Isabeau, A Novel of Queen Isabella and Sir Roger Mortimer (30 page)

31

Isabella:

Vincennes – July, 1326

MANY LETTERS WERE CARRIED abroad as a long winter passed into a fleeting spring. Then summer arrived prematurely on an arid, unrelenting wind, and replies began to pour in. Several more times Edward demanded my return. I called for Despenser to be banished forever from England. Edward again refused. Meanwhile, I also engaged in lengthy correspondences with Count William of Hainault regarding both the hand of one of his daughters for Young Edward and to implore his help. Those letters were met with enthusiasm and openness. But there were other letters – letters that were to threaten our plans. From Edward to Pope John. And from the Pope to Charles. Letters regarding my relationship with Mortimer.

Even worse, I did not realize to what lengths Bishop Stapledon would pursue revenge until my cousin Robert of Artois arrived in my solar at Vincennes unexpectedly. In the long golden light of a summer evening, Robert’s face appeared ashen with concern. He turned his feathered cap in his hands, hunting for the proper words. I could not ever recall seeing him without a glint of merriment in his eyes or a grin teasing at the corners of his lips.

“Trouble from England,” he mumbled, his mouth suddenly plunging in a sullen frown, “and elsewhere.”

“Should that surprise us?” I tried to make light of it, but the slump of Robert’s shoulders said that the news would be a heavy blow. “Does Edward order me back again? Or does he threaten to steal his heir back from beneath Charles’ nose?”

“Lord Despenser told Pope John the only reason you have stayed in France until now is because Roger Mortimer has threatened your life, should you leave.”

“That’s a lie,” I said, incredulous. “I choose to stay and I have been plain about why I am here and not in England. Because of Despenser. Oh, it does not surprise me one whit to hear him deflect the blame. Well then, I shall offer no retort. He may as well have accused me of witchery for putting a pinch of herbs on my pillow.”

Robert cleared his throat. “The Pope has demanded that King Charles turn Sir Roger, and you, out.”

On the stool next to me by the window, Marie laid down her needlework. Patrice, who had been straightening the clothes in the wardrobe, dashed into the room, aghast.

“What say does the Pope have in where I am or what I do?”

“Complete say where it concerns morality.” Robert ran a finger along the spine of the pheasant feather on his cap. “King Edward has written to the Pope repeatedly. It would seem, fair cousin, that your relationship with Sir Roger is much talked about, both on the continent and in England. King Edward claims” – he lowered his eyes – “that Charles is harboring adulterers. The Pope, by indication of his decree, gives credence to the accusation.” Robert tugged a letter from beneath his overtunic and held it out, but did not move toward me.

I crossed the room on weak knees, took the letter and read it.

Our Dearest Sister,

Your work here has been of immeasurable value. We have reached an agreeable peace with England. You services are, however, concluded and I have no cause to continue to support you. It has come to bear that I can no longer grant you refuge, either. Pope John has decreed that your behavior, as a married woman, is intolerable and sinful. To disregard him on this delicate matter would be to accept excommunication. My faith is foremost. I cannot afford estrangement from the Church or the relinquishment of my soul. With even greater regret, I have forbidden any of my subjects to give you aid, on pain of banishment. I pray one day we will both be resolved of these unfortunate issues. Therefore, I ask you to go, but in peace and with my blessing.

God grant you a good and long life,

Charles, by the grace of God, King of France

Fontainebleau

I held the letter, my heart slowly going cold. My own brother, who had so vehemently defended me, given me succor, supported me in my grievances against my husband – he, too, was abandoning me?

I staggered toward the closest chair and crumpled into it, my body as limp as my will to go on. I wanted to call Mortimer to me that moment, wanted to throw myself into the comfort of his arms. He could put everything right. But I could not, not now – not with Robert here before me and this condemnation, this damning sentence of adultery and treason, swinging above my head as God’s absolute and eternal judgment.

Robert came to me, kissed me on the forehead and brought his mouth close to my ear. “Count William of Hainault is expecting you and Sir Roger in Valenciennes. You are to leave this very night. Everything has been prepared for you.” As he drew back, his hand lingered on my shoulder.

Charles?
I mouthed.

He nodded in answer.

*****

Shortly after midnight, Robert returned to my apartments and led me and my damsels away. Arnaud de Mone also escorted us, telling us that my son and Mortimer would meet us when we were safely outside the grounds. It would soon be discovered whose company we kept, but for now we would give the appearance of departing separately. The few sleepy-eyed servants and men-at-arms that we passed on our way to the outer wall kept their distance, as though we were lepers to be avoided.

At a low door in the outer wall, Robert whispered to the watchman and we were all ushered through, then along a footpath across a sheep meadow. Before we reached the hedgerow which marked its perimeter, our shoes were slick with manure. In single file, we scrambled through a hole in the bushes. Thorny branches tugged at our hair and caught on our clothes. Once through, we stood at the edge of a stream. One by one, Robert and Arnaud helped us down the steep bank. Lifting our skirts to our knees, Patrice and I waded through the cold water. The bank on the far side was less steep, but thick with stinking mud. Bedraggled, we slogged along with our shoes squelching. Soon, we found ourselves in an orchard where green pears clung tightly to their branches.

Behind me, Marie stumbled over a fallen limb and whimpered. I stepped aside and waited for her to come up beside me.

“I do not think I want to leave France again, my lady,” she said woefully. She slowed her steps, frowning.

I took her trembling hand in mine. “Then I will release you, but not yet. Come to Valenciennes. When we leave for England, you needn’t come with us.”

She gasped. “Oh, I would never dream of leaving you, but
 ...
but England is such a dreadful, horrible place and the winters so gray and cold and so
–
”

“How much further?” Patrice demanded of Robert, as she veered to the side of our ragged line.

Robert jabbed his finger at her in warning. Then he held his hands wide to halt us. Thankful for the reprieve, I sank down. My shins ached from the long walk and the soles of my feet were tender from stepping on too many stones and sharp sticks. Robert brought a finger to his lips. Peering into the half darkness, I held my breath and heard, distinctly, footsteps on the path ahead. The night sky was veiled by wispy clouds, letting only patches of starlight shine through, and the moon was not out.

A doe and her fawn appeared on the path before us. The moment Robert rose to his feet and gestured for us to follow, the deer and her offspring bounded off into the tangle of pear trees.

A mile later, we came to a small farm in a clearing. There, we were joined by Young Edward, Mortimer and nearly a dozen of his men, among them Sir John Maltravers and Gerard d’Alspaye. We dressed ourselves in more humble clothes and took on the guise of a merchant’s household, journeying north on business. Patrice fussed over trading her beautiful embroidered gown and ivory hair adornments for a kirtle of itchy fustian and a wimple that covered her swirling ringlets of raven hair.

We were provided with pack horses carrying bundles of linen. Within the bundles of cloth, however, were tucked bags of silver. We were also given a cart pulled by two red oxen that was stacked with barrels of wine from Gascony, salt from Bourgneuf and more silver buried beneath. Our leave-taking had been an event in planning long before Charles had penned compliance to the Pope.

I glanced at my son’s face in the sheen of moonlight as we gathered between the whispering woods and the dark road leading away northward from Vincennes. He held his chin aloft, drawing the night air fully into his lungs.

“You understand,” I began, keeping my voice low, “why we are going to Valenciennes?”

Young Edward shrugged. “I understand that the Count of Hainault, who is a rich man with many soldiers at his bidding, has four daughters. You want me to marry one of them?”

I nodded with a dose of trepidation. I had never truly asked Young Edward if that was acceptable, but had merely explained why he should accept a wife in exchange for ships and soldiers.

“What if I will not?” he asked.

“Then we
 ...
I could not go back to England.”

“But I could?”

The teasing tone in his voice afforded me little reassurance. “If you wished.”

“You would not stop me?”

“No.” Although I would have expended every last shred of my energy trying to convince him not to go. “But you’ve stayed this long, haven’t you? Why? To please me? You could have left with Bishop Stapledon at any time and what could I have done to stop you?”

“Please, I wouldn’t have. The Bishop of Exeter bores me to death. Always lecturing. I’ll be damned to hell when God says I am, not him. I never liked Lord Despenser. No one really does – except Father. And what’s bad for the king is bad for England.” He drew his shoulders up, sitting as tall as he could. “But you’ll allow me to speak with the count’s daughters and make up my own mind, yes? My wife will be passing fair to look upon and kind
 ...
and clever, like you. And if I like none of them, then I shall choose none. We will go on to some other court, try again.”

“That would be difficult.”

“It would, yes.” He shot me a quick look. “But if I’m to have a wife, she must make a good wife for me and I must like her
 ...
and she me.”

If there was any blessing in what I had suffered through with Edward all those years, it was my children, most of all Young Edward.

Before the silence that began to settle between us gaped uncomfortably, Mortimer rode around the corner of the byre.

“My lord,” Mortimer addressed, dipping slightly from the waist in his saddle, “will you lead the way?” He raised his hand to indicate a road that plunged deep into the forest. Young Edward hesitated a moment, then rested the heel of his hand on the pommel of his untried sword and gave his mount a nudge in the flanks.

A rising wind whipped the tree branches above us into a sudden clatter. Small trees swayed and bent. I brought the hood of my cloak up over my head. Our procession drew closer together, the nose of each horse touching the tail of the one before it, as we bumped along through the darkness.

A violent gust ripped my hood from my head. The first of the rain came not in pattering drops, but slamming downward in heavy sheets as if we had plunged beneath a great waterfall.

Part III:

I bear the name of King;

I wear the crown, but am controlled by them,

By Mortimer and my unconstant Queen,

Who spots my nuptial bed with infamy.

Edward II
,

from Christopher Marlowe’s
Edward II