Isabella: Braveheart of France (6 page)

It seems that my Lord Gaveston has excelled himself with some honour in his new post in Ireland, and my grace the King hopes that one day he shall be allowed to return, but that day seems very far away in England’s present mood. I believe that by the time he does return I shall be well established at Edward’s right hand. He tells me daily how much he appreciates my good counsel, though I am yet green in many matters of state. He treats me with great kindness of late, and has awarded me many estates with which to finance my household.

I trust this finds you well. I remain your faithful daughter.

May the Holy Spirit keep you always

Given this day at Windsor

Isabella

Empty fields and woodlands stretch far into the distance. The river snakes grease grey through Edward’s rebellious countryside. Her ladies’ gossip grates on her nerves; who has eyes for whom, children, petty scandals.

She has left the king sitting at a table with piles of paper before him and clerks at his elbow, her uncle Lancaster berating him. He looks like he wants to leap out of the window to escape. Lancaster told him he’s spending too much money. It reminded her of a father reproving a child for eating too many sweetmeats. The child was not listening. The child was looking out of the window thinking about his lover.

She watches Sir Roger Mortimer in the garden below with his brood mare and his brood. He lifts one of his little girls in the air and makes her laugh. She feels a pang.

An unworthy thought invades: he would make a fine husband, wouldn’t he? He is strong to sire, ruthless to war, calculates seamlessly and has no fancy friends.

She hears him running up the stairs and composes herself.

He seems disconcerted to see her. Her ladies twitter and stare. She wonders if he has bulled any of them and if Lady Mortimer knows of it. It seems likely.

“I was looking for the king,” he says.

“His grace is with the Earl of Richmond,” she says and inclines her head along the passage to the Great Hall. Her ladies have stopped their twittering and are staring at them. She walks away from them, out of earshot. He considers a moment and follows her.

She can feel their eyes on her.

She lowers her voice. “I hear you are to go to Ireland.”

“To assist my Lord Gaveston, yes.”

“Does he need your assistance? I have heard he has become the hammer of the Irish. If he is not putting down revolts in Munster he is terrorising the Wicklow Mountains. As accomplished as you are, my lord, I wonder why the king is despatching you.”

“It is not for me to question the decisions of the mighty.”

If a French courtier spoke to her like that, she would clout him. “Is he coming back to England?”

“That is impossible. He risks excommunication from Archbishop Winchelsea.”

“Nothing is impossible. My Uncle Lancaster believes that he is scheming for such a return.”

“You believe everything Lancaster says?”

“He’s my uncle.”

“He’s no one’s uncle.”

She smiles at that. He says these things without changing his expression and it takes her off guard. For some reason she imagines him kissing her the way he just kissed Lady Mortimer. Her new husband has not kissed her that way yet.

There is something in the way he looks at her. She likes it, though she would think it insolent if he were not Mortimer.

“May I speak plain? I hear so many rumours. I need someone to tell me the truth.”

“The truth, your grace? A dangerous thing. I should hesitate to be caught anywhere within a king’s palace telling the truth.”

“I hear that he has bribed the Earl of Gloucester to support Gaveston’s return, that Hereford and Lincoln have likewise been paid off with promises? If he wins over my Lord Warwick as well, the rest will follow like sheep.”

“For one so young, you have an uncanny grasp. My own daughter is your age and concerns herself chiefly with sewing.”

“Your daughter is not the Queen of England. One grows up very fast.”

“Even if Gaveston should return, you have no reason to fear him. The King is seen with you everywhere now.”

“Do you think so?”

“Edward is a complex man. But I think you have his measure.” He spares an apprehensive glance at the gaggle of woman along the hall. He tugs at the neck of his tunic, as if he is being strangled.

She dismisses him with a nod. He seems taken aback by this. She is half his age and half his size.

He bows and goes in search of his king and she returns to her ladies. So, it is true, Edward is agitating for his lover’s return just as she and Edward had finally become a proper king and queen. Even from Ireland, Gaveston pulls the puppet strings. Mortimer is going to Ireland because the king knows Gaveston is coming back and he needs a strong soldier to replace him.

Why will he not tell her this himself?

Does he think that she is stupid?

Chapter 11

The king is jaunty. He lopes into the chamber, trailing minions like froth off a galloping horse. All he wishes to talk about is the banquet they have hosted to woo his recalcitrant magnates. He wages this campaign like a war, throwing largesse at his barons like heavy cavalry.

“You made an impression,” he tells her. “Your presence at the banquet was a great success! Richmond says you are the most charming dinner companion he has ever kept. Gloucester calls you the greatest gem in my crown. Who would have thought?”

“Your grace?”

She is genuinely puzzled by this pronouncement. Who would have thought - what?

“Well, you are so young. So ... “ He waves a hand airily. “... thin.”

“In France they say I am beautiful.”

“Well you are quite pretty.” He smiles broadly. “I am proud of you.”

Thin and pretty.
You will hunger for me one day, Edward, you will burn for me.

“We have concord again in England.”

“There is still Warwick. And my Uncle Lancaster.”

“Lancaster,” he says and frowns as if he has bitten down on something foul. Something moves in the rushes underfoot and he stamps on it. “Your uncle was with me once, now that Perro is gone he has turned on me.”

Well, of course he has. Is it not obvious to you? She is disturbed that she can understand these petty manoeuvres and he cannot.

“You have heard that I have ordered the arrest of a dozen more Templars?”

“My father will be pleased to hear it. So will the Holy Father in Rome.”

“You will write to your father again? I would value his support.”

“Your grace, however it pleases you. But do you think it wise to bring my Lord Gaveston back so soon? You are just winning the barons back to your side.”

“They should never have left it. I am their king!”

“But we have worked so hard to court them. We should strengthen the bonds before we test them.”

The sun slips behind a cloud; the king’s good mood evaporates. “I cannot live without him, Isabella. You don’t understand.”

She feels this like a slap. She draws herself up, composing herself. “Is Gaveston to return then?”

“It will be different this time, Isabella. He will be more circumspect. You have nothing to fear from him. You are my Queen. When you grow up, you will understand.”

He hurtles from the room, all energy; he wishes to hunt and calls for his falconer and his grooms and his dogs.
When you grow up, you will understand.

I know there is much to understand about men and women. But I already know this much; that I will not rest until you love this thin, pretty girl as much as you love Gaveston.

***

“He says it will be different this time,” she tells Rosseletti. “He gives his word.”

Her spy stares at the floor. He looks gloomy.

“I have been at his side constantly these last nine months. Things have changed between us, I am sure of it.”

“He has written to his Holiness in Rome, asking for the threat of excommunication to be lifted. It is all that is keeping him from bringing this Gaveston back from Ireland today.”

“Let him come. He is no longer a threat to me.”

“But he is a threat to the King. The barons will not abide him any better now than they did before. Will he not learn?”

“He wishes my father to support him in this.”

“Your father will not be drawn into a civil war in England; he has problems enough of his own. He wishes only that Edward keep his own house in order.”

“And meanwhile he lets Edward arrest the Templars and make more concessions in Gascony.”

Rosseletti shrugs. “Edward offers to do these things. Your father is of no mind to make him relent. Having Edward malleable suits his purpose well enough. But if your king thinks your father will intercede with his barons, he is quite misled.”

“What shall I do?”

“Only what you are doing now. Be patient, Isabella. Your time will come.”

His sad grey eyes meet hers for a moment, then look away. They both can see what will happen; everyone but Edward can see it.

In the spring, Parliament meets at Westminster and refuses his request to bring Gaveston back to England. Archbishop Winchelsea repeats his threat of excommunication. She thinks he will be furious, but he returns from the parliament quite calm.

They remove to Kennington Palace, on the other side of the river, and she is there that day in June when two emissaries from the Pope arrive. He meets them behind closed doors, and she does not know what is said. But she is present the next day when he reads the Pope’s bull to the assembled barons and bishops of the Parliament. The Holy Father has overruled Winchelsea.

The Archbishop is humiliated. He listens white-lipped and leaves without a word.

The barons know they have been bested. Some of them look at Isabella and wonder if she has had a hand in this. They give her too much credit. She does not want the barons to hold sway over her husband and king, but neither does she want Gaveston back in England.

Edward has outmanoeuvred them all. He is more adept at this game than any of them believed.

***

They remove to York, that cold and godless place, where not even the devil could get warm. A fire burns in the central hearth but they might as well be standing naked on the moors for all the warmth that comes from it. A moan of wind raises the rushes on the floor.

It is All Souls Night, and to celebrate, Edward has brought in some minstrels from Aquitaine. They sing on lutes about love and chivalry, all those things that once seemed so important to her.

She does not see Gaveston sidle up to her until he is there at her elbow. He is quite beautiful to look at--it is disconcerting. He is dressed all in white, a lascivious angel with a scarlet belt low on his snake hips and rubies glinting on his fingers. “So, your grace, you would like to hate me, would you not?”

“I bear you no ill will.”

“But we both love the same man,” he whispers.

“I am queen.”

“And so you ever shall be. He only ever speaks of you in glowing terms.” She does not like the look on his face. She does not want his sympathy.

“I do not understand why you have come back. The barons are united against you.”

“Not quite united. Just Warwick and that old hog Lancaster. Burstbelly does not like me, but even he would not stand against the king. “

“My Lord Lincoln should not like to hear you call him that name.”

“I am sure he speaks highly of me also.”

“Could you not provoke them so? It only incites them to further hatred. Our peace is a fragile thing, and my grace has done much to mend things with them. As have I.”

“I appreciate your efforts on my behalf, even as I find them surprising.”

“You find me unpredictable?”

He smiles. “You are not quite the spoiled little brat that people say you are.”

“You mean Edward?”

“Edward is terrified of you.”

“Now you are making fun of me.”

He squeezes her hand. There is nothing in it; it is like something one of her uncles would do. Yet this sudden familiarity shocks her. “We should be allies, you and I.”

“How so?”

“We understand better than most others that beauty is a curse.”

A flurry of rain comes through the roof, spattering the fire, which sizzles and smokes. The musicians in the gallery lay down their lutes as the room is prepared for the banquet. Pages with silver ewers file in to wash the company’s hands, a chaplain says the grace. The
nef
, a golden ship studded with jewels, and containing expensive spices, is announced by the herald’s fanfare.