Isabeau, A Novel of Queen Isabella and Sir Roger Mortimer (27 page)

“I do not think,” I began, my voice whisper-thin as I strained to separate thought from the sensations that were overtaking me, “that you would have to ask how to do that. You would know.”

You already do.

Mortimer caught my wrist in the circle of his fingers and pulled me against him. Something inside me – a force greater than my own will or understanding – strained against my ribs, expanding outward with such completeness, such power, that I ceased to breathe. The beating of my heart became everything, my whole being, sending through every limb, every finger, every inch of flesh a tide of awakening.

I closed my eyes, my lips parting in wickedly painful anticipation of his fervent kisses
 ...
and he bent his neck, the heat of his breath blazing my skin as he pressed his lips to the rim of my ear.

“One hour,” he said huskily. His hold on my wrist lightened. “In the courtyard. Meet me there. I’ll have the horses ready. The sun will be up by then. Rouse your companion and we’ll be off to Vincennes.”

Slowly, I opened my eyes, taking in his words, still waiting for more. More of his touch, his nearness. More of
him
.

But then he released me altogether, stepped back and started toward the door. It felt as though I had been suddenly nudged to the edge of a cliff and it began to crumble beneath me, leaving my toes dangling over the edge, my balance out of kilter, a great abyss gaping before me.

“One hour,” he repeated
 ...
and left.

A cold rush of air filled my lungs, like the first draw of breath outside on a crisp winter morning. I stood alone, shuddering, gulping for breath. I could still feel the imprint where his fingers had encircled my wrist. I felt the warm moistness of his whispered words on my ear and neck. The pressure of his chest crushed against mine.

I felt myself
 ...
falling. And I embraced it in all its delirium and with it the uncertainty, secrecy and suffering that would, undeniably, accompany it.

Through my open door, I heard Patrice stir.

“Isabeau? Are you awake?” She slumped in the doorway. Her hair lay flattened on one side and on the other it stuck out sideways. She let out a huge yawn. “Dressed already, are you?”

“Change your clothes, Patrice.” My own voice was distant, unfamiliar to me, as I sought to free myself from the memory of only minutes ago. “We’re leaving for Vincennes within the hour to meet with Bishop Stapledon.”

Groggily, Patrice complied. I sat on the edge of my bed, waiting for time to pass so I could see him again. But nearness alone would not be enough to quench the flame that had kindled inside me.

I had felt it the day I visited him in the Tower
 ...
no, further back than that – at seventeen, when Mortimer, just returned from doing the king’s business in Ireland, came to report on his task to Edward. I had hung back, agonizingly aware of my large size. Mortimer had looked at me kindly and remarked on my beauty. From that day on I walked, and later waddled, with a certain swelling of pride and confidence, rather than embarrassment.

Even then, I had loved him for his words alone.

My dear and gentle Mortimer.

28

Isabella:

Palace de la Cité, Paris – June, 1325

THE AIR SMELLED OF rain. I inhaled deeply.

The yard of the Palace de la Cité was embraced snugly within a ring of whitewashed walls, which at that early hour shut out not only the intrusive clangor of Paris, but the warmth of the low morning sun as well. Patrice and I huddled together in the shadows at the yard’s edge, waiting for Mortimer. The wind lifted in the barest of breezes, making the air distinctly cooler than the day before. Storm clouds, only barely visible over the top of the city’s walls, gathered in the south, blotting out the blue of the sky there.

“A passing summer shower,” I declared, hopeful. “And not even a full day’s ride to Vincennes. It will renew us.”

“We’ll drown,” Patrice grumbled. Her lower lip jutted out in rank displeasure.

My heart leapt when I saw Mortimer emerge from the stables leading two horses. Behind him were three other men with extra mounts – one I did not recognize and the others… Gerard d’Alspaye from the Tower and
 ...
could it be? Yes, it was: Arnaud de Mone.

Patrice wrung the hem of her cloak, twisting it murderously in her hands until the corner of her garment was a thick rope, as though she might loop it around Arnaud’s neck and strangle him outright in the full light of day for all to witness.

But as they approached, instead of rushing forward and blazing her anger, Patrice retreated safely within herself. Her chin dipped and her shoulders rolled forward slightly.

“Stay here,” I told her, putting my arm around her. “I’ll be back in a few days. Not so long. Then we can go to Fontainebleau.” When that brought no response, I squeezed her closer. “Châteauneuf then? You used to love it there when we were young. Remember how we would hide in the hedges as they called us to supper? They never could find us.”

Patrice raised her face to stare coldly at Arnaud across the short distance. The men had halted in the open to steady the horses. Mortimer acknowledged me with a wave and then motioned to someone else. Soon, more men and horses appeared, until there was a small contingent of a dozen or so Englishmen.

“No, I’m going with you,” she said.

At the sound of her voice, Arnaud looked in our direction. Patrice marched up to him and, with the barest hint of a smile, said, “It has been a long time.”

“It has.” He smiled back sheepishly and extended her the reins to a sleepy-looking bay palfrey. “I picked her, for you. She has the gentlest ride they told me. I remembered you once saying how much you disliked being jostled about.”

She took the reins in her left hand, thanked him softly and with her other hand slapped him so hard across the cheek he stumbled sideways and slammed against the ribs of his own horse. The men behind him guffawed. Arnaud recovered his dignity, at least outwardly, and cut her a pained glare. A welt marred his fine features. As he opened his mouth to speak, Patrice reeled away, ducked around the front of the horse and pulled herself up into the saddle as nimbly as any young boy.

Mortimer sidled over to me, leading two horses. He wrestled a smirk. “They know each other well, do they?”

“They did.”

He held the stirrup for me. The amusement had faded from his countenance, I noticed. “Ahhh. He has a wife, did you know?”

“What?” My heart sank for Patrice. I placed my toe in the stirrup as he helped me up. “This is recent, I take it?”

“If five years ago is recent, then yes.”

“Oh. He never said anything. My damsels all swooned after him when he came to court. He rejected them all – except for Patrice. She will be deeply hurt to hear it
 ...
if she could be more so than she already is.”

Mortimer handed me the reins and curled a finger to entice me closer. “Do not judge him too harshly, my queen. His wife – it was an arranged marriage – she bore him a daughter within their first year of wedded bliss. Well, truthfully, I do not know if they were ever happy, but it became complicated at that point. The child was small, feeble, not normal. Its eyes were oddly shaped and bulging. Its head too large for its body. In time, they could see its legs were bent strangely and that it would be a cripple. But even worse, the little girl died. Arnaud’s own mother accused his wife of strangling the babe. There were marks on the child’s neck, she said. His young wife went quite mad. Tried to hang herself from the rafters of the tithe barn. Arnaud found her in time, but the damage was done. Even though he had saved her life, when she awoke she had no idea who he was. The Poor Clares without Aldgate took her in. She digs the vegetables to earn her keep. It’s all she can do, sadly. He goes to visit her every week, or he did, until coming here with me. He only spoke of it to me after we shared a cask of ale – and not again since.”

Indeed, I thought differently of Arnaud then. But I was not so sure, even if she knew, that Patrice would forgive him.

I combed at my horse’s golden mane with my fingernails while Mortimer’s men loaded my baggage onto some pack horses to the rear. As I waited, I could not help but notice the slightly older, lean-faced man with dusky brown hair who had entered the courtyard at Mortimer’s side.

Mortimer went and spoke to his men, and last to the dusky-haired man. “Who is he?” I asked as Mortimer returned to check the cinch on each of our saddles, before climbing onto his own horse.

“Sir John Maltravers. An old and true friend. He was with me at Bannockburn and in Ireland. He sided with your unfortunate cousin Thomas of Lancaster at Boroughbridge. Maltravers fled the battlefield with his life and made his way to Scotland, then to Sluys in Flanders and finally to France.”

Maltravers’ left hand was sharply angled in form and the last two fingers were shortened. It sent a chill through my spine to think of what it must be like to have parts of one’s body hacked off and see your own blood spurting freely onto the ground.

Our assemblage complete, we left the Palace de la Cité, traveled across the bridge over the Seine and proceeded through the streets of Paris, which were already teeming with life and commerce.

“He was with me in Meath, too,” Mortimer went on. “The Scots, led by Edward Bruce, had already been chased from the south of Ireland. During a minor battle – I don’t even remember the time of day or the place myself, only that it was raining – I saved Maltraver’s life, or so he swears. There was an Irishman bearing down on him with an axe. I killed the bastard. Maltravers insists he owes me his life in service. Between Gerard, Arnaud and him, and a few others in England, I’ve had no trouble getting messages wherever they needed to go.”

I glanced behind us as we turned onto a main road beyond the city. Rain began to splatter on us in drops as big as spoonfuls. Patrice flipped the hood of her mantle over her head, but I left mine resting on my shoulders, lifted my chin and let the rain fall upon my face.

*****

Twice, we stopped: once for a midday meal of bread and cheese and another time to water the horses and watch a rare pair of egrets at river’s edge.

I refused to hurry on Bishop Stapledon’s behalf. More than that I wanted the day to last. The rain clouds had been swept away by a warming breeze and the sun shone in full splendor over France. A journey that should have taken no more than a few hours instead lasted most of the day.

The road that led to Vincennes was a tunnel of speckled light miles long through a verdant, twining archway. On either side, the stout trunks of ancient oaks leaned inward like old men with crooked spines, joining their branches above the expanse of the road to provide a canopy for travelers against glaring sun or soaking rains. In the deepening shadows of twilight, squirrels leapt from limb to limb. As we reached the end of the road, the trees parted to reveal the grand palace of Vincennes ahead across a meadow shorn low by wandering, half-wild sheep. Around us, the forest embraced the palace grounds in a mantle of greenery. Birds hopped from bough to ground and back again, trilling their delight as they gobbled up insects and scavenged for more.

The dread I might have felt at having to meet with Bishop Stapledon had been lightened immeasurably by Mortimer’s company.

His eyes still set on the sight before him, Mortimer smiled broadly. “I have not yet been to Vincennes. I hear it is a place where the senses are exposed to much delight, where beauty lies all around you and there is much sport to be had.”

He then turned to look at me, but I quickly looked away before our eyes met.

The sun had finally dipped beyond the tops of the trees. I peered ahead through the creeping grayness and saw a mounted figure riding out from the palace gates toward us. The rider was too lithe on his mount for it to be the bishop. The clothes were that of a noble. The horse in royal trappings. The rider’s head was bare and there was still enough light to give away his fair, silky hair and the youthful wedge of his jaw. I nudged my horse in the flanks to breech the distance.

“Mother!” Young Edward cried out. “Mother! Greetings! Did you think I would never come?”

A small party of six guards in royal English livery clipped along behind him on their horses, hooves flailing rocks. We were both on the ground, enveloped in a drifting veil of dust, and locked in an embrace before anyone else reached us.

I pressed my cheek to his and abruptly thrust him back for a look. “You have grown!”

“Almost as tall as you now,” he said, his voice chiming with pride.

“Taller, I’d judge,” Mortimer added.

Young Edward surveyed him with a skeptical eye. He had been too young when last he saw Mortimer to remember him. “English?”

“Sir Roger Mortimer.” Mortimer slipped from his saddle to bow before my son. “At the service of the queen
and
my prince.”

My son looked from me to Mortimer, then back again.

I embraced him once more and pressed my mouth close to his ear. “I shall explain later. Do not fear him.” Then I stepped back, clasping both his hands. “Bishop Stapledon?”

“Here. And in a right terrible mood. He flew into a rant to see me here in France so soon. He’s praying for your soul in the chapel this very moment. Mine, too, I wager.” Young Edward grinned devilishly. “Prettier than I imagined here. You told me so many times and it
is
true, Mother. The cities, the castles, the walls around them – so big. Glorious! Such riches. I should like to be the King of France.” His eyes were wide with wonder and the lilt of his voice matched his expression. Such a different young man than the one who had sat sullen-faced like a beaten prisoner beside his father that late night at the Tower. Then his mouth slipped quickly into a frown. “He
 ...
Father, he ordered me to bring you home soon” – he smiled again as suddenly –  “but I’m in
no
hurry to go back. I’ve missed you so. I begged him to let me leave two weeks early, but he only let me come after I’d sworn him an oath
–
something about marriage, as if I had any notion of that.”

I shared a fleeting glance with Mortimer.

“What did he make you promise, son?” I took him by the hand as we went forward. His guards parted to make way. Their horses snorted and tossed their tails, still invigorated by the brisk gallop.

He shrugged and twisted his mouth up, trying to recall something that, to him, seemed entirely unimportant. “I don’t remember, exactly. Only that I could not marry without his permission. Phhhh
 ...
I will not marry until I am twenty, anyway. Twenty-five, maybe. Too much to do before then. I wish to fight battles first. That is how you become a great king.”

“Are you hungry, Edward?” I hooked my arm through his as we began up the polished steps of the palace. The windowed walls stretched out almost endlessly to either side.

“Famished! I’ve been waiting to eat for hours. The bishop blurted out that you were coming. I think he regretted saying so. Ah, allow me to introduce Sir William Montagu to you.” Young Edward motioned one of the knights forward from his retinue. The man was perhaps a decade his senior, but sly in his movements like a fox watching prey.