Isabeau, A Novel of Queen Isabella and Sir Roger Mortimer (23 page)

For all the times I had ever seen Edward riding at the head of an army or in procession, never had I seen the same look of nobility that Charles had that day. It is akin to the look that eagles have: a bearing of pride, a smoothness of motion, a certainty in every step or word. I was dazzled by the presence of my own brother, the very boy with whom I had argued and joked and tattled on as a little girl.

He edged forward, waiting for those who had gathered on the bridge in witness of our reunion to part before us. His impressive retinue, assembled in lines ten abreast with banners raised, followed behind.

Bishop Stapledon was left hugging the sidewall of the bridge while the worldly nobility of France and its power in arms passed him by without regard.

22

Isabella:

Poissy – March, 1325

LATE THAT AFTERNOON, WE arrived at the sprawling city of tents that had sprung up along a ridgeline above the Seine. The French had claimed the large expanse overlooking the river, leaving the English to huddle together at the outer edge between the French and a wood tangled with saplings and thorny brush.

We rode down the main alley of the encampment toward its center as boisterous shouts greeted my arrival. Mud and manure squelched beneath our horses’ hooves. There, banners bearing golden fleur-de-lis on fields of blue encircled the meeting pavilion where the peace talks were held. During the day it would have been packed full like a barrel of salted fish, and doubtless smelling as bad. So many bodies in such a crowded area with very little fresh water available lent itself to the sacrifice of regular bathing.

Charles raised a hand and the procession lurched to a halt. From his saddle, he turned toward me. “I should like to invite you to sup with me, Isabeau. There is so much to talk about: these negotiations that have gone on for so long, my prospective marriage to the Count of Evreux’s daughter” – his face lifted instantly from a look of consternation to teasing anticipation, then sunk back down to a frown – “matters in England ...” In the fading lull of his speech, there seemed to be words that for the time being were left unsaid. He drew his shoulders up, donning a more kingly posture, as if he had momentarily forgotten his role. “I regret, however, and sadly, that my evening is full already. The Bishop of Orange arrived this morning from Avignon, just ahead of you, with letters from the Pope. Not one, but several. I find it hard to believe he could have omitted anything in the previous dozen, but I suppose I encouraged him by seeking his advice. Perhaps afterwards, I could call on you and we – ”

“Oh Charles,” I reached out to take his hand, even though I could barely grasp his fingertips, “you would find me dreadful company if you came then. I’ve hardly slept since we arrived at Boulogne. It’s a marvel I haven’t fallen from my saddle. Tomorrow will be a long, long day, I imagine. A quiet evening with my damsels and a full night’s rest should renew me.”

“Tomorrow, by the river then? We could share a supper, just the two of us.”

“I should like that.” I asked to be shown to my quarters, a large pavilion next to Charles’ overlooking the marshy meadow. My English guardians and attendants were escorted elsewhere, in spite of their protests. They were disgruntled to learn that once in France their leash on me had, in effect, been severed.

My damsels joined me and it was very much like it had been during all our years together in England. We ate well and talked long, but soon Juliana – whose belly was just beginning to swell with evidence of another child on the way – yawned. I urged her to go to her husband and Marie, who had been stifling yawns since before supper, departed with her.

Patrice slumped onto a pile of pillows, draping the back of her hand across her forehead. “He wrote to me, not long ago. Arnaud – he is in Hainault
 ...
with Sir Roger Mortimer.”

The last time I had heard Mortimer’s name, Edward had uttered it with great contempt. Why then did the mention of him cause me to hold my breath and my heart to race? “So it was true? Arnaud helped him escape?”

She clenched her hand into a fist and brought it slowly down to her breast. “And you knew of it.”

“I knew
 ...
that Sir Roger would find his way free, yes. But of Arnaud taking part – of that I knew nothing. Not until I saw you that day.”

With a hollow laugh, she pushed herself up onto an elbow and jabbed angrily at a plate of dried herring beside her before flicking one onto the ground. “I gave up a child, all because I thought he did not want me.”

I wanted to go to her, shake her, and convince her that my involvement had been small, that it certainly had nothing to do with Arnaud’s disappearance, but she would not have believed me just then.
When she finally spoke again, her voice carried a painful accusation. “You knew. You
knew
. You could have told me where he was going. I could have followed him.”

“Patrice, no
 ...
I could not tell you anything. I knew little. Certainly not where he – where they would be going. Too much was at stake.”

“Too much?” Deep furrows of confusion cut across her forehead. She came closer. “Who planned it then? Who planned Sir Roger’s escape?”

“Charles.”

“
He
plots against Edward?”

“Not directly, no. I asked his help to rid Edward of Despenser. He thinks, perhaps, Mortimer can be of use.” I sat down on the woven rug before her and took both her hands in mine. They were stiff, resisting. “You understand then why I could not say anything? One word of it and I would have been accused of treason. Edward does not forgive. He does not know how. Oh Patrice, if I kept things from you, it was because I feared for my life, for my children’s future, but there’s no danger of that any longer. We are in France now. Safe.”

Chin down, she nodded, perhaps beginning to understand, but I could tell it was not easy for her. “You are not going back then – to England, I mean?”

I shrugged. “Not soon, but eventually. When the time is right. Forgive me, for all I have kept from you. I couldn’t risk your life for my own selfish motives.”

“But Isabeau,” she murmured, touching her forehead to mine, “I would die before I would give up any of our secrets.”

“I would never ask that of you, Patrice. Never.”

From outside, I heard the clinking of cups, the loud jests, the sonorous rolls of laughter, and the ripple of a slight breeze against the walls of my pavilion. We leaned against one another, head touching head, my arm around her shoulder, comfortable in our silence.

*****

Near midmorning the next day, my dear cousin, Robert of Artois, greeted me outside my pavilion. He had come to escort me, along with an impressive guard of a dozen in royal French livery, to the king’s meeting pavilion. Over the last few years Robert had written to me every few months and while our correspondences had been nothing but congenial exchanges, his words were always those of sincere encouragement and his love of life plain
. My memories of him from childhood were sparse: he was one cousin among many, but even then he had readily sought me out to share a greeting and kiss me on the cheek. He was three years younger than me and as children I was always taller. But we were long past grown now and it surprised me that I could still look down on the top of his already balding head. As we began our walk to the meeting place, Cromwell and Boudon appeared suddenly from between a row of tents. They had been waiting there for some time, judging by the urgent length of their strides. I shuddered, knowing they had come to counsel me yet again. Robert gave me his arm for comfort.

“There is a speech they have made me rehearse,” I told him lowly. “Nothing more than Edward’s grievances.”

“Worry not,” he said, pinching the back of my hand playfully as we walked down the narrow aisles between the tents and straight past my open-mouthed English guardians. “I could beat them back with the flat of my table knife. What? You look at me as if you think I cannot fight. I rode with Philip of Valois, did you know? I tell you, though, I would rather be on the battlefield than closed up in a dark tent hurling words back and forth. If they wanted to bore their enemies into submission, they would have succeeded months ago. Indeed, I would rather scrub the garderobe clean with my fingernails than sit there listening to them another day. But I think, dear cousin, one day with you and they will fall quiet with awe. It is not often that one finds beauty and intelligence in the same body.”

Then, as we stopped before the main pavilion, he kissed me lightly on each cheek and stepped back. My unwelcome shadows lurked at a distance.

A pair of French soldiers in blue bowed low and parted the entrance flaps. I was but a step within, Robert close behind, when the flaps dropped shut behind us, sending a whoosh of air past me to ruffle my skirts. A scurry of motion followed, but I could barely see for the dim light. Then shapes formed as my eyes adjusted. All had gone down on bent knee before their chairs. Grumbling, Boudon and Cromwell shuffled in, letting another momentary flood of light inside.

To my left, Charles sat rigidly on a carved throne elevated on a small dais. He wore a pelisse of brightest blue embroidered with fleurs-de-lis in golden thread and lined at the sleeves and collar with ermine. A crown aglitter with jewels sat above his pale brow and as he tilted his head in welcome the sapphire in its center flashed brilliantly. I blinked away my momentary blindness.

I took my seat opposite Charles’ and one by one the great lords and bishops there came to bow before me.

My task was, on many levels, futile. I knew so. Even if I could procure peace, it would not last forever. In time, some misunderstanding would be taken as on offense. Some law disregarded, covenants forgotten. Some struggle over power or possessions would break out. There would be threats, denials, pretenses of peace, accords violated and then
 ...
war. Always war.

Men would rather fight with the might of their arms than reason gently with words. They preferred the clang of weapons to the scratching of a quill. The red of blood to the black of ink.

In battle, the end is decisive. Death leaves no question as to who is victorious.

23

Isabella:

Poissy – March, 1325

AFTERWARD, CHARLES AND I strolled out into the late afternoon sun. Between the encampment and the river lay a marshy plain where watchful ewes gathered with bucking spring lambs. At river’s edge, budding willows reflected golden in the silty, rain-gorged waters. A shepherd rose groggily from the sea of grass, yawning, while the wiry little gray dog at his knee pricked an ear and sniffed the air.

We walked along the river’s edge, the soggy ground of the floodplain making little sucking sounds around us like an infant at its mother’s breast, and talked of dearer things: of my children, his betrothed Jeanne, and our long-ago childhoods. I felt at ease with Charles, but I also felt very much like a little girl under the reproachful eye of her father, always being corrected and guided.

“You know that Edward will never leave England?” I took a cup of wine a servant offered to me. A blanket was spread before us and cushions placed on it to sit upon. Servants brought forth supper in covered baskets:
stuffed capons, white rolls with butter and an egg custard.
“He will not leave
him
.”

“I figured that long ago, dear sister.” Charles took my hand and lowered me slowly so I would not spill my drink. “That may work to our advantage, I think.”

As he peeked in each basket, wrinkling his nose at most of the food,
I shared every detail of my past few years, complaining profusely of Edward’s neglect and Despenser’s cruelty.

“I believe,” I told him later, leaning back upon a pile of cushions to gaze up at the sky, “there is something more between them – between Edward and Despenser.”

Charles drew in a breath, the beginning of a question framing his lips.

“No,” I answered, before he could ask it, “I have no proof of it.” I pulled my roll apart and nibbled at it.

“Then, if you are to separate yourself from him, you must have some other justification. The denial of your children is enough. And for another, to cleave the union of man and wife
–
it need not be a ...” – his eyebrows drew tightly together –  “a ‘physical’ matter.”

“I should like to think that was true, Charles. But in reality, men, kings in particular, are allowed to do as they please and everyone, including the Church, will look the other way.”

“And when a woman is unfaithful, yes, she will be found out.” His voice took on a bitter edge, as though memories of his first wife Blanche’s infidelity must have stirred in him. “Whether you think it fair or not, Isabeau, when women follow their carnal desires with indiscretion, they jeopardize dynasties. Not so for men. But then, we are speaking now of a different kind of ‘relationship’ than what you are implying between your husband and his pet.”

“It is only different in that there will never be bastards born of it. Does that make it any less wrong?”

He dabbed at the corners of his mouth with a linen kerchief. “When we dwell overmuch on our problems, Isabeau, we give up time trying to solve them. You have no proof, no witnesses. You may, however, very well be right about your suspicions. The question then is what are we going to do about it?”

“You will help me?”

“You are here, are you not?”

“What can you tell me of Sir Roger Mortimer?” I was abrupt. I had waited months, years to hear news of Mortimer, to see him, to speak with him again. “Has he been to see you?”

“Patience, my Isabeau. Patience.” He raised his goblet to me and smiled. “And trust. I will take care of things.”

But I had been patient with Edward, patient enough to shame the most devoted of the saints. Surely, at some point, patience ceased to be a virtue?

For another month the talks floundered. Charles was as stubborn as he was enigmatic. Privately he promised me much, but he would only divulge so much. I only knew that he would not endanger his standing with the papacy for me, at least not publicly. And he would guard his possessions like a famished lion standing over fallen prey.

And if I thought there was any possibility of Young Edward ever being named Charles’ heir, it soon became even more remote when I met Charles’ betrothed, Jeanne of Evreux. Charles had declared a short recess and together we traveled to the Palace de la Cité in Paris, where I met her.

In looks, Jeanne of Evreux was more child than woman, but very like an angel in her purity of countenance. Her hair was a pale chestnut and pulled back so tightly that it stretched her skin taut across high cheekbones. She was a mere fifteen. Charles was twice as old and at not yet thirty, Jeanne would be his third wife. Blanche, his first wife, had been imprisoned for adultery, although the marriage had not been annulled until ten years later. Charles then took a second wife, Marie, who tragically died in childbirth, as did their infant son, Louis. When my father had the Grand Master of the Templars burned at the stake, many said that a curse had been cast upon the House of Capet which had ruled France for four centuries and that the male line would end with Charles. The ill portent, so far, was holding true, for two older brothers had died before him – and neither of them old.

Despite the premonition of sorrow that I felt for the young girl who was to be Charles’ bride, I also hoped the very curse that had condemned my father and brothers might prove to be my son’s fortune.

Of my blood and of my body – England and France could become one.

My Very Dear Lord and Husband,

Warmest greetings from Poissy. I have met with much success. King Charles wishes to secure a lasting peace between England and France. Gascony will be returned to you, not immediately as a whole, but rather over a scheduled time. It is a small concession that will end in your favor. While largely amenable, Charles is, however, intractable over the matter of the territory surrounding Agen. He believes that some indemnity is due to him. I have warned him that his greed will only delay the process; but I also advise you, if you should permit me to do so, that some compromise is in order from both sides. A resolution is possible, but it will not happen if neither you nor Charles will give a foot of ground to gain a foot.

Also, the matter of homage remains. If you would journey to France, to Calais or Boulogne perhaps, you would be only briefly away from England. He has not said as much, but I believe Charles would more willingly agree to any demands you have regarding the territories in dispute if you would but come and be done with it.

Daily I pray for the wellbeing and happiness of my children and to see them soon again. Send them my love.

God bless and keep you,

Isabella, Queen of England

I knew, even as the ink bled black from my quill onto the golden parchment, that the mere mention of Edward coming to France – and leaving Hugh Despenser – would inspire him to seek any alternative to that unbearable thought.