“Isabelle is unwell, Marie?”
“She cannot stop crying,” Marguerite Wake confided.
Arbella Beaumont murmured, “She keeps asking for you.”
“I’ll go to her.” Brianna slipped quietly into Isabelle’s bedroom. The queen was sitting in a chair with a look of panic on her face. Her eyes were swollen from crying. Brianna crouched down before her and took her hands. “Tell me what has happened.”
Isabelle raised hopeless eyes. “He’s coming back.”
Brianna did not need to ask whom she meant. Only the return of Hugh Despencer could have such a devastating effect on Isabelle. “How do you know?”
Isabelle handed her a crumpled paper, which was unsigned. “I received this anonymous letter telling me the king ordered the Archbishop of Canterbury to convene the clergy at Saint Paul’s to annul the banishment of the Despencers. They are to return to England under Edward’s protection.”
“Hell and furies! Their persecution of you and of the barons will start all over again.”
“Four months…I’ve been free of Hugh Despencer for only four months! Edward agreed to Mortimer’s and Lancaster’s demands with every intention of flouting them and bringing back his lover the moment the barons left London. Brianna, do you think there is any chance they will ride to my rescue a second time?”
How can I tell you that the king intends to hunt down his enemies with the large army he gathered under the pretense of avenging you? “There can be no doubt that Mortimer and Lancaster will be outraged at the greedy Despencers’ return, for their own sake as well as yours.”
“I cannot rid myself of hopeless despair and dread.”
“You mustn’t allow yourself to become despondent like this, or Hugh Despencer will have defeated you before he even returns. Always remember you are the Queen of England. Don’t allow him to turn you into a victim. Every day you must don a beautiful gown and jewels. They will lend you a regal self-assurance.”
“Brianna, I’m so glad you’re back. You bolster my confidence.”
“I wager you haven’t eaten. I shall order food immediately. We will dine in your chamber tonight. Then I think you should write to your brother Charles. The newly crowned King of France must condemn Edward’s recalling the Despencers. Perhaps your brother can influence Pope John to voice his displeasure also.”
“I shall write the letter tonight,” Isabelle said with determination. “Marie communicates regularly with family members in France. Her correspondence won’t be suspect—I can conceal my letters inside hers.”
It suddenly occurred to Brianna that perhaps King Edward had never actually been parted from Hugh Despencer. They had doubtless been meeting secretly. How easy for Hugh Despencer to anchor his ship off the Isle of Wight when Edward visited Portchester Castle. Together they plotted the trap at Leeds Castle and now Despencer will urge the usually docile king to take revenge on the Marcher barons because they soundly defeated Hugh in the Welsh Borders. Brianna poured Isabelle wine. I must tell her, but not tonight. She would sink back into hopelessness.
Wolf Mortimer and his uncle of Chirk met up with his father and the other Marchers at Doncaster in Yorkshire, where Thomas of Lancaster had called a hasty parliament.
Roger Mortimer embraced his uncle. “How are you faring?”
“I’m well enough,” the older man said gruffly.
Wolf’s gray eyes met his father’s and he shook his head in silent communication. The three men joined Hereford, Audley, and d’Amory in the castle’s Great Hall where Lancaster awaited them.
“My spies have reported that Edward has secretly had the banishment of the hated Despencers annulled and they are on the verge of returning.” When angry voices rose in protest, Lancaster held up his hand. “My spies also report that Hugh Despencer sank a Genoese merchant ship in the English Channel, but not before pirating its treasure. This was done with the king’s blessing. The pair have been in communication for months.”
Roger’s eyes again met his son’s. Wolf had been right—Edward and Hugh had never parted.
“I have here a Doncaster Petition that I intend to send to London telling the people that their king is recalling his degenerate favorite.”
Roger Mortimer spoke up. “I have it on good authority that Edward took revenge on Leeds Castle to set an example. The king intends to keep the military force that gathered to avenge the queen’s honor, and use it against any who oppose him.”
“My petition spells out Edward’s perfidy in supporting Despencer’s piracy. I will undermine the support the king has gathered in London and, in the public’s interest, I will rid the realm of the Despencers’ evil influence.”
Loud cheers went up in Doncaster’s Great Hall. Thomas of Lancaster signed the petition with a flourish. “I want every baron present to affix his name and I will see that it is sent on its way to London today.”
Wolf Mortimer moved closer to his father. “Lancaster fancies himself to be the great Simon de Montfort, uniting the barons and safeguarding the people of England. Don’t put your trust in him.”
Hereford signed immediately, but as Audley and d’Amory were waiting their turn, Adam Orleton, the warriorlike Bishop of Hereford, entered the hall with a half dozen men-at-arms. Adam had been born at a Mortimer manor and was rumored to be the natural son of the Baron of Chirk.
“Thank God I found you. Because of the long absence of the Marcher lords, the Welsh have chosen this opportune time for a massive uprising.”
“Peste!” Roger swore. “We will have to return. Adam, get word immediately to Rickard de Beauchamp in Ireland and tell him to bring his fighting men.”
Wolf Mortimer cursed. “I foresaw a threat from the west and should have realized the Welsh would take up arms in our absence.”
Roger passed the news of the uprising to the other Marcher lords and they agreed they must leave without delay. Wolf’s warning about Lancaster was foremost in Mortimer’s mind. He told Thomas they were returning home and challenged him outright. “In the event Edward’s army moves against us, can I rely upon you to join forces with us?”
“Sign the Doncaster Petition and I pledge to bring my fighting force to join the Marchers and defeat Edward.”
As the Marcher barons left the hall, Wolf decided to reveal a strong premonition he had about Lancaster, prompted by the sound of bagpipes only he could hear. “I believe Thomas is seeking aid from Scotland.”
“A pact with Robert Bruce would be treason—a hanging offense,” Mortimer declared.
Hereford spoke up. “The Bruce and Edward are formidable enemies. It would be one sure way to depose our degenerate king.”
“I agree. Our enemy’s enemy is our friend,” d’Amory declared.
Roger was outraged. “I’ve fought the Bruce in Scotland and in Ireland. He is England’s enemy. I’ll have no part of it!”
“I have decided to take down Lancaster from his high perch. Once I’ve dealt with Thomas, I will repeal the Ordinances the whoreson forced upon me,” Edward confided to Hugh as they lay abed at Gloucester Castle. Despencer had sailed up the Severn to celebrate the New Year with his royal lover.
Hugh reached between the king’s legs and rolled his flaccid member between his palms. He had learned it was a surefire method of arousing Edward. Once he had inflamed the king’s desire, it was child’s play to bend him to his will. “You promised to avenge me, my love.”
“And so I shall, Hugh. Lancaster has sent a petition to the people of London, accusing you of piracy and vowing to rid the realm of your influence.”
“Your royal cousin is a mere annoyance. He is filled with hot air, but the coward won’t venture far from his cushy castle of Pontefract, I warrant. We can deal with him anytime.”
Hugh moved down in the bed and pressed kisses along Edward’s inner thighs until the king’s cock began to pulse with need. Hugh suddenly stopped and raised his head. “I want you to go after Mortimer. The whoreson bastard led the Marchers and took sixty-three of
my manors. They robbed me of property worth fifty thousand pounds, and I lust for revenge. You will assuage my lust, won’t you, Edward?”
“Yes, yes! Haven’t I promised you whatever you desire, Hugh?”
“I desire that tomorrow you order your levies to gather at Cirencester and that you immediately march to capture Mortimer.”
“Why, in the name of Christ, did you not remain in Ireland where you were safe, madam?” Roger Mortimer could not hide his fury that his wife, Joan, who had chosen to live apart from him for years, turned up at Ludlow Castle two days after he arrived. It had been a long trek from Doncaster; they had already fought off a Welsh raid on his lands at Wigmore, and his temper was vile.
“What a charming welcome,” she drawled. “I’ll come to Ludlow when I wish. Don’t forget I brought you this castle when we wed.”
“You never let me forget. I should have known it was concern for Ludlow, rather than your children, that brought you back.” He made no effort to hide the distaste he felt at the sight of her. Once attractive, though she was always self-centered, her body was now stout from overindulgence, her face petulant with dissatisfaction.
Mortimer turned on his heel and left her presence.
Joan’s eyes narrowed with something akin to hatred. She had an insatiable desire for the virile, arrogant bastard, though she could no longer lure him to her bed. She lived apart, hoping he would seek her out, but he never did. “A pox on you, Mortimer!”
Roger went to the stables in search of Rickard de Beauchamp and found him and the men he’d brought from Ireland, feeding and watering their horses. “You should have left her in Ireland, but I imagine the dominant bitch overruled you.”
“I pointed out the danger, but she insisted I make room on the ship for her.” Rickard had made sure his own wife, Catherine, who was Roger’s sister, remained in Ireland. He looked at his friend with shrewd eyes. “It’s not just the Welsh we must worry about.”
Roger shook his head and told Rickard the whole story. “The Welsh on one side and the king’s forces on the other will have us in a vise.” He gave a confident laugh. “We’ve been in tight places before. You and I will survive, Rickard.”
“Is my father in danger from the king?”
“I don’t honestly know. Warwick was the one who told me not to ride to Leeds Castle. He had sense enough to stay out of it.”
“I warrant you have scouts on the other side of the River Severn, watching for any sign of the king’s forces?”
“I do, and so has Hereford.” Roger and Rickard de Beauchamp had been friends for twenty years, since they’d been knighted together. They never hesitated to confide in each other. “Wolf suspects that Lancaster is in secret negotiations with the Scots.”
Rickard whistled in surprise, then considered for a minute. “Thomas has always fancied himself king. If he thought the Bruce could depose Edward and put him on the throne, he wouldn’t cavil at traitorous dealings with Scotland.”
“The Marcher barons have a pact with Lancaster.”
“A pact whereby Thomas will expect us to go to his aid. The question is, will he come to ours?” Rickard asked.
“I don’t know the answer, but Wolf is certain that he won’t.”
All at Ludlow worked until midnight, readying armor, weapons, and horses. They were prepared to fend off raids from the Welsh, and protect their landholdings and livestock, but they also needed to be ready to defend themselves if Edward’s army threatened.
Roger bade his sons good night and climbed the stairs to his own chamber. He yawned and stretched his arms over his head, to ease the muscles in his shoulders. The moment he closed the door, he knew he was not alone.
Joan lay stretched out on his bed sipping from a goblet. Her robe was undone, exposing heavy thighs. “I’m tired of waiting.”
“While I’m simply tired.” His voice was curt. “You seem to have lost your way, madam.”
She drained the wine. “Poor little lamb has losht her way.”
Lamb? More like tough old mutton. He knew she was flown with wine. Roger went to the bed, pulled her robe to cover her, and lifted her into his arms. He could hear her laugh deep in her throat as he carried her to her own chamber. Her head suddenly fell back and when he looked down, he could see she had fallen into a drunken sleep. He laid her on her bed with a gentleness that belied his true feelings and covered her with a warm blanket.
Chapter 14
“Marie has just told me something I think you should know.” Brianna had brought Marie to the queen’s chamber the moment the nursemaids took the children away to put them to bed.
Marie hesitated, then blurted out, “The king has ordered my husband to take the army to Cirencester in Gloucestershire.”
“Did Pembroke tell you why?” Isabelle asked.
“Because the king is at nearby Gloucester Castle and has chosen Cirencester as a mustering point for the royal forces.”
“The king’s brothers left this morning with their men-at-arms,” Brianna added.
Isabelle was surprised and puzzled. “Does Edward intend to march his army against the Scots?”
Brianna shook her head. “No—Edward’s target is the Marcher barons—Mortimer, Hereford, and the others who took their Welsh Borderlands back from the Despencers and forced their exile.”
Isabelle’s hand fluttered to her throat. “But Edward issued royal pardons for the Marcher barons.”
“The king’s pardons are not worth the paper they’re writ on.” Brianna clenched her fists. I warrant Despencer is demanding revenge. The greedy swine must be back…if he ever left.
“Will you excuse me, Isabelle?” Marie implored. “I’d like to spend time with my husband. He leaves at dawn.”
When she left, Isabelle turned to Brianna. “I didn’t want to say anything to upset Marie, and I pray for Pembroke’s safety, but the Mortimers and Lancaster have a pact. They will easily defeat the king’s forces, as they always have in a showdown.”
“’Tis rumored the ranks of the royal forces are swollen to near thirty thousand. Edward raised them in your name. Men will flock to Cirencester because they prefer him as a warrior king to the weakling he has always shown himself to be.”
Isabelle was suddenly filled with anguish. “The people of England will fight for love of me. They have no idea they are being manipulated. I don’t want men dying in my name!”
A picture of Wolf and Roger Mortimer flashed into Brianna’s mind. “Amen to that, Your Grace.”
Warwick, with a troop of two dozen knights, rode into Ludlow. He dismounted and removed his helm to speak with Roger Mortimer. “I heard a rumor the Welsh heathens are raiding again. I thought you might like some help.”
“I have help. I recalled your son from Ireland.”
“Rickard is here?” Guy de Beauchamp’s face lit up.
Warwick’s heir emerged from the armory when he heard the clatter of hooves. “Father! Who told you I was here?”
“No one—perhaps I sensed it.” The two embraced warmly.
“Tell your men to rest,” Roger advised. “We have a foray planned for tonight. Wigmore has been hit twice this past week. Wolf had a vision they were holding our sheep and cattle at Radnor. He rode into Wales under cover of night and confirmed that his sixth sense was right as usual.”
“We’ll teach them a lesson they won’t soon forget,” Warwick pledged. “As soon as we’ve fed and watered our mounts, we’ll join you in the hall for some thirst-quenching Ludlow ale.”
Rickard accompanied his father into the stables. His sire had aged a good deal since he’d last seen him. “Roger tells me you had the good sense to stay out of the Leeds debacle and advised him to do the same.”
“Your sister Brianna is serving as lady to Isabelle. She was with the queen at Leeds and learned it was a deliberate plot. I saw clearly its purpose was to divide the barons. Expedience told me that the Mortimers and I should not involve ourselves.”
Rickard put his hand on his fa
ther’s shoulder. “We are expecting trouble from the king. I hope that expedience once again tells you not to involve yourself.”
“I came to fight,” Guy de Beauchamp staunchly declared.
“The Welsh, yes…the king, no. It is not your fight.”
At dinner that night, Guy de Beauchamp was shocked at Lady Mortimer’s appearance. He remembered her when she was a youthful beauty, and he could not believe how her figure had thickened to resemble a barrel. Above a heavy double chin her mouth looked petulant. Warwick was a romantic at heart, and replied with charm when she made cutting remarks, but he sent up a silent prayer of thanks that his wife, the great love of his life, was still exquisitely lovely both in face and form.
Guy’s glance moved to the table where the two Mortimer daughters, who were still unwed, were sitting. He paid close attention to young Katherine, who had been suggested as a match for his son, Guy Thomas. He was relieved to find no fault with the pretty child. She was obviously innocent and sweet tempered, unlike her mother.
When it was full dark, Warwick and his men joined those of Mortimer and Mortimer of Chirk. Added to the men Rickard had brought from Ireland, they numbered about two hundred and fifty.
Wolf was in the vanguard, unerringly leading the men to the Radnor encampment, through the pitch-dark night. A surprise attack gave the Borderers the advantage over the Welsh, though they were outnumbered two to one. These odds, however, were undaunting since the Marchers had better armor and weapons.
The Welsh were fierce fighters, but their reckless courage often proved detrimental when pitted against the more disciplined English. The tactics they used were calculated. They would fight like demons, then scatter as if fleeing in fear, only to circle back and surround their enemy. This drew their opponents closer to mountainous terrain, giving them the advantage. Once in the mountains, other Welsh tribes joined them.
Mortimer of Chirk had dropped out of the fighting hours before, and Wolf and Edmund Mortimer led his men along with their own. It was dawn before the Welsh raiders were vanquished. The dead and wounded lay strewn over miles of frozen terrain. The Marchers drew rein to allow the Welsh to retrieve their injured, but all at once a warrior inflamed with bloodlust launched himself at Warwick with a battle-ax and unhorsed him. There was a sickening crack as Warwick’s head smashed against a boulder, and his helmet was split in half.
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