The King Must Die (The Isabella Books) (9 page)

As dawn broke over the Yorkshire hills on the first day of July, the great army of England amassed outside the city gates. I rode past on my chestnut palfrey to survey the men-at-arms, archers, and armored knights in their hundreds. The many-colored banners and pennons fluttered in the barest of breezes, the air already stifling in the rising heat. Patrice and a few of my damsels rode along with me, as well as several knights who would stay behind to garrison York and serve as my protectors. As much as I wanted to accompany the army on this campaign, I would go no further than York—and pray all the while that both my son and my lover would return home to me.

My chest tightened as I searched amongst the banners. Kent waved to me. “God go with you!” I called in return. I tried to smile in encouragement, but couldn’t. I could only wonder how many days or weeks or even months might pass before I would see them again, before I would even know who yet lived and who had died.

Ahead, a row of archers parted suddenly, heads bowed. Young Edward galloped toward me, a cluster of knights and squires trailing in his shadow. His great warhorse, in all its fine trappings, was a spectacle to behold—and he no less, his slender frame encased in layers consisting of a padded gambeson, coat of mail, and surcoat, giving him the appearance of more girth than nature had yet seen fit to endow him with. Plates of armor, polished to blinding brilliance, further protected him from shoulder to wrist and knee to ankle. Upon his head sat a gold-crowned bascinet, which hid the downy waves of golden hair beneath it.

Not yet fifteen, and already he was more kingly than his father had ever been.

“’Tis only for show,” he beamed, laying a gauntleted hand upon the gleaming mail on his courser’s neck, “until we are beyond the city. Any one of my palfreys has a much smoother ride than this temperamental beast.”

Black eyes wide, the steed curled a lip and neighed, then tossed its head. It stomped a hoof on the beaten grass and danced sideways a step. Young Edward laughed, pulling back gently on the reins until it settled. “See what I mean?”

But I was not so lighthearted. The king’s smile faded. He moved closer to me, extended his hand. “I don’t know Scripture well, I confess. Would that Bishop Orleton were here. It seems a fitting occasion to quote the Holy Gospel, does it not?”

Though I opened my mouth to speak, the words I had so carefully prepared refused my will. Grasping his fingers, I nodded and bit the inside of my lip to still its quivering.

“Should he send any word from the pope,” he said, his forehead creasing solemnly, “about the dispensation ...”

“Of course. Oh ...” I gestured to a page behind me, seated on his hackney. He trotted forth and handed a letter directly to the king. “From Philippa. It arrived late yesterday.”

For a long moment, Edward stared at the wax seal with a bewilderment that was both joyful and bittersweet. Finally, he tugged a gauntlet free and broke the seal. He scanned the letter quickly, then just as fast folded it up again and tucked it beneath his surcoat. “She says, ‘Fear nothing, for I have prayed for you.’”

With a shrug he tried to dismiss the sentiment, but I could see him swallowing hard, his hand still pressed against his surcoat where the letter was concealed. I was certain the moment he was alone again he would take it out and read it once more, a dozen times perhaps, bare fingertips tracing the black swirls and slashes, as he summoned her memory and dreamt of seeing her again.

We exchanged a kiss. All I could say was: “God go with you and protect you, my son.”

What else does a mother say to her firstborn son on the day she realizes he is now a man? The day she realizes she will never hold him against her breast again to comfort him? There are so many things I could say, but I won’t. He is a man; I must let him live a man’s life.

Heavy-hearted, I rode away, back toward the city as, far behind me, the trumpet’s clarion signaled the order to march. Somehow, above the rumble of wagon wheels and pounding feet, Lancaster bellowed orders. I tried to gaze straight ahead toward York’s high walls and heavy gates, but I kept turning my head to look back.

Last night, Mortimer and I had foregone parting words and probing hands, instead holding each other and talking of our future, as if it stretched open and inviting before us, no barriers in our way, no enemies to thwart our plans or quash our dreams. As I rode beneath the portcullis, I barely took note of the faces of the people who bowed to me or parted from my path.

After a brief prayer at the chapel, I returned to my chambers at the house of the Blackfriars, my bones as weary as my spirit was cheerless. In the antechamber, I bade my damsels to take their morning meal and join me later in the afternoon.

“Would you like us to bring you something to eat?” Alicia asked.

“Perhaps later,” I said, one hand pressed to my churning stomach. I’d had no appetite since earlier the previous day. No wonder I was as weak as a newly weaned kitten. I started toward the door to my bedchamber.

Patrice rushed forward, grabbing the door latch. “I can help you change out of that, if —”

“No. Thank you, but no. I just need to sit awhile. Alone.” All I wanted was to fall into bed, but I was sure once the door was closed, the tears would come, hard and heavy. I didn’t even want Patrice there. She had no son. She might hold me, say words of comfort, but she would not understand my grief.

I slipped through the door and closed it as fast as I could. I had not made two steps toward the bed when an unexpected voice seized my heart.

“Isabeau.”

Gasping, I whirled around. “W-w-why are you here?”

Drawing both hands down over a rough-whiskered face, Mortimer leaned out from his chair, hidden in a shadowy recess. “Dear God, I am so tired I can barely think straight. My head feels like it will cave in, my heart like it has leapt from my body.”

With a throaty groan, he heaved his body forward, staggering forward several steps before he stopped, glared at me, then gimped toward the window, one leg dragging along the floor as he gripped a hand to his thigh.

“Roger, what’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

He flipped around, casting his weight against the wall next to the window. In full light, he appeared even worse. Dark smudges hung beneath his eyes, which were rimmed in red, as if he had rubbed at his eyeballs until the blood vessels threatened to burst. He breathed in through his nose, looked toward the ceiling, and sagged. I thought he might sink to the floor, but he stayed upright, his breathing growing more ragged with each pull of air.

I went to him, touched his shoulder. “Are you hurt?”

A smirk tilted his mouth. “Nothing that will kill me. A pain in my hip. When the siege on Bristol broke, I ... fell. Down the dungeon stairs, as I ran to see my uncle ... but he was already dead. Not very graceful, I admit. The pain, it comes and goes. Mostly, it comes when I am robbed of sleep.”

It had been nearly midnight when he left me, but he had seemed very calm then, given the circumstances. I slid my fingers up the slope of his shoulder, sensing the tautness in his muscles. His shirt was tugged to one side, crumpled. It was the same one he’d had on last night. He hadn’t even bothered to don his armor. “What happened, Roger? Did Lancaster say something to you? Did the king?”

Mortimer grabbed my hand. “Gurney and Ockle arrived from Berkeley in the middle of the night. They brought news.”

Berkeley—that word alone was an ill omen.

I slipped my hand from his and drew the shutters closed. “What word did they bring?”

He whispered, “Edward of Caernarvon was freed.”

I had to sit down before my knees gave out. I turned away, slid onto the edge of the bed, wadding a handful of blankets in my hand to squeeze hard. “And they have not found him yet?”

“No, they have.” A grimace flashed across his face as he hobbled across the floor. When he reached the bed, he collapsed back onto it. Hands interlocked across his chest, he looked at me. “It took them four days to find him. And the
only
reason they did was because he ran away from the people who had tried to rescue him.”

“That doesn’t make any sense. Why would he try to run away? Did he think they were going to harm him?”

He shrugged. “Perhaps. But nothing about Edward of Caernarvon makes much sense anymore. He talks incessantly of God, my son-in-law tells me. Says he’s glad to be rid of his crown. That he wants to join the Church and be left in peace.”

“That hardly sounds like Edward. Do you think he has gone mad? Or that he’s simply saying such things hoping to be left in peace long enough to ...” I shook my head. Even I was thinking in circles that didn’t make sense. “Was it Dunheved, the man who tried to free him from Kenilworth earlier?”

“I don’t know, but very likely it is. He and his accomplices will be hunted down and made to pay. But what matters even more is who put him up to it. Someone wants Edward of Caernarvon back on the throne—and us out of power.”

I smoothed the wrinkles from my blanket. Mortimer was right. Someone wanted us deprived of our power. Wanted it for themselves. But who? Lancaster? The king’s uncles? The King of Scots? It could be anyone.

I had to protect my son. I had gone through too much to bring him to the throne.

Mortimer sat up, a devilish flicker in his eyes. “But if they can’t find him ...”

“What are you talking about?”

He reached out to trail calloused fingertips over my chin and jawline, then lifted a tendril of my hair and tucked it behind my ear. “Only a passing thought. Never mind.”

“Roger, swear to me you won’t harm him.”

“Isabeau, if you cannot trust me, then who
can
you trust?” With a weary grunt, he stood. “Now, I need to rest.”

“But ... you must go to Scotland.” I followed him to the door, an even worse panic twisting my gut as I imagined my son being led into battle by the overconfident Lancaster or the inexperienced Kent. “Who will —?”

“I
will
—tomorrow. It won’t take me long to catch up with that lumbering column. First, though, I need sleep.” His cold lips grazed my ear. He opened the door and walked past my damsels. Although he took great pains to hide his limp, the stiffness of his gait and the scrape of his right foot were still evident to keen eyes and ears.

When he was gone, Patrice arched a questioning eyebrow at me.

“An old battle injury,” I offered. “See if he requires a physician.”

With that, I shut the door and buried my face in my pillow to muffle my sobs.

There are times that we contrive events in an effort to control them—and times that events control us.

6

Young Edward:

Weardale — July, 1327

E
very day when I awoke, I prayed to find the Scots, so we could defeat them. And every night after we failed to find them, I gave thanks that we had avoided battle.

When I left my mother at York, her apprehension had seethed through her skin and gathered in the sweat of her palm as I took her hand. What good would it have done to tell her that I, too, was afraid? None. Even as a king, I knew I was not immune to the mortal cut of a sword or the piercing of arrows, for as Will often told me when we were practicing at weapons, ‘’Tis the dead man who believed himself invincible.’ It was only the promise of seeing Philippa again—of having her as my wife and queen—that lent me bravery.

The Hainaulters had brought something called a ‘cannon’, a large metal barrel which, packed with a curious powder and set afire, could shoot an iron ball far into the distance with a force so great it could fell a castle wall in one blow. Accuracy, however, was another matter. I had seen Mortimer’s trebuchet at Bristol. The surprise was terror enough in itself, however. I would not have wanted to be inside Bristol’s walls, wondering when or where the next stone or rotting corpse might land.

Mortimer had delayed his departure from York, claiming pain from an old injury. A feeble lie. He simply wanted to dally with my mother a day longer. By the time he arrived at our camp three days later, I saw no signs of discomfort in his stride, not even a grimace. I said nothing, lest my peevishness show, but I was also relieved to have him with us. While in France, he had told me many stories of his days in Ireland. If anyone was prepared to fight the northern heathens, I knew it was him. Certainly not Lancaster, that overblown swine. Thankfully, Lancaster headed off toward Newcastle, hoping to cut off the Scots should they take the eastern route, while the bulk of our army remained in the midlands near the River Swale, closer to Durham.

Every day scouts were dispatched in broad arcs. And every day they came back without news. Our column crept and meandered through the hills, progress hampered by the heavily laden wagons that carried our needed supplies and extra weapons.

I twisted around in my saddle to cast a look behind us. Our column trailed away for miles, its tail disappearing around a bend in the road, where a swath of marshland ran along the Swale.

“We could move faster without the wagons,” I complained.

Yawning, Mortimer gazed straight ahead. He freed his feet of his stirrups and stretched his legs, then arched his back, as if he were fighting boredom and sleep. “A starving army is a weak army, my lord. Who knows how far north we’ll have to go. They need their strength.”

“I’ve heard the Scots have no wagons. That they drink from the rivers and carry only small sacks of oats tied to their saddles and make something called ‘bannocks’ on hot stones. And when they butcher a cow, they cook the meat in its own hide.”

“They do, but they’re nearly animals themselves.”

“Can we beat them?”

Finally, he looked at me, his dark eyes boring through my false shield of courage. A lopsided smile broke the firm lines of his mouth. “Your grandfather did, many times. More than likely, though, we’ll never encounter them. The Scots, you see, are afraid to meet us in outright battle. They are lightly armed, fewer in numbers, and fierce, though undisciplined. Face to face, we would crush them into oblivion. So they attack unprotected villages while they’re beyond our reach and run before we can get to them.”

“But if there is a chance of us coming upon them, why even come so far into England when it could mean their end? Why lurk and taunt? Why not just fight?”

“Because, as I said, they’re animals. It’s their way.” He returned his insouciant gaze to the empty road ahead. “Still, never underestimate them, my lord. Night or day, always expect they’re waiting around the corner just ahead, beyond the next line of hills, hidden in the forest to either side.”

A shiver rippled down my back, despite the day’s heat. I clenched my reins. For the next several hours, I studied the land around us, searching for shadows among the woods that stood in scattered patches all around us. At midday, a scout returned from the northern road ahead of us. Again, nothing.

The next day we arrived in Durham. But before we were settled and fed, to the southeast, beyond a stretch of hills we had passed the day before, a plume of black smoke curled upward toward snow-white clouds.
The Scots.

At last, the rabbit is out of the hole. The hunt begins.

***

We turned back the way we had come from and then swung east through a narrow valley, the spiral of smoke beckoning. This time the scouts brought back reports of a village burned to the ground by the Black Douglas barely two days past. When we arrived there, smoke hung over the buildings like a pall of death. The army halted outside the village and I rode in with a group of thirty knights, including Mortimer. There was no danger. The Scots had been here and gone long ago.

Not a single house had been left untouched. Fire had consumed the thatched roofs and inside the walls that were no more than shells, timbers still smoldered. Barrels, baskets and emptied sacks were strewn all about. Stock pens lay in shambles; a pair of goats skittered in front of a band of riders, while a white-faced sheep bleated from behind the broken table of a potter’s stall.

The cries of grieving women rent the air, their screams so raw and primeval it was like a knife shoved in the ear and twisted, its keen blade scraping away flesh and blood. As we passed the first home on the edge of the village, a little girl, no older than my sister Joanna, stood bawling. Her small face was blackened with soot. Behind her, a charred and smoking body lay beneath a collapsed doorway. It ...
it
looked like a side of pork left on the spit too long.

I turned my head away and retched. My stomach heaved again—the convulsion so deep I thought my insides would spill out—until bile spewed over my tongue and chunks of that morning’s breakfast splattered over my leg.

Will rode up beside me, offering a kerchief. I grabbed it, dragged it across my mouth, and then mopped at my chausses. I held the stinking kerchief out, to give it back to Will, but he had already ridden on. At the next house, he climbed down from his horse and circled a body sprawled in the road. The last bundle of thatch on the roof, still smoking, fell to the floor inside. A cat yowled and leapt through the window out into the road.

Will jerked at the flash of movement and drew his sword. The cat hissed at him, then scampered away, tail whipping. Will leaned down closer, poked at the body with the tip of his blade. It twitched. Cautiously, he jabbed it in the side and an arm,
half
an arm, flailed toward him. Will sidestepped the bloody stump as it flew past his knee. He kicked the dying man in the shoulder.

The man’s eyes, red as the reddest harvest moon, flew open. He let out a ghoulish moan, slammed his half-arm onto the ground and tried to push himself away. It was then that I saw the hole in his gut, his entrails oozing out, and the pool of congealed blood beneath him. With cold mercy, Will plunged his sword into the man’s heart, held it there, and waited for him to die.

Like that, I watched a man die. In slow, terrible agony. An Englishman. And I knew then I would see more of death and suffering, of cruelty and greed, of evil and apathy. I fought the urge to turn and ride away. Then I remembered that I was the one who insisted on coming along; no one had demanded it of me. If I ran, if I left this to others, what would they say of me?

I must be strong ... and brave, for I am a king and kings do not cower.

I closed my eyes, gripped my knees to my mount’s ribs, fighting to stay upright until my head stopped reeling and my breathing steadied. Someone called my name. Footsteps plodded on the packed dirt of the road, coming closer. Finally, I forced my eyelids apart.

My uncle, Edmund, Earl of Kent, stood before me, head bare, his shield slung loosely over his left arm and his sword at his hip. “Everything all right, my lord?”

Drawing a lungful of smoky air, I fought back a cough, swallowed to wash back the burning taste of bile and raised my chin. “Fine. Where are they?”

“Headed”—he pointed toward a vague line of hills in the distance—“that way.”

I nodded, suddenly noticing the men who were gathering around me. “Let’s find them, then. Kill the bastards who did this.”

***

For over a week, we followed a trail of smoldering ashes—a trail which grew colder with each passing day. Our supply train was too slow. Paths which might have shortened our journey and put us closer to our quarry were impassable with the cumbersome wagons.

We were encamped outside the town of Bishop Auckland, awaiting the return of a scout, for another cloud of smoke had been spotted to the southwest. The division commanders were summoned to my pavilion. Impatient, I emerged from the suffocating air of the tent to wait outside. Nearby, Will Montagu cupped his hands and dipped them into a bucket of water. He dunked his face into the pool in his palms, and then scrubbed vigorously with his fingertips. I handed him a skin of wine.

“Damn cannons,” Will muttered. He gulped down the drink and handed it back to me, empty. “A team of horses can barely get them up a steep hill at a crawl. And through the marshes?” He scoffed. “Useless things almost sank in one yesterday. Wasted effort to bring them all the way from Hainault.”

“Hainault?” Sir John stepped through a crowd of soldiers, sweat pouring from his broad forehead. He looked questioningly at Will.

Will grinned, held open the tent flap and waved him inside. “I said it’s a good thing you’ve come all the way from Hainault. Doubtless, once we catch up with those dastardly Scots, you’ll give them a good drubbing with those cannons of yours.”

Sir John laughed heartily and pounded Will on the shoulder, then ducked inside.

A sneer curled Will’s lip. I flashed him a warning glare. “Need I remind you of the Count of Hainault’s hospitality during the months we spent at Valenciennes?”

“No, my lord.” With a few deft twists of his fingers, Will had unfastened the buckles of his arm plates. “I’m not at all ungrateful. Just smart enough to know when to cut loose the stone dragging me underwater, that’s all. Do us all a favor and convince them of that.” He inclined his head toward Kent and Mortimer, then gathered up his weapons from the ground and left.

 I went inside and a moment later Norfolk joined us. Mortimer flicked open a map and laid it on the small table in the center of the pavilion. I bent over it, studying the names of the rivers, towns and villages from Northallerton to Newcastle. By now, I had a firm idea in my head of where each was situated, sometimes even the distance between them.

“As of this morning,” Mortimer said, pressing his finger on the map, the name of the fortress barely a faded scratch on the tattered parchment, “they were here—Barnard Castle.”

“How many miles?” Sir John asked.

Mortimer tapped his finger on the spot, and then traced it back to our location. “Sixteen ... by the most direct route.”

“Within striking distance,” Kent added. “But why haven’t they gone further afield? Why loiter so close by?”

“Because,” Mortimer said, looking up from the map, “Douglas is well aware of our unwieldiness. He taunts us because he can. He has no intention of ever meeting us in direct battle, even though he’s brought his hobelars further into England than any Scottish army has ever been before. And he’ll leave, like the coward he is, when he’s tired of the sport. So let me ask you, my lords, how do we catch them and bring them to battle?”

Mortimer’s gaze passed from face to face. A thick silence pervaded the space. Although he had declined command of any sort, clearly they were all looking to him for answers. Finally, his eyes met mine.