“I wasn’t frightened, not really. It’s just that they would have killed anybody. Did you not hear the stories—how they clubbed people to death with the spokes of cart wheels or gouged out their eyes with chisels? You would not have left the Tower, either.” His face by then was red with fury at my insult. He clenched a chubby-knuckled fist around his knife and waved it in the air. “One day I’ll be a soldier. A brave one, you’ll see, Ned. I’ll fight the Scots and I’ll beat them.”
“Of course you will, John,” Kent said, as he reached out and ruffled his hair. “When you’re old enough.”
John slouched back in his chair, a scowl firmly imprinted on his puckered mouth, his breath forced out through flaring nostrils.
A blast of trumpets rent the air. Kent looked to the rear of the hall. “Ah! The mummers are here at last. Your pardon, young lords. My wife was casting urgent glances my way not long ago. I do believe she was hinting for my company. Enjoy the merrymaking whilst you can—especially you, Young Edward. Parliament is bound to be restive and no doubt they’ll call on you to make an appearance as their next king.”
My mouth hung open. Parliament was less than a month away. Father had not abdicated yet. What good would it do to call on me when there was so much still unresolved? Before I could ask Kent anything, he had dropped from the edge of the dais and left.
Again, the trumpets blared. A ragged line of grotesquely masked men poured into the hall through the outer doors. Clasping small hands over her mouth, Joanna tumbled from her seat at the end of the table and ran, yellow curls bouncing at her shoulders, around behind me to leap into our nursemaid Ida’s arms. Eleanor shook her head and we shared a glance of contempt. Such children!
“Watch the girl—there, with the veils.” I pointed to a lithe beauty, copper-skinned and hair as black as a starless night. “I hear she hails from Crete.”
“Where is Crete?” John pulled his legs underneath himself to sit higher in his chair.
“Far away,” I said, knowing it would take too much effort to explain and it would probably end in futility anyway.
“How long would it take to get there?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who is she supposed to be?”
“Salome, you custard-brained toad. Now stop asking questions and watch, or else you’ll miss it.”
He planted his elbows on the table and watched, grinning in delight as the tabor beat out a frenetic rhythm. ‘Salome’ bowed to us with a flourish of her hands, one bare, brown foot pointed forward, her skirts barely grazing her ankles. Gossamer veils of saffron, scarlet and emerald swayed from the silken sash at her hips, and with every nimble movement the little bells adorning the corded belt tinkled in unison. Arms snaking above her head, she arched her back, folding in half, until her palms met the floor. With a kick, she sprang backward. The very moment she landed on the balls of her feet, her body snapped back again and she somersaulted in the air thrice more in succession. This time, her hands did not touch the floor at all.
John thrust his fists into the air and shook them. “More, more!”
“You like her?”
“Yes! I was expecting carols. I hate to sing. And I’m bored of jugglers and little dogs dancing on their hind legs, aren’t you, Ned?”
Palms beat on drums like the low rumble of distant thunder. Salome’s arms flowed about her body like a rippling mountain stream. Her hips undulated in a languid circle and then began to move faster and tighter as she spun around the open space, small feet moving to the ever-increasing cadence of the music. Legs outspread, she sank to the ground. Then, rolling forward, she tucked her knees beneath her and knelt, head bowed, toward the rear of the hall.
Several mummers came forward, bearing two litters upon which sat a pair of robed figures, a man and a woman, each wearing a gold-faced mask and jeweled crown.
“On the left would be Herod Antipas, Salome’s uncle ... who is also her stepfather.” I clapped him on the shoulder. “That is her mother, Queen Herodius, next to him.”
Salome danced on, teasing away her many colored veils one by one to entertain the mummer-king and queen. Whenever she paused in her movements, fingers fluttering over her scant clothing, the crowd banged cups and spoons on the tables. Then she would strip another veil free and, stretching its edge from hand to hand, glide on graceful feet in a circle around the thrones, the cloth billowing out behind her like a sail catching the wind.
Fascinated, my eyes followed her every movement, studied the shape and flow of her body, the smoothness of the skin exposed on her arms, shoulders, belly and legs. Never before had I seen a woman so barely clad and so exciting to watch.
The mummer-king clapped his hands in the air and the drums banged louder in response. Another mummer burst into the room’s center, his mask painted in grim lines, his costume nothing but loose breeches and a tunic of hemp. In his arms, he bore a platter.
“There, see,”—I shook John’s forearm—“a slave comes bearing the head of John the Baptist.”
“But that’s a boar’s head,” he objected, yanking his arm away, “not a man’s.”
“Did you think they would put the head of a real man on a platter during Christmas dinner? You are daft.”
“But why did they cut off his head? I thought John the Baptist was a good man, not like the bishop. Nobody liked Bishop Stapledon ... except Father.”
“John the Baptist did not think they should marry.”
“Why not?”
“Because they were both already married—to other people.” John flashed a quizzical look at me, but too entranced by the play, he quickly returned his attentions to it. If the distance to Crete baffled him, incestuous adultery would have made even less sense.
The slave hefted the platter to his shoulder and turned round to display the token. I searched the room, lowering my voice. “As for that being a boar’s head, I doubt the priests here will take kindly to that mockery of John the Baptist, but —”
My words died abruptly as my sight came to rest on an empty chair. My mother’s seat at the high table was vacant. Had I been so besotted by the attentions of giddy maidens I hadn’t even noticed her leaving? And earlier, at the opposite end from John and me, Sir Roger Mortimer had been seated next to Bishop Orleton, but now some unfamiliar abbot sat in his place.
I looked again at the mummer-king, his face concealed behind a garishly painted mask. A circlet of silver was perched snugly on his nearly black, wavy crown of hair. When he turned his head my way, as if he sensed my scrutiny, I knew the incisive darkness in the eyes. Knew the hunger and the doggedness behind them. They were Mortimer’s eyes. Eyes I had looked into a thousand times in the past year: in France, on the voyage home, and during the many miles I had ridden abreast of him as he spoke of how we would win England back in the name of its people and he would deliver the crown to me.
His hand crept over that of Queen Herodius’s—my mother’s.
If Mortimer smiled, it was hidden behind the oversized, false mouth of madder red. But as the slave hoisted the platter above his head with both hands and strode past all the tables, pausing every few strides to turn to the crowd so they could enjoy the spectacle, I detected the flash of a smile in the crinkling of Mortimer’s eyes and the glint of unabashed mockery.
Joanna peeked through Ida’s fingers, splayed protectively over her face, and began to wail. Ida hobbled away to carry her to safety, huffing as Joanna squirmed in her sagging arms.
The boar’s features had been unnaturally distorted by the cook’s embellishments: a gleaming red apple shoved deep between too-small jaws, so that its mouth had been split at the corners and sewn back together; charred tusks painted white and adorned with sugar to glitter in the torchlight like curved icicles; and the flesh so discolored from the heat of the flames that it looked strikingly like the bruise-mottled head of the dead Bishop Stapledon.
The twisting and fluttering notes of the reed pipe pitched to a frenzy. Salome leapt up and twirled across
the floor on the balls of her bare feet, the last veil whipping around her in a swirl of palest amethyst. Delighted, the crowd applauded her fluid dance. Some of the men even called out ribald suggestions, so bewitching was her beauty. She turned back to Mortimer, dipped to her knees, and then lowered onto to her belly again, crawling to him.
The veil became entangled around her foot and when she tried to extend her leg to advance, her body jerked to a halt. Kent, who was passing before the nearest table, stooped to help her. He reached out to unravel the cloth from just above her bare ankle, his fingers tugging nervously at the delicate material as though he were afraid of both tearing the cloth and touching the woman. Then, just as he freed her and began to stand, the slave backed into him.
The platter tilted sideways, tottering in the slave’s unsteady grasp. He thrust one hand up higher, trying to right it, but the movement overcompensated and the weight shifted. The boar’s head rolled over the lip and struck Kent squarely on the back of the neck, knocking him to the floor, flat on his stomach. Air compressed from his lungs in an unflattering grunt. Chunks of leeks and carrots, sprinkled with a stuffing of suet and bread crumbs, spilled from the platter and poured over him. End over end, the pig’s head tumbled unevenly across the floor, until at last coming to rest before Mortimer’s feet. He nudged the thing once with the pointed toe of his shoe and then gave it a swift kick. It skidded on the top of its skull across the tiles, bounced off the arm of Salome and smashed into Kent’s nose. Everyone laughed—except Kent.
He sputtered and batted the thing away, visibly shrinking from it. Still dazed, he staggered to his feet. Mother tore the disguise from her head, golden hair springing from its pins, and dashed to his rescue. She gathered up the end of her long sleeve and brushed at Kent’s soiled clothing, sweeping bits of food to the ground.
Mortimer untied his mask and peeled it away to dab tears of laughter from his eyes.
Suddenly, the irony of it all sickened me. John clamped a hand on my wrist as I made to rise.
“Where are you going?” he said.
“To bed.” I pried his fingers away. “I’ve seen enough.”
3
Young Edward:
Westminster — January, 1327
On the eve of the new year, we left Wallingford behind and went east. It seemed we were in a hurry to reach London. Parliament was set to assemble at nearby Westminster. There were matters to settle. Some of which, I sensed, involved me.
At dawn, long frozen ribbons of ice marked the ruts of wagon wheels along the road. In the afternoon, we passed through Ludgate into London itself. Above the jumble of rooftops, the towering spire of St. Paul’s thrust heavenward. Hour upon hour, we wended our way through the crooked streets as the crowds thickened. Eleanor at first shrieked her excitement, but in time her voice began to crackle, then went hoarse and finally silent. Meanwhile, an overwrought Joanna fussed loudly, eventually falling asleep in her litter, oblivious to the commotion.
If John had been afraid to return to London before, his fears were soon dissolved. Not hundreds, but thousands clamored to greet us. Pikes swept our way clear; otherwise we would have been stalled like merchants waiting to pay their toll at the city gates.
What a glorious day it was. Over and over, I heard my name, ringing in my ears like the peal of bells heralding some great event.
For all its wealth and wonders, though, London was still London: packed with too many people in too little space. Everywhere, a thick stench permeated the air, its components shifting with the wind and sector. The kilns of tilers and potters belched smoke. Tanneries spewed their dye waste into ditches already clogged with human waste. The stalls of fishmongers stank of herring and salmon. And the unwanted offal of butchers’ shops rotted in heaps while well-fed feral cats dashed among the alleyways. In summer, the smells would have been strong enough to tinge my tongue with the sour taste of bile. When we passed the worst of places, I pinched my nose shut, John mimicking me, and held my breath as I waved.
When we at last came within sight of the double walled Tower of London, I exhaled in relief. It had been so long since I had been there. We rode through Lion Gate, over the moat’s drawbridge and finally through the inner gate to dismount on Tower Green. I spun around to gaze at all the structures, trying hard to remember what was where.
As they took our horses away, John came and slipped his hand in mine. His slight body quivered, the angled bones of his shoulder digging into my chest as he leaned into me.
I rumpled his hair. “You’re safe here. No more riots.”
He turned wide blue eyes up at me. “Promise, Ned?”
“I’m here, aren’t I? Besides, they were angry—at Bishop Stapledon, at the way things were. They’re not anymore. It will be all right, I promise.” I wanted to add that when I was king, the people would never be so angry with me, but it seemed premature. There was still great uncertainty and it was best not to presume too much. I nudged him away, not wanting to encourage him to cling to me like the leech he was. “Have courage, will you? I may need you to fight for me one day and I don’t want a fainting lamb for a brother. I want a soldier who can charge into battle, unafraid of death. There is no glory in avoidance or surrender now, is there?”
His lips framed a question, but for once he did not give voice to his doubts. Blotting a runny nose on his sleeve, he shook his head and then darted off toward the White Tower, where the rest of our party was headed. I spotted Mother walking close to Mortimer, her head bent attentively toward him as he spoke to her. They went up the stairs together, her full skirts brushing his leg. When they reached the double doors, they paused as a porter tugged each half open.
I was unsure what to make of the man. Without him, England would have tumbled into ruin at the hands of Hugh Despenser. And I would not be poised to take the throne. Still, something about him unsettled me.
He turned to look at me then, his dark eyes commanding me to follow. I stared back, my feet firmly planted, knees locked, feeling neither the tug of admiration for him, nor the intimidating threat of his authority.
I might have remained there all day, passively defiant, had Sir William Montagu not strode before me to block my view. His cheeks were lifted in a broad, jaunty smile.
“Is there anything you need of me, my lord?”
Annoyed, I dodged to the side of him, but both Mortimer and my mother were gone from the doorway. Old Ida waddled past, Joanna propped sleepily on her broad hip and Eleanor trailing along. Ida clucked at me to come inside, out of the cold. When I didn’t move, she started toward me and I sensed a sharp cuff to the ear coming if I did not follow her orders.
Will laughed as he turned to walk with me. When I left for France, he had been tasked to serve not only as my companion, but my mentor, as well, tutoring me in the ways of warfare.
“Will?” I said, my voice low so no one would overhear me.
“Yes, my lord?”
“You’ll look out for me, should I ever need it?”
“I already do that. Every day.”
“I mean ...”—swinging before him, I stopped so abruptly he nearly plowed me over—“defend me. My life, should anyone ever try to take it.”
He arched a ragged eyebrow at me. “A sober request. Why the sudden concern?”
I shrugged. “No reason. Only that, being a king, which I will be one day, well ...”
A grin flickered over his lips and he chuckled. “Oh, I think you’ll do quite well for yourself. Then again, kings have so many things to concern themselves with. Let me assure you that your preservation is my sole purpose. You see, I have no fear of danger. I seek it out, pounce upon it and throttle it before it ever knows I’m there.”
Nodding, I stepped aside.
He stood firm. “Does that put your mind at rest?”
“It will once you prove that you can do more than just speak the words.”
“Ah. Well, pray it never comes to that.”
I bumped him with a shoulder as I went towa
rd the stairs. “We can pray all we want. God will test us as he sees fit, I suppose.”
“God’s bollocks, you’re as sober as the pope on a holy day. I swear you were born forty.” In a stride he was at my shoulder, matching my steps.
“Mind your tongue, Will Montagu,” I warned him in the sternest voice I could muster. “’Tis your future king you’re speaking to. Besides, it would serve you well to be a little more pious. Eternity is a long time to pay for such profane words.”
“So the priests tell us.” He gave a pert wink. “Just wait until you’re of age, my lord. I’ll teach you what all those holy men have been missing out on. You’ll take pity on them, then.”
I gave no reply. His vices would test my devoutness. I had no doubt of that. But I didn’t need a saint as my guardian. I needed a man who wasn’t afraid to battle the devil and court death. I needed a man precisely like Will Montagu.
***
There was some confusion as to whether parliament could be held at all, given that my father would not come. Would not ... or could not, I was never sure. Bishops Burghersh and Stratford had been sent to Kenilworth and quickly returned saying that my father had cursed their invitation to sit among his enemies.
It was not the crown he was clinging to, but stubborn pride.
In truth, my father thought kingship a burden. Always, he warred with his barons, blamed the clergy for condemning him, and was resentful that the people did not love him as they did my mother, Queen Isabella, nor fear him like they had my grandfather, the first Edward, called Longshanks by some. I had even overheard him say once that he would rather have been born a commoner. I found that hard to fathom, for it seemed not only a harsh life, but devoid of glory and purpose. Even then, as young as I was when he said the words, I felt a sense of honor to be born the heir to England’s throne. To me, the promise of a crown was uplifting—a gift I embraced with every sinew and bone of my being.
The King Must Die (The Isabella Books) Page 3