Isabeau, A Novel of Queen Isabella and Sir Roger Mortimer (4 page)

“You’ll come back soon, my lady?” Ida rocked her arms gently to soothe the babe. When that did not seem to work, she bounced on her heels, making her too heavy bosom jiggle inside her unbelted gown. There was a fleeting moment of peace as Joanna inhaled, but too soon another demonic howl ensued.

“Take the babe outside for fresh air as often as you can,” – I stepped back, guilt weighing down my heart like a sack of stones – “but shield her face from the sun so that her cheeks do not blister. When you’re walking in the garden with Ella, watch that there are no bees about. She likes to sniff the roses before looking. It was most traumatic when she was stung inside her nose last month. She could not breathe properly for two days because of the swelling. Take care, too, that she does not prick a finger. She’d sooner smear the blood on her clean skirts as she would complain of a throbbing finger. As for John, do
not
allow him within sight of Young Edward’s new pony. That, if nothing else, is imperative. He wants to do everything exactly as his brother does, but he cannot understand that he’s more likely to get trampled than anything. He’ll sulk and wield his temper, but do not be swayed, Ida. Do not. Let him cry himself to sleep, if you must. I’ll not come back to find my second oldest lying broken in bed.”

Ida harrumphed at me. “My lady, you know I do not let them fool with danger. Never. Or say cross words, or eat with dirty hands or forget their prayers. None of that. I’ll see that Young Edward is awake for his lessons, too, and does not pester his tutor with requests for stories about battles.” She cocked her chin out, her pride evident.

“My lady, please.” Pembroke came up behind me and hooked an arm about my waist to shepherd me toward the carriage.

I stole one last glance over my shoulder at Ida and my daughter, then climbed inside and scooted along the cushioned bench seat. On the opposite bench, my damsels Patrice and Marie leaned against one another, already dozing.

Pembroke appeared at the rear of the carriage and undid the ties of the curtains. Before he let them fall, he held them aside for a moment, concern furrowed between his Spaniard-black brows.

“Thank you, my queen, for obliging my request. I know you are not long out of childbed, but this is dire. The Marcher lords have surrounded London and will not scatter until their demands are met. The king
must
come to his senses. The past, unfortunately, seems to be repeating itself and if so
 ...
” He shook his head of close-shorn dark hair and let out a long sigh. “If so, there will be bloody days ahead. Worse, I fear, than before.”

He disappeared then, leaving me in near darkness to contemplate his warning. The carriage jolted forward and soon we were rumbling along over the cobbles as London stirred sluggishly to life around us. I groped for the stray cushion at my feet and wedged it behind my back to ease the jarring.

If I could not convince Edward to exile Hugh Despenser and make amends with his barons, blood would rain down upon England until we were all bathed in it.

Already it was worse than before.

*****

Westminster – August, 1321

Edward marched the length of the King’s Chamber of Westminster Palace. The long toes of his leather soles slapped the tiles like the rhythmic threshing of a flail. Twenty-five paces. Head down, hands clasped behind him. He halted beside the vast canopied state bed, gazed up at the metal bosses studding the panels of the ceiling, then spun around to face me.

I stood moored in the doorway, Pembroke behind me. It would be dangerous to approach the king or speak before judging his mood – that much I knew. Too far from me to see his countenance clearly, I dipped my head in a bow and waited.

A warm breeze stirred the hairs that had pulled loose from beneath the brim of my coif, tickling my cheeks. Tall windows lined the long wall across from me where Robert Winchelsey, the Archbishop of Canterbury, stood. Jewels, a hand-width apart, trimmed his brocaded red chasuble. Piled in folds around his neck, his amice was adorned with quatrefoils formed from gold braids. He smiled serenely at me and tipped his head so far I thought his miter would topple from it.

When I looked again, Edward had grabbed at one of the dense green curtains hanging down from the canopy above the throne. He buried his face in the heavy cloth for a moment, then yanked hard before letting go. The frame of the canopy rattled, but held. Hands outstretched, he rushed toward us. “Have you any idea how they have betrayed me?”

I shook my head, feigning ignorance. During the time that I had been awaiting Joanna’s birth at the Tower, I had insisted on hearing the news from across England. Patrice had fed me every detail. Edward’s unbounded patronage of the younger Hugh Despenser had fostered widespread dissent among the Marcher Lords. Rebellion loomed. Had he heeded the signs – any of dozens – it could have all been averted. But Edward was beyond obstinate. He was blind with devotion to Despenser, just as he had been with Gaveston – and that had ended miserably.

Edward stomped to a halt before me, his face contorted, as if he were wracked with anguish. “Not only have they burned and ravaged Hugh’s lands, but they’ve taken up with Lancaster. God in Heaven – Lancaster!”

Eyes downcast, the archbishop’s shoulders sagged, as though he had long since given up trying to persuade the king to hear reason.

Pembroke stepped past me into a slanted beam of reddish sunlight. “It was said that the Mortimers sent Lord Badlesmere to meet with Lancaster in Pontefract. If Lancaster joins them, their might and power will be far beyond anything we can muster. I beg of you, sire, this is not the time to resist. Remember your coronation oath. Hear the barons out. Grant their request to banish Despenser. Then promise pardons in full. If you shut your ears to their pleas, you stand to lose more than your kingdom.”

“I
know
what I stand to lose, Aymer,” Edward snapped. “I will lose him either way, it seems. Already I have lost the power my birthright has afforded me.”

“Then you understand that you must put your own preservation above all others? To ignore that is to perish, sire. Where is Lord Despenser now?”

Edward’s eyes flew wide, like those of a rabbit caught in the snare, knowing there is no escape – no sense left in struggling, else the string will tighten. His hands, now hanging limp at his sides, began to tremble violently. “Leave us.”

“Sire?” Pembroke’s feathery black brows twitched.

Edward’s voice bore the ragged edge of strain. “I trust you brought my queen here for a purpose?” He straightened his spine, although his mask of authority fooled no one. “Both of you – leave us. Now. I wish to speak with the queen. Alone.”

“As you wish, my lord.” Pembroke inclined his head toward the door. Archbishop Winchelsey took his cue and followed him from the room.

The moment the door banged shut behind them, Edward dashed to the middle window and clambered over the window seat. The buttons of his tight-fitting sleeves clacked against the window pane as he pressed his face to it to survey outside. A muffled voice hailed him from below. He scrambled backward. Then, darting a suspicious glance around the chamber, he went to stand in the very center. He beckoned me with a curled finger.

“Trust no one,” he whispered as I neared him. “Not the nobles, not the servants
 ...
Not even the clerics.”

“Do you at least trust me?” I laced my fingers together beneath the slight bulge of my still overstretched belly. The creation of four children between us, I hoped, had at least forged some measure of confidence.

Blue eyes narrowed, he cocked his head. “Who do you think asked for you? Did you think it was all Pembroke’s doing? The archbishop’s? Fie!” He spun away to face the window, arms crossed. “I recalled Mortimer from Ireland again, thinking he would defend me. After all I have done for him, making him Lord Lieutenant there. And what did he do when I asked his help? He joined the wolves in their hunt. I am like the orphaned lamb bleating in their midst, as they circle around me, fangs gnashing.”

 Shaking his head slowly, he drifted toward the end of the chamber. His voice grew not more distant, but louder with vehemence. “They all want to tell me what to do. To control me.
Me
. Who is king, I say? Oh, so many of them think they ought to be. That they could do better. I trust none of that writhing pile of worms who call themselves ‘lords’. Nor the crows closest, who squawk in my ears and try to scatter the rest whilst they pick at my very eyes to blind me. Who, I ask you, was meant to sit
here
?” With a deft twirl, he landed on the cushioned throne, sitting tall and defiant. “
Who
was born to rule England?”

“You were,” I said, approaching him, “Edward of Caernarvon. And your son after you.” I knelt beside him, my skirts bunching around me in a sea of pale green satin. Gentle and soothing, I laid my hand over his forearm. Again, I must turn his mind to lighter things, away from the anger and the darkness. “Only yesterday Young Edward asked when you might take him hawking. He has tired of his peregrine and fancies the gyrfalcon you keep at King’s Langley. Do you remember the one?”

He blinked, as if in momentary confusion. “The one I had brought from Norway?”

“That one, yes.”

“The best birds are from Norway.”

“He knows, which is why I think he covets it so much.”

“It is a tercel, not a hen, and far too much for him yet.”

“Perhaps, but he is always dreaming of bigger things. He pretends his new pony is a great warhorse, a Flemish one, and goes about all day with a wooden sword tucked in his belt.”

The barest hint of a smile crept over his mouth. His sight drifted to the mural high up on the wall above the nearest door – the one which the earl and archbishop had departed through. There, the slight figure of David hurled a stone from his sling at the raging Goliath. “One day, my son will fight my battles for me.”

My husband was no warrior. Certainly no general of battles. Bannockburn had been testament to that. To speculate that his oldest son would be a more apt leader than him was no strain to the imagination. That prospect, however, was many years ahead and of no use to him now. Thus, it was my duty to serve as his peacemaker – to calm the waters that he had stirred. I stroked my husband’s arm until he met my gaze. “First, you must make peace, so you can keep your crown. Then, when it is your son’s time to wear it, he will not have to fight for it.”

He squirmed with uncertainty. “It is always a fight for power. Always.”

“You know what you must do?”

His jaw twitched. A tear slid down his cheek, then dripped onto his silk tunic. Dully, he nodded. “Have I any choice? I must send my dear Hugh away.” Then, he gripped the arms of the throne until his knuckles turned white. “Tell Pembroke to gather the barons in the morning again. I will present the soft of my belly – give them the banishment they clamor for.”

In truth, I had expected more resistance from him. Perhaps his willfulness had already been spent. Or perhaps he had indeed learned from the past. Whatever the reason, I embraced the result. Finally, Edward was learning the art of compromise, as well as the consequences of his selfishness.

He rubbed a sleeve across his face. “Our daughter, Joanna – how is she?”

“Bright, beautiful, spirited. She favors you.” I told him that because it pleased him, not because it was true.

“A pilgrimage to Canterbury is in order, to give thanks. Once things are settled.”

I stood, my legs tingling from knees to toes as the blood returned to them, and rearranged my wrinkled skirts. “Gladly will I go. We have much to be thankful for.”

“Perhaps for you, ‘tis so.” He folded his hands in his lap and sighed in defeat.

As I made my way across the floor, I overheard Edward mumble above the rustle of my skirt’s fabric: “I am no man’s chattel. I swear on my life
 ...
there will be requital.”

With that utterance, any hope I might have held – for lasting peace, for my children’s future – crumbled into a dust so fine that even the slightest whisper of civil war would blow it away without a trace.