Isabella: Braveheart of France (18 page)

“And your queen?”

“You will stay here at the priory until I return. You are safe here.”

Isabella thinks back to when Lancaster declared his Ordinances, how Edward lay with his head in her lap, weeping. It seems so long ago. She was indispensable to him then, now she is baggage slowing his advance on destiny.

“I beg you do not leave me here. I shall go mad.”

“I will not be away long.”

“I should be with you, that is my place.”

“It would not be wise.”

The Despenser is standing by the door of the chapel, wearing a soft and golden smile. She pretends not to notice him. She has never been jealous of any of her maids around Edward, but when she sees the Despenser, she aches.

She watches him leave in the bitter dark just before dawn, followed by his knights in half-armour on snorting warhorses and accompanied by footmen carrying flambeaux. The air is filled with the clatter of hooves, the clash of harness and weapons.

When he is gone she goes back to the chapel and falls again to her knees. She finds herself praying, not for some dreary saint, but for her own life and that the Despenser would disappear from it. Let him be struck by a peal of thunder or be taken in his bed by apoplexy. Better yet, let the Scots get at him, Bruce is good at killing Englishman, why not this one?

But she knows now it is pointless. There will always be a Despenser. She will never be the king’s favourite, no matter how hard she deals with God.

Chapter 34

If happiness were a buffeting gale with occasional flurries of sleet then she should be overjoyed. She stands on the battlements, letting the wind burn her cheeks for the sheer exhilaration of it. Anything but another moment in these dark, draughty halls listening to the chanting of the monks. Out here is a world of sea-battered rocks and forbidding cliffs.

She leans on the parapet, watches the gulls blown about like leaves on the wind. Foam piles on the rocks.

She has heard reports from Scotland that Bruce has laid the land to waste, and Edward’s army is starving. She imagines Bruce’s hobelars swooping down on them, Edward caught once more in a trap like Bannockburn and no cool head to advise him. He does not have the head for war, and Despenser’s cunning for figures does not translate to the battlefield, or so they say.

Eleanor appears, wrapped in thick furs. “Riders,” she says, and then mutters under her breath: “Pray God, they’re ours.”

The guards at the priory gates shout a welcome and there are sighs of relief all around. A troop of a dozen riders clatters through the gates. The captain throws himself from his mount, whatever news he has he is in a hurry to bring it. He looks grim and is covered in mud. Isabella steels herself.

She hurries down the tower’s narrow steps almost tripping in her haste. There is a meagre fire burning in the hearth in the great hall, the monks do not believe in comforts. Her messenger huddles by it, shivering. She has a servant fetch hot mead.

It is one of Despenser’s men. Well, she will not hate him for that.

“Is the king safe?” she asks him.

“He is, your grace. He asked me to bring you this letter.”

She hesitates to read it. She hands it to Eleanor to break the seal.

Isabelle turns to the captain. “Did you find the Bruce?”

“We did,” he says, but it is what he does not say that alarms her.

She reads the letter:

“Our Dear Consort, I write to you in haste. The Scots fled into the valleys laying waste the land behind them. Our army has been much reduced by the flux and by starvation. Our losses necessitated the need for a hasty withdrawal, and we have taken what remains of our gallant army by way of Bridlington and are now at York, where we await you. The Bruce has pursued us, so I am sending my lords Richmond and Athol to convey you to safety. My councillors advise that the Scots may be aware of your location and will ride on Tynemouth so you should prepare to leave post-haste.

May the Holy Spirit bless and keep you.

Edwardus Rex

this 16th day of October, 1322”

Her hands shake.

“Ma’am?” Eleanor murmurs.

“He is safe,” she says, and remembers that Eleanor is concerned more for her own husband. “They are both safe.”

“They are on their way to us?”

“They are in York.”

“
York?
”

“They would like us to meet them there.”

Edward, what have you done? You have allowed this Bruce to outwit you again.

The letter slips from her fingers, her ladies and her squires stare at it but none dare pick it up. Her hands dip back into the sleeves of her surcoat.

“So Captain, as a soldier and a veteran of these Marches, give me your opinion: what are the chances that Richmond might reach us here before the Bruce or his raiders?”

He fidgets, never a good sign. “I would say we should do well to look to the priory fortifications.”

“We cannot hold this place against the Scots.”

“We may have no choice.”

“We will have to find one,” she says and sweeps from the hall.

***

“The king had no choice,” Eleanor declares when they are alone in her rooms and Isabella looks up at her in surprise. She did not think the girl owned a tongue.

“I am sure he took good counsel before he made his decision.”

“He could not risk his army or the reputation of the English crown, by returning here and exposing himself to capture.”

She does not believe she asked her maid’s opinion, but she is intrigued anyway. “You do not mind that your husband and your uncle both abandoned you?”

“I should hardly say ‘abandoned.’ What would the Scots do to me, even if they caught me here? I should be ransomed, as you would be. They will not harm us. But my husband and the king risk their lives and the Crown itself to come back here. It was the prudent thing.”

Ah, that was it: he has fled south and left me here on this damned rock because he is being prudent.

She does not wish him to be prudent, she wants him to put everything at stake for her, as he had for Gaveston. She wants him to sweep in and save her, or show at least that she is as important to him as he had been.

But this is not queenly, this is a woman’s petty jealousy, and it is not worthy of a daughter of France.

Eleanor is flushed. It has taken much for her to speak so boldly. Perhaps what she says is true, or perhaps it is only what she needs to believe.

“That will be all,” Isabella says to her and draws herself straight.

“Is there anything else, your grace?”

“Ask the servants to fetch me some spiced wine.”

She bobs her head and leaves. Isabella turns back to the window. The sea heaves in the wind, black clouds sweep in, not yet Vespers and it is already dark. Should she wait for her husband’s knights, or risk a boat? She cannot let herself be taken, for the ransom will bankrupt England, and Edward will no doubt be forced to give up all claim to Scotland. She will not have England’s humiliation laid at her feet and neither will she have her squires die defending these walls when they cannot anyway repel a determined assault. The result is foregone. If she is to prevent disaster then she must act like a Queen.

***

The next morning she meets Northey in the gatehouse. He looks a worried man; he doesn’t fancy much having to protect the Queen of England with just a handful of men. This could turn out badly for him.

There are dark clouds out there beyond the horizon. Not a good day for sailing. Where were the Scots? She had to make her choice. Could she risk delaying one more day?

“Load the ship with provisions. We leave today.”

He is about to object but then thinks better of it. He goes about his business, pleased to be rid of the onerous responsibility of being the Queen’s protector. She feels a slap of rain. Even down here on the river, the waves are rising.

The sky is ominous. She hopes she has not miscalculated, but it is too late to change her mind. As they come out of the gate they are almost bowled over by the wind. Their ship does not inspire confidence; it was damaged in a recent storm, has just now been repaired and refitted at Newcastle.

Edward should be with her, he should not have abandoned her to this.

Chapter 35

York

York is not quite the same as she remembers it--without the heads and the hacked off limbs stuck on poles. She is not nostalgic for them. But Lancaster’s ghost seems to prowl here. She doubts they will ever be rid of his haunting now.

She steps out of her carriage under the shadow of her uncle’s bailey, and curses him for what he led them all to. Their civil war allowed the Bruce to grow more powerful. Lancaster should have put his energies into fighting him, not Gaveston.

She has sent messages ahead, but her husband is not waiting for her when she steps out onto the cobbles. The Despenser waits for her in the Great Hall. He is unusually solicitous. A servant takes her cloak, the fire is built up. She declines the offers of spiced wine and food, though she is in dire need of both.

The Despenser has a silver smile on his lips. He wears furs, which makes him look snug, like an overfed cat. He gathers them about his smug, smooth person as if waiting to be petted.

He delivers his king’s message with silky grace. She listens, unbelieving.

“The king refuses to see me?”

“He is indisposed, your grace.”

“My Lord Despenser, do you know who you are addressing?”

“I mean no disrespect. It is the king’s orders, I merely pass them on.”

Isabella is exhausted. She has not been warm since Tynemouth, and was never much warm there anyway. She has spent three days vomiting on a pitching ship, one of her ladies lost over the side in a gale.

Her clothes are foul, her hair crusted with salt; she is in dire need of a bath, a wardrobe, hot broth and spiced wine. But most of all she needs to speak her mind to the king, and she does not care if the daughter of France sounds like a fishwife.

“Do you realise what I have been through?”

“We have all suffered much. The king has watched his army starve by degrees, and he has lost his treasures and personal possessions all left behind in Northumberland.”

“I am told that Bruce has defeated what remains of his army and has captured the Earl of Richmond. Is this true?”

He nods.

“How could he let this happen? Is he always to be out thought and out manoeuvred?”

“Robert the Bruce is a cunning and treacherous adversary.”

“And Edward is hardly the hammer of the Scots,” she snaps and immediately regrets it, for this remark will certainly find its way back to Edward.
She made unfavourable comparison between yourself and your father,
he will say.
She mocked you
.

“Tell Edward I wish to see him,” she says to one of the stewards, but he looks instead to the Despenser. It is clear who has the authority here. “You will not stand between me and the king!”

“I do not. They are his orders; I am merely his servant.”

He says this without the whole court bursting into disbelieving laughter. He has them well trained.

“Why did he not come to me at Tynemouth?”

“You think this was my doing?”

“They are your words, not mine.”

“You may accuse me of many things, your grace, but in this I am blameless. My own wife was there with you.”

Yes, his wife, who is standing here in the shadows of the Great Hall,waiting her husband’s passionate embrace. She should not keep her from it.

This is twice now she has lost her patience in front of these Despensers. From now on she must conduct herself with more care.

“Have a servant prepare a bath. My rooms are prepared?”

“Of course.”

“I await the king’s pleasure,” she says and sweeps from the room, with as much dignity as a queen can, in a salt-stained dress and hair stiff as hay. Let Edward hide from her, he cannot hide forever. She is still his wife, and his queen.

She has saved him from humiliation. A word of thanks is all she wants.

That, and his adviser’s head steaming on a spit.

Chapter 36

Her counsel is no longer important to him. He spends much of his time cloistered with the Despenser and his crowd. His chamberlain only has to ask and he receives. There is hardly a castle in the Western Marches he has not taken possession of. The king waves a hand airily to his every request.