Isabeau, A Novel of Queen Isabella and Sir Roger Mortimer

by Sasson, N. Gemini

  “Then you understand that you must put your own preservation above all others? To ignore that is to perish, sire. Where is Lord Despenser now?”

  Edward’s eyes flew wide, like those of a rabbit caught in the snare, knowing there is no escape – no sense left in struggling, else the string will tighten. His hands, now hanging limp at his sides, began to tremble violently. “Leave us.”

  “Sire?” Pembroke’s feathery black brows twitched.

  Edward’s voice bore the ragged edge of strain. “I trust you brought my queen here for a purpose?” He straightened his spine, although his mask of authority fooled no one. “Both of you – leave us. Now. I wish to speak with the queen. Alone.”

  “As you wish, my lord.” Pembroke inclined his head toward the door. Archbishop Winchelsey took his cue and followed him from the room.

  The moment the door banged shut behind them, Edward dashed to the middle window and clambered over the window seat. The buttons of his tight-fitting sleeves clacked against the window pane as he pressed his face to it to survey outside. A muffled voice hailed him from below. He scrambled backward. Then, darting a suspicious glance around the chamber, he went to stand in the very center. He beckoned me with a curled finger.

  “Trust no one,” he whispered as I neared him. “Not the nobles, not the servants ... Not even the clerics.”

  “Do you at least trust me?” I laced my fingers together beneath the slight bulge of my still overstretched belly. The creation of four children between us, I hoped, had at least forged some measure of confidence.

  Blue eyes narrowed, he cocked his head. “Who do you think asked for you? Did you think it was all Pembroke’s doing? The archbishop’s? Fie!” He spun away to face the window, arms crossed. “I recalled Mortimer from Ireland again, thinking he would defend me. After all I have done for him, making him Lord Lieutenant there. And what did he do when I asked his help? He joined the wolves in their hunt. I am like the orphaned lamb bleating in their midst, as they circle around me, fangs gnashing.”

  Shaking his head slowly, he drifted toward the end of the chamber. His voice grew not more distant, but louder with vehemence. “They all want to tell me what to do. To control me. Me. Who is king, I say? Oh, so many of them think they ought to be. That they could do better. I trust none of that writhing pile of worms who call themselves ‘lords’. Nor the crows closest, who squawk in my ears and try to scatter the rest whilst they pick at my very eyes to blind me. Who, I ask you, was meant to sit here?” With a deft twirl, he landed on the cushioned throne, sitting tall and defiant. “Who was born to rule England?”

  “You were,” I said, approaching him, “Edward of Caernarvon. And your son after you.” I knelt beside him, my skirts bunching around me in a sea of pale green satin. Gentle and soothing, I laid my hand over his forearm. Again, I must turn his mind to lighter things, away from the anger and the darkness. “Only yesterday Young Edward asked when you might take him hawking. He has tired of his peregrine and fancies the gyrfalcon you keep at King’s Langley. Do you remember the one?”

  He blinked, as if in momentary confusion. “The one I had brought from Norway?”

  “That one, yes.”

  “The best birds are from Norway.”

  “He knows, which is why I think he covets it so much.”

  “It is a tercel, not a hen, and far too much for him yet.”

  “Perhaps, but he is always dreaming of bigger things. He pretends his new pony is a great warhorse, a Flemish one, and goes about all day with a wooden sword tucked in his belt.”

  The barest hint of a smile crept over his mouth. His sight drifted to the mural high up on the wall above the nearest door – the one which the earl and archbishop had departed through. There, the slight figure of David hurled a stone from his sling at the raging Goliath. “One day, my son will fight my battles for me.”

  My husband was no warrior. Certainly no general of battles. Bannockburn had been testament to that. To speculate that his oldest son would be a more apt leader than him was no strain to the imagination. That prospect, however, was many years ahead and of no use to him now. Thus, it was my duty to serve as his peacemaker – to calm the waters that he had stirred. I stroked my husband’s arm until he met my gaze. “First, you must make peace, so you can keep your crown. Then, when it is your son’s time to wear it, he will not have to fight for it.”

  He squirmed with uncertainty. “It is always a fight for power. Always.”

  “You know what you must do?”

  His jaw twitched. A tear slid down his cheek, then dripped onto his silk tunic. Dully, he nodded. “Have I any choice? I must send my dear Hugh away.” Then, he gripped the arms of the throne until his knuckles turned white. “Tell Pembroke to gather the barons in the morning again. I will present the soft of my belly – give them the banishment they clamor for.”

  In truth, I had expected more resistance from him. Perhaps his willfulness had already been spent. Or perhaps he had indeed learned from the past. Whatever the reason, I embraced the result. Finally, Edward was learning the art of compromise, as well as the consequences of his selfishness.

  He rubbed a sleeve across his face. “Our daughter, Joanna – how is she?”

  “Bright, beautiful, spirited. She favors you.” I told him that because it pleased him, not because it was true.

  “A pilgrimage to Canterbury is in order, to give thanks. Once things are settled.”

  I stood, my legs tingling from knees to toes as the blood returned to them, and rearranged my wrinkled skirts. “Gladly will I go. We have much to be thankful for.”

  “Perhaps for you, ‘tis so.” He folded his hands in his lap and sighed in defeat.

  As I made my way across the floor, I overheard Edward mumble above the rustle of my skirt’s fabric: “I am no man’s chattel. I swear on my life ... there will be requital.”

  With that utterance, any hope I might have held – for lasting peace, for my children’s future – crumbled into a dust so fine that even the slightest whisper of civil war would blow it away without a trace.

  *****

  Leeds Castle – October, 1321

  Two swans, wing to wing, their bills tucked to their downy breasts, floated across the lake encircling Leeds Castle. The ripples of their wake broke the mirrored surface in a broadening fan. A bank of white rolled across my view, obscuring the limewashed walls beyond and the helmeted figures that watched us from the crenels of the uppermost towers. Even the sun, climbing toward its pinnacle now, had not chased away the morning mist.

  While I had gone to Canterbury and knelt before the shrine of Thomas Becket a week past, Edward had ridden out to the Isle of Thanet – where he met Hugh Despenser. I know this not because he admitted it, but because he went with such haste and purpose that it left me no doubt. While he made to return to London, he ordered me to come here to Leeds Castle, “To befriend and forgive,” he had written. And so I came, even though the pretense of my visit was as flaccid as a wet rope. I considered it a diplomatic gesture, if nothing more. This morning, however, I had awoken with my bowels churning. The day, I feared, would not end well. My breath hung trapped in a cloud before me in the damp air. Draping the reins of my gray palfrey across the horn of my saddle, I called my newest squire to me. Arnaud de Mone parted from the rest of my guard, some thirty armed men, and came to stand before me.

  “You sent word ahead as soon as we left Canterbury, requesting lodging for us?”

  He nodded. Pearlescent beads of moisture shimmered among the golden ringlets of his hair. Although young – and temptingly beautiful – he had, in a very short span, proven himself devoted. “I did, my lady.”

  “And just now – you asked that we be permitted entrance?”

  “I did.”

  “And what was Lord Badlesmere’s reply? They have had ample time to prepare for our arrival. Why have they kept us waiting?”

  “Lord Badlesmere is not inside, my queen.”

  “Then who refuses
us?”

  “Lady Badlesmere. She says that her husband gave the fortress into her care with firm orders that no one, for any reason, was to be permitted entrance.”

  “But I am not no one!” I protested impulsively. How dare she? Indeed, I traveled with armed guards, but that was only a precaution. I had not come here to take possession of the fortress, but to engender harmony. That had been clear in my message. Why must even the simplest of good intentions be suspect? Edward had given in to strict demands. Pardons had been issued. The peace may have yet been a fragile one, but it was peace. Trust first had to be a matter of practice before it could become belief. This ... this disobedience threatened that very premise to the core. If she would not do it willingly, then Lady Badlesmere would need to be forced to open up her home. “Go back to the gate. Tell her that her queen demands entrance and lodging.”

  Arnaud moved a foot, hesitating. “If ... if she refuses?”

  My mare twitched her ears, as if she, too, awaited my response. “We go back to London. This will be dealt with later.” By Edward – who would not likely find it in him to be lenient this time.

  He dipped his head in a nod and trotted away. With a detachment of two dozen soldiers, he rode across the narrow bridge of land connecting the mainland to the island on which Leeds Castle sat and up to the gate. A guard appeared at a crenel atop the gatehouse. Arnaud shouted my orders. I could not make out the guard’s reply, but it had the terse ring of a warning. Arnaud stood his ground and repeated my demands. The guard disappeared.

  A moment later, one of my mounted soldiers behind him snapped back in his saddle, an arrow protruding from his chest. Clutching at the shaft, he uprighted himself. Blood poured between his fingers. He swayed, then slumped to the side, his other hand still entwined in the reins. As the wounded man tumbled to the ground, his horse wheeled around, feeling the sudden yank of its bit. Unable to scramble free, the man threw an arm over his head. But too late. An iron-shod hoof circled through the air and cracked squarely against his skull, shattering it like an eggshell beneath the blow of a hammer.

  I gaped in horror, barely able to comprehend what I had just seen.

  Then, the air hissed. Arrows sailed above the breaking mist, arced downward and plunged into flesh. Two horses went down, pinning their riders. Another man fell from his mount, eyes wide in death. His party trapped on the narrow tongue of land, Arnaud flailed an arm, signaling retreat. But even as they turned to go without ever having put up a fight, another volley of arrows sang their requiem. The causeway was too narrow to allow them to all flee at once. Corpses clogged the way.

  I could not move or speak. A dozen dead or wounded lay scattered before the gate and along the land bridge. One man staggered to his feet and took two steps before he was struck through the neck. Another behind him, his way blocked, leapt into the water, desperate to escape. His head bobbed above the surface, then flew back as an arrow pierced his cheek. Blood sprayed around him. With a drawn-out gurgle, he slipped below, crimson bubbles marking the spot where he had last drawn air.

  Trumpeting in alarm, the swans beat their wings and arose in a cloud of white above the silver-dark water. Sleek necks stretched out before them, they ascended, going higher, higher. Above the pandemonium unfolding in the mist. Away from the massacre.

  The remaining men cleared the causeway and rounded the lake with a rumble of shouts. When Arnaud came to me, he said nothing, but grabbed my reins and led me away.

  My heart thudded in my throat. Hooves clattered around me. Taunts rang out from the castle.

  The moans of the dying fell away behind me. But I could not look back.

  It had begun.

  4

  Roger Mortimer:

  Kingston-upon-Thames – October, 1321

  THE RIVER THAMES FLOWED by in ageless indolence. A young boy, adrift on the current in a battered old rowing boat, rested his oars in his lap. In open-mouthed awe, he stared up at the long column of eight thousand fighting men moving along the road. My men. Many had fought with me in Ireland. Others lived on my lands or those of neighboring Marcher lords. They had all seen the consequences of Edward’s indulgences on Despenser. With every footfall and plodding hoof they stirred up swirls of dust. Several men stared back menacingly at the boy. He flipped his oars down into the water and pulled away as fast as he could.

  We had not yet crossed to Kingston-upon-Thames on our way from Oxford to Leeds Castle when the banner of Aymer Valence, the Earl of Pembroke, appeared at the bridge over the river. I reined my horse and signaled the column behind me to stop.

  “Who is it?” My uncle, Roger of Chirk, squinted into the angled morning rays of a late October sun. The creases around his eyes deepened with shadows. Beside him, Lord Bartholomew de Badlesmere stiffened and readjusted his dented helmet with a finger to his noseguard. He was Edward’s Royal Steward and the reason we had been plunged into this latest mire. He was also my kinsman by marriage. My eldest son, Edmund, had been married to his daughter, Elizabeth, for some years now, although at eight the girl was not yet old enough to join my son’s household. Of late, Bartholomew likely regretted the union, for it placed him squarely at odds with the king.

  I shaded my eyes with a bare hand. Plates of armor caught the sun’s reflection in scattered bursts. Pennons fluttered atop lances in the cool breeze. The earl’s small contingent clattered over the stone bridge. “Pembroke, but he hasn’t more than fifty men with him.”

  My uncle snorted. “So, the king sends Pembroke to do his talking for him. At least he picked the right man.”

  Bartholomew touched the hilt of his sword. His jaw quivered. “Is there hope yet, d’you think?”

  “I’ll not grasp at hope until I hear what the earl has to say.” I spurred my horse forward and my personal guard fell in behind me. My uncle let out a sharp curse as he struggled to catch up before I reached the earl, who was now across the bridge and coming up the road.

  My uncle huffed as he came abreast of me and strained to stay in his saddle. “Do you believe me – what I said about Despenser long ago?”

  I gave him a sidelong glance. He jounced hard in his saddle, but rather than a grimace he threw me a smug smile. I leered back at him. “Your gloating is of no help at the moment. But yes, I do. I should have believed you when you first warned me about Despenser. And I should have believed what you said about the king. But what good would that have done, Uncle?” I lowered my voice as the earl slowed his horse and prepared to dismount beneath a grove of oaks on the north side of the road. “In the end, we’re all forced to choose sides anyway. And if we don’t, the king will somehow make us, won’t he?” I leaned back and jerked so hard on the reins that my horse arched his neck and spun in a half circle before coming to a stop.

  I dropped to the ground and felt the weight of my armor with the impact.

  “Good day, Earl Pembroke!” I called with feigned enthusiasm. I swept my mail coif from my head, tossed it to a squire behind me and reached a hand toward the earl in greeting.

  He clasped my hand firmly and drew me to him in an embrace. His head barely came to my shoulder, but he was broad of girth. Each of his thighs was as stout as a Yule log. As reputation had it, he was not a man one wanted to face in the jousts. “A good morning it is, my lords.”

  When he stepped away, his eyes, dark as a Moor’s, were grim with foreboding. His gaze swept toward Bartholomew. The strained smile that crossed his mouth was not one of goodwill, I guessed.

  “King Edward is still besieging Leeds?” I said.

  My uncle sidled up to me, his breathing still ragged. He acknowledged the earl with a stiff bow.

  Pembroke nodded at each of us in turn. “He is. Lady Badlesmere will not surrender the fortress.”

  Bartholomew clambered down from his saddle and stretched his hands forward, imploring. “M-my wife,” he sputtered, unable to hide the desperation in his voice, “she did not understand my orders. She did not know the queen was merely returning from a pilgrimage.
Please, she meant no harm.”

  “Perhaps,” Pembroke impugned dryly, “she should have advised her archers not to aim so accurately.”

  I silenced Bartholomew with a glare. “Earl Pembroke, let us not waste breath arguing over what is already done. We come, at the lady’s request, to relieve the siege. However,” – I summoned a smile as diplomatic and genial as I could, given the circumstances – “this can be easily resolved with words alone. There need be no more blood shed.”

  “You would do well, Sir Roger, to go back to Wigmore and stay there awhile.”

  I glanced over my shoulder at the sizable army my uncle and I had brought with us. “There are more coming.”

  Pembroke was too levelheaded, and well-informed, to be swayed by my threat. “Who? Lancaster? Forgive me, but whatever promises he may have made to any of you, he won’t hold.”

  It was true. Lancaster had proven unreliable more than once. What’s more, he detested Badlesmere and made no secret of it.

  My uncle shook his finger in the air and limped intrusively close to Pembroke. Without his stick to lean on, he was noticeably lame. “Aymer, we’re old friends, are we not? Fought together in Scotland how many times? You were there when I tumbled from my horse and shattered my hip. It has never been good since.” He clamped a hand lightly on Pembroke’s upper arm and gave him a stern look. “We know each other too well to dance around this. So, let us leap to the truth, shall we? It was well out of Queen Isabella’s way to stop at Leeds Castle. And she approached, not with a mere retinue of damsels, but an armed force. All this less than two weeks after Edward and Despenser met at the Isle of Thanet?” My uncle had his sources, too. “Oh yes, we heard of that. How bloody coincidental. I say the queen was an instrument of their devices, not a passing pilgrim who became the victim of the Lord or Lady Badlesmere’s mistrust. We both know that.”