The King Must Die (The Isabella Books) (30 page)

I followed him for what seemed like half a mile, our path twisting, going down, and then back up. Every now and then, we paused at a fork in the tunnel, but Will hesitated only a moment before forging on. My sense of direction lost, I often wondered if he wasn’t guessing.

Will ducked low to avoid hitting his head as we began up a rough set of stairs, each step irregular in depth and slant, so that we had to tread carefully. At the top, the path continued on, narrowing. A hundred feet later, it turned a corner and flared outward. The ceiling was higher here, forming a domed chamber. Two door-less ‘rooms’ were situated on either side of the chamber. He turned left toward the larger of them.

Before he could get beyond my reach, I grabbed his arm. “Explain ‘slight change of plans’ to me. You promised to take Mortimer into custody.”

“And I will. Although perhaps not how we had first planned. You know he has ordered the guards doubled on all the doors and at the gates?”

“What of it? You have the castle keys, don’t you?”

He raised his brows. “Ah no, it seems —”

“What?! But you said —”

He clamped a hand over my mouth. “Calm yourself, Ned. This may actually turn out for the better. When I asked William Eland for the keys earlier tonight, he said Mortimer had taken them, he thought with the intention of giving them to the queen. So, Mortimer knows something is afoot, just not when or how it will happen. But not to worry, because Eland also told me about a secret passage, for which no key is required. Now I told you to trust me. You do, don’t you?”

I nodded.

“Good.” Slowly, he withdrew his hand, but not before patting me on the cheek. “Follow me. I’ve something that will put a little hair on your chin.”

Patronizing bastard.

Once inside, he leaned his torch against the wall. I did the same and soon realized the place contained several barrels. Will lifted a jug of ale and then a pair of horn mugs from behind one of them and placed them on top. He poured us each a drink.

“Have your fill,” he said. “There’s plenty for the two of us.”

I guzzled down the ale, as much to quench a parched throat as to dull my nerves. My future—and my freedom—hinged on this one night. If things went right, I would take control of my own fate and remove that which stood in my way. Or rather—who. If they went wrong, I could lose a true friend in the attempt. Either way, my mother and I would never be on good terms again. But I knew there was no reasoning with her where Mortimer was concerned. This had to be done. When I had drained the cup, I plunked it on top of the barrel. “More.”

Will filled it again. By the time I was halfway through the third cup, I felt emboldened, and more sure of what was about to happen than ever.

I leaned back against the pitted stone wall, slid down, my red shirt snagging on the protruding bumps. Gripping a loose thread end, I pulled ... too hard. It rent in a long line from front to back. “God’s rotting teeth. Philippa gave me this shirt for our wedding. Came from Flanders.”

“You’ll have more than just that to explain after tomorrow.” Sinking to his rump, he joined me on the floor to sit cross-legged. “Or is it today, already?”

“Today, tomorrow. Tomorrow, today.” I tipped my mug back, took another gulp. “My birthday is in a month. Less than that, actually.”

“You’ve told me before. Numerous times. Are you sure, though, you don’t want to wait until then to —”

“No!” I shouted. Then realizing how incredibly loud I was—as if I feared someone might hear us in this unending cavern of nothingness—I leaned toward him and lowered my voice. “Mortimer already suspects us. If we wait even another day, he could flee. Or turn against us. He could do anything—accuse
you
of treason, even. Then you’d end up dead, just like Kent. No, we won’t wait. We can’t. There’s no better place than this. No better time. If we can get our men in through these tunnels without being discovered ahead of time, we’ll have him.” I belched, wiped my mouth and scooted closer yet. “Secret passage? I don’t see how this could
not
work, do you?”

Shaking his head, Will groped for the jug. Amber liquid sloshed over the brim as he lowered it from the barrel. Then he refilled my cup, emptying the jug.

“Aren’t you having more?” I offered my cup. “Here.”

He waved it off. “One of us needs to keep his wits about him. Very soon, the others will join us. Eland will lead them through the postern gate at the park and bring them here.”

“How many?”

“More than twenty. Enough to overwhelm whatever guards Mortimer may have posted at his door—or the queen’s. Once we take Mortimer into custody, we’ll leave through the passage, go down to the tunnels, out the postern gate and take him to Leicester.”

“I wanted him hanged immediately, do you know? Lancaster convinced me a trial was somehow necessary. I can’t say that I agree, but ... for appearances, perhaps. When your men get here, what then?”

“Eland will escort you back to the castle. There’s a door hidden in an alcove very close to the queen’s apartments. I assume you know which one?”

“Yes.”

“Wait there. That door leads to the passage which is connected to a tunnel not far from here. When I knock, you’ll draw the bolt and let us through.”

“When will that be?”

“Prime,” he said. “Are you certain you don’t want to make yourself known when we take him into custody?”

“No, I’ll stay out of the way. It will all come out in time. It’s just that ... I don’t think I could stand to see my mother’s face when it happens.” Feeling the pull of sleep, I rested my cheek against the barrel. “Tell me the plan again, Will. Every detail.”

Just then, the murmur of voices and the faint scrape of feet on worn stone reached my ears.

“No time, Ned. They’re here.”

24

Isabella:

Nottingham — October, 1330

A
wake half the night, I was still waiting to hear the bells ring for prime when there came a soft rap at my door. At first, I wondered if I had heard anything at all. But when I held my breath and listened, I heard it more clearly. It was never good to be roused in the middle of the night. Even more so of late.

I jabbed Patrice in the ribs with my elbow. Mumbling, she flopped over. I shook her by the arm, whispered her name, but she slept on like the dead. The knock came again, this time more insistent. There was yet no hint of dawn between the shutter cracks. Who would call on me at this hour? Wriggling my hand beneath my feather pillow, I touched fingertips to the cold metal of the castle keys before rising from my bed. I tiptoed to the door and leaned my forehead against one of the iron straps spanning the door.

“Who’s there?” I called softly.

“Roger.”

At that, Patrice, who had apparently been feigning sleep, gasped. She threw off her blanket and propped herself up on one elbow, alarm flashing from the startled whites of her eyes.

I hesitated. He must have feared that I would turn him away, for his voice took on a lugubrious mewl when he spoke again.

“Please, I am ... I am desperate to speak to you, Isabeau. It cannot wait. Hurry,
please
.”

Placing a hand over my heart, I allowed him entrance. Without a glance or greeting, he pushed through the barely opened door and darted toward the window, stealing a quick look through it. I doubted he could see anything at that dark hour, but he hung back a moment, tilting his head as if to listen for some telling sound, and then glanced jerkily again past the window’s edge.

Arnaud braced himself squarely in the doorway. My personal guards both gave me a questioning look. They were aware that Mortimer had not been to see me privately in some time. When I gave no protest, they conceded to Arnaud and stepped aside, one propping himself lazily against the wall as he shoved back a yawn, the other peering at the outer door with nervous vigilance.

I ushered a groggy Patrice from my bed and told her to wait outside. She knew her role whenever someone unexpectedly showed up while Mortimer and I were alone together; although this time she hesitated to abandon me to him in his edging madness. She shuffled to the door with a scowl on her lips, fumbling to wrap the twisted blanket around her and up as high as her neck, watching Mortimer closely over her shoulder.

The moment she saw Arnaud, however, she forgot about Mortimer. Her shoulders went slack and the blanket slipped back and fell to drape loosely over her lower arms. She tossed the flowing river of her hair over her back and marched past him with an alluring sway to her hips. His eyes swept over her as his head turned to watch her. Feet planted wide, he stiffened his spine and turned his sights back toward the outer door to emphasize his duty. His palm cupped the pommel of his sheathed sword. Patrice, however, was not so easily put off. She sidled backward to stand close beside him and gave that childlike pout that so many men had succumbed to.

“I have seen and heard so little of you of late.” Her fingers wandered across his chest. “Tell me it was not that I offended you in some way.”

He caught her hand and gave it a distinct squeeze. “Please, now is not the time.” Then he let her hand go and stepped back.

Mortimer lurched past me, closed the door as quickly but as quietly as he could and faced me, his form so limp and unsteady he could barely stand upright.

The last time he had looked so unkempt and haggard was when he had been shut up in the Tower for years. I still remembered that image of him: the tangled hair and ragged beard, eyes squinting against the light, the threadbare clothes hanging loose on his lean frame. But then, at least, he had kept his wits about him, scheming his future with rapt diligence. There had also been a fire in his eyes. And a handsome face recognizable even behind the grime.

Now ... death stalked him. It showed in his downcast eyes, the way he tucked his head down into his shoulders like a snail withdrawing into its shell, how he always put himself in the corner of a room so he could see every door and window. His conduct alluded to insanity, but I could not say I blamed him for succumbing. My own mood and mind were far from tranquil.

It is one thing to face your enemies on the battlefield. It is another to be surrounded by them when they call themselves ‘friends’.

“Have you slept at all?” I asked in genuine concern.

“In the last five days—barely.” He edged around the bed and landed himself on the side nearest to me heavily, catching his head in his hands and shoving his fingers up through his uncombed hair. At length, he pressed his chin to his shoulder. His voice was raspy, like someone who had been out in the wind and cold. “I questioned whether or not I should come to you. I would not dream of putting you in danger. Yet here I am. A moth to the flame.”

We both knew the danger he spoke of. I stood before him, halfway between the door and the bed—near enough to hear him, far enough for safety. Although I had never feared harm from him, I knew his temper and I was well aware of his current instability. The two together were a dangerous coalescence.

“I am leaving tonight for Ireland,” he said.

As much as I wanted to keep him near me, I knew it was not safe for him here. “Why are you here now?”

He slid to his knees on the floor, still cradling his head as if he were afraid it might roll from his body and land at my feet. “Because this is something I could not entrust to another’s ears.”

His hands finally drifted down. How much older and gaunter he looked than only a few months ago. How robust he had been then, even for a man whose prime had faded. I recalled the lean muscles that sloped tautly from his neck to his upper arms, the musky scent of his sweat, and the fine scars of battle beneath my fingertips as familiar as the veins on the back of my own hand. Where was that man now? What had happened to him? Did I, as well, display the sufferings of my soul as plainly as he did?

He glanced up at the ceiling, then wistfully at me. His voice was a longing whisper, like that of a child sending a prayer to the stars up in heaven so only God could hear. “Keep the child, Isabeau, my love. Go away somewhere. Bear it in secret. If it be your wish—let it live.”

Utterly stunned, I went and sat down on the far side of the bed with my back to him. I needed time to think everything through, but time was something I did not have.

Slowly, he stood, then came to me and went to his knees. “Come with me. Now. This very moment.” Palms up, he held his hands out to me in invitation.

I clenched my fists, gathering resolve. “Roger, no, no ... we cannot.”

He grabbed at my hands, trying to unroll my fingers, but I held them tight, resisting. “Please, Isabeau,” he persisted. “Come with me.”

“No, no, no ... no!” Wrenching my hands from his, I bolted beyond his reach. I could neither think clearly nor act judiciously with him so near and my emotions swirling in a maelstrom. “I cannot go with you. Anywhere. Now ... or ever. Please, go before —”

“Do not shirk me!” he said, a hundred hurts conveyed in the strained pitch of his voice. Suddenly, he was on his feet and his arms went around my waist, just firm enough to suggest possessiveness. His roughly whiskered cheek snagged the hair at the side of my head as he pulled me toward him. I felt the hardness of his chest against my back. “Oh, Isabeau, what would our lives have ever been without each other? Some dull rehearsal of duty? The monotony of loveless marriage? No, we created a heaven together. Ours alone.”

His breath curled around my ear and cheek, beckoning my lips to the warmth of his greedy mouth. I felt the moist flick of his tongue on my skin as he kissed my neck, a faint whimper escaping his throat. And then I felt the beating of his heart. My own echoing its somber rhythm. My blood hotly racing.

I began to remember—the longing conveyed in stolen glances, the bliss of eternity delivered in his touch—all the times, all the ways.

And I realized what it had brought us to. This. Fear. Panic. Despair. Mistrust.

I peeled his hands away, still holding his fingers as I twisted in his desperate embrace to face him.

“It is not enough.” The knot in my throat contorted as I began to gasp. “Not enough to ... enough to ... It would be the end of us both, never mind the child.”

“Shhh, shhh.” He caught a tear before it trickled from the corner of my eye. “Remember, then.”

I blinked at him, not understanding. Not understanding until I heard the ominous boom of a door being busted from its hinges and shouts growing louder, more vehement. The clang of metal rang out. Blade hammered on blade. A terrible groan turned into a howl, emanating from deep within a tortured belly. Then ... the thud of a fallen body resounded.

It ended with Patrice’s blood-curdling scream.

A moment of ominous silence ensued, but was quickly shattered by another burst of activity. Montagu’s voice rose above the confusion.

I quivered, my blood going as cold as a frozen lake. Mortimer let go of me, stepped back, and drew his sword. He looked at me sadly one last time—and opened the door.

There, in the middle of the outer chamber, knelt Patrice. In her lap she cradled Arnaud’s head, his wide eyes staring up at her lifelessly. A scarlet river of blood bubbled from his chest through his padded tunic and pooled on the floor, staining dark red the edges of Patrice’s pale yellow shift.

Above him, Montagu stood, his feet braced at shoulder’s width, crimson beads of blood dripping from the tip of his sword onto his right boot. The thrust had been forceful and complete. He had drawn the blade cleanly out in one swift jerk, opening up the hole in Arnaud de Mone’s chest. Patrice pressed the flat of her palm over the gaping wound, as if she could stop the life from flowing out of him. But it was already gone. Overwhelmed at the start, my guards had thrown down their arms early in the scuffle. Arnaud alone had stood brave and loyal against the threat—and paid the price.

Before Mortimer could raise his sword in defense, four men surrounded him, each murderous blade aimed at his chest. He raised his weapon, and then cocked his elbow back as Montagu jostled his way past one of his men toward Mortimer.

Tears filled my eyes. “No!”

Mortimer opened his grip. His sword clattered to the floor. He knew that if he fought them, he would die, just as Arnaud had. The nearest of Montagu’s accomplices rushed forward and plucked up the relinquished weapon, then snatched the knife from Mortimer’s belt. Before I could cry out once more, the two men beside Mortimer wrenched his arms back behind him and began to shove him along as the other two fell in behind.

Mortimer twisted in their grip and stole a sorrowful glance at me. “Isabeau, my love ...”

I tried to say his name, but my tongue could not form sounds. Sobs of despair choked me.

They yanked him forward. Tears blinding me, I stumbled, crashed to my knees. By the time I untangled myself from my skirts and stood on wobbly legs, they were hauling him out into the corridor. Montagu moved in front of me to block my way.

Shoving past him so close I scraped my arm on links of chainmail, I rushed out into the corridor after them. “Don’t take him. No! Noooo! Edward? Hear me, Edward! I know you are there. Make them let him go. Let him go! Edward!”

In a distant bend of the corridor, in the exact direction that Montagu’s men were dragging Mortimer toward—a shadow loomed and shifted.

“Edwaaard!!!”

After the jostle of men turned the corner with their captive, I looked again, my eyes straining against the sputtering light of a single torch along the wall, but the shadow had vanished like a puff of smoke in a gust of wind.