Christopher put a hand to his chest. “Me? What did I do?”
“Other than save Ireland, apparently,” Anna said sotto voce to her brother.
David glanced at his sister, his lips quirking, and then turned back to his cousin. “While your mom was hugging you—” he grinned at Elisa, who for the first time in her life grinned back at him, “—I glanced through the plane’s entertainment options. How could you not have told me they’d made more Star Wars movies?”
Chapter Thirty-two
20 March 1294
Humphrey de Bohun
Yesterday evening had turned to hell far more quickly than Humphrey would have thought possible. He hadn’t known FitzWalter and Mortimer had sent a band to capture Anna or he would have found a way to warn her and Math, but once FitzWalter’s company had returned without her, he’d cornered the two barons. “What were you thinking?”
Roger snorted. “The attempt to take Princess Anna, even if unsuccessful, will distract Lord Mathonwy from our true purpose. Nothing has changed.”
“If we had succeeded, we would have gained powerful leverage against the Welsh. Lord Mathonwy wouldn’t dare interfere with the succession if we held his wife,” FitzWalter said. “It was worth the attempt.”
Humphrey snorted. “Offa’s Dyke is no barrier anymore, you do realize? Beeston Castle is a paltry quest in comparison to what he would have been willing to sacrifice to avenge the loss of his wife. Math would have hunted your men to the ends of the earth if he had to. But all he has to do is come here!”
Pride was the downfall of so many lords. William de Valence had been stuffed full of it—that and his own importance—and he’d ended up dead. The same could be said (and had been) of Gilbert de Clare, whom Humphrey had hated most of his life anyway, since he’d betrayed Humphrey’s father by running back to Edward rather than standing like a man at Evesham.
Humphrey had learned to swallow his pride when it came to King David, and he’d been rewarded for his practicality a hundred-fold. In fact, he would have said his pride was far more warranted now than it had ever been.
His loyalty to David would have driven him out of Beeston Castle within an hour of his arrival yesterday morning, but every moment he stayed had garnered him more information to take to the king—or to Math in his stead. With David’s blessing, Humphrey had spent the past six months wooing Roger Mortimer, and it would have been foolish to squander all that work too soon. But now he could no longer put off his departure. England needed him like it never had before. David needed him.
Humphrey’s pride reared its head and preened.
He resolutely squashed it down. First, he had to accomplish what would gain him those accolades. He hadn’t bothered to see William Venables, who was in an impossible position. If he was loyal to his father and Mortimer, he shouldn’t be imprisoned, but if he was loyal to David, Humphrey would be unable to convince William of his own loyalty. Better to leave him where he was. Regardless of Balliol’s plans, Mortimer intended to take the throne. He wasn’t going to win over the rest of England if he started killing minor barons.
As Humphrey headed across the inner ward, more men were about than might be warranted at this early hour of the morning. He merely noted it and with purposeful stride crossed the bridge to the outer ward. He’d been told once by his father, may he rest in peace, that if a man wanted people to believe he knew what he was doing and was where he was supposed to be, first and foremost he needed to act like it.
Humphrey had spent his life acting like it. Every lord did. But as he’d realized with the demise of Valence and Clare, the danger was in believing, even for a heartbeat, in one’s own legend. Humphrey himself, on behalf of his son, had reached for the throne before David had been crowned king. David had even supported William’s marriage to Joan. And yet, there had been something inevitable about the way Humphrey’s plans had fallen apart, and when David had been crowned king instead of William, even Humphrey had been blinded by his light.
How Mortimer, FitzWalter, and Warenne couldn’t see it, Humphrey didn’t know. Maybe they were so blinded by their own greatness they couldn’t see anyone else’s. But they were fools to think their Irish plan had worked. Humphrey wasn’t going to believe David was dead until he saw the body. And even then …
Humphrey was a long way from being ready to concede to Roger Mortimer an ounce of power he didn’t deserve.
Instead of heading to where his people had camped, over a hundred of them, Humphrey detoured to the stable. Henry Percy had promised to meet him at dawn, which was now. If anything, Humphrey was late.
He’d taken only one step through stable doorway, however, when he found himself swung around by the lapels and pressed up against the interior wall.
“Damn it, Henry. It’s me.” Humphrey was not a tall man, but he was burly, and yet he had no counter to the forearm pressed against his throat.
Henry released him and took a step back. “You’re late. I thought you’d betrayed me or been captured.”
Humphrey straightened his tunic with a jerk, pleased Henry’s drunkenness of the night before had been an act. “Why would Roger throw me in prison? He thinks he has his traitor in Venny.” He narrowed his eyes at the Warenne heir. “What were you thinking, giving him away like that?”
“My grandfather sent a rider with word that Lord Mathonwy had tracked FitzWalter’s men here. It was either share the news or flee.”
“Why did your grandfather imprison Math and Ieuan?”
It was bad enough that Mortimer had gone after Anna, thinking to use her as leverage against Math and hoping, with David dead, that none of the Welsh lords would seek to involve themselves in England. Roger was right that Anna’s captivity would have ensured Math’s compliance. Mortimer’s plan, in fact, was carefully calibrated to make acceptance of his rule the path of least resistance. In the aftermath of David’s death, he wanted to isolate the Welsh, not incite them to violence—which the capture of Math and Ieuan might well do.
“I don’t know!” Henry’s voice was almost a wail.
Humphrey quickly shushed him, and then, belatedly, while he waited for Henry to calm himself, walked down the aisle between the horse stalls, looking for stable boys or spies.
“I already did that,” Henry said from behind him. “There’s nothing to worry about.”
Humphrey looked anyway, and found Henry was right. Humphrey hadn’t expected trouble. The drink had flowed freely last night, as if victory was already theirs. If Humphrey hadn’t known already that FitzWalter didn’t deserve his niece, he did now. He was surprised, in a way, that Roger had allied with FitzWalter so fully—but Roger was ever one to use the tools at hand. FitzWalter was a connection to Balliol, and if nothing else, Balliol was committed to overthrowing King David.
Balliol was also spineless and deluded, but that had only made Roger all the more happy to ally with him.
Humphrey returned to stand in front of Henry, who began to pace back and forth. “We’re taking a terrible chance.”
Humphrey narrowed his eyes. “You’re having second thoughts?”
Henry looked up. “Not about betraying Mortimer, but my grandfather—”
“—has lost his reason on this issue. He may appear as sharp as ever to outsiders, but you know how false that impression is. He sees traitors around every corner and refuses to admit what is plain before his face if it doesn’t suit him.” Humphrey studied the boy, realizing only now how young Henry was. “Your grandfather told Mortimer that he could have his support if you married Elizabeth. Mortimer agreed.” Humphrey tipped his head. “He lied, of course.”
Henry was aghast. “My grandfather spoke about putting me on the throne, but I thought he was dreaming out loud.”
“I tried to tell him not to trust Roger, but he wouldn’t listen. He thinks he has the upper hand, when he does not.”
“That’s half the reason why I went along with Roger in the first place, to protect my grandfather.”
“Your grandfather was easy pickings for a man like Roger Mortimer. King David will understand that when I tell him of it.”
“You don’t know that.” Henry appeared very close to tears.
Humphrey found himself irritated at the need to reattach Henry’s spine. “I know the king; I know your grandfather; and I know you.” He bobbed his chin at Henry. “You can do this.”
“What are we going to do about Roger?”
“We are going to bring him down, after I rescue Math and Ieuan.”
“I hadn’t thought whatever Mortimer was planning would come to a head this soon.”
Humphrey tsked through his teeth. His son, William, was younger than Henry, but far more competent, as a Bohun should be. Again, the pride flared, but this time he didn’t suppress it. William had become a man any father would be proud to call his heir, unlike Henry, who was proving to be disconcertingly fearful. Thus, Humphrey decided he could share his own uncertainties if it would help Henry manage his. “Neither did I. In truth, Mortimer cornered me, and it was either pledge support or go the way of Venny.” Then his chin hardened. “Roger forgets that after Evesham, my own father was taken to this very castle and died of his wounds here, a prisoner. Roger’s father was among those who sealed his fate.”
Henry clearly hadn’t known that history either, because his face paled. “If that’s true, why isn’t Mortimer worried about betrayal from you?”
“King David is dead, hadn’t you heard?” Humphrey didn’t bother to keep the scorn from his voice. “What else do I need to know?”
Henry laid out the entirety of the situation beyond the walls as he’d heard it from his grandfather’s messenger. Oddly, instead of raising his anxiety, the direness of the situation calmed Humphrey and gave him focus. He went to the doorway of the stable to look out at the growing light. “Given the stakes, I can’t wait another hour. I’m leaving with my men now. You must stay here and keep an eye on Mortimer and FitzWalter. They are awaiting word from Ireland before moving. I need to know the instant any word comes.”
“Where are you going to be?”
“At your grandfather’s castle, of course.”
Henry’s face was white. “Will Mortimer let you leave?”
Bohun looked down his long nose at the boy. “I am Constable of England and Earl of Hereford. Roger cannot take the throne without my approval. I dare him to stop me.”
Chapter Thirty-three
20 March 1294
Constance
Constance rested her head against the wall at the back of the stall in which she’d been hiding half the night. When Mortimer had ordered Venny arrested, she’d been probing the defenses, as Venny had asked, and she’d hidden herself in time to see her husband and the others taken away. Either Mortimer had forgotten that Venny had brought a woman with him, or he’d dismissed her as unimportant and not worth looking for. Either way, she’d remained free.
She’d seen Henry Percy come into the stables, and he’d paced around for quite some time before Humphrey de Bohun had arrived. Henry had been less observant than Bohun, who’d seen her and ignored her. That had been the first inkling that maybe he was not the traitor he’d appeared to be in the hall.
And with the conclusion of the men’s conversation, she was breathing easier than she had in hours, and she poked her head above the wall of the stall in time to see Henry Percy leave.
Lord Bohun walked back down the aisle to where she was hiding and opened the stall door. “You heard all that, I presume.”
She bobbed a curtsey. “Yes, my lord.” When Bohun had first seen her, she’d feared reprisals, but he’d merely given her a long look and walked away. In retrospect, he couldn’t have known for certain where her loyalties lay, but he’d taken a risk—they both had—and now she met his gaze with more determination than fear.
“I didn’t want to scare poor Henry by revealing your presence. You’re Constance?”
“Yes, my lord.”
He grunted. “I saw you shoot at Windsor. You serve Queen Lili.”
“Yes, my lord.” She couldn’t seem to say anything else, and all his questions were really answers anyway.
“I’m taking you out of here with me.”
She wasn’t one to defy the Constable of England, but she shook her head. “I need to stay. They have my husband.”
“Your husband would want you free, and I need you to speak to whoever is waiting outside Beeston for you to return. You are my safe passage to him.”
Constance’s mouth fell open in surprise. “You know about that?”
“I know Lord Mathonwy. He wouldn’t have sent only the five of you here, not without anyone to back you up.” He paused. “It was a risky move.”
“We volunteered.”
Bohun scoffed. “Don’t we all.” He tipped his head to indicate outside the door, where the sun had risen high enough to light the interior. “Where are your horses?”
“This one here is Venny’s. I hid with him after the soldiers came for Cador and the others.”
“I’ll have you know they’re still alive. They’re in a room in the barracks, unfortunately far from Venny, who is in the keep with his father.”
Constance pressed her face into the horse’s neck, her relief so great she was embarrassed to have it show on her face. “Is that your doing?”
“Mortimer has no interest in killing English soldiers. Henry will look after them.”
Constance looked up, a dubious expression on her face. “Are you sure you can trust him?”
“He’s young, but he’ll do the right thing in the end,” Bohun said bracingly. “Get your things and come with me.”
“How can you be sure King David’s alive?” The question came out before Constance could stop it.
Bohun had taken a step towards the stable door, but now he stopped and turned back. “I have to believe it. My son is with him.”
As Bohun had asked, Constance connected him with Sir Cadwallon, who remained with his ten men in the barn near Beeston. That was an awkward reunion if there ever was one, since Bohun had been responsible for almost killing Cadwallon ten years earlier. But Cadwallon was more gracious than Bohun deserved, and as much as Cadwallon wanted to either storm Beeston or come with Bohun to Lyons, he agreed that he should continue to keep watch where he was. In particular, Bohun needed to know if Henry Percy sent a messenger to his uncle instead of to Bohun as he’d promised.
Whether because Constance had brought it up or out of his innate skepticism, Bohun was hedging his bets and seemed to think that Henry Percy’s loyalty remained an open question.
Now, Bohun leaned forward on his arms, which he’d crossed and rested on the pommel of his saddle, his eyes on the battlements of Lyons Castle. It was late morning by now, and the sun had chosen that moment to come out from behind the cloud cover and shine down on them.
Instinctively, Constance’s hand went to her bow rest near her saddle bags, but Bohun put out a hand to her. “No. Remember why we’re here? Warenne doesn’t know I still serve King David. We need him to trust me.”
“You think to go in there?”
Bohun let out a puff of air. “I think I have to.”
“Out of the frying pan and into the fire, that would be, my lord,” Constance said, speaking with more familiarity than was perhaps wise with a Norman lord—albeit under her breath.
Bohun released a laugh. “You have the right of it.”
Then Bohun’s captain, a tall man with jet-black hair and black eyes, indicating foreign blood, pointed south of the castle, along the road that followed the Dee. “I see movement, my lord!”
Bohun frowned and peered ahead. “Who is it?”
Before leaving Beeston, Constance had taken Venny’s binoculars from his saddle bag, and now she put them to her eyes. “My lord, those are Mortimer colors.”
Bohun’s head whipped around to look at her, his hand reaching for the binoculars to see for himself. “Roger?”
“No, my lord.” Her hea
rt beat a little faster. “Edmund.”
“Excellent.” Even as he took the binoculars from Constance, Bohun waved a hand to one of his men. “Ride to intercept him.”
“What will you do, my lord?” Constance asked.
Bohun had the glasses to his eyes, and he turned them from Mortimer’s company towards the castle itself. “Now that we have more men, I will ride to the front gate, as I told Henry I would.”
“Isn’t that exactly what Lord Mathonwy and Lord Ieuan did?” the captain said. “Warenne tricked them. Trapped them.”
“What if the castle were instead to become a trap for Warenne?” Again, Constance spoke with some trepidation, even though Bohun hadn’t objected to her outspokenness so far.
All of the men nearby looked at her with interest, and Bohun asked, “How so?”
“Tell him you won’t enter the castle until he proves to you he hasn’t switched sides and now serves the king. Tell him you have reason to suspect that his grandson is a traitor to Balliol, and you want to know if he is too.”
Bohun’s captain gaped at her, but Bohun himself laughed a deep belly laugh. “I like the way you think.”
Another man, this one Saxon like her, said, “I don’t understand, my lord. What is she suggesting?”
Constance turned to him. “By accusing Warenne of betraying the cause, Lord Bohun deflects any suspicion that he might have done the same.” She looked at Bohun. “You could even say you’ve convinced Lord Edmund to join you, since Roger is his brother and King David is surely dead by now. Roger Mortimer isn’t here to gainsay you, and Warenne has no means to discover the truth without sending a message that goes through you first, since you have brought an army to his doorstep.”
“How does any of this help Lords Mathonwy and Ieuan?” the captain said. Constance didn’t know if his questions reflected genuine confusion or if he simply didn’t like hearing good ideas from a woman.
It was Bohun who answered. “Warenne will be forced to produce them one way or the other. Either they are unharmed, indicating he has sided with the king, or they have been imprisoned. If the latter, then he proves his loyalty to me and disloyalty to the king. If the former, then they go free.”
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