Edward leaned back in his chair and cast his eyes toward the ceiling. The long, twig-like fingers of one hand caressed the indent of his temple. There was an ethereal sort of beauty in his delicate look and he wore a king’s clothes like the adornment they were meant to be, in luminous colors that drew attention to his ashen hair and translucent eyes. But in his finery, he also gave the impression of something frail and defenseless: the fawn needing its spots and tall grass for protection.
“Why must your brother complicate matters?” Edward’s face went taut with distress. “He thinks I can run to him whenever he beckons – as if I had nothing better to do? I am the King of England. I grovel to no one. Besides, the bastard knows precisely what will happen if I leave my kingdom to kiss the hem of his robes.”
Young Edward stared expressionless at his hands, pressed flat in his lap. Something had transpired between him and his father. But unlike the father, the son had learned to master his emotions, to keep his outbursts private and his troubles subdued.
“What will happen, Edward?” I said in a toneless voice. The ride from Windsor had afforded me time to think. I did not want him to read anything into my words, although doubtless he would anyway.
He kept his chin tilted up. His gaze was accusing. “You know what will happen. The moment I set foot on French soil and take the road to Paris, assassins will slip a knife into Hugh’s chest.”
“Then why not take Lord Despenser with you?” A stupid question, but he expected it of me. Edward more than needed him; he could not exist without him.
Edward, however, did not answer. Bishop Stapledon did.
“The king believes both their lives would be in danger, if either were to go to France.”
I gave the bishop a look of defiance. “Charles would never order the taking of a life.”
“Mortimer would,” the king mumbled.
“You know this as fact?” I probed.
“Oh, I do.” Edward lifted his goblet to his mouth, then paused, realizing it was empty, and stared into it dreamily. “You will fix this for me, Isabella. You will make amends with Charles. Write to him. Tell him ... tell him there are rumors of rebellion at home. That my life is in danger. The children’s, as well. That we have to keep them in hiding and they must be closely guarded.”
I nearly bit through my own tongue at the lie. My fingernails sliced at my palms. This was more than Despenser plying for power and Edward being duped by his charm. This was Edward choosing to give him all. For so long I had seen Edward as some wretched, pining creature, gullible enough to yield to whoever flattered him and made him feel needed. Now I could see that he was weak because it was easier for him. He could not make a decision for fear of being wrong. So he would let Despenser do it all and then he would defend him to his dying breath. If Hugh Despenser stole the sun from the sky and proclaimed it was still day, Edward would concur, despite the darkness.
The king let his chair engulf him. He closed his eyes, sighing wearily, and muttered, “Your brother clutches a traitor to his breast. I cannot go to France while that slime-tongued Mortimer roams freely there.”
I played the innocent. “Charles is not in league with Mortimer. There is too much at stake between England and France to – ”
“Mother of God, woman!” He rolled his eyes at me like an impertinent child. “Do you think me that stupid? Of course he would not openly declare him an ally, or even give the appearance of it. He pretends that Mortimer is nowhere on the continent, when it is well known that the snake was seen slithering about your brother’s court in Paris.” Edward leaned to one side of his chair, smirking with some inner, amusing secret. “Come, wife, tell me what you know of this.”
“Less than you, I would say. I have heard nothing more than that Mortimer escaped and was last heard to be in Picardy. Do you think I employ spies across the continent? You know as much of this as I do.” What I did know I had learned from my damsels. Mere gossip. Charles had guarded me from the real details for a purpose such as this. Still, I would always harbor the fear that somehow my duplicity, however small, would be discovered. Perhaps I felt guilt not so much for what I had already done, but for what I might do, if driven to it.
At last Young Edward met my gaze and held it. Whether he believed me or not, I could not tell, but in his eyes there was the soft look of fondness. A slight tilt of his head and barely parted lips said that he understood that his father had pressed a knife to my throat.
I spoke to my son. “I know nothing of Mortimer being in Paris, if he was ever even there, or what Charles would want with him.” Then I directed my words to the king. “But if you believe these rumors, I will write to Charles and advise him against such associations.”
“Yes. Tell him to keep the traitor far away.” Satisfied, Edward glanced over his shoulder at Stapledon, smiled nervously and then said to me, “And you will tell him the rest – why it is impossible for me to leave England now?”
I nodded.
“Ah, I knew you would. I will make an obedient wife of you yet.”
How have I not been obedient? I dug my fingernails into my palms to silence my thoughts, lest I speak them.
I would be compliant, but only to a point. I could not let him believe that I would give up everything out of fear of him. “First though, you will let me go to my children and allow my servants to return to me. If you prefer me close by, Windsor is agreeable.”
It was a step too far.
All I saw of him when he propelled himself from his throne were the whites of his eyes blazing yellow in the half-light. Every cord in his neck was stretched taut against the delicate skin of his neck like arrow strings stretched for the pull. His hands shot toward me. I stumbled backward, expecting him to grab me by the throat and squeeze until the last breath of life died in my chest. I should have screamed out and fought back, but like cornered quarry, I threw my arms over my face and quivered.
Moments passed. His hands never touched me. I heard only the broken rasping of his breathing. Slowly, I dropped my forearm to look. He was still standing there – his hands outstretched in a grasping gesture, his jaw jerking with unspoken oaths.
“You will do as I say!” he finally screamed at me.
His own rage seemed to have frightened him. His hands drifted downward, his mouth went slack. Edward was always the sheep, never the wolf.
“When I believe that you are as loyal and innocent as you espouse, then Is-s-sabella,” he hissed, “then I will let you see the children, but only when and where I say. As for your pilfering, spying French rats, they are already on their way to France. Back to the ungodly shithole they came from. Where they belong. Out of my land.”
I saw him for the first time then as he truly was. Not what I wanted him to be, nor believed he could be with me at his side. He was too cowardly to be a tyrant, too arrogant to admit he had not the courage or intelligence to make his own decisions. Strangely, I pitied him. But also, I feared him, for one who is so desperate for the approval of another will do anything to fill that need. He would find a way, any way, to be rid of me. Edward and I would never again be as husband and wife. We had long ago ceased to be, long before I had accepted the fact. But more than having ruined our marriage, Hugh Despenser needed to be disposed of for the good of all England. However, I was also aware that removing Despenser from Edward’s side might abate England’s woes only temporarily – until the next favorite-to-be cast himself to bathe in the rippling pool of Edward’s tears.
Certain my life was already forfeit, that tomorrow would find me kneeling by the block, my hair shorn close to give the executioner’s axe a clean neck, I lashed out in a fit of bravery born only out of desperation. “Then you will lose Gascony, Aquitaine, the Agenais ...”
He flashed a sneer at me, and then slunk back to his chair. His head sagged between his narrow shoulders. Gradually, the slant of his lips lifted into another prancing smirk. “I may have already. But you will lose your children. Do as I say and you shall have them bac
k. In time, I may be so kind as to return your lands, too. But my trust is no longer so easily given. Proof of your loyalty will be a long while coming, my unfaithful queen.”
And proof of your humanity, Edward, will be never. The devil has possessed you, enslaved you with lust.
I turned my head aside and closed my eyes. The dulcet notes from Einion’s harp encircled my numbed head, taunting me with dreams of sleep. I had been nearly two days without rest, snatching only minutes at distant intervals on the first leg of this awful journey from the Tower to Windsor and none at all on the way back here. Exhaustion overcame me. I could stand no longer. I folded my hands together and sank to the floor.
Let him think I am complacent and fearful of him. Let him. I will find a way to overcome this.
Edward slumped heavily, finished with me, depleted in his triumph. I expected to be escorted away then, but through the lacework of my eyelashes I saw Bishop Stapledon stoop before Edward. On the back of his chasuble, embroidered in heavy gold thread, was Christ on the Crucifix. He whispered long to the king. Edward’s reply came at first as a growl and then faded to an infantile mewl. His head swiveled back and forth in denial, but the bishop kept nodding and finally placed a firm hand upon the king’s shoulder.
I overheard Stapledon say, “Pope John wishes to free you of your troubles.”
“It is surrender,” Edward grumbled.
Stapledon sighed, straightened himself, hands locked behind his back, and reasoned, “It is compromise. A way of keeping what is yours.”
I braved a look at my son. His eyelids fluttered as he tried to keep them open.
Beside him, Edward writhed in his chair and kneaded at his thighs as if he were in bodily agony. “Tell her then,” he conceded with a scowl.
As Bishop Stapledon turned toward me, I could see the high forehead beneath his tall miter, revealing a balding pate. “The Pope suggests that you might be helpful in negotiating terms of peace with your brother King Charles.”
Charles! Charles, my hope!
He must have arranged this by communicating with the Pope on my behalf. Could it be? Yes, yes, it made some sense. Still, there had to be some trick to this, some cost to me.
I clenched my hands. “How am I to do that when I have not even the freedom to travel so far as Windsor?”
Stapledon sniffed at my insolence. “It would mean, yes, that you would need to journey to France. You would return to England as soon as the terms for a truce are arrived at.”
This had everything to do with the abduction of my children – to ensure my cooperation. If I had any thoughts of fleeing England altogether, my return would be guaranteed so long as Edward hoarded my children. I had more to lose if England went to war with France than Edward did.
“You will go then?” Edward prompted in agitation. “But not immediately, mind you. There are details to work over.”
I could not think fast enough. Was he asking me? Why not just order me? Dangle my children before me? What if I refused? I tested him.
“I don’t know. I ... I would not know how to negotiate something as critical as a truce.”
Yes, let him think I have no confidence in the matter, that he is cleverer than me and I am nothing but the doting mother and obedient wife, desperate for his guidance and approval.
Stapledon replied, indicating they had already discussed this privately, “You will be informed of your role.”
Told what to say and do, more likely, I thought. “But how could I possibly be of help? Why send me? Why not another? Perhaps you, your grace,” I said, indicating the bishop, “would better serve? Or one of your brothers, dear husband?” I paused there to remind them of the Earl of Kent’s debacle.
Edward slapped the arm of his chair. “Listen, wife! Because the Pope has bloody appointed you – that is why. I suppose he thinks your brother would be more amenable to your sniveling, accursed female presence than that of a true Englishman.”
“But ... you will come later? I cannot pay homage to Charles on your behalf, my lord,” I said in feigned innocence. “Perhaps I do not understand the situation fully, but is that not the root of the problem?”
As if my words had scoured a festering wound with salt and vinegar, Edward flung his goblet sideways. It clattered across the floor and skidded to a halt at his bard’s sandaled feet. “Damn you, man! Do you not know anything more pleasant to the ears? Next time I shall call on my kennel keeper to play his fiddle. The dogs will join him in a chorus more uplifting than anything I have yet to hear from you. Now get out of here before I strangle you with your own strings!”
Einion, accustomed to Edward’s shifting moods, gave a subtle bow, and tucked his instrument gently beneath his arm. Then, he felt his way along the wall until he reached the door and left.
The bishop cleared his throat. “That is a ... a matter we have not yet resolved. There are many complexities.”
Meaning Edward would never leave his dear Hugh for fear of losing him to assassins.
I glanced at my son, who looked away the moment his eyes met mine.
In the span of a day, I had been robbed of my worldly possessions, my freedom, the friends of my childhood and my children. A princess of France and Queen of England and I had nothing left – nothing but the thinnest thread of hope that somehow, by God’s favor or some miracle of circumstances ... somehow, with the help of others, I would overcome this.
20
Isabella:
Tower of London – 1324-25
THAT WINTER, IDA RETURNED to my service, but I heard nothing of Patrice, Juliana or Marie. I slept away much of the daylight hours alone in my bedchamber in the Tower of London and come nightfall, plagued by headaches, sleep eluded me. From my window, I watched clouds of thickest gray banish the sun. There was no snow that winter, only rain. A persistent, miserable rain that turned the streets of London into rivers and drove its dampness deep into every stone of every building. The roof of the Tower leaked, the cellar flooded, the hinges on the doors rusted. In his avarice, Despenser had so depleted Edward’s funds there was nothing to spare for simple repairs.
For six months I waited, while letters delicately inked with diplomacy traveled from London to Paris and back again. The only letters I sent to Charles were those Edward directed me to write. Their voice was so unlike my own, I had no doubt Charles would deduce their true source.
I hoped that at Christmas the children might return to London, even if only briefly. But my fantasy faded to disillusionment when the day came and I was told they were all at Kenilworth with their father. I was not permitted to join them.
One January morning, sleet turned to ice and the sun broke through the clouds to set the world aglitter, but the spectacle did nothing to save me from my sorrow. Even as Ida ogled over the dazzling sheen of ice on the garden trees, I could not stir from my bed and hugged a pillow to my chest while a storm of tears streamed down my cheeks. Without my children, there was no wonder in the world. I only wanted time to pass. For something to happen. For an end to my despondency.
In Ida’s motherly care, I felt some comfort, but she did not know my heart and thoughts like Patrice did. My days were bleak and hollow. I tried to read, but could not concentrate on the words. I worked at embroidery, but pricked my finger so often I abandoned the task. All of my normal duties had been stripped from me by Hugh Despenser and put into the hands of one of his many clerks. I was, effectively, under arrest, my every movement monitored, my every word inspected, my every habit scrutinized. Every hour of every day was a test of my faith and every endless night a challenge to my courage.
I saw Young Edward only sparingly and then always in the intrusive company of the king. I heard so little regarding the younger children that I lived in perpetual worry. John, I had been told, had been given over to Despenser’s wife, Lady Eleanor. I wrote to the children, but the only response I received was one from Lady Monthermer, Despenser’s sister, in whose care the girls had been placed at Pleshy. It spoke only of their l
essons – not that they had grown, or whether they were well or ill, or if they asked for me.
Daily, I doubted my plans and whether I would ever see my children again.
But they had already been taken from me, as had everything else. If I had to risk surrendering my life to have them back, so be it. Pride inspired what little courage remained in me. Pride became my reason for revenge. Revenge for the confiscation of my dower lands; for the abduction of my children; the lies spread about me; the severance of any bond with my husband; the usurpation of the duties and privileges due a queen ... revenge for the death of Thomas of Lancaster.
Revenge for my honor.
Finally, I wrote to Charles of my own accord in early February, begging haste, even though I was certain the letter would never reach him.
His reply, however, came within the fortnight.
My Dearest Isabeau,
I am overjoyed to hear that you are to come to France. It has been too long since you and I were in each other’s company, although our reunion, I regret, will be more business than pleasure and undoubtedly too short. We have much to accomplish. A truce between France and England has been long in coming and a prolonged peace shall mean lasting prosperity for both our kingdoms.
My prayers for your family and friends. I await your arrival with an anxious heart.
Our Lord bless you,
Charles
I read it until the candlewick was nearly consumed, searching for some further meaning, even though I knew Charles was too shrewd to chance anything. I inspected the seal, imagining Lady Eleanor or Despenser breaking and then repairing it with meticulous skill. But the wax bond had been tight, the paper without tear or crimp.
As the candle flame sputtered and threatened darkness, I folded the letter back up. Even though I had not uncovered any signs of tampering, I was sure Edward already knew its contents. Charles had likely written directly to him at the same time. The moment my brother and I were alone, everything would begin to –
Isabeau, A Novel of Queen Isabella and Sir Roger Mortimer Page 18
