A cruel wind scythed across the beach at Orwell, so Isabella's knights and attendants built her a shelter from carpets unloaded from her ship. In the three hours it took for the rest of the fleet to disembark, she sat inside the shelter and dictated hasty letters to allies and well-wishers across the kingdom. A dozen squires knelt before her in the wet sand, hurriedly scribbling down her words.
Isabella was tired and dishevelled from the difficult crossing, but knew she could not afford to rest. Her little army had to move inland quickly, picking up support on the way, or else risk public opinion swinging back towards her husband. The King may have been despised, but he was still the King, and she was an invader on his sovereign territory.
At last she dismissed the squires and stifled a yawn. Mortimer was not there to comfort her, having ridden off with his outriders in a tearing hurry to scout out the land and look for any sign of their allies.
“Go fetch some wine, assuming any has been unloaded yet,” she ordered her squire, Gawain, who was vainly trying to build a fire from damp twigs outside the flap of her shelter. He abandoned the hopeless task and sprinted away across the flat, dreary expanse of the beach.
Cold, hungry and exhausted, Isabella walked stiffly outside and watched through red-rimmed eyes as her army disembarked. Heaps of baggage and equipment were being piled up on the beach, and little bands of mercenaries were settling down to quick suppers of cold porridge and hard bread, knowing they would be on the march very soon. Scores of longboats plied back and forth between the shore and the cogs riding out at sea, ferrying men, supplies, and horses to the landing place. The sea was rough, and the horses were reluctant, having to be manhandled into pulleys that lowered them into the boats and then dragged ashore through the surf.
Gawain soon returned, armed with an amphora of wine that he had liberated from somewhere. Disdaining a cup, she took the amphora by the handle and upended it, letting the sweet, red liquid pour over her lips and spill down her neck.
“That is how my lord Mortimer drinks,” she said with a smile, handing the vessel back to the astonished squire. The two Flemish knights acting as her bodyguards looked surprised as well, and then broke out laughing. She joined them, feeling light-headed and slightly hysterical with tiredness.
She was still smiling and dabbing at the spillage on her gown with a cloth, when the sound of trumpets blasted from somewhere to the west.
She looked in that direction, and heard rather than saw the approach of heavy horses, making the ground quake as they thundered closer. A forest of pennons and spear points appeared over the dunes, and then a glittering host of armed and mounted men shimmered into view.
For a moment she thought they were King’s men, and wild panic clutched at her heart. Relief flooded through her as she saw the three men riding together at their head.
One was Mortimer, the creature she loved most in the world after her eldest son. To his left was the tall, handsome figure of Thomas of Brotherton, Earl of Norfolk, appointed by King Edward to defend these shores. He had betrayed that trust, as he had promised Mortimer and Isabella he would, and led his troops over to them. To Mortimer's right was an older man, riding stiff and awkward in the saddle, with a knight beside him to help guide his horse.
Isabella's relief turned into wild joy as she recognised the third man. He was the ally she needed most, the one she had prayed for, the most powerful noble in England after the King. Henry Plantaganet, Earl of Leicester.
She welcomed her allies with kisses and embraces that verged on the ecstatic, though she had little liking for them as men. Norfolk was another of old King Edward's strangely disappointing sons, fair to look at but rather empty-headed and irresolute beneath the pretty shell. He had done well on this occasion, though, elegantly abandoning his own half-brother with a cool insouciance that she found quite admirable.
Leicester was a different proposition, a morose, intractable, and hard-nosed man, much embittered by the execution of his brother, the subsequent decline of his House, and his rapidly failing eyesight. He shrugged off Isabella's embrace, growling that it was no pleasure but stark necessity that had led him to betray his King.
“The land is sick,” he said, “and must be bled before it can be restored. You, Majesty, are the lancet that must be plunged into England's veins.”
Isabella chose to take this as a compliment, showering him with more warm smiles and fair words. At least, as she remarked later to Mortimer when they were alone together, he had not compared her to an emetic.
Norfolk invited Isabella to stay with him at his seaside castle of Walton-on-the-Naze, just a few miles to the south, where they could rest for the night and plan their next move. She courteously assented and put herself at the head of her army. Their numbers were now swelled to over four thousand, and they marched boldly down the coast like the conquerors they intended to be.
Isabella again donned shield and helm, and was rewarded with admiring cheers from some of her mercenaries and the English footmen. Lancaster scowled, and Norfolk was dumbstruck, but she cared little. She was the Queen of England, and meant to do as she liked in her domain.
She insisted that Prince Edward ride beside her. He was fourteen now, thin and upright as a lance, and looked every inch a prince in his gleaming armour and royal livery. Only Mortimer, she noticed, looked unimpressed. In the past weeks Isabella had become aware of the tension between Mortimer and her son, and wondered how to resolve it. For the time being she had more pressing concerns.
Norfolk’s castle at Walton was a poor place, its walls and single tower slowly eroding under the constant battering of salt spray and sea winds, but a serviceable base for one night. Isabella and her entourage stayed in the hall, while her soldiers camped down in the bailey or in fields outside, miserably exposed to the wind and rain.
Supper in the hall was a cold, frugal affair, and afterwards the lords insisted on holding a council of war. Isabella was so tired she could barely keep her eyes open, but forced herself to stay awake and participate.
“Most of the knights and gentlemen of Essex have rallied to me,” claimed Norfolk, “save the Sheriff, Sir Richard de Perers. I believe you know him, Majesty?”
Isabella nodded, stifling a yawn. “His sister-in-law often sent letters to us when we were in France, pledging her family's support and undying loyalty. Why has he not joined us?”
Norfolk pointed at the map of Suffolk that he had rolled out on the table. “He has raised the King's banner in Colchester, and tried to summon the local levies. Colchester lies directly in our path. If Perers brings together enough men, he might be able to oppose us.”
“Then he invites his own death,” said Leicester. “How many fighting men can there be in this part of England? If the damned Sheriff tries to get in our way, we will crush him underfoot.”
Mortimer took over. “Once past Colchester,” he said, “we march on Bury St Edmunds and then Cambridge. We have sent out messengers to summon the Bishops to meet us at Cambridge, and Hereford and Lincoln have promised to supply us with funds and soldiers. Our advance guard will spread out as we advance inland, seizing any food they can find.”
“That will turn the people against you,” Norfolk pointed out.
“I will pay for everything,” said Isabella, “and at double the value. Then the people will know that their Queen has truly returned, and means to do justice to all.”
She spoke with conviction, and even Leicester was impressed and raised no objections. That was her last effort for the day, and shortly afterwards the meeting broke up to allow her to get some rest. She and Mortimer slept on a camp bed in a little room just off the hall, lulled to sleep by the rain lashing against the wooden shutters.
The next morning, a chill, wet morning with strong winds buffeting the coast and hammering the walls of Norfolk's castle, the army resumed its march and swung west, in full battle array with drums beating and banners unfurled.
Isabella insisted on riding in the van, against the wishes of Norfolk and Leicester, who pleaded with her to remain safely in the rear guard. Mortimer, who knew her rather better than they, smiled and said nothing.
Colchester lay eight miles to the west, and Mortimer dispatched outriders to look for any sign of the Sheriff and his levies. After an hour's march the square tower of the old Norman keep that guarded Colchester became visible, and the outriders came galloping back with news that the Sheriff had taken up position on a ridge just outside the town.
“How many men does he have?” enquired Mortimer.
“No more than fifty-five, lord,” said the Flemish trooper who brought him the news, “and a desperate lot they are, spear-armed serfs and a few light horse. Not a knight or proper man-at-arms among them, besides Sir Richard.”
“And yet he defies us?” Isabella asked in a tone of disbelief. The squire replied that he knew not, but the Sheriff had drawn up his men under the King’s banner.
“He must be mad, or making a show,” said Mortimer. “Either way, it matters not. If Perers is unwise enough to try anything against us, one charge will be enough to scatter his rabble.”
The army marched on, and soon came within sight of the Sheriff and his levies drawn up on a little ridge with a shallow stream flowing past its foot. Just as the Fleming had reported, his troops were a pitiful array of malnourished peasants in ill-fitting jacks and helmets.
“God’s will,” exclaimed Leicester, after one of his knights had explained the situation to him, “they are barely able to stand up, never mind stand a charge.”
Nevertheless, the royal banner was indeed displayed, three golden lions fluttering limply in the gentle breeze. The German and Flemish mercenaries hooted and jeered at the Sheriff's risible little army and remarked to each other that it was a miracle England was not conquered more often.
Mortimer and Isabella chose to spur ahead of the vanguard to parley, with Sir John of Hainault behind them carrying a flag of truce. Their army began to deploy for what promised to be the briefest of battles. A unit of Flemish arbalests spread out in a long line, winding their crossbows, and two brigades of mounted knights and mercenaries began to lumber into position on the flanks.
Sir Richard de Perers spurred a little way down the slope and raised an armoured hand to greet Mortimer and Isabella as they halted before the stream.
“What means this, Sir Richard?” Isabella cried. “You know I am the Queen of England, and that it is treason to oppose our progress.”
The Sheriff looked unimpressed. “The King is the greater power,” he replied, “and I swore an oath to him that you would only enter the realm over my body. I mean to keep my oath.”
Mortimer cursed. “Then you and all those poor idiots behind you will die,” he shouted. “Do you not see our numbers? Give way, you stiff-necked fool.”
“Lord Mortimer, it matters not if I have fifty men or fifty thousand. I must do my duty.”
Mortimer was about to turn his horse in disgust and ride back to the column, but Isabella checked him.
“There is more than one way of fulfilling a duty,” she said with a smile. Mortimer looked back and saw that the Sheriff had climbed off his horse and was clanking down the sandy slope. He waded into the stream, which barely came up to his ankles, and before the astonished eyes of the Queen’s army he carefully lay down in the water.
“Now, Majesty,” he said, folding his hands over his armoured chest, “you may cross over my body.”
Laughing, Isabella slid from the saddle, splashed into the stream and stepped lightly over him.
“My honour is unblemished,” he announced, rising onto one knee and taking her hand, “and my sword is yours. Welcome home, Majesty, you and your son.”
And so the first stage of Isabella's invasion passed in triumph, without a blow being struck.