The King Must Die (The Isabella Books)

by Sasson, N. Gemini

  A dull glint caught my eye. I flexed aching fingers, wrapped them around the hilt and pulled my sword to me. Then I grabbed at the edge of my shield, dragging it over a crumpled shirt, and slipped my left arm through the loosened straps. No time to pull them tight. Rolling over onto my knees, I scooted around the center pole toward the opening. My blade clunked against metal—my helmet. Tucking my sword on my lap, I reached out, grasped it, and settled it snugly onto my head.

  The shrill neigh of a horse ripped through the night air. Hooves crashed to a halt just outside the opening of my tent. I froze.

  “A Douglas!”

  Sweet Jesus, if I ever had to piss it was now.

  “Ave Maria,” I whispered, my bare fingers worrying at the binding on my hilt, “gratia plena, Dominus —”

  Outside, a blade hacked at ropes, over and over. The walls of my tent vibrated with each blow. One wall began to lean dangerously inward. I heard a creak and turned to peer into the darkness behind me.

  A heavy object struck the back of my skull. My face slammed against the ground. Air blasted from my lungs so fast I thought my ribs were caving in. Then I realized I was cocooned in canvas, my tent collapsed on top of me.

  Too stunned to move, I tried to listen, but the dull clanging in my ears made it impossible to distinguish one terrible sound from another. My sword was trapped beneath my hips, its honed edge digging into the cloth of my leggings near my loins, one short inch above the links of my chausses. If I moved ... I didn’t want to think of what I might injure.

  My whole body leaden, I wrenched my shield arm free and struggled to raise myself, easing up from my blade until it shifted and fell flat beneath me. But a weight bore down on my spine. Something had pinned me down ... The pole.

  I couldn’t expand my lungs fully. My breaths came in shallow gulps, but every time I exhaled, it became harder to breathe in again. My ribs screamed in protest, burning for air. If I didn’t suffocate, I would soon be trampled under rampant hooves.

  Why has no one come to my aid? Were the pickets asleep when the Scots so casually strode into our camp?

  Spurs jangled as a pair of booted feet landed on soft earth close by. The horse nickered, stamped a hoof.

  A quiet laugh floated to my ears as clear as if its maker and I were standing an arm’s reach from one another in an empty room.

  The voice was hushed, amused—and distinctly Scottish. “What have we here?”

  I imagined him, the Black Douglas, looming above me, a smile of wicked glee tipping his mouth as he grasped the hilt of his sword two-handed, point down, and raised it up high.

  Dear Father in Heaven ... free me from this shroud of death. Let me wield my sword so that I may longer serve you. Do not let me die ingloriously like this. Let me fight. Please, God, let me —

  “Arrrgh!”

  Will! I knew the savage bellow. I had heard it a hundred times as he taught me how to fight.

  Metal struck metal, again, and again, and again. My teeth rang with each bone-shattering blow.

  Somehow, I found the strength to roll from beneath the pole. With a final heave and a kick, I freed my leg from the load. But the canvas still encased me, folding more tightly around my body as I squirmed and twisted in futility, encumbered by my armor shell. I could not tell which way was out. Could not find a part in the tangled layers. I began to thrash wildly at the canvas, seeking any exit through the snarled heap. Eventually, I would find the bottom edge and a way out.

  Will grunted with strain as he heaved his weapon. It struck flatly on a shield.

  “You’ll not get out of here alive, Douglas,” he swore.

  “Ah, I was right, then. ’Tis your young king buried there.” Douglas laughed again, this time loud and arrogant. “Well then, I’ll take what I’ve come for, but first ... you’re in my way.”

  Their swords rang in unison. The crossguard of my weapon dug into my thigh. Carefully, I wedged it upward until it was clutched to my breast. With my free hand, I batted at a part in the heavy cloth, slipped my arm through a widening gap, writhed forward, inch by onerous inch.

  My hand burst through. Damp air brushed my skin.

  I lifted the canvas edge in time to see that another knight was closing in on the stealthy Scot from behind. As Will and Douglas parried blows, the approaching knight craned his arm back and swung a thick piece of wood. It struck Douglas squarely in the back with a muffled thump. Douglas staggered a step, whipped his sword arm backward and, without looking, knocked the length of wood from the knight’s grasp. He might have skewered the man with a single thrust, but by then he was aware of an oncoming third assailant. In an amazing leap, the Black Douglas bounded onto his saddle, his sword still clenched in his fist as he beat back the newcomers.

  The figure I took in did not match the image I had harbored of him these past months. He was no taller than me. His build was lithe and lean. Certainly not the stalwart, broad-shouldered giant I had conjured in my visions. Every movement was quicker than the eye, precise and graceful, almost as if he knew ahead of time what his foe would do.

  Wheeling his mount around, Douglas blocked Will’s furious blow with his shield, the blade pinging as it skipped over the metal boss in the center. Then, with a sharp kick to his steed’s flanks, Douglas set off at a gallop through the darkness and confusion.

  Shaking his sword, Will shouted profanities after him.

  Around us, I saw the Scots pulling back in waves to follow their leader. In minutes, they were completely gone. Our first encounter—and I had been trapped helplessly under my tent like a runt piglet in a sack.

  I rammed my sword into the ground, pulled a knee forward. Will extended his hand to help me all the way out. Free of my tomb, I stood on shaky knees. Shame flooded my chest, sickened me. How had this happened?

  Out of the darkness, Mortimer appeared. Along the fuller of the sword dangling from his hand ran a thin streak of crimson, a darker smear marking the tip.

  As if he had read my thoughts, Mortimer answered, “They must have forded the river somewhere to the north. They killed a set of guards at the rear of the camp, broke through before the call could go up. We lost just a handful of men; a dozen more were wounded.”

  When I did not acknowledge Mortimer’s report, Will asked, “And the Scots?”

  “Five, maybe six dead. A few captured, though. If we can get them to talk ...”

  All around was the evidence of the Scots’ raid: tents toppled, kettles overturned, horses running loose, a wounded man with his fist pressed to a gash in his leg, trying to stanch his own blood. Next to him lay a dead friend. Last night they had shared a meal by the fire, laughing together.

  “We should have slaughtered them,” I mumbled, my voice cracking through restrained tears. “We should have crossed the river. Attacked them.”

  Mortimer gave me a patronizing look. “Before you can win against any enemy, my lord, you must first know their strengths and weaknesses. You must know yourself. Douglas and Randolph are keen opponents. Do not underestimate them. They had the advantage of position.”

  “Advantage? The greatest advantage they had was that we took no action. They teased us like ... like a cat toys with mice. And now we cower here humiliated. What of honor and courage? What is it that we’re so afraid of?” I glared at him, resisting the urge to swipe my sword at his bare neck and watch his arrogant head tumble from his body. “We cannot win if we do not fight.”

  “Nor can you lose. Defeat is a bitter drink, my lord. I know as well as any. I have led men into battle when the odds were against me and paid for it in lives. I would advise you —”

  “You think you know much!” I stomped at him, fisted him in the middle of his chest. He drew his chin back, but made no attempt to remove himself or stop me. “How to lead an army. How to rule a kingdom. Yet you refuse command and then take offense whenever your word is not heeded. How would you have it, Sir Roger?”

  “I would have you alive upon the morrow ... and for the next fifty
years so you can rule as you were born to. My duty is to see that you survive to do so. Not sacrifice a thousand men for the slim chance of a single victory.”

  I half thought, then, that he wanted the Scots to get away. That he allowed them to. But why? Rage boiled in my veins. I turned away.

  “They’re long gone now,” I said with regret, for I would have hunted them down like limping deer had my own men not been so spent and hungry. “Tomorrow, we shall make to return to York. You, Mortimer, will keep your distance from me. This won’t happen again.”

  He remained for a few moments, as if wanting to spew out further protests, to imbue me with more of his godly wisdom, but he resisted. He would go back to my mother, complain to her of my behavior and then I would have to deal with this again. So be it. I had tired of being ordered about.

  Someday, the outcome would be different. I would ride at the head of a great and mighty army and lead them to victory—over the Scots, over the French. If need be over rebels from my own land. I would not accept defeat. I would learn whatever it took to win. And my men would fight for me because they loved me. Because they believed that with me they could win any battle, beat any foe who dared to take the field against us.

  8

  Isabella:

  York — August, 1327

  On the day I rode out from York to meet Young Edward, an August sun poured into every crevice, chasing away the shadows that had lurked in my heart for more than a month. It had not rained in nearly a week. At last, the rivers were receding within the confines of their banks, the mud had dried to leave roads passable and, fed by the radiant light, the grass blanketing the hills beyond the city gleamed in shades of green more brilliant than any I had ever seen.

  I paused with my riding party at the crest of a hill where the road stretched out to the north. There, we saw the first rows of the army’s column, pennons bobbing rhythmically. Midday heat pressed down on us. A thread of perspiration trickled from my breastbone to my stomach, dampening my linen chemise. A hot breeze tickled my skin and I brushed a stray hair from my cheek. On my head, I wore only a caul of woven pearls. Patrice had clucked at my decision to don it that morning, insisting that the white of the pearls was indistinct against my fair hair, but the headdress had been a recent gift from my brother Charles, King of France, and I loved it for that reason alone.

  “Do you wish to wait here, my lady,” my squire Arnaud de Mone said, shooing a pesky fly from his horse’s mane, “or ride out to meet them?”

  It was his way of asking to go. Understandably, he felt fealty to both Mortimer and me. For many years he had been my loyal servant, before flying to France with Mortimer when he escaped the Tower. Upon discovering him in my brother’s court, I had quickly forgiven him for abandoning my service. Patrice, who had been until then his lover, was not so indulgent of the offense. For a year, she kept him at arm’s length, until we were back in England and she could no longer pretend to hold anger toward him.

  “They’ve marched many miles,” I said to Arnaud. “Let us go out to greet them and hasten our reunion. Too many days have lapsed already since I last saw my son.” And Roger, I wanted to add. But my love for him was something I could never proclaim aloud. Too many knew of it already.

  My son John eased his horse abreast of mine, his eyes bright with anticipation. “May we go now, Mother? It has been ages since I’ve seen Ned, too.”

  “Why don’t you lead us, John? Your brother will be overjoyed to see you’re the first to welcome him back.”

  With that, John spurred his horse in the flanks. I gestured for Arnaud to accompany him and together they closed the distance, small clouds of dust billowing behind them in their wake. My damsels and I, surrounded by a small collection of guards, followed at a more restrained clip. Patrice sneezed at the road dust. She hated to travel—to her, it was always too hot, too cold, too wet or too dry, never a comfortable in-between.

  When I had received word early that morning that the king would return by afternoon, I was dressed and ready to go within the hour. So giddy I was with excitement that I could hardly refrain from riding out immediately. Yet now, as I saw Edward and John clasp hands and begin back toward us, a sense of foreboding settled on me. Just behind them rode Lancaster, Norfolk, Kent and Mortimer. None of them appeared joyful. Every mouth was downturned, their shoulders slumped with weariness.

  It was Lancaster who hailed me first, urging his horse ahead of the group. As he came to a halt, he slipped his fingers beneath his collar and stretched his neck. “Bloody Scots haven’t changed a whit. But at least we’ve run them from English soil.”

  “Yes,” I said, “we heard of their ‘tactics’ at Stanhope Park. But should any of us have been surprised by their unscrupulous methods?”

  “Mother?” Edward called, coming around Lancaster. He reached out to grasp my fingers, brushed stiff lips over my knuckles and dropped my hand as coldly as one greets a hated nemesis. A snarl flickered over his mouth. “I say Cousin Lancaster has grossly understated our failure. If the Scots left, it wasn’t because they feared us. They left because they’d made their point—that they could kill me, given the chance. Had I been better advised, they never would have had the chance.”

  He flashed a smoldering look over his shoulder at Mortimer. Then with a smart slap to his mount’s rump, he rode past. Lancaster, obviously not concerned that the king’s comment was directed at him, was close behind. Kent and Norfolk hesitated, and then followed.

  As I swung my palfrey around to ride beside Mortimer, he imparted, “I did as you asked—kept him from the certain death of battle. He doesn’t, however, appear to appreciate the fact.”

  “No,” I said, keeping my voice low, “I don’t expect he would. Perhaps now we can bargain for peace, as I intended all along?”

  “You might get that for now,”—he nodded toward the king ahead of us—“but if he has his way, eventually he’ll wage a war on Scotland that will eclipse his grandfather’s achievements.”

  It vexed me to know he was right. King Edward III of England would one day pride himself on the wielding of his sword, much as I had my use of the pen. Conquest in lieu of compromise. Perhaps in arranging the invasion which had put him on the throne, I had set a poor example.

  Already, I could see that my influence on my son was fading. He was far from the innocent babe who had once gazed at me with admiration and smiled at my lullabies. He was grasping at manhood, in the resolute way that kings who crave power do, and I, as his mother, would only grow less useful and more contrary to him with each passing year.

  For my own preservation, it was imperative that I hold on to control—authority, lands and wealth—however I could. I had been deprived of those things once before. I would not be again.

  Let men believe this is their world to conquer and rule. More women have decided the fate of kingdoms than would ever be recorded in the annals. Yet they must wield power silently, otherwise it will be taken from them.

  ***

  Somerton Castle — September, 1327

  Amply compensated for his service, Sir John returned to Hainault, the English levies dispersed homeward and Mortimer left briefly for Wales, where he now served as Justice. I made him swear to return to me with all haste in preparation for the upcoming parliament. A part of me, however, did not want him to linger so close to Ludlow, where his wife Joan resided. So far he had made no mention of doing so, but the simple fact that he would be so near to her sent waves of panic and jealousy crashing through me, even though he had held me the night before he left and professed his love a dozen times over. My bed never seemed so vast and lonely a place as when he was not there.

  But there were things I could do for Mortimer that Joan could not: I could make him powerful—king in all but name. To remind him of that, I arranged to have him granted the castles of Oswestry and Denbigh. Other lands I garnered for myself. If too many of these holdings ever fell to avaricious men such as the Earl of Lancaster, those individuals might one day
prove too weighty a force to reckon with. In increasing my own wealth, I was protecting my son’s future, for whatever I owned would one day pass to him. In the meanwhile, if I could not command an army, I would make good use of my holdings and ensure a certain level of influence. I had seen my husband’s options restricted due to lack of funds—a predicament he had brought on himself time and again by being overly generous toward his friends—thus, I was well aware that income equated to power.

  A full week after the parliamentary session opened that September in Lincoln, Mortimer arrived, his spirits bold and his appetite for me renewed. On his first night, he joined me at Somerton Castle in Navenby, a swift ride through the countryside from Lincoln, but far enough removed from the city’s crowded streets.

  We always stole time together when we could—most often he came to me, for it would have been too easy for someone to notice when the queen was rambling about the castle after nightfall. What we suffered in lack of sleep, we made up for in the exhilaration of our lovemaking.

  Once, many years ago, I had announced at the foot of this very same bed to Edward of Caernarvon that I was carrying our second child. He had seemed unimpressed by the news and all too eager to leave my presence as I swallowed back the sour taste of morning sickness and threatened to spew it on the floor. How different this place was to me now, how bright the world shone, if only because Mortimer was here with me.

  Moonlight cast Mortimer’s features in silvery light, accentuating every fine line of his face and each contour of his muscle-hard body. I trailed a hand over the mat of dark hair on his chest, then around the side of his ribs, my fingertips pausing at the ridge of a scar I knew well. “Did you have time to look in on your estates?”

  He caught my hand, pressed my palm over his heart, held it there. “I did not see her, if that’s what you want to know.”

  “I did not ask —”