Isabella: Braveheart of France (30 page)

“Riders,” the prince says, pointing along the beach to the north where horsemen approach, their armour glinting in the sun.

They come armed. A sergeant rousts the men from their huddles around the fires and forms up a defensive line of pike men but before it is even half done a sentry shouts: “It’s Norfolk’s men!”

Mortimer grins. “We’re saved then.”

Isabella gathers her skirts and is about to run down the strand to meet them, but Mortimer puts a restraining hand on her arm. “Let them come to you,” he murmurs. “You are still Queen of England.”

The young prince comes to stand beside her, and she puts her arm around his shoulders.

Norfolk has an escort of a dozen knights. When they reach her he throws himself from his mount, beaming, as if he has just beaten all comers in a jousting tournament. He marches up the sand and kneels in front of Isabella and the prince. “Your grace,” he says. “I came as soon as I heard the news. We were not expecting you so far north.”

“We were expecting to land in Kent, but the weather thought otherwise.”

“Then the wind and tide has brought us great honour. Let me escort you to my castle. I have rooms waiting.”

“We are glad to see you and not Edward’s army,” Isabella says.

“Edward’s army? He has no army. Some Welsh bowmen and a couple of bishops.”

“We were expecting a fight, Thomas,” Mortimer says.

“Now the Queen is here, there will be no war,” Norfolk says. “The people will flock to her.”

“It’s not the people I’m worried about. It’s the barons.”

“There’s not one of them will piss on him if he is aflame,” Norfolk says, thinking Isabella is out of earshot. “Not while Despenser is at his elbow. They say that man would screw the Pope and crucify his own grandmother if he could turn a profit at it.” Norfolk looks down the beach, at the huddle of Dutch and German mercenaries. “You won’t be needing them, Mortimer. Just a good horse to ride to London.”

That night she stays at Norfolk’s castle at Walton on the Naze, and a courier from London brings them news. Surrey and also Arundel, whose son is married to Despenser’s daughter, have vowed to stay loyal to the king.

But they are the only ones, for there is barely a nobleman or farmer in England left untouched by Despenser’s greed. The crucial support comes from the Earl of Leicester, Lancaster’s brother; he assumed all his estates after his death, and is now the most powerful baron in England. He is eager to avenge his death and sends messages of support.

The next day she rides through Bury St. Edmunds where crowds line the streets to greet her as their new queen. Her invasion of England soon becomes a royal procession. As Norfolk has prophesied, Edward is unable to raise an army against her. He is reduced to offering free pardons to felons; they come straight from the prison and he makes them a captain in his cavalry - or that is how Mortimer tells it with a laugh.

“We Isabella by the grace of God Queen of England, Lady of Ireland, countess of Ponthieu; and we Edward, elder son of the lord king of England, Duke of Gascony, Earl of Chester, Count of Ponthieu and Montreuil, to all those to whom these letters may come, greetings.

Whereas it is well known that the Holy Church and the and the kingdom of England is in many respects much tarnished and degraded by the bad advice and conspiracy of Hugh le Despenser; whereas through pride and greed to have power and dominion over all other people he has usurped royal power against law and justice and his true allegiance ...

She had never thought it would be so easy.

Chapter 53

Gloucester Castle

Lord Thomas Wake shoves through the crowds in the Great Hall and lays a basket reverently at Isabella’s feet. He reaches in and pulls out a severed head, gripping it by its blooded and matted hair. It is not fresh and is already turning green. Several of her ladies turn away in revulsion. The young prince takes a step back.

“Bishop Stapledon,” Mortimer says.

“I have seen him looking better,” Isabella murmurs.

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Mortimer says. “He looks much as he always did, if you wish my opinion.”

“How did this happen?”

“The mobs have taken over in London,” Lord Wake tells her. “Stapledon was always the king’s man, and now he has paid the price.”

“Where?”

“He was fleeing to Saint Paul’s seeking sanctuary. The mob caught him at the doors and dragged him to Cheapside. There was a baker there with a knife large enough for the job.”

“A mob? John, my little boy, he is held in London. He is unharmed?”

“Your grace, the citizens have made him warden of the city. He is safe where he is in the Tower until order may be restored, though no one in London would harm a hair on the boy’s head.”

He is still holding the king’s bishop by the hair. Isabella asks that it be removed. It is attracting flies.

The news from everywhere is good. Edward has fled to Bristol, hoping to find comfort among the Welsh. His army consists of a handful of archers. Despenser is with him.

“We will have him soon enough. There is nowhere to run.”

“Unless Bruce takes them in.”

“The Scots?”

“They may both think it politic,” she says.

In fact they do indeed head north, but they do not get far. Edward and his favourite earl are captured during a thunderstorm in open country in the Marches by the earls. In a few weeks the king of England has fallen from king to fugitive to a prisoner of his own barons.

Finally the war is over.

Chapter 54

Mortimer is in a good mood, he walks in dressed in black, and his velvets set off with a gold chain, a ruby on his knuckles fat as a goose’s egg. Becoming the most powerful man in England has been good for his humour. He looks like he is going to a wedding.

He even smiles.

There are drums in the square and the crowds are cheering. Nothing like evisceration to keep the common sort amused. It is the same manner of mob that came to see Jesus crucified, she supposes. That they hate the man is incidental, it’s the entertainment that they love, lots of blood and none of it theirs.

Mortimer stands by the window, beaming. She should not be surprised, he’s a soldier after all, he’s accustomed to brutality. But today Despenser will not be as quick about dying as even some men wounded after a battle.

She thought she would enjoy this, but now it comes to it she just wishes they would have it done. An enemy never seems quite as formidable when he is whimpering in chains, so that you forget how he looked sneering at you when you were miserable and lying at his feet.

Another shout from the crowd. She supposes they are at this moment hoisting him up the ladder so they can do the business. She ventures a glance. They have him in some sort of nightshirt, and they have scrawled verses from the Bible on him.

Her little girls rush into the room, squealing. Eleanor and Joan have been in the elder Despenser’s castle at Bristol this last year, and seem to have come to no harm from the old man. She had pleaded for his life on their account, if nothing else, but Mortimer and the barons had their own ideas about what to do with him. She felt sorry for old Hugh, but it’s what happens when you choose the wrong side.

Eleanor and Joan are at the window before she can stop them. She drags them away. Where is their nurse? By the time she gets them to the door they are banging the kettledrum down in the square and there is a cheer from the crowd as the Despenser is cut down half dead to be butchered. She puts a hand over Joan’s ears.

Eleanor wants to know what is happening. She tells them it is just a play, but she says if it’s a mummer’s show then why can’t they watch too?

Eleanor is outraged at this unjust treatment, but little Joan sees the looks on the faces gathered at the window and falls silent, her face blank with fear. She allows Isabella to hustle her out without murmur.

There is a feast afterwards to celebrate, but Isabella has little appetite. She should feel elated. Lady Mortimer is there and bows her head in acknowledgment and Isabella nods in return and quickly looks away.

She thinks about Edward. Mortimer says he will come to no harm, but if even she doesn’t trust the man who shares her bed, how can Edward?

***

The Archbishop is resplendent, with condescending smile and a large ruby ring. Richmond watches him down the end of his long nose. It is clear they don’t like each other. Mortimer has his back turned, hands behind him, looking out of the window. The rest of the barons are all gathered. Now the Despenser’s quarters are decorating pikes all over the kingdom they must decide what to do with the earthly paradise he has left behind.

The prince fidgets. He is a worrying presence for all of them. He cannot speak for now, but one day he will judge all of them.

“The people would like to see you resume your rightful place,” the Archbishop tells her.

“My rightful place?”

“With your husband. Now that the shadow has passed from the land, many would wish England returned to its former state.”

“Who are these people?” she asks him.

“The general populace,” he says airily, and by that she supposes he means the Pope in Avignon.

“Never,” she says.

“He is still your husband,” the Archbishop reminds her.

“In name only.”

“A marriage is a marriage, one cannot differentiate.”

Mortimer turns from the window. He makes a great sigh like a teacher with a recalcitrant pupil. He leans on the table and smiles at the Archbishop but his eyes are hard. “She got rid of the tyrant for you. Now you wish to put your saviour back under his fist?”

“It is what the people want,” the Archbishop insists. “We are in a difficult position. If the king does not give up the throne, what are we to do?”

After they have all gone, Mortimer paces the room. They have come so far and still they do not have what they came for. Isabella stares into the fire. Go back to Edward? She’d rather die.

“We should do something,” he says.

“Do something?”

“While he lives, we will never be safe.”

“You mean to murder him?”

He stares at her, measuring. There is a fine curl of those red lips beneath his beard: “While he is alive, he is a focal point for rebellion.”

The Lord Mortimer has not looked so handsome of late. Is it her, or is it him? Neither does he look at her with the same desire as he did. Once the king is dead she wonders if he will look at her at all. “I will not countenance murder.”

“It might be sweetly done, without risk. There shall be no marks left.”

“Edward...” She does not finish the sentence, is not sure what it is she wants to say. She thinks of him as he crept into her bedchamber that first night in Boulogne, kissing her forehead, tucking her into bed as if she were a niece, or a daughter. There was a kindness in him until they had slaughtered his Gaveston. They had led him to this, in a way.

She shakes her head. “No.”

“If he escapes...”

“You assured me that could not happen.”

“No prison is proof against escape. Even the Tower,” he adds and smiles.

Again, she shakes her head.

“Well, we must do something. If he does not give up the throne and he is too proud to die, then something must be done. The longer he delays, the louder will be the calls for you to return to the marriage bed.”

“I think that would disturb him as much as it disturbs me.”

“You have to talk to him, Isabella. Go quietly, without fanfare. No one must know. But persuade him to give up the crown to young Edward. It’s the only way, else something may happen to him without my intervention or no. I am not the only one who thinks it will be easier if there is no Edward.”

She knows he is right. She nods her head. “I’ll go,” she says.

Chapter 55

A steward unlocks the door. Contrary to reports, Edward is being kept in some style. Better than the Tower, where Mortimer was: no draughts, a view of the garden, a good bed.

Edward jumps to his feet when he sees her. Apparently no one has warned him she is coming. He looks almost pleased to see her.

A familiar face, at least.

He draws himself up and looks at her down his nose. “Well. You are the last person I expected. Have you come to gloat?”

She removes the silk scarf from her face and nods to the gaoler, indicating he should wait outside. He hesitates only for a moment before he complies.

“Are they not worried I might take a knife to you?”