The King Must Die (The Isabella Books)

by Sasson, N. Gemini

  THE KING

  MUST DIE

  Murder and revenge

  in the time of

  Edward III

  N. GEMINI SASSON

  Cader Idris Press

  THE KING MUST DIE

  N. Gemini Sasson

  What is done cannot be undone.

  England, 1326. Edward II has been dethroned. Queen Isabella and her lover, Sir Roger Mortimer, are at the pinnacle of their power.

  Fated to rule, Isabella’s son becomes King Edward III at the callow age of fourteen. Edward, however, must bide his time as the loyal son until he can break the shackles of his minority and dissolve the regency council which dictates his every action.

  When the former king is found mysteriously dead in his cell, the truth becomes obscured and Isabella can no longer trust her own memory ... or confide in those closest to her. Meanwhile, she struggles to keep her beloved Mortimer at her side and gain yet another crown—France’s—for the son who no longer trusts her.

  Amidst a maelstrom of shifting loyalties, accusations of murder propel England to the brink of civil war.

  In the sequel to Isabeau, secrecy and treason, conspiracy and revenge once again overtake England. The future rests in the hands of a mother and son whose bonds have reached a breaking point.

  THE KING MUST DIE

  (Kindle Edition)

  Copyright © 2012 N. Gemini Sasson

  This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior written permission of the Author.

  For more information about the author: www.ngeminisasson.com

  For updates on N. Gemini Sasson’s books: www.facebook.com/NGeminiSasson

  Cover art by Lance Ganey: www.freelanceganey.com

  Also by N. Gemini Sasson:

  Isabeau, A Novel of Queen Isabella and Sir Roger Mortimer

  The Crown in the Heather (The Bruce Trilogy: Book I)

  Worth Dying For (The Bruce Trilogy: Book II)

  The Honor Due a King (The Bruce Trilogy: Book III)

  Part I:

  The King must die, or Mortimer goes down; The commons now begin to pity him.

  Roger Mortimer

  from Christopher Marlowe’s Edward II

  1

  Isabella:

  Wallingford — December, 1326

  The angled rays of a low winter sun glinted silver off the Thames, its mirrored surface broken only by the rippling wake of a small boat. On the riverbank below the southern gate of Wallingford Castle, frost glimmered on the branches of an alder where a flock of starlings congregated. Their cackles rose to a cacophony as the vessel slid in to shore and its passengers disembarked.

  A dozen men climbed the banks, their hushed voices carrying on the brittle winter air. Above them a cloud of blue-black wings erupted from the trees and swarmed across the river to settle on the decaying thatched roof of a barn.

  Tugging the fur of my mantle up higher around my ears, I leaned wearily against the stones of the merlon. The clack of footsteps rang out on the wall-walk behind me.

  “You did not sleep last night, my queen?”

  I turned to gaze upon Sir Roger Mortimer. Hands clasped behind his back, he glided closer. He stopped an arm’s reach away and tilted his head in question.

  The yearning to burrow beneath his cloak and envelop myself in his warmth rushed through me. Then, a sentry on the curtain wall moved to study the new arrivals as they made their way toward the gatehouse. Achingly aware of Mortimer’s nearness, I cast a furtive glance along the wall-walk and lowered my voice. “Given the day, it is a wonder I am not curled up in a corner, babbling like a madwoman.”

  “Ah yes, the council.”

  I pressed my back to the rugged stones. The icy cloud of my breath hung in the air, filled with words too fragile to be spoken. “I do not think I want to hear what they will say.”

  “And what, precisely, is it that you fear?”

  “All of it. Anything. Whether they will seek my husband’s death ... or let him live.”

  He nodded pensively and moved to peer through the crenel. “It would bode ill for your son and every ruler after him if they called for the execution of Edward of Caernarvon, don’t you think?”

  “But it’s possible.”

  “It’s possible they could not only restore your husband to the throne, but pardon him for every wrong ever done to England and throw a feast in his honor; it is, however, very unlikely. They might wish him dead out of convenience, but no one wants to stain their conscience by ending his life.” An unruly lock of hair fell across his brow, giving him the mischievous look of one far fewer in years than his forty. “Isabeau, have you abandoned your faith in me already?”

  “Never, Roger. You know that.”

  “Then why are you so sure of our doom? I’ve been calling up old favors since long before we were dashed upon England’s shores with our disparate army.”

  “It’s not our end I fear, Roger. That comes for us all, eventually, doesn’t it? It’s what will happen if they make me go back to him. I could lose you, forever, and I can’t —”

  He pressed two fingers to my lips, and then quickly dropped his hand back to his side. His eyes narrowed. “Five hundred days.”

  I shook my head, not understanding.

  “That is how long I spent in the Tower before my escape,” he said. “I counted the days not by the rising of the sun, but by the changing of guards outside my door. Much of my time was squandered on thoughts of revenge: the many ways I would watch Hugh Despenser die ... and how to bring a king to his knees when I had failed so dismally at that before. But it was also the thought of being with you, Isabeau, that kept me from giving up.”

  “But we never spoke in that time.”

  “Ah, but we did, we did. You came to visit me in the Tower, remember? It was the second time you spared my life. You would not have done that unless you had a purpose for me and ... and perhaps an interest that was somewhat ... personal?” The subtle curve of his lips shot a ripple of desire through me. Last night he had kissed me in ways, touched me in places, that had left my flesh tingling long after he slipped from my bed to return to his own. Even now I could recall the impression of his fingertips as they slid around my waist to the small of my back, then downward to grasp my buttocks as he eased me over him. His dark eyes settled on my hips, as though he, too, was thinking of last night.

  The conversation of the new arrivals rose up from the barbican. I stepped closer to Mortimer to look down at them. For days now, more people had been coming than going. The members of the council, a handful of lords and bishops I had summoned, were even now convening in the great hall to set the course of Edward of Caernarvon’s fate—and my own. Less than a month from now, Parliament would convene at Westminster. If they recommended I return to him, live beside him as his wife ...

  A shiver began at the nape of my neck and trickled downward, spreading from spine to ribs, my heart constricting with dread. I drew a deep breath, filling my lungs with crisp air, and then exhaled slowly. “So much depends on this day, Roger. I cannot face them without you there.”

  “This once, Isabeau.” He turned his head to look at me, his bearded chin tucked down in a way that conveyed his reluctance. “But I’ll attend only because Leicester ... or Lancaster, whatever he calls himself now, is still in Kenilworth
watching over the king. Otherwise, I would not agree. Already I’m the cause of mistrust and jealousy. I’ll not give anyone further reason to come against me in the future.”

  “Then speak only on my behalf, not your own.”

  “Even that, I think, would raise just as many suspicions as if I asked for the crown for myself. Some think I mean to make myself king, did you know?”

  Perhaps, I mused, that is because you share the queen’s bed?

  Suddenly, he waved to the men in the barbican below, who had recently been joined by Mortimer’s longtime friend, Sir John Maltravers. “Thomas! Good morn!”

  The young nobleman he had addressed, fair-haired and so long of limb that he stepped like a deer, raised his head and cupped a hand to his brow. He waved back. “My lord! Margaret sends her well wishes.”

  “You did not bring her? When am I ever to see my daughter again? There had better be a good reason, Thomas.”

  “There may be, there well may be. I shall know more a month from now.”

  “A month? Ah, I see. Then you wasted no time. Am I to expect my first grandchild before the year is out?”

  “God willing, my lord.”

  “That is most excellent news. A moment and we will join you.” Then Mortimer said aside to me, “No man could wish for a better son-in-law than Lord Thomas of Berkeley. Even when he was young I knew he had great promise. I vow he’ll serve you well, Isabeau.”

  “So Margaret and Thomas have set up their household already, I take it. What of your other children?” Mortimer’s wife, the heiress Joan de Genville, had given him a large brood of children—twelve in all, Margaret being his oldest and so far only married daughter.

  He offered his arm. “My two eldest, Roger and Edmund, are seeing to all that. Even with Despenser dead and the king unable to raise objections, it will take some time to restore all that was taken from me.”

  As we began down the stairway to the barbican, I slowed my steps. “And your wife?”

  “Already at Wigmore,” he said casually, making no attempt to keep his voice hushed. “No doubt clucking orders like a frenzied hen and bemoaning the loss of her tapestries and wardrobe.” After a long pause, he added, “She wrote.”

  “Oh,” I said, unsure how to respond or why I had even asked about her. While my marriage with Edward had been fraught with complex troubles from the beginning, Mortimer’s relationship with his wife had been at worst mundane. He did not often speak of her, not even to complain. “What did she say?”

  “She asked me to come home to help put affairs in order there.” He gave me a sidelong glance and stroked the back of my hand. “I told her I couldn’t, not soon, anyway. That there were too many urgent, important matters to attend to right now.”

  I wondered if he had told her that the queen would not allow him to leave her side, but I kept the thought to myself. I could not nurse my jealousy forever. How often did I need to hear him say that it was me he loved, not her? Eventually though, he would need to return to his estates, either because of business or family, and he would come face to face with his wife and ... Oh, I did not want to think of it. Would not.

  But even more, I did not want to think of the matter that was sure to arise at council: The state of my marriage to Edward of Caernarvon, still King of England.

  Discreetly, I slipped my hand from Mortimer’s elbow as we exited the stairway. We turned to our left to walk beneath the raised portcullis of the inner gate and out into the bailey. Cloaked in the cold shadows cast by the outer wall, we stood side by side as Mortimer’s son-in-law approached, head bent. Behind him, Maltravers was issuing orders to Berkeley’s servants as to where to take his few belongings.

  “My lady, you remember Lord Thomas Berkeley?” Mortimer swept his hand from his torso.

  “Indeed, I do.” I extended my hand and Berkeley took it in his as he bowed, grazing my knuckles with a kiss.

  “Your servant, my lady,” he murmured. The tightly fitted sleeves of his dark blue robe were buttoned from wrist to elbow. Over that, he wore a quintise of scarlet as further protection against the winter cold, the edges dagged and trimmed in brighter blue cording.

  “But,” I began, “I seem to recall you were a great deal more unkempt—and nearly starved—when we returned to England three months ago.”

  Berkeley lowered his eyes. “Four years confined to one room, with neither sunshine nor sport, tends to compromise one’s vigor. Since then, I’ve compensated overmuch, I confess.” He patted his belly, indicating he had eaten well lately, although he was still remarkably thin. “Margaret seems to have fared better at Shouldham Priory, though.”

  “You’ve taken her on to Berkeley Castle?” Mortimer asked.

  Berkeley nodded, his chin-length fair hair bobbing as he did so. Blinking, he looked at me nervously with pale blue eyes and pressed his rigid mouth into something of a smile, but very quickly he returned his gaze to Mortimer. “I came as soon as I could, although Margaret was reluctant to let me go after so long a time apart.”

  “Understandable,” Mortimer said. “Maltravers will show you to your chambers, where you can rest up from your journey. We will speak more, later. For now, I must escort the queen to council.” He laid both hands lightly on Berkeley’s shoulders. “I’m happy to see you free, Thomas.”

  “And I you, my lord,” Berkeley returned.

  Maltravers hooked his half hand in the air, gesturing for the new arrivals to follow him. Lord Berkeley loped along at his heels, face upturned and eyes bright as he twisted one way and then the other to survey his surroundings.

  The knight who had been standing behind him moments before flashed a yellow-toothed smile at me and ducked his head in a bow: Sir Thomas Gurney. “My lady.”

  Beside Gurney, a slightly built man squatted. His thin fingers cradled a scalp of stringy hair. He coughed violently, cleared his throat and spat a glob of phlegm between his feet. “God help me,” he moaned, “I’m going to die.”

  Gurney swung an arm to cuff him on the shoulder. The man toppled over onto his side, his elbow smashing into the cobbles.

  “On your feet, Ockle. Pay some respect to our queen here.”

  Ah yes, William Ockle. He and Gurney had found my daughters in the church when the siege of Bristol broke. A dubious pair of heroes—but who was I to question fate or chance?

  Gulping air, Ockle rolled over onto to his knees. A sneer curled his thin lips into a ragged line. With an indrawn wheeze, he staggered to his feet. He peeked at me beneath oily hanks of hair, then lowered his eyes and dipped his torso in a bow. Another cough threatened to split his ribs.

  “Will you be all right?” I asked.

  “He’ll live,” Gurney answered for him, then hooked a hand gruffly beneath Ockle’s armpit to pull him away. Ockle stumbled alongside him, muttering curses. In response, Gurney yanked harder. Ten crooked strides later, they were at Lord Berkeley’s heels.

  A chill whispered across my cheek and I raised a hand as if to brush it away. But as I did so, fine pellets of sleet stung at my knuckles. I looked heavenward. The sun had retreated behind a dense veil of clouds. Wind swooped over the outer walls to descend into the openness of the bailey. Even the birds were huddled in the sheltered places. With stiff fingers, I clutched at the edges of my mantle, pulling it tight around me like a cocoon in which I could withdraw from the world. A hand alighted on the small of my back and I startled, gasping.

  “It’s time,” Mortimer said.

  ***

  Already a diminutive man, Walter Reynolds, Archbishop of Canterbury, sank to his knees before me in the middle of the great hall of Wallingford, which served for now as my council chamber. From this distance, if not for the vestments of his office, I might have mistaken him for a child.

  “Rise, Your Grace,” I said. The echo of my voice died away to mingle with the whisper of silk robes and the groan of leather sword belts, as twenty bodies shifted on their benches. Weak morning sunlight passed through widely spaced windows, the dusty w
ooden panels of the wainscoting and soot-stained, busily painted walls making the room seem even darker. The glow of the hearth did little but cast shadows. I strained to focus my eyes. To my immediate right sat Adam Orleton, Bishop of Hereford, and John de Stratford, Bishop of Winchester. To the left were my brothers-in-law Edmund, Earl of Kent, and Thomas, Earl of Norfolk. Even they had abandoned their own brother, the king, in his direst hour.

  Although all had come here willingly, I was not yet sure who to trust and who to regard with caution. Unseating a king by invasion with mercenary forces was not a matter blindly supported by everyone, not even his opponents. Criticism would not die away even now that it was done. Soon, the struggle for power would begin. Likely, it would begin this very day.

  Head bowed and shoulders stooped, Archbishop Reynolds tottered to his feet on stiff knees and came forward until he stood before the dais. “My lady, before these peace-loving witnesses and merciful God, I do meekly submit to you and offer my allegiance.”

  “Your letter to such effect was received, Your Grace, and my protection given.” I longed to remind him of certain things, but now was not the time to scour open wounds with vinegar. The archbishop had been an adamant supporter of Edward’s until the very last. Not until Despenser was dead and the king in custody did he see it prudent to change allegiances. Perhaps he feared for his freedom—or his station? No matter, he was harmless enough and there were greater matters at hand. I sat forward in my chair, the joints of the wooden frame creaking loudly. “Your humility, I might add, is to be admired. In these uncertain times, difficult choices must be made for the good of all England, not only for the here and now, but for —”