Isabeau, A Novel of Queen Isabella and Sir Roger Mortimer

by Sasson, N. Gemini

  Without answering her, I gathered my skirts up, plunged down the stairs, through the hall, which had already been vacated, and out the gaping outer door. A sharp wind snatched at my breath, reminding me that I was not wearing my mantle. The cry of a trumpet shattered the air again and a drum beat franticly. People poured out of the palace and church. I bunched my skirts in my hands and began to run. Before I reached the object of the crowd’s derision, Mortimer caught me by the wrist.

  I pulled in a deep breath. A moment passed in which we searched each other’s eyes, opened our mouths, and yet remained silent. Then he gave me his hand, turned and guided me through the palace gate, shoving his way through the rising mass of bodies as he shouted to make way for the queen. When we reached the front of the crowd at the market square, he let go of my hand and stepped aside, sweeping his hand outward to encourage me forward. Shouted insults were hurled at the captive, but as they saw me, the noise fell away like the tide breaking on the shore and retreating.

  Despenser lay on his side on the cobbles, trying to push himself up on an elbow. He leered back ineffectively at the hostile faces surrounding him. Then, his elbow gave way and he dropped his head, as if he could not hold it up. He drew a shaking hand over his eyes.

  Behind him stood Lord Wake, grinning. “Your prisoner, my queen.”

  I stepped closer to inspect the man who had been the cause of so much turmoil for all of England and personal grief for me. Without his fine trappings and a king’s authority to wield, he was nothing. A barely breathing corpse devoid of a soul. He had been stripped bare except for his ragged breeches, which hung so loose on his narrow hips that they did not fully cover those parts they were intended to. The bottoms of his feet were raw to the bone. Blood streamed from his elbows, stomach and knees, the skin dangling by flaps in some places, missing altogether in others, indicating he had been dragged partway through the streets of Hereford.

  On his chest, the word ‘peccavi’ – Latin for ‘I have sinned’ – had been carved.

  In spite of my loathing for the man, a bolt of disgust shot through me to think of a knife digging at human flesh. I closed my eyes and spread my palms flat against my stomach, stiffening as I recalled the night in the Tower that Despenser had stolen into my room, pressed his knife to my throat and threatened my children and my life. Then I opened my eyes to meet Lord Wake’s gloating gaze.

  “An easy catch,” he vaunted. “They were gone from Neath long before we got there, but they were not hard to follow. We came upon them near Llantrissant. They tried to run. Didn’t get far.” Wake nudged at Despenser with the toe of his boot. “He hasn’t taken food or water since we began on our way here. Said he’d rather starve to death than be tried for treason.”

  “And the king?” I asked, my voice sounding small to me. Or perhaps it was that I could not believe that this day had at last arrived. That Hugh Despenser lay sprawled on the ground before me, shackled and gutted of his power.

  “Lord Leicester took him directly to Monmouth, my lady. He, too, is weakened from his ordeal at sea and his flight. When the king is fit enough, Leicester will take him on to Kenilworth.”

  At last, I felt the chill air enveloping me. Became aware of all the ogling faces. Saw the hands clenched in anger, ready to kill. The fingers gripping the hafts of hoes and scythes and butcher’s hooks. The snarls of loathing. The enmity, everywhere.

  Lord Wake reached into a bag tied to his saddle, took out an object and extended it to me. There in his open palm lay the golden lion pendant, its jeweled eyes dulled by a crust of dried blood and dirt, the fine links of its chain broken. I shook my head, refusing it. “Return it to the king – as a reminder of what becomes of those who have no limitations on their greed and self-interest.”

  Then I raised my voice to reach even the people crammed into the side alleys who had come to view the spectacle. “A pity, but I doubt this man would survive a journey to London to stand trial there. Indeed, even if he could, some bloodthirsty mob might prevent him from getting so far. Do what you will with him, Lord Wake. If anything more terrible should happen to him ... I did not get here in time to stop it from happening.”

  As I turned to step back into the crowd, I heard the rattle of metal. A hand – Despenser’s – latched around my ankle. I lurched sideways, catching my balance with my other foot. Both Wake and Mortimer started forward, but Despenser’s grip was feeble and I jerked my leg forward to tear myself free. He clawed again at me with his scabbed hands. I took one more small step back, holding my hands up to stop anyone from rescuing me. I did not need it. Despenser was too near death already to pose any threat.

  “Please,” he mewled, raising his grime-covered face to me, his tears mixing with the dirt and blood smeared on his face, “have you no mercy?”

  “May Our Lord, at least, have mercy on you,” I said to him, “for I have none.”

  Hugh Despenser was dragged naked behind a quartet of horses to the bailey of Hereford Castle, where a high gallows had already been constructed at Mortimer’s instruction. Along with a host of other lords and clerics, Mortimer and I stood atop the wall walk to the rear of the ravenous throng. Before the gallows, logs were piled to the height of men’s heads. The fire was kindled with dry hay and rushes and lit, its flames lapping at the sky. Despenser could barely stand without being held up. His wrists were broken; his feet twisted at odd angles; his skin scraped down to sinew in places; blood and dirt clumped on what remained of his flesh. His weak cries were drowned out by the jeering crowd. They looped a rope over his head and – as his long list of crimes were read out – pulled him as high in the air as the castle walls. Thick smoke rolled across my view, but I swear, before his tongue protruded purple from his mouth and his eyes rolled back into his head, he looked straight at me.

  When his spirit had left his body, they took him down. Cut his genitals off and flung them into the belching fire for his sodomy. Sliced open his belly, pulled loose his intestines and burned them, too. Then, his heart.

  I watched it all as if in a daze, detached from my own horror, unable to feel either compassion or relief, but all too eager to forget the details. It was done.

  His head was sent to London. The rest of him to the four corners of England.

  Baldock was sent in chains to Newgate prison in London. But before he could stand trial before the clergy, he was murdered by other prisoners.

  Edward had been taken on to Kenilworth. Leicester was content to be his keeper.

  And only two months since we had landed at the River Orwell in Suffolk.

  Epilogue

  Isabella:

  Wallingford – December 24th, 1326

  “BITTER COLD OUT HERE,” Mortimer complained as he joined me in the garden just outside Wallingford. The cloud of his breath hung in the air and his ears were rimmed in red.

  “It is winter, my lord,” I remarked, watching a robin in the bough of a pear tree fluff its feathers against the chill. “Although my bed was quite warm last night. So warm, in fact, that I had to throw the blankets off.”

  “I remember.” He turned to wander beside me through the orchard. Hoarfrost shimmered on the knobby, bare branches of the apple trees. Icy grass crunched under our feet. “You were feverish. Glistening with sweat.”

  A smile lifted my cheeks as I slipped my hands free of my mantle and tugged my deerskin gloves on tighter. “As were you.”

  “Shall I warm your bed again tonight, my love?”

  “After vespers. But be gone by midnight.”

  “Midnight? Why? You’ll grow cold long before sunrise. Has the gossip about us sprung anew?” he teased, although the danger of us being discovered was always frighteningly real.

  “That,” I said, looking at him sideways, “and that I need to sleep sometime. Yesterday Joanna was so excited about the prospect of tomorrow’s Christmas feast, she came bounding into my chambers when the bells rang prime.” I stifled a yawn, my steps dragging as I felt the weariness of my nocturnal ways creepi
ng through my body. Nearly every night since the day of Despenser’s death, Mortimer had come to my bed, the result of which had been utter exhaustion for us both come morning. But each night, in the darkness, that exhaustion was drawn from me by his touch, replaced by the promise of rapture. A promise always fulfilled. Indeed, I wondered how long we could go on like this and if on some tomorrow it would all end. Then I would see him, or think of him, my gentle Mortimer, and I would cease to wonder. Because I loved him so completely.

  At that moment, with the world sculpted in ice and the distant winter sun climbing in a broad blue sky, there was only now. Only us.

  Then, Bishop Orleton appeared at the garden gate, a letter in his hands. Chin thrust forward, his robes flowing behind him, he strode toward us.

  “The Great Seal?” I asked. “Did he relinquish it to you?”

  “He did,” Orleton said. “I gave it over to the prince’s care already.”

  At the good news, I gave Mortimer’s arm a light squeeze. “I thank you, your grace. You must have been persuasive. Then he agreed to give up the crown?”

  He lowered his eyes, sighing, and held out the letter. “I regret he did not.”

  My momentary exultation was dashed at the frozen ground. Why did Edward resist the inevitable? I withdrew my hand from Mortimer’s arm and took the letter. Bishop Orleton dipped at the waist and backed away, then turned and went from the garden. I fumbled at the seal, which bore Edward’s mark, reluctant to remove my gloves and expose my fingers to the cold. Finally, Mortimer extended his hand to relieve me of the task.

  When the letter was opened, he laid it in my hands.

  My Good Wife and Queen,

  My heart is cloaked in winter’s cold. Only hope saves it from shattering. But hope of what I do not know. That you will have me back? That the children will send their love in a letter or perhaps even grace me with a visit? That I will one day sit upon my throne, with you again beside me?

  In whatever way I have caused offense to you, and you to me, let it be forgotten. For now, I pray to receive Our Lord’s forgiveness. He, I know, will be so kind. May He bless both you and our children in abundance. May He take pity on me in my endless shame and enduring grief.

  Edwardus Rex

  Kenilworth

  “He begs forgiveness now,” I mused.

  “And still thinks he’ll be restored to his throne and that you’ll have him back. I say he has nothing left but his hope. Let him have it.”

  Once, it was all I had.

  I glanced down at the letter in my hands, remembering everything that had happened and how it had all come around to this day.

  Tomorrow, I would sit at the high table, partaking in the Christmas feast. I would watch my children dance merrily and play games until their eyelids grew heavy with sleep. I would listen to the waves of song and the bursts of laughter filling Wallingford’s high-raftered hall, as good and loyal friends raised their drinks to me.

  My gentle Mortimer would glance at me and a private, knowing smile would pass over his lips.

  A hundred times over, I would give thanks that I had never given up hope of this day.

  I had waited so long ...

  Historical Note

  The invasion of England by Queen Isabella and Sir Roger Mortimer at the head of a mercenary force began on September 26th, 1326. On the 16th of November, Henry, the Earl of Leicester and later Lancaster, captured King Edward, Lord Hugh Despenser and Chancellor Robert Baldock. The flight of Edward and his companions from London westward and Isabella and Mortimer’s pursuit of them have been greatly condensed here and slightly rearranged in their order to fit the telling of this tale.

  The eldest son of Edward II and Isabella is referred to in these pages as Young Edward or Lord Edward, to avoid confusion. He was never installed as ‘Prince of Wales’, as his father before him had been, although he did bear many other prestigious titles, such as Duke of Aquitaine, Count of Ponthieu and Earl of Chester.

  Exactly when and where Isabella and Mortimer began conspiring, which one instigated various schemes and when they became intimately involved are the subjects of much conjecture. They first met long before the Mortimers rose in rebellion. There is every reason to believe that Isabella visited Roger at the Tower of London while he was imprisoned there, perhaps even more than once. Clearly, both had motives to eliminate Despenser and remove Edward of Caernarvon from power. Gathering supporters to their cause, especially with Young Edward as their figurehead, was an easy task. King Edward and Despenser had flagrantly abused their power and could garner no sympathy in their most dire hour of need.

  Sometimes, however, achieving a desired end is not truly the end. Hugh Despenser may have lost his life in the name of revenge, but the problem remained of what to do with Edward of Caernarvon and how to put his son on the throne in his place.

  By the beginning of 1327, Roger Mortimer was the most powerful man in England – king in all but name. He was, however, not the only English noble with ambitions. Henry, Earl of Leicester and Lancaster, was not one to easily yield. And Young Edward would not remain young forever.

  Note to Readers

  There is a great deal more to the story surrounding these historical figures. My original intention was to pack everything into one book, but it would have ended up being one very long book. Plans are to release a sequel in mid 2012. Please check my web site for more information and feel free to contact me if you would like to be notified of the release of the next book.

  If you enjoyed this or other books, please consider spreading the word by tweeting a link, sharing it on Facebook or leaving a review at your favorite online retailer or book lovers’ site.

  You may contact the author with comments or questions via her web site at:

  www.ngeminisasson.com

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  About the Author

  N. Gemini Sasson holds a M.S. in Biology from Wright State University where she ran cross country on athletic scholarship. She has worked as an aquatic toxicologist, an environmental engineer, a teacher and a cross country coach. A longtime breeder of Australian Shepherds, her articles on bobtail genetics have been translated into seven languages. She lives in rural Ohio with her husband, two nearly grown children and an ever-changing number of sheep and dogs.

  Isabeau is her second novel. She is also the author of The Crown in the Heather, The Bruce Trilogy: Book I, Worth Dying For, The Bruce Trilogy: Book II, and The Honor Due a King (The Bruce Trilogy: Book III).