Other exiled Englishmen, including members of the contrariants, had gathered at the French royal palace to plot all manner of disturbing things. So far Isabella had refrained from becoming involved in their schemes.
In truth, she found some of their wild talk disturbing. Edward Caernarvon was a fool and a weakling but he was also the father of her children, after all. Recently their eldest son, Prince Edward, under his newly bestowed titles of duke of Aquitaine and count of Ponthieu, had arrived to do homage in lieu of his sire for the Gascony provinces. Isabella had found the prince so much like Edward—without the pettiness and perversions—that she had wept for what might have been.
Isabella slipped away from her lover and reached for her clothes. She preferred to dress herself than risk the gossip that came with her maids, though a part of her knew they were fooling no one.
Looking up, she caught Mortimer staring at her, and Isabella's very bones seemed to melt at the intensity reflected in the black depths of his eyes. She who had dutifully accepted her aberrant husband, her political and domestic position, who placed responsibility above personal happiness, had fallen hopelessly in love.
She crossed to him. If Edward had been a normal husband, I would still remain in your thrall.
"My gentle Mortimer," she breathed.
He laughed. "You did not call me gentle last night." He crushed her against him. Roger was indeed a wild lover, but after the indifference of Edward she found his lustiness exciting beyond endurance. To Edward she had been a duty. To Mortimer she was a woman.
"Stay awhile yet, Madam." He leaned back, his manner mocking. "We have matters to discuss."
"Is that an invitation or a command?" Though Isabella loved his dominance sometimes his lack of respect for her position nettled.
"Take it as you will, sweetheart." Mortimer swept her in his powerful arms and carried her to his narrow bed. As he settled atop her, Isabella forgot about duty and position, about everything save the delight of her lover's embrace.
Chapter 25
Westminster, Christmas 1325
Maria spent most of the next thirty months following her husband's departure as chatelaine at Deerhurst, with all the duties that position entailed. In Phillip's absence, she was the de facto "lord" of the manor.
Duty and obligation.
She considered embracing that as her personal motto, stitching "Officium!" onto her linens, pillows and upon her bodice, a physical reminder that her mother's long ago teachings had indeed become hers.
Maria's pleasures revolved around little Tom and her daughter, Blanche, born eight months following Phillip's departure; occasional visits from Lady Jean Rendell, her sister-in-law; wool merchants seeking food or shelter on their way to Gloucester, or travelers bound for Oxford's university and many religious houses.
Phillip wrote her monthly, though depending on the vagaries of travel, some letters arrived in bunches while other times she received nothing. She'd expected his letters to be stiff travelogues—and they sometimes were—but more often he wrote of love, longing and regret.
From Amiens, which along with Constantinople claimed to possess the true head of John the Baptist, he had written, ''Tis different this time. The places haven't changed; perhaps I have. I visit Chartres and think of you. In Paris I saw Queen Isabella's entrance and remembered back to our wedding and longed once again to be with you in the manner of husband and wife.'
He wrote of his travels through the Holy Roman Empire and Outremer, the Land Beyond the Sea, travels that had only exacerbated his inner restlessness. 'I am beginning to understand that I have left behind the best part of me.'
As if I will be moved by empty words, as if crumbs of caring can outweigh your refusal to embrace your duties.
Always Phillip asked about their children. Odd to think he'd never even beheld his daughter. (Who was Blanche's true sire? She had Phillip's dark hair and reminded Maria of Tom as a baby, but the timing of conception was murky, and Blanche bore certain expressions...)
Maria responded that their lord had agreed to be their daughter's godfather and that, at her baptism, Richard had presented Blanche with a dozen exquisite robes of silk and ermine, tiny dolls carved from unicorn horns, and a cream-colored pony.
She did not write that she and Richard had shared no private conversation since their night of lovemaking and that both had kept their distance—more than their distance from each other—as if fearing contagion.
Maria wrote about Tom, who at seven, would soon be sent away to begin his long apprenticeship toward knighthood. She did not write what was in her heart, that she dreaded her son's leavetaking, that she silently rebelled at the thought of him shoveling manure, currying horses, cleaning armor for an impatient squire and serving at table where one misstep would earn him a box on the ears.
These things and more she kept to herself. She would not unburden herself to a man careening about the world like a hare being chased by hounds.
So be it.
In the eyes of the church, Phillip Rendell was her husband. Her private thoughts, grievances did not matter. And, aye, Maria well knew she had broken her marriage vows in a way he had not. But she'd confessed her sin and had been restored in God's eyes. (Though if forgiveness were truly dispensed, why the hordes of pilgrims and endless shrines? Why all the heavenly petitions, Month's Mind masses, prayers recited and votive candles lit to release souls from purgatory?)
Best not to ponder such things...
Still a part of her, a rebellious part of her, also questioned, what was more unforgivable—one adulterous act or a wholesale abandonment of one's sacred responsibilities?
* * *
Had Maria and Richard consulted an astrologer during the Advent season of 1325 and had the astrologer pulled out his almanac to consult the position of the stars, he might have warned them, "Do not go to Westminster. Do not begin what must end in tragedy."
Or he might have shrugged and said, "Embrace your fates. For what is written in the heavens cannot be unwritten."
Like hundreds of others, Maria stayed at Westminster throughout the Twelve Day celebrations. After a joyful reunion with Hugh—Eleanora had stayed in Fordwich because of a lingering cough and cold—she settled in to enjoy the festivities. She was awed by the finery of the king and his court and the opulence of Westminster's Royal Palace, which was mis-named for it was nearer a town with its jumble of buildings and great expanses of yard bustling with horses, baggage carts, litters, servants, noblemen and women, bishops and abbots and common folk.
Comparing herself to the exquisitely dressed court ladies, Maria knew herself to look hopelessly quaint in clothing years out of fashion—and did not care.
I am just so happy to be free!
Isolated at Deerhurst, Maria had felt ancient, as if her duties had aged her far past her twenty-six years. For a twelfth night, she would savor her release from "Officium."
What Maria, a stranger to political intrigue, could only faintly grasp was that, amid the tournaments, mystery plays and mumming, the dancing, caroling and balls, the feasting and games, serious business was being conducted. Favors were being asked and granted, alliances shifted or solidified, private and public causes advanced, conspiracies hatched or hardened—all revolving around the two most important people at Westminster, nay, in all of England.
King Edward and Nephew Hugh.
Daily, Maria saw Richard of Sussex, though generally at a distance, if she were crossing Old Palace Yard or New Palace Yard or in Westminster's great hall. When they could not avoid speaking, their conversations were awkward and they parted as quickly as possible.
It is at is, Maria would think afterward. (Unknowingly anticipating one of future king Edward III's mottos.) And congratulated herself upon her fatalism.
Maria particularly enjoyed structured events like jousting when she could watch the earl unobserved, or at the nightly banquets when Richard shared the dais with his half-brother. Since the revels lasted well into the night, she ha
d ample opportunity to indulge her secret obsession, though she was careful that her gaze not linger any longer on the earl than others and that her expression remain pleasantly neutral.
How proper they both were!
As if Richard did not notice Maria's dancing partners or what young knight might be taking up too much of her time or where she was seated in the lists. Or what colors she wore or when she entered or exited a room or when she looked tired or bored or a wistful expression crossed her face.
It was as if, in the midst of the Christmas celebrations, they were engaged in their own private dance—"You move here, I move there. Stay apart; come together."
All of which ended on the Feast of Fools.
The celebration began with an ancient tradition. A huge yule log had been dragged into the great hall and placed atop the old one burning in Westminster's main fireplace. King Edward, looking particularly resplendent in ermine, had successfully re-kindled the fresh log amid loud cheering. Such was considered an omen of good luck and long feasting during the coming year, 1326.
An omen that would prove disastrously wrong.
Even with Nephew Hugh beside him, His Grace was in a melancholy mood. There was that business with his wife and the daily rumors, most contradictory but all alarming, arriving from France. Not to mention his unpopularity with his subjects.
On Christmas Day he had participated in yet another tradition, the "laying on of hands." Edward, all of England's monarchs, possessed the power to heal those afflicted with certain skin ailments. He had diligently performed his duty, touching dozens of his subjects while sending heavenward sincere requests for a miracle. Many, many had been cured. Both this year and in every year of his reign. Did not that mean something?
Why cannot my people accept me? Even after eighteen years they carp and criticize.
Tonight Edward was wearing the official Crown of State, a massive headpiece that had been commissioned by William the Conqueror and modeled after the Emperor Charlemagne's crown. And it felt oh, so heavy, upon his head.
Seated at one of the lower tables, Maria did not notice when Richard of Sussex departed. Perhaps it had been while she and her father had been reminiscing with their dinner companions about this year's Cherry Fair. Whenever, at one moment Richard was at the dais and the next he was gone.
In the earl's absence, Maria turned her attention to King Edward. Wearing a garnache of gold tissue emblazoned with the royal leopards and with the Crown of State atop his golden head, Edward II was an especially magnificent sight. But there was something distasteful about him, a certain vacuity to his features that she had never noticed before. Watching him absently toy with one of several jeweled rings, she felt a sudden fear of Edward's weaknesses.
Someday will you bring about your brother's ruin?
While the tables were being removed, Maria considered slipping away. Hugh had already stumbled off, mumbling that he'd had too much to drink, and following a twenty-four course feast—twenty-four courses!—Maria wanted only to retreat to the small chamber she shared with her maids and collapse.
Earlier, a Lord of Misrule had been chosen by lot to preside over The Feast of Fools. The Lord, who was generally of common lineage, orchestrated the night's revelries, the point of which was that the Lord had permission to be as bawdily insolent and disrespectful toward his betters as he pleased. For one night. All in good fun.
Guests crowded around the Lord of Misrule, who was capering about in fantastic garb and spouting nonsense that seemed to delight his audience. Not understanding most of his references, Maria decided it was time to follow her father's lead and exit the hall.
Quietly, she moved to distance herself from the Lord, who'd just pinched the cheek of one countess and the breast of another. Maria worried that she might be singled out for some form of ridicule, perhaps because of her unfashionable dress or unsophisticated manners. Which was silly. Among so many, no one would give a care to someone so insignificant.
The Lord of Misrule was presently cavorting around King Edward who flashed his teeth, slapped his thigh and threw his arm around the less exuberant Despenser. The jester then bounced from His Grace to an ancient earl whom he loudly accused of wearing horns and then to an artfully painted courtesan who seemed to delight in his reference regarding "the mound of Venus" between her legs.
Horrified by such lewdness, Maria determined to withdraw as quickly as possible. From behind she heard a loud jingling of bells.
And was suddenly face to face with the Lord of Misrule.
Maria felt her cheeks flush, her heart race as she stared into his painted countenance. The Lord bowed before her. Stiffly, she inclined her head. She could almost believe the man was deliberately tracking her.
"Well, what have we here?" he asked the crowd, which had gathered close.
The Lord of Misrule thrust his face close to Maria and shouted something about the soft sweet underbelly of the lion. She did not understand the comment, but the audience seemed to find it amusing. Even a smile softened Hugh Despenser's sculptured features.
Maria stepped back but the jester pressed forward. Without warning he pirouetted, and flourishing a long plume, tickled the cleft between her breasts.
"Leave me be!" Maria snatched the feather from his hand and snapped it in two. Stupid, stupid. She was drawing further attention to herself.
Pretending fear, the Lord of Misrule threw his hands to his face and executed an awkward back flip, landing near King Edward and his favorite.
"Well-a-day, what is wrong?" The bells on the Lord's cap jangled as he waved his arms. "Are you a virtuous lady loath to feel a man's touch?" He turned around with an exaggerated wink to the spectators. "Beautiful lady, please grant a fool your favors. You have been known to favor other fools."
Was he referring to Phillip? Maria cursed her slow country wit. Intent on getting away, she spun on her heel. Quick as a pouncing hawk, the Lord of Misrule jerked her around and crushed her in an embrace. His moist mouth groped for hers; his tongue snaked between her teeth.
The court ladies gaped and giggled. His Grace laughed and whispered something in Despenser's ear. Others called out encouragement.
Maria slapped the Lord so hard she knocked off his jester's cap and sent him sprawling.
"Bitch!" The Lord of Misrule cried. Holding a hand to the side of his face, he struggled to his feet, glaring at her.
Hugh Despenser spoke for the first time. "No wonder your brother lusts for her," he said, ostensibly to the king. "The Bitch and the Bastard. A perfect mating!"
Stunned, Maria stared at the favorite, whose dark eyes shone with malevolent delight. King Edward smiled nervously while the merriment died on others' faces. Some openly glared at Nephew Hugh.
"Lord Despenser," said someone behind Maria. "I believe you owe Lady Rendell an apology for your coarseness."
Maria recognized the earl of Sussex's voice, sensed that he had moved to stand beside her.
Edward's grin vanished; he looked suddenly uncomfortable. What would he do, chastise his half-brother or his favorite? The hall quieted as the crowd anticipated the king's reaction. Either decision would be endlessly worried and interpreted by opposing factions.
Hugh Despenser cocked an eyebrow in arrogant fashion, confident of his favored status.
Edward straightened to his formidable height and raised his chin, looking every inch the son of a warrior king. "You did not mean to disrespect Lady Rendell, did you, Nephew Hugh?"
Hugh's face remained expressionless but he bowed deeply in Richard's direction. "My lord Sussex, I humbly beg yours and Lady Rendell's pardon."
Rather than respond, Richard firmly cupped Maria by the elbow and steered her from the hall. Embarrassed, confused and humiliated, she willingly followed until he opened the door to a small chamber along one of many confusing corridors and pulled her inside.
They faced each other.
While some discussion should be made about Hugh Despenser and the Lord of Misrule, now that the
y were alone the recent contretemps seemed insignificant.
They gazed into each other's eyes.
Maria's heart was suddenly full, the silence between them charged with so many years of things left unsaid. When each had struggled to uphold their version of duty and propriety, of sanctity as opposed to sin.
"I cannot do this any longer." Richard could have been referring to all manner of things. But Maria knew.
"Nor can I."
"You are like a sickness in my blood."
She nodded. For she felt the same about him.
"I doubt I'll ever succeed in purging you."
She made no answer to that.
"And I no longer care."
Her response would determine their future, the path upon which they would embark. Better to live purely with a passion that remained largely unsated? Or to fling convention aside and accede to her heart's yearning? Maria did not hesitate. She'd been starving so long she no longer even craved food. But now that sustenance had been put before her with the promise of an entire banquet, she was ready to devour it whole.
"I also have the sickness. For neither have I purged you." Reaching up, Maria smoothed a strand of hair away from Richard's forehead, pressed her palm against his cheek, the roughness of his beard. "We have both tried to do as we should. But for me this is not living, no matter the consequences."
Richard's hands settled around her waist. He could have, should have said, "There is still the matter of your husband. Someday he will return." But they both knew that. And it no longer mattered.
Instead he drew her close. Wrapped in each other's embrace they both assured themselves that they were willing to pay any price, face any future.
So long as they would be together.
Chapter 26
London, early 1326
Maria spent her days inside one of the stone buildings situated atop London Bridge. Her apartment, which for appearance's sake, Richard had deeded over to her family, was positioned near the great wooden drawbridge. Throughout the day the bridge was continually raised and lowered to accommodate cargo ships passing below on the River Thames, which was London's lifeblood. The creak and pop of turning wheels and the shouts of sailors provided a welcome alternative to the tomb-silent apartment. Save for household servants gliding through low ceilinged rooms, Maria was totally alone. She missed her children and felt guilty about her absence. Sometimes she contemplated having Tom and Blanche brought to her, but Richard had assured her that London would only be a temporary residence. Nor was it healthful to drag children around the country, especially in winter. Besides, Maria didn't want them to know that she was living in adultery. Tom was old enough to be subjected to gossip and to ask questions for which she had no truthful answers.
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