The King Must Die (The Isabella Books) (7 page)

“Has anyone given you orders to ... to ...?”

“You mean Sir Roger?”

I nodded.

“I swear to you, my lady, even if he were to suggest murder—which he has not—I would not take part in it. Neither money nor power could persuade me.”

“Then I have chosen wisely in you. And I will ask of you but one oath, for I’ll not have my soul bear the stain of Sir Edward’s death, despite all the troubles he has brought upon England. Swear to me that you will do everything in your power to see that my husband does not leave this world until God himself calls his name. Swear it, Lord Thomas.”

He extended both hands, palms down. I slipped mine beneath his, the ridge of bone clasped between us.

“I swear, in the name of God, the Virgin Mary and St. Boniface, I will do everything possible to safeguard the life of Sir Edward of Caernarvon.”

The first light of day streamed through the single window in a sparkling haze of dust motes to fall upon our joined hands. A sign? No, merely an indication that it was past time to go from there. If I was not back at Northampton soon, little Joanna would fuss over my absence and that would throw Ida into a state of agitation. Eventually, Mortimer would begin to search for me. We were due in Bedford tomorrow, King’s Cliffe the day after and eventually Peterborough, where we would spend Easter.

Carefully, I wrapped the bone in its tattered square of cloth and set it back in the box, which I then tucked into its hiding place.

Lord Berkeley slid the stone over it. Only a fine crack showed around its rough edge. As we moved toward the door, he said, “
Aegroto, dum anima est, spes esse dicitur.
”

Pausing in my steps, I said, “I’m sorry, but I don’t know the meaning of that.” It was not a phrase I had ever heard any holy man say at Mass.

“It means ‘So long as he yet lives, there is hope for the sick man’.”

I covered my breast with both hands, suddenly fraught with worry that Edward had been poisoned. “Is he ill?”

“Not in body,”—he tapped his fingertips first to his upper arm, then his chest—“but in heart.”

“I know. He writes to me, often. He blames me ... for everything.” Indeed, his letters had been heavy with sorrow, bitter with betrayal. So persuasive were his words that at times I questioned my course of action. Yet what else could I have done? I had far from forgotten how I had suffered, neglected and dismissed, for so many years. With Mortimer’s help, it had seemed possible to put everything right, even though I knew it would not be easy. Even with my son firmly on the throne, there would be trials. Likely, it would go on for years.

“I-I-I should not tell you this,” Berkeley said, his pale eyes shifting down, then back up, “but ... he confides in me sometimes. He is content to be relieved of his burdens. With each day that passes, he turns more and more to God, seeking peace.”

There was compassion in his tone, and in his face. I was not convinced, however, that the Edward I once knew had changed so drastically as to beseech God’s grace.

Whether my husband was contrite or not, I could not let Mortimer put an end to him out of convenience. Nor could I allow Edward of Caernarvon to go free. The only thing I could do was place my trust in Lord Thomas Berkeley. Yet even though he had sworn, on the throat bone of St. Boniface, to protect the former king, it did little to ease my fears. So much could go so terribly wrong ...

5

Isabella:

York — June, 1327

T
he regency council was in agreement: the king’s marriage with Philippa of Hainault should move forward. Bishops Orleton and Burghersh were dispatched first to Hainault to formalize the matter and from there to the pope in Avignon to seek a dispensation on the matter of consanguinity. Philippa’s grandfather, Charles of Valois, had been my uncle. He died shortly before I went to France, upon which his son-in-law, William, became Count of Hainault. Securing matters with Hainault would prove little problem; the Holy See was a more unpredictable matter.

To the north, borderlands were still in dispute. Lancaster and the other northern barons would not relinquish their claims to lands in Scotland that had been awarded to them by Edward I; Robert the Bruce, however, would accept nothing short of total surrender of those lands. Negotiations were attempted—and failed. Neither faction would bow to compromise.

We could not afford war so soon after Young Edward’s ascension. And yet, we could not avoid it.

Although we attempted further talks with the Scots, our requests were met with a resolute reply when James Douglas swooped far down into the north of England like a winged demon breathing fire and destruction. If we did not gather England’s might and march north, Lancaster would go to battle himself. His defeat would leave us more vulnerable than ever. Like a ship without sail or rudder caught in a tempest, our course was determined by matters beyond our control.

The great army of England gathered for the march north. Hundreds upon hundreds of pennons rippled in a warm May breeze, each one an imitation of the other. On fields of white stood a simple red cross: the banner of St. George, patron saint of England, slayer of dragons. The column stretched from horizon to horizon, fearsome in number. Unlike the former king’s call to arms less than a year ago, this one resulted in an overwhelming response, with not a single knight or baron refusing to heed it. Foot soldiers by the thousands marched in orderly rows and to the rear crept the supply wagons, laden with food and arms.

The sun’s dazzling rays glinted off Young Edward’s gilded breastplate. Riding at the head of the column, he sat tall and proud, a golden crown upon his helmet. His steed was caparisoned with the leopards of England, and on its headpiece, or chaufron, was a pointed spike wound with alternating spirals of gold and silver so that it resembled a unicorn’s horn. Next to him rode his uncles, the Earls of Kent and Norfolk, and his cousin Henry, the Earl of Lancaster. And somewhere behind them, Roger Mortimer.

We went from London to Nottingham and from Nottingham to Doncaster. In pastures, cows nursed wobbly-kneed calves. Newly tilled fields striped the verdant hills. Along the furrows, women hunched, shuffling slowly down the rows, sacks tied to their waists as they dipped their hands inside to pull out and cast the seeds that would become that year’s harvest, should God bless them with neither too much nor too little rain. Through the low-lying valleys, broad rivers threaded. Where marshes spread, herons stood hidden among the reeds, their presence revealed only when they took flight, long legs trailing through the sky. Great swaths of meadow dominated the more difficult slopes and in between lay patches of dense woods.

The orderly march brought back recollections of our return to England last September. Only this time, we were going to face an enemy far more worth reckoning with than Edward of Caernarvon. While it was reported that Robert the Bruce’s health was compromised by some affliction that mottled his skin and made his joints ache, forcing him to remain bedridden for days at a time, his commanders were no less formidable than he had once proven himself to be.

My son was well aware that this was no mere parade, as last year’s march had been, and yet he went forward eagerly. His eyes flashed with excitement whenever there was talk of battle and strategy, and he practiced with his weapons daily under Sir William Montagu’s tutelage, until he was bruised and exhausted. It was as if he had been possessed by the martial spirit of his grandfather, the first Edward; I had never warmed to Longshanks, for his eyes had been the color of an iron blade and his soul as hard and unforgiving. I only hoped my son would prove as competent in the field, without ever relinquishing his cheerful and loving nature beyond it.

War changes men, though. It hardens them to the suffering of others and makes them blind to brutality. It gives them a thirst for power that only further conquests can sate. We laud such men, extolling their feats, praising their might, even as we preach wisdom and pray for peace.

We halted early that day, somewhere north of Doncaster, as a light rain gave over to intermittent torrents. With the hood of my mantle pulled far forward, I sat on a rock beneath the sprawling canopy of an ancient oak which stood alone on top of a knoll. Come morning, the trampled fields would be a sea of mud. Patrice was in a sour mood and muttered her complaints at the length of time it was taking for our tents to be pitched. We had been unable to make it to Lancaster’s fortress of Pontefract, or even as far as Brotherton, where lodgings might have been rustic, but at least we would have had a roof and walls. If I did not order her to cease complaining, it was because I, too, was wet to the bone and exhausted from the interminable journey.

By the time my pavilion was up, a band of sunshine peeked beneath a bank of clouds to the west, its golden rays spilling over the hilltops and outlining the trees in the distance in halos of light. Mortimer walked up the slope alone, bearing a small basket.

“Tell me that isn’t coarse bread and moldy cheese again,” I said, the corners of my mouth turned down in a mock frown.

“For a queen, this time something special, something different.” Stopping before me, he removed the little square of white cloth covering the basket. “Warmed sweet bread with butter and boiled eggs—although the cook very nearly didn’t get the fire lit, what with the rain ...” His words trailed off as he sank to his haunches, the basket cradled in his palms. “Shall I take it back, wait for him to prepare something else? I saw a few hens freshly plucked and a —”

“I’d be asleep by the time it was done and then awaken in the middle of the night with a gnawing ache in my belly. No, this will do.” I tore loose a hunk of the bread, so warm to the touch that a curl of steam arose from it, and brought it to my mouth, the little crannies glistening with droplets of butter. Its sweetness dissolved on my tongue. As I reached to take another piece, I said, “But you didn’t come here to bring me my supper, did you?”

His fingers, peeling away fragments of eggshell, paused. He looked up at me, his geniality replaced by solemnity. “The king tells me that Sir John of Hainault is to meet us in York.”

“It was not my doing, Roger.
He
wanted him to come back. He trusts him.”

“And he does not trust me?”

“That is not what he meant by asking for Sir John’s aid on this campaign. Surely you understand that? The Hainaulters are seasoned soldiers who —”

Slamming the egg back into the basket, he shot to his feet. “They are
mercenaries
!”

His voice boomed across the open space all the way to the ring of tents that were forming at the base of the hill. Several of my damsels popped out through the flap of the pavilion, gazed at us, then seeing it was only Mortimer they retreated back inside. Further off, soldiers stole glances at us as they unrolled their blankets or gathered around cooking fires. With the darkening sky, they were all but shadows in the silver mist that was gathering in the valley and creeping slowly across the land.

Mortimer lowered his voice, spitting his words between clenched teeth. “Flemish mercenaries, Isabeau.
Foreigners
.”

“And did we not land at Harwich with these very same mercenaries? How is this different? As I recall, it was you who touted their worth.”

“We had no choice then. There was no guarantee that your husband was not going to raise an army against us. Even so, they were resented, mistrusted, barely tolerated. Need I remind you of the fights that nearly broke out every day?”

“No,” I said, “you need not.” Arguing over such matters was too much effort. What I needed was something to fill my stomach and a good night’s rest, not this. “But it was the king’s request and it has been honored. It’s too late to renege now.”

He pushed a hand through his hair and eased back down beside me. Bits of eggshell began to litter the ground as he plucked them away angrily. “How many?”

“Twenty-five hundred, still only a fraction of our own numbers, but enough to make a difference. Why does this vex you so, Roger? Because he did not consult you?”

Mortimer shrugged, but the twitch in his jaw muscles conveyed something far deeper than indifference. He clutched the bare egg with a tense fist. “He should have.”

“Perhaps.” Mortimer was desperate to assert control over this campaign, but wisely reluctant to demand it. It didn’t matter if it was the king or Lancaster or someone else making a decision, he would resent it if they did not consult and heed him. As always, it seemed my duty to create compromise wherever discord existed. “If you wish to gain his respect, don’t tell him what to do. I know my son, Roger. He may need guidance, but he’ll resent anything being forced upon him—the same as you would.”

“But I am forty, not fourteen. Isabeau, if he refuses to seek the wise counsel of those around him, I fear what may happen when we face the Scots on the battlefield. It could end brutally, and all too soon.”

I laid both my hands on his. “So do I, Roger. So do I. That is why I’m trying so hard to seek compromise, even though Lancaster protests. I have sent so many letters, pleading letters, to the Scots, that I’ve lost count. But they’re wagering on this timing, hoping Young Edward is weak, that we lack cohesiveness and leadership. Short of giving them everything they ask for, it seems unlikely that an agreement of any sort will be reached. So when the king mentioned Sir John, there was sound reasoning behind it, don’t you think? He’s wise for his years, Roger. Wise enough to know that he has a lot to learn yet—and far from believing he can lead men into battle tomorrow without someone like you or Sir John beside him. He’ll turn to you when he needs you. Trust him at least that much.”

Drawing his hands away, he turned them over, the white egg glistening in his palm. “Trust is such a delicate thing, isn’t it? So easily broken. So easily destroyed.”

He curled his fingers around the egg, enclosing it. For a moment, I thought he might fling it at the ground, the tree trunk—or perhaps even me. Instead, he stuffed it in his mouth, devouring it in two hasty bites, as if it had never existed at all. Then he ripped off a hunk of the sweet bread and began to chew, a thought flickering over his pupils.

“I forgot to bring us wine to wash our meal down with,” he said with an apologetic smile.

“You’ll be forgiven, if you remedy your error before the sun sets. I’m afraid I’ll not last much longer.”

As he rose to leave, I reached out to tap him on the leg, my fingertips grazing the rough links of his chausses. “When we reach York ...”

Beneath dark eyes, soft with yearning, he smiled. I did not need to say more. For too long, we had been surrounded by too many people. Only the promise of being with him again, wrapped in the warmth of his arms, kept me from going entirely mad. How I longed for those days in France when we had been afforded so much time alone. Longed to feel his chest pressed to my back, nothing more than a sheen of sweat between us, our lungs hungry for air as we returned to earth, deliriously spent.

It was as if there were two pairs of us: the Roger and Isabeau, who in private meshed like the hand fitted to the glove, tender words whispered over silken sheets ... and the Sir Roger Mortimer and Queen Isabella who had sought to deliver England from tyranny, succeeded and must now forever struggle to hold onto power, lest it fall to someone else and be turned against us.

Without a word, he turned and went, striding down the hill and disappearing in a swarm of soldiers laying out their blankets and squires tending to their knights’ horses. So many people. It was a wonder they could all move in one direction and arrive at the same place without disorder erupting daily.