“No, but you’ve been wondering ever since I left, haven’t you?” He let go of my hand, slipped his fingers into the hair at the nape of my neck and pulled me close. “She was a good wife for many years, managed both brood and household well, but she is not you—certainly not as beautiful.”
I rolled onto my back, my head sinking into a feathery pillow, and pulled the sheets up over my breasts, as if modesty had suddenly overtaken me. “It’s me you love, then?”
“Mmm, do I love you?” He pushed himself up on an elbow, gazed into my eyes. “Isabeau, I would give my life for you.”
His kisses chased away my maddening doubts, banished my jealousies like a dandelion seed dispersed with a puff of breath. Again, my passions quickened. I could no more deny the thrill of his touch than I could cease breathing. Being apart from him only intensified our encounters in ways that both intoxicated and terrified me. To what lengths would I go to save him? And what would he do for me, if I but asked or needed it of him?
In his arms, I felt safe, needed, desired beyond reason. And in moments such as these, I realized that love was more powerful than wealth or armies.
***
Somerton Castle commanded a modest hill. Surrounding it was a moat barely wide enough to have deterred any attackers. It had once belonged to Antony Bek, the Bishop of Durham, but upon his death he left it to my husband. Edward had never favored the place, but I liked its less imposing size and bucolic environs. Often, I would stand upon the curtain wall, looking out over the green of the fields and woodlands as the wind fluttered over blades of grass and stirred the tree leaves.
I crossed the bailey and climbed the spiral stairs of the southeast tower. As I neared the top, the light from the open door poured into the narrow space. Cool air brushed my cheeks. Then, Mortimer’s voice reached my ears from just beyond the door. My steps became lighter, quicker, as I yearned toward the view that I knew would refresh my tired body.
Then, I heard another voice, one only faintly familiar, but distinctly coarse. It was someone I had not heard speak for some time, months perhaps, and so I paused, not meaning to eavesdrop, but simply to ascertain whether or not I should interrupt.
“There was another plot,” the other man said rapidly, “to free Sir Edward.”
A sickening shock washed through me. I leaned against the wall to steady myself. It was William Ockle, one of those Mortimer had assigned to my husband’s keeping. Rather than retreat, I took the last few steps, each footfall of my leather soles silent against the stones. Upon seeing them on the wall-walk, I paused in the shadows, ready to fly back down the stairs as quietly as I had come.
Mortimer grasped the front of Ockle’s shirt and yanked him close. “Dunheved, again? Has he been found?”
“No, no sign of him. But it wasn’t him this time. ’Twas the damned Welsh.” Ockle dug a letter from beneath his grimy shirt. “Words of ‘advice’ from William de Shalford in Anglesey.”
Mortimer snatched the letter away before Ockle could even extend it. He moved from behind the merlon so that sunlight fell across the page and read it quickly.
Ockle craned his thin neck sideways, squinting as though blinded by the day’s brightness. Short in stature, he stood on his toes as he tried to read over Mortimer’s shoulder. “What does he say?”
“That he suspects certain ... highborn English nobles of taking part in this latest conspiracy.”
“He has proof? Lancaster? Kent? Who?”
“He didn’t say. But I don’t doubt there’s some truth to it.”
Nobles plotting to overthrow the king and put his father back on the throne? But who? And why?
Mortimer’s face sank with worry. He gazed out into the distance, gripping the letter in his hands murderously tight, as if he could wring the answers from the ink itself. “As far as the Welsh are concerned, if they succeed the next time, not only is my life in danger, but those in my employment”—he turned toward Ockle so fast I jerked back instinctively, afraid of being seen, and barely caught myself from tumbling backward down the stairs—“meaning you, William.”
Swaying on the balls of his feet, Ockle tugged at his fingers. “What will you do, my lord?”
“Not me, William. Not me. The question is: What will you do?”
Head dipping between his shoulders, Ockle’s lips twisted grotesquely. Slowly, his mouth warped into a heinous smile. “Yes, my lord?”
Mortimer gripped Ockle’s shoulders and shook him once, hard. “Remedy the matter.”
Ockle’s head bobbed atop a spindly neck. Mortimer handed the letter back and said something else, but by then I had already turned to go.
I had heard more than I needed to, more than I ever wanted to.
***
Sleep eluded me. Not because of Mortimer’s visits, for they had ceased as Lincoln bustled with England’s barons and talk of charters and taxes and military service consumed everyone’s attentions. No, it was my conscience that haunted me. Like a winged beast from deepest hell, it sank its claws into my soul and screeched its inculpation. If I suspected a crime before it ever happened and did nothing to stop it, was I twice guilty?
To carry such a secret is torture. I could not share it with anyone, not even Patrice. I dared not risk putting my suspicions in a letter to Charles. Besides, he was too far away to be of any use. And Mortimer—he had sworn to me he would never harm Edward of Caernarvon. A dozen times I committed to confronting him. Yet each time I saw him, there were either others present or our time together was far too short to expend on an accusation that would certainly be followed by his adamant denial and an argument regarding trust.
At a time when I had lost all hope, Mortimer had been my salvation and my champion. To assume the worst of him was counter to all he had proven himself to be. As the days passed, I convinced myself that somehow I had heard wrongly, misinterpreted, or conjured plots out of my own irrational fancy. Doubt was a constant that I could not overcome. I did not see William Ockle at Somerton Castle or in Lincoln again. It was as though he were never there.
Then, it occurred to me the lengthy letters Edward once sent with persistent regularity had ceased entirely. At first, they had been sorrowful and full of pleas that I return to him, clearly stating his wish to again occupy the throne. In time, his messages became more vitriolic, tainted with references of my adultery. Given the irony, I could barely force myself to read them. I almost didn’t. But by this past spring, his tone had changed entirely, the words containing a sense of serenity and acceptance, as though he had given up the fight entirely. The last one—short and consisting of little more than well wishes and references to God—had reached me in June. Since then, nothing.
While Parliament rattled on, I tried to enjoy the fading warmth of the harvest season. I sat often on the edge of a crenel atop the curtain wall, gazing out over the fields as greens turned to golds, my sight always drifting toward Lincoln.
On the 23rd of September, the parliamentary session came to a close. Young Edward was visibly relieved as he strode jauntily into the hall of Somerton that evening. He joined me at the head table, but first gave me a hearty kiss upon the cheek before seating himself. His uncles Norfolk and Kent followed him and took their places to either side of us. At the far end of the oak-beamed room, the blind harpist Einion plucked at his instrument, fingers gliding over the strings to elicit angelic tones. Servants filed in carrying platters of spit-roasted pig. A dozen other lords and a few of their wives sat at the side tables. Mortimer had declined my invitation, saying he still had matters relating to his station as Justice of Wales to address. I did not press the issue, for I wasn’t sure if he and the king had resolved their differences about the Weardale campaign yet. Knowing my son would be weary after the two week assemblage, the long days filled with debates and discourse, I had arranged only a small gathering.
“As much as I loathe these tedious sessions,” Kent declared, echoing my own thoughts, “I much prefer them to the futility of pursuing Scots throu
gh some godforsaken marshland in a deluge. God’s teeth, I’ve never been so miserable in all my life.” He swirled his goblet of wine, then emptied it in one greedy gulp.
Norfolk cocked an eyebrow at him and leaned away, trying to distance himself. It was a sore subject to mention in the king’s presence, whose pride had been wounded in Weardale. But Mortimer, as always, had done as promised and kept him from pitched battle. I braved a look at my son. He ignored Kent’s remark and busied himself by carving his pork into smaller portions.
Kent, however, had imbibed too much wine and could not guard his tongue. “Hah, even with the Bruce on his deathbed, his dogs are to be reckoned with. We may have driven them off for now, but Lancaster will want —”
Edward plunked his knife down on the table. He forced a smile and, in as congenial a tone as he could muster, said, “Some other time, perhaps?”
Kent slid his goblet forward, leaned back with a snort and shrugged. “As you wish.”
Desperate to salvage the evening, I laid a hand on my son’s forearm. “Bishop Orleton wrote from Avignon, recently. It seems the pope may be persuaded in your favor, after all. Count William is already making arrangements for Philippa’s journey here, maybe as soon as the New Year. Of course, nothing is final yet, but I thought you might like to know.”
And like that, his mood brightened, as if I had plucked the sun from the sky and given it to him on a plate of gold. The conversation soon turned to lighter topics. The king talked of jousting with Norfolk and hawking with me. Kent said no more, merely nodding his head whenever someone looked his way and spoke. An hour later, he was verging on sleep, his head propped on his fist.
Most of the guests had drifted away when Young Edward stifled his first yawn. “I think I would like to stay a few days before moving on. You mentioned plans, not long ago, to go ...”
His words trailed away as something caught his attention at the far end of the hall. A hulking form lurked in the shadowed recess of the doorway, and then moved forward into the torchlight. There, Sir Thomas Gurney stood, a letter held loosely in his hand. His cloak was covered in road dust so thick its true color was indiscernible. He took a few tentative steps forward.
The king gestured for him to approach the head table. Gurney knelt briefly, heaved his bulk up, then extended the letter across the table and stepped back.
“I bring ill tidings, my lord ...”
9
Young Edward:
Somerton Castle — September, 1327
The words drifted to my ears as if spoken through layers of wool:
“ ... of the death of your father, Sir Edward of Caernarvon, two days past at Berkeley Castle.”
The letter lay in my open palm, heavy as a smith’s anvil. Slowly, I drew it to me, opened it and read aloud:
“My Lord King,
It is with a heavy heart that I must inform you that the Lord has called your father, Sir Edward of Caernarvon, to Heaven. A few days ago, I withdrew to my manor at Bradley, having taken ill. Your father was, at the time, in the competent hands of William Ockle and Sir John Maltravers, who stated he was in good spirits after his evening meal. Although he seemed slightly fatigued, he did not complain or appear unwell. The next morning, they discovered him sprawled upon the floor. It is assumed he died during the night, perhaps had fallen, and did not suffer, but was quickly given unto God. Whether by accident or illness, his departure was a peaceful one, as any of us would wish for him.
Know that he departed this Earth with God in his heart and his children in his thoughts.
With deepest sorrow,
Lord Thomas Berkeley”
My mother lowered her eyes. Those other few who had remained in the hall were silent. There was neither weeping nor rejoicing. There was simply nothing. The news was unexpected, but not entirely unwelcome. It was as though a burden had been removed, like the death of a mad uncle who serves no purpose or the interminably ill child who has become a burden, but no one dared give voice to the deliverance.
What was it that I felt—this quiet beast gnawing at my insides? Sorrow? No, I neither loved nor hated the man. He had been a poor husband to my mother and an even worse king, but as a father he was never unkind to me. I had repaid him the shortcoming by occupying his throne. Was it guilt, then? No, he had foregone sound advice and squandered his kingship willfully. I would not do the same. Shock? Perhaps. He was neither old nor ill. Relief? God strike me for thinking it, but yes ... relief. Pure and utter relief.
I lay the letter on the table and pushed it away. Like a cold, enfolding rush of winter air, darkness descended on my soul. Death was unfamiliar to me, but at that moment I realized it was more powerful than any deed of man or king.
Death is dreadful, mighty. It is final. It evokes fear and inspires faith.
And one man’s death ... can change everything.
***
Grief should have overwhelmed me, but I had not seen my father for two years. Not since I left from Dover for France to swear homage to King Charles for the lands of my inheritance. I had gone in my father’s stead because he would not, dared not. If he had departed from his kingdom, Hugh Despenser’s life would have been in danger. Yet it all came to the same end, did it not? Despenser was brutally murdered at the hands of a Hereford mob—an inglorious, but fitting death. I had loathed the man, but not half as much as my mother must have. He had taken from her, threatened her. So when they dangled him from the gallows and then savaged his body before letting the flames consume it, both she and Mortimer had stood by mutely, witnesses to justice. My father’s greatest crime had been in loving Despenser. Perhaps then, my father had died of a broken heart, bereft of his favorite, his wife and children, and his kingdom?
In comparison, I knew nothing of such grievous and utter loss. I prayed I never would.
A few days later, I departed from Lincoln for Nottingham, where I was to preside over the signing of a charter. I rarely understood what such documents were about. I was told to sign them and I did. Why question the trivialities?
My mother remained behind in Lincoln, she no more tearful than me, but as his widow the duty of arranging his funeral had fallen to her. For the place of his burial, Westminster was discussed, for it was there both my grandfather and great grandfather rested in their tombs, but it was quickly ruled out. A funeral procession of so many miles ending so near to London was considered unwise. At last, Gloucester was chosen and although St. Peter’s was as grand a cathedral as any, my father’s memory had clearly been relegated to that of a lesser and unloved king.
My gaze followed the length of fir skyward. The lance was taller than two men, its tip ending in a blunted coronel. Although made of the lightest and straightest wood, balancing it upright for any length of time was no small feat, especially with a restive horse beneath me, shifting his weight as he stomped a foot. Beneath us, an emerald sea of grass fluttered, its edges tipped with brown from the first frost a few days past.
“Peace, Grani,” I said to the horse, a gift from the Count of Hainault. He lifted his head, ears twitching, and calmed. I had named him such because he was a spirited gray, and he would allow no one but me to ride him, just as the Norse hero Sigurd’s Grani had done. Mother had protested my use of a pagan name, but none other seemed fitting.
When Will first put a full-length lance in my hand, he would not let me run at the tilt with it. I had to carry it about on foot, first lightly dressed and then in full armor. My muscles had burned fiercely that first week, its weight growing heavier with each passing minute. Today was the first day I would joust. A lesson only, Will had said repeatedly. I was ready. I had been ready for weeks.
At the far end of the tilt, he raised a hand in the air, the butt of his own lance resting easily on his thigh. I lifted my shield in answer and then snapped my visor shut. My page and armor squire scuttled backward, whooping in encouragement. The onlookers ringing the grounds whistled and clapped. Couching my lance, I dug my heels in. Grani hurled himself forward, his
hard muscles rippling with each thunderous stride. I heard his breathy snorts, the jingling of his bit, the creak of the saddle as I clamped my knees hard and braced my weight.
Will flew closer, closer. My torso leaned forward, mimicking his position. He adjusted the angle of his lance, flared his elbow out slightly. Grani dipped his head. Suddenly, my balance shifted—only a hair, but it caught me off guard. The lance swerved right. I gripped it tighter, held on, and guided it in the other direction.
But in those few seconds, Will had taken perfect aim. And I had lost mine.
The coronel of his lance nicked the top of my shield and slammed into my chest plate, just below the hollow of my collarbone. I jerked backward with the force. My lance sailed from my hand. I saw sky. Clouds whirling end over end. Grani galloping away, silver fetlocks swishing as each hoof struck the ground, his tail streaming in a plume behind him.
The world went suddenly black. I lay on the ground, my lungs emptied of air. I gulped in shallow, raspy breaths, my ribs tightening with each painful draw. My head rang, as if someone had taken an iron mallet to my helmet. Muffled voices reached my ears, but I could not make out the words. Someone flipped my visor up. Sunlight blinded me. I flexed my fingers one by one, and then bent my knees. Sweet Jesus, even my teeth hurt. Feet pounded on the dusty earth. A shadow blocked the sun. Water dribbled onto my forehead from above. I sputtered and flailed an arm. Then more slowly, I rolled over and pushed myself up onto an elbow.
“Damn you, Will Montagu,” I grumbled. “That was no lesson. It was a pummeling.”
“Bruised, but not broken.” Grinning, he offered a hand. “That is the best sort of lesson. You’ll improve.”
My squire and page hooked their hands beneath my armpits to help me up. My bones felt as jarred as if I had jumped from Dover’s cliffs. I staggered to my feet ungracefully. “God’s breath, I swear when I can get back on my horse, I’ll return the favor. Mark my words, Will Montagu—one day, I’ll batter you senseless. I swear it.”
The King Must Die (The Isabella Books) Page 11