The King Must Die (The Isabella Books) (6 page)

Mortimer threw his hands wide. “How can you even
think
this is some mere rumor? I told you my sources and you still —”

“Stop!” I rushed toward the table and spread my fingers wide upon it to steady the quaking in my body. “What plot, Adam? Tell me.”

Bishop Orleton drew in a breath and then released it with a weighty sigh. “A plot to free Edward of Caernarvon from Kenilworth.”

“Who? And how?”

“No names of particular significance: a clerk of Despenser’s, a few household servants, a lowly parson. As to how ... that was not uncovered. Their plans were foiled well ahead of time.”

A hundred more questions raced through my mind, but I refrained from asking them all. “Does someone have designs on restoring him to the throne?”

Orleton and Mortimer exchanged a glance. Neither spoke for several moments, as if weighing whose place it was to put forth their theory.

Finally, Mortimer said, “I suspect the Earl of Kent may have had some vague connection to —”

“Edmund?” I rounded on him. “That is preposterous. He was with us in France. He rode beside us as we marched across England in search of Edward. He may be his brother, but I can scarcely think of anyone
less
likely to try to free him and put him back on the throne.”

“Which is why,” Orleton said, “we haven’t drawn the Earl of Kent into the investigation, nor even told him of it.”

“Yet,” Mortimer added tersely. “But if we can find Dunheved, question him ...”

I pressed the flats of my palms to my abdomen. The fluttering there had risen to a whorl of anxiety, spiraling up into my ribcage until I found it hard to even breathe.

“Rumors begin for two reasons,” Mortimer said. “To stir malice ... and because they contain a seed of truth.”

“And you know this to be true?” I said. “That Edward of Caernarvon has sympathizers? Adam is right, Roger. We cannot volley accusations without proof.”

“Proof? No, perhaps not. But it would serve us, and the young king, well to be conscious of the possibility—and to prepare ourselves against our enemies before they take action.”

“How do we do that?”

Orleton pushed his chair back and stood. “Remove Sir Edward from Lancaster’s care, to begin with.”

Mortimer scratched at the scruff on his throat, his head tilted back. “There’s power in keeping guard over a man born to be king. If anyone is going to turn against us, it will be Lancaster. Should he feel compelled to retaliate at any time, all he’d have to do is release Sir Edward, set him back on the throne ... and it will be us who are put away.”

“I only thought the duty of being Edward’s caretaker would placate him,” I said. “I never considered that he might use it against us, but I think you’re both right. Better to do it now, given what almost happened. But where would we put Edward? Who’s to be trusted, beyond all doubt?”

“Lord Berkeley,” Mortimer said, “and Sir John Maltravers. They can both be trusted, more so than the earl, to keep your husband secure.”

The reminder that I was still married to Edward of Caernarvon stung like an open cut, fresh and deep down to the vein. Except for the sharp whistling of my indrawn breath, the room was silent. Bishop Orleton must have sensed the tension between Mortimer and me, for he excused himself, closing the door firmly behind him.

I turned away to face the row of windows, the world beyond dark with night. In moments, Mortimer’s arms encircled my waist from behind, tugging me gently against him. I kept my body stiff, tempering my resolve against his nearness, but already my knees were weakening beneath me.

“Isabeau ... sweet heaven of mine.” Light fingers traced over my hips, wandering slowly up toward my ribs. His breath stirred on my neck, a fiery breeze of longing. “Let me hold you tonight, hour upon hour, until the dawn.”

I shook my head, even as I felt myself wanting to yield, to abandon all. “I’m afraid, Roger.”

He turned me around, his lips brushing against the crown of my hair, over my ear, the slope of my shoulder. Not until my breathing slowed and I half-closed my eyes, waiting for more, did he lift his head to speak. A smirk, hinting of something sinister, flashed across his mouth. Or perhaps I merely imagined it? His thumb stroked tenderly at my cheek, soothing away my worries. “Afraid of what—that he’ll go free? You needn’t worry, my love. I’ll make sure he
never
has the chance.”

***

Brixworth — April, 1327

Not yet sunrise and already the stones of Brixworth Church were awash in a rose-colored glow. Above the door by which I stood, a fanning of red tiles arched. Higher up, a robin danced on the ledge of a small, square window, a fat worm dangling from its beak as it eyed me warily. It cocked its head at me, then suddenly burst upward in a dither of feathers, dropping the worm to the ground far below. In the pale yellow glow of the tin lantern I had set on the steps, the worm wiggled inch by inch, until it at last tumbled over the edge and disappeared.

An hour ago, with no escort but Arnaud, I had set out from Northampton where my children were staying. In a few days, we would all be in Peterborough, where the king would sign his name to the new treaty with France. Charles had been amenable to retaining the terms written down at Poissy two years ago.

Two years—so much had happened in that time. How quickly things can change; yet at other times, nothing seems to change at all. This church had stood upon this ground for hundreds of years, the workers who quarried its stones and the masons who laid course upon course were long dead, their bones now the dust of the earth. Long after I was laid in my grave, would anyone remember me or know of what I had done?

Upon my rising, Patrice had barely stirred on her pallet. I did not let her know where I was going, but told her that if anyone came looking for me to say I had risen early to walk in the orchards. Most of all, I did not want Mortimer to know where I had gone, or who I had gone to meet.

Feet scraped softly on the path behind me and I turned to see Lord Thomas Berkeley, hands clasped behind his back as he gazed up at the stones. “They say some of the bricks used to build this church were salvaged from an old Roman villa that once stood nearby. Who knows where they originally came from? I have never seen the likes of them myself.”

“You came alone?” I looked past him, searching through the silver light of approaching dawn for movement. But I saw only the familiar silhouette of Arnaud de Mone, standing vigilant beneath the great oak on the hill by the road, our horses grazing lazily beside him.

“As you bade me to, my lady.” He smiled warmly, dipping at the waist in a bow.

I indicated the tin lantern. He lifted it gently, so as not to disturb the flame, and then opened the door for me.

We walked silently through the arcaded nave, his steps long and floating, but his pace measured to match mine. My hand rested lightly on his arm as we made way toward the door leading to the Lady Chapel. Berkeley opened it. I went first, the darkness within causing me to go slowly until he entered with the lantern and set it upon the narrow table that served as an altar.

I sank to my knees to say a quick prayer. When I rose, I turned and looked at him. For a long while I said nothing. It was a risk, asking him here.

Last month, Mortimer had ridden to Kenilworth with an armed retinue. When he delivered the royal writ to the Earl of Lancaster, stating that Edward of Caernarvon’s care was to be transferred immediately to Lord Berkeley, Lancaster had, of course, flown into a rage. Finally, he acquiesced, but swore to have the matter reversed at the next parliament. Mortimer said nothing to that. He simply rode away, his prisoner bound in ropes and surrounded by a hundred armed men.

“He is well cared for?” I asked at last, my voice barely above a whisper.

“He is.”

“I mean ...” I began, my fingers twisting the cord at my waist, “he is not mistreated in any way?”

Berkeley tilted his head inquisitively. “No, my lady. Your orders were relayed to Sir John Maltravers, and to Sir Thomas Gurney, in whose care he is sometimes left: that no harm was to come to Sir Edward. Why do you ask?”

I opened my mouth, prepared to spew out every question and concern that had lately begun to plague my mind, but stopped myself. I had known of Maltravers being appointed, but certainly nothing of Sir Thomas Gurney, of whom I knew very little, except that I did not like his gruff manners and perpetual leer. Later, I would talk to Mortimer about removing Gurney. Undoubtedly, he would defend Gurney, but I would insist. How to do so without an argument was a matter I had yet to reconcile. Simply put, I did not trust the man, even though I had no sound reason not to.

I felt pulled from two sides: one my love for Mortimer and the other for Young Edward. As much as I wanted my children’s father gone from my life, I never,
never
wished him ill. If anything happened to Sir Edward, my son would likely suspect Mortimer—as would most of England. I, too, would be enveloped in a cloud of suspicion. Rather than put an end to matters, it would only make them worse.

I went to the window and gripped the edge of an unmortared stone there, the width of my outspread fingers. Back and forth I worked the stone, inching it out. Several times it caught, so tight was its fit, but I straightened it and then pulled again, until at last the stone worked free. I set it on the ledge and slid my hand into a hole beneath. A splinter pricked my fingertip and I grasped the wooden box to lift it out.

Turning about, I undid the clasp on the box. Inside lay a wad of aged cloth, its threads frayed and thin, as if it had once been torn from a garment. I peeled back the ends to reveal the object inside and laid it on my palm: a curving, thin yellowed bone.

“Swear on this relic, Lord Thomas, in the name of the Virgin Mary, that whatever words pass between us today will never be spoken of again—on your life, swear it.”

His brow furrowing, he stepped back. “What ... what is that?”

“The throat bone of St. Boniface.” I moved it to my right, so that the lantern’s light fell upon it more fully. “While on a mission to convert the peoples of Frisia to Christianity, Archbishop Boniface was waylaid by brigands. When his companions raised their weapons and readied to fight their attackers, he commanded them to lay down their arms, for as he said, ‘
Scripture tells us not to commit evil in the name of good, but to overcome evil by doing good’
. His only shield was the Holy Gospel. They slew him and —”

“My lady, why are you telling me this? I agreed to be Sir Edward’s keeper, at my father-in-law’s request, and because I hope, in some small way, that doing so will allow England to correct the wrongs that were done under King ... under
Sir
Edward’s misrule. If you have no faith in me, then relieve me of the duty. There are many ways in which I can serve the young king.”

“I chose this relic for a purpose, Lord Thomas, and I asked you here because you are a kind and honorable man. That alone has more value than blood or riches.” I thrust my hand out, the bone quivering in my palm. I drew a long, deep breath, searching for some calmness buried deep within my soul. “Now, I cannot say a word more of ‘why’ until you swear, my lord. Whether you agree to my request or refuse, I will not hold it against you. But I must know, beyond a doubt, that what we share here today will never,
ever
be spoken of again—by anyone, including you or me.”

Berkeley studied the relic, his expression shifting from confusion, to contemplation, to curiosity. He came closer, laid his hand firmly over mine. “I swear upon this holy relic that I will never speak of this day to anyone—not even to you.”

Curling my fingers around the smooth edges of the throat bone, I drew it to my breast. “I fear that Sir Edward’s life may be in danger.”

“What gives you cause to believe that?”

“There are many who would wish him dead, Lord Thomas. A few in particular who might hurry it along.”

He narrowed his eyes at me. “I have no doubt that is true.”