The Honor Due a King (33 page)

Rather than consume the bait, I tossed it back at her. “I suppose, if I allowed young Edward to go, you would want to escort him, yes?”

“Of course.” Isabella tucked her hands in her lap. Like a cat with its claws flexed and ready to pounce, she drew her shoulders up high. Then, a thought passed over her brow and she relaxed visibly, as if arranging her defenses. “Do you not think it wise, my lord? He is young, inexperienced, knows nothing of Charles as I do. With me at his side for guidance, young Edward would be spared the humiliation of a misspoken thought, an overeager gesture. Perhaps I could carry a letter for you? In your own words. A humble gesture to keep peace with France. Keep your lands there. Maintain the income from them ... Yes, that would be good, do you not agree?”

I plucked up my wine goblet and returned to my chair, let it swallow me. How grand it would be to have the unfaithful bitch out of my sight. I hadn’t enough evidence to lop off her head. Even if I did, I no more wanted war with France than I wanted the mother of my children sent to her grave prematurely. “Allow me to think on it. We could at least settle a treaty between England and France – parliament has been clamoring for it long enough. Just ... not right away. Not yet.”

I downed my drink in one long gulp. Without waiting for its effects to overtake me, I rose, poured myself more and drank again. My head was fogging up by the time Isabella finally spoke.

“Winter will come soon. A voyage across the channel would be safer now, would it not?”

“
Not yet
, I said. Sweet Jesus, you’re as dogged as you are dense. Listen and listen well. There is no telling where Mortimer is lurking and I’ll not have him exact his revenge by absconding with you.” I wondered if she caught the sarcasm in that sentiment. “Write your damn letters. Mountains of them, if it so pleases you. Tell your tyrant of a sibling that I fear for the safety of my son, should he travel abroad. I must consider this long before giving my consent. Arrangements would have to be made. Measures taken. These are dangerous times, Isabella. My mind is heavily burdened lately.”

It was growing late and the Tower of London, although quiet at such a time, was a foreboding place. How difficult to think of it as home, but the city of London was the core of the kingdom and being here was a necessary evil – just like this game Isabella and I were playing. Bits and parcels of information drawn out – as painfully as if we had dangled fish hooks down our throats and were attempting to pull out our own entrails. What secrets we kept tucked away. Little sordid sins never confessed.

Her skirts rustled as she rose and crossed the room. I gripped my knees. “Where are you going?”

“To bed, my lord. I am tired and have eaten enough.”

“No, not yet. Sit.”

“Ask me and be done with it. I wish to go.”

“Very well. What do you know of Mortimer’s escape?”

Oh, she had been waiting for that question all along. She pressed her fingertips together, batting her long fringe of eyelashes. “No more than you.”

I rose from my chair, circled her, looked her up and down and then stopped squarely behind her. I leaned in close, touching my lips to her ear. “Good, because I would hate to learn that you had ever lied to me.”

“You do not believe me?”

As I placed my hands on her shoulders and dug my fingers in, she flinched. “Oh, yes,” I said, “I believe every word you say. That is why I asked. Merely for reassurance. You may go now. Sleep well, Isabella – my faithful queen.”

She pried herself from my grasp and rushed to the door. As she placed her hand upon the latch and pulled the door open, she turned. “I would sleep better were Hugh Despenser not always whispering in your ear, commanding your every move.”

As swift as she could, she was gone, not even bothering to close the door behind her. I moved out to the corridor and watched her swish angrily away in her abundant skirts. The smoking torches waved their goodbye as she passed. I shut the door firmly and drew the bar.

Leaning against the door, I began to laugh. A chuckle at first, but soon I was rolling in tides of laughter and clutching my belly. I gripped a narrow column close to me to keep from sliding to the floor. “Mother Mary, does the witch think none of this will follow her?”

Finally, I stumbled back to my chair and wiped away the tears. “What say you, Hugh?”

The door to the antechamber that connected to my wardrobe groaned weakly. Hugh moved from behind it, through the shadows and into the light without a sound.

His arms were crossed, his countenance composed, but something in his words conveyed an underlying disquiet. “I say there is much more to the woman than you or I have ever estimated. She lies. She plots. She has patience enough to work her desires through intricate detail. She is enmity. Spite. And I like none of it.”

“Nor I, dear Hugh. But what have you learned today that could put her in shackles? I need weapons, Hugh. An arsenal. What did you learn of this lieutenant that disappeared? What was his name?”

“D’Alspaye. Gerard d’Alspaye. A ferryman, who needed a small measure of convincing, revealed that he took two men across the Thames on the night of the first of August – one fitting the description of d’Alspaye and the other, if not Mortimer, then his twin.”

“And from there? Were you able to track them further?”

“Only a little, sire. The ferryman noted that there were half a dozen or so men awaiting d’Alspaye and Mortimer. The stew was well cooked. There was mention of riding swiftly to Hampshire, a boat there ... no more details than that. In Hampshire, we put spies in all the ports. There were many possible leads. None of them reliable, I daresay. He could be in Wales or Scotland by now. Ireland. The continent. No way of knowing.”

“This d’Alspaye – was he a sympathizer of Mortimer’s? In his pay, perhaps?”

“He saw Mortimer almost daily, so who is to say what poison the dark lord poured in the lieutenant’s ears. D’Alspaye has been on staff here for nearly fifteen years. His station was one of responsibility and relative comfort – a decent life for a baseborn man. Why risk that for nothing? There are holes in this affair that can be filled only with answers. What would Mortimer, outlawed and penniless, have to offer even a common soldier?”

“Mortimer – nothing.” I stood, moved to the hearth and stoked the dying logs. “But a queen ... a queen could offer much.”

***

Tower of London, 1324-5

I
kept a keen watch on Isabella in the following months. Two of her letters to her brother were intercepted. They were replete with the usual whining about rustic English court life and interspersed with yawning anecdotes about her children. She extolled every virtue and accomplishment of young Edward, hoping, I suspected, of building him up in her brother’s disparaging eyes.

On several occasions, Isabella took the liberty to tell me how anxious Charles was to meet his nephew. Her incessant begging grated deeply on me and so I at last consented for her to visit the French court and finalize the peace treaty that several of my ambassadors there had been haggling over indefinitely. My heir, however, would remain behind for now. Homage due or not, he would not go until Isabella had achieved her purpose.

“You invite your own undoing,” Hugh had protested with a snarl, “by letting her from your sight. Worse yet to let her nestle beneath the wing of her overprotective brother.”

“I would say you are right, Hugh, but the cockscomb has me by the bollocks. If I refuse Charles, he’ll wage war – and just where would I get the means to field an army? Parliament won’t even permit me sufficient funds to run my household. They’re still blaming me for Scotland. No, I’ll let her go. I regret that I must. But on my terms. Besides, if she can’t take her children with her, she’ll have every reason to come home. And she’ll do exactly as I say.”

“And Young Edward? Will you send him in your stead?”

I laughed. “You don’t expect me to go there myself, do you?” Sobering, I grabbed him by the arm and yanked him to my chest, my body rigid with pent-up rage. I put my lips to his ear. “She has said things about you, Hugh – about us. That you are the cause for discord between her and me. Demanded I send you away. I won’t do that.
Ever
. I’ll shove that filthy harlot into the flames of hell’s own bowels before I’ll give you up.”

He pressed his cheek to mine, wove his fingers in the hair at the nape of my neck. His kiss on my temple was light, tender, soothing. “She feels threatened, Edward. As if she has already lost you – and in a way, she has. You see, long ago, I knew that you would be mine. I never dreamed how much so, how completely our souls would intertwine. She knows. She lashes out like a lioness defending her cubs. Just remember: you are king. You have the power. And ...  you have me.”

As easily as that, with a touch, a word, he assuaged my anger. He was much more to me than I could ever express or even comprehend. As exhilarating as it is to love someone so completely, it is also terrifying. Without him, I would be incomplete, empty. I might as well be dead.

***

I
n March, Isabella sailed for France with wardrobe enough to fill half a hull. I sent Bishop Stapledon to keep watch over her. Not only would he keep me well informed, he would remind her daily of her duty to me.

The first piece of news that returned to me had nothing to do with Isabella’s delight at rejoining civilization, as she had so often proclaimed the French court. The first thing I heard were the complaints that she publicly shared about how wretched my treatment of her was and what a farce our married life had become. She made no secret that she was utterly miserable with me and with life in England.

And then word: the peace treaty had been finalized. The woman, it seemed, had a penchant for mollifying tempers and eliciting compromise. She had been in France the better part of a year now. Her mission complete, I sent word to Bishop Stapledon, summoning her home. She refused outright, stating that I had not fulfilled my promise to send our son to pay homage. Her brother buttressed her demands by stating that if I did not, my lands in France would be forfeit.

For weeks, I agonized. If I went and left Hugh behind, his life would be in jeopardy. Yet Hugh would not be safe in France, either. I could not leave him here. I could not take him with me. I hardly even thought it safe for me to go. Yet if this matter of homage was not settled, I stood to lose immense sums of income and thus power.

I called my son to me. “Your mother has been too long gone.”

Young Edward’s footsteps slowed until he stopped halfway across the tiled floor of the throne room in St. Thomas’ Tower. A light summer breeze tossed locks of his fair hair across innocent eyes. The sounds of busy London drifted in from open windows, accentuating the silence between us.

I tapped my rings on the arm of my chair, then curled a finger at him. “Come closer. How am I to speak with you at this distance?”

He looked down, then shuffled the remaining steps to me. “Yes, my lord.”

“How old are you now?”

“Almost thirteen, my lord.”

“Old enough, then. To be oblique about any of this would be an insult to you. So I’ll say it without adornment. Your mother’s business in France is done. She has refused to return until homage is paid to King Charles for Gascony, Aquitaine, Ponthieu and the Agenais. I cannot leave my kingdom, therefore, you must take my place in this. If it is not done ...” I narrowed my eyes at him, but he was still looking down, studying the cracks in the tiles. I slammed my palms on the sides of the chair. “Look at me! When you go to France – and I sorely regret that you must – you will look that bastard uncle of yours in the eye and hold your chin high. You are the firstborn son of the King of England. You are
not
his inferior, do you understand?”

His lip twitched, or perhaps it quivered? I could not tell.

“I will greet him as my equal, Father.” He raised his shoulders, suddenly appearing older, more sure of himself. His voice, though, still had the girlish squeak of an adolescent. “I will do as he asks, offer no offense, perhaps I will even win his favor. And when it is done –”

“When it is done, you will return to England
with
your mother. Accept no excuses. Remind her of her promises to me. Make her swear to uphold them. Tarry there not a day longer than needed. Understand?”

He nodded. “I do. And the sooner I go, the sooner I can return, yes? I mean, as you said, she has been too long gone.”

In that moment, the boy’s insight pleased me greatly.

“Yes, yes. You may go. Your ship awaits. When you return, we can discuss the matter of your future marriage prospects. You’re of an age now when it is time to consider the options, forge alliances where they may best serve England.”

“Marriage, my lord? I-I-I am but thirteen and –”

“You are yet twelve. But do you not think your mother has some ulterior motive in luring you to Charles’ court while she is yet in attendance? Likely, she will try to influence you, introduce you to some young maiden of noble French blood, convince you of the benefits of committing to such a union ... Do not even pretend to agree. These matters are not hers to decide. She has always had France’s interests at heart, never England’s. Remember that. So go there. Utter your tenuous oath of fealty. And hurry home. But do not, do
not
come back without her.”

I was never so unsure of my decisions. But what other choice did I have? War with France? It had gone badly enough with Scotland. France, if it came to it, would be a far more formidable foe and I could not afford the trouble. Not for pride. Not for the pretenses of preserving a sham marriage. Not for my crown.

***

R
oger Mortimer was in Paris. Not only had he had been living quite comfortably there, often a welcome guest at Charles’ court, but he and Isabella were seen together ... in one another’s arms.

I had been right all along. When Mortimer was being held in the Tower, she must have visited him out of pity; somehow he had enchanted and seduced her. Woven his black spell and stirred her carnal desires. Servants were probably bribed to turn a blind eye and none of them had possessed enough loyalty to me to confess their part. Gerard d’Alspaye among them. Whether by witchcraft or choice, my wife had lain with another man. I imagined the two of them, panting and sweating, entangled in silken sheets. Beyond sinful, it was unforgivable. Revenge consumed me.