edward’s army? He has no army. Some Welsh bowmen and a couple of bishops.”
“We were expecting a fight, Thomas,” Mortimer says.
“Now the Queen is here, there will be no war,” Norfolk says. “The people will flock to her.”
“It’s not the people I’m worried about. It’s the barons.”
“There’s not one of them will piss on him if he is aflame,” Norfolk says, thinking Isabella is out of earshot. “Not while Despenser is at his elbow. They say that man would screw the Pope and crucify his own grandmother if he could turn a profit at it.” Norfolk looks down the beach, at the huddle of Dutch and German mercenaries. “You won’t be needing them, Mortimer. Just a good horse to ride to London.”
That night she stays at Norfolk’s castle at Walton on the Naze and a courier from London brings them news. Surrey and also Arundel, whose son is married to Despenser’s daughter, have vowed to stay loyal to the king.
But they are the only ones, for there is barely a nobleman or farmer in England left untouched by Despenser’s greed. The crucial support comes from the Earl of Leicester, Lancaster’s brother; he assumed all his estates after his death and is now the most powerful baron in England. He is eager to avenge his death and sends messages of support.
The next day she rides through Bury St Edmunds where crowds line the streets to greet her as their new queen. Her invasion of England soon becomes a royal procession. As Norfolk has prophesied Edward is unable to raise an army against her, is reduced to offering free pardons to felons; they come straight from the prison and he makes them a captain in his cavalry - or that is how Mortimer tells it with a laugh.
“We Isabella by the grace of God Queen of England, Lady of Ireland, countess of Ponthieu; and we Edward, elder son of the lord king of England, Duke of Gascony, Earl of Chester, Count of Ponthieu and Montreuil, to all those to whom these letters may come, greetings.
Whereas it is well known that the Holy Church and the and the kingdom of England is in many respects much tarnished and degraded by the bad advice and conspiracy of Hugh le Despenser; whereas through pride and greed to have power and dominion over all other people he has usurped royal power against law and justice and his true allegiance ...
She had never thought it would be so easy.
Chapter 53
Gloucester Castle
Lord Thomas Wake shoves through the crowds in the Great Hall and lays a basket reverently at Isabella’s feet. He reaches in and pulls out a severed head, gripping it by its blooded and matted hair. It is not fresh and is already turning green. Several of her ladies turn away in revulsion. The young prince takes a step back.
“Bishop Stapledon,” Mortimer says.
“I have seen him looking better,” Isabella murmurs.
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Mortimer says. “He looks much as he always did, if you wish my opinion.”
“How did this happen?”
“The mobs have taken over in London,” Lord Wake tells her. “Stapledon was always the king’s man and now he has paid the price.”
“Where?”
“He was fleeing to Saint Paul’s seeking sanctuary. The mob caught him at the doors and dragged him to Cheapside. There was a baker there with a knife large enough for the job.”
“A mob? John, my little boy, he is held in London. He is unharmed?”
“Your Grace, the citizens have made him warden of the city. He is safe where he is in the Tower until order may be restored, though no one in London would harm a hair on the boy’s head.”
He is still holding the king’s bishop by the hair. Isabella asks that it be removed. It is attracting the flies.
The news from everywhere is good. Edward has fled to Bristol, hoping to find comfort among the Welsh. His army consists of a handful of archers. Despenser is with him.
“We will have him soon enough. There is nowhere to run.”
“Unless Bruce takes them in.”
“The Scots?”
“They may both think it politic,” she says.
In fact they do indeed head north but they do not get far. Edward and his favourite earl are captured during a thunderstorm in open country in the Marches by the earls. In a few weeks the king of England has fallen from king to fugitive to a prisoner of his own barons.
Finally the war is over.
Chapter 54
Mortimer is in a good mood, he walks in dressed in black, his velvets set off with a gold chain, a ruby on his knuckles fat as a goose’s egg. Becoming the most powerful man in England has been good for his humour. He looks like he is going to a wedding.
He even smiles.
There are drums in the square and the crowds are cheering. Nothing like evisceration to keep the common sort amused. It is the same manner of mob that came to see Jesus crucified she supposes. That they hate the man is incidental, it’s the entertainment that they love, lots of blood and none of it theirs.
Mortimer stands by the window, beaming. She should not be surprised, he’s a soldier after all, he’s accustomed to brutality. But today Despenser will not be as quick about dying as even some men wounded after a battle.
She thought she would enjoy this but now it comes to it she just wishes they would have it done. An enemy never seems quite as formidable when he is whimpering in chains, so that you forget how he looked sneering at you when you were miserable and lying at his feet.
Another shout from the crowd. She supposes they are at this moment hoisting him up the ladder so they can do the business. She ventures a glance. They have him in some sort of nightshirt and they have scrawled verses from the Bible on him.
Her little girls rush into the room, squealing. Eleanor and Joan have been in the elder Despenser’s castle at Bristol this last year and seem to have come to no harm from the old man. She had pleaded for his life on their account, if nothing else, but Mortimer and the barons had their own ideas what to do with him. She felt sorry for old Hugh but it’s what happens when you choose the wrong side.
Eleanor and Joan are at the window before she can stop them. She drags them away. Where is their nurse? By the time she gets them to the door they are banging the kettledrum down in the square and there is a cheer from the crowd as the Despenser is cut down half dead to be butchered. She puts a hand over Joan’s ears.
Eleanor wants to know what is happening. She tells them it is just a play but she says if it’s a mummer’s show then why can’t they watch too?
Eleanor is outraged at this unjust treatment but little Joan sees the looks on the faces gathered at the window and falls silent, her face blank with fear. She allows Isabella to hustle her out without murmur.
&
nbsp; There is a feast afterwards to celebrate but Isabella has little appetite. She should feel elated. Lady Mortimer is there and bows her head in acknowledgment and Isabella nods in return and quickly looks away.
She thinks about Edward. Mortimer says he will come to no harm but if even she doesn’t trust the man who shares her bed how can Edward?
* * * * *
The Archbishop is resplendent, with condescending smile and a large ruby ring. Richmond watches him down the end of his long nose, it is clear they don’t like each other. Mortimer has his back turned, hands behind him, looking out of the window. The rest of the barons are all gathered. Now the Despenser’s quarters are decorating pikes all over the kingdom they must decide what to do with the earthly paradise he has left behind.
The prince fidgets. He is a worrying presence for all of them. He cannot speak for now, but one day he will judge all of them.
“The people would like to see you resume your rightful place,” the Archbishop tells her.
“My rightful place?”
“With your husband. Now that the shadow has passed from the land, many would wish England returned to its former state.”
“Who are these people?” she asks him.
“The general populace,” he says airily and by that she supposes he means the Pope in Avignon.
“Never,” she says.
“He is still your husband,” the Archbishop reminds her.
“In name only.”
“A marriage is a marriage, one cannot differentiate.”
Mortimer turns from the window. He makes a great sigh like a teacher with a recalcitrant pupil. He leans on the table and smiles at the Archbishop but his eyes are hard. “She got rid of the tyrant for you. Now you wish to put your saviour back under his fist?”
“It is what the people want,” the Archbishop insists. “We are in a difficult position. If the king does not give up the throne, what are we to do?”
Isabella: Braveheart of France Page 21
