The Honor Due a King (The Bruce Trilogy)

by Sasson, N. Gemini

  “Jankin stole three fat hens this morning,” he said. “The men have struck up a fire. Come. Eat. Warm yourself. No need to catch cold or starve.”

  “I told you: no fires. They’ll find us.”

  “Eventually, yes,” Hugh conceded blandly, “they will. But fowl served up raw would give us all aching bellies and I, for one, am starved.” He crumpled down beside me and sighed. “You’re troubled. What did that monk have to say? You’ve confided in no one. I take offense.”

  Starlight filtered down through barely leafed branches. What I knew ... how could I say it?

  I scraped my dry, cracked fingers over the roughness of the rock on which we huddled. “A fitting throne, is it not? A prickly crown of hollies and what a king I would be.” I gave a raspy laugh, my throat raw from thirst. “Look at us, Hugh. What a pitiful lot we are. Loathsome, starving. How pathetic. They’ll beat us for stealing. Perhaps we should turn to begging. More pride in that.”

  “What were you told, Edward? You’ve dismissed hope altogether since we left Gloucester. Why?”

  “Must you know everything?” I laid my forehead on my knees. Finally, I looked up at him, his sleeves torn from the thorns, a smudge of road grime on his chin. “All right, then. I’ll tell you. When they landed, my half-brother Thomas threw his arms around her and welcomed the queen and her foreign slaves. Leicester joined her immediately. The bastard’s no better than his dead brother. He must have known long ago when and where she would arrive. Knew all along. They were conspiring from the moment she left London. And London? London threw open its gates for her. Your own wife gave up the Tower and my son John to that French harlot. And do you know what else they did? Can you even imagine? They cut off Bishop Stapledon’s head and buried his body in a rubbish heap.”

  He turned his head away. “I’m sorry ... about your son. My wife – I thought that ... She must have had no choice.”

  “Isabella and Mortimer – they’re in Bristol already.”

  I saw a cloud of shock pass over his face just then. No use in hoarding the ill tidings, I gave them up. “As Isabella took my daughters to a window overlooking the courtyard, they took your father, your namesake Hugh ... and hung him. Lynched like a common thief. How horrid that must have been, dangling there, kicking his feet, praying for the rope to break.”

  Hugh’s eyes glassed over as if the sentence of death has just been passed on him. His father had been his constant mentor, a friend even. He slid from the rock, went and leaned against the trunk of the larch, clenching his fists. There was a glint of hatred in his glance. Blame.

  “You can’t possibly know how it was for him,” he murmured.

  A rift of silence grew between us until it was like some bottomless chasm that could not be overcome. Once, a lack of words had been a comfortable thing. Many were the times I had fallen asleep with my head propped against Hugh’s square shoulder as we took respite during a ride through the forest. Hugh had been there when we sailed from Scotland’s shore with only the clothes on our backs. There to give comfort when Lancaster met his fate. There to offer support when Isabella clawed at my last nerve and left me for that villainous traitor. There in all things. Never the shining champion of the joust or merry drinking mate that Brother Perrot had been, but a solid voice of reason when all others sought to leave me shaken and shredded. Solace and support. Pillow and pier.

  At times he was a reticent man, but I had learned to read Hugh through the tilt of his head, the position of his jaw, the way he folded his arms across his chest or clasped his hands behind his back. But now, the silence hovered over us – something unfamiliar, something completely wrong, something ... unraveled.

  “Baldock insists you meet with the queen,” Hugh said in a voice so low and measured that it came as a growl.

  “And let you join your father at the end of a tattered rope? No.” I laughed inwardly. Isabella, that meek waif that I had taken as wife all those years ago and frightened her by my touch, was now so wholly wicked that by her nearness she could tempt married men and with a fleeting glance command them to execute her crimes. I saw Jankin’s red tuft of wild hair bobbing as he trotted through the trees. “Ah, Jankin calls us to yet another bucolic meal. I can hardly wait to dine on stale bread and watered ale again. And once more we will bed down under a canopy of trees. As much as I enjoy communing with nature, I desire a mattress and roof just as any man. Where do we go tomorrow then, Hugh?”

  Hugh began down the small hill toward Jankin and said with his back to me, “To the abbey in Neath. From there – Lundy Island.”

  “And from Lundy?” I asked. “They’ll go there eventually, you know, looking for us.”

  He froze, paused before speaking. “If you will not barter for your kingdom, I would rather drown in the sea, swimming for my life.”

  “Sire! Sire!” Jankin cried as he scrambled up the leaf-littered slope. “They are on the road behind us, not a mile away. Baldock recognized Lord Wake’s standard.” Leicester’s crony. Jankin halted and braced his hands on his knees as he gulped for air. “Two hundred men, more maybe, in his company. Knights and archers. Coming fast, my lord.”

  “Are the horses ready?” Hugh asked.

  Jankin nodded. “But our supplies –”

  “Leave them.” Hugh turned to me. “Hurry.”

  He sped down the hill, his form blurring in the patchy shadows of forest dusk as Jankin stumbled after him.

  “Stapledon was right,” I called after Hugh.

  He caught himself on a sapling and swung around to face me. “About Queen Isabella. Yes, he was. And you should have heeded me when I warned you about her. Now hurry and to your horse.”

  “No, not the queen. He was right about you. You were supposed to oversee the treasury. There should have been money there to raise troops, to defend me from attacks like this. But the lords and knights would not come when I called because they knew. Knew there was no money. Knew that you had robbed me.”

  I wish I could have seen his face better then, but we were too far apart, the light too dim.

  “I haven’t time to quibble with you,” he spat. “And I won’t offer myself up to be your scapegoat – ever. Stay or come. It’s your choice.”

  Having offered that ultimatum, he sprinted away and tossed out orders to my men as they came up leading our horses. We left the road and plunged through a maze of bracken, fallen branches and beech trees, darkness cloaking our escape.

  Several miles later, at the crest of a steep hill, we paused and strained our eyes to survey the valley by the silver light of a half moon. Beside me, Jankin’s hand shook as he gripped the short sword I had given him when we left London.

  Twigs cracked. His head jerked to the right. Then, closer, a piercing sound. A whistle, like a bird. The shout of orders from across the valley. More cries. Hooves drumming on dry earth.

  Jankin groaned softly and brought his hand up to touch the feathered shaft protruding from his eye socket. He slumped in his saddle, swayed to one side and fell to the ground, dead.

  I barely saw the enemy archer who had loosed the arrow until Hugh rode him down and swiped his blade through the man’s bare neck. The bloodied head rolled across the roadway and bounced down the hillside, its eyes open wide, tongue hanging out, changing directions as it slammed against the staggered trunks of trees. I fought a wave of nausea, unable to act or move. In moments, Hugh was at my side. He shoved his bloodied sword into its scabbard and grabbed the reins of my horse.

  For the third time in my kingship, I raced for my life. This time, it was not Scots trying to run me down, but Englishmen – pack-mates of the She-Wolf.

  Can a man be king and yet not be so? What am I? A man, called king, and yet hunted, spurned as less than a man, scorned and spit upon. I, who have done nothing wrong but be something less than my sire.

  I would be better off running straight to the court of the Bruce and giving myself up. He would treat me more kindly than my own.

  ***

  T
wo days later, having stopped but once for a few hours to sleep, we reached the abbey in Neath, where the abbot there, a friend of Hugh’s family since before he was born, offered us a safe haven in our time of greatest need.

  Half-fed and barely warmed, we sped to the coast and hired a ship to Lundy. But the weather had finally failed us. Three times we were forced back to shore by storms packed with strong winds. Our lines of retreat were closing up on us at every turn. Lord Wake’s soldiers were combing every port from Brighton to Bangor. Isabella’s spies lay coiled like a pit of vipers in every inn.

  By cover of night, we escaped on horse – again without food or money – hastening back toward Neath.

  We never made it.

  On a road somewhere in Wales, far from any town or manor or castle, when the leaves had fallen from the trees to blanket the forest floor, the queen’s soldiers found us, took our weapons and shoved us into a pile while they kicked and cursed us. Baldock, Hugh and I were mounted on old nags, our hands bound behind our backs, and roughly escorted to Llantrissant. The remainder of my guard was forced to walk on foot, prodded along by the tips of spears, and spat upon.

  Above a floating mist that crept beside the River Usk, the Raven Tower of Llantrissant rose before us. The sun had not yet risen high enough to burn away the fog. A damp chill gnawed at my numb fingers. Despite my requests and demands to loosen the bindings about my wrists, my captors had not once lifted a finger or acknowledged me except to keep my mount in line. Baldock whimpered constantly, but Hugh ... Hugh did not utter a word – neither protest, nor plea. He had not even so much as looked at me.

  The gate on the north end of the bailey opened before us. We were barely inside the outer wall when more soldiers rushed at us, as if we were charging them with lances, and dragged Hugh and Baldock from their horses. Baldock squirmed and wailed on the ground.

  Hugh went down upon his knees, refusing to look at them. A broad-shouldered soldier smacked him in the back of the skull with the pommel of his sword. His face slammed onto the cobbles. A trickle of blood sprang from the back of his head and flowed down his neck onto the ground.

  “No!” I shouted, trying desperately to rip my hands from their ropes. I nearly fell from my horse. “Leave him! You will not harm him!”

  “But who is there to save him?” came a gloating voice from nowhere.

  I strained my eyes through the vapor of fog to see Henry, Earl of Leicester, gloating at me.

  “Mercy, Lord Henry,” I pled, my voice so strained with terror that it cracked. “I beg mercy of you. We were on our way back to Gloucester to entreat for a peace with the queen and –”

  But the earl paid me no heed. With a flip of his hand, the soldiers flanking Hugh hoisted him to his feet. Barely able to stand, still stunned, Hugh blinked away the pain as Lord Wake’s men knotted a rope about his waist and tied the other end to the tail of a horse.

  Spitting the blood from his mouth, Hugh raised his sorrowful eyes to meet mine. “You are my ruin, Edward ... Your own, as well. We always knew this day would come, did we not? Fate is such a satirical bastard.”

  I yearned to reach out, hold him one more time, take his face in my hands and tell him I would love him forever. My horse whinnied and stamped a foot. I smiled sadly – for I felt both overwhelming love for him and insufferable regret for never having been able to show that love for him fully and unashamedly.

  “’Tis not the curse of this day I will cling to, Hugh,” I said, “but the blessing of every day I have known you.”

  Lord Wake signaled the party forward. The rope around Hugh’s waist tautened, then yanked him forward.

  “Hugh!” I cried.

  He stumbled, fell to the ground – hips, shoulder, jaw grinding against rough stones. The horse dragged him several feet over the cobbles before the man guiding it looked back and eased up. The soldier riding next to Hugh butted him in the ribs with his spear, then prodded him back to his knees. Head down, Hugh stood, staggered forward, but did not look back.

  I twisted as far in my saddle as I could to watch, saying Hugh’s name over and over until my voice went hoarse and it was but a croaking whisper on my parched lips.

  Take from me my kingdom, for it has been nothing but cruel to me. But do not take away the one I love most in this world. More than my own worthless life. Do not take Hugh from me ...

  When they lifted me from the saddle and set me upon the ground, I had ceased to beg for mercy. Hugh, I knew, would go down staunchly fighting, never giving in.

  I, however, had no fight left in me. No will.

  Without Hugh, I had nothing. Nothing.

  Ch. 25

  Edward II - Kenilworth Castle, 1327

  For weeks, I was shut away – first in Llantrissant, then finally I was shuffled at night and under heavy guard to Kenilworth – a more stalwart prison. There, Henry, Earl of Leicester, served as my keeper.

  My quarters were spacious enough for two men, the linens changed out often, the food, while not of a diverse menu, was palatable. My possessions were meant for practical use only – a table barely big enough to hold a plate, a lopsided stool, a pair of candles and a small cross studded with pearls. I was given quill and parchment with which I wrote copious letters to Isabella, begging her forgiveness, and in turn to young Edward, swearing my support of him if he could but convince his mother to grant me my freedom. I gave these letters to Henry, but no reply ever came. I doubt they were ever delivered.

  Still, I wrote. Every day, I wrote. What else was I to do? My sleeves were black to the elbow. I scrubbed at the ink on my hands until they were raw, but the stain would not be banished.

  They gave me one change of clothing, both shirts of stiff, black serge that scratched at my skin, a servant with the brains of an ox, and an ever-changing army of guards. From my window looking out on the courtyard, I watched as soldiers paced back and forth across the icy cobbles, guarding me from no one. Who would come to aid me? I was forgotten. The people of England had cast aside their king – tossed me into the river like a runt piglet to be drowned without a thought.

  Winter wore dully on. Drafts hissed through the cracks in the walls and around the windows. For a short while I clung to a wild hope that Leicester would awaken to Isabella’s wickedness and aid me. But I had confused complacency with pity, apparently.

  The heavy groan of door hinges woke me. The faint, muted light of dawn spilled pink across the room. I turned my face from the glare. I tried to look, but it pained my head. Parchment crinkled beneath my forearms as I raised blackened hands to cover my eyes.

  “Visitors, sire.”

  Leicester held an oil lamp at arm’s length, its smoke twisting from its top like a black serpent. Two grim-faced guards flanked him.

  Shivering from the winter chill, I looked about for a cloak, then remembered I had none. They had taken even that from me. So I pulled my tattered blanket up around my neck. A bolt of hope shot through me. “Has my son Edward come?”

  Leicester’s features were slack, his mouth expressionless. “No, not him, my lord.”

  My heart plunged downward.

  It is her. Her ...

  He opened the door leading to the antechamber beyond my private quarters. I followed, bleak of heart and hope. Before me stood a dozen men: lesser nobles I vaguely recognized, justiciars garbed in their robes of office, and two bishops. How sober they all appeared. Was it such a miserable task for them to call upon their king?

  A man of snow-white hair and wearing a bishop’s ostentatious robes shuffled forward from the brooding huddle: Adam of Orleton, the Bishop of Hereford. How often had I seen him standing behind that witch Isabella? It made all too much sense now. This day had been long in planning. The players were many.

  The moment his thin lips parted, every word came as if drifting through a haze of smoke. “Sire, I am elected apropos by just authority to put forth the charges against you. First, you are informed that in direct relation to said following charges, that Sir Hugh Despenser
the Younger has been summarily tried for his crimes against the kingdom and found guilty. He was hung from the gallows in Hereford and beheaded. The four quarters of his body have been sent to the furthest part of the land to serve as warning to all who might give false counsel to their sovereign and –”

  Hugh!

  In the core of my soul, I was as hollow as a coffin without its corpse. My arms and chest went numb. I stopped breathing, swooned. The blanket dropped from my slumping shoulders. My knees buckled. The floor vanished from beneath me.

  I felt myself falling ... But hands were holding me up. I looked up and to my left and saw the sympathetic face of the Bishop of Winchester, with his muted brown eyes and weathered face. He pulled me gently to my feet.

  “Take strength in Our Lord, sire,” he said.

  “When?” I clung to his sleeve. “When did they do this?”

  “Some time ago. If it heartens my lord – he would take nothing but bread and water since he was parted from you.”

  Oh, Hugh. You did indeed suffer to be without me. And I you, Hugh. A hundredfold so, now that you are gone. But no, no, it cannot be. If they have already killed you Hugh, what is to be of me?

  So, this is to be the day. God, hear me, I am not ready. What have I, your devoted servant, your worldly implement, done wrong but love those who gave me loyalty?

  Adam of Orleton’s bland voice went on: “Sir Edward of Caernarvon, son of Edward Plantagenet, King of England, you are hereby charged with –”

  Why, why did they not address my properly? I was crowned in Westminster, anointed with Holy Water, wielded the Royal Seal ... I am more than a mere knight. I am king!

  I looked around the room at the rigid faces of these men who had come to denigrate my name. Some averted their eyes from my gaze. Others leered at me haughtily.

  “ – devoid of honor and wisdom, have unjustly administered to your kingdom and –”