The King Must Die (The Isabella Books) (18 page)

“Isabella, Isabella ...” He
peeled
my hands from his neck, hanging on to them apologetically, and stepped back. “I don’t know ... if I can.”

I tore my hands away. “Why not?”

“In her house ... I don’t know if I can ... can be with you. She has been my wife for twenty-seven years. Please, understand that. There was never any ill will between Joan and me. We were apart for a long time. So I put her out of my mind. I had to. And then, there was you and ...” Jaw clenched, he shut his eyes for a moment, as he fought to force the words out. “Isabella, do not question me on this. I love you and no one else—but I will not dangle you in front of her under her own roof. I beg of you, do not contest her here, not now. We—you and I—will be gone from here within the week. Can we not both endure this brief chastity for that long? We can be together again then—for as long as we wish, as often as we want.”

Together, yes ... perhaps. In the dark of night. Behind closed doors ... or hiding in cellars like this.

I should have ordered him to leave with me then, to abandon these sloppy pretenses of being the good and faithful husband. But when was I ever one to defy this man? He had but to speak to me in that liquid tone of authority to weaken my resolve, despite whatever presentiments might have whispered within me. Had I not loved him so much, I would have hated myself for being so servile to him.

“I give you three days, Roger. Three days with her.” I shoved past him, yanked open the door and took the steps two at a time, stumbling over the hem of my skirt as I reached the top when the light from the kitchen momentarily blinded me.

I did not tell him not to touch her, hold her, or be with her. I did not think I needed to. He had said that he loved me—
me
, not her—and I had made him the most powerful man in England, next to the king himself. What reasonable man would have given that up to placate a staunch and settled wife who had outgrown her usefulness and allure?

At supper, when Joan took her place beside Mortimer at the head table to the right of Edward and Philippa, with me to my son’s left, I finally saw Joan as she was—a face virtually untouched by the passing years, despite all the accompanying hardships and tribulations. I hated her even more then—not because I knew her at all, or that she had ever wronged me, but because when I saw her I understood ... I understood why he had loved her from so young an age and for so long after their wedding, and why he had kept from her since coming back to England: Joan Mortimer was
beautiful
. Exquisitely, breathtakingly beautiful, even past her fortieth year. That she had given Mortimer so many children only augmented her physical beauty with a maternal, goddess-like strength.

As plates and platters were emptied and casks drained dry, I envied her not only for her years with Mortimer before he came to me in France, but rather that all her troubles had not taken their toll on her appearance. The only wrinkles that Joan had were almost imperceptible: a faint brushing of crow’s feet at the corner’s of her soft, brown eyes and the small indentation of lines of laughter at the folds between her mouth and cheeks. Her hair was still a river of auburn restrained by silver combs, untouched by strands of gray. My own pale hair was twined with wisps of white here and there and beneath my eyes showed the dark circles that come with years of sleepless worry. She was ten years older than me, and yet ... she could have passed for ten years younger.

My cheeks aching from the effort, I feigned a smile of merriment while the jugglers tossed their flaming sticks between the outspread legs of one of them who was standing upside down on his hands. I drank of Mortimer’s fine imported wines as the mummers engaged in their hilarity, drank until I was light in the head and laughing at a lapdog playing the part of Philip of Valois. Then I drank some more and floated away on a cloud of melancholy while a Welsh bard, not half as mesmerizing as the blind one the former king had employed, sang in his guttural, rolling tongue and plucked plaintively at his harp. In my glum and envying mood, his singing sounded more like the torturing of a cat to me than a ballad meant for lovers.

Mortimer conversed with his sons, Geoffrey and John, then later his namesake Roger for a good long time, while Joan made a valiant attempt to become better acquainted with her new sons-in-law.

And while everyone else talked gaily and laughed on into the night, even before the drowsiness of drinking tugged at their eyelids, I claimed fatigue and stumbled to my chambers and waited ... and waited. For Mortimer—who never came.

***

Three nights I was spurned—left to simmer alone. I did not ask if he slept in the same bed as her. I did not want to know.

Every time I saw Joan, I seethed with murderous jealousy. When I was near Mortimer, I refused to look at him. I could not. I might not have left my chambers at all by the fourth day, but for Philippa needling me to accompany her to the mews. I had never taken much to hawking, but as most nobility does, I used it as an occasion to pass the time.

The warm day and tranquility of the hillock where we stopped to hawk were more conducive to a long nap than any serious pursuits. So we spent most of the hour lounging in the grass beneath the shade of a hornbeam tree, its trunk twisting sideways and low to the ground so that we tethered our horses to its branches.

Philippa balanced a merlin hen on her fist, admiring its brown spotted chest feathers. “Do you think she could take a lark?”

The little merlin eyed Philippa with curiosity and then stretched her neck to take the piece of raw venison gently from Philippa’s gloved fingers.

“She is too young ... and too tame,” I observed. I stretched out on my side and looked out over the curving green land. Wind rippled the grass in short bursts and swept down the hillside into the valley.

“Taken from the nest? Then she will need a patient teacher.” Philippa stood clear of the tree’s branches, lifted her fist abruptly so the merlin felt the rush of air. The bird spread its wings and tried to lift from Philippa’s hand, but the leather strap on its leg tugged it abruptly back down, leaving it out of balance and flapping in frustration. Philippa clucked at the bird to capture its attention and calm it. “In Bruges every year, they bring cages and cages of merlins, peregrines and sparrowhawks from the north countries to sell in the markets to those who will train them. The falconers from Brabant are among the best anywhere. My father employed several of them, although he never encouraged us, his daughters, to learn hawking.”

“And why not?” I asked. My father had encouraged me to learn anything I expressed the slightest curiosity about, raising me more like another of my brothers than a spoiled, helpless girl-child.

“Because he thought it more important that we study books and say our prayers.” She wrinkled her nose in disagreement. “But while my sisters struggled over their letters, I learned quickly, grew bored and snuck away again and again—never mind how severely I was scolded for it. I pestered the kennel keeper, the falconers, the musicians, the squires, the guards ... anyone who could teach me anything that was not written in books.”

So that was how she had impressed Young Edward over her sisters—not with discourse of scholarly matters and religious philosophy, but with talk of horses and hawks and hunting dogs? My son had chosen wisely. All kings needed a confidante—and who better to be that than one’s wife, always at his pillow? Royal advisors came and went, but spouses were intended to last a lifetime.

The merlin shook its leg, tinkling the little silver bells attached to its jesses. Philippa tilted her head in thought. “Do you think that Edward would appreciate a skilled Brabant falconer, my lady?”

But I was no longer listening. Instead, I was thinking of Mortimer—thinking of how long he had been married to Joan and that it was altogether possible she might outlive him ... and that Mortimer and I would have to go on like we had been, clinging to our shameful secret forever. Or worse, that this was the beginning of our end—that he would return to her and I would never be with him again.

The summer breeze was strong, hot and horridly uncomfortable. I felt as though I were burning from the inside out. Vaguely, I was aware of petite Philippa plopping down beside me and the little merlin cocking its head from side to side.

“I do not think,” she said, “that Sir Roger wants to be here now, either. He and his wife have been estranged for years, yes?”

I sat up and hugged my knees. “You know ... of us?”

“I think most everyone does, although they do not speak of it—openly, at least.” She draped her free arm over me and leaned her head on my shoulder. “You are going to Berwick soon?”

Another dagger in my heart. “Yes.”

“He will go with you then—away from here. It will get easier between you, with time, I think.” As she withdrew her arm from me and stood, I turned my face toward her. She undid the leash from the bird’s jesses. Again she thrust her fist upward, this time encouraging it to flight with a command. The bird caught a burst of air under its wings, flailed erratically above her a moment, then alighted on the branch closest to her. “See, she does not want to leave me, even though she can.”

“Come to Berwick, Philippa.” I wanted her with me. Her intelligence was refreshing and her honesty invaluable. Besides, it would be terribly awkward, cuttingly painful actually, to travel so far with Mortimer alone. Patrice could not always be depended on for distraction because her attentions were too often on Arnaud. “As King of England, Edward should be there, also.”

She shook her head sadly. “I suppose he will tell you in time himself, but my husband does not approve of Joanna’s marriage to David Bruce.”

“Why?” He had said nothing of the like to me. “It will be an insult to the future King of Scots if he’s not there.”

“Because he feels it was done without his consent.” Philippa glanced sideways at me. “It is not to say he won’t allow it—indeed, he cannot keep it from happening, but ... he says he will not attend the wedding. That it is a farce. The treaty with Scotland—Edward feels that Sir Roger coerced him into signing it. He does not agree entirely with the terms—particularly in regards to the marriage of Joanna and David. He feels it’s giving them, the Scots, too much too soon.”

“He is expected to go. His presence in Berwick is very important.”

“They say King Robert is frequently ill and will likely not be there, either. Does it matter if Edward is then? After all, his attendance was not required in the treaty.”

Those last words were Edward’s, not Philippa’s. “Still, it would be an insult—to David and to Joanna. It matters to her that he is there.”

“Edward said it is being forced upon Joanna.”

I almost blurted out that Joanna was only a child, but it would have only proven her point. When I was Joanna’s age, my own father had taken me aside and spoken to me about marriage—of which country I should like to live in and if I would like to be called a ‘queen’ one day. He had painted a deceptively pleasant picture of England and the mythical, handsome prince who lived there named Edward of Caernarvon. Someday, I had thought, I might like that, but not until I was much, much older. I did not know then that my father was already in negotiations with Longshanks and that documents had been shuffled back and forth, sealing my fate. Now I had done the very same thing to Joanna—telling her of the pretty jewels she would wear and how important she would be to all the people of Scotland, all the while promising to send her own set of playmates along so she would not suffer from loneliness.

“Philippa, why are you telling me this? You should not betray Edward’s trust. You should have told him to come to me and tell me himself. I don’t wish to hear such things from someone else.”

“No, no, please ... you don’t understand. I’m telling you this, because ... because
he
would never do so.” Step by step, she had inched closer to the merlin, their gazes locked. Holding out her left arm, she removed another morsel of meat from the pouch at her belt. She clicked her tongue again. The merlin beat its wings once, and then hopped down onto the perch of her waiting arm to receive its reward. She gave it several more bits of the venison to ensure its loyalty. “He told me of Stanhope Park—the Scots, how they almost took him prisoner, or could have killed him. It was William Montagu who saved his life, but Edward feels it was Mortimer who advised him poorly and put them all in danger in the first place. Ever since then, he is not sure he can trust Sir Roger.” She stroked the merlin’s back as it sat sleepily on her gloved fist, secure with her soothing touch; then, she kissed the bird on its beak. “You understand now why I’ve told you all this?”