Free Isabella: Braveheart of France by Colin Falconer Page B

Deddington. He is my son’s man, he says. My son, Hugh. You remember Hugh?
    The King stares at him, as if he is mad. He has not heard of Deddington, and cares for its rector even less, particularly at this moment.
    Isabella puts a restraining hand on his arm: hear him out.
    “The Earl of Cornwall has been taken by my Lord Warwick,” he says.
    Edward frowns, leans forward. What is this old fool saying? “Perro is at Wallingford. Pembroke has him under house arrest.”
    “I only know what the messenger tells me. I thought Your Grace should know.”
    The king jumps to his feet. He calls for a messenger to be sent to Pembroke immediately. It is two days ride, perhaps three. His eyes are wild. Warwick? The Black Dog has Gaveston? How is this possible?
    It is just some foul rumour, surely. But he is panicked.
    Isabella shudders to think what Warwick would do to Gaveston if he ever had him in his power. Yet she is torn. She wants Edward’s favourite out of the way, without him she is sure she would have the Edward she has always desired.
    She puts a hand to her belly, and the restless son of England. One does not know which outcome best to wish for.
    Edward begs her on his knees to appeal to her father. What if this perverse news is true? He promises he will return to France half of Gascony if Phillip will save Gaveston’s life. What can she do? She sends the letter as he asks, in the cold certainty that no one across the sea will lift a finger to save Edward’s favourite. Even a sixteen-year-old girl can see the inevitable. He has got in everyone’s way. Edward’s love is the kiss of death.
    The king cannot sit still, even for a moment. He has barely slept since old Despenser brought his news. He sits on a throne in the Great Hall, cursing the servants if his wine cup is ever less than half full, and has his clerks dash off letters to every prince and nobleman he can think of.
    It is summer and the days are long, a violet dusk clings to the dales. Six days after the messenger was sent, she hears a rider enter the castle gates. The shouts and the ring of hooves on the cobbles stir Edward from his wine rosy lethargy; he has drunk too much at dinner, and was presently asleep at the table. She runs to the window.
    In fact not one messenger but two; their horses have been ridden almost to death and there is foam on their flanks. The couriers themselves are covered in sweat and dirt, evidence of a hard ride indeed.
    She turns to Edward, sees the fear in his face. The servants sidle up to the walls, keeping to the darker corners. She can see it in their faces; they feel sorry for the man who bears the message, and not one of them wishes to be in Edward’s sight when the fateful words are spoken.
    Old Hugh intercepts them at the door. There is a whispered conversation and then he comes in quiet. “These men have news for you, your grace.”
    “Who are they?” Edward says.
    “They say that they are…they were in the employ of my Lord Gaveston.”
    They throw themselves in the rushes at the king’s feet.
    There is a long silence.
    He finally gives them leave to speak. “Tell me,” he says, finally, in a strangled voice.
    The men look at each other. Neither of them wants to be the one to say it. “My Lord Gaveston has been brought to trial,” the braver of the two says.
    A muscle in Edward’s cheek twitches. “Trial?” He is absolutely still. “Who presided over such a trial?”
    “The Lord Lancaster, your grace.”
    “But where was Pembroke? I don’t understand.”
    “He was at Wallingford, your grace.”
    “Wasn’t Gaveston at Wallingford?”
    “He was taken from there by Lord Warwick.”
    Edward shakes his head. What are these men talking about? “But this is impossible. Pembroke was sworn to protect him!”
    “Lord Pembroke was not there. He had left the castle overnight to visit his wife. That’s when Warwick came and took him.”
    Edward is white. But he is in no hurry to hear what must be told. While