Isabeau, A Novel of Queen Isabella and Sir Roger Mortimer (46 page)

Epilogue

Isabella:

Wallingford – December 24th, 1326

“BITTER COLD OUT HERE,” Mortimer complained as he joined me in the garden just outside Wallingford. The cloud of his breath hung in the air and his ears were rimmed in red.

“It
is
winter, my lord,” I remarked, watching a robin in the bough of a pear tree fluff its feathers against the chill. “Although my bed was quite warm last night. So warm, in fact, that I had to throw the blankets off.”

“I remember.” He turned to wander beside me through the orchard. Hoarfrost shimmered on the knobby, bare branches of the apple trees. Icy grass crunched under our feet. “You were feverish. Glistening with sweat.”

A smile lifted my cheeks as I slipped my hands free of my mantle and tugged my deerskin gloves on tighter. “As were you.”

“Shall I warm your bed again tonight, my love?”

“After vespers. But be gone by midnight.”

“Midnight? Why? You’ll grow cold long before sunrise. Has the gossip about us sprung anew?” he teased, although the danger of us being discovered was always frighteningly real.

“That,” I said, looking at him sideways, “and that I need to sleep
sometime
. Yesterday Joanna was so excited about the prospect of tomorrow’s Christmas feast, she came bounding into my chambers when the bells rang prime.” I stifled a yawn, my steps dragging as I felt the weariness of my nocturnal ways creeping through my body. Nearly every night since the day of Despenser’s death, Mortimer had come to my bed, the result of which had been utter exhaustion for us both come morning. But each night, in the darkness, that exhaustion was drawn from me by his touch, replaced by the promise of rapture. A promise always fulfilled. Indeed, I wondered how long we could go on like this and if on some tomorrow it would all end. Then I would see him, or think of him, my gentle Mortimer, and I would cease to wonder. Because I loved him so completely.

At that moment, with the world sculpted in ice and the distant winter sun climbing in a broad blue sky, there was only now. Only us.

Then, Bishop Orleton appeared at the garden gate, a letter in his hands. Chin thrust forward, his robes flowing behind him, he strode toward us.

“The Great Seal?” I asked. “Did he relinquish it to you?”

“He did,” Orleton said. “I gave it over to the prince’s care already.”

At the good news, I gave Mortimer’s arm a light squeeze. “I thank you, your grace. You must have been persuasive. Then he agreed to give up the crown?”

He lowered his eyes, sighing, and held out the letter. “I regret he did not.”

My momentary exultation was dashed at the frozen ground. Why did Edward resist the inevitable? I withdrew my hand from Mortimer’s arm and took the letter. Bishop Orleton dipped at the waist and backed away, then turned and went from the garden. I fumbled at the seal, which bore Edward’s mark, reluctant to remove my gloves and expose my fingers to the cold. Finally, Mortimer extended his hand to relieve me of the task.

When the letter was opened, he laid it in my hands.

My Good Wife and Queen,

My heart is cloaked in winter’s cold. Only hope saves it from shattering. But hope of what I do not know. That you will have me back? That the children will send their love in a letter or perhaps even grace me with a visit? That I will one day sit upon my throne, with you again beside me?

In whatever way I have caused offense to you, and you to me, let it be forgotten. For now, I pray to receive Our Lord’s forgiveness. He, I know, will be so kind. May He bless both you and our children in abundance. May He take pity on me in my endless shame and enduring grief.

Edwardus Rex

Kenilworth

“He begs forgiveness now,” I mused.

“And still thinks he’ll be restored to his throne and that you’ll have him back. I say he has nothing left but his hope. Let him have it.”

Once, it was all I had.

I glanced down at the letter in my hands, remembering everything that had happened and how it had all come around to this day.

Tomorrow, I would sit at the high table, partaking in the Christmas feast. I would watch my children dance merrily and play games until their eyelids grew heavy with sleep. I would listen to the waves of song and the bursts of laughter filling Wallingford’s high-raftered hall, as good and loyal friends raised their drinks to me.

My gentle Mortimer would glance at me and a private, knowing smile would pass over his lips.

A hundred times over, I would give thanks that I had never given up hope of this day.

I had waited so long ...

Historical Note

The invasion of England by Queen Isabella and Sir Roger Mortimer at the head of a mercenary force began on September 26
^th
, 1326. On the 16
^th
of November, Henry, the Earl of Leicester and later Lancaster, captured King Edward, Lord Hugh Despenser and Chancellor Robert Baldock. The flight of Edward and his companions from London westward and Isabella and Mortimer’s pursuit of them have been greatly condensed here and slightly rearranged in their order to fit the telling of this tale.

The eldest son of Edward II and Isabella is referred to in these pages as Young Edward or Lord Edward, to avoid confusion. He was never installed as ‘Prince of Wales’, as his father before him had been, although he did bear many other prestigious titles, such as Duke of Aquitaine, Count of Ponthieu and Earl of Chester.

Exactly when and where Isabella and Mortimer began conspiring, which one instigated various schemes and when they became intimately involved are the subjects of much conjecture. They first met long before the Mortimers rose in rebellion. There is every reason to believe that Isabella visited Roger at the Tower of London while he was imprisoned there, perhaps even more than once. Clearly, both had motives to eliminate Despenser and remove Edward of Caernarvon from power. Gathering supporters to their cause, especially with Young Edward as their figurehead, was an easy task. King Edward and Despenser had flagrantly abused their power and could garner no sympathy in their most dire hour of need.

Sometimes, however, achieving a desired end is not truly the end. Hugh Despenser may have lost his life in the name of revenge, but the problem remained of what to do with Edward of Caernarvon and how to put his son on the throne in his place.

By the beginning of 1327, Roger Mortimer was the most powerful man in England – king in all but name. He was, however, not the only English noble with ambitions. Henry, Earl of Leicester and Lancaster, was not one to easily yield. And Young Edward would not remain young forever.

Note to Readers

There is a great deal more to the story surrounding these historical figures. My original intention was to pack everything into one book, but it would have ended up being one
very
long book. Plans are to release a sequel in mid 2012. Please check my web site for more information and feel free to contact me if you would like to be notified of the release of the next book.

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