The King Must Die (The Isabella Books) (3 page)

Bishop Orleton, always my savior, answered him. “When he learned that the queen and her army had landed at the mouth of the River Orwell, King Edward was heard to utter, ‘
I vow, if I so much as lay eyes upon that she-wolf, I will plunge my dagger into her heart up to its hilt. Her blood will soak the ground so heavily that every tree sprung from England’s soil will bear the fruits of her betrayal.’
”

I shuddered to hear it. Although Bishop Orleton had told me Edward had spoken threats, he had never said until just then how grave those threats were.

“And you were there to hear these words?” Lancaster questioned.

“Not I,” Bishop Orleton said, “but Archbishop Reynolds.”

Archbishop Reynolds nodded emphatically. “It’s true.”

2

Young Edward:

Wallingford — Christmas, 1326

D
eath, oddly, is sometimes a cause for celebration.

When in November of 1326 the townsfolk of Hereford put an end to Lord Hugh Despenser the Younger, my mother the queen had watched the spectacle from the castle walls with Sir Roger Mortimer at her side, their expressions intensely observant, almost serene. They had planned that day for a very long time. Indeed, I had looked forward to it myself. Lord Despenser had stood between me and my destiny far too long.

The gallows had been built high, so that all could see. The stack of wood before the scaffold was heaped with dry tinder. First, they hung him. Then while Despenser was still alive, uttering unintelligible words that for all I know may have been a final plea for mercy to the Lord, the townsfolk took him down, cut off his genitals, pulled out his entrails, removed his heart, and flung them all on the fire. His cries of agony were so drowned out by the cheers and jeers of the crowd that it was impossible to tell precisely when he ceased to breathe. The atmosphere was quite festive.

A fitting end for a man who believed himself the king’s equal and above the law. Myself, I would not have let him get so close to unconsciousness before plunging the knife into his wicked flesh. The man ought to have suffered more than he did.

All the blessed way to Wallingford then, my younger sisters had sung as if they thought themselves angels—Eleanor to regale the coming day of Christ’s birth and Joanna simply to test the strength of her own voice. Tested my tolerance, as well. To escape their caterwauling, I rode at the head of our procession most often with my mother and sometimes toward the rear with Sir Roger Mortimer, a man whose purpose seemed dependent on reprisal.

I wondered where Mortimer would set his sights now that Lord Despenser was burning in hell and my father was powerless and isolated at Kenilworth. Without Mortimer, though, my mother would still be in France and me—I would not be poised to take the throne so soon. Still, my role in all this was not yet entirely clear. I only knew that to be a king meant to command and to conquer, both of which my father had failed dismally at. Surely, as Mother suggested, the king would pass his crown willingly to me. One day, I could be king not only of England, but France, as well. Only a matter of time.

As we rode across the West Country, the land rimed in frost and tendrils of wood smoke curling lazily above rooftops, the people spilled from their houses to line the roads and hail us. I imagined myself as Alexander the Great, leading my troops across Persia into the wilderness. Or Hannibal defeating the Romans at Cannae.

Then, Christmas feast at Wallingford—how grand! Although only eight years old, my sister Eleanor wore a gown of brightest blue sindon, a miniature version of Mother’s. Joanna, the youngest of my siblings at five, squealed and clapped her hands as servants scurried about the hall carrying platters heaped with food: capon filled with sage and rosemary and stewed in wine, its broth mixed with currants and spices; venison, hare and goose; apples and pears smothered in sauces and spit-roasted dates and almonds. I stuffed my belly near to bursting. Danced with thirty maidens, some even pretty. Made them all swoon and not from dizziness.

When the musicians broke from their revelry, I returned to the high table. A half-eaten pork tart lay cooling on my plate. I picked out a plump raisin oozing from beneath the golden crust and stuffed it in my mouth.

“Which do you like?” my brother John asked. He had joined us from London just four days ago. In that time, he must have asked four hundred questions.

I poked my fingers in the tart and scooped out two more raisins. “The food? All of it, really. But I do favor the puddings, especially the —”

“No, no.” He jabbed an elbow at my ribs and hitched a shoulder toward a whispering clump of maidens. “Them. Which of
them
do you like?”

“You mean the braying donkeys there?” A senseless question. Not one of them had half Philippa’s wit, my betrothed who I had left behind in Hainault three long months past. I shrugged. “None.”

It had been wicked fun to make the maidens blush, whether I fancied any or not—a game at which I could always win. Their attention was flattering, but their inane chatter was enough to bore me to a stupor. I preferred a girl who would be more a match of wits at the supper table. Philippa would have stuck her tongue out at me and then asked about my hounds or who I favored in the next jousting tournament.

“None, truly?” John gawped at me. “But if you’re going to be king, you’ll need a queen.”

“For what? Besides, Father is still king. I have plenty of time before I take a wife.”

I lied, simply because I had wearied of his incessant questions. John was not yet ten. He had no inkling what girls were really for. In another four years when he turned my age, he might figure it out. I had.

One bright summer day when I was out riding with Philippa in the countryside beyond Valenciennes, we had raced through a field of haystacks and on ahead into a dense coppice of woods, our escorts briefly lost in the confusion. We dropped from our saddles and hid behind a dilapidated woodsman’s shed, stifling giggles beneath our hands as our escorts streamed past us not fifty feet away. She shoved me playfully on the chest. I caught her wrists and pulled her close, wasting no time as I kissed her full on the lips. Several breaths passed before she stepped away and scolded me for my presumptuousness—but not without a flicker of a smile on her plump, inviting mouth. I was about to kiss her again when Will Montagu came tromping through the thicket and lashed me in the rump with the flat of his sword blade. As if he had never done more himself. One tankard of ale and he was overflowing with stories of his own debauchery.

John’s mouth twisted in frustration at my lack of agreement. “What about the King of Spain’s daughter?”

“What of her? What if she looks like a sow? What if she’s no more than an infant, drooling in her cradle? Or some lackwit? What sort of a queen would any of those be to me?” The names of my prospective brides had been discussed for as long as I could remember. A wife, they told me, would be useful for forging alliances as well as begetting heirs. But producing children meant coupling, of that much I was aware. For most of my life, it had little meaning to me and held even less interest. Until I went to France to pay homage to my uncle, King Charles. Things changed then. I saw girls ... differently—thanks to Will and his boastful talk. The women, I noticed, admired and fawned over him and followed him about. The next time a kitchen maid glanced at me, blushing, I invited her into the empty pantry—a bumbling incident during which, for the most part, we simply discovered each other’s body parts. Poor John, though, was not as advanced for his age or as bold as I was. It would be years before he would learn of such things.

Our uncle Edmund, the Earl of Kent, raised his wine goblet in greeting from across the hall and made his way toward us, weaving through the mill of servants. He bounded up onto the dais and leaned over, resting on a forearm. “You’re coming to Westminster, I trust?”

Although the question was addressed to me, my brother squirmed beside me, eyes wide in horror. “Westminster? London? Oh, no,” John said. “The people there are
mad
, Uncle Edmund. They sawed off Bishop Stapledon’s head with a butcher’s knife!”

So they had. The bishop may have been a sanctimonious goat and a spy, but his end was an undeservedly brutal one. While his maggot-infested head was hurried westward to be presented to my mother by the Earl of Lancaster, his naked corpse had lain rotting in a pile of refuse in London’s streets.

Kent, always the doting uncle, smiled reassuringly and tipped his head at John. “You had no cause for worry, nephew. Sir John kept you safe behind a hedge of Flemish spears.”

With the tip of his knife, John chased a pea around his plate, at last flicking it across the floor. “Then why did Mother not come to London?”

I punched him in the leg to shush him. “Maybe she had better things to do than coddle a frightened, little slobber-ruffed pup like you?”

“I wasn’t frightened, not really. It’s just that they would have killed
anybody
. Did you not hear the stories—how they clubbed people to death with the spokes of cart wheels or gouged out their eyes with chisels? You would not have left the Tower, either.” His face by then was red with fury at my insult. He clenched a chubby-knuckled fist around his knife and waved it in the air. “One day I’ll be a soldier. A brave one, you’ll see, Ned. I’ll fight the Scots and I’ll beat them.”

“Of course you will, John,” Kent said, as he reached out and ruffled his hair. “When you’re old enough.”

John slouched back in his chair, a scowl firmly imprinted on his puckered mouth, his breath forced out through flaring nostrils.

A blast of trumpets rent the air. Kent looked to the rear of the hall. “Ah! The mummers are here at last. Your pardon, young lords. My wife was casting urgent glances my way not long ago. I do believe she was hinting for my company. Enjoy the merrymaking whilst you can—especially you, Young Edward. Parliament is bound to be restive and no doubt they’ll call on you to make an appearance as their next king.”

My mouth hung open. Parliament was less than a month away. Father had not abdicated yet. What good would it do to call on me when there was so much still unresolved? Before I could ask Kent anything, he had dropped from the edge of the dais and left.

Again, the trumpets blared. A ragged line of grotesquely masked men poured into the hall through the outer doors. Clasping small hands over her mouth, Joanna tumbled from her seat at the end of the table and ran, yellow curls bouncing at her shoulders, around behind me to leap into our nursemaid Ida’s arms. Eleanor shook her head and we shared a glance of contempt. Such children!

“Watch the girl—there, with the veils.” I pointed to a lithe beauty, copper-skinned and hair as black as a starless night. “I hear she hails from Crete.”

“Where is Crete?” John pulled his legs underneath himself to sit higher in his chair.

“Far away,” I said, knowing it would take too much effort to explain and it would probably end in futility anyway.

“How long would it take to get there?”

“I don’t know.”

“Who is she supposed to be?”

“Salome, you custard-brained toad. Now stop asking questions and watch, or else you’ll miss it.”

He planted his elbows on the table and watched, grinning in delight as the tabor beat out a frenetic rhythm. ‘Salome’ bowed to us with a flourish of her hands, one bare, brown foot pointed forward, her skirts barely grazing her ankles. Gossamer veils of saffron, scarlet and emerald swayed from the silken sash at her hips, and with every nimble movement the little bells adorning the corded belt tinkled in unison. Arms snaking above her head, she arched her back, folding in half, until her palms met the floor. With a kick, she sprang backward. The very moment she landed on the balls of her feet, her body snapped back again and she somersaulted in the air thrice more in succession. This time, her hands did not touch the floor at all.

John thrust his fists into the air and shook them. “More, more!”

“You like her?”

“Yes! I was expecting carols. I hate to sing. And I’m bored of jugglers and little dogs dancing on their hind legs, aren’t you, Ned?”

Palms beat on drums like the low rumble of distant thunder. Salome’s arms flowed about her body like a rippling mountain stream. Her hips undulated in a languid circle and then began to move faster and tighter as she spun around the open space, small feet moving to the ever-increasing cadence of the music. Legs outspread, she sank to the ground. Then, rolling forward, she tucked her knees beneath her and knelt, head bowed, toward the rear of the hall.

Several mummers came forward, bearing two litters upon which sat a pair of robed figures, a man and a woman, each wearing a gold-faced mask and jeweled crown.

“On the left would be Herod Antipas, Salome’s uncle ... who is
also
her stepfather.” I clapped him on the shoulder. “That is her mother, Queen Herodius, next to him.”