* * *
The smoke in Dover's Great Hall caused Richard's head to ache. His mouth was dry. He called for more wine, though his thoughts were already out of kilter. Good, perhaps he could drink until he had no thoughts at all.
Tonight Robin had ceased his blathering about imaginary battles, saints be praised, and was singing of courtly love. Every time the minstrel even indirectly referred to Bannockburn, Richard felt the eyes of everyone in the room turn to him. They all knew the real truth of Bannockburn, that Richard had been terrified, that he and Edward were responsible for lovers weeping and parents wailing for sons who would nevermore return.
When I stand before my Maker, how many deaths will I have to atone for?
And not only death—treachery as well. Bannockburn also meant Phillip.
Richard motioned for more wine. Drink he needed, until his mind went dead and he couldn't see his vassal's accusing face. "So this is how you repay me," his former friend would say upon his return. "Thank you for comforting my wife, sire. Thank you for your bastard."
Richard knocked over his cup. Wine stained the linen tablecloth. A page scurried to blot it. "Forget that," Richard hollered. "Bring me more wine."
He looked up. Maria was watching him. What was she thinking? Did she know about Bannockburn, that the minstrel sang naught but lies? Every time she'd caressed the scar on his chest, had she thought of Phillip and remembered that save for her husband, Richard would be moldering in his grave?
Phillip had saved his life and Richard had given him a bastard.
* * *
"Lord Sussex would see you." Michael Hallam stood in the doorway to Maria's chamber, glowering at her. She was causing his lord pain, just as he'd predicted. She was the cause of Richard's drinking, his solitary rides, his short temper. England was floundering and his lord's every energy was consumed by a woman. One could not expect better from King Edward, but from Richard it was disgraceful. And frightening.
"I do not understand." Maria sat up in bed, her hair spilling around her. "M'lord has not asked for me in weeks."
Michael's lips compressed in an angry line. "Well, he is asking for you now."
Maria found Richard seated by a roaring fire which provided the only light in the room.
At sight of the flagon of wine and overturned goblet on a nearby table, Maria's hope of a possible reconciliation evaporated.
Richard turned his head. "Sit beside me."
His manner was cold as the wind off the channel. Hooking a small bench with his leg he brought it close before quickly returning his gaze to the flames. With her hair tumbling about her breasts and dressed as she was in a filmy chemise, Maria appeared as desirable as ever. More so, after long weeks of abstinence. All the vows or confessions in the world could not make him cease desiring her. But he must.
He had summoned Maria to question her about Robin the Minstrel, to ascertain whether she suspected the truth about his cowardice, but his thoughts were as much muddled by her presence as the wine. Had Robin been but an excuse? Had he really summoned Maria just to share a few private moments?
Slowly, he lifted his hand to her. He touched a tumbling mass of hair that glowed like a dying sunset in the fire's blaze.
"I have missed thee so, Maria." His words were slightly slurred.
When she bent toward him, he inhaled her scent.
"And I have missed you."
"So much I wanted to say to you, to share but..." His voice trailed off. He'd almost added that he'd been afraid, but that was what this was all about, wasn't it? Fear and Bannockburn, which brought him back to Phillip. Forever and ever, like the cut of a circle. With no way out and no way in.
"I prayed he would leave, do you know that?" Richard said, vocalizing the tangled web of his thoughts. "Leave England and never return so I could have you all to myself."
Maria stiffened. She knew well enough who "he" was. "Such thoughts do no good." She left the bench to kneel by his feet. "We have not been together for such a long time, let us not waste this moment." Resting her head against his knee, Maria whispered, "Take me to bed, my love. Let me rest my ear upon your chest and feel the beating of your heart. Let me fall asleep in your arms."
Richard shook his head, as much to clear it as refuse her request. Reaching for his goblet he gulped its contents, but not even drink would obliterate the voices, fears, guilt, the continuous replaying of scenes. Death and love and loyalty all blurred until he had no idea what he was feeling, or where one emotion finished and another began.
He pushed Maria away so abruptly she nearly lost her balance. Leaning his elbows on the folding table, he held his face between his hands. "We are doomed, Maria, you and I."
"I no longer believe in prophecies." Her voice sounded much surer than she felt for the words uneased her. "We will only be doomed if we doom ourselves."
"And have we not done a good job of that?"
Maria had no answer.
She stood. "If you are right, what can be done about it anyway? We cannot re-write the past or change the future, even if we would, for did not God long ago write our fate among the stars?"
"That is what frightens me," Richard whispered.
He reached for more wine.
Maria returned to her room.
* * *
Save for Edward and Hugh Despenser, who had ridden to Richborough, Dover remained crowded with magnates who had gathered to plot counter schemes against the queen and her lover. Halfway through the even meal Richard stood, and after draining his goblet, be beckoned to Robin the Minstrel, who leapt nimbly to his feet and bowed before his host.
"Sing to me of Bannockburn," Richard said. "The entire battle. Beginning with my unflinching bravery and ending, of course, with Lord Phillip Rendell."
Seated a discreet distance away, Maria nearly dropped her cup. She felt her face flush and was certain every guest stared at her. She ducked her head. Her pregnancy was now discernible to all but the blindest, so why was Richard so publicly humiliating her with mention of her husband?
Before Robin had fully launched into his account, Richard loudly observed, "It seems my left is unoccupied. Is the Bastard to sup alone? Come, Lady Rendell. Break bread with me."
Maria's eyes swept the sea of faces. In the days following their midnight meeting, Richard had taken to openly taunting her. She did not understand this new twist to their relationship, but her pity and patience were swiftly evaporating. If he meant to wear a mental hair shirt, so be it. But she would not don one for him or anyone.
"My lord, if 'twould please you, I am comfortable where I am."
"Come here!" Richard roared.
As Maria approached, each step slower than the other, defiance replaced embarrassment. How dare he shame her before the entire hall?
"Sit beside me, my lady."
"I'll not."
Richard grabbed her hand and squeezed until the bones cracked.
Maria sat.
Richard motioned Robin the minstrel to begin.
Bannockburn. With each verse, Richard became ever more intent. He leaned forward in his chair; his knuckles showed white around the stem of his goblet.
When the battle neared its climax, Maria tried to stand, to break free of Richard and his madness but he forced her back down.
"And after the heathen Scot came upon the glorious earl, his bravest of vassals, Phillip of Herefordshire, taking no heed for his own life—"
Richard leapt to his feet. "Enough!" He shoved against the banquet table, sending trenchers crashing, food flying, guests screaming. "Get out of here, all of you. Be gone from Dover. Now!"
Michael Hallam hurried forward to grab his arm, but Richard shook him off. Jerking his dagger from his belt, he pointed it at a stunned Robin, who stood amidst broken goblets and platters, streams of sauces, and half carved haunches of venison.
"I should slit your throat. Then your voice would not sound so sweet."
Robin's face turned green as the pea sauce seeping into the rushe
s. Richard strode to him, shoved him toward an exit, then returned to the dais—and Maria. Quick as a darting fox the earl spun her around until her back was against him and pressed his dagger against her throat.
"Will you not plead for your life, lovedy?" Richard's hot breath seared her ear.
"Nay," Maria managed. While she was frightened, she also felt the first stirrings of rage at him, at her, this entire situation.
"Your courage is admirable, but only the best for the Bastard, wouldn't you agree? Never mind she belongs to someone else. Aren't you lucky, my lady, to bear the seed of England's most celebrated bloodsucker?"
She shook her head in involuntary protest. The blade pressed against her throat. "Please, no more talk of blood. Just let me go—"
"But I want blood. Yours as well as my own."
Maria felt a prick. Something warm trickled along her neck. Richard released her, and when she turned to face him, touched the wound. Raising his hand to his lips, he licked the blood from his fingers.
The banquet hall careened, receded to a great distance. Maria lunged toward the knife. Richard jerked it back with such force it flew from his grasp. Doubling her fist Maria swung at him, hitting him square in the jaw. She leapt for the knife, found its bone handle, and plunged it toward her breast. Richard knocked away her arm, deflecting the knife's path so that the blade grazed her wrist.
"Fool!" Prying loose her fingers, he hurled the weapon across the room. "What would you do?"
"I would rather die than spend one more moment with you!" Maria shouted. "You are mad, and I hate the babe I'm carrying, for it has you as its father."
She ran from the hall back to her room and slammed down the door bar. Collapsing upon her bed, she buried her face in her hands.
I have no one to blame but myself. But I have someone else to think of now.
"We must be gone from this hell hole," she whispered, touching her swelling stomach. "For your sake as well as mine. And I do not hate thee, my wee one."
But the uneasy feeling lingered, along with her horror at her lord's actions. That her words, once spoken, would come back to haunt them all.
As their own special curse.
* * *
After late afternoon of the following day slid toward evening, Maria readied her escape. She could not return to Fordwich but she would be safe at Deerhurst. She would ride for Walmer Castle, where her son was in service, and enlist an armed escort. If Lord Hawes refused, she would rather risk danger and death on the roads than another moment with the earl of Sussex.
Richard had not appeared for dinner, and before the end of the even meal Maria left the banquet hall for her chamber. Once at her bedroom, she hurried inside and lowered the wooden bar.
She turned.
Richard was propped up on her bed, watching her. Save for the feverishly bright eyes he appeared sober enough, though she knew he must be drunk.
"My lord!" She gasped. "I did not think to find you here."
Jesu! I have locked myself in with a madman.
Searching for something to protect herself, Maria spied a log by the fire, then looked to the small candelabrum by her jewelry box. Her travelling cloak and coin purse were laid out for all to see. Even in his intoxicated state Richard would know...
"I missed you at table, sire," keeping her voice steady. "Have you been ill?"
"Aye, Maria." His eyes glittered like a rat's. "I am sick with an old malady. One that dates back far—perhaps even to childhood."
So, was Sussex also prone to fits, to strange seizures where he swallowed his tongue? "Has the sickness passed?"
"Nay, lady, it never passes."
His words made no sense. "Never?"
Richard leaned his head back in a gesture of complete weariness. "There are things that must be said, things I can no longer keep locked inside...." He was silent so long he appeared to be asleep. Finally he opened his eyes and with renewed strength, finished, "I have never loved anyone as I love you, Maria. I know that, deny it as I might. So there are some things I must explain. I tried to tell you before but I could not. 'Tis most difficult for me to reveal myself after all these years and I crave your indulgence."
Though she was certain all the words in the world could not soften what had passed between them, Maria nodded.
"Mayhap my behavior with Robin last night was a bit... intemperate. But he never should have come." Richard doubled his fists. "You see, he knew nothing but lies and the lies sickened me. All his talk of glory and bravery were but products of his imaginings. Bannockburn was no victory, but a senseless slaughter. My brother was responsible for it, as he was for the murder of all those innocent northerners he left to the mercy of the Scots—but so was I, and a million pretty phrases cannot hide the blood on my hands."
"Nay, I do not believe that." Stunned by Richard's words, Maria temporarily forgot her fear of him. "How old were you, nineteen, twenty? How could a boy have gainsaid the king of England?"
"If I had tried harder." His voice cracked. "If I had not been afraid." He looked at her as if expecting some reaction to this revelation. "Afraid, Maria, I was so afraid I could not think for the terror. I wanted to turn tail and run all the way back to England."
"But you did not. And every man is afraid before battle. How could he not be? Even your father I'll wager, must have—"
"Listen!" Richard's hand smashed into his palm. "Do not talk. 'Tis not just Bannockburn. From childhood, I have been afraid, though I am a consummate actor. I've had to be. But I need not remind you of my origins. God gave me the face and form of my father and the heart of my good mother who, I am told, was the gentlest of serving maids. What a fine jest. To look like the lion but possess the heart of a deer."
"Do not continue, my lord. This is preposterous. You—"
"When I was afraid my playmates would sneer, 'What more can we expect of a bastard.' I forced myself to prove I was the best and bravest and yet inside all I wanted to do was run away."
"But you did not—and that is what matters." Watching his tortured face and listening to his jumbled disclosures, Maria felt her anger evaporate.
"I am no fit Plantagenet." Richard raised his eyes to her. "Phillip should have let me die."
"Do not say such a thing!"
"'Twould have been so much better for everyone. I would not have mothers cursing me on the heads of their dead sons. And I would not have sown my seed in your belly."
"Stop! I am as much to blame as you and I am not sorry for one day of our love."
"I have hated you for making me love you, but I know ultimately I did it all of my own free will."
Maria took a step toward him. "We cannot choose who we love."
"But we can choose to love in silence. Do you think if we were married that Phillip would so betray me?"
She placed a hand on his arm. "Phillip does not love me as much as you do."
"I wonder. Perhaps he loves you more."
Drawing her lord to the bed, Maria gently pushed him against the feather mattress. "You look tired, my love." She bent down to loosen his boots.
"When your husband comes back..."
Pressing her fingers against his mouth, Maria stilled further talk. "We will discuss that some other time. After you've slept."
Chapter 29
England
On September 24th, 1326, Queen Isabella, with an army of fifteen hundred men, landed on the coast of Suffolk. She and her followers had crossed the channel in ten fishing vessels. Their arrival was not challenged by England's eastern fleet, even though it was commanded by His Grace's younger half-brother, Thomas of Brotherton.
"'Tis a good omen, is it not?" Isabella asked her lover. When Roger Mortimer was at her side, the queen felt brave and confident, but sometimes the magnitude of their act—their treason—overwhelmed her. "If my lord husband's very kin will not come to his aid, then we cannot fail."
"The Bastard won't abandon him," said Mortimer. "But Sussex is one man against an entire country. No one e
lse will raise a hand to save your fine husband."
Mortimer's prophecy proved accurate. When Isabella disembarked she and her followers were greeted by enormous crowds, ringing bells and blazing bonfires. Women and children strewed flowers in her path.
"We have come to avenge the execution of my dear cousin, Thomas of Lancaster," she told the cheering throngs, "and drive the accursed Despensers from power."
"The crowds love you, my dear," Mortimer observed, his black eyes mocking. "You tell them exactly what they want to hear."
"'Tis also true."
Sometimes she was unnerved by her lover's cynicism and wondered whether he had approached their liaison with the same calculation he applied to all other matters. As they penetrated into England and picked up the trail of the hated Despensers, however, Isabella forgot all her doubts to concentrate on one matter—revenge.
King Edward was in the Tower of London when he heard of his wife's invasion. He immediately sent protests to Pope John XXII, as well as to Isabella's brother, Charles the Fair. He also discussed the matter with members of the Council and leaders of Parliament, though he did not heed their advice. Edward had no intention of giving up his favorites, even if that act would abort the invasion.
"I did not break the power of the barons or Cousin Lancaster to crumble at the first hint of trouble," he told them. Instead he issued a proclamation stating that all who took part in the invasion, save for Isabella and Prince Edward, would be treated as traitors. He placed a thousand pound bounty on the head of Roger Mortimer.
Still no one rallied to his cause.
* * *
In full armor, Hugh Despenser the Elder, earl of Winchester, stood before Isabella in Bristol Castle's great hall. He was nearing seventy and showed his age, but gazing into that lined face, Isabella felt not pity but triumph—and hatred, of course. Since her arrival one month past, she'd survived on hate, which had nurtured and sustained her as food never could. Now that emotion, which was like a constant blackness robbing her brain of all coherent thought, would be sated.
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