The Lion and the Leopard

by Mary Ellen Johnson

  "If I live to be a thousand I'll not understand. And 'tis not within me to forgive." Phillip's words were punctuated by his broadsword, which sliced down in front of Richard's face.

  Maria jumped back. Richard did not flinch.

  "I curse the day we ever met. I should have let you die at Bannockburn, but since I didn't, I will now rectify that error. Fight, Bastard."

  Richard shook his head. "Kill me if you would but I'll not lift my sword against a man I would still call friend. If I could have overcome my weakness I would have. I know you would never have treated me so shabbily."

  Swift as a leaping wolf, Phillip grabbed Maria, slamming her against the flint-rubble surface of the nearby pharos. "Fight me," he said, jabbing the point of his sword into her stomach. "Or your leman and your bastard die."

  Maria tensed her muscles against the unyielding steel, as if that might somehow protect her babe. Now that death was at hand, she felt little fear—for herself at least.

  If you kill me at least 'twill be an end to it.

  Richard drew his sword.

  The two were evenly matched. Richard was a shade taller, Phillip heavier, but both were in superb fighting form. Phillip, however, was driven by rage while Richard's every thrust and feint measured his reluctance. From the first Phillip took the offensive, methodically forcing Richard back toward the windmill. Steel clashed and slithered along steel. The promontory reverberated with each ringing blow. Their straining arms shook with each brutal contact.

  With each lunge Maria imagined blade biting into skull, brains bursting onto the treeless plain. With each assault she held her breath, unconsciously jerking away from the path of the deadly blades.

  Phillip was the first to draw blood—a ragged gash to Richard's thigh. Only slightly slowed, Richard parried, seeming to guess Phillip's intended direction before it began. But he did not take the offensive, even when his opponent provided opening.

  Phillip pushed him back toward the circling vanes of the windmill. Their swords sighed and whistled; their breathing rasped loud. Glancing over his shoulder to gauge his distance from the vanes, Richard mis-stepped, and as he tried to right himself, Phillip slammed his blade down near Richard's hilt. Richard's sword flew from his hand. Off balance, Richard fell. And lay still.

  Phillip raised his broadsword over his head, hesitated. His sword seemed to hang suspended for the length of a lifetime.

  "No!" Maria shouted, shattering the moment. As the blade descended she ran toward Richard. The sword point quivered in the earth a hair's breadth from their lord's throat.

  "Aye, comfort your lover!" Phillip gasped, struggling to regain his wind. "Do what you wish. But mark my words, wife. I will have an annulment from you, whether it takes five years or ten, whether I must sell all of Deerhurst to bribe Pope John that we share a common ancestor."

  "Please, no more, husband. Hasn't enough been said and done—?"

  "Go with the Bastard, go to hell, for that is where you both are bound." Phillip jerked his sword from the earth.

  "Should I meet you again, my former lord," he said, addressing Richard, "'twill be in the service of the white lion of Mortimer. Roger Mortimer will soon bring you to heel and when he does I will rejoice the loudest."

  * * *

  After detouring to Walmer Castle to retrieve his son, Phillip rode for Deerhurst. Inside he nursed a cold hatred of his wife and her lover that nothing could assuage. Even little Tom, who shared common expressions and mannerisms with his mother, provided as much pain as pleasure. Every time Phillip looked at Tom he saw her, and a thousand memories rushed to the surface. He'd nursed those memories during his travels. Now he vowed to kill them, every one.

  Phillip arrived home just as Queen Isabella decided that Nephew Hugh must immediately be brought to trial.

  The queen had long dreamed of a triumphant march into London with the fallen favorite in tow, but since his capture Despenser had refused meat and drink and she was afraid he would die before she could enjoy full measure of revenge. Therefore, Isabella ordered Hugh's trial to be held in the nearest large town, which happened to be Hereford. If not London, at least Hereford would provide enough spectators so that Despenser would be subjected to the greatest amount of public humiliation possible.

  The trial took place in the city's episcopal palace. After judgment was privately passed upon Despenser, he was stripped of his knightly garb, dressed in black, his escutcheon reversed, and a crown of nettles placed atop his head.

  Massive crowds, flocking from throughout the Marcher lands, lined the narrow lanes to the gallows. Phillip and his brother Humphrey numbered among the spectators. While he'd ordered little Tom to stay at Winchcomb with Lady Jean, Phillip had willingly ridden to Hereford to witness the execution. His heart no longer possessed room for any emotion save hate and this day there would be hatred enough for all.

  The day chosen for Despenser's execution, which followed the feast of All Saints, was as ugly as the malevolent atmosphere. Storm clouds drooped low. A bruising wind cut through the warmest woolen mantles, but not even its chilly breath could blow away the animosity stamped upon the expectant sea of faces. When Hugh Despenser finally appeared, slumped atop a mange-ridden pony, the resultant noise fairly shook the surrounding jumble of shops and apartments.

  Phillip was shocked by Despenser's appearance. Gone, of course, was the magnificent dress. The earl's eyes appeared clouded and lifeless; the skin across his cheekbones and aquiline nose was stretched to a parchment thinness which outlined the very contours of his skull. Despenser seemed deaf to the screams, the blasts of hunting horns, the beating of spoons upon pots. Some of the more learned ran to scrawl upon him scriptural verses denouncing arrogance and evil, others befouled his tattered gown and even his face with midden.

  Hugh appeared oblivious to everything. He reminded Phillip of a mortally wounded animal who wanted only to crawl off alone and die.

  His indifference only incited the mob to further frenzy.

  "Look at him!" Humphrey Rendell bellowed. "Arrogant and unrepentant to the very last."

  Phillip thought of Richard. Will you also be ridden through city streets and similarly humiliated? He pulled his mantle closer about him. I just pray I'll be there to view your pain.

  He couldn't really imagine Richard subjected to such treatment, however. Unlike Despenser he wasn't despised, his disapproval of the favorites had long been known, and would even the most hardened Englishman fault a brother's loyalty, no matter how undeserved?

  A rotten egg slammed against Despenser's cheek. Phillip looked away. The feeling of anarchy, the mindless odium was beginning to unease him.

  After Hugh the Younger reached the gallows, which Queen Isabella had ordered fashioned fifty feet high, his sentence was publicly read by William Trussel, who had also pronounced death upon Hugh's father.

  Intermittent pellets of sleet peppered upturned faces and the wind blew wild from the north. The justiciary motioned for silence. Only the sound of Hugh being dragged up the wooden steps to the gallows broke the silence.

  "You, Hugh, are found as a thief and therefore shall be hanged, and are found as a traitor and therefore shall be drawn and quartered; for that you have been outlawed by the king and by common consent, and returned to the court without warrant, you shall be beheaded; and for that you abetted and procured discord between king and queen and others of the realm, you shall be emboweled and your bowels burned; and so go to your judgment, attainted, wicked traitor."

  Hugh's face registered no emotion. The crown of nettles atop his dark head drooped over his forehead.

  Christ also wore a crown, thought Phillip, but there the resemblance ends, for Hugh is nearer the devil. He pulled his beaver hat lower against the sleet. 'Tis inevitable. Men who reach for the sun must always risk getting burned.

  He thought again of Richard of Sussex.

  "Make way for the baron of Wigmore!"

  The crowd parted. Roger Mortimer rode his prancing white charger u
p to the steps of the gallows. After flashing a smile to the crowd, Mortimer turned to watch the favorite's execution. From the time Phillip had known his fellow Marcher lord, Roger Mortimer had never failed at any task. Was he not now bending England to his will? Phillip was certain Mortimer was the driving force behind the queen, that without him this rebellion would have died aborning.

  My lord Sussex is no match for you, Phillip thought. And the knowledge gave him no pleasure.

  The executioner, dressed all in black and with a hood over his face, slipped a knotted noose around Hugh Despenser's neck. He jerked Despenser up higher ever higher to the gallows' arm. The condemned man's limbs danced like a marionette's; his tattered gown flapped, then disappeared in the blackness of swirling clouds. The executioner loosed the rope, causing Hugh to plummet to the ground.

  Grabbing a butcher knife, the executioner bent over Hugh, cut open his stomach and withdrew white coils of intestine. Despenser groaned but did not cry out. Taking a proffered torch, the executioner thrust the fire into Hugh's bowels. Hugh slumped back into the arms of a waiting knight, who lifted him by his arms and dragged him to a wooden block. The executioner positioned Despenser's head precisely in the wooden hollow, raised his axe, swung. Hugh's head thudded onto the platform. The crowd roared.

  Above the triumphant beating of pots, Phillip yelled to his brother, "I am leaving."

  "Do you not want to stay to see him quartered? Four horses will be used instead of the usual two."

  "What does it matter?" he snapped.

  Phillip rode back to Winchcomb to retrieve his son. He was glad for the time alone, without the blathering of his brother or the hysteria of the crowds. He needed time to think, to assimilate Despenser's execution and to resolve his conflicting feelings. The animus was still there, certainly, but other emotions were now crying for their turn.

  The sleet changed to a thick falling snow, covering the fields, the backs of cattle not yet herded to their byres, and the tracks made by Phillip's palfrey along the flat stretch of highway. He squinted his eyes against the huge flakes that clung to his face before trailing downward like tears.

  "I denied you a warrior's death for that of a traitor's," he said to his invisible foe. "Even I cannot wish for you such a fate."

  Chapter 31

  The Vale of Evesham

  Exhausted from a week of hard riding, Maria nearly fell from her horse. She and Richard were bound for Conwy Castle, which lay yet another three days north. Conwy meant safety, though their journey north had been extremely dangerous. The most direct route lay by way of London, which was crawling with rebels, so they swung through Marcher country. The threat of Roger Mortimer remained constant as a heartbeat. His white lion seemed to be everywhere and Richard's troupe of fifteen knights was pitifully small. They kept to the back roads, well away from populated areas and arteries, and did not directly encounter his men, though Maria was beginning to fear that Mortimer was as omnipresent—and omnipotent—as God.

  They rode through the poor lands of Surrey, the fertile fields of Berkshire and Oxfordshire. Near evening of the last day, they wound down into the Vale of Evesham. Before them spread a panoramic view of trees, hedge covered fields, and flocks of sheep. In the vale they discovered a long deserted milking shed, as well as the remnants of a farmer's cottage, and for the first time since leaving Dover, enjoyed shelter from the elements. After fishing in the River Avon, they risked a fire, also for the first time, and baked their catch in the coals.

  Later, Maria and Richard withdrew to the dilapidated cottage where she rested as snug against him as the babe would allow. Her bulk made riding especially awkward, and as the days progressed, she experienced contractions and stabbing pains in her legs. Always she feared that she would miscarry, for what child could endure such unaccustomed agony? But she never complained, and when Richard asked, assured him that everything was fine.

  This night, blessed by the shelter of a roof, Maria slept the sleep of the dead. Before she would have counted it possible, Richard was shaking her shoulder and whispering, "Time."

  The other knights were already mounted. Attempting a stretch, Maria winced and limped to Baucent, the destrier Richard had provided. He had feared Facebelle would prove too delicate for such a difficult journey and could not risk a horse going lame or straggling. Clenching her teeth against her protesting muscles, Maria struggled into the saddle and awaited the earl's signal to move out.

  By various landmarks, she knew they had reached Herefordshire and calculated they must be within a few hours of Deerhurst. Deerhurst meant Phillip.

  I will think of him later. I cannot now.

  It was this, their eighth day, that they encountered their first foul weather. Fresh snow blanketed the ground; thin layers of ice skimmed the ponds. An intermittent sleet intensified into a howling blizzard. They were forced to ride directly into the storm, braving snow that stung their faces and clung to beards, eyebrows and lashes.

  Following the snaking River Severn to a familiar bridge, they discovered that the ropes had been cut. The bridge's remains bobbed in the iced-glutted water. Michael Hallam looked to his lord; Richard shook his head. His eyes swept the swirling horizon, searching for the perpetrators of the deed. It was not lost on him that King Edward had been captured in similar weather. Had the bridge been destroyed to slow them? Was Mortimer even now watching?

  "We must attempt a crossing," he said to his men. "But keep a sharp lookout."

  The Severn, while not over deep, was freezing cold. After fording it, Maria's wet clothes hung stiff and unyielding, without any warmth at all.

  As they plunged deeper into the storm and her limbs began to ache against the relentless onslaught, Maria lost heart.

  I will lose my babe; we will never reach Wales.

  Her extremities had lost all feeling; her face hurt so that she began crying, but her tears froze. The beards on the knights' faces had also turned to ice.

  She peered at the men hunched over their mounts, shapeless mounds in the grey swirling mass.

  Either by Mortimer's black hand or God's, we are all going to die.

  * * *

  The following morning the sky cleared; by midday it sparkled a dazzling blue. In places the snow brushed the horses' saddle girths, but as the troupe approached the border to Wales, everyone's optimism returned.

  "By this time tomorrow, God willing," Richard said, "we will be enjoying a warm fire and a steaming bath at Conwy."

  The terrain grew increasingly hilly, but the piles of snow lessened. Questioning their good fortune, Richard's gaze continually probed the horizon and surrounding stands of trees. Wigmore Abbey was not far from here; they were now in the heart of Roger Mortimer's domain.

  Mortimer is probably in London by now, Richard assured himself, though he could not shake his unease.

  They entered a narrow valley surrounded by sharp rises and clusters of towering pines. Feeling revitalized, Maria breathed in the crisp air.

  Snow nestled in the spreading branches and occasionally fell with a rolling thump to pock the smooth expanse below. From a stand to their right darted a stag, careening toward them before bounding away over a hill. Richard raised his hand. The troupe halted. For a long moment it seemed that the earth held its breath along with the knights. Images burned Maria's brain—the dazzling sky, wispy clouds, black pines straining upward, their snow-weighted branches sparkling, like sunlight off a sword.

  "To arms!" shouted Richard.

  The silence was shattered by battle cries; enemy knights hurled from either side of the valley. The area was a sudden mass of churning hooves, rearing horses, flashing swords and maces, struggling men. Steel clashed upon steel, mace against metal. Maria saw that they were far outnumbered, that Richard's knights hadn't had time to group into a protective circle. Next to her Michael Hallam fought a knight bearing Mortimer's badge upon his sleeve. Michael smashed his battle-axe into the knight's chest, but after the man fell a half dozen more rushed to take his place
.

  The press of battle continued around her. Crouching over Baucent, she tried to maneuver him to the battle's outer perimeter. If she could break free, perhaps she could ride for help. Spying an opening Maria kicked the destrier, who plunged toward it, swerving around fallen bodies and bucking animals. The mutilated snow showed red with mud and blood. She glimpsed Richard, fighting furiously, his sword a silver blur. Mortimer's men fell back, then re-formed, surrounding him. Maria broke free.

  Stretching out, Baucent plunged through the snowdrifts. As Maria bent awkwardly over the charger's neck, her page's cap flew off, revealing her unbound hair which whipped behind.

  "Faster!" She urged the struggling stallion. Risking a glance over her shoulder, Maria saw that several of Richard's men were already disarmed and standing off to the side, guarded by Mortimer's troops.

  A knight broke from the pack and raced toward her.

  She dug her heels frantically into Baucent's belly. The grunting of the enemy's warhorse, the thud-dump of its hooves sounded increasingly louder. Snow from Baucent's hooves shot upward, stinging her face. The stallion was swiftly tiring, his movements becoming increasingly labored. With a triumphant shout, the knight closed the separating distance. Momentarily Maria expected to feel the bite of his broadsword into her backbone, slicing it—and her—in two.

  They rode neck and neck; the man's armored calf slammed against her. Baucent shied away. He followed. Maria glimpsed a leathery face, grizzled beard, a jupon splattered with grime and blood. The knight maneuvered so that her destrier was forced to slow. He grabbed for the reins. Baucent finally halted.

  Maria grabbed her dagger.

  "Do not, lady." The knight bared his teeth. "I would not like to kill The Bastard's whore. You are one of the day's finest prizes."

  He led her back to the battlefield. Knights littered the muddy snow, grotesquely contorted in death. Maria counted three of Richard's men, a half-score of Mortimer's. Her lover had inflicted more damage than he'd received but it hadn't been enough. Seeking his face among the captives, she was relieved to see that he looked angry but otherwise unhurt.