Pembroke’s lips tightened beneath his coarse, black mustache. He was not a man to betray his own emotions, but there were subtle signs he was not at ease representing the king in this. He looked away for a moment and selected his words with care. “I did not come to hear complaints and speculations, Lord Roger. Do you think any of us want this?”
“I think King Edward takes cruel delight in it,” my uncle retorted. “My son’s daughter-in-law Elizabeth is in there. Other children, as well. Surely the king has not resorted to holding women and children as captives in their own homes?”
Bartholomew blanched. This encounter, undoubtedly, was doing nothing to lift his hopes.
“Go back, all of you,” Pembroke urged with a trace of kindness. “Understand what I say. For the mercy of God, I’m trying to spare your lives. If you march on Leeds, you’ll be outnumbered, you’ll be defeated, and your little Elizabeth won’t have a father-in-law or a father, let alone a home. Norfolk and Kent have joined the siege. Even the Earl of Surrey. They number some twenty-five thousand. By now maybe more, with Arundel’s men. I do not exaggerate, my lords. If you believe me a liar, come count them yourself.”
The words fell heavy and foreboding in my ears. Many of those he spoke of had stood with us only weeks ago. Now they flocked around the king like birds during a lean winter to peck at crumbs. My uncle and I exchanged a swift glance.
“A moment, my lord,” I said to the earl. I drew my uncle across the road where we could not be overheard. I put my lips close to his ear. “We must negotiate.”
“No.”
I gripped his arm. “We cannot argue in front of Pembroke. He knows we are fewer in numbers. I beg you, let me handle this.”
His wrinkled lips contorted in a sneer. “I want full pardons, for all of us. Nothing less.”
I nodded and we rejoined the earl. “My lord,” I began, “we shall withdraw our army, disband it and return to our lands.” At that, my uncle glared at me so murderously I thought he might silence me with the butt of his sword across my jaw. But he clamped his yellowed teeth shut and allowed me to go on. “In return, the king shall break the siege and grant the inhabitants of Leeds their freedom in exchange for possession of the fortress.”
Bartholomew did not raise his eyes from the ground.
“Furthermore,” I continued, “our grievances shall be heard out in parliament and no actions taken against us beforehand.”
Pembroke turned toward his horse. “I will do what I can to convince the king.”
“No, you will convince the king. It will be done. You are the only one, my lord, who can.”
He stifled a smirk and paused with one hand resting against his saddle. “As I said, I will do what I can.”
We all clasped hands in agreement and mounted our horses. Pembroke sped off with devilish purpose. Badlesmere galloped back to our ranks for safety. But my uncle and I lingered on the riverbank.
Uncle Roger shook his head in disbelief. “Return to our lands? Disband? What sort of swine manure was that? Have you lost your wits?”
“Hardly. We will collect our allies and go north – to meet with Lancaster in Pontefract. As for Leeds, we can do nothing there. We’ll have to trust that Pembroke can work his miracles on the king. By the time King Edward learns where we are and who we are with, Badlesmere will be back with his children.”
But I held little faith in that.
*****
Bridgnorth – December, 1321
Leeds surrendered to the king. Mercy, however, was not forthcoming. They hung twelve of the garrison from its walls as a warning. Lady Badlesmere and her children, including Elizabeth, went to the Tower. As prisoners of the king.
In Pontefract, we secured Lancaster’s promise to join us, then swiftly returned to the Marches to secure our holdings. Edward, bloated with confidence, advanced up the Thames from Leeds. He halted in Gloucester long enough to gorge himself at Christmas supper and take wicked amusement in a few more hangings.
In haste, we withdrew west of the Severn, secured the bridge at Worcester against the royal army and pressed north to wait for Lancaster.
How easily Lancaster had sworn to stand with us. How easily he soon forgot.
Rain turned to sleet. Sleet to snow. The hills gleamed like polished marble beneath an iron sky. The valleys lay eerily still and the towns barren as folk fled before us. All the while Edward’s army stalked us like the specter of death from the other side of the Severn.
We had no time to stop and warm our bodies before a fire. Our bellies roared with hunger. Yet every day we pushed on, our fingers stiff and frozen, our feet swinging like dead stumps from the ends of our legs. My horse began to lag and soon he developed a rattle in his chest. I left him tied to a post at the gate of a farmer’s pen and hoped he might live to serve another, but knew he probably would not. Men went off to piss and never came back or disappeared into the darkness while others fought for sleep beneath tattered cloaks. Each day we waited for word of Lancaster. Each day none came. Just as the winter sun became veiled behind high clouds, our hopes grew ever dimmer.
I looked southward into a coal black sky smeared with amber flames. Smoke rose in twisting spires from the town of Bridgnorth and drifted on a brisk, cold wind to sting my nostrils. Earlier that night, we had launched a surprise attack across the bridge. Edward, unfortunately, recovered quickly enough to prevent a complete routing. Before my men fled back west across the bridge, they touched torch to thatch. The damp thatch was slow to spark, but once it did, billows of thick smoke poured into the streets, creating confusion amongst the king’s ranks.
A growl of contempt rumbled deep in my uncle’s throat. “So what did this buy us? One more day? A few hours?” A streak of soot ran from the right side of his forehead to the edge of his mail coif, making him look like some old beggar who had been digging in the ashes for bones. “What do you suppose the king was thinking,” he mused, rubbing at his sagging jowls, “when he told me to secure Wales against you?”
“That it would come to something like this. He gambled, his luck against ours. And if Lancaster does not arrive on the morrow, the king will win.”
My uncle gulped down ale and handed me the flask. “If Thomas of Lancaster could keep his blessed word, we’d be warm and dry right now. Spineless bastard.”
I had no desire to banter over the obvious. Lancaster should have arrived days ago. He had broken his promise. It was not the first time. Even Pembroke had warned us that the earl was all bombast and bluster. I emptied the flask and let it drop to the ground. Had I a dozen casks, I would have drained them dry, too.
“To think,” my uncle lamented, “our bliss lasted all of two months before King Edward lashed out like a teased and tethered dog. Longshanks was a horrid tyrant, but he honored loyalty and let no one rule him. His son is a limp kitten who wants to be stroked and suckle himself to sleep.”
I said nothing. Once, I had been high in the king’s favor; now, I was a hunted rebel. I sank to my haunches and cradled my throbbing head in my hands.
“What now, nephew? We can’t go west. The Welsh will slaughter us like lame cattle before they allow the king that pleasure.”
The taunts of Edward’s archers carried from across the bridge. Arrows hissed back and forth in the darkness, some landing astray, some piercing flesh. I pressed my fingers over my ears to deaden the screams of a dying man and spoke at the ground. “We must keep going north, then.”
“Humph. Lancaster’s not so stupid as to rush his own death.”
I raised my eyes. “Joan is pregnant again. She may have had the child by now, for all I know.”
“An even dozen, will it be?” He gave me his hand to pull me up. “How many years is your Edmund now? Nineteen?”
I nodded dully, feeling the faint buzz of ale, and stood. Together we began the walk back to camp. Ice crackled beneath our boots. “We quarreled the last time I saw her – bitterly.”
“Over what?”
“Everything. She
complains incessantly – whether I come or go, whose side I take, what I have done or not done. Nothing I do pleases her.”
“It is you who complains. You’re ungrateful if you don’t realize what she’s given you and I’m not talking of inheritances. Your daughters will build you more alliances by whom they wed than any other bargains you might strike. And your sons will sire Mortimers by the score to carry on your name.”
I almost told him after what happened to the young Elizabeth Badlesmere, no man would marry his daughter to a Mortimer traitor. Instead, I held my tongue and told a passing squire to spread the order to break camp. We would leave enough men to hold the bridge and march again, through the night. Our numbers were compromised, but it gained nothing to stay and we could not leave our backs unprotected.
“To Shrewsbury?” my uncle asked.
“Yes.” Beyond Shrewsbury, the Severn snaked back westward and if we did not cross the river and race north to find Lancaster, then we would be trapped interminably between the Welsh and the royal army.
“What there?”
“Either we are met with a miracle when Lancaster arrives as our savior ... or we throw ourselves at Edward’s fickle mercy.”
In horror of the thought, he sucked his chin to his neck. “No. How can we?”
“What else can we do? Fight? It would be suicide. I want to see my children again, Uncle. I want to go home someday. It is the only way. The only way.”
“And what of Lancaster? Why should we grovel at Edward’s feet while he roams free? The king will take our lands. Put us in chains.”
“Better that, Uncle, than hang with him.”
The corners of his mouth plunged and he rattled his hoary head at me. “This year I turned sixty, Roger. And this is what is to become of me? I am too old to be shut up. Too damn old.” He turned his face from me and walked away.
In the darkness, I heard the short, indrawn breaths of a man weeping to himself, hopeless and exhausted. A man who had no more years of his life to waste on pursuits as futile as trying to correct a lawless king.
5
Roger Mortimer:
Shrewsbury – January, 1322
TRODDEN IN SPIRIT AND road-weary, we did not make it to Shrewsbury ahead of the king. Like fish in a net being hauled into the boat, we were trapped, bounded on three sides by the River Severn. It was only a brief matter of time before a royal detachment would cross the river somewhere behind us or a band of screaming Welshmen would fly down at us from the mountains.
Across the river, the king’s army, insouciant, warm and well fed, sprawled around Shrewsbury. The smoke from their fires, infused with the aroma of cooked meat, drifted to us on an icy January wind, reminding us constantly that starvation was only ever a few days away. Provisions were running short. Already rations had been halved. We had ceased to forage. The local farms had been wrung stone-dry. We had butchered every cow, pig and chicken within two days’ ride. The abbeys had bolted their doors against us, shouting the message that if we wanted any more from them we would have to burn them out. I considered it, but my uncle was a more reverent man than I. Each day I cinched my belt a little tighter, as I succumbed to the same, irritable languor that was slowly devouring my men and turning them against one another like starving dogs in a pit.
When we left Bridgnorth, skulking away in the darkness, I thought we would gain enough lead to get across the bridge at Shrewsbury before Edward ever took sight of us. But illness struck too many of my men along the way. Already they were weak from hunger and exhaustion. We did not march to Shrewsbury; we crawled. There, we came upon our dread – the king’s army not only holding the bridge to Shrewsbury, but encamped along the near bank. Had Edward wanted to, he could have sprung on us like a cat pounces on a cornered mouse.
Why kill the prey, though, when he could play with it a while? Supplied with provisions from Shrewsbury, the king was more than willing, and able, to starve us into submission. I could either send my men to a quick and bloody end or condemn them to a long, slow death at winter’s cruel whim. If, however, my uncle and I gave ourselves up, our men could all go home.
Edward demanded our complete submission. We were not in a position to bargain. Edward knew it. I knew it. My uncle, however, did not. He again requested full pardons. Edward refused.
For a long, wearisome week, I argued with my uncle, but he would not give in to the king. He was all stubbornness and no sense, even as he grew weaker day by day. The winter cold had gripped him hard. His skin was as white as the snow capping the mountains. The circles around his eyes were the deep blue of an evening sky. His lungs and throat were choked with phlegm. In the mornings he coughed so hard it sounded as though he might expel his innards. Between spells, he wheezed like a sickly child. I feared that if I did not deliver him to rudimentary comfort, he would die from his own obstinacy.
My uncle’s tent next to mine, I lay awake, unable to sleep. A dozen arguments swirled in my mind: why I should still hold my ground against the king, why I should give in, why I should fight ... and above the muddle of questions, my uncle’s bellowed protests echoed in my head. I heard then his hacking cough, followed by hoarse retching through the canvas walls. Defeated, I sat up, hunched forward, and tugged the blanket up around my aching shoulders. My elbows on my knees, I buried my head in my hands.
Edmund stirred beneath his covers. “Uncle Roger – how is he?”
I looked toward my son through the veil of night, his face only a vague outline of black against a field of darkest gray. “He will not last, I fear.”
There was a long silence. Edmund sniffed and I heard him rub his nose with a sleeve. “Perhaps he doesn’t want to.” He flopped over and within minutes his chest rose and fell in the steady rhythm of peaceful slumber.
Half the night or more I stared at my son, wrapped tight in his thin cocoon. I did not ponder on what he might think of me. I did not want to know. Hours went by before I came back to Edmund’s simple observation about his great-uncle. If my uncle died before he was forced to give himself up, then he would have won one small victory. He would die never having given in to a tyrant.
Come morning, I would bend to my uncle, sense or no, and let him keep his pride. We would go back south, find somewhere to make our stand, and pray to God winter did not kill us before the king’s army did. If we could hold out until spring, perhaps old allies would return to defend us. Perhaps angels would swoop from the sky and strike the king dead with bolts of lightning. A man could dream ...
Restless, I rose at first light, even though I heard nothing but the rumbling snores of my uncle. I trudged out into the camp and wandered along the narrow rows between the tents. It was so quiet it looked as though the plague had struck. Had the king attacked early that morning, he would have butchered us beneath our blankets. Frost shimmered on the cloaks of soldiers as they lay on the ground. Even in their sleep, some shivered. I pounded my gloved palms together to bring the blood to my stiff fingers. With care, I picked my way between dozing men and poked at a dying fire with my sword. A charred pot lay overturned beside the fire, traces of burnt bean pottage crusted along the rim. Beside it was an empty cask, still smelling of ale. I jabbed at the logs, turning them over in the white ash, until I found the glowing embers. But when I looked about for more firewood, there was none to be had. I sank down, my sword resting in my lap, and stretched my hands toward the faltering flames.
Across from me, a man writhed beneath layers of muddied wool, rolled to his knees and stood. My companion Sir John Maltravers. Eyes still shut, he swayed from side to side and scratched at his crotch, yawning. He opened one eye just wide enough to locate the struggling little fire and fumbled beneath his tunic to slide a hand into his breeches.
My sword blade hovered above the dying flames. I raised it to his widening eyes. “Piss on my fire, Maltravers, and I’ll make a eunuch of you.”
At the sound of my voice, Maltravers blinked to clear the sleep from his eyes. Muttering an apology, he yanked his
hand free, retreated backward, and stumbled over the cask. He fell with a thunderous thud. In lighter times I would have mocked him for his clumsiness, but I was still in a bad temper from my sleepless night. He gave a rough moan and rolled to his side, clutching the back of his head. I started toward him to offer a hand, but something, a sound in the distance, made me turn around.
Hooves pounded against frozen earth. A mounted messenger came down the row at an easy canter, searching left and right. He slowed as he saw me and brought his horse to a halt. “Where can I find Sir Roger of Wigmore or Lord Roger of Chirk?” he said.
I shoved the end of my sword blade into the rock hard ground and rested both hands on the crossguard. “That depends. Who are you?”
His fair eyebrows lifted. “Simon de Beresford.”
“And whose man are you, Simon de Beresford?”
He gave me a skeptical look. His pale blue eyes had the cold, hard look of steel. “I am Lord Pembroke’s squire.”
“Then I am Sir Roger.”
He tipped his chin up as a sly grin flickered across his mouth. “Ah then, I have, at times, had my purse filled by your uncle when he had need of information. My Lord Pembroke sends me to tell you that he has news of the Earl of Lancaster that should interest you.”
“Go on.”
“He has proof that the earl is in league with the Scots.”
That should have come as no surprise to anyone, least of all a man as well-informed as Pembroke. “And the king knows of this?
Simon nodded his head of silver-fair hair.
“What proof?”
“If you answer this, Earl Pembroke will tell you himself.” From beneath his padded tunic, he produced a letter and extended it to me.
As soon as the letter left his hands, he turned his horse and started away.
Isabeau, A Novel of Queen Isabella and Sir Roger Mortimer Page 5
