“Because the king—your father, I mean—” Lancaster blurted, “is dead. There was no reason for him to die.”
“Men live ... men die. It is the same for everyone: plowmen, kennel keepers, kings ... earls.” Pausing to give him time to think on it, I raised my brows. “Some die by the knife, some by the axe, and some from a will too weak to go on. There were no marks on his body. And there was no mischief in his death.” I held Lancaster’s gaze, but he was not one to concede a staring match. If anything, it only reinforced his stubbornness. Finally, I glanced back at the royal army in all its strength and readiness. My message was clear and pointed. “I’ll let you leave in peace for today, but come to Salisbury ... and, I shall say this again, either deliver proof of what you say ... or recant—else it will be a sentence of treason on you, Lord Henry.”
The earl’s forehead, cheeks and nose reddened like a scarlet mask of rage. He slammed his fists against broad thighs. “Proof? What proof do you need? They will bleed you dry from your eyeballs! Rule you like an infant in his cradle! They bartered your sister, a mere child, away. Gave her to traitors. Infant killers. Gave away our lands. Stole your money from under your runny nose. Open your eyes, boy! Before it comes to war. I’ll tell you your proof, if you—”
But at the word ‘boy’, I had already turned my horse, grabbed my mother’s bridle and was leading her back to our lines at a brisk clip. We were nearly back to the others before Lancaster’s rumbling outburst faded in the distance.
“Thank you,” she said, before we rejoined the others.
I said nothing to her. Too many unanswered questions had been raised, even though Lancaster had provided no proof to back up his accusations. Still, despite wanting to believe that my mother was innocent, the smallest worm of doubt had burrowed into my gut.
Mortimer, however, was entirely capable of murder.
16
Isabella:
Gloucester — September, 1328
I had never believed in omens, but in portent the golden eagle gliding above Windsor on my son’s day of birth loomed large and horrific.
When there is civil war, brother faces brother across the battlefield. Families are broken, lineages sometimes annihilated altogether. Kingdoms are destroyed from within—lands charred, farmsteads ravaged, and fortresses battered. One city is sacked, while the next one stands unscathed.
I had seen all this in the North when the Scots slipped across the border and wreaked their havoc, just as the English had done to their land. If it came to civil war, the devastation would be even greater and more widespread. A kingdom maimed is left vulnerable to invasion by foreigners, sometimes for decades.
Lancaster, who I had counted among our allies when we returned to England from France, had to be dealt with. He had drawn Kent and Norfolk into his maelstrom of insurrection. For the present, the king’s uncles were lying low, doubtless waiting to see what the prevailing wind would be when the time came to choose sides.
While Mortimer and I went with haste to Gloucester in the Welsh Marches to muster troops, the king went to London to confer with the mayor.
Bishop Orleton and I took supper with Mortimer in the great hall. Halfway through the meal, Mortimer excused himself to inspect arms and to make arrangements with the garrison’s captain to receive the various barons who had begun to answer the king’s summons. Orleton and I departed to the solar where we could talk in private.
I sat on the broad window ledge overlooking the road east. “This is but the residue of old grievances stirred anew, Adam.”
“Doubtless it is.” He stroked pensively at his smooth jaw. “One wonders, though, where and how such gossip originates. Perhaps it thrives only because mankind cannot be content with peace.”
I ached to confess all to him, but reason overruled my embattled conscience. With practice, hiding the truth had become an increasingly easy habit to uphold. Each time the lie is woven and never rent apart, it becomes stronger, more real.
A company of armed riders was approaching from the east. Fixed in cold fear, I pressed my hands to the window ledge. The pale light of dusk obscured their identity from a distance. The riders paused before the gatehouse and were admitted entrance. Edward galloped into the inner bailey, his cloak flaring from his shoulders as he wheeled his horse around to hurl out orders to his men.
Orleton came to the window to stand at my shoulder. “The king? Already returned from London?”
The horses of the king’s company heaved for breath. Their hides were dark with sweat. My knees shaking, I grasped the stones around the window. “Too soon.”
Gently, Orleton pried my fingers from the stones. “But a good sign that he arrived here safely, is it not?”
“I am not sure what it means.”
I pressed the flat of my palm to my breast, feeling the rapid flutter of my heart beneath it. I feared the worst: that Lancaster had plucked the malcontents from London, armed them with iron pokers, pointed sticks and rusty knives and was marching on us even now. Unlike his father, my son the king would bar their path, stand and fight until the brutal end. Years ago when I had toiled to correct my husband’s errors, I had been the trusted one, and particularly popular among the Londoners. It was not until now, however, with matters slipping from my control, that I realized how completely opinions had changed.
“But he came here—to you.” Orleton turned me by the waist and took my hand. “He doesn’t believe any of Lancaster’s claims. He believes you.”
“I pray you are not overly ambitious in your faith of my son, Your Grace.” I gripped his long-fingered hand, needing to draw on his strength. “I only want to know that all of this trouble with Lancaster will pass, that a resolution will come of it, and that in the end peace will prevail. Do I ask so much?” I let out a sigh steeped in despondency.
“What you ask is what God would have us follow always. But He also presents us with trials so we may choose either the path of righteousness or the path of worldliness. Too often, the way of the world offers temptations: dazzling jewels that cannot be resisted, empty indulgences, pleasures of the flesh, the gratification of pride, the greed for possessions. Things that feed the carnal appetites, yet leave us wanting more, never thankful of our daily sustenance, blind to the abounding gifts around us and thus slighting Our Lord’s munificence. The promise of Heaven is unknown to many; the path to it easily obscured. It is there for those who seek it. The way is there.”
His face had turned heavenward, eyes alight with an awe of the divine and an ecstasy that filled his being. Of all England’s prelates, he seemed the most genuine in his faith. More than observant of it, he felt the hand of God on his soul, recognized God’s work in every lightning-scoured branch and winter-dead wisp of grass, and patronized none who did not; instead, he shared his exultation, reminding those of us who overlooked those daily miracles and humbling us by our own awareness. I felt not so much shamed in his presence, as I felt awakened. At last, his chin dropped and his eyes misted over with sadness. He shook his head and touched clasped hands to his lips. “Yet how many of us say we walk the road to Heaven, even as we dance like heretics celebrating our sins?”
Another time I would have delved further into this discourse on God’s glory and how we—me, daily, as well—fell to intemperance ... but Young Edward had arrived. War loomed. War. All because of a horrific act which I had not stopped from happening. Did it matter that I had tried?
“Shall we see, then,” I said, prompting, “what brings our young king with such haste? Perhaps the news is good?”
“Scripture says: Ye shall hear of wars and rumors of wars: be not troubled, for all these things must come to pass, but the end is not yet.” The fine corners of his mouth lifted in a smile. “Come. Have strength, my child. God will guide us, if we but seek the answers. As for peace, it is always His will.”
I hooked my fingers into the crook of the bishop’s arm and together we descended the spiral stairs of the tower, the amber flames of the torches b
owing as we passed and springing to new life in our shadows. We reached the darkened yard to find it empty but for grooms gathering up the horses and a few loitering soldiers, some guzzling from their flasks, others bent over with weariness and rubbing at stiff muscles from too many hard hours in the saddle.
At the door to the great hall, William Montagu lingered, his lithe form molded to the doorframe as he surveyed every corner of the bailey like a fox watching for the flicker of a mouse’s tail in tall grass. Wherever Edward was, Montagu was always close by. I dropped my hand from the bishop’s arm, lifting my skirts to consume the distance more rapidly, and bounded up the steps two at a time. At the top, I paused before Montagu to catch my breath.
He bent deeply forward, his head dipping to waist level. Golden strands dangled across his eyes, but he never took his gaze from me.
“My lady,” he greeted in a bland tone. Montagu raked the hair from his eyes. They were a shocking amber—a color I had never seen on any living creature before but a cat. Not only was his burnished hair tightly tangled and knotted, but his clothes were sullied and wrinkled, revealing that he had slept in them for several days straight and, judging by the bodily stench, not had the leisure of a wash basin either.
As he moved to open the door for me, I touched his wrist to stay him. “London? How goes it there?”
“I would not know, my lady. I have not seen it recently.”
I glanced back at Orleton, who by then was coming up the stairs to the hall. He gave me a questioning glance as he came abreast of me.
“As I thought. London defies the king.” I nodded to Montagu to open the door. Bishop Orleton and I entered a barely lit hall. I saw only shadows thrown by scattered candlelight and stirring black shapes that floated through a gray world. The door closed behind us. My eyes could not adjust quickly enough to ascertain who was present. I could locate the long lumps of servants asleep beneath their blankets by their snoring—some near the trestle tables, others by a dead hearth smelling faintly of ashes. To our left a gruff voice cursed.
“Bloody, fucking bastard! Watch where you’re going.”
The gray shape swaggering above retorted, “I would not utter such curses without knowing to whom you are speaking.”
I heard a swift kick and a wilting moan, then brusque muttering, something like the grunting of an angry swine. A lantern swam through the blackness, throwing long swaths of light before it and upon the king’s haggard features, his appearance every bit as road-worn as Montagu’s.
“Edward?” I called out. He looked at me sulkily as he undid his scabbard and dropped it carelessly beside him. I picked my way through the scattered heaps of dozing bodies. As more lights were brought forth, the hall suddenly began to bustle to life. Utterances of ‘The king ... ’tis the king’ echoed forth, beginning in frail whispers and then rising to a jittery buzz. Soon there was a swarm of frenzied servants piling kindling and stout logs upon the hearth, others rushing to bring food and drink or offering clean blankets.
I reached Edward and embraced him, but immediately detected trouble in his rigid stance. “Son, what of London? Why did you not go there?” I had begged him to come with us directly to Gloucester instead, but he had insisted on going his own way, certain the city would welcome him upon his arrival.
He hurled his gauntlets at the floor in disgust. “We did not get past Cambridge, Mother.” Hands braced upon his narrow hips, he scowled at his own blighted hope.
“Lancaster?”
“Approaching from the southwest with his army—and not on friendly terms. Just as bad, Mayor Bethune, whom I trusted, was ousted in favor of Hamo de Chigwell—that despicable sewer rat. So my plan to rally London—utterly pointless. It was not safe to even go near it.” Chigwell had been one of those who had sentenced Mortimer to death when he was imprisoned in the Tower. His appointment boded favorably for Lancaster and ill for us. Young Edward balled his fists and shook them in the air. “Argh! It is Lancaster’s fortune that I left. I was ready to fight. I would have. I wanted to.”
“But you didn’t.”
He brought his fists down to his sides, fingers clenched like catapult stones, ready to be hurled at a waiting target. “No, no, I didn’t. Didn’t because ... because he had openly given orders that I was to be taken captive—and I could not give him that opportunity. Scouting reports said that Lancaster had a large contingent of Londoners with him.” He jabbed a finger in the air behind him for emphasis. “If it comes to battle, I’ll be the one to have the numbers—and the people—on my side, not that self-serving mongrel.”
Already he understood what his father never had: that kings who have the masses behind them rule long and well.
“How many?” I said. “How many Londoners did he have?”
He pushed his hands up the sides of his face, rocking his head back and forth in aggravation, trying to recall the number. “Enough ... five, maybe six hundred.”
It was then that Mortimer’s voice grabbed us from behind. “That many, plus his own men?” His shadow parted from the other side of a bulging column as he drifted calmly toward us. He came into the light and stood plank still some distance away, as if the events bore no urgency of decision, but rather careful contemplation. It was a trait of Mortimer’s, one which he was always trying to impress upon the young king, to keep his wits level, even in the most frantic of situations.
Young Edward threw his hands wide. “Yes, that bloody many. He taunts. He lies. He sets the snare and then would chase me straight into it. It seems I cannot avoid this fight, Sir Roger.”
“And you shouldn’t,” Mortimer replied carefully. “At least ... not if that is how Lancaster means to settle this. He’s had his chances. Still, he rebuffs your graces.”
“He has. He does. Outright rebellion, I say. As plain as the beard on your face.” Edward dragged a chair close to the hearth, yanked loose some of the straps on his plate armor and slumped down, defeated by exhaustion if not dwindling options. One elbow propped on the arm of the chair, he balanced his chin thoughtfully upon the knuckles of that hand. “Before I was crowned, I swore to myself that in my reign I would never let it come to this—that I would never see civil war in my lifetime. Yet it hasn’t even been a year and already ...” He threw his head back, eyes shut tight, and then exploded in frustration, tearing at the roots of his hair. “Why?! Why, God, do you test me like this? What have I done to cause it? Was I not meant to be King of England? Did I come by it wrongfully and this ... this is my punishment?”
I cringed at those words. He had been reluctant to take the crown, accepting it only after his father’s abdication in writing had been witnessed. That tentative beginning had compromised his mettle even then.
“You have done nothing, my son,” Orleton said. “And God is not the cause of it. Lord Henry of Lancaster is.”
Skeptical, he opened his eyes a sliver. “Then, dear Bishop Orleton, how do I keep it from happening?”
Orleton glanced toward Mortimer, who leaned against a column, crossed his arms and kept his thoughts to himself.
The bishop went to the king and stood before him. He inclined his head in a bow of respect. “If you will permit me to speak honestly, my lord?”
Young Edward flipped his palm open. “Go on.”
“The earl has raised serious ... accusations. Levied them at those nearest you. You asked for proof. What proof has he given you?”
“None ... yet.”
“Then I would say he has none to give. My king, I am a man of God and do not condone violence, but he has armed himself and come after you. You must stand against him ... and you must defeat him, for if you do nothing, it will indeed be Henry of Lancaster who rules England ... and not you.”
Edward slid lower. He stared into the fire for a good long time before finally forming his thoughts into words. Like the boy-king he still was, he wriggled in his chair. “I don’t always know the right thing to do. That was my father’s flaw, as well, I think.”
“It is
to be human, my son,” Orleton replied.
“But what is it to be a king? Kings command. They rule. But how?” He closed his eyes again and rubbed at his eyeballs, squirming with discomfort at his predicament. Finally, he looked squarely at Mortimer, pausing long before posing the question. “Sir Roger, tell me—what do I do, when I know not what to do?”
Mortimer’s words were measured and sincere, not forceful. “Gather wisdom from those around you. Listen to reason. Weigh the risks—the cost of each possibility against the outcome. Then, take action.”
“And if it does not go well?”
He shrugged. “You do differently the next time.”
Young Edward dropped his hand from his chin. “Yes, if we are so fortunate ...” The edges of his mouth curled upward in a facetious grin. His overture for Mortimer’s advice had been thought through. For a boy not yet seventeen, he was exceedingly clever. I had hoped he had given up his mistrust of Mortimer and it almost appeared so. Still, there remained the underlying grievance of Weardale that the king would not let go—and he would remind Mortimer of it just often enough to keep him humble. Mortimer, however aware he was of the insinuation, seemed unfazed by it.
“Mother?” Edward turned his bleary-eyed gaze on me.
Lost in contemplation, his voice startled me. “Yes?”
“I’ve heard from the Bishop of Hereford and Sir Roger. What do you say on this matter of Lancaster?”
The rising heat of the fire warmed my back, but my fingers were ice cold. I pulled my hands inside the long draping sleeves of my kirtle and moved closer to him. “I say he has made himself your enemy.”
“Strong words.”
“What else would you call him?”
“Hah. Not a friend by any means.” He stifled a long, deep yawn and stretched his sinewy, deer-like legs. “Your advice, then?”
“Avoid Salisbury.”
“Not go to Parliament?”
The King Must Die (The Isabella Books) Page 18
