Read Isabeau, A Novel of Queen Isabella and Sir Roger Mortimer for Free Online Page A

not more distant, but louder with vehemence. “They all want to tell me what to do. To control me. Me . Who is king, I say? Oh, so many of them think they ought to be. That they could do better. I trust none of that writhing pile of worms who call themselves ‘lords’. Nor the crows closest, who squawk in my ears and try to scatter the rest whilst they pick at my very eyes to blind me. Who, I ask you, was meant to sit here ?” With a deft twirl, he landed on the cushioned throne, sitting tall and defiant. “ Who was born to rule England?”
    “You were,” I said, approaching him, “Edward of Caernarvon. And your son after you.” I knelt beside him, my skirts bunching around me in a sea of pale green satin. Gentle and soothing, I laid my hand over his forearm. Again, I must turn his mind to lighter things, away from the anger and the darkness. “Only yesterday Young Edward asked when you might take him hawking. He has tired of his peregrine and fancies the gyrfalcon you keep at King’s Langley. Do you remember the one?”
    He blinked, as if in momentary confusion. “The one I had brought from Norway?”
    “That one, yes.”
    “The best birds are from Norway.”
    “He knows, which is why I think he covets it so much.”
    “It is a tercel, not a hen, and far too much for him yet.”
    “Perhaps, but he is always dreaming of bigger things. He pretends his new pony is a great warhorse, a Flemish one, and goes about all day with a wooden sword tucked in his belt.”
    The barest hint of a smile crept over his mouth. His sight drifted to the mural high up on the wall above the nearest door – the one which the earl and archbishop had departed through. There, the slight figure of David hurled a stone from his sling at the raging Goliath. “One day, my son will fight my battles for me.”
    My husband was no warrior. Certainly no general of battles. Bannockburn had been testament to that. To speculate that his oldest son would be a more apt leader than him was no strain to the imagination. That prospect, however, was many years ahead and of no use to him now. Thus, it was my duty to serve as his peacemaker – to calm the waters that he had stirred. I stroked my husband’s arm until he met my gaze. “First, you must make peace, so you can keep your crown. Then, when it is your son’s time to wear it, he will not have to fight for it.”
    He squirmed with uncertainty. “It is always a fight for power. Always.”
    “You know what you must do?”
    His jaw twitched. A tear slid down his cheek, then dripped onto his silk tunic. Dully, he nodded. “Have I any choice? I must send my dear Hugh away.” Then, he gripped the arms of the throne until his knuckles turned white. “Tell Pembroke to gather the barons in the morning again. I will present the soft of my belly – give them the banishment they clamor for.”
    In truth, I had expected more resistance from him. Perhaps his willfulness had already been spent. Or perhaps he had indeed learned from the past. Whatever the reason, I embraced the result. Finally, Edward was learning the art of compromise, as well as the consequences of his selfishness.
    He rubbed a sleeve across his face. “Our daughter, Joanna – how is she?”
    “Bright, beautiful, spirited. She favors you.” I told him that because it pleased him, not because it was true.
    “A pilgrimage to Canterbury is in order, to give thanks. Once things are settled.”
    I stood, my legs tingling from knees to toes as the blood returned to them, and rearranged my wrinkled skirts. “Gladly will I go. We have much to be thankful for.”
    “Perhaps for you, ‘tis so.” He folded his hands in his lap and sighed in defeat.
    As I made my way across the floor, I overheard Edward mumble above the rustle of my skirt’s fabric: “I am no man’s chattel. I swear on my life  ... there will be requital.”
    With that utterance, any hope I might have held – for lasting peace, for my children’s future –