As he turned to go, I asked, “Arnaud, do you ... do you know where Sir Roger is?”
Leaning with a thump against the door frame, he shrugged. “I only know that when he left the church, he was headed toward the keep, my lady. Should I send someone to find him for you?” His left elbow was tucked protectively to his ribs, as if he had taken a blow to it.
I kept my voice low, not wanting Ida to overhear. “If you happen to see him, tell him, if he can spare a few moments ... tell him I would like to speak with him before this afternoon – about Winchester’s tribunal.”
Ever so slightly, Ida tilted her head. Although I knew that she would never betray me outright, I did not need her chastisement should she ever figure out the truth about Mortimer and me. The fewer who knew of it the better, especially now when so much hung so delicately in the balance.
As he pushed away from the door to go, Arnaud tried to straighten his arm, but a grimace flashed over his mouth and he pulled it back in close his chest. He dipped his head to let me know he would attend to my request, and went, one shoulder hunched up toward his ear. Patrice leaned so far from her stool to look out the open door, I thought she would fall off. One of the girls’ kirtles, which had been lying in her lap, slipped to the floor. Still staring after him longingly, she picked it up and laid it over the chest at the foot of the bed with the other clothes.
“Patrice, go to him,” I told her. “All this time you’ve been condemning him for betraying you, but what happened with his wife shamed him and hurt him deeply. That is why he never spoke of it. He has been loyal to you ever since he met you. And you will not look at anyone else. Not even while we were in France. So stop pretending you don’t love him anymore. Go. Tend to him. Be with him.”
Without a word, Patrice gave me a quick embrace and hurried off. Through the closed door, I could hear her call his name, the flurry of her footsteps as she rushed to him and then the pause as she must have embraced him.
Some time later, the girls awoke, groggy and mumbling. From time to time, Joanna stole glances at me, as if still uncertain. I wondered what terrible things they had heard about me, but quickly banished my worries. They were young. In time, they would come to know again how much I loved them. I slumped down in a thinly cushioned chair as Ida bustled about, harping for someone to bring a brazier to warm the room and food for the children.
“When do we go back to Lady Monthermer?” Joanna asked, referring to Lord Despenser’s sister in whose care they had been placed when they were taken from me. Soon, a novice shuffled in with a coal brazier, set it in the middle of the floor and left. Its heat did not reach far compared to a blazing hearthfire and it produced a black smoke that tasted of ashes, but it would suffice. Ida dragged a stool close to it, muttering that it was much warmer in the castle, and worked at mending some of the girls’ clothes.
As my girls sat cross-legged on the bed, Eleanor teased apart the tangles of her sister’s hair with a fine-toothed ivory comb, working her way slowly and gently from the ends up. “Never. And I don’t think we will have to see Lady Despenser again, either. Mother’s back and when she can’t be with us, Ida will. And very soon, we’ll get to see our brother, John. Would you like that, Joanna?”
“Which part? The part about John or the part about the witch-lady?” Joanna giggled.
The one window in the room was made of slats of horn, permitting only a glow of daylight to enter, but between two of the lower slats was a notch where the horn had broken. I rose from my chair and pressed my eye to the tiny hole, but saw only the short shadows of noon in the monastery graveyard. A shiver of foreboding rippled from between my shoulder blades to the base of my spine, reverberating through my limbs. My flesh prickled with goose bumps. Pressing numb fingertips to my cheeks, I turned to search for my fur-lined mantle. The sun had returned after a week’s absence, but the day was distinctly cold and I could not stop trembling no matter how close to the brazier I stood.
The bells of St. Augustine’s Abbey tolled noon. Although early yet, already it had been a long day. Mortimer had not come. I wrapped my mantle about my shoulders and kissed both of my girls on the forehead, promising to sit with them at supper.
Before I joined Leicester’s extemporary tribunal, I would go to the Lady Chapel, there to say a prayer to quiet my soul and thank God again for the blessings that had come to me today.
44
Roger Mortimer:
Bristol – October, 1326
HANDS CLENCHED, LEICESTER STOOD in the doorway of the chapel, watching the queen depart. The sunlight cast his reddish hair in flame. A rumbling growl started deep in his throat and rose, until his bellowing roar filled the nave. He slammed a fist into the metal-studded, oak door and whirled around. In furious, swooping strides, he returned. A diabolic smile spread his lips far into his ruddy cheeks, his vexation replaced by pernicious delight.
He bent forward, clamped his hands on his knees and glared at Winchester. “Where is that bastard son of yours?”
“Not here,” Winchester said, defiant.
“Of course he’s not in this church, you bloody old fool.” Leicester straightened and crossed his arms over his broad chest, his chin cocked to one side. “Now, tell us where to find him.”
“I don’t” – the earl pushed himself up, so he was kneeling – “know.”
“Meaning you don’t know where he is this moment? Very well. Guard your secret, if you want. Carry it to hell if you value his life more than your own. My men will find him.”
Drops of deep crimson oozed from Winchester’s swelling lip. His pained snarl revealed that he no more believed Leicester would spare his life in exchange for his son’s than I did. He swallowed and began to gag on his own blood, finally spitting out a mouthful before he could speak. “I mean, you idiot, he’s gone.”
Leicester’s face blazed scarlet. “Thieving bastard!” His sword hissed death as he slid it free with both hands and brought it up high. “Tell me where he’s hiding!”
“In the name of God, I swear, I do not know where he is!”
I stepped forward. “He’s not lying to you, Lord Henry.”
His weapon still poised, Leicester challenged, “How would you know?”
I told myself I had nothing to fear. Isabella already knew of Edward and Despenser fleeing England. But at that moment, I was not so sure Leicester would not try to sever my head instead of Winchester’s once he heard the full truth. I raised an empty palm to him, as if that tranquil gesture could somehow tame the raging beast before me. “First, Lord Henry, put your weapon away. When you do that, I will tell you. As the queen said, it is up to the tribunal to decide his fate, not you or me.”
“Arrrgh!” With a heave of his shoulders, Leicester swiped the blade sideways. It divided the air, just above the crouching Winchester’s head, so close it stirred the old man’s hair. Leicester muttered a curse, then slammed the blade back into its scabbard and braced his feet wide. “Now, tell me.”
My mouth went stone dry, yet I held his gaze. “Late yesterday when I was meeting with the Earl of Kent, I received a report that Lord Despenser fled from Bristol shortly before we arrived. He met the king in Chepstow a few days ago.” I paused, detecting a twitch of Leicester’s lips and his sword hand tensing. “They sailed from there. Despenser’s gone. So is the king. His son can be declared Guardian of the Realm now and a council selected to help him rule in his minority.”
“You knew ... yesterday? Is that right? And you said nothing to anyone?”
“No, I told the queen as soon as I learned of it. The Earl of Kent heard the news when I did. I assumed he would tell you.” I lied. I was merely trying to deflect blame. Leicester, despite being thick in the head, must have known that.
“And you went to find the queen, to inform her before anyone else could? Convenient.”
“It was my duty to – ”
“It was you hoping to save your skin before I shredded it from your bones!” He threw his hands wide, his fingers
curled like a lion’s claws poised for the kill. His bitterness toward Winchester was forgotten as he turned his full flaming ire on me. “I wanted to go to Gloucester to hunt them down and you would not have it. Because of you, they – ”
“It was the queen’s wish to come here. She has her daughters back now. It was not effort wasted.”
He stomped at me and shoved me back with open palms. Steadying myself, I kept an eye on his hands, in case he tried to slip his knife from his belt and slice open my belly. “She would have had them anyway,” he said, “had we gone to Gloucester. Winchester would not have resisted once his son and the king were captured. Your reasoning isn’t worth a pile of goat shit.”
His right hand flinched and I leapt back, grappling for the hilt of my sword. But before Leicester could loose a weapon on me, a high pitched voice cried out from the outer doorway of the chapel.
“Sir Roger!” Father Norbert ran toward us, flailing his spindly arms. The soldiers who had escorted Winchester parted to let the mad little holy man by. He skidded to a halt before me, gulping. “Your uncle! Praise be to God, I’ve found your uncle.”
Never did I think I would be thankful to see the pious little weasel, but his interruption had spared me an inopportune fight with a man who, in his madness, could have crushed me in his bare hands. “Where?”
Father Norbert hooked his skinny hand in the air as a gesture for me to follow. “This way. Come, hurry, hurry.”
I said no more to the Earl of Leicester, but sped from the church on the tail of Father Norbert, who was as fast as any hare being chased by hounds. He led me across the ward to a door of one of the corner towers, its lock shattered by the hacking of weapons, and tugged it open. The caustic stench of urine burned my nostrils. Inside was a narrow stairway leading not up, but down – to the dungeon. Father Norbert plunged into the bottomless darkness. Almost immediately, I lost sight of him, although I could hear his light footsteps fading away. I stuck out my hand and groped along the wall like a blind man, lowering each foot with care. Pausing to let my eyes become accustomed to the dimness, I realized I could not hear the priest any longer.
“Father?” I said.
“Here,” he called up. “Still coming, my lord?”
“Coming.” I drew my sword. The steps were worn smooth in the middle, the stones damp with moss. I was aware of nothing but my own breathing, my sword firm in my grip. My feet fell in a steady rhythm as I descended in a leftward spiral. A yellow glow reflected off the wall and the smells, new ones, grew stronger, more offensive: the smell of old blood and decaying flesh. Someone moaned low and long, but as I neared the bottom the moan rose in pitch until it was a wail of agony.
“Hurry, Sir Roger,” Father Norbert urged. But I could not locate the direction of his voice or see where he had gone to.
Another cry rent the air, but fell almost instantly into inconsolable weeping. The sounds I heard were the plaintive cries of the dying, those whose pain is beyond assuagement. If this was where Uncle Roger was being kept, I hesitated to learn the condition I might find him in.
I came to the bottom of the stairs and, seeing Father Norbert hopping impatiently on the balls of his feet before he turned to continue down the dark corridor, I stepped out, but I had not looked down to see there was yet another step to go. My heel tipped the loose flagstone. My balance shifted. Too late, I pitched my weight to my right, trying to break my fall against the wall. I toppled backward. My sword clanged against the wall and flew from my grip. The base of my spine struck the edge of a stone and I felt its bite like an axe blow, blunted only by the links of my mail. For a moment, I closed my eyes as the pain hammered through me. Then I pushed myself slowly up and leaned a shoulder against the wall. As I stooped to retrieve my sword, a fresh tide of pain rushed through me, threatening to overtake me.
Father Norbert was far ahead, a flitting shadow in the death-gloom. Somewhere behind him, torchlight wavered. On either side of the narrow passageway, the dank walls were interrupted by iron bars. The faint tang of rust mingled with the burning smell of piss. I looked ahead, but Father Norbert had disappeared again.
Unsteadily, I started forward. The first cell I passed I did not look into. The smell of disease was strong enough to let me know a corpse lay in it. A bolt of pain ripped from my lower back and down my leg. I staggered to the left, unable to bear my full weight on the right side of my body, and then forced myself onward. A blackened hand flew out of the darkness and clawed at my surcoat. Startled, I jumped back to see a man, naked but for his soiled breeches. His beard was long and thin, patches of it missing where he must have pulled it out. Festering sores on his belly and skeletal legs oozed thick, yellow pus. He licked his grimy palm and reached out to me.
“Come near, my son,” he said, an eerie smile revealing toothless gums, “so I can bless you with the Lord’s holy water.”
A madman. I went wide of him, the heat of the torch in its sconce on the opposite wall warming my neck.
“Salvation awaits!” he cried. “You are an instrument of the devil! Confess and be saved!”
Ahead, another torch glowed faintly where the corridor divided. As I went, I cast a glance in each cell. Two were open, only one of those bearing evidence of any recent habitation in the form of a few gnawed chicken bones. Others were empty, but in some were shackled prisoners too weak, or too afraid, to investigate as I passed them by. None contained my uncle.
“We are all sinners, my son!” the madman cried. “Repent of your carnal ways and God will receive you into Heaven, where you will find everlasting – ”
A ghostly wail drowned out his voice. I came to where the passageway divided. To the right, another short corridor and another division. Left, a dead end. I began to go right, because that is where the sound of a soul on the precipice of death was coming from.
“Sir Roger,” Bishop Orleton called to me from behind.
Surprised to hear his calming, familiar voice, I turned to see him standing outside an open door, one made of solid wood. On the wall next to him, a single torch flickered, dimmed and then sprang back to life.
“In here,” he indicated, stooping beneath the low lintel as he entered the room. But something in his tone spoke of sorrow and my pain was forgotten as my heart sank like a stone through my bowels.
Reluctantly, I followed. When I entered the dank, cramped room, Father Norbert scurried back from a low, straw-littered bed made of discarded planks. A candle stub shed a meager light on the long, rigid form stretched out on the bed.
I was not prepared for the sight that met my eyes.
Lord Roger of Chirk lay unmoving. His thumbs were clasped so his hands were spread like dove wings on his chest. His skin was the pallor of chalk. His eyes gazed into some distant realm, beyond my knowing.
Head bowed to avoid scraping his head on the low ceiling, Bishop Orleton approached my uncle, then pulled his eyelids down. He made the sign of the cross above him.
“Leave us,” I heard myself say, although I do not remember the words passing over my tongue, for grief choked my throat.
The door groaned behind me. I was on my knees beside his death bed, staring hard through eyes that stung, expecting that at any moment his nostrils would twitch, his lips part, his chest rise in the weakest of breaths so I might speak to him, tell him I had come for him, and know he could hear me. I imagined his thin lips curving into a smile, his age-spotted, wrinkled hands reaching for mine, but they did not.
I had arrived too late.
*****
When I left the putrid dungeon and stumbled into daylight, I was in a stupor. The joy of winning Bristol Castle was swallowed up by the anger seething within me for not launching the assault a day sooner.
I ordered Father Norbert to take my uncle to St. Augustine’s. The chancel, I knew, was full of monks tending to wounded men and the place would stink of blood and human filth. So I told him to lay the body out at the altar in the Lady Chapel, which was tucked behind the rear of the wall of th
e chancel’s high altar.
When I found my uncle’s cold corpse in the smaller chapel, Bishop Orleton was there waiting for me again. Twelve candles flickered on the altar. Over my uncle lay an unadorned white shroud – too plain for a man of his station.
“Lord Roger died only minutes before you found him,” the bishop said. “I had enough time to tell him you had taken the castle ... and about the king sailing from Chepstow. He did not respond, but still, I told him everything anyway. Sometimes the dying can hear, even though they have not the strength to answer.”
“And did he ...” I was about to ask whether my uncle had cursed or praised me, but in truth I did not want to know. “Was he in any pain?”
“He was not suffering, no. Natural causes, I would assume. I’ve known few myself who lived as long as he did.”
The hushed blessings of monks mingled with the low moans of the wounded lying in the chancel. Some of those men, I knew, would die. Many already had. They, at least, had died free men. “Thank you, your grace, for your kindness. I ... I will instruct Maltravers and my sons to escort his body home to Chirk.”
I heard the scuff of feet on tiles and saw Father Norbert pause just outside the chapel. Squinting, he craned his thin neck sideways. His eyes opened wide in recognition of us, and then he spun about on his heel and scampered away.
Orleton clasped his hands beneath his vestments and bent his head. He drew a long breath. “The tribunal will meet soon. Some have probably already gathered by now.” When I gave no response, he asked, “Shall I tell them you will be there shortly?”
I avoided answering him. “Who was called?”
“Leicester called Norfolk and Kent, of course ... Wake and Beaumont, the bishops Stratford, Burghersh, myself ... and you. A few other barons whose names I suggested.”
Isabeau, A Novel of Queen Isabella and Sir Roger Mortimer Page 35
