The Queen's Spy

by Caroline Newark

  He was silent for a long while and then turned his face to mine.

  ‘Lady Margaret, may I ask you something?’

  ‘Of course you may.’

  ‘Is it true you are Lord Mortimer’s cousin?’

  ‘Yes, it’s true. Our mothers were sisters. I spent the larger part of my girlhood in my aunt’s house at Wigmore.’

  He seemed satisfied with my reply.

  ‘Do you know Lord Mortimer well?’ He paused and bit his lip, hesitating over what he wanted to say. ‘Would you consider him a good man? A kind man?’

  Good? Kind? My thoughts flew back and suddenly it was yesterday. “Who is this little bwbach*?” A pair of grey eyes level with my own, a grown man’s hand in mine. Strong arms holding me close. And a knife. “Don’t ask foolish questions, you don’t want to know the answer.” Indeed, I didn’t. But what sort of man was my cousin, Roger Mortimer, Lord of Wigmore?

  ‘Yes,’ I said slowly. ‘I think he is a good man. He is loyal and he cares for those who are in his keeping. What more can you ask of any man?’

  ‘Thank you for telling me.’ He paused. ‘Aunt.’ He flashed a sudden smile, pleased to acknowledge our closeness. ‘I worry about my lady mother. I worry that she …’ He was unable to say what he was thinking, but I could complete his words for myself. His mother was falling under a spell woven by my cousin, and her son feared, not just for her reputation and her dignity, but for her happiness. He wanted to know that whatever happened she would be cared for if he could not care for her himself.

  Adultery is the greatest of sins for a woman but though Isabella might want my cousin as much as he wanted her she would not imperil her soul. When I was closeted with them in the days when we’d planned all this, the air between them had sometimes scorched with their desire. But I knew Isabella would be resolute She would deny herself because that was her nature. It suited her purpose that people should think they were lovers but as long as her husband lived, Isabella would not allow my cousin into her bed.

  The weeks we spent in the flat green lands of Hainault were almost perfect, poised as we were between two worlds - our endless days in the halls of the French king and the unknown England to which we were returning. I liked to pretend our idle, luxurious life would continue for ever.

  At Homs Isabella signed an agreement with Count William who, in return for a promise of recompense if any were lost, agreed to lease her one hundred and forty ships. Once business was done he invited her to visit his family at Valenciennes.

  How I enjoyed Valenciennes!

  In the great galleried hall of the Hotel de Hollande we were greeted by the countess who proceeded to introduce her four daughters, the littlest barely out of short clothes. The girls were remarkably alike: all pretty, freckled and slightly plump. The elder two were already married and knew exactly how to behave with honoured visitors, smiling politely and lowering themselves to Isabella, but Philippa was like an unbroken filly, giggling and fiddling with the ribbons on her gowns.

  Lord Edward was entranced. He stood beside his mother staring at these pretty creatures who smiled at him from behind their hands. As the minutes passed the poor boy began to blush.

  The countess showed great thoughtfulness and suggested a walk in the gardens for the young people. Relief flooded Lord Edward’s face as he and the four girls were shooed outside with their attendants to make friends away from the prying eyes of their parents. As soon as they’d gone the countess turned to Isabella and said, ‘All will be well. Wait and see.’

  And she was right. Friendship flourished in the gardens of the Hotel de Hollande and by the time we’d been eight days in Valenciennes, the signing of the betrothal contract promising marriage between the son of the English queen and Philippa, daughter of the count and countess of Hainault seemed a natural consequence and pleasing to everyone.

  As we stood in the courtyard making our farewells, I could see a small red-headed girl with tears in her eyes, great fat glistening drops which rolled slowly down her freckled cheeks. She blinked several times and put up her fingers in a vain attempt to stem the flow. Her lips trembled and she swallowed hard, but the loss of her newfound friend was proving too much to bear and to her mother’s obvious amusement, eleven-year-old Philippa began to weep in earnest.

  Lord Edward paid no attention to those who were urging him to mount. He walked back to his future bride and took her hand.

  ‘I shall write. I promised I would and I will. And in less than two years we shall be married.’

  I thought he would kiss her but instead he squeezed her plump little fingers and gave her a tentative smile.

  ‘Did you see how he looked at her? ’I whispered to Edmund. ‘I swear it is a love match,’

  ‘Like ours,’ replied my husband gently, smiling into my eyes.

  The night before, he had urged me to consider remaining in Hainault until our child was born but I had refused. I remembered a hot summer’s day long ago when I had waved a husband off to fight and never saw him again. If Edmund was sailing to England in support of a cause he thought was just, then so was I.

  At Brill, on the eve of the feast day of St Matthew, we dined with the Hainault court for the last time.

  ‘Are you afraid?’ said Edmund, holding me tight.

  ‘Yes,’ I replied, pressing myself closer. ‘I am afraid we do not have the support my cousin says we have; I am afraid there will be hundreds of armed men waiting for us the moment we set foot in England; and I am afraid your brother will not forgive us for what we are about to do. I remember the earl of Lancaster’s fate at Pontefract and I am frightened for you. I do not want to lose you.’

  Edmund kissed my mouth. ‘You will not lose me, sweetheart.’

  But Edmund was young. He didn’t know how easy it was for those you loved to slip from life into death. But I knew.

  Two days later, with a fair wind behind us, we set off up the wide channel towards the open sea. To begin with our ship moved slowly but as soon as the banks of the estuary fell away, the sailors pulled their ropes aboard and the barges, which had dragged us into deep water, disappeared. Up went the sail. The huge expanse of canvas bellied as it caught the wind and we surged forward like a hound unleashed. Ahead of us, somewhere beyond the horizon, lay England.

  We had said our prayers and made our supplications to Saint Cuthbert before we left Brill and believed God would be with us, but we were wrong. We sailed straight into the clutches of a storm. One moment a multitude of gulls were following us, swooping and wheeling above our heads, their screams snatched away on the breeze. The next they were gone. The skies turned black and the rain began. Edmund ordered me inside and told me to stay there.

  ‘Pray,’ he said curtly. ‘We may need it.’

  Over the howling of the wind I could hear tremendous crashes of thunder. Torrents of rain lashed against our tiny cabin and in the dim light of the single swinging lantern, Isabella’s eyes were wide with apprehension.

  Outside huge waves crashed against our vessel and with each battering the oak panelling creaked and our ship’s timbers shuddered. Sea-water had already breached the door, washing in malevolent dark swirls around our boxes and slapping up against the walls. Every so often the floor lurched and dipped as the ship rolled. At times it felt as if we were climbing up towards Heaven, at others, pitching down into the very depths of Hell.

  Above the screaming wind and the noise of the rain I could hear men shouting and deep below us the awful sound of a shrieking horse. Tossed about like a tiny piece of wood with our sail useless, we were completely at the mercy of the storm.

  Provided we remained still there was just enough room in the cabin, but the maids were already cowering on their knees on the floor, weeping and wailing, convinced we were about to die. Isabella sat rigid on the bed, her lips moving in prayer, her right hand holding her beads, her left clutching the cross she habitually
wore at her throat. Our prayers at Brill had been in vain for no peace-loving saint could intercede with God to placate a tempest like this.

  Against Isabella’s wishes, my cousin had elected to travel in the lead ship with Sir John of Hainault, the count’s brother. I didn’t know where they were or if any of us would ever see land again. There was nothing we could do but pray we would not be swallowed by the heaving waves.

  Isabella stretched out her hand to within an inch of my own but when she spoke it was with no hint of fear.

  ‘The Day of Judgement may be closer than I thought and if I am to die here, in this ship, I do not wish to have sins staining my soul.’

  She was so calm she might have been sitting in her privy chamber making her confession. ‘I have examined my conscience and it seems to me that in all things I have behaved as I should. I have not sought beauty or riches or power but they have been freely given to me, and what I have received I have used wisely for the benefit of my family and my husband’s people.’

  She paused. Then her voice dropped to a whisper. Now I could barely hear her above the noise of the storm.

  ‘I imagined that when I passed from the light of this world into the darkness of eternity I would be surrounded by those of my family who were dearest to me. But it seems God has seen fit to leave me with you. The rocks and fire of Purgatory creep ever closer but I am not afraid.’

  There was a sudden crash of thunder. The lantern fell to the floor with a clatter and the candle went out. The maids screamed.

  Isabella’s voice spoke from the darkness. ‘There is no-one to hear my confession, Margaret, so it will be to you alone I shall say these words. I have not behaved well towards you these past months. I was angry when I had no reason to be, and I would ask, now, before it is too late, for your forgiveness. I do not wish to die with the sin of pride upon my soul and these words unsaid.’

  This was the Isabella of before, the Isabella of my early years, the queen who was also a friend.

  ‘Your grace, there is nothing to forgive but if you wish forgiveness, it is yours.’

  She said nothing but in return I felt a slight movement and the brush of her fingers on mine. We sat there with the storm raging outside and our hands barely touching.

  ‘When I was a little child, not yet five years old,’ she whispered, ‘I fell and cut my knee. My mother would allow no-one to comfort me. I was sponged and bandaged but no-one put their arms around me as I wept. My mother said that when I was queen of England, no-one would touch me other than my husband. This, she explained, was the price you paid for being a queen.’

  I wanted to touch her but didn’t dare. Instead I said quietly, ‘How loveless you make it sound.’

  ‘Royal marriage has nothing to do with love. My purpose in marrying the king of England was to bear him sons and assist him in ruling his kingdom. My father had trained me well and I was skilled in the art of governance.’

  ‘The king was fortunate to be given such a worthy wife.’

  ‘I was twelve years old when I first saw him.’

  ‘He was a fine man,’ I said, remembering Aunt Mortimer’s stories of the handsome young king.

  ‘He was beautiful,‘ said Isabella wistfully. ‘Tall and golden. Such broad shoulders. He could do everything to perfection. If only you had seen him in those days, Margaret. I had been told about him but nobody mentioned his beauty.’

  I heard her breath catch as the ship heeled, the cabin tipped sideways and she slid closer to me.

  ‘The first time he put his arms around me, I froze. No man had ever held me before that moment. He laughed and told me I was a funny little thing. Imagine! I, the Lady Isabella, daughter of the king of France - a funny little thing!’

  ‘Was he kind to you?’

  ‘Yes, he was very kind. I tried to help him rule, as a wife should, but he cared little for governing his kingdom and when his friend, Monsieur Gaveston, was murdered he fell into a melancholy state.’

  ‘It was a dark time.’

  ‘Then our son was born. A fine baby. His father was proud of him. He gave him a great household and showered him with gifts and titles, and because I was the woman who had given him this magnificent child, he was kind to me. I think that for a while he loved me.’

  The storm paused for an instant and except for the snivelling maids there was nothing but silence and Isabella’s words ‘I thought we had a good marriage but one day everything changed. My husband had acquired a new friend and the friend didn’t like me. He mistrusted me and wanted my husband to himself, all the better to rule him. To my shame I was no longer necessary either as a wife or as a queen and my husband ceased to be kind. He never held me again.’

  I thought how cruel the king had been to a wife who was blameless.

  ‘It is wrong,’ whispered Isabella, ‘But I long to have someone hold me in their arms. I do not want to die alone.’

  ‘You are not alone, your grace. I am here and if you like we can comfort each other. I would hold you, if it pleases you.’

  A great crash rent the air, the ship shivered and rolled, the rain and wind rushed back in, and a small cold hand wrapped its slender fingers tightly around my own.

  6

  Invasion 1326

  A day later our battered ship was sailing along a deserted coastline of dune-backed beaches, a part of England none of us recognized. After carefully studying the shore and consulting some odd-looking drawings, the captain said he believed this to be the demesne of the earl of Norfolk, my husband’s dark-haired brother.

  As we struggled ashore there were no signs of an army. At the top of the dunes, in an area of rough grass, the queen’s servants had built a tent of carpets. It was big enough for several people so Isabella immediately sent for her clerk. She needed to write letters: letters to London, to York, to all the cities and towns of any importance, telling them of the queen’s arrival and of her intention to rid the realm of the Despensers. She begged the citizens and the townspeople to lend her and her son their assistance.

  According to Edmund, who had investigated further, we had landed near the manor of Walton on the banks of the River Orwell. With no sign of any of Sir Hugh Despenser’s men I thought we had slipped ashore unnoticed but my cousin disabused me of any such notion.

  ‘We may not have seen Despenser’s spies but they will undoubtedly have seen us. Some local ruffian will have been paid to keep a lookout.’

  All around were the familiar sights and smells of England but somewhere behind the windblown trees and the endless reed-filled marshes, were the men we had come to find. Beyond the deserted villages and the empty farmsteads they’d be massing their armies and preparing to attack. By now they would know we were here and it was only a matter of time before they came.

  That night, safe in my brother-in-law’s hall, my cousin gave orders for our ships to be sent back.

  ‘We don’t want Sir John and his Hainault friends creeping home before our job is done, do we?’ he said smiling with his teeth at Isabella when she protested. ‘Men who can’t turn back, my lady, must go forward and fight.’

  Bowing politely, he bade us good-night and returned to his men. It had been decided that once we were in England, my cousin’s face should be seen as little as possible. This was to be the queen’s campaign to rid the country of a hated favourite, not a rebel baron’s attempt to topple his enemies.

  With the noise and gaiety and banging of drums I thought our procession seemed more like a pilgrimage than an invading army. Isabella rode under the royal banner and with the blazing colours of England before her and her son riding at her side, she was an impressive sight. Everywhere we were cheered and nobody raised so much as a pitchfork to hinder our progress.

  We advanced inland through a deserted Ipswich, to Bury and then Cambridge. At Dunstable we were joined by Lord Henry. Upon hearing the news of our landing, he had gath
ered his northern barons together, sacked the town of Leicester, and hurried south. In his train he brought, not only my brother, but part of Sir Hugh Despenser’s treasure he had seized from the abbey of St Mary de Pratis. Isabella was delighted.

  But not all was as Isabella had hoped. My cousin was finding it difficult to keep Sir John’s men in order. With no enemy in sight, the Hainaulters took the opportunity to plunder and terrorise the surrounding countryside. Isabella was kept busy pacifying the irate owners of cattle which had been seized, and handing out purses of coins to compensate them for their losses. She couldn’t afford to alienate people before we managed to capture the Despensers.

  ‘My friends, they want to fight,’ explained Sir John. ‘They did not come for this gentle progress through your so beautiful land, Lord Mortimer. They came to kill the Lady Isabella’s enemies. And where are these enemies? First you tell me they are in London. Then you tell me they are fleeing to the West. So why are we plodding along, oh so slowly? Why do we not pursue them with greater haste?’

  ‘All in good time, Sir John,’ said my cousin. ‘It is the same with warfare as it is with women. He who advances slowly and carefully will always gain his heart’s desire.’

  Sir John was not convinced and went away grumbling like an impatient suitor.

  At Oxford the gates of the town were firmly shut but as we advanced down the road we saw movement ahead. Coming towards us, glittering in the afternoon sunshine, was a small procession.

  ‘The good burghers of Oxford bearing gifts,’ exclaimed Edmund. ‘How fortuitous.’

  Isabella extended her gloved hands and received the proffered silver cup. Then, escorted by the Oxford worthies and a cheering crowd of scholars and townspeople, she and Lord Edward rode under the gatehouse and into the town. We had arrived. The first of the king’s loyal towns had fallen to us without so much as a single sword being drawn.