Isabeau, A Novel of Queen Isabella and Sir Roger Mortimer (43 page)

46

Isabella:

Hereford – November, 1326

THROUGH A VEIL OF incessant rain we crept slowly north, along the swollen Severn, until our lumbering army could cross the river at Gloucester. There, Lord Henry Percy and a number of Marcher barons who had heard of the king’s flight joined us. All of England, it seemed, was eager to embrace the golden-haired Young Edward as their king. His father had abandoned his kingdom – an unpardonable sin, even in the eyes of those few who had been incurably loyal to him.

Now that my daughters were with me, I rode in a carriage, for Joanna had developed a head cold that no remedy could abate. I wiped her nose and wrapped her in my fur-lined mantle to keep her warm and Ida made her a tisane of willow bark and chamomile. Somehow, despite the jostling and rumbling of the carriage and the bitter breath of impending winter, she slept. Along the way I received a letter from my son John in London. It was brief, for he was a boy who preferred riding to writing, but it said that he was well and safe and expected to see us all soon. Knowing John was no longer in harm’s way, I would be able to sleep more soundly. Once our business in Hereford was taken care of I could be in London with all my children, long before Christmas.

At Gloucester we stayed two nights – the second only because I insisted on it so Joanna could recover from her nagging illness. She fell asleep in my bed, where it was warm and soft with goose down, and by the third day she was well enough to want to join me in a song. I bundled her in my mantle and Arnaud carried her to the carriage as she squeezed his nose and giggled.

We trundled on toward Hereford with our wagons laden with supplies and our well-honed blades, prepared for a war that was not to be. Behind Young Edward, the long, ever-increasing line of soldiers and camp followers stretched on into the horizon. The rain fell hard and the wind blew cold and wretched, and still we marched on. No one and nothing stood in our way. Even Leicester had cooled his temper, seemingly placated by Winchester’s execution.

I marveled how, after so much agonizing, it had all come together. With each day that passed, I grew steadily more believing that everything that was happening was indeed real and I was not dreaming it.

A few days before we were scheduled to reach Hereford, I awoke to a horizon unbroken by clouds. Tents were being taken down, horses saddled, and wagons loaded. Here and there, porridge bubbled in cooking pots over small fires.

Birdsong and the rustle of feathers reached my ears. Above me in a lightening sky, a pair of chaffinches bickered as they swooped and tumbled. I followed their flight a short way into the distance, just beyond camp, where the first light of dawn gilded the yellowing leaves of a hornbeam. There, leaning against the contorting, silver-gray trunk, was Patrice, her mantle parted in front to reveal the flowing scarlet length of her gown. Close before her stood Arnaud, without sword or mail, his tunic hanging unbelted over his leggings, his boots forgotten somewhere amid the meadow grass. Patrice plucked up the bottom corners of her mantle and held them wide. He sank into her inviting warmth and tilted his head to place a kiss in the curve of her neck.

“A fine morning, is it not, my lady?”

Startled, I whirled around to find Father Norbert standing close behind me. He drew back the yawning hood of his black cassock and breathed deeply, his reddened nostrils flaring beneath the pinched bridge of his nose.

“Glorious, Father,” I said.

Harsh sunlight reflected white off his bald pate. “Then you are ready for your morning devotions?” His eyes narrowed to slits as he gazed intently toward the hornbeam tree. “Shall I invite your damsel to join us?”

Grabbing the elbow of his sleeve, I turned him away and began to walk with him back to my pavilion. “Come. The girls should be awake by now. Perhaps they would like to ask a few questions of God. They do not quite understand what is happening lately.”

“They may ask, my lady, but God will answer as he pleases.”

“Of course, Father Norbert,” I assured him, although I had every intention of asking God to deliver Hugh Despenser to me. For as long as he yet lived, I was not truly free.

*****

Soon, we were packed and traveling along the broad road to Hereford. Around us, gentle hills sprawled. Cattle roamed, grazing on the remnants of dying pastures. To the east rose a bare-topped mound where an ancient fortress once stood. Ringing it were the traces of a defensive ditch that still cleaved the earth. The harvest had been bountiful; the fields cut clean; the tithe barns filled. Wherever we went, we found nothing but peace and contentment, as if England had never suffered strife at all. Three days later, our road joined the River Wye in its course and I knew we were coming close.

“We will reach the town’s gates before sunset, my lady,” Bishop Orleton told me cheerfully.

We rode side by side near the head of the column, Young Edward and Mortimer leading the way. My son, despite his initial reluctance, if not fond of Mortimer, seemed to have developed an admiration for him. “I will welcome the sight. The castle will be ready, I trust?”

“The castle? Regretfully, no. If it rained while you were there you’d be as wet as if you were standing on the roof. This summer they began to quarry stones from Haye Forest for the needed repairs. If the work continues steadily, you may find it suitable for your next visit. Until then, you may stay at my palace. I’ve sent word ahead to make certain they prepare it for a queen, no less. That is, if you will agree to be my guest?”

“Happily, your grace. But I’ll have need of my closest advisors. You have room for them, as well?” I kept my face forward, although I detected a questioning pause before he spoke.

“How many
 ...
and who?”

“Only a few: Lord Leicester, Beaumont
 ...
my children, of course
 ...
Mortimer, Wake, the other bishops – ”

“A dozen, perhaps a few more. I would not wish to crowd anyone,” he declared firmly. I doubt I had fooled him by burying Mortimer’s name amongst a list of others, but I wanted
 ...
no,
needed
Mortimer near. A strange unease had settled in the pit of my stomach since learning of Edward’s flight and I wished to speak with Mortimer privately about it. “There are two priories and a monastery,” he added, “just outside the town walls that can accommodate more.”

Further ahead, above the golden crown of a larch, the keep of Hereford’s castle rose. At the foot of the hill on which the castle stood, but closer to the river, I could see what I presumed were the rooftops of the church and bishop’s palace – both as big and grand as anything I had seen in England, outside London. The sun was touching the rim of the western hills and with its rapid descent came the rush of winter’s biting cold.

“Thank you, your grace. Whatever hospitality you can extend will be more than adequate. Simply to be able to rest, fill our bellies and dry our clothes by a warm fire will be a welcome joy.”

From the low branch of an oak beside the road, a red squirrel watched the column trudge past with guarded curiosity. It twitched its tufted ears forward and back, turning an acorn nervously in its paws before dropping its treasure to the ground and leaping up to a higher limb.

To the south, a single rider crested a ridge and flew with haste down the slope. As he drew nearer, I could tell he was headed for the front of the column. Mortimer raised a hand and the command went back the lines to halt. Bishop Orleton and I exchanged a look of concern. Without saying a word, we both pressed our mounts into a canter to close the short distance. Leicester, Wake and Beaumont emerged from the rear and followed us forward.

We reached Young Edward and Mortimer in time to see Sir John Maltravers ease to a halt. His mount was lathered, despite the chill, and hung its head, breathing heavily.

“Why did you come from the southern road?” Mortimer said, his voice sharp with suspicion. “You were to go north to Chirk with my sons, to bury my uncle.”

Maltravers raised his half-hand to wipe at his brow, then dug into a pouch hanging from his saddle and took out a flask. Before he answered, he wetted his throat. “We were on our way to Chirk when we heard a rumor.” He paused to take another drink.

“What rumor?” I asked anxiously. Already, my blood had gone cold.

A faint grimace flickered across his face as Leicester and the others joined us. “That after four days of being tossed about at sea, the king and Lord Despenser were blown back to shore and landed in Cardiff.”

“Cardiff?” Young Edward repeated. “My father is in Wales?”

The earth swayed below me. I gripped the cantle of my saddle with both hands to keep myself from falling.

Leicester grumbled in displeasure. “We should have sent a force there after leaving Bristol. We could have had them by now.”

Mortimer lifted a hand to silence Leicester, then said to Maltravers, “Where are my sons?”

“They went on to Chirk, to lay your uncle to rest, as you instructed them.”

“And you?”

“I rode on toward Glamorgan, to learn what I could. To see if it was true.”

A heavy silence settled on the gathering.

“Was it?” Mortimer finally broached.

Maltravers nodded. “The king was in Caerphilly when I turned around to find you.”

“And Despenser was with him?”

A light shrug lifted his shoulders. “That much I don’t know.”

Leicester squinted one eye against the setting sun and swept his steely gaze over everyone. “Going inland, to the hills, where it will be harder for us to track them. Where they still think they can find succor. Where Despenser probably has more money hidden away.”

“Gold won’t do them any good if no one will take it from them,” Mortimer said. “Besides, there’s still a reward for capturing Despenser.”

“Then we should send someone to find them,” Lord Wake proposed. Radiant with the thrill of a hunt, a smile of delight curved his lips.

“But first,” I said quietly, thinking aloud, “why not extend an offer? The king, by now, must be desperate. We might be able to get him to come forward. He’ll bargain, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” Bishop Orleton agreed. “They’re running out of places to hide, if they haven’t already. He still has the Great Seal in his possession.”

Leicester shrugged, doubtful. “Who would he heed?”

“His son,” I said.

Franticly, Young Edward looked from face to face. I motioned him away. He was slow to follow on his mount, but joined me on a side road where a narrow wooden bridge crossed a dry gully. For a while I said nothing as I let his discomfort ease. “Do you remember,” I began, reminiscing, “our last summer at Langley, the day we took the hounds out and they caught a hare?”

His face toward the carmine glow of the setting sun, he nodded. “I remember the day.”

“Then you remember when I said you could be king of both England and France? If you don’t act, you may be king of neither.” He narrowed his eyes at me, as if I had spoken a blasphemy. “Whether Charles will ever name you his heir, should he not have a son, remains to be seen. But he will certainly never do so while England is restive and a wandering king shirks the duties attached to his crown. If your father does not give up that crown willingly, then a council made of men grappling for power will rule here, perhaps until your father dies of old age. You, Edward, can prevent that. You can restore order and ensure peace. You can secure your future by simply asking him to pass his crown on to you.”

Unconvinced, he shook his head. “I cannot. It is too much to ask.”

“You must, Edward. It is the only way. Promise him his life in return for his crown.”

He pulled his chin back. “His life?”

“As long as he remains king, his life is in danger. Without a crown, he is no threat to anyone. They will leave him in peace then.” I paused a moment, to let him mull it over, before I added one last condition. “And tell your father he must give up Despenser, as well. If he does not, the barons will hunt them both down. Should it come to that, nothing can be guaranteed. You know there is no other way.”