The baron's fate had been repeated elsewhere, indiscriminately it seemed, and the randomness of the punishment frightened Richard, everyone as much as the manner of death. Sixty-two barons were imprisoned in obscure castles, but worse, their wives and children, even their elderly relatives were incarcerated. Such acts were not only ludicrously petty but unprecedented.
The rain increased its patter. Opening the window attached by hinges, Richard leaned over the sill, breathing in the cool night, the moisture, the purity of new-falling rain.
Night and day still appear, he told himself, and rain and sunshine as they should. Crops are growing in the fields and ewes dropping their lambs. 'Tis only man who has gone awry.
At that moment King Edward entered, his face flushed with drink and good cheer. "Close the window, brother. You'll be soaked. And 'tis a fine storm we'll be having, will it not?"
A nervously ebullient Edward motioned for Michael Hallam to serve him wine. He was certain that Richard would do naught but berate him this night. Increasingly their time together consisted of verbal bickering, every bit as tedious as his quarrels with Isabella, and he had taken to avoiding his half-brother. If he wanted criticism he could recall Parliament.
Blue-white lightning forked across a boiling sky. The wall torches sputtered, danced, and dimmed. Richard closed the window and turned to the king.
"I am leaving court, sire. I am going south, to Chilham and Dover."
Edward raised his eyebrows. "You were just there. What is so important that you spend all your time so far from me?"
Richard thought suddenly of Maria Rendell, and just as suddenly shoved the thought aside. "Business matters."
"What business?" Lifting a poker from the hearth, Edward thrust it into the blazing fire. "You did not tell me."
"I cannot countenance what is happening," Richard blurted. "You no longer listen to me and I will not watch you destroy yourself and your kingdom."
"Do not be so dramatic. You just want to criticize me over Parliament or my friends, and I'll not listen. You are unfair to both me and Hugh. He only wished to govern well by making my administration more efficient, by helping me bring more money into England's treasury. What is the harm in that?"
"Aye," Richard said bitterly. "Lord Despenser is a true champion of the people."
"Did not we invite representatives of the commons in north and south Wales to Parliament so they might speak on behalf of their region, where all these accursed troubles began? That was Hugh's idea."
"And what about these barbaric executions? Are they Hugh's idea, as well?"
Edward said sullenly, "They were my enemies."
"Englishmen are not hanged, drawn and quartered. Englishmen are not imprisoned as it pleases you, or their wives and children. You even imprisoned Roger Mortimer's poor mother, by the rood, and she is seventy years old. You cannot rule by tyranny, brother, for the people's hatred will someday overwhelm their fear. You must cease these executions, listen to the voice of Parliament—"
"Parliament!" Edward waved a dismissive hand. "'Tis useful only for raising taxes. Otherwise 'tis just a troublesome device used to thwart my rule at every turn. I can govern more peaceably without my barons always yapping at my heels like a pack of pesky dogs. I need not them to tell me how to run England."
"Nay, and how can they? Most of them no longer possess heads from which to voice their protests."
His Grace poured himself a second cup of wine from the table near the fireplace. Outside the storm approached a crescendo, howling around corners, beating with angry fists against shutters and windows, demanding entrance.
I would prefer the storm outside to that within. He gulped down his wine. Why cannot even Richard understand?
"My subjects will not soon forget what it means to rebel against their rightful sovereign." Edward's voice was little more than a whisper, hard to catch above the pounding rain. "No longer will I attempt to be loved, to be reasonable and just, for I'll not win their love anyway. They loved Father, not me. Why? His rule was one continually of war. He left England's treasury so empty I've had to spend my reign like a beggar, living from hand to mouth, supplicating my barons and bankers. This war, especially, proved humiliating beyond endurance. I could not pay my way. I was decried throughout the country and had to exist on whatever driblets of revenue the exchequer could send. Foreign bankers refused to extend me credit. Only the Bardis deigned to lend me a few hundred marks or pounds here and there." He clenched his fist. "I'll no longer beg. I have the captured estates of my enemies and I will soon have England's treasury full to bursting, which is something Father could never do."
"Do not dare bring up Father," Richard cried, losing all restraint. Though there were things that must never be said, especially between brothers, he was past the point of caring. "Tell me what you did on Father's death."
Edward slammed his goblet down on the table. "I'll not speak of that."
"I was there when Father was dying, just as you were, when he requested of you three things."
"Enough, I warn you." Edward doubled his fist. "Do not continue. You have no right to dig up things that best remain buried."
Richard faced him across the folding table. "'Do not recall Piers Gaveston without consent of Parliament,' Father told you. Do you remember? 'Send one hundred knights to the Holy Land carrying my heart,' he said, and 'Wrap my bones in a hammock so that you can carry them before you to victory in battle.'"
"Aye, I'll not forget," Edward cried. "Even in death Father thought himself superior to me." He paced the narrow room. "I hated him, I did—always lecturing me, filling my head with shoulds and should nots, and criticizing me because I could never measure up."
"You did not even try. There was no trip to the Holy Land, no bones, and Piers was recalled before Father was cold in his grave. No wonder your reign is cursed."
Edward wheeled on him, his face white. "What did you say?"
"Listen well to the wind outside, brother. Mayhap 'tis not the wind at all, but Father crying for justice."
"Such nonsense!" Edward snapped, but he glanced beyond Richard to the rain-streaked window. "It seems you have forgotten to whom you speak. I am king of England, dear brother, and what are you? Some bastard pup that father begat during some meaningless tryst."
They faced each other, their breathing ragged in the ugly silence.
Striving for calm, Richard inhaled deeply, then motioned to Michael Hallam. "My men are awaiting me at the outskirts of York, Your Grace. I request your permission to join them."
Edward spread his hands in supplication. "Let us not fight, please. I hate it when we bicker. I did not mean what I said."
"But I did." Without waiting to be dismissed, Richard left York Castle and his brother the king.
* * *
Richard spent the next months in Kent deliberately remaining detached from political events. No reason to become upset over Edward's actions when the earl was helpless to change them. Better not to know. After his initial anger had faded, however, Richard found that he missed his brother and often toyed with attempting a reconciliation. But Edward seemed content with the company of Nephew Hugh and with planning another Scottish campaign to take place in the fall of 1322, so Richard busied himself at Chilham.
Recently he'd been approached by several lords concerning a possible marriage alliance with Thomas Lancaster's wealthy niece, Beatrice. A marriage uniting Lancaster's house with the royalist cause seemed a possible way of healing some of England's still festering wounds. Dead, Thomas Lancaster was proving himself a more powerful adversary than in life. So many miracles had been reported at his tomb that His Grace had ordered the entrance sealed. Many who'd once castigated Thomas now openly spoke of him as a saint and invoked his name in every conversation critical of the king and his policies.
To the talk of marriage, Richard said very little. Throughout his life he'd been involved in many similar negotiations, but all had come to naught. He wasn't adverse to the idea. A man
in his position had not the luxury of marrying for love or staying a bachelor, and Richard did not question the fact that he must someday wed. A part of him even embraced it.
Perhaps married I will forget Maria Rendell.
Since his return to Chilham Richard often hawked, hunted, or rode with Phillip but he avoided Fordwich. Sometimes he wanted to explain to Phillip about May Day, but how could he explain his feelings about Maria? Instead, he pretended that nothing had ever happened, and Phillip allowed him to pretend. When he didn't see Maria, he could almost convince himself that his attraction to her was purely physical—and events seemed to bear out that belief. Upon his return to Chilham, he'd taken Ivetta Smythe, the Sturry Prostitute, as mistress. Though initially Richard had found Ivetta's resemblance to Maria intriguing, her considerable physical charms kept him returning.
"Ivetta is no surrogate lover," he said to Michael Hallam, who stood guard doing Richard's frequent visits to Ivetta's cottage.
"If you keep telling me, my lord, perhaps someday 'twill be so," his squire said glumly. "But I doubt it."
Victim of an unhappy marriage which he preferred never to discuss, Michael had little use for most women. Eleanora, however, at least possessed a measure of sense and no false airs. His lord's attraction to Lady Rendell would lead to tragedy, of that he was certain. Though Michael also knew his lord would never intentionally hurt Lord Rendell, women had a most unpleasant way of making men forget all about duty, obligation—and friendship.
Chapter 19
Sturry, 1322
As muster for King Edward's Scottish campaign neared, Maria silently watched her husband readying his armor, his lance of ashwood, his mace, and a new shield made of hide and wood and painted with a blue wolf's head. Botulph the smithy meticulously sharpened the edges of St. Michael, Phillip's sword. The very idea of another campaign, another leave-taking terrified Maria, but when she sought reassurance Phillip merely shrugged off her feelings or made light of her fears.
And I am a mass of fears, Maria thought, while following her husband to the stable area. She felt so distanced from him—from everyone—so lost and alone. Michael Hallam spent more time with Eleanora than Phillip did with her. Even little Tom preferred riding with his father and Lord Sussex or talking with the knights in Fordwich's barracks to spending a quiet moment with her.
"I am naught but a glorified nurse," she griped to Eleanora. "Tom only comes to me when he falls down or is out of sorts or hungry."
Eleanora merely laughed. "What boy prefers the company of women? And what mother would truly want him to?"
Maria was annoyed that her sister treated the matter so lightly and annoyed at her perpetually sunny mood.
Mayhap you think Michael Hallam will marry you, she thought sourly. But he is too devoted to his lord to make anyone a proper husband.
Not that Maria was any longer certain exactly what a proper husband should be, or a proper wife for that matter. She knew her relationship with Phillip was deteriorating, and since she couldn't pinpoint the exact cause she blamed him.
She watched Phillip lead out Merlin, his destrier, for inspection. Watching him run his hands along Merlin's broad crupper as expertly as he ran his hands along Maria's curves during lovemaking, she thought, You care more for your destrier than me.
Conventional wisdom held that a good warhorse should possess three qualities in common with a woman—to be fair breasted, fair of hair and easy to lie upon.
Am I the only woman in all of England who finds such comparisons troubling?
"Hello, husband." When he looked up Maria thought she detected a measure of annoyance in his eyes. "Are you so busy that you cannot spare me a moment?"
"What is wrong? Has something happened to Tom?"
"No, nothing is wrong with Tom. I would just spend time with you, since you are always off with Lord Sussex or someone, doing things that involve everyone but your wife."
Phillip turned his back on her and addressed the groom. "See to the fit of Merlin's chamfron. It seems a bit loose." He then turned back to her. "I am busy, Maria. We can talk later."
'"Tis obvious you take more pleasure in your horse's company than in mine."
After glancing at the groom, who quickly bent to inspect the stirrups on Merlin's gilded saddle, Phillip said, "My life might soon depend on my horse." His voice possessed the same patient edge as when little Tom pestered him overlong. "And I am not readying for battle because it pleases me, but because it is my duty, as you well know. A peasant's duty is to tend the fields, the clergy's to tend men's souls, and a knight's to protect them all."
"I need not a lecture on duties, though often you do. You are eager enough to neglect a husband's duties when it suits you."
The groom moved away and pretended great interest in several bridles hanging upon the stable wall.
"I would say I know well enough my duties, wife. You seem to have forgotten yours, however. Your conduct is unseemly."
"I am weary unto death of you men and the wars you so eagerly anticipate. Why canna you do like Papa? He paid a scutage so he wouldn't have to serve and risk his brains being mashed to gruel."
"Your father is old and crippled. He's not able to fight even if he would."
"I hate you," Maria cried, losing control. "Soon you'll go off and leave me without a thought to how I'll fare. You can prattle on forever about obligations, but you've always hidden behind them to do exactly as you please."
"Enough!" Phillip clenched his fist. Though he had never struck her, a husband had a perfect right to hit his wife. "You are turning into a shrew, Maria. I would rather spend my time fighting a battalion of Scots than to be cut to ribbons by your tongue."
* * *
Following their quarrel, Maria rode to the Leopard's Head. As her relationship with her husband had worsened, she spent an increasing amount of time there. She found the quiet house with its childhood memories more pleasant than current reality.
The Leopard's Head was located at the outskirts of Sturry Court above the River Stour. The court, owned by St. Augustine's Abbey, was a placid place. Chickens and geese scratched about the farmyard; milk cows peeked from the stables; a white-robed monk passed from the brew house to the lavatories while a handful of others clustered near the hall and abbot's chamber. Pleasant smells emanated from the bake house and kitchen. Beyond the stake-and-brushwood fence surrounding the court, bare-chested tenant farmers were harvesting fields of grain. Soon they would turn the grain over to King Edward's officials who, by the right of purveyance, were securing foodstuffs for the pending campaign.
Dismounting, Maria handed Facebelle's reins to a waiting groom. The Leopard's Head, at least, was old and familiar. As a child Maria had skipped through its narrow halls and played tag with Eleanora among the great boxes, tuns and casks stored on ground level. During summer evenings they had tossed rocks into the River Stour from their third-story garret room.
It was here, in her childhood bedroom, where Maria now spent most of her visits. Sinking down upon a bench positioned neath a narrow window, she looked out upon Sturry Court's buildings of flint and stone, the golden fields of the tenant farmers, and the yellow and white lilies glutting the water ditches.
"So much is wrong," she whispered.
Maria's unhappiness revolved around Phillip, of course. How could anything be right when her husband was indifferent to her? Why couldn't their relationship be the way it was in romances, where she would ever remain the object of his obsession? When he would sigh and tremble, become pale and sleepless just contemplating an erotic glance from her; when he might even die should she not grant him her favor? In her darkest moments, Maria wondered if they had ever been close, or whether her own passion had blinded her to his apathy.
The only time she felt connected was when they made love, but the lovemaking itself was a problem. If their union was blessed why hadn't they conceived a second child? Tom was four years old now. Perhaps she was barren because they had consummated during some impro
per lunar and planetary conjunction but Maria secretly wondered whether their problems were not rooted in an ancient tragedy. Had Edmund Leybourne's death cursed their marriage?
If I had obeyed Mother, if I had not run away, would I now be blessed with more children?
"But I would not have Phillip," she whispered. "And without him life would hold no meaning at all."
* * *
"Whore!" A Dominican blocked Maria's path to the stables where she had planned to retrieve Facebelle and return to Fordwich.
"Father, I beg your pardon," she stammered, stunned by the sudden assault. "Why are you—"
"What are you doing here, so near to sacred ground and dressed as a respectable woman?" The Dominican thrust his narrow face close to hers, his dark features twisted with hatred. "Where are your stripes, creature, your hood of scarlet rey?"
"I do not understand. Why are you saying such things? I... this is my property and I was just—"
"You will burn in hell for your corruption, you and the Bastard both." Grabbing a bewildered Maria's arm, the Dominican dug his broken nails into her flesh. "Do not think that you have fooled me or Him." He pointed a grimy finger heavenward. "We have seen you, pressing putrid flesh to putrid flesh, and our wrathful Father will sentence you both to an eternity of torment for your sins."
"I do not know of what you speak. Please, just leave me in peace." Maria tried unsuccessfully to twist away from the priest, who smelled so strongly of sweat, garlic and stale food that her stomach turned. "If you do not let go of me, Father, I swear I will call for help."
Late afternoon shadows crawled across the road along which three riders were approaching. The bells from Sturry's Church began booming out vespers. The priest raised his voice to an oratorical pitch. "You think I haven't seen the Bastard leaving your brothel at all hours? Jesu, no wonder England is cursed with such as he—"
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