The King Must Die (The Isabella Books)

by Sasson, N. Gemini

  Mortimer plummeted from his saddle as abruptly as if he had been toppled by a lance himself. For a moment, he stood there, hunched over, one hand pressed against his horse’s ribs to keep himself upright and one holding his head, before he sank to the ground, folding his head into his knees. Then he turned his cheek to the dirt and wept softly.

  As if cued by his grief, the skies to the west blackened and the wind gained force. It was my turn, then, to be strong for Mortimer, even when I did not yet believe I could be. I knelt on the ground beside him.

  “I should have told him,” Mortimer said hoarsely, “never to lower his shield.” He slammed a fist into the ground. “I should have told Roger, too.”

  “Mortimer, my dear, gentle Mortimer ...” I stroked his back and shoulders, knowing that it was but a feeble solace to him at such an insufferable time. “I am so sorry. So terribly sorry. If there is any comfort, it was that you were able to be with John not long ago—Roger, as well.”

  “Do not mock me with words,” he growled, clawing at the hard-packed dirt. The wind rippled across the back of his shirt and tossed dust into his face. “There is no fortune in the death of someone you love—ever.”

  He spoke no more that day. Except for my personal attendants, I ordered the remainder of our retinue to find quarters within York. Parliament was set to take place in Salisbury in a few months, but rumors about Lancaster had bade me to summon a council meeting in York beforehand to settle matters. The timing, given the morbid news of Mortimer’s sons, could not have been worse.

  ***

  Mortimer and I took up residence within the King’s Tower with its eagle’s view above the sweeping, rock-strewn moors. For two days he said very little, drifting through the daytime hours in a cloud of despondency. Meanwhile, the wind had shifted and a great, black storm thundered in from the north. Lightning flashed across the sky and cracked from dawn until noon, coming again in the evening and continuing on through the night so that it was impossible to sleep without being awoken with a jolt. A tithe barn to the west of the city caught fire and it was only the constant deluge from above that saved it from burning to the ground. Meanwhile, the wagon ruts in the roads filled up with deep mud, making them impassible. Soon, the streets of York flowed like rushing rivers.

  There was nothing I could have said to Mortimer to ease his pain. He could not put his sorrow into words. He did not seem to want to. My loss of Joanna to the Scots no longer seemed a tragedy. She, if not happy, was at least alive and well. That, ironically, eased my misgivings.

  Undoubtedly, the rains had delayed the arrival of Lancaster and the others. It was a small blessing the weather turned bad when it did, for Mortimer was in no state of mind for diplomacy. By our fourth evening in York, however, he gradually began to engage with the world around him. Still, he did not speak of his sons or the mortal ache in his heart.

  He came to me after I had taken to bed for the night, dismissing Patrice almost insouciantly, as if his presence in my bedchamber had never ceased to be a regular occurrence. Patrice was dubious that she should abandon me, with him standing so insistently by and not altogether in his right mind, but I assured her it was all right. Ever eager to be with Arnaud, she gave no argument.

  Mortimer and I had not been together intimately since before the weddings at Hereford, more than two months before. But as he stripped himself of every last thread of clothing and stood fully naked beside my bed while the silver light of a half-moon poured over him—as though his doing so was a right that had always been his—I could tell it was but a physical act to displace the anguish inside him.

  He yanked aside the covers I was clutching to my breast, shoved my gown up to my midriff, and surveyed my body from foot to neck, lingering halfway ... but he would not meet my eyes. With all the mindless ceremony with which Edward of Caernarvon had once carried out the act, Mortimer climbed onto the bed and thrust his hips at me, missing his mark the first several times. His movements were jerky, his breathing shallow and rapid. He did not kiss me or touch me tenderly or whisper of eternal love into my ear after he ended with a gasp and a shudder. He merely rolled from me onto his back, his hands clasped across his stomach and a single tear rolling silently down his cheek.

  “I would rather have died first,” he said, his voice so low and fragile I could barely hear it, “than to lose my sons before me.”

  I laid my arm across his chest and held him until the glow of moonlight yielded to the shining light of a new day.

  ***

  Lancaster never arrived in York, nor did Edmund of Kent or Thomas of Norfolk. Lancaster’s failure to appear was no surprise. It was, in fact, something of a relief, for even though Mortimer was coming out of his melancholy, he was commonly short on both tolerance and optimism. Had Lancaster shown up in a foul mood too soon after the deaths of Mortimer’s sons, it might have come to blows between them. But the fact that the king’s uncles had stayed away, as well ... that whispered of collusion.

  More unsettling news came when we heard there had been a public outcry in London that threatened to erupt into havoc. The Abbot of Westminster was preparing to return the Stone of Scone to the Scots, as had been agreed to in the Treaty of Northampton. Instead of realizing the peace with Scotland would deliver prosperity to England, the people were regarding it as an act of treason. I was hard pressed to understand how they could view it so, but old prejudices are not easily shaken. In the end, the Stone stayed put and whether or not any Scottish kings would ever again be crowned while sitting on it remained to be seen.

  Again, I sent word to the councilors to come to York and demanded to know the reasons for their truancy. Days became weeks as we waited to hear news from elsewhere in the kingdom. Conflicting rumors reached us in waves—some whispering of rebellion and civil war, others claiming Lancaster was ready to capitulate. Whatever was being spoken or by whomever, returning to London forthwith seemed unwise, given the discontent there. The rabble could descend on us and a riled mob is a mindless monster that knows no inhibitions. At last, Mortimer and I struck out southward, aiming for Salisbury, but just north of Nottingham we received a summons from Young Edward to come with all haste to Barlings Abbey in Lincolnshire.

  Lancaster had at last agreed to meet with the king.

  ***

  Lincoln — September, 1328

  We knelt in unison, Patrice and I flanking the leaning altar of the seldom used, dilapidated little church that sat on a rugged knoll not far from Lincoln. We had risen early that morning and put two leagues swiftly behind us before I insisted on stopping for an urgent word with God on my son’s behalf. The night before this, we had sent word ahead to Edward’s camp that we would be arriving at noon. It was almost that now and we had over a league to go. Lancaster, for all that we knew, might be loitering over the next hill, waiting to pounce. Against our combined forces, Lancaster would not have had a chance against us, but hewn in half as we yet were ...

  Father Norbert began his Latin incantations, making the sign of the cross and then uttering a prayer as he dabbed a spot of holy water on each of our foreheads. Through the small open windows of the chapel, I heard the gay chatter of sparrows gathering on the roof and in the nearby plane trees. Then there was a loud burst of protest as the sparrows took to flight. Soon, an emboldened magpie settled on the window sill to view the curious ritual within.

  I had turned my head slightly to study the smug black and white bird, when the distant slap of hooves upon the dry, packed road came to my ears.

  Patrice clasped her hands over mine as Father Norbert droned on. But the pace of his verse quickened and his eyes kept flitting toward the closed door. He lost his place and had to begin again.

  “Sir Roger is outside,” I reassured, turning my hand over and pressing the rosary into Patrice’s palm.

  She smiled nervously. “Or a messenger from the king, perhaps?”

  There was a single rap on the door and then the blow of a shoulder being laid into it, as the old rusted h
inges resisted. My heart faltered until I saw a familiar face appear.

  “The king,” Mortimer declared, bracing himself in the middle of the doorway.

  He had barely turned to give a perfunctory greeting when Edward bounded past him into the church. Sharp on his heels, Sir William Montagu, with his long, golden hair secured loosely at his neck by a leather tie, loped close behind. If there existed an English version of the furtive Black Douglas, Montagu was it. With the king he was quick-witted and easy going, but toward others he kept a stern vigil.

  Edward halted stiffly before me. He was fully dressed in armor and looking short on sleep. “You must come at once,” he commanded.

  Slowly, I stood. What concerned me most was not Young Edward’s sudden arrival, or his insistence that we go to Lincoln immediately, but the way he kept looking at Mortimer. Edward’s brow was drawn tight, the muscles in his face taut. It was the irascible look that a displeased father gives an unruly child who is deserving of a lashing.

  “Why?” I asked. “Has Lancaster arrived already?”

  “You want to know why?” Edward struggled to tame the fury rising within him, but it meant battling nature. The Plantagenet strain was renowned for its temper and he was beginning to show that the fiery blood of his forefathers originated deep in his marrow as well. I had tried so hard to blunt that edge in him, to make him use reason and to seek to understand even his enemies’ causes, but I had, I began to fear, been trying to push back the mighty tide of an ocean. I could see it in the hardness of his eyes, the clenched fists. Hear it hammered in the combative cadence of his words. “Lancaster asked to meet us. I agreed. He has levied certain ... accusations. Serious ones. And yes, he is awaiting our arrival.”

  “Accusations?” I had requested Lancaster to come to York to address his disagreements over the Treaty of Northampton. He had avoided the meeting without explanation, as had Kent and Norfolk. I knew I must tread carefully. There was far more to their impudence than what I had first guessed. “Tell me—what sort of accusations?”

  “Oh, Mother.” He shook his head sadly. “Where ... oh, where would I begin?”

  That answer alone should have warned me.

  “Lancaster claims my father was murdered,” he said. “That Mortimer was responsible. And you knew of it all.”

  Sometimes, the line between truth and rumor is blurred, like an ink stroke smeared by a falling tear.

  15

  Young Edward:

  Lincoln — September, 1328

  We met the Earl of Lancaster on the grounds of Barlings Abbey near Lincoln. Fields of rye and barley rippled lazily beneath an amber sun. In the pastures, speckled fat sheep wore long ringlets of wool. It seemed too pastoral a place for a confrontation. But there was no castle big enough to contain Henry of Lancaster—especially when he faced us with a force large enough to wage battle.

  “He means war,” Mortimer said.

  I turned my mount to face Mortimer squarely. “Not while I wear the crown.” It may have been a bold statement coming from a king of only sixteen years, but I had sworn to myself early on that England would be strong from within and I would tolerate no insurrection.

  Knights shifted their shields, checked the straps on their armor. Morning sun bounced in bold flashes of silver off helmets and breastplates. Lancaster’s forces were fanned out over a low ridgeline to the south on either side of the road before us.

  My mother beckoned Arnaud to her from the front line. “I will ask the earl to meet with me alone,” she said.

  I threw her a look of denial. “Madness!”

  “He’s right,” Mortimer joined in. “You cannot go to him by yourself. It’s you he’s intent on destroying. Take Edward along. Lancaster will listen to him.”

  “For once we agree on something,” I remarked.

  “What is it,” Mortimer began, his dark brow furrowing stormily, “that you so resent about me? Still in a dudgeon over Weardale? Will you ever let it go?”

  “Hardly a dudgeon, Sir Roger. I was made a laughingstock. The Scots ran bloody circles around us like hungry wolves stalking a herd of sick sheep. And my life—was very nearly forfeit.”

  “Your life was preserved,” Mortimer said.

  “Because William Montagu saved me! Where were you?”

  “Stop!” Mother shouted, putting a halt to our argument before something more came of it. “Edward, come with me, then, if you feel the need to, although I’ve no fear of that bombastic fraud. We’ll put an end to these lies here and now.”

  Arnaud was sent forth with a request for Lancaster to join us halfway between our two forces. He sped back with a reply of consent from the earl. Mother and I rode alone across the gaping, vulnerable expanse—my eyes darting toward heaven should an arrow descend silently from there.

  “Sir Roger was right in that Lancaster will hear you out,” she said. “So I will bow to you and hold my tongue for as long as I can. But do as I say—I know how to deal with him. You must ask him to put forth his grievances, in full. Let him speak without interruption. He will not even begin to listen until he is heard. It may take a while. He enjoys the sound of his own voice. Knowing Lancaster, he feels what he has to say is more important and truthful than any objections or protests we might naturally have to his actions. You will express concern, ask him to elaborate and then you will repeat what he has said. This will disarm him. He will begin to see you as a benevolent negotiator, and not a potential enemy. What he thinks of me does not matter so much as how he regards you.

  “Then, when he finally slackens in his complaints, you will tell him, plainly, that he has until the opening of the Salisbury parliament to collect and present the full proof of his accusations ... and if he has none by then, he is to abandon them and give a full apology, in writing, at said gathering. Do you understand all this?”

  She was beginning to sound too much like Mortimer, who had over the last couple of years meted out advice to me in a manner which conveyed the expectation of absolute obedience.

  I eyed her sidelong, considering the alternatives. “I do ... but how do we know he won’t demand proof of your and Mortimer’s innocence on the spot? Perhaps it is as Mortimer said—that he came eager for a fight and this talking is nothing but a ritual, a chance for him to confront you personally.”

  “Because I know Henry of Lancaster and I knew his brother before him ... and I know how such men think. They think blood alone entitles them to power. Any decision that is made without them, they consider an affront, an undermining of their authority. The Earl of Lancaster did not invite us here to risk his life today. He came to prod us into some rash action so he could raise the hue and cry against us and then he can make a grab at power. His accusations are not based on truth. They are a means to assert himself. If he can thrust you in the middle of the mayhem and make you doubt me—or Mortimer—then he will have won half the battle.”

  Reluctantly, I nodded. Lancaster by then had broken from his ranks and ridden forward with Thomas Wake, Lord of Liddell, who had openly protested that the Treaty of Northampton would cost him his Scottish estates—lands that he had not had access to or benefit from since the Battle of Bannockburn fourteen years past. He had also been the one to take my father and Hugh Despenser into custody.

  “Where is Mortimer?” Lancaster shouted out before we had even reached him.

  I kicked my horse in the flanks and galloped straight up to the earl. “You will address us properly first ... or your answer will come from there.” I pointed behind me to the impressive array of knights, archers and foot soldiers.

  Lancaster squinted toward my army. It was not the sun that made him squint, however, but eyesight that was slowly beginning to fail even before his fiftieth year. He shrugged. “My lord, where is Sir Mortimer? Why did he not ride forward with you?”

  I lied, “Because I told him to stay where he was.”

  “Send for him then.”

  “I will not.”

  “This concerns him, as well as
the Queen Dowager.”

  “It would only delay us. He has no say in any of this. I came to hear you. Now, list your grievances, Lord Henry, if you please.”

  Lancaster may have had it in mind to volley his complaints directly at Mortimer, but it obviously delighted him more to hear me say I wanted to listen to him. Without acknowledging my mother, he began: “The queen has amassed estates beyond her right and squandered the royal treasury. She and Mortimer have forced their influence upon you by controlling the regency council. Mortimer conspired with the Scots to allow your capture in Weardale. Furthermore, they have bartered with said traitors in marrying Joanna to David, thus forfeiting the inheritances of numerous Englishmen there. Lastly ... our king, Edward of Caernarvon, was taken from Kenilworth, forbidden contact with the outside and then”—Lancaster finally turned his eyes on her, his lips twisting into a wolfish scowl, the low tenor of his voice now booming as far as he could force the words—“was heinously murdered. The world knows of your crime, my lady! Eternal judgment will be brought upon your pretty head.”

  Her hands shook violently as she held her reins. In the heavy pause that followed, she curled her fingernails deep into the palm of her hand, as if to hold back her screams.

  I wrestled with the urge to leap from my saddle and strangle Lancaster before a horde of witnesses. “Murder? Is it my mother you call a murderer? Give us proof. You, my lord cousin, would not say such a thing without very good reason.”