Isabella: Braveheart of France (25 page)

“You know why Jeanne has come?” Charles asks her later. “She never cared for Valois. She has an offer to make to you.”

“To me?”

“She wishes an alliance.” Charles has been growing impatient of late; keeping his sister has proved expensive. He was prepared to be expansive at first, but now he wants a resolution to this problem. He cannot host another man’s queen forever, even if they are related. “Mortimer has been their guest since he escaped England. The count and Edward are not friends. You know this. He would rather someone better disposed to his interests on the throne of England.”

“What is she likely to propose?”

“A marriage.”

“I do not think the countess and I would produce many heirs.”

He frowns. He does not understand humour and simply finds her remark tasteless. “Your son, Edward, is a priceless asset to you, and to any family into which he marries. You know this, Isabella.”

“Who would he marry?”

“The Duke has several daughters. I can never remember their names. One of them should suit your purpose.”

***

She finds herself praying for her son, that this slip of a boy should love the role of kingship as much as her father did; let him be uncomplicated by desires, let his ambition be simple and let him be ruthless in the getting of it. No darling favourites, no headstrong queens. She wishes him a pliant wife, mistresses as he needs them, and barons who will find no weakness in him.

“It is only the Despensers I oppose,” she says.

Charles says nothing. The silence grows uneasy.

“You don’t believe that.”

“I do not believe you can separate Edward from the Despensers or the Gavestons of this world, chèrie. There will always be someone between you and the king. It is up to you now, Isabella. You must act as you see fit. Mortimer is raising an army in Hainault. There are many whose argument is not only with Despenser.”

“Will you give me an army, Charles?”

He laughs. “You think you will win over the English with an army of Frenchmen? We are the ancient enemy, the only people they perhaps despise more than the king’s favourites. Talk to Jeanne. Listen to what she offers.

And what she offers is exactly what her brother has promised: a marriage and an army. As they talk, Mortimer hovers in the background, and she finds it hard to concentrate. The terms of the contract between Hainaut and her is left for her to consider; the one between Mortimer and her is ratified before they even open their mouths.

“You are good at climbing roofs I am told,” she whispers to him.

“Passing fair.”

“Can you climb mine?”

“If necessary.”

“Make sure you are not seen. My nurse will be waiting after matins. She will show you the way.”

His eyes widen in surprise and pleasure. For her part, she cannot believe what she has just done. Her hands are shaking. One thing to depose your king, another to bring down God’s law.

Wherever he is in heaven, she hopes her father cannot see her now.

Chapter 45

Her ladies are puzzled when she sends them out of the room and says that she wishes to sleep alone tonight. She tells them that they snore and it keeps her awake.

Théophania is the only one trusted with her secret, and it is midnight when Isabella hears a soft tapping at her door. It opens a fraction and he slips inside, stealthy as an assassin.

She has been awake, praying to whatever God listens to a woman asking for good fortune on the eve of her adultery. He strides towards her, all ardour and purpose, and she puts out a hand to stop him coming closer. It is like he wants to crush her into his arms immediately.

“A moment, my lord. This is not an invasion.”

“I have hungered for you since the moment I first saw you.”

This is exactly the right thing to say, words she has longed to hear from Edward and never has. She ventures a hand to his chest, strokes it. She likes the feel of the velvet and the hard muscle underneath.
He’s a brute, your Mortimer
, she thinks. It will be like lying with a force of nature.

There is a vein pulsing in his temple. He presses her against the wall. He is ready for her. She ventures to test him out, something she would never have done with Edward. It is like an iron bar. This is impressive and surprising.

She had always thought a lady must be prepared to wait and work for something as pleasing and as substantial as this.

He takes her curiosity as invitation to kiss her roughly--her lips, her neck and her breasts. She has wondered if she would disappoint with her lack of skills and artistry when they came to it, but it is soon apparent that all she is required to do is cling on for her very life and occasionally gulp for breath.

It is like being washed overboard.

While Edward is tentative in his lovemaking, almost apologetic, Mortimer is about ravishment and assault. He wants her naked and spread, and he wants it now. A battering ram is brought to the gates; she is pinned and violated. No prisoners are taken.

This is more like it. At one stage she laughs with delight, and he perhaps takes this as criticism of his performance, for he only sets to harder. Her nightgown catches underneath her and is torn in his enthusiasm for the task. She is rolled onto her belly, then her back. Her beauty is at last much admired, and from every possible view.

This is what she has hungered for and guiltily enjoys it. There is nothing genteel about it, and when it is almost done, he withdraws and she is impressed and horrified by the warm splash of his seed on her body. There is so much of it. He groans so loudly she is forced to put a hand over his mouth for fear he will wake the servants.

He bites her palm.

And there it is done. At last she has become the object of a man’s desire and fulfilled every sinful wish. She feels bruised, pleasantly so. He has crushed bones in her groin. Her breasts are sore where he has bitten her. This is altogether a novel experience.

He rolls onto his back, a beast of a man with scars and a pelt of black hair. It is like she has been ravished by a bear.

And it is not enough. It is not nearly enough to make up for the years of frustration. She kisses his beard, his chest, tries to stir him, but he is having none of it. Roger Mortimer has won his great victory, now he needs time to regather and regroup. At times like this Edward would hold her and talk about inconsequential things. But this is not Edward, and this is not his bed.

She remembers the first ever time with Edward, laying under damp sheets, embarrassed, the sheets pulled up to her chin. He had not looked at her; she wonders now if he was thinking about someone else. A woman needs only lie there; it is the man who must seek inspiration, and Edward was never as urgent as this, not as desperate for fulfilment as Mortimer clearly is.

He sleeps briefly, and wakes, startled, and reaches for his weapons, then remembers where he is.

“You must be proud of yourself,” she murmurs.

“How so?”

“You have not only bulled the queen of England, but you have made a cuckold of the king. A fine revenge for what he put you through in the tower.”

“That was not my intention.”

“But it was the consequence. Do not tell me you do not lie there thinking about it.”

“And what of you? Have you not struck a blow at your husband tonight for all his negligence?”

“Perhaps.” The sweat has barely cooled on their bodies and they are at each other’s throats. She supposes it can hardly be helped when there is a wife and a king betrayed. Perhaps he has less cause than her to feel such a burden of guilt. They say adultery in a man is a necessary evil; in a woman it is a mortal sin and unforgivable.

“I thought this day would never come,” he whispers.

“What of the Lady Mortimer?”

“Must we speak of her?”

“She is your wife.”

“And you have a husband.”

“It is different for me: my husband wants another. Lady Mortimer dotes on you.”

“I do not wish to speak about my wife.”

“She is my friend.”

“If she is your friend, what are you doing here with me?”

Isabella leaps to her feet, goes to the door, opens it, peers outside. There is no one. “You should leave now.”

“Very well, your grace.” He dresses. She watches by the light of the candle, a fur wrapped around her shoulders. The guilt is crushing. She should never have done this, what was she thinking?

He hesitates at the door, bows stiffly and wishes her a goodnight.

After he has gone she promises herself this can never happen again. She will make a long pilgrimage and find relief for her sin. She will never see Mortimer again.

***

Her resolution weakens the next night as she lies alone in the vast bed and thinks about being taken. Each time she closes her eyes she remembers the delicious violence of it and wants to rake her nails along his brute back again. It is like any hunger; it is easy to disavow it when the belly is full, but even the heartiest of feasts will only keep us until the next day.

And like a hunger it is mild as it begins, but three days and she is weak from it, and after a week she can think of nothing else but satisfying it.

She meets with Jeanne and they discuss suitors for her son, but all the while her eyes are on Mortimer and his on hers. It is agreed that she and the prince will come to Hainaut to meet William’s daughters.

That night there is a gentle tapping at the door, and Théophania escorts him to her bedchamber, and the shame and the wanting starts all over again.

In the days that follow, they are discreet in public, just glances, nothing more. Does one of her stewards see Mortimer one night as he passes down the stairs, hooded and cloaked? He thinks he saw a shadow watching him but he cannot be sure.

Her brother is nobody’s fool, and he has spies everywhere. Every parlour maid knows it is worth a few coins to report anything she sees or hears. Soon Isabella catches her brother looking at her with a frown, nothing in it perhaps except he has been told something he cannot prove, or wishes not to believe.

He invites her to dine. The King of France eats well, and there is always music and entertainment. It is only when all the entertainers have been paid and the servants sent to their bed that he calls for the best wine and settles in and asks her what she thinks of this fellow Mortimer. The question is posed in such a casual manner that she is immediately on her guard.

She does not fall into the trap of indifference. “He is a fine fellow. He served Edward faithfully and well and is much maligned by him in my opinion. His wife was one of my ladies, and I count her a good friend.”

The king, perhaps expecting evasion, considers carefully. “There are rumours. That you are amorously inclined toward him.”

She frowns, then laughs. “Any royal court is full of gossip, especially when a married woman is unescorted.”

“Because it would be unthinkable, Isabella. You realize this? While the king has wronged you, society is prepared to forgive your actions in seeking my protection. But you are still the man’s wife. You cannot just do as you please.”

“I have no interest in Lord Mortimer.”

“Do not lie to me, sister. I have seen the way you look at him. The whole world has seen the way you look at him!”

She can no longer hide her blushes. They grew up together; he knows her stratagems better than anyone.

“He is a married man, and you are still Edward’s wife. Should your feelings become known, whatever advantage you hold over him will be lost in an instant. Be prudent.”

“I will take heed,” she answers, careful neither to admit her affair nor deny it.

When Mortimer next comes to see her, she is careful to speak with him in full view of her ladies, and there is no coy laughter or fluttering of the eyes. They make desultory conversation: the weather, the gossip from England. He drops his voice and casually suggests that should she ever return to England, certain barons would use her name as a rallying cry.

She is alarmed that he might speak so openly of it. She looks around for spies. “It is the Despenser I am against, not my husband.”

“The king has ruined England. If we were to take off the Despenser’s head tomorrow another would grow in its place. You know this better than any of us.”

She laughs as if he has made some jesting remark. Joan de Bar looks up from her needlework and frowns. “You think it can be done?”

“It should have been done after Gaveston.”

“You supported the king then.”

“He hadn’t locked me up in the Tower then. It is up to you, Isabella. You have only two choices: one is to put your son on the throne of England, it is his to claim one day anyway. The other is to go back meekly to England like a lamb, and you know what will happen to you if you do.”

He is right. She knows he is right. “I saw you that night,” she says to him. “When you escaped from the tower. I was on the roof.”