We began down the narrow corridor, a train of chattering women behind me, all of us giddy about the night’s festivities after so many weeks on the road, eating the most basic of foods, our clothing spattered with mud and our faces reddened by the sun’s strong rays.
Young Edward turned a corner ahead of us as we neared the hall. Around him were brightly attired noblemen and the ever-present Will Montagu, with whom he was laughing. Upon seeing us, the king threw his arms wide and rushed toward me.
“Did you hear?!” he exclaimed.
We kissed cheeks and as we did so, I suddenly realized he had now surpassed me in height. I cupped his chin in my hand. “Hear what, my son?”
He grabbed my hand, giving it a firm squeeze. “Count William has consented to the marriage. Philippa and I are to be wed!”
“I’m happy for you, truly. But do not forget the pope has yet to agree to the dispensation.”
“Mother,” he said, a sneer flitting over his lips, “it will happen. Don’t spoil my joy tonight with pessimism. Please?”
“Of course. My apologies.” In truth, although I was just as hopeful as he was that all would fall into place, age and experience had made a cynic of me. I reminded myself that Young Edward’s match with Philippa was one he had chosen himself. In Hainault, they had been inseparable, never at a loss for words or laughter. While the future course of his marriage couldn’t be predicted, at least it would have a good beginning—unlike my own marriage, which began poorly and got nothing but worse.
Arm in arm, we proceeded to the high table. The guests rose and bowed as we entered and took our seats at the head table. Sir John was seated to the king’s right, while I sat to my son’s left. The hum of conversation filled the room as goblets were topped with wine. Musicians strummed a lively tune on the strings of their lutes and viols. Then, gasps of delight were heard as servants scurried forth bearing platters and dishes of stuffed duck and roasted mutton, quinces in wine sauce and custards topped with strawberries.
The first course had not yet been laid upon the king’s silver plate when Sir Roger Mortimer flew through the entryway and came straight to the king, each stride urgent and agitated. The grave look on his face was warning enough that all was not well that night after all.
Mortimer bobbed his head and poured out his news before the king even acknowledged him. “Your pardon, sire. I do not mean to interrupt, but I must inform you that a fight has broken out between some of the Hainaulters and a band of English archers over a game of dice. An Englishman accused his opponent of cheating. The Hainaulter drew a knife ...” He expelled a burst of air, shook his head, stole a glance my way. “Minutes later, our archers brought out their bows. They’ve shot dozens of Hainaulters dead already.”
Further down the table, the Earl of Lancaster jumped to his feet, his chair crashing behind him. “This is chaos!”
Murmurs of shock rippled through the high-beamed hall.
“Intolerable,” the Earl of Kent remarked. He and Norfolk rose in unison.
Sir John plunked down his goblet, wine sloshing over the brim and onto his hand. “I assure you, my lord,” he said to the king, “that I will punish any of my men who had a hand in this.”
Young Edward nodded, his countenance remarkably devoid of panic or anger. He bent forward and scooted his chair back.
I clamped a hand on his wrist, so tight I could feel his pulse throbbing beneath my fingertips. “Where are you going?”
“To stop this.”
“Stay, I beg you. Let them handle this. One stray arrow could —”
“No, Mother.” He peeled my fingers away and stepped back. “They’ll heed me. They will. Besides ...”—he leveled a gaze at me that was both commanding and imploring—“I cannot nestle under your wing forever.”
Moments later, he was hurrying out the door with Mortimer. I heard him call for his armor and weapons, as if he were a seasoned veteran of the field and not some innocent who had yet to see even a drop of blood shed. Against every urge, I let him go.
His brother John, who had not forgotten the riots in London, quaked as the hall emptied and the noise outside rose to a terrible din. Joanna tore away from Ida and climbed into my lap, her arms tight around my neck.
My appetite was lost, my hands cold and shaking. I clamped my teeth together to swallow back the bile that burned my throat.
How can this happen? We are not even at war. Dear Father in Heaven, keep him safe! Watch over him when I cannot.
***
King Edward rode through the streets of York, the visor of his bascinet open so all could see his face, his empty hand upraised. Prayers tumbling over my lips, I watched, safe at my tower window. One by one, brawling soldiers paused to heed the king’s pleas, abandoned their weapons, and then skulked away. Archers laid down their bows upon his passing and raised hands above their heads as they were herded into clumps to be dealt with by their superiors.
The fighting, which had begun in one quarter near where the Flemings were housed, had quickly spread to surrounding areas. Everywhere—in streets and alleyways, on rooftops, in doorways—the bodies of the fallen lay, mangled and bloodied. Within the hour, the city lay eerily still, reeking of death. Every door and shutter in York was barred and shut tight, except for those clogged with corpses.
This, I observed, is but a glimpse of war. An instant amidst the millennia. A single axe stroke in the felling of a great tree. A remembrance and a foreshadowing of every soldier who had ever fallen or is yet to fall.
In the end, more than three hundred had been killed. What chance did we stand of defeating the Scots if we could not make peace with our allies?
For a week, the soldiers were sequestered to let tempers settle. Young Edward, rather than lounge in the relative luxuries that York had to offer, wandered among them. He spoke little, but when he did he spoke of discipline and trust, his voice ringing with the youthful clarity of optimism and unmarred confidence. When they saw him again in the days following, they sank to their knees and hung their heads in shame. If anyone wondered how a king so young could say such wise words, they had but to cast a glance to the man behind him: Sir Roger Mortimer.
In this way, I could see how one complemented the other. Mortimer knew the brutal realities of war and he understood his soldiers—that to lead them into that bodily hell, you first had to promise them that immortality arose from a life lived with courage and honor. What he lacked, however, was not only Young Edward’s crown, but his ease among men. After the disappointing reign that was Edward II’s, my son was the embodiment of hope. He was loved and admired, if not yet wholly obeyed due to his callowness.
Mortimer had been right about inviting the Hainaulters back to England. Their skill in arms was never in question. It was the inherent mistrust of our own against those of foreign blood. That same enmity, however, would serve them well against the Scots—a reality which arrived all too soon. On the 15th of June, the Scots crossed over the border through Kielder Gap, a hundred miles from York. Light-horsed columns, led by Thomas Randolph, now Earl of Moray, and Sir James Douglas, sped through the north of England.
Preparations were hastily finalized. While the Earls of Kent, Norfolk and Lancaster may have been the nominal leaders, all knew that it was Mortimer they would look to for guidance. None had more experience on the field of battle than him. And it was precisely for that reason that my heart grew cold with fear, for I knew he would not hesitate to rush into the confusion of killing, sword upraised and ready, courage as his shield.
As dawn broke over the Yorkshire hills on the first day of July, the great army of England amassed outside the city gates. I rode past on my chestnut palfrey to survey the men-at-arms, archers, and armored knights in their hundreds. The many-colored banners and pennons fluttered in the barest of breezes, the air already stifling in the rising heat. Patrice and a few of my damsels rode along with me, as well as several knights who would stay behind to garrison York and serve as my protectors. As much as I wante
d to accompany the army on this campaign, I would go no further than York—and pray all the while that both my son and my lover would return home to me.
My chest tightened as I searched amongst the banners. Kent waved to me. “God go with you!” I called in return. I tried to smile in encouragement, but couldn’t. I could only wonder how many days or weeks or even months might pass before I would see them again, before I would even know who yet lived and who had died.
Ahead, a row of archers parted suddenly, heads bowed. Young Edward galloped toward me, a cluster of knights and squires trailing in his shadow. His great warhorse, in all its fine trappings, was a spectacle to behold—and he no less, his slender frame encased in layers consisting of a padded gambeson, coat of mail, and surcoat, giving him the appearance of more girth than nature had yet seen fit to endow him with. Plates of armor, polished to blinding brilliance, further protected him from shoulder to wrist and knee to ankle. Upon his head sat a gold-crowned bascinet, which hid the downy waves of golden hair beneath it.
Not yet fifteen, and already he was more kingly than his father had ever been.
“’Tis only for show,” he beamed, laying a gauntleted hand upon the gleaming mail on his courser’s neck, “until we are beyond the city. Any one of my palfreys has a much smoother ride than this temperamental beast.”
Black eyes wide, the steed curled a lip and neighed, then tossed its head. It stomped a hoof on the beaten grass and danced sideways a step. Young Edward laughed, pulling back gently on the reins until it settled. “See what I mean?”
But I was not so lighthearted. The king’s smile faded. He moved closer to me, extended his hand. “I don’t know Scripture well, I confess. Would that Bishop Orleton were here. It seems a fitting occasion to quote the Holy Gospel, does it not?”
Though I opened my mouth to speak, the words I had so carefully prepared refused my will. Grasping his fingers, I nodded and bit the inside of my lip to still its quivering.
“Should he send any word from the pope,” he said, his forehead creasing solemnly, “about the dispensation ...”
“Of course. Oh ...” I gestured to a page behind me, seated on his hackney. He trotted forth and handed a letter directly to the king. “From Philippa. It arrived late yesterday.”
For a long moment, Edward stared at the wax seal with a bewilderment that was both joyful and bittersweet. Finally, he tugged a gauntlet free and broke the seal. He scanned the letter quickly, then just as fast folded it up again and tucked it beneath his surcoat. “She says, ‘Fear nothing, for I have prayed for you.’”
With a shrug he tried to dismiss the sentiment, but I could see him swallowing hard, his hand still pressed against his surcoat where the letter was concealed. I was certain the moment he was alone again he would take it out and read it once more, a dozen times perhaps, bare fingertips tracing the black swirls and slashes, as he summoned her memory and dreamt of seeing her again.
We exchanged a kiss. All I could say was: “God go with you and protect you, my son.”
What else does a mother say to her firstborn son on the day she realizes he is now a man? The day she realizes she will never hold him against her breast again to comfort him? There are so many things I could say, but I won’t. He is a man; I must let him live a man’s life.
Heavy-hearted, I rode away, back toward the city as, far behind me, the trumpet’s clarion signaled the order to march. Somehow, above the rumble of wagon wheels and pounding feet, Lancaster bellowed orders. I tried to gaze straight ahead toward York’s high walls and heavy gates, but I kept turning my head to look back.
Last night, Mortimer and I had foregone parting words and probing hands, instead holding each other and talking of our future, as if it stretched open and inviting before us, no barriers in our way, no enemies to thwart our plans or quash our dreams. As I rode beneath the portcullis, I barely took note of the faces of the people who bowed to me or parted from my path.
After a brief prayer at the chapel, I returned to my chambers at the house of the Blackfriars, my bones as weary as my spirit was cheerless. In the antechamber, I bade my damsels to take their morning meal and join me later in the afternoon.
“Would you like us to bring you something to eat?” Alicia asked.
“Perhaps later,” I said, one hand pressed to my churning stomach. I’d had no appetite since earlier the previous day. No wonder I was as weak as a newly weaned kitten. I started toward the door to my bedchamber.
Patrice rushed forward, grabbing the door latch. “I can help you change out of that, if —”
“No. Thank you, but no. I just need to sit awhile. Alone.” All I wanted was to fall into bed, but I was sure once the door was closed, the tears would come, hard and heavy. I didn’t even want Patrice there. She had no son. She might hold me, say words of comfort, but she would not understand my grief.
I slipped through the door and closed it as fast as I could. I had not made two steps toward the bed when an unexpected voice seized my heart.
“Isabeau.”
Gasping, I whirled around. “W-w-why are you here?”
Drawing both hands down over a rough-whiskered face, Mortimer leaned out from his chair, hidden in a shadowy recess. “Dear God, I am so tired I can barely think straight. My head feels like it will cave in, my heart like it has leapt from my body.”
With a throaty groan, he heaved his body forward, staggering forward several steps before he stopped, glared at me, then gimped toward the window, one leg dragging along the floor as he gripped a hand to his thigh.
“Roger, what’s wrong? Are you hurt?”
He flipped around, casting his weight against the wall next to the window. In full light, he appeared even worse. Dark smudges hung beneath his eyes, which were rimmed in red, as if he had rubbed at his eyeballs until the blood vessels threatened to burst. He breathed in through his nose, looked toward the ceiling, and sagged. I thought he might sink to the floor, but he stayed upright, his breathing growing more ragged with each pull of air.
I went to him, touched his shoulder. “Are you hurt?”
A smirk tilted his mouth. “Nothing that will kill me. A pain in my hip. When the siege on Bristol broke, I ... fell. Down the dungeon stairs, as I ran to see my uncle ... but he was already dead. Not very graceful, I admit. The pain, it comes and goes. Mostly, it comes when I am robbed of sleep.”
It had been nearly midnight when he left me, but he had seemed very calm then, given the circumstances. I slid my fingers up the slope of his shoulder, sensing the tautness in his muscles. His shirt was tugged to one side, crumpled. It was the same one he’d had on last night. He hadn’t even bothered to don his armor. “What happened, Roger? Did Lancaster say something to you? Did the king?”
Mortimer grabbed my hand. “Gurney and Ockle arrived from Berkeley in the middle of the night. They brought news.”
Berkeley—that word alone was an ill omen.
I slipped my hand from his and drew the shutters closed. “What word did they bring?”
He whispered, “Edward of Caernarvon was freed.”
I had to sit down before my knees gave out. I turned away, slid onto the edge of the bed, wadding a handful of blankets in my hand to squeeze hard. “And they have not found him yet?”
“No, they have.” A grimace flashed across his face as he hobbled across the floor. When he reached the bed, he collapsed back onto it. Hands interlocked across his chest, he looked at me. “It took them four days to find him. And the only reason they did was because he ran away from the people who had tried to rescue him.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. Why would he try to run away? Did he think they were going to harm him?”
He shrugged. “Perhaps. But nothing about Edward of Caernarvon makes much sense anymore. He talks incessantly of God, my son-in-law tells me. Says he’s glad to be rid of his crown. That he wants to join the Church and be left in peace.”
“That hardly sounds like Edward. Do you think he has gone mad? Or
that he’s simply saying such things hoping to be left in peace long enough to ...” I shook my head. Even I was thinking in circles that didn’t make sense. “Was it Dunheved, the man who tried to free him from Kenilworth earlier?”
“I don’t know, but very likely it is. He and his accomplices will be hunted down and made to pay. But what matters even more is who put him up to it. Someone wants Edward of Caernarvon back on the throne—and us out of power.”
I smoothed the wrinkles from my blanket. Mortimer was right. Someone wanted us deprived of our power. Wanted it for themselves. But who? Lancaster? The king’s uncles? The King of Scots? It could be anyone.
I had to protect my son. I had gone through too much to bring him to the throne.
Mortimer sat up, a devilish flicker in his eyes. “But if they can’t find him ...”
“What are you talking about?”
He reached out to trail calloused fingertips over my chin and jawline, then lifted a tendril of my hair and tucked it behind my ear. “Only a passing thought. Never mind.”
“Roger, swear to me you won’t harm him.”
“Isabeau, if you cannot trust me, then who can you trust?” With a weary grunt, he stood. “Now, I need to rest.”
“But ... you must go to Scotland.” I followed him to the door, an even worse panic twisting my gut as I imagined my son being led into battle by the overconfident Lancaster or the inexperienced Kent. “Who will —?”
“I will—tomorrow. It won’t take me long to catch up with that lumbering column. First, though, I need sleep.” His cold lips grazed my ear. He opened the door and walked past my damsels. Although he took great pains to hide his limp, the stiffness of his gait and the scrape of his right foot were still evident to keen eyes and ears.
The King Must Die (The Isabella Books) Page 7