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

sack of stones – “but shield her face from the sun so that her cheeks do not blister. When you’re walking in the garden with Ella, watch that there are no bees about. She likes to sniff the roses before looking. It was most traumatic when she was stung inside her nose last month. She could not breathe properly for two days because of the swelling. Take care, too, that she does not prick a finger. She’d sooner smear the blood on her clean skirts as she would complain of a throbbing finger. As for John, do not allow him within sight of Young Edward’s new pony. That, if nothing else, is imperative. He wants to do everything exactly as his brother does, but he cannot understand that he’s more likely to get trampled than anything. He’ll sulk and wield his temper, but do not be swayed, Ida. Do not. Let him cry himself to sleep, if you must. I’ll not come back to find my second oldest lying broken in bed.”
    Ida harrumphed at me. “My lady, you know I do not let them fool with danger. Never. Or say cross words, or eat with dirty hands or forget their prayers. None of that. I’ll see that Young Edward is awake for his lessons, too, and does not pester his tutor with requests for stories about battles.” She cocked her chin out, her pride evident.
    “My lady, please.” Pembroke came up behind me and hooked an arm about my waist to shepherd me toward the carriage.
    I stole one last glance over my shoulder at Ida and my daughter, then climbed inside and scooted along the cushioned bench seat. On the opposite bench, my damsels Patrice and Marie leaned against one another, already dozing.
    Pembroke appeared at the rear of the carriage and undid the ties of the curtains. Before he let them fall, he held them aside for a moment, concern furrowed between his Spaniard-black brows.
    “Thank you, my queen, for obliging my request. I know you are not long out of childbed, but this is dire. The Marcher lords have surrounded London and will not scatter until their demands are met. The king must come to his senses. The past, unfortunately, seems to be repeating itself and if so  ... ” He shook his head of close-shorn dark hair and let out a long sigh. “If so, there will be bloody days ahead. Worse, I fear, than before.”
    He disappeared then, leaving me in near darkness to contemplate his warning. The carriage jolted forward and soon we were rumbling along over the cobbles as London stirred sluggishly to life around us. I groped for the stray cushion at my feet and wedged it behind my back to ease the jarring.
    If I could not convince Edward to exile Hugh Despenser and make amends with his barons, blood would rain down upon England until we were all bathed in it.
    Already it was worse than before.
     
    *****

    Westminster – August, 1321

    Edward marched the length of the King’s Chamber of Westminster Palace. The long toes of his leather soles slapped the tiles like the rhythmic threshing of a flail. Twenty-five paces. Head down, hands clasped behind him. He halted beside the vast canopied state bed, gazed up at the metal bosses studding the panels of the ceiling, then spun around to face me.
    I stood moored in the doorway, Pembroke behind me. It would be dangerous to approach the king or speak before judging his mood – that much I knew. Too far from me to see his countenance clearly, I dipped my head in a bow and waited.
    A warm breeze stirred the hairs that had pulled loose from beneath the brim of my coif, tickling my cheeks. Tall windows lined the long wall across from me where Robert Winchelsey, the Archbishop of Canterbury, stood. Jewels, a hand-width apart, trimmed his brocaded red chasuble. Piled in folds around his neck, his amice was adorned with quatrefoils formed from gold braids. He smiled serenely at me and tipped his head so far I thought his miter would topple from it.
    When I looked again, Edward had grabbed at one of the dense green curtains hanging down from the canopy above the throne. He buried