The King Must Die (The Isabella Books)

by Sasson, N. Gemini

  The door at the hall’s end swung open, hinges groaning. A rush of winter air billowed in. Goose flesh prickled my arms and neck. I gripped my knees, fingernails curled into claws, prepared to admonish the person who had so rudely arrived late to interrupt. And then, Henry, Earl of Leicester and Lancaster, blustered into the hall.

  My stomach lurched. No, he was supposed to still be at Kenilworth, where the king was being held. Mortimer’s eyes flicked to me. If both men did not temper their tongues, this day could end badly. I cautioned Mortimer with a glance, but his sights were already fixed on the earl. The porter, his head dipped contritely, scuttled forth to latch onto the door’s edge and yank it shut.

  Stomping, Lancaster braced his feet wide. He glared down the length of each row of benches, his mouth curving into a smug smile, and rested the heel of his hand on his sword pommel. “Your pardon, my queen. I trust I have not missed anything?”

  Archbishop Reynolds’s head swiveled, his mitre tipping precariously to one side. His lip twitched as he reached up with both hands and repositioned it. With an audible exhalation, he spun around and drew his shoulders up so that his embroidered amice bunched in folds at his neck. Then, his fingers teasing at the tasseled ends of his stole, he looked at me again. “My lady, you were saying?”

  I peered past him to Lancaster. The last time the earl had made such a brazen appearance, he had presented me with Bishop Stapledon’s head in a basket. This time, thanks be to God, he was without any such gruesome gift.

  “All is forgiven, Your Grace.” My gaze swept over the faces lining the hall to remind myself I had many supporters here. Kent’s eyes met mine and he smiled. I looked to the other side and there Bishop Orleton nodded sagely. “Let us begin. Please, be seated.”

  The archbishop went to the nearest bench, the other bishops scooting aside to make room. Lancaster stepped to his right, but no one moved. Then he swung an arm to his left, as if clearing the way, and proceeded to the very middle bench where, although there was no apparent gap, he managed to wedge himself in, unresponsive to the grumbling of those around him. Nearly unseated himself, Lord Berkeley, at the very end, relinquished his spot and went to stand next to a column behind Lancaster. The earl, stretching his meaty legs before him and rubbing at his knees, took no notice of the young lord’s servile gesture.

  Words stuck at the back of my throat. Having overcome so much these past few years, I would have thought myself inherently braver, but even now it was as if the demons of my fears never stopped pursuing me. I cleared my throat, clasped my hands to my belly and spoke with as much authority as I could summon. “Welcome, my lords. You have been called here because I value your counsel. I thank you for your haste, for we must act with both swiftness and resolve. I will not belabor past events. Suffice it to say it was not lightly that I undertook drastic measures to bring about change. Even so, the weight upon my soul has at times been so heavy that if not for a handful of honorable and courageous men, I might not ... no, could not have gone forward.” Sir John of Hainault, Count William’s brother, raised his chin proudly as I glanced his way.

  “Thus, it was with immeasurable relief that I and my son found ourselves welcomed upon our return when we landed on Suffolk’s shores. That alone revealed in whom England’s people have chosen to entrust their future and extend their loyalty—as have all of you by coming here.”

  Archbishop Reynolds tucked his chin down, as if aware that others there yet doubted him. Around him, a few heads bobbed subtly in agreement and I continued. “My husband’s misjudgments led this kingdom down a path of destruction and immorality. It began with Piers Gaveston—gifts of land, titles, countless favors—and did not end until Gaveston’s death. The story was much the same with Hugh Despenser, but it was at Lord Despenser’s hands that I was made to suffer. Edward’s kingship suffered as well, and with it England’s people. And so the people chose to end Despenser’s life at Hereford. Two favorites dead. Will there be another? I pray not, with all my heart. But prayer alone is not enough. We must decide wisely and we must act.

  “Repeatedly, the king has defied Parliament, flouted the Lords Ordainers, ruled by whim and acted out of contempt. He has failed his people by refusing to keep his word and so lost their faith. He has flagrantly disregarded the duties of his birthright and put his own egregious interests, his own ... perversions above all else. If any among you denies this was so, I beg you, speak here and now.”

  “No one denies it, my lady,” Kent said, “not even me. As his brother, I have witnessed firsthand how he has both abused his power and neglected his kingdom, and made a mockery of the Magna Carta and the Ordinances, both of which he swore to uphold.”

  I nodded to him, and then let my gaze sweep over every face there. “I ask you all—shall Edward retain his crown?”

  Murmurs and whispers rippled through the hall, yet no one spoke aloud.

  Finally, Lancaster stood, arms flung wide, imploring. “Can any man rule an entire kingdom when he cannot choose wisely for himself, my lords? I say nay. Strip him of his crown. Let him wear a noose instead.”

  “Hanging is a traitor’s death,” Henry Burghersh, the Bishop of Lincoln, said. “And a man, any man, cannot be convicted of treason without a trial. Besides, how can a king commit treason against himself?”

  “It is not against himself,” said Lancaster, “but against the Crown.”

  John de Stratford, the Bishop of Winchester, rose abruptly. “You speak in contradictions, my lord. He is the Crown. King Edward is God’s anointed.”

  “But so was Harold Godwinson,” someone at the far end added.

  “A conquest,” Mortimer countered, thrusting a finger in the air. “William of Normandy claimed his lawful right to the throne and brought King Harold to battle. God decided whose claim was the rightful one.”

  “Then what is your claim, Sir Roger?” In four thunderous strides, Lancaster planted himself in the center of the hall to face Mortimer. A wicked smirk teased at the corners of his mouth.

  “He makes no claim, Lord Henry,” I said, before he could add one more dry twig to already sparking tinder. “Both he and Sir John of Hainault organized and led the forces I requested on behalf of my son. But let us return to our reason for assembling today, shall we? What is to be done with the king? A trial alone is a mess that I daresay we would all like to avoid. So what then?”

  “Remove him from the throne,” Sir John said, the crease of his bulging forehead deepening as his eyes flicked to Mortimer.

  Bishop Orleton scratched at his temple, his voice leveled in a cautious tone. “He would have to be kept under guard ... indefinitely.”

  Lancaster scoffed loudly. “Ah, yes! Let him live and how long will it be before some other sympathizer tries to prop him back up on the throne?”

  Yes, I had considered that, too. But what allure was there to free an unpopular, even loathed, king?

  “If given unto your care, Lord Henry,” I said, “I doubt that would ever happen. I agree with Sir John and Bishop Orleton: King Edward should not only be stripped of his crown, but remain in custody for the rest of his natural life.”

  Bishop Stratford spread his arms wide, palms upturned in question. “But if he will not voluntarily abdicate in favor of his son, what then?”

  Mortimer leaned forward, one elbow resting on his knee. “There is no other way. We cannot return to things as they were before. His son must take his place, so that England can heal its wounds and once again know peace and prosperity.”

  “Then I assign you, Your Grace,” I said to Bishop Stratford, “to go to him and plead with him.”

  He tilted his head in thought, hesitating long before he spoke again. “If Bishop Burghersh and Bishop Orleton will assist me—although I question how much good it will do, given his defiance thus far.”

  “Your Grace?” I addressed Bishop Orleton. Without hesitation, he nodded in agreement. “Good, return before Parliament with his answer.”

  Kent stood, fingers laced
together before him. “One question remains, my queen. What of your ...”—he cast his eyes downward, giving pause to frame his question more delicately—“living arrangements? Whether king or not, in God’s eyes Edward of Caernarvon is still your husband.”

  My smile faded to a frown. I, too, looked down. “I would fear for my life.”

  “How so?” Lancaster said, stifling a laugh. “The king hasn’t one whit of his father’s brutality. The man’s a coward.”

  A bolt of fear shot through my spine. “Do not underestimate him, Henry. He is a man whose dearest ‘friend’ has been put to death. A coward deprived of his crown. By me. I think I have reason to fear.”

  He arched a russet eyebrow at me. “Reason—or is it simply guilt gnawing at your insides?”

  How was I to respond to that? It could mean so many things.

  Bishop Orleton, always my savior, answered him. “When he learned that the queen and her army had landed at the mouth of the River Orwell, King Edward was heard to utter, ‘I vow, if I so much as lay eyes upon that she-wolf, I will plunge my dagger into her heart up to its hilt. Her blood will soak the ground so heavily that every tree sprung from England’s soil will bear the fruits of her betrayal.’”

  I shuddered to hear it. Although Bishop Orleton had told me Edward had spoken threats, he had never said until just then how grave those threats were.

  “And you were there to hear these words?” Lancaster questioned.

  “Not I,” Bishop Orleton said, “but Archbishop Reynolds.”

  Archbishop Reynolds nodded emphatically. “It’s true.”

  For those simple words, I could not have been more grateful. Although his threat was but a fraction of the horrors I had endured for years, now they would all understand what my life with Edward had been like. And then, how could anyone blame me for what I had already done, or what must yet be done?

  2

  Young Edward:

  Wallingford — Christmas, 1326

  Death, oddly, is sometimes a cause for celebration.

  When in November of 1326 the townsfolk of Hereford put an end to Lord Hugh Despenser the Younger, my mother the queen had watched the spectacle from the castle walls with Sir Roger Mortimer at her side, their expressions intensely observant, almost serene. They had planned that day for a very long time. Indeed, I had looked forward to it myself. Lord Despenser had stood between me and my destiny far too long.

  The gallows had been built high, so that all could see. The stack of wood before the scaffold was heaped with dry tinder. First, they hung him. Then while Despenser was still alive, uttering unintelligible words that for all I know may have been a final plea for mercy to the Lord, the townsfolk took him down, cut off his genitals, pulled out his entrails, removed his heart, and flung them all on the fire. His cries of agony were so drowned out by the cheers and jeers of the crowd that it was impossible to tell precisely when he ceased to breathe. The atmosphere was quite festive.

  A fitting end for a man who believed himself the king’s equal and above the law. Myself, I would not have let him get so close to unconsciousness before plunging the knife into his wicked flesh. The man ought to have suffered more than he did.

  All the blessed way to Wallingford then, my younger sisters had sung as if they thought themselves angels—Eleanor to regale the coming day of Christ’s birth and Joanna simply to test the strength of her own voice. Tested my tolerance, as well. To escape their caterwauling, I rode at the head of our procession most often with my mother and sometimes toward the rear with Sir Roger Mortimer, a man whose purpose seemed dependent on reprisal.

  I wondered where Mortimer would set his sights now that Lord Despenser was burning in hell and my father was powerless and isolated at Kenilworth. Without Mortimer, though, my mother would still be in France and me—I would not be poised to take the throne so soon. Still, my role in all this was not yet entirely clear. I only knew that to be a king meant to command and to conquer, both of which my father had failed dismally at. Surely, as Mother suggested, the king would pass his crown willingly to me. One day, I could be king not only of England, but France, as well. Only a matter of time.

  As we rode across the West Country, the land rimed in frost and tendrils of wood smoke curling lazily above rooftops, the people spilled from their houses to line the roads and hail us. I imagined myself as Alexander the Great, leading my troops across Persia into the wilderness. Or Hannibal defeating the Romans at Cannae.

  Then, Christmas feast at Wallingford—how grand! Although only eight years old, my sister Eleanor wore a gown of brightest blue sindon, a miniature version of Mother’s. Joanna, the youngest of my siblings at five, squealed and clapped her hands as servants scurried about the hall carrying platters heaped with food: capon filled with sage and rosemary and stewed in wine, its broth mixed with currants and spices; venison, hare and goose; apples and pears smothered in sauces and spit-roasted dates and almonds. I stuffed my belly near to bursting. Danced with thirty maidens, some even pretty. Made them all swoon and not from dizziness.

  When the musicians broke from their revelry, I returned to the high table. A half-eaten pork tart lay cooling on my plate. I picked out a plump raisin oozing from beneath the golden crust and stuffed it in my mouth.

  “Which do you like?” my brother John asked. He had joined us from London just four days ago. In that time, he must have asked four hundred questions.

  I poked my fingers in the tart and scooped out two more raisins. “The food? All of it, really. But I do favor the puddings, especially the —”

  “No, no.” He jabbed an elbow at my ribs and hitched a shoulder toward a whispering clump of maidens. “Them. Which of them do you like?”

  “You mean the braying donkeys there?” A senseless question. Not one of them had half Philippa’s wit, my betrothed who I had left behind in Hainault three long months past. I shrugged. “None.”

  It had been wicked fun to make the maidens blush, whether I fancied any or not—a game at which I could always win. Their attention was flattering, but their inane chatter was enough to bore me to a stupor. I preferred a girl who would be more a match of wits at the supper table. Philippa would have stuck her tongue out at me and then asked about my hounds or who I favored in the next jousting tournament.

  “None, truly?” John gawped at me. “But if you’re going to be king, you’ll need a queen.”

  “For what? Besides, Father is still king. I have plenty of time before I take a wife.”

  I lied, simply because I had wearied of his incessant questions. John was not yet ten. He had no inkling what girls were really for. In another four years when he turned my age, he might figure it out. I had.

  One bright summer day when I was out riding with Philippa in the countryside beyond Valenciennes, we had raced through a field of haystacks and on ahead into a dense coppice of woods, our escorts briefly lost in the confusion. We dropped from our saddles and hid behind a dilapidated woodsman’s shed, stifling giggles beneath our hands as our escorts streamed past us not fifty feet away. She shoved me playfully on the chest. I caught her wrists and pulled her close, wasting no time as I kissed her full on the lips. Several breaths passed before she stepped away and scolded me for my presumptuousness—but not without a flicker of a smile on her plump, inviting mouth. I was about to kiss her again when Will Montagu came tromping through the thicket and lashed me in the rump with the flat of his sword blade. As if he had never done more himself. One tankard of ale and he was overflowing with stories of his own debauchery.

  John’s mouth twisted in frustration at my lack of agreement. “What about the King of Spain’s daughter?”

  “What of her? What if she looks like a sow? What if she’s no more than an infant, drooling in her cradle? Or some lackwit? What sort of a queen would any of those be to me?” The names of my prospective brides had been discussed for as long as I could remember. A wife, they told me, would be useful for forging alliances as well as begetting heirs. But producing chil
dren meant coupling, of that much I was aware. For most of my life, it had little meaning to me and held even less interest. Until I went to France to pay homage to my uncle, King Charles. Things changed then. I saw girls ... differently—thanks to Will and his boastful talk. The women, I noticed, admired and fawned over him and followed him about. The next time a kitchen maid glanced at me, blushing, I invited her into the empty pantry—a bumbling incident during which, for the most part, we simply discovered each other’s body parts. Poor John, though, was not as advanced for his age or as bold as I was. It would be years before he would learn of such things.

  Our uncle Edmund, the Earl of Kent, raised his wine goblet in greeting from across the hall and made his way toward us, weaving through the mill of servants. He bounded up onto the dais and leaned over, resting on a forearm. “You’re coming to Westminster, I trust?”

  Although the question was addressed to me, my brother squirmed beside me, eyes wide in horror. “Westminster? London? Oh, no,” John said. “The people there are mad, Uncle Edmund. They sawed off Bishop Stapledon’s head with a butcher’s knife!”

  So they had. The bishop may have been a sanctimonious goat and a spy, but his end was an undeservedly brutal one. While his maggot-infested head was hurried westward to be presented to my mother by the Earl of Lancaster, his naked corpse had lain rotting in a pile of refuse in London’s streets.

  Kent, always the doting uncle, smiled reassuringly and tipped his head at John. “You had no cause for worry, nephew. Sir John kept you safe behind a hedge of Flemish spears.”

  With the tip of his knife, John chased a pea around his plate, at last flicking it across the floor. “Then why did Mother not come to London?”

  I punched him in the leg to shush him. “Maybe she had better things to do than coddle a frightened, little slobber-ruffed pup like you?”