The Lion and the Leopard

by Mary Ellen Johnson

  Of course it was only natural that Phillip prefer a friend's company—or any man's company—to his wife's. And if Phillip should love her too ardently, priests might consider him an adulterer, so perhaps he was simply being mindful of potential sin.

  Maria understood such matters with her mind, but not with her heart. Which was another disadvantage of being a woman, she supposed—the inability to comprehend complicated thoughts and emotions.

  Thus, when she sensed a new restlessness, she assured herself she must be mistaken. Phillip was simply responding to the idle talk of travel that helped pass long winter evenings. Maria sighed. Not knowing what, if anything, might be wrong sometimes made trying to please her beloved as frustrating as tilting with shadows.

  Tom chattered all the way into Fordwich, pointing and questioning and bouncing about in Maria's arms until he nearly fell off Facebelle, the dainty grey mare Phillip had given her on their fourth wedding anniversary.

  "Now once we get to town, sweetheart, we must stop at Dame Dane's for a beaver hat to warm Grandpere's ears. Then we will visit Sara the Churchkeeper for she makes sewing gloves just the way Aunt Eleanora likes."

  "And what shall I get for m-my saint's day, Maman?" When Tom was excited he tended to stutter.

  "You'll just have to wait, poppet. If I tell you now 'twill spoil the surprise."

  The road was muddy and framed with piles of dirty snow. On either side of Moat and Well Lane spread tracts of farmland belonging to St. Augustine's Abbey, land that had once belonged to the d'Ardernes. Every time Maria passed by or thought of the Leopard's Head in Sturry, which had been sold to Abbot John Fyndunne to finance the Cherry Fair the year of her betrothal, her mood darkened.

  How well she remembered that time... And all that had followed...

  Fordwich town was in a festive mood with clusters of mistletoe and ribbon-laced pine wreaths hanging on cottage doors. In front of various residences, children were singing wassailing ditties, after which listeners rewarded them by dropping fruit into their outstretched sacks.

  Maria and her son dismounted at the corner of High and King Street.

  "M-may I do that, M-maman?" an excited Tom asked, pointing to the children. "What exactly are they doing?"

  "They are going mumping." Bending down, Maria pulled Tom's mantle closer about his neck against the cold. "Children go mumping in honor of your saint, who is the finest in all the world." She kissed the top of his head. "As you are the finest son."

  She did not notice Richard of Sussex until he reined in his white stallion and called a greeting. When Maria looked up she was momentarily caught off guard, thinking how masculine, how vividly alive the earl looked contrasted to the drab sky and grey day.

  Maria suddenly thought of Eleanora's reaction upon first meeting their lord.

  With a startled gasp, she had said, "He is the golden knight of my dreams."

  Whenever Maria pondered her twin's words, she felt a thrill of foreboding.

  What has Lord Sussex to do with me? she often wondered.

  Perhaps the dream had more to do with some sort of political matter. Dreams could be interpreted in so many different ways that even soothsayers could be confused. More troubling, however, was the earl's curious effect on Maria, which sometimes left her feeling breathless.

  Crossing his hands across the pommel of his saddle, Richard studied the Lady Rendell with more familiarity than during his nightly visits. Away from Fordwich and Phillip he felt freer to openly admire her beauty. In the middle of a busy street what harm could come of it?

  "'Tis a pleasant surprise to meet you so unexpectedly, m'lady."

  "Good day, my lord." She curtsied as best she could in her cumbersome clothing and holding her son's hand.

  A cart rumbled past, followed by a yapping mongrel. She pulled little Tom closer to Fordwich's Watergate House, away from the road and the curious stares that Lord Sussex's presence always created. The Sturry Whore, Ivetta Smythe, passed on her way to the George and Dragon. Maria saw Richard's startled look as he noticed the prostitute.

  He will mark on my resemblance to her, Maria thought, uncomfortable. Rumor was Hugh's only brother, a casualty of Bannockburn, had been Smythe's father but, whether true or not, Maria preferred not to ponder such... complications.

  Rather than speak, Richard exchanged a glance with Michael Hallam, who shook his head and turned away, his expression glum.

  Tom piped, "'Tis my feast day, sire, did you know? Maman brought me to town for treats."

  Following a last glance at Ivetta Smythe, Richard dismounted and bent down to Tom's level. "Why, 'tis so. And what a grand saint Thomas the Apostle was. Tell me everything you know about him."

  "He built buildings, he did. Fine ones. M-maman told me all about them. And one time a king in a far off land asked him to build a beautiful palace, so Thomas agreed, and the king gave him a castle full of gold."

  Laughing, Richard glanced up at Maria. His manner was friendly without being over-intimate, though she found it difficult to respond in a natural way.

  "And what did St. Thomas do with all the king's gold?"

  "He spent it on the poor and the king had him killed."

  "What a smart lad you are!" Richard ruffled Tom's hair. Reaching inside his tunic he withdrew his coin purse. "I do not have a castle filled with gold, but I hope this will please you."

  He placed several shiny coins in Tom's palm; the three-year-old studied them with wide-eyed delight.

  "Thank you, sire. You've pleased him greatly." The directness of Richard's gaze unnerved her. "Now, darlin', we must be getting to Sara the Churchkeeper's for your aunt's gloves. Thank Lord Sussex—"

  "And what would you desire from me, Lady Rendell?"

  Stunned by the question, Maria was even more unprepared by the challenge in Richard's voice. Or did she imagine it?

  "What would you have from your liege lord this Christmas season?"

  Richard was near as surprised as she that he had spoken so boldly. "'Tis customary that I present gifts to my vassals," he quickly added. "And these past weeks you have all pleased me greatly."

  Maria searched her lord's face. He was right, of course. A man's greatness was partially determined by his extravagance to his friends and subjects. She groped about for some innocuous reply, but her mind remained blank. A priest passed and after a curious stare, disappeared inside Watergate House.

  Abbot Fyndunne sometimes stays at Watergate.

  "I want the Leopard's Head," she blurted.

  "And what might the Leopard's Head be?"

  "A manor house in Sturry. It belonged to our family until Papa had to sell to Abbot Fyndunne and the Canterbury monks in order to finance one of our Cherry Fairs."

  Though a smile curved Richard's lips, he studied her intently. "I know Abbot Fyndunne well. We dine together whene'er I visit."

  Probably at our house. Aloud, "I want the Leopard's Head back, my lord."

  She was not even sure why she asked. Since her marriage to Phillip, the family's fortunes had greatly improved.

  Am I trying to prove something to Mother? That I need not marriage to an old man in order to prosper?

  Why should Henrietta's approval matter, and why after nearly five years should she be thinking of Edmund Leybourne? Both dead. A sudden shiver, which had naught to do with the wind, raced through her.

  Eyes never leaving her face, Richard said, "You surprise me." As if weighing the meaning behind her request. "Your lord husband told me you were without ambition."

  Maria inwardly blanched at the implied criticism. She did sound bold and grasping—as grasping as the Despensers. And why was Phillip discussing her with his lord? What secrets had he shared? Did he complain about what a trial she was, confess that he was sorry he married her? And why was Richard looking at her so strangely?

  Tom tugged at her arm. "Hurry, M-Maman, so I can show my gold to Papa."

  As she followed her son, she lamented her foolishness. She should have told Lord Su
ssex she'd changed her mind about the Leopard's Head. Or asked for something sensible like a mantle or a bracelet or ear bobs.

  Or better yet, nothing at all.

  * * *

  On Christmas Eve Lord Sussex arrived at Fordwich like the magi, bearing gifts. While Twelfth Night was more the common time for exchanging presents, Richard would be at Dover Castle and was excited to share his surprises. Especially one.

  Michael Hallam followed, arms burdened with packages wrapped in blue cloth edged in gold.

  At sight of Richard's squire, Eleanora's cheeks flushed a becoming pink. Unconsciously she smoothed the folds of her kirtle, and as she retrieved the packages from Michael, smiled up at him. More surprisingly, to Maria at least, Michael smiled back.

  'Twill take a wilder nature than yours, sister, to tame that one.

  "Has the weather yet cleared?" Hugh asked, retrieving Richard's mantle.

  "Aye, 'tis beautiful." Richard stomped the snow clinging to his boots. "I'll wager our Blessed Savior was born on just such a night."

  They left the great hall for the cozier solar and settled in around the fire. Hugh dipped them each a bowl of wassail from the cauldron bubbling over the flames and Richard handed them each a cloth-wrapped gift.

  All save Maria.

  Stung by the affront, she pretended great interest in Tom's present—a miniature wooden army. As her son carefully inspected each tiny knight in helm and hauberk astride his painted warhorse, she felt a twinge of anger. Not only was Richard being rude, but the gloves and cap she'd so painstakingly fashioned for Tom now lay forgotten.

  "Look here, daughter." Hugh hobbled over to Maria. "'Tis a copy of Walter Henley's Stewardship. Another book! Is that not grand?" Books were so expensive Hugh's library contained only a half dozen.

  Maria tried to muster the appropriate enthusiasm. As she did over Eleanora's carved sewing box crammed with everything from needles to fine scissors of Toledo steel—and, tucked away in a removable compartment, an exquisite pair of sewing gloves.

  "They are from Dame Sara's. I heard you well liked her gloves." For the first time Richard looked at Maria. She turned her head away. Soon his slight would be apparent. Not even a man of Lord Sussex's stature could purchase from Mother Church what was not for sale. Besides, Maria was certain he'd not even tried. When the questions began she would have to explain her brazen cupidity. Would Phillip, too, react as Richard had done? "I thought you were without ambition, wife. I see I am mistaken."

  Phillip stood before the fireplace inspecting a palm-size globe. The world's countries, outlined in silver and gold, shimmered in the light from the hearth fire.

  "I had the countries you've visited outlined in silver," Richard said.

  Phillip's fingers gently traced various boundaries. "There is more gold than silver here."

  "Aye." Richard said. "'Twould seem you still have a bit of travelling to do."

  Feeling despair, Maria watched her husband. You've never gazed at me with such delight. Even when we are making love. And why, why had Sussex broached that accursed subject?

  Richard turned to Maria. "You've not yet received your present, Lady Rendell. I have saved the best for last."

  Reluctantly she accepted a package shaped like a book. Whatever its contents she felt like throwing it—along with Phillip's globe—into the fire.

  "Thank you, sire." She made no move to open it.

  "Come along, daughter," urged Hugh. "Let us all see what our lord has given you."

  Reluctantly, she removed the cloth, which revealed an unadorned leather bound document. Aye, a book.

  "Look inside, m'lady," Richard said.

  A folded parchment nestled within. A deed. With suddenly trembling fingers she removed the ribbon, but she did not need to read the ornate Latin script to decipher its contents. "You did it," she whispered. "I did not really think such a thing possible."

  "There are always ways."

  She looked into his eyes. "My lord," she breathed, overcome.

  Phillip moved closer. "What has our lord given you, wife?"

  "The deed for the Leopard's Head. Lord Sussex and I were talking... 'Twas a stupid request I should not have made. But you actually did it." She grinned. "Jesu, I'll wager Abbot Fyndunne was most displeased."

  "I have seen happier men."

  "I did not know that you two had discussed this matter." Phillip's manner was wary, like a stag alert to a sudden shift in the wind.

  "We didn't, really," Richard said smoothly. "'Twas just something mentioned in passing." He bent to help little Tom set a knight astride his destrier.

  Maria ran her fingers across the writing, imagining the lengths the earl had gone to please her, (You did this for me!), the difference the return of the Leopard's Head would make in the d'Arderne family fortunes, (I am indeed a responsible daughter, Mother!), and perversely pleased by the sudden tension in the room. (Have a care, husband, if you think to treat me so lightly.)

  "You are a most generous lord," Phillip said to Richard. Then after an enigmatic look at his wife, he returned to the fireplace and forgotten globe in hand, stared into the flames.

  Chapter 16

  Pontefract Castle, 1322

  After Christmas, King Edward moved north in a final campaign to crush Thomas Lancaster and all those who had stood against him.

  Roger Mortimer and his lords, lacking money, troops and after waiting in vain for Lancaster's promised help, surrendered to the king on January 23, 1322. Under heavy guard Mortimer was packed off to the Tower of London. The imprisonment of the fiercest Marcher lord frightened most of the other rebels into surrender. Castles began to fall, knights to desert. The remaining Marchers fled north to Pontefract, where Thomas Lancaster sat as if paralyzed, allowing his allies to be captured and King Edward to march north virtually unimpeded.

  After only token resistance Thomas Lancaster's great castles of Kenilworth and Tutbury fell. Rumors of his involvement with the Scots had long circulated and his retainers bore little allegiance to a lord who made secret agreements with their enemy. At Tutbury, Edward uncovered evidence that confirmed those rumors and marked Lancaster as traitor—correspondence with Scotland's king, Robert the Bruce.

  Finally, Thomas had no choice but to bolt for his northern-most castle of Dunstanburgh. On March 16, he and a troop of seven hundred men reached Boroughbridge in Yorkshire. On the north bank of the River Ure, spanned by a bridge so narrow an armor-clad knight could scarce cross, Edward's troops awaited. They were jointly commanded by Andrew Harclay, governor of Carlisle, and Richard of Sussex. Since January Richard had traveled with Edward, but when the Despensers had rejoined him at Lichfield a fortnight past, he had ridden north. For now, at least, Richard and his brother must remain united. Now Thomas Lancaster was within their grasp.

  On March 17, 1322, following a battle in which most of his commanders had been killed, Thomas of Lancaster crossed Boroughbridge and surrendered under a flag of truce.

  Richard accepted his cousin's sword with an emotion approaching disbelief. These past years, as England had been torn with internal strife, the cause of that strife had become embodied in Richard's mind by one man. Thomas Lancaster had gradually metamorphosed from flesh and blood to an evil, brooding presence, lurking in the bleakness of the Yorkshire moors, awaiting the proper moment to sweep south and annihilate his enemies. This day, however, Richard saw a hesitant man with narrow, slightly stooped shoulders, gray in his beard, and weary eyes—eyes in color not unlike his own. Richard almost pitied him.

  * * *

  King Edward sat in the middle of Pontefract's great hall, surrounded by clerks and courtiers, and to his right, Hugh Despenser the Younger. Before them with head bowed and hands tied behind his back, stood Thomas of Lancaster, Lord Steward of England, son of Edmund Crouchback, the old king's younger brother. Thomas had just emerged from several days in Pontefract's Swillington Tower and looked nearer dead than living.

  Today, March 22, the earl of Lancaster faced his pee
rs no longer as their equal, but as a condemned criminal. In the past he'd broken bread with each of the barons—young Edmund Plantagenet, earl of Kent and Edward's legitimate half-brother; the earls of Pembroke, Sturry, Arundel, and Richard of Sussex. Nine months ago, during the Parliament of the White Bands, he had entered Westminster in triumph. Now he would not even be able to offer a defense for the charges put before him. Like Lucifer when driven from heaven, Thomas Lancaster had fallen far.

  A young clerk read the summation of charges, a long list containing only one truly treasonable offense—his alliance with the Scots.

  Seated with the other barons, Richard of Sussex found his attention wandering. Never would he understand his cousin's love of Pontefract, which was a gloomy, graceless place. From a rectangular stained and leaded window, light streamed onto the stone floor in shimmering patches, partially alleviating the interior's murkiness. Today was one of those rare spring days that would be unmarred by rain.

  Would it be better to die on such a day or in dreary winter, Richard wondered, when the world is cloaked in grey and the cold seeps into the bones so that no fire could bake it out? If I could choose the day to die...

  The clerk, reading the document that would cost Lancaster his life, was obviously bored. "With banners displayed," he recited in a singsong manner, "as in open war, in a hostile manner resisted... and hindered our sovereign lord the king... for three whole days so that they could not pass over the bridge of Burton-upon-Trent... and there feloniously slew some of the king's men."

  Richard looked at Thomas's younger brother, Henry, seated in the shadows. Henry was obviously in torment over Thomas's pending fate, as well as the shame that had befallen the House of Lancaster.

  I must see that Henry does not pay for Thomas's sin, Richard thought. If his fate is left up to Edward, he will die of neglect.