The King Must Die (The Isabella Books)

by Sasson, N. Gemini

  “There is good news from London,” I beamed. “Hamo de Chigwell has been replaced.”

  He ignored my announcement for a while, then finally nudged the book away and peered up at me. “By whom? Bethune again?”

  “John de Grantham. The Londoners elected him only a few days before Parliament adjourned. I’m quite certain Lancaster knows of it by now, as well.” I wholly expected to see Young Edward’s face alight with glee, as the news would be a sharp blow to the earl, but Edward remained sober, guarded.

  “Three mayors in less than six months’ time ...” His words trailed away, as if distracted by some other, more troubling thought that he had not yet grasped fully.

  “And Lancaster?” Philippa asked in anticipation. “Where is he?”

  Mortimer and I exchanged a glance, each of us pondering who would shatter the superficial peace into which Edward had enclosed himself in this room full of parchment and leather. I lowered my eyes, yielding to Mortimer.

  Mortimer accepted the task. “In Winchester, still. He has been warned to lay down his arms and submit to you.”

  “And?” Edward scratched at his temple.

  “So far, he has not.”

  The king did not respond. He pulled the book closer again and hunched over it, one finger following intertwining threads of red and gold within the letter ‘E’.

  “Edward,” I said, my voice shaky, “your uncles, Kent and Norfolk, they have not denounced their ties to Lancaster. Grantham says that ... that Kent has told something to Lancaster in confidence—and that is why the earl will not remove himself from Winchester.”

  Without looking away from the book, Edward’s lip curled ever so churlishly. “What did he say to him, Mother?”

  There was more behind his words, but I deigned to leave it alone. Perhaps it was nothing more than confusion. Rumors grew in life the more often and more loudly they were repeated.

  “I don’t know,” I said, trying to think quickly of how to divert the subject. If Edward clung to even the least suspicion about Mortimer or myself, our cause was thwarted. “He is still trying to incite London to rise against you. Still calling on your uncles to join him in arms.”

  Thomas of Norfolk I knew less well, for he had not often been at court in Edward of Caernarvon’s day. As for Edmund of Kent, while I was indebted to him, there was always a tickle in my belly, an intuitive mistrust of him. Besides that, I had no good reason to doubt him. Because of that uncertainty, I had questioned him in France when he vowed to join us—even looked for signs that he might betray us after we landed near Walton. Edmund of Kent was a fickle opportunist, lured by intrigue and spurred by gossip—and that was the most dangerous sort to have around, for it made him unpredictable.

  Edward blinked. He leaned back, threw his long legs up on the table and drummed his fingers on his knees. “We go to Winchester. With every available man riding fully armed behind us. Lancaster will bow before me and make amends ... or he will meet his end.”

  Abruptly, Philippa dashed herself at his knees and buried her face in his lap. “Edward, please. Your mother is right about Lancaster. If you go, it means war.”

  He smoothed the errant wisps of her pale hair and touched a fingertip to her quivering lip. “Come with me, my sweet, and you can watch from a distance and see what a king’s army can do. It is said my grandfather took his second wife, Queen Marguerite, on his Scottish campaigns with him so he could return to her every night. Even our good Sir Roger here took his beloved wife Joan abroad while he battled Irish pagans. Is that not so, Sir Roger? Did she ever suffer a scratch?”

  Mortimer crossed his arms. “Never. But she stayed miles from any fight. Sometimes I did not see her for days.”

  Edward slammed the illuminated book shut and gave Mortimer an accusing look. “Help me, but I cannot recall the last time you ever left the company of my dear mother. Such loyalty is hard to come by.” He flashed a sardonic smile. “There shall be no more delays in dealing with the Earl of Lancaster. We set out for Winchester in the morning. My sweet?” He traced a fingertip around the rim of Philippa’s ear. She lifted her face to show him eyes that were misty with foreboding.

  Philippa, above anyone, could have kept the king from going, but this time he was not swayed, nor did she persist. Instead, she bit at her lip and bobbed her head. Edward drew her up and leaned forward to give her a kiss.

  “My lord,” Mortimer said, “as one of your advisors, I caution you not to go.”

  Young Edward paused with his mouth inches from Philippa’s face. “And as your king, I inform you that I am going. But thank you, kindly, for your concern.” He kissed his wife.

  “If you are taken,” she protested, “or killed, then—”

  Edward took Philippa by the hand and helped her up as he stood. “It is your duty, Sir Roger, to make sure that does not happen.” Without further argument, his arm about his wife’s shoulder, they left the room.

  Before Mortimer could speak his mind, I did. “Why does he defy us?”

  “Perhaps because he is a boy coming into manhood—as you once reminded me. And he will buck and rear until he breaks the tether that binds him.” Mortimer came to me and swirled his fingertips along the curve from my shoulders to my neck. “Isabella, you cannot hide him behind your skirts forever. You have to let him be the king he was meant to be.”

  “But —”

  “But ... he is right.” He cradled my face between his hands and drew me irresistibly closer. “He must do this, and you must let him. He is not yet ready to command, but he must make an appearance. He will grow more confident. He will see and he will learn—from me. Remember, it is not your son that we seek to hold sway over, but his enemies. Edward shall be our banner. I shall be his sword and shield. I will do whatever I can to protect him, as I have you. I swear it.”

  I buried my face against the warmth of his chest. “But I fear it may come to battle—many battles. That the next will not be the last.”

  “There will always be war. But Lancaster—he does not have the heart for more than one. Actually, I don’t even think he has one good fight in him. Douglas and Randolph have harassed Lancashire for years and never once has the earl met up with them. He simply cries to London for help. I would not doubt that, like his blustering brother Thomas before him, he is conspiring with Scots even as we speak.”

  He wrapped his arms tight about me, as if he would never let go.

  There are times when reassuring words and heartfelt embraces are not enough, though. I did not sleep at all that night. The next morning, Young Edward rode eagerly at the head of his army, with no intention of hiding from Lancaster. He was resplendent in his new suit of German armor—every plate polished to catch the sun’s rays. His puissant warhorse sported its own mail and a chaufron of polished metal from muzzle to ears. Behind him fluttered scores of banners, flowing and rippling like a river of color across the countryside.

  Next to the king rode Roger Mortimer. Even though Mortimer had counseled me to allow my son his freedom, he was constantly at the king’s side, guiding him by understated suggestions or provoking a decision from him through thoughtful questioning, and only letting others have their say when it posed no threat to his judgment. It was subtly done, but it did not go unnoticed—by me or by others.

  We arrived at Winchester just as the last of Lancaster’s forces were fleeing the city. He would not submit, nor would he fight. For reasons not yet known, the earl was buying time.

  Edward burned to pursue him. Philippa begged him not to and thus he yielded—no more to my matronly advice, but to the honeyed wishes of his genteel wife.

  I knew in my head that Mortimer was right, that I could no longer keep my son from youth’s rash follies. But it is always in a mother’s heart, no matter how old or how high her child, to watch over and protect him.

  A mother, however, is a woman also.

  I love my son. I love Roger Mortimer, as well. If God might grant me one kindness in this cruel irony of a life
that I live, it should be that I shall never have to choose between the two of them.

  18

  Isabella:

  Kenilworth — January, 1329

  A pair of buzzards cut across a sunless January sky on jagged wings. Close on their tail feathers, diving blackbirds cried out, their caws piercing the fragile air.

  Young Edward stood apart from his army on the causeway before the gates of Kenilworth. Behind him, his caparisoned dark gray pricked its ears forward and snorted steam from flared nostrils. It pawed at the ground, feathered fetlocks swishing with each stroke of its hoof. Every time Edward boldly stepped closer to the impassable iron portcullis, the horse, curious and vigilant, followed him, even though he had dropped its reins long ago when he dismounted.

  “Open, I command!” Edward’s words boomed out far and high, carrying to the clouds above, which were moored in place like over-laden ships at harbor. There was no wind to push the swollen clouds along, no downy snow descending from their shapelessness to relieve them of their burden. He wrung the gauntlets from his hands and threw them onto the ground.

  With every step he took, a cold river of sweat surged down my breastbone. My heart altogether stopped when I saw my son wrench the helmet from his head and toss it carelessly aside. High on the face of the nearest tower, an arrow jabbed through a slit. Edward did not hear my stifled cry of terror, so far away.

  He did, however, see the face of the archer who had taken aim at him. “Let loose, base coward! Am I so far or so fast that you cannot hit me?” He threw his arms wide and waited, but nothing happened.

  No arrows flew to rip through his breast. The gate did not rise. No figure appeared along the wall or from a tower window to parley with the newly fledged king. Lancaster had been here and left not long ago ... and apparently with firm orders to refuse entrance to King Edward.

  As impatient as he was foolhardy, Edward gave up, turned on his heel and strode back along the causeway, plucking up his gauntlets as he went, cramming them into his helmet and snatching at the loose reins of his mount. He arrived fuming and red-faced at the place that Mortimer and I had been waiting—well beyond arrow range—where the causeway leading away from the gatehouse at the castle’s entrance became road. Sir William Montagu went dutifully to his side, taking the helmet from Edward and tucking it under his own arm.

  Beneath my long flowing surcoat of blue and gold, I was encased in a suit of mail that hung so heavily from my shoulders that my neck and back burned with cramps. Upon my head I wore a mail coif with a thin twining crown of filigreed gold. The armor had been a gift from Charles before I left France for England. Although usually more lavish in his tastes, he could be practical as well.

  Agitated, Edward ground the toe of his boot into the frozen earth and pounded at his thighs. He was obviously aware that all eyes were on him, waiting for him to speak. Abruptly, a change swept over his countenance. There was excitement in his eyes, but a crackle of fear in his voice. “An assault?”

  Mortimer shook his head. “The causeway is too narrow. The width at the front of your column would be too few. The garrison’s archers could pick them off one by one. No, an outright attack would be bold, but too costly and short lived.”

  Stealing a look at the ring of water encircling Kenilworth, Edward thumped the heel of his hand on his sword’s hilt. “The lake?”

  Montagu spoke bluntly, “Too deep to wade. Too wide to cross.”

  “Other options?” The king crossed his arms, looking from Mortimer, to Montagu and back to Mortimer. “A siege?”

  “To what end, my lord?” Mortimer said. “If it’s the castle you want, yes, you could besiege it and eventually starve it into submission, but that could take months. If it’s Lancaster you want—I assure you, he’s not within. You would be wasting your time and resources.”

  “Still, I do not like being snubbed like this. No fortress is allowed to deny me entrance. None!” Almost imperceptibly, Edward shot a sideways glance at Montagu. “Very well, then. We forget about Kenilworth, for now. In time, I shall exact payment for this offense. Sir Roger—you are to go to Leicester and take it, in my name.”

  “And if I am met in the same fashion as this?”

  “Burn his lands—from here to there, in as wide a path as you please. If Lancaster will not meet us face to face, we will wreck everything he owns or lays claim to. That will bring him to his knees more quickly than laying siege, wouldn’t you say?”

  I knew the face and form that I now looked upon as my oldest son’s—the very one who had balked at becoming king so long as his incompetent father still breathed. But this person before me—it was not him. The voice that emanated from my son’s mouth ... I did not know it. Where was the helpless, little boy who I had cradled in my arms and sung to when he cried out in the night? Where was the young, pure-hearted man who not a year ago had blushed at the kiss of his new bride? Or only months ago had heeded to my advice and then recited it nearly word for word to his kinsman and greatest enemy? No, this was not him. Not him, but some imposter. Or the ghost of his heartless grandfather, Longshanks.

  “Edward ...” I lowered myself from my saddle as quickly and yet as cautiously as I could, trying not to topple sideways with the pitch of my added weight as I did so. “You cannot put fire to England. Not any of it. Not even a cattle byre. If you do, it is only the beginning of an endless desecration. Lancaster will retaliate. The kingdom will be toppled into despair, at your own hands, simply to have your revenge on him.”

  “I will not burn anything, Mother.” He suppressed a wicked grin like a little boy wending his way out of a lie by a literal twist of words. “Sir Roger is experienced in that method of warring. Why, he burned out old women and babes from their homes in Ireland, did he not? I hear he was bloody good at it.”

  I rushed forward and grabbed him by the forearm. “I will take this to the regency council. They will overrule you.”

  One of his golden eyebrows dipped low. “Will you? Good then, I’ll do as they say. Ah, but yes ... they aren’t here, are they? That will take time and by then ... well, the deed will be done. And Lancaster, who was supposed to be one of the councilors appointed to guide me, he will no longer be able to run from rabbit hole to rabbit hole.” He pried my fingers loose and stepped away from me, making it clear that he was his own man now, not the solicitous prince who had tractably stood at my side while in France, defying the angry demands of his father. “Oh, yes—Sir Roger, I don’t know if it was your usual practice to burn everything in front of you, but spare the churches, abbeys and such, will you? I don’t want to begin my kingship with a reputation for careless sacrilege.”

  Smug, he took back the reins of his steed from Montagu and rode off with his friend, meandering his way through the ranks as if he had not a care in the world.

  I stood there flabbergasted, unable to call after him, confused and confounded. “Where is he going?” I finally said. Of all the possibilities I had envisioned for this dreaded day, Edward challenging our authority and flippantly ordering Mortimer about, and then leaving altogether, had not been among any of them.

  “How am I to know?” Mortimer said tersely, the line of his lips tightening in perturbation. He stared hard at the high walls of Kenilworth, as if he could topple the stones from crenel to ground with only a black look.

  “I’ll summon the council.”

  “It will do you no good, this late. No, I will do as he says. Retaliate against Lancaster. Finish with the bastard. The king is challenging me, nothing more. And I accept, willingly.”

  Nothing more to say, Mortimer rode away. I had lost this argument. And I was left alone with the great, dark, glassy lake of Kenilworth at my back reflecting a gray sky—and before me the king’s men-at-arms flexing their fingers on spear poles, archers gripping their longbows, and knights with shields strapped tight and ready.

  ***

  Leicester — January, 1329

  Like a stack of dry hay, the city of Leicester burned. A pall
of black smoke obscured the sky all the way to Rockingham. Mortimer had done his work quickly and completely. His Welshmen ravaged, taking grain and livestock, axing fences and woods, draining ponds and torching every timber of every barn, building and hovel of those beholden to their lord, Henry of Lancaster.

  Predictably, Lancaster reciprocated with an oath of war.

  The day that Edward and I rode through the still smoldering ruins of the town of Leicester, wet cloths pressed to our mouths to keep the smoke from scouring our throats, its people emerged seemingly out of nowhere to hold out their soot-smeared hands and beg King Edward’s mercy. I had thought they would curse his name and run for fear of their lives, or even join the earl in arms against the king, but none did. Edward, taken aback by their sorrowful pleas, abandoned his vengeful madness and took pity on them.

  Leicester Castle swung open its gates to us without resistance and together we rode under the raised portcullis. That very day letters arrived from both Edmund of Kent and Thomas of Norfolk, forswearing any allegiance to the traitorous Henry, Earl of Leicester and Lancaster, and beseeching mercy from the king. The very act I feared might ignite public displeasure with Mortimer had in fact turned the tide of rebellion in King Edward’s favor. But in its wake came another fear for me—that Edward, his confidence augmented, would turn irretrievably from my influence and that he would test and abuse Mortimer’s loyalty even more.

  I felt myself confined to a crevasse, too narrow before or behind me to escape, no way out, while two enormous boulders toppled from opposite summits and rolled on a collision course toward me.

  ***

  Bedford — January, 1329