The King Must Die (The Isabella Books) (8 page)

I waited beneath the tree, red sunset fading to dusky gray, the first silver pinpricks of starlight sparkling in the east. Waited for my knight to return, bearing a flask of wine and a pair of goblets. Waited for peace, elusive and rare. The night enveloped me, sending a breath of cool air down my back. All around, the camp quieted. Even the birds went silent. Soldiers, weary from a day’s march, were bedding down. I slid from the rock, mindless of the damp ground and drew my knees to my chest. My head sank down to the pillow of my forearm.

“Isabeau?”

I shook myself awake. Patrice laid a hand on my shoulder.

“Your quarters have been ready for some time now.” Then she added with a smile, “Sir Roger sent a flask of French wine—and his regrets. It seems the Earl of Lancaster waylaid him and insisted on discussing strategy. Why are men so obsessed with the details of war? Can it really be so complicated?”

She helped me up. As we strolled down the hill, I hooked my arm through hers and leaned against her. “Sometimes, Patrice, I think they don’t know any other way. Their pride prevents compromise.”

***

As we approached York, a soft rain yielded to cloudless skies. A merlin, perched on a distant cairn, studied our creeping horde from on high, the constant wind ruffling his feathers and scouring our faces. Far to the north of the city stretched the first hint of undulating gold-green moors. There, grouse fed among the tender spring shoots of budding heather.

My memories of York were far from being good ones. Five years ago, I had been chased from Tynemouth by James Douglas, as he and his bloodthirsty hobelars had descended upon the priory, even as lightning split the sky. After a stormy voyage aboard ship and then a pressed ride inland from Scarborough, I had stumbled sea-tossed and wind-beaten into the king’s chambers at York, only to be curtly dismissed by my husband, as Hugh Despenser sat leering beside him.

Just a few days after our arrival, Sir John of Hainault led five hundred Flemish mercenaries into York. He was assigned the Whitefriars abbey as his headquarters, while Young Edward and I claimed residence at the house of the Blackfriars. It was Mortimer’s suggestion that the Hainaulters be lodged apart from our own soldiers as much as possible. No one, not even Sir John, protested.

On a few occasions, there were slurs exchanged and taunts muttered. I could only hope that if called to pursue the Scots, a common enemy would make them forget their unfounded mistrust of one another. While little could be done to engender harmony amongst the common soldiers, I thought it wise to at least encourage familiarity between the English lords and Sir John. Thus, a feast was arranged in his honor. Come evening, full bellies and an endless stream of drink would put them all in better humor.

That afternoon, my damsels parted my hair, combed it with great care and plaited it into two halves that were brought forward to my cheekbones and then back again where it was skillfully tucked and secured with pins. My ears were carefully concealed beneath the golden weave. A silver circlet sat upon my brow, its only adornment a single ruby in the center.

Old Ida entered my chamber with Eleanor at her right, my daughter looking much older than her now nine years in a scarlet cyclas. Little Joanna clutched her sister’s other hand. I rose from my stool and kissed each of the girls on top of the head in turn.

Joanna’s small fingers toyed with the buttons of my tight-fitting sleeve. She pouted, her whole face twisting with impatience. “My belly’s roaring.”

“Then let us go, shall we?” I pinched her lightly on the cheek, turning her frown into a grin of approval.

Straightening, I tugged at the waist of my gown to readjust it. The neckline of my dark blue cotehardie dipped low from bare shoulders—a fashion which some yet considered scandalous, although I cared not, for I found it far cooler in these summer months to be free of cloth which covered every inch of my body except for my face. But if my dress was a topic for wagging tongues, the gossipers forgot about me as soon as they laid eyes on Patrice, for where my bosom was modest, despite having birthed four children, hers was amply endowed. She made a point of ‘arranging’ herself so that the deep crease of her cleavage peeked above the jeweled rays of her brooch. We were both now thirty-two and had known each other for most of those years, yet they had been kinder to her than me. Her skin was smooth, where mine was already showing fine creases at the corners of my eyes. Her thick hair glistened like darkest midnight amidst the twisting spirals of its curls; mine was fine and straight, like stalks of ripened grain. Had I not loved her as I did, I might have been jealous of her looks and the comfortable ease with which she flaunted them.

We began down the narrow corridor, a train of chattering women behind me, all of us giddy about the night’s festivities after so many weeks on the road, eating the most basic of foods, our clothing spattered with mud and our faces reddened by the sun’s strong rays.

Young Edward turned a corner ahead of us as we neared the hall. Around him were brightly attired noblemen and the ever-present Will Montagu, with whom he was laughing. Upon seeing us, the king threw his arms wide and rushed toward me.

“Did you hear?!” he exclaimed.

We kissed cheeks and as we did so, I suddenly realized he had now surpassed me in height. I cupped his chin in my hand. “Hear what, my son?”

He grabbed my hand, giving it a firm squeeze. “Count William has consented to the marriage. Philippa and I are to be wed!”

“I’m happy for you, truly. But do not forget the pope has yet to agree to the dispensation.”

“Mother,” he said, a sneer flitting over his lips, “it
will
happen. Don’t spoil my joy tonight with pessimism. Please?”

“Of course. My apologies.” In truth, although I was just as hopeful as he was that all would fall into place, age and experience had made a cynic of me. I reminded myself that Young Edward’s match with Philippa was one he had chosen himself. In Hainault, they had been inseparable, never at a loss for words or laughter. While the future course of his marriage couldn’t be predicted, at least it would have a good beginning—unlike my own marriage, which began poorly and got nothing but worse.

 Arm in arm, we proceeded to the high table. The guests rose and bowed as we entered and took our seats at the head table. Sir John was seated to the king’s right, while I sat to my son’s left. The hum of conversation filled the room as goblets were topped with wine. Musicians strummed a lively tune on the strings of their lutes and viols. Then, gasps of delight were heard as servants scurried forth bearing platters and dishes of stuffed duck and roasted mutton, quinces in wine sauce and custards topped with strawberries.

The first course had not yet been laid upon the king’s silver plate when Sir Roger Mortimer flew through the entryway and came straight to the king, each stride urgent and agitated. The grave look on his face was warning enough that all was not well that night after all.

Mortimer bobbed his head and poured out his news before the king even acknowledged him. “Your pardon, sire. I do not mean to interrupt, but I must inform you that a fight has broken out between some of the Hainaulters and a band of English archers over a game of dice. An Englishman accused his opponent of cheating. The Hainaulter drew a knife ...” He expelled a burst of air, shook his head, stole a glance my way. “Minutes later, our archers brought out their bows. They’ve shot dozens of Hainaulters dead already.”

Further down the table, the Earl of Lancaster jumped to his feet, his chair crashing behind him. “This is chaos!”

Murmurs of shock rippled through the high-beamed hall.

“Intolerable,” the Earl of Kent remarked. He and Norfolk rose in unison.

Sir John plunked down his goblet, wine sloshing over the brim and onto his hand. “I assure you, my lord,” he said to the king, “that I will punish any of my men who had a hand in this.”

Young Edward nodded, his countenance remarkably devoid of panic or anger. He bent forward and scooted his chair back.

I clamped a hand on his wrist, so tight I could feel his pulse throbbing beneath my fingertips. “Where are you going?”

“To stop this.”

“Stay, I beg you. Let them handle this. One stray arrow could —”

“No, Mother.” He peeled my fingers away and stepped back. “They’ll heed me. They will. Besides ...”—he leveled a gaze at me that was both commanding and imploring—“I cannot nestle under your wing forever.”

Moments later, he was hurrying out the door with Mortimer. I heard him call for his armor and weapons, as if he were a seasoned veteran of the field and not some innocent who had yet to see even a drop of blood shed. Against every urge, I let him go.

His brother John, who had not forgotten the riots in London, quaked as the hall emptied and the noise outside rose to a terrible din. Joanna tore away from Ida and climbed into my lap, her arms tight around my neck.

My appetite was lost, my hands cold and shaking. I clamped my teeth together to swallow back the bile that burned my throat.

How can this happen? We are not even at war. Dear Father in Heaven, keep him safe! Watch over him when I cannot.

***

King Edward rode through the streets of York, the visor of his bascinet open so all could see his face, his empty hand upraised. Prayers tumbling over my lips, I watched, safe at my tower window. One by one, brawling soldiers paused to heed the king’s pleas, abandoned their weapons, and then skulked away. Archers laid down their bows upon his passing and raised hands above their heads as they were herded into clumps to be dealt with by their superiors.

The fighting, which had begun in one quarter near where the Flemings were housed, had quickly spread to surrounding areas. Everywhere—in streets and alleyways, on rooftops, in doorways—the bodies of the fallen lay, mangled and bloodied. Within the hour, the city lay eerily still, reeking of death. Every door and shutter in York was barred and shut tight, except for those clogged with corpses.

This, I observed, is but a glimpse of war. An instant amidst the millennia. A single axe stroke in the felling of a great tree. A remembrance and a foreshadowing of every soldier who had ever fallen or is yet to fall.

In the end, more than three hundred had been killed. What chance did we stand of defeating the Scots if we could not make peace with our allies?

For a week, the soldiers were sequestered to let tempers settle. Young Edward, rather than lounge in the relative luxuries that York had to offer, wandered among them. He spoke little, but when he did he spoke of discipline and trust, his voice ringing with the youthful clarity of optimism and unmarred confidence. When they saw him again in the days following, they sank to their knees and hung their heads in shame. If anyone wondered how a king so young could say such wise words, they had but to cast a glance to the man behind him: Sir Roger Mortimer.

In this way, I could see how one complemented the other. Mortimer knew the brutal realities of war and he understood his soldiers—that to lead them into that bodily hell, you first had to promise them that immortality arose from a life lived with courage and honor. What he lacked, however, was not only Young Edward’s crown, but his ease among men. After the disappointing reign that was Edward II’s, my son was the embodiment of hope. He was loved and admired, if not yet wholly obeyed due to his callowness.

Mortimer had been right about inviting the Hainaulters back to England. Their skill in arms was never in question. It was the inherent mistrust of our own against those of foreign blood. That same enmity, however, would serve them well against the Scots—a reality which arrived all too soon. On the 15
^th
of June, the Scots crossed over the border through Kielder Gap, a hundred miles from York. Light-horsed columns, led by Thomas Randolph, now Earl of Moray, and Sir James Douglas, sped through the north of England.

Preparations were hastily finalized. While the Earls of Kent, Norfolk and Lancaster may have been the nominal leaders, all knew that it was Mortimer they would look to for guidance. None had more experience on the field of battle than him. And it was precisely for that reason that my heart grew cold with fear, for I knew he would not hesitate to rush into the confusion of killing, sword upraised and ready, courage as his shield.