AN UNEXPECTED VISIT

It was almost midnight. The noises of the great fortress had gradually died out and now it was quiet. Roger was standing in front of the small window, gazing out, lost in thought. The air was hot, almost irrespirable, the thick stone walls preserving the heat of the day. His shirt was damp and sweat trickled down his temples, but he didn’t notice.
The soldiers guarding him kept complaining about the relentlessness of the glowing summer sun that made their skin blister under their armour during the long hours of fighting practice on the training grounds. Some even fell unconscious, making captain Seagrave swear like a pagan and threaten to punish them all for behaving like nuns. But he could yell and have them lashed or incarcerated all he wanted, there was no way he could sway God’s will, for the year of Our Lord 1323 was indeed a special one: a long and hard winter like none the elders could recall, a rainy short spring that made the rivers swell, immediately followed by an extremely hot summer. People crowded the churches, praying forgiveness for their sins. Some sought refuge in wine, others in whoring, like it were the last year of their life and they had to live it to the full before rendering their souls. And some blamed the king and his minions for having attracted God’s wrath…
There was no relief in retreating from the sun’s glare, for the air was hard to breathe, burning the throat, and rooms were like ovens. Nights were just as bad, suffocating, walls closing in on people, leaving them sleepless.
But this meant nothing to the prisoner. Even though he had been separated from everyone else and had to survive for a year and a half on a mere 3 pence a day as the king had ordered, without any servant to attend him and without any commodities customary for one so nobly born and who had held such important offices in the realm, even though he had been given one of the worst cells in the Tower, a tiny room that had no window, but rather a slit in the wall (still heavily barred), so thin that not even a cat could have passed through, even though his gaolers did their worst to make him more uncomfortable, he didn’t care. He had had to insist and argue with the officers in charge to allow him take a bath and shave once a week, on Monday (it was his right and water was free, though the guards were not supposed to warm it for him and so the water had been ice-cold during the winter – as it has been lukewarm throughout the summer – and he had to pay for the barber’s services out of his meagre allowance). He also had to wash his laundry all by himself if he cared to – which he did – to the great amusement of the soldiers who had never before seen such a sight.
Nevertheless, his guards, most of them young men who hadn’t taken part in any battle, respected and admired him. Lord Roger Mortimer, baron of Wigmore, was the king’s prisoner for having dared to rebel in arms almost two years ago. He had been declared a traitor and convicted to death, though later his sentence was commuted to life imprisonment. But people were talking and rumours spread fast and everyone in the Tower’s garrison soon learnt what folks whispered in the street: that he and the other Marcher lords1 had raised to defend their own lands against the greed of the hated Despensers, father and son, the king’s favourites. Such rumours had a deep impact on the soldiers, who hated the bastards just as much as everyone else because they got paid very little and their captain, a friend of the elder Despenser, was a beast who took a sadistic pleasure in administering the hardest punishments for the slightest mistakes. It was also being said that Lord Mortimer was an accomplished general, a veteran who had been fighting for about twenty years, first in the service of the old king (God bless his soul, what a warrior he had been!) and then in the service of the present one, in Scotland, Ireland and Wales. He had put an end to the Scottish invasion in Ireland and had kept the peace on England’s border. And that he had surrendered at Shrewsbury in front of the royal army only to save the lives of his men. Now that was a commander to follow even to hell, one with lots of experience, cunning and skill, but also one who cared for his men and protected them! Besides, everyone in the garrison could see he was every bit the hardened warrior people said he was. For eighteen months he had endured starvation, with just enough food to barely keep him alive. He had endured the blood-freezing cold of the harsh winter in his fireless stone-walled cell, dressed only in his velvet doublet, without a cloak or a blanket, without sheets or even a bunch of straw on the wooden plank he used for a bed. He was now enduring the unusual heat of the summer in a room with only a small opening for a window, airless, suffocating. He had insisted to wash and shave every week, no matter the weather, no matter how cold or warm the water was. And great lord as he was, he kept washing his shirt. Above all else, despite the extremely hard conditions of his imprisonment, he had been seriously training every day. Training! No one would expect someone well half past dead, as he was supposed to be after all this time, to do such a thing at all, let alone for quite a few hours every single day! Such determination imposed respect, especially when the young guards searched their own souls and painfully had to admit that they would never be able to compare with their prisoner, not even by far. Moreover, they kept grumbling about everything, but the Lord Mortimer had never complained, not even once, no matter what they were encouraged to do to make him feel worse. He kept his composure, his noble features always remained calm, with a glint of amusement in his grey eyes, and he never raised his voice. Part of the soldiers were in awe, some sort of almost religious fear tormenting them, like the man had an off-worldish quality about him, something supernatural that made him invulnerable…
Roger had noticed the changes in the gaolers’ attitude towards him, their growing respect and fear, with a bit of irony mingled with a great sadness. They all dreamt about glory and great battles, but they were all still wet behind their ears, with little experience and training. What did they know about real wars? They were staring at him every time they had to enter his cell, like he were a strange creature from the other world, so surprised to see that he didn’t give a damn about their mischief… They wouldn’t hold for long in a campaign! It wasn’t their fault actually, for they looked willing enough to learn. The man responsible for this state of affairs was their captain, whom Roger truly detested, because he was everything an officer in command should not be. Lord Mortimer had been watching the daily training sessions on the instruction grounds from his dungeon high up in one of the towers with gritted teeth. The few techniques the soldiers were being taught, or rather beaten into learning, were rude and would not help them much in a confrontation. They were frequently ordered to do things far beyond their abilities, like measuring their forces against the brute who was the captain’s favourite, a huge man endowed with great strength and little wits, one who would break a man’s arm or leg, or his neck, or chop him to pieces with his battleaxe without a second thought, with an idiotic grin on his hirsute face, to the great amusement of the said captain, who used to watch the show with a disdainful smirk. Many had been maimed and many had been killed for no other reason than Seagrave’s pervert pleasure, good men that with a proper training could have become true soldiers…
This was also one of the reasons why the Tower’s lieutenant, Gerard d’Alspaye, had agreed to help Roger Mortimer escape. It was treason, but the lieutenant could not stand his master’s tyranny or watch his men getting wounded or worse any longer. If the escape succeeded, the damned captain would take the blame and be convicted or at least removed from office, the favourite’s friend or not… It was the only way he could save his unfortunate companions (apart from murder, something he would never dishonour himself with, though he had more then once wished Seagrave dead). He would have to desert the army, which was his life, and leave the country when it happened, but he would do it lightheartedly, knowing he had helped his soldiers, himself, and the prisoner, whom he admired both for what he stood up for and for being the military leader he had always dreamt of having in command.
Roger had conceived a daring plan, which was only a few details away from being ready. He had managed to establish communication with some of his friends and supporters on the outside. But it was not his escape that concerned him and kept him awake and brooding in the heat of the night. He had heard rumours that his family was also under arrest, though he could not reach to understand why, or how it all came to this. The king had spared his life, but at the same time decided to imprison his wife and children? It made no sense… Gerard d’Alspaye had informed him that Queen Isabelle was lodged at the Tower, the first step of a pilgrimage she would start from London, so he wrote her a message, asking for news. The lieutenant had brought him everything he needed to write the note and had taken upon himself to deliver it safely into the hands of the queen. And now he was waiting, hoping to receive an answer, either verbal or written.

Queen Isabelle had received Lord Mortimer’s message early in the afternoon. She took it with great emotion – which she managed to hide with a serious effort – from the officer’s hands, quickly looking around to make sure that no one was spying on them. Unfolding the small piece of paper, she read the few words, written with a bold and elegant calligraphy: “Ma dame, I apologize for having dared to write to Your Grace, but I desperately need to know what befell to my lady wife and our children in the wake of my arrest. Pray give the news to the bearer of this letter. May God keep you safe”. The note was informal, written in the French of France, not the Anglo-Norman dialect everyone used in England. The queen smiled, almost against her will, and raised her eyes to meet d’Alspaye’s gaze, who was patiently waiting.
- If Lord Mortimer trusted you with this, I suppose I can trust you too.
- Of course, my lady, I would gladly give my life to serve Your Grace, he replied hastily, blushing, stunned at her exquisite beauty, her calm dignity and the sadness that seemed to surround her.
- Thank you, lieutenant, though I pray that you will stay alive. There has been too much blood and death already, she said with a sudden shudder. Then, regaining her composure:
- I shall deliver the answer myself. I’m sure that you could arrange for me to see Lord Mortimer in secret, in his cell. There are important matters I need to discuss with him.
- But my lady, this is almost impossible with so many people around. It is extremely dangerous… for both of you…
The young officer was appalled at the queen’s request, though he saw in her blue eyes a grim determination that could not be swayed.
- I am well aware of that, lieutenant. But there must be a way, she said sternly.
D’Alspaye understood she really meant it. He stood for a moment pondering:
- I could only get Your Grace in there, he said, when I make my round, after the evening meal. I usually have one soldier accompanying me… But this would mean that Your Grace should wear the full military equipment, he said doubtfully, staring at her slender being, and the weapons too. They’re pretty heavy, my lady… If the captain sees a soldier not completely and perfectly equipped… He grimaced and let the words hang in the air for a moment, with a sudden sullen and disgusted look on his face. He added:
- Not that it’s likely for him to go out for an inspection in the evening, when he’s probably drunk already, but one can never know…
Isabelle smiled again, amused at his concern that she would not be able to pass for a soldier, but fully understanding the man’s worries and his total distaste with his commanding officer. She’d heard enough about captain Seagrave to know exactly what he meant. Recalling the conversation she’d casually overheard, a tormented look briefly showed in her eyes, immediately checked. She said, with an apparent calm she did not feel, but with a final tone that could not be denied:
- Then it is settled, lieutenant. I shall be the guard accompanying you tonight. Have everything delivered to my maid, whom I trust with my life. I’ll find a way to safely leave the royal apartments and meet you.
The lieutenant bowed, but before leaving, he gave her a last warning:
- Pardonnez-moi, ma dame, you should have that letter destroyed right away!
The queen looked him in his eyes, noticing his sincerity, his blunt but earnest words not offending her at all.
- I shall burn it, mesire, do not worry. Last thing I want is to put Lord Mortimer or you in any danger, she replied, barely succeeding to restrain her lovely features from showing any of her inner turmoil.
Once he went away and she remained alone, she could not contain her feelings any more, and tears filled her eyes. From the moment she had found out by mere chance what the king and his cursed favourite were planning, she couldn’t have a second’s peace, and all that she wanted, all that she knew, all that she felt had been the urgent need to see Lord Mortimer and warn him. They intended to have him murdered in prison, seeing that the initial plan of slowly destroying him had not worked out. She had been appalled at the terrible details she’d overheard about what he had had to pass through all this time since his arrest, a year and a half by now, with the connivance of the Tower’s captain, Stephen Seagrave. But he had resisted, and now they meant to take a decisive action to get rid once and for good of the only man in the realm strong enough to make a difference, to oppose the malefic influence of the Despensers… her only friend in this foreign country, the only one who had loyally stood up for her and defended her when the royal favourites offended her with impunity. He had not been with the court much, kept away by his duties, fighting in the name of his king, with a skill that made everyone envious of his success. He had managed to put an abrupt end to the Scottish invasion in Ireland and pacify the country. The people of that remote land, which Queen Isabelle had never seen, had sent a letter of thanks to the king of England, acknowledging Lord Mortimer’s accomplishments and asking for his return as their Lord Justiciar2. That letter had irritated the king and his friends even more…
The underhand plot to have Roger killed was the precise reason why she had announced officially that she would take a pilgrimage, and hastened to London and the Tower, hoping that she might be able to contact him somehow, no matter the risk involved. Time was running out for him, and she was desperate, because she did not know whom to trust, with so many spies around and herself under constant surveillance. His bold initiative in asking her for news of his family had offered her an unexpected chance…
But now that she knew she would see him soon, her courage faltered, not because of the danger such an enterprise involved, but because she realized what her visit meant for him. She had been so keen to reach him against all odds and warn him, and now she wasn’t sure any more that she was doing the right thing. How could she look into the eyes of the one man who had ever been kind and chivalrous to her, who had comforted and encouraged her, and tell him that he was going to be cowardly assassinated? That he had no more than a fortnight left? Wouldn’t it be an act of unnecessary cruelty? How could she, of all people, be the one to strike him another blow? Didn’t he suffer enough already? Warn him! How could he defend himself? The pride in her royal blood revolted against the baseness of the planned deed and she raised her head, whispering through gritted teeth: “But he has the right to know, at least he will be able to face it like the noble warrior he is. Any real man deserves to die with honour, looking death in the face. He won’t be murdered in his sleep, I shall not let them take away the very dignity of his death”! She was desperately trying to fight her tears: “It is the least I can do for him, though God Almighty, how I wish there were a way”…

Roger was still standing in front of the window, his favourite place for meditation, in the complete darkness of his cell, when he heard the sound of footsteps in the corridor and turned to face the door. The key rattled in the rusty lock and the door opened with a lugubre creak, letting a man pass, then closed again. To his great surprise, it was not the lieutenant, as he had hoped, but one of the soldiers, fully equipped, hooded and carrying a candle. Surely a soldier he had not seen before, because, to his even greater surprise, this one didn’t seem to be encumbered at all by the heavy military equipment like the others, all beginners, and despite being not very tall and slender, he wore it with a natural elegance. The sword, too. It wasn’t embarrassing his movements or making him stumble, as it usually happened with the rest of the guards, but hung in the correct position at his side, ready to be used. Lord Mortimer registered all these details at a glance, with an expert eye and a growing astonishment. The man remained motionless for a while in front of the door, trying to adjust his eyes to the almost impenetrable obscurity of the room, the only dim light coming from the candle he was holding, and then removed his hood… Roger found himself looking, astounded, at the beautiful face of Queen Isabelle, who in turn was looking back at him with the same intensity. They remained staring at each other for a long moment, not able to say anything, their strong emotions mirrored on their faces.
He could not believe that the queen herself had come to visit him in his dungeon, like an angel descended to hell. A warrior queen, who looked more skilled in the art of war then the soldiers guarding him! He could see she was deeply troubled though…
She had been terrorized at the thought of how she might encounter him after all he’d been through. Her heart was pounding when she managed to distinguish him in the flickering light of the candle, and her eyes studied him intently. She almost felt herself fainting with relief when she saw that he was indeed very pale, but apart from this nothing else showed any sign of the atrocities he had had to endure. He was everything his old self, as he stood there in front of her, bold and upright as ever, his whole being emanating an air of perfectly controlled force and a strength of will that very few possessed.
His shirt was worn to the thread, but clean. He looked rugged, with a few days’ stubble and some grey hairs in his dark locks that had not been there the last time she saw him. But even dressed in rags, he remained every inch the elegant and noble man she had always known.
She had noticed his bewilderment when he saw her. Then he had smiled warmly, with a speck of amusement at her disguise in his grey gentle eyes. He was still smiling, but his expression changed to one of deep worry.
- My lady, he greeted her, bowing.
- My lord, she answered, smiling at him in turn, though her eyes were shadowed by sadness.
- You do me a great honour in visiting me, Your Grace, and I am truly glad to see you, as ever, though I wish you hadn’t… This is extremely dangerous. Had I known you would do such a thing, I would’ve never written you that message. I would never forgive myself if anything happened to you on my account!
Isabelle could not believe it… He was the one in danger, for Goodness’ sake, and he was worried about her safety! She could see that he meant it, the warm smile was still there, but the look in his eyes was serious.
- Thanks God you sent me that message, my lord! I’ve been trying to find a way to see you, though I didn’t know whom to trust. I supposed that if you trusted that officer, then I could trust him too.
- He is of my entire confidence, my lady. But there are others.
- You do not need to worry, I took care of things, she replied proudly but earnestly.
- I can see that… You are quite an amazon, my lady! I almost mistook you for one of the guards, he teased her. Truth be said, he went on, this time without any irony at all, you’re a far better warrior than they will ever be… Knowing her, he believed her when she said she had taken care of everything, and he relaxed a little, though the fear was still there. There is always a risk in such things… “Oh, God, I pray that she will be safe”, he thought. And she was full of surprises, too… He’d never imagined that she had any fighting skills. But when she walked in, it was obvious that she’d had some training.
The queen stared at him. How could he have noticed, in only a few moments’ space? But he was a veteran, and very perceptive…
He changed the subject and spoke directly, not concerning himself with etiquette, aware that she must have had an extremely serious reason to go to such length and knowing they did not have much time for talking:
- Should I take it that the news is so bad that you had to give it to me in person, undertaking such risks, my lady?
Isabelle sighed, her inner torment fully showing on her face:
- I’m afraid so, my lord, worse than you could imagine. But first to your question. Here too the news is bad. Your wife is imprisoned in your castle, and your children too, girls in convents and boys in other castles. They aren’t allowed to communicate… her voice dropped, and tears filled her eyes.
Roger remained calm, nothing betraying his feelings apart from the look in his grey eyes, which became as hard as steel, like two newly forged blades:
- So, he said with a harsh voice, his Welsh accent more pregnant than ever, they’re fighting women and children now? He had spoken in a low tone, making the words sound even harsher, proof of the rage he managed to perfectly control.
- They do, and I’m truly sorry, she replied, not knowing what else to say. What was there to say? I did try to make the king change his mind, I made an official request, I spoke to him in private, but he wouldn’t listen. It is that rat that has his ear…
- Thank you, Your Grace! You shouldn’t have even tried, this must have put you in a very awkward, if not dangerous position. He admired her courage to stand up to them and speak her mind openly. She had always tried to prevent the king from committing the worst mistakes and sometimes she succeeded, against the evil influence of the favourite and his father. Such an attitude had attracted the implacable hatred of the king’s minions...
- You don’t have to thank me, my lord, since I failed. But I had to do it, no matter what, I had to try! They’re stepping beyond any limits, unchecked! Anger and sorrow mingled in her voice. You probably don’t know what’s going on, but their lust for vengeance is devastating the land… You must have heard that Thomas was executed, beheaded, without trial.
- Aye, that I’ve heard… Paying old debts, no doubt, he answered, referring to the role Thomas of Lancaster had played in the death of the first of the king’s favourites, the Gascon, many years ago.
- Absolutely! But this was not the end of it. Soon afterwards, the king and his blood-thirsty Despensers started to hunt down each and everyone who had supported you or him, everyone who had ever dared to oppose them. Many noblemen were seized and executed without trial, either hanged or beheaded, their lands were forfeit and their families imprisoned. Around a couple of dozens men, if not more, my lord!
- But this is insane! Roger could not believe what he had just heard. Why? We did not rebel against King Edward. All we did was to defend our lands against the Despensers, who meant to snatch them by force. It was the king himself, in siding with them, taking an official position and bringing in the royal host, who made traitors of us all… Dead? For what? For not wanting to fight the king? When they saw the size of the royal army, they all fled like cowards on the eve of battle and left me and my men stand alone. If they hadn’t, we might have stood a chance to negociate peace, but they did, and I had no other option but to surrender unconditionally. There was no point in having my men sacrificed for nothing…
- I know all this, my friend, but to them it matters not. They’re bent on destroying all opposition once and for all, and in such a manner that no one else would ever dare do it again.
- It still doesn’t make any sense! Why then am I still alive? After all, I was the one leading them.
- You seem to forget that you were convicted to death!
- No, I don’t. But the king changed his mind… Why?
- Not out of the goodness of his heart, or because you served him faithfully so many years… He did it because he was forced to.
- Forced to? What do you mean?
- There was a Parliament session and they were asked to vote. They all voted against it, my lord, each and every single one of them. No one wanted you dead, you are the kingdom’s last hope, the only one brave enough to make a difference. You have many friends and supporters, my lord! The Parliament’s decision threw them in a terrible fit of rage, but they couldn’t do anything about it, and so the king had to grudgingly agree…
- I see. But if they so desperately want me dead, there are other ways…
- Indeed. In fact, they were hoping you would do them the grace and die by yourself, due to the inhuman conditions of your imprisonment!
Upon hearing this, Roger started to laugh heartily. Isabelle was startled.
- I heard them talking about it one day, I know everything, she said.
- It takes a lot more than that to kill a man, he replied. Do not worry about me, my lady, I’ve been forged in a thousand fires and I’ve seen worse. Much worse!
- You are a strong man, my lord, thanks God! Unfortunately, they realized too that this wouldn’t get them anywhere, so they’ve decided to have you murdered in prison, in a fortnight… she let the words out in a breath, without lowering her eyes, still bravely looking straight at him, while tears flowed uncontrolled, without her even noticing or caring.
Roger understood this was the real reason why she had risked so much. She wanted to warn him. He was not in the least surprised at the news, especially after all she had told him. Everything fell into place…
- I’m sorry, my lord, she went on, her voice faltering, some men would strike with no respect a death blow. I’m not sure I did the right thing coming here and telling you all this, but I felt you had the right to know… Any true warrior should watch death in the face!
He stepped closer, embracing her. Her head rested on his shoulder. She was shivering despite the stifling heat of the night air. He held her in his arms for a moment, then gently took her face in his hands and looked her in her eyes:
- You did the right thing, my lady. You’re right, anyone is entitled to watch death in the face. It took a lot of courage for you to do it. You have the heart of a true warrior, like the queens of old, my ancestors. Thanks to your bravery I owe you my life, Your Grace.
She stared at him, tears still flowing, bewildered… What kind of a man was he? She had just brutally informed him that he was going to be assassinated, and it was him who comforted her… What was it he said? That he owed her his life?
- How so? How can that be? She desperately wanted to believe that he had a chance, it was all she had been praying God for…
- I’ve been planning my escape for quite a while, he confessed, and everything is almost ready. All I have to do now is hurry things up.
Isabelle sighed with relief, still shocked but gradually recovering.
- You’ve lifted a heavy weight off my chest, my friend. Are you sure you can do it in time? she asked, a new fear seizing her.
- All I can tell you in truth, Your Grace, is that there is a strong chance… the rest is in God’s hands. He respected her too much to simply tell her soothing words.
- Is there anything I can do to help? Anything you need?
- No, my lady. You’ve done more than enough already. I pray you, stay away from all this. They already hate you and if they have the slightest suspicion, it will be your life the one in danger and I would never forgive myself, he said passionately. I owe you my life, and I swear to you, Your Grace, that I shall see justice done and you restored to your rightful position!
Isabelle understood he would not tell her more. He wanted to protect her! He was the first man who ever did that, the only one who ever cared. As a woman who had constantly been humiliated by the king’s indifference and openly offended by the king’s lovers, she reveled in the feeling. And he pledged to fight for her! He meant it, for Lord Mortimer was not the man to toy with words. She could read the truth in his expression. As a queen, she had one knight defending her, like a hero from the old legends.
She was grateful to him for both, and it showed in her bright blue eyes:
- Thank you, my lord, she said with all her heart.
Roger bowed and smiled at her, his warm and sincere smile a balsam for her troubled soul, but again the look in his eyes was serious:
- You should go now, my lady, you’ve been in here long enough…
The queen nodded, letting out a deep sigh of relief, not able to say anything, her face lit with emotion. She had a strong sensation of unreality, like she had stepped into a dream. She had come here with death in her heart, a terrible inner conflict tearing her apart, with a noble but ingrate mission, afraid of what she might encounter, afraid that she might not have the courage to tell him everything and afraid at the same time that she might. She had felt miserable, an angel of destruction… How could she bring such news to someone whom she knew so well, whom she respected and cared for? And how could she not? Who else if not a friend would care for the honour of one’s death when all other hope was gone? How could she deprive him of a warrior’s death, when he deserved it more than anyone? She had felt enraged at the injustice of it all… Because of her husband the king’s lover, Hugh Despenser, who coveted the lands in the Welsh March, so many men had died. It was because of this greedy rat and his father, who was no better, that Lord Mortimer was supposed to die an ignoble and treacherous death. It didn’t matter that Roger Mortimer had fought all his life for England. It didn’t matter that he and the other Marcher lords had done nothing else but defend themselves and try to put and end to the upstart’s dominion. And she had felt terrible because there was nothing she could really do. Edward was weak, a capital flow in a king, always driven by his passions, always a toy in the hands of his favourites. His rule was failing, royalty was decaying, discontent was growing throughout the realm… He was nothing like his father, who had ruled the land with an iron hand. Or like her own father, King Philippe of France, a very strict and severe man, who had educated her to be a true queen, to uphold royalty, to do her duty. And that was exactly what she had been trying to do. She had always tried to mediate conflicts, to prevent her husband from taking the worst decisions. Sometimes she had succeeded, most times not, and things only got worse with time. She felt like she had failed as a queen too, though it was not her fault…
When the dungeon door had opened letting her pass, all these emotions welled up inside her, the darkness of the room mirroring the hopeless darkness in her own heart. It was like she had entered hell, with no hope of redemption, and it was at the very bottom of this hell that she had found light. The dim glow of the candle, the warm, heartfelt smile on Roger Mortimer’s face when seeing her, his fear for her safety, her huge relief when she had seen that his imprisonment had not affected him as she had feared and his enemies hoped… He was definitely a strong man both in body and in soul, and one of the most experienced warriors she had ever met. Not only that he had endured, but he hadn’t given in. Quite the contrary, he had reacted. He already had a plan in motion. Her intervention had not been in vain, for his honour’s sake only, but had really given him a chance, thanked be God for His great mercy and Lord Mortimer himself for his prowess! Praemonitus, praemunitus – to be warned is to be ready3. He had not wanted to involve her in his escape, trying to protect her, and had sworn he would “see justice done and her restored to her rightful position”. The tiny speck of light unexpectedly born in her very soul from void and death had begun to grow, shock after shock shaking her violently, relentlessly, until it became a huge glowing ball which she could not contain inside herself anymore. Light burst out of her burning soul, surrounding her, blinding her. It was catharsis. It was genesis. Her soul had been dead and now resurrected, a new life and a new hope flowing through her…
Isabelle did not realize it, but she had fallen totally and completely in love with Roger Mortimer. As a matter of fact, she didn’t realize much of what was happening to her. She was stranded in the middle of a whirlwind of emotions so strong she felt everything was spinning around her, leaving her powerless. She was reborn. Like any birth, it had been an extremely painful process, and now she was gasping for air, ready to faint. But the new life was strong in her, and she managed to smile:
- I wish you the best luck, my lord!
He kissed her hand and she graciously inclined her head.
A few moments later, she was out in the yard, following the lieutenant without really seeing the path ahead of her. Her newly reborn soul was flying high up in the night sky and the world held brighter colours…

Roger returned to the window, staring out, again lost in thought. He had many things to think about… Even after everything Queen Isabelle had told him, he still could not bring himself to understand, or rather to accept the truth of how it all came to this. The news had not really surprised him, because he knew the weakness of the king and the vindictivness of his sworn enemy Hugh le Despenser all too well. No surprise at what that dic llygoden fawr4, who had wormed his way into King Edward’s affections, would do to secure his position, to revenge on his enemies and to acquire as much land and power as possible. He had no compulsion in fighting women also, as he had bullied many noble ladies into signing off their properties for nothing or almost nothing, his own sisters-in-law included.
It was the extent of the disaster that shocked him, the extreme situation and the extreme way in which the king had reacted, or rather had let himself be persuaded into reacting. So many dead! Though Roger rationally understood everything that had happened, a part of him still refused to believe it. Deep inside, he had kindled the hope that King Edward would reach to realize what he was doing, that he would stop on the very brink of the abyss. The king was weak, driven by passion and the counsel of his favourites, but he was not a bad man. Roger had known him practically all his life, they had been friends and had grown up together at the court of the old king. He had also known the first of the king’s lovers, Gaveston, just as well. When the barons led by the Earl of Lancaster had tried to oppose Edward and the Gascon, he had faithfully remained at the side of the king and did everything to mediate the conflict. Thomas of Lancaster had not listened… Moreover, he had kidnapped the Gascon after the man had surrendered to the barons and beheaded him. And now Thomas was dead too, eleven years later, executed in the same manner he had killed Gaveston. Roger could understand and even accept the king’s reaction towards the Earl of Lancaster… to take a prisoner out of custody and summarily execute him without any authority was not exactly a deed in the code of chivalry, to say the least. Reaching at this point in his thoughts, Lord Mortimer frowned and his features suddenly hardened. He had just remembered another deed of the same kind. Hugh le Despenser had done the same thing with Roger’s own prisoner, Llwelyn Bren, Welshman like himself, and a man whom Roger had respected. It was a deed worthy of someone like the new favourite of the king… There was no comparison between the two lovers of King Edward. Gaveston had been a real pain, mocking everyone, always in need of money though he received more than enough. But he had his honour, had the common sense to stay away from politics and he was a good fighter. Which was more than could be said of the new one, who was no more than a bandit who extorted and robbed people and pretended to rule the country instead of the king… Thomas had been reckless and ambitious. Roger hadn’t trusted him, and with good reason. The Earl of Lancaster had only pledged to join the Marcher lords in their fight against the Despensers for his own ends, though he had done nothing actually to support their common cause. He had never sent the reinforcements he had been asked for. That led to a disaster both for the Marcher lords and for him. Thomas payed with his life. He should have seen it coming…
But what of the others? Lord Mortimer could not find any reasonable explanation for the king executing so many, without a second thought, most probably instigated by the Despensers. Of course, Queen Isabelle had been right when she had asserted that their sole purpose was to put an end to all opposition. It made a terrible sense, one that he was not able to completely accept for true, because it was against all the principles he had believed in and lived by all his life. An oath of allegiance between vassal and suzerain worked both ways. Men were supposed to loyally stand by their lord, but the lord also had the duty to protect his men. He himself, as baron, as general, as leader of men, had always tried to protect his followers, as God, the rules of chivalry and common sense required. He had surrendered at Shrewsbury to save the lives of his men. He had been ready to pay the price for his “rebellion” with his own life, but there was no need for so many innocents to die. Furthermore, he had the duty, consecrated by the solemn oath, to do everything in his power to obtain the pardon for his retainers. And as a general, what was the point in destroying a whole regiment for the mistake of their commanding officer? So for the life of him, he could not find any excuse for what the king had done, on a whim. The fair thing, the normal thing would have been for Edward to have him executed when he had the chance, if he considered that he deserved it, right there, on the spot, as he did with Thomas, but have everyone else spared…
Worse, the king had also ordered all their families to be imprisoned… women and children prisoners of war! Why? Were they any threat to the favourite? How could they pose any danger with their husbands dead? Or was it simply that the bloody Despensers wanted to get their greedy hands on all of their lands, forfeited to the crown?
Roger felt anger and disappointment. And a great sadness… He had always known King Edward was not exactly what a king should be, but he was good-natured, a gentle and kind man. How could he do something like this? He had converted himself in a vengeful, spiteful, ruthless man… He had dishonoured himself in doing such a thing… Lord Mortimer felt himself dishonoured too, for having loyally fought for so many years for a lord who did not deserve such loyalty. “My whole life was a waste”, he thought bitterly, “but at least I did my duty in fighting England’s enemies”. The hope he had kindled was dead. Roger could not hate the man he had known all his life, it was not in his nature and besides, that would’ve made him no better. All he felt was pity, mingled with sorrow… But his soul cried for justice. Those two rats who had managed to convince Edward into taking such ungodly measures for their own ends will have to pay!
He had sworn to the queen that he would see justice done and her restored to her rightful position, and to that he will hold! Remembering her unexpected visit, he smiled. The courage she had! Underneath her fragile appearance, she was strong as a sword, a true warrior queen… She had had to put up with the king’s infidelity and his indifference towards her practically all her life. An aura of coldness, sadness and proud dignity had always surrounded her. She had a strong sense of her duty, of what kingship meant. She had always tried to mend the king’s ways as much as she could, advising him, talking sense into him. She had attracted the favourites’ hatred upon her for it, but she did not care, she would always stand up and say what she felt was right. And the risk she had undertaken to warn him! The bravery it took for her to tell him the truth looking him in his eyes…
Roger had been in love with her from the very first moment he had laid his eyes upon her, many years ago, at her wedding. He remembered to this day the dress she was wearing, blue, trimmed with gold, the jewels she was wearing, the way she did her hair. But he had never betrayed his feelings for her in any way. He too had a strong sense of his duty, and had respected the king, her husband and his liege lord, as he had respected her dignified solitude and the pain she managed to hide…


NOTES

1. Marcher lords: lords having lands in the March of Wales, on the border between England and Wales
2. Lord Justiciar: office equivalent to that of governor of a province
3. Praemonitus, praemunitus: forewarned is forearmed (exact translation)
4. dic llygoden fawr: dirty rat (Welsh)

Imi place foarte mult ce ai scris, desi nici nu stiam ca sunt personaje adevarate, care au existat in istorie. Mi-au placut personajele principale, felul in care sunt descrisi si caracterizati daca pot sa spun asa. Sper sa vina si o continuare sau de ce nu toata cartea . Iti urez mult succes in continuare. Sunt curios de ce folosesti engleza, crezi ca in romana nu ar suna destul de bine?

Multumesc pentru aprecieri. Da, sunt personaje istorice reale, si nu au avut o "presa" prea buna in epoca, ba nici in ziua de azi. Lumea prefera in general sa creada tot ce este mai rau... ca de fapt intre ei nu a fost dragoste adevarata, ci mai degraba interes politic comun, ca au vrut amandoi sa se razbune pentru nedreptatile indurate samd. Eu una sunt total impotriva acestor interpretari rauvoitoare! Razbunare? In perioada cat ei doi au avut regenta, au fost executati doar 4-5 indivizi, cei vinovati pentru situatia dezastruoasa a tarii, in timp ce in urma asa-zisei revolte a baronilor au murit mai bine de o suta de oameni, dintre care vreo doua duzini executati de catre fostul rege si "amicul" sau in York, cu interdictia de a inmormanta cadavrele expuse in oras (nice!). Cea mai grea acuzatie care li se aduce este aceea de a-l fi ucis pe Edward II, ordinul fiind dat de catre amandoi... Ori a iesit la iveala recent ca nici macar asta nu au facut-o, desi au trebuit sa faca fata catorva tentative de evadare (si politic vorbind, ar fi fost poate mult mai sigur sa o faca!)... A cruta viata cuiva nu mi se pare catusi de putin sa semene a razbunare. Ian Mortimer, cel care a scris biografia lui Roger, este singurul care ii ia apararea si incearca sa-i faca dreptate, trebuind pentru asta sa lupte cu toti conservatorii din mediul academic. Si are intr-adevar dovezi care sa-i sustina punctul de vedere. Am vazut si eu intamplator copia dupa manuscrisul lui Melton, arhiepiscopul.

Sa acuzi un om vreme de mai bine de 700 de ani pentru o crima pe care nu a infaptuit-o mi se pare cea mai crunta nedreptate!!! Si lumea crede in continuare in povestea cu fierul inrosit! Sau oamenii nu sunt invatati sa gandeasca cu capul lor si conteaza numai ce au invatat in scoala si parerea general acceptata ca fiind "oficiala", sau raul exercita o fascinatie morbida!

Oamenii prefera mai degraba sa creada povestea din "Braveheart". Filmul e reusit, insa din punct de vedere istoric este o aiureala totala. Ciudat, multi sunt gata sa creada ca Isabelle l-ar fi iubit pe William Wallace (care era deja mort de cativa ani la vremea respectiva, LOL! Hmmm, de mirare ce poate face un pic de rigor mortis intr-o relatie!), insa refuza sa creada ca regina si Roger s-au iubit, desi relatia lor chiar a fost reala!!!

Nu stiu, e doar o tentativa, dar voi incerca sa continui daca chiar v-a placut. Ideea e ca as vrea cumva sa fac dreptate...

De ce scriu in engleza? Din mai multe motive. In primul rand, pentru ca un roman istoric sa respecte intr-adevar realitatea iar eu sa izbutesc sa-i reabilitez omului onoarea asa cum mi-as dori, este nevoie de o documentare extrem de serioasa, ori "consultantul tehnic de specialitate", o cunostinta de pe net care are un blog si un forum de istorie, este din Anglia. In al doilea rand, asa cum ai zis si tu in alt thread, literatura tinde sa devina internationala, scrisa direct intr-o limba de circulatie, pentru ca tot mai multi sa poata avea acces. Daca "Braveheart" ar fi fost facut intr-o alta limba, nu cred ca atatia oameni din toata lumea ar fi fost convinsi de povestea cu William Wallace, asa neadevarata cum este!

Quote:Sau oamenii nu sunt invatati sa gandeasca cu capul lor si conteaza numai ce au invatat in scoala si parerea general acceptata ca fiind "oficiala", sau raul exercita o fascinatie morbida!

Aici cred ca ai dreptate pentru ambele puncte de vedere, marea parte a oamenilor nu ii intereseaza istoria (de ce credeti ca se repeta greselile facute de-a lungul istoriei), problema e ca nu ii intereseaza nici pe cei care ar trebui sa ii intereseze si atunci consecintele rele de obicei se rasfrang asupra unor multimi de oameni care de obicei nu au nici o vina.
Cat despre faptul ca raul exercita o fascinatie morbida e suficient sa amintesc Stirile PRO TV de la ora 17:00 sau toate filmele de groaza care probabil o sa ajunga sa intreaca filme ca Titanic si Stapanul Inelelor, atat la premii cat si la incasari.

Oamenii prefera mai degraba sa creada povestea din "Braveheart". Filmul e reusit, insa din punct de vedere istoric este o aiureala totala. Ciudat, multi sunt gata sa creada ca Isabelle l-ar fi iubit pe William Wallace (care era deja mort de cativa ani la vremea respectiva, LOL! Hmmm, de mirare ce poate face un pic de rigor mortis intr-o relatie!), insa refuza sa creada ca regina si Roger s-au iubit, desi relatia lor chiar a fost reala!!!

Si eu am crezut un timp povestea din Braveheart, pana am vazut pe Discovery un documentar despre William Wallace cel adevarat si care nu se prea potrivea cu filmu . Tocmai de aceea este crezut filmul pentru ca asa cum ai spus este foarte reusit, e singurul film la care chiar am fost emoţionat in special la sfarsit cand a strigat libertate.
Iti urez succes in incercarea ta si sper sa reabilitezi numele celor care merita acest lucru. Stii cum e peste tot in istorie sunt unii care au ucis milioane de oameni si sunt considerati eroi sfinti si altii care nu au facut nimic sunt cei mai mare dictatori si dusmani ai omenirii.

Desi romanele istorice nu se inscriu in genul de lectura preferat, trebuie sa recunosc ca m-a prins si m-a surprins inceputul acestuia, deoarece are foarte multe elemente care il recomanda ca pe o viitoare carte demna de un loc in biblioteca: o poveste de aventura impregnata de parfumul istoriei, cu o curgere frumoasa si o documentare solida, personaje eroice si romantice deopotriva, portretizate prin moralitatea sau galanteriile conversatiilor altor vremuri, intrigile si razbunarile tipice circumstantelor ...

Inteleg rolul scrierii in limba engleza in cazul de fata si am apreciat complexitatea personajelor si atentia pentru detaliu, ca de exemplu expresia in scotiana ca rabufnire, aproximarea zicalei traduse la noi prin "prevenit inseamna pregatit", gradarea emotiilor in gandurile si dialogul personajelor, sau caracteristicile lor psihologice reliefate (de ex.in timpul vizitei ea pune pasiunea inaintea sigurantei asa cum el va pune siguranta inaintea pasiunii - amandoi in spirit de sacrificiu).

Nu pot decat sa te felicit si sa sper ca te gandesti serios sa-l termini si sa-l publici.

Cat despre Braveheart ...se poate muuuult mai rau (vezi Xena sau Hercule - serialele care au mutilat comercial atat fapte istorice cat si personaje mitologice).

Multumesc pentru comentarii, ma bucur ca ti-a placut!

Da, am incercat sa ma axez mai mult pe trairile personajelor decat pe povestea in sine. Faptul ca cei doi s-ar fi intalnit sau nu in temnita este un subiect de controversa pentru istorici, intrucat exista doar dovezi circumstantiale. Cele doua biografii publicate relativ recent (a ei si a lui) afirma insa categoric acest lucru.

Ma gandesc intr-adevar sa-l termin... mai ales ca, asa cum am mai spus, as vrea sa fac dreptate. Mi-as dori insa sa-mi spuneti cu toata sinceritatea si ce anume nu v-a placut, ca sa pot corecta la vreme. Stiu de exemplu ca ar trebui sa mai lucrez la limbaj, care este cateodata prea modern, anacronic. Ce altceva?

LOL, se poate intotdeauna mult mai rau! Dar sa nu pierdem speranta, se poate si mai bine!

Am reusit si eu in sfarsit sa citesc textul tau ...mi-e destul de dificil sa citesc pe ecranul calculatorului si lucrul asta imi distrage atentia de la placerea cititului. Mi-a facut mare placere faptul ca textul este in engleza si cu atat mai mult cu cat este evidenta atentia acordata limbajului si exprimarii. Greselile sunt de neobservat si se pot rezolva usor cu ajutorul unui vorbitor nativ de limba engleza.(si am inteles ca ai deja sustinerea cuiva in privinta asta, ar fi o idee buna sa ii ceri sa iti "purice" textul cand termini).
In ceea ce priveste continutul, ma bucur ca am reusit sa termin Regii blestemati inainte de a citi textul tau. Imi place sa recunosc personaje in textele pe care le citesc. As vrea insa ca parerea mea despre subiectul abordat de tine sa nu fie atat de mult influentata de antipatia pe care mi-a starnit-o personajul in Regi... si in acelasi timp, sper ca, daca vei continua textul acesta, sa pot cunoaste si o alta fata a acestui Mortimer care te-a inspirat atat de mult.
Apreciez foarte mult meticulozitatea cu care iti exprimi ideile si atentia la detalii, desi poate uneori gesturile sunt mult prea insistent descrise. However, imi place ca ai ales sa iti incepi romanul cu momentul in care cei doi realizeaza ca sunt indragostiti...este oarecum neobisnuit sa incepi cu intriga dar mie imi place si cred ca ofera un "purpose" intregului text.

Multa inspiratie iti doresc, ma voi abtine cu greu sa citesc orice alt pasaj pe care il vei publica aici pentru ca vreau sa ma bucur din plin de roman atunci cand va fi pe hartie.

Iti multumesc pentru parerile exprimate.

Tocmai asta era si ideea, "o alta fata" a personajelor decat cea oferita de majoritatea istoricilor si de romanele scrise pe aceasta tema. Iubirea lor ca punct de plecare, inaintea aliantei... Am crezut dintotdeauna in povestea lor, chiar de cand am citit prima data "Regii blestemati". Din fericire incep sa se adune dovezi despre nevinovatia lui, si asta ma bucura!

Am modificat putin textul, corectand cateva mici greseli... Ii multumesc inca o data lui BlueNinja pentru ajutor.

WOW, va multumesc pentru stelute! Sunt onorata *blushing*. Ma bucur ca v-a placut, asta imi da curaj sa continui.