“If it is true,” I began, glaring harshly at her, “then my brother would have told me so. I would not hear such joyful news from a snake-tongued gossipmonger who takes cruel delight in others’ plights.”
Gladys sucked her lower jaw all the way into her throat. Maudeline’s mouth gaped in shock.
Thankfully, I did not need to offer an excuse to escape that pair of carping geese, for I saw a lone rider approaching at a steady trot toward the church. Without dallying to wait for an apology, I hurried down the hill to meet Lord Thomas Berkeley at the bottom.
He dismounted and bowed before me. “I came at once, my lady. I stopped at Northampton first. Sir Roger said I would find you here. I hope you do not mind my coming. I sensed it was a matter of dire importance, although you did not say as much.”
Lord Thomas had the honest face of a priest and an unassuming, polite manner that made him endearing and easily liked. His features reflected his character—ordinary, in a way, and tending toward boyish with his sun-streaked hair and a spattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose. He had served Mortimer since before the Marcher Lords had risen against Edward II in 1321 and during that time Mortimer had happily rewarded him with the hand of his eldest daughter, Margaret.
I motioned for him to follow me through the verdant meadow which flowed down the hillside and back toward the church. Since he had come alone, he had no page to tend to his horse and so he led it behind him. Most of the churchgoers were by then drifting away, but I led him along a little used, winding footpath littered with small rocks embedded in trampled mud—away from the sneering Gladys and Maudeline, who were both still sending me unpleasant looks. They now had a growing gaggle to commiserate with over their mistreatment. The indignant buzz coming from their vituperative swarm could be heard even at this distance.
“Did Mortimer ask why I sent for you?”
Berkeley’s reply was direct, like that of a schoolboy responding to his tutor’s questions. “I told him you didn’t give a reason. When I see him again, what shall I say?”
“Only that I was mustering support before Parliament, that is all. As for the real reason—I called you here because the relic is here, Lord Thomas. Remember?”
He looked at me blankly, befuddled at my reference. “I regret, my lady, that I don’t. What relic? Every church, it seems, has one—a knuckle bone, a broken nail, a splinter from the true Cross, a bloodied thorn—but I’m not familiar with that belonging to Brixworth, or if it even has one.”
“The throat bone of St. Boniface.”
“St. Boniface? Ah, yes. A martyr, one of many. Now I remember. What of his relics, then? What relevance do they have?”
I stopped in mid-stride. Relevance? How could he have forgotten?
“I swore you to an oath, Lord Thomas. Not so long ago.”
He shook his head and glanced around us. His horse dropped its head to nibble at the fresh spring grass. I began walking again toward the church and he yanked roughly at his horse’s reins to catch up with me. “What oath?”
I gave him a quizzical look over my shoulder. Surely, he was either jesting or just playing the fool until we were alone? Arnaud exited from a recessed door near the rear of the church, where a small room served as a storeroom, and approached us, hailing Berkeley. In the crook of his arm he hugged a jug of ale. I told him to take Berkeley’s horse to a groom. As soon as that was taken care of we went inside, where I found Patrice sucking honey from her fingers and moaning over its sweetness. I instructed her to take the honey and bread outside and Berkeley and I would be joining her shortly. Greedily, she gathered up the pot of honey and two loaves of bread, asking with a wink if the handsome lord with me would be joining us. In spite of frequent flashes of jealousy from Arnaud, Patrice never ceased to charm men with her wiles. Once defeated by their own desire, she had confided in me, they were a constant source of information.
I led Berkeley further inside the old church to the Lady Chapel. For whom the chapel was built no one could remember, but most likely it was intended for the private prayers of some lady longing for the return of her lord. I shut the door, went to the window, grasped the ledge and wrenched free a single, unmortared stone—just far enough to wriggle my hand into a small hole beneath it and take from within the rough hewn box hidden there. Then I opened it and took out the object wrapped in a smudged remnant of linen.
I showed him the relic. “St. Boniface’s throat bone. Do you remember now? You placed your hand on it and swore, on your life, an oath to me.”
“And when was this?”
“September,” I reminded him tersely, compressing my lips tightly together. “Before the ... the death of Sir Edward of Caernarvon.”
His voice did not waver in pitch or pace, remaining smooth. “Where did I swear this supposed oath?”
“Here!” I unwrapped the relic, slammed the lid shut before setting the box aside, and thrust the yellowed fragment at him. “I rode from Lincoln and you from Berkeley and we met here! It was before sunrise.”
“Just you and I—here?”
“Yes, here. There was no one else!”
He ignored the piece of bone in my hand, turned slowly around as if to jostle his memory and shrugged again. “One thing I can swear is that I have never been in this chapel before, let alone this church, although I have often ridden past it.”
By then I was shaking. My blood was afire with rage at Berkeley, maddened by his convenient loss of memory, but I was also being sucked downward by the havoc of my own memories, growing more and more disjointed with each passing day. I was no longer sure if he was lying to me ... or if I simply remembered something that never was.
Am I indeed mad?
“Do not engage me in a game of words, Lord Thomas. We were here, you and I. I showed you this —” I shoved my fist with the relic in it at him, pounding it against his chest, “and you placed your hand on it and swore never to repeat my words again. I told you that I believed Mortimer meant to have Sir Edward murdered. I told you I wanted to spare my husband. Told you to see to it and sent you on your way. I must know ... Did you do as I requested?” I clenched the bone in my hand so hard that its sharp edges bit into my fingers. I thrust it at him again. “Tell me—does Edward live?”
I did not realize I was beating on his chest until he grabbed my wrist to stop me. He peeled away my clamped fingers, one by one, took the bone and put it back in the box. Then, calmly, he slipped the box back behind its stone and wedged it back in place.
He was shaking his head with pity when he said to me, “You must stop this, my lady. It does you no good to torment yourself thus. There was a pronouncement of his death. A funeral. You saw the coffin, as did I.”
I pointed a shaking finger at him. “But was it him? Was it his body inside?”
He studied me a long while before answering. “My queen, had I sworn you an oath, on my life ... would I not keep it? But I do not recall any such oath. I wish that I could.”
“You lie! You lie!” I railed at him. “I need to know if it was him. Don’t you understand? I must know!” I started at him again, ready to hammer the truth from him with my bare fists, but he quickly backed away, shaking his head, and left me there.
Patrice came to me a minute later. She must have seen Berkeley rush from the chapel and take to his horse. I was lying before the altar, face down, raking at the tiles of the floor with my bare nails, trembling violently. I could not tell her my troubles. I could not tell Mortimer, either.
And Berkeley ... he would say nothing at all—to me or anyone.
12
Isabella
Northampton — April, 1328
It had been just a few days since my troubling meeting with Berkeley. Mortimer and I were seated across a small, square table from each other in my private chamber at Northampton taking breakfast. A letter lay on the table between us. Although I eyed it with niggling curiosity, I delayed opening it. I had not left my room since returning here, claiming a headache that w
ould not go away and forbidding visitors. Mortimer, I sensed, was not so easily fooled by my false malaise, but he did not pry, instead tending to me delicately at brief intervals before going about his own business each day. I suspected that Berkeley had informed Mortimer of my attempt to extort the truth from him. Still, it did not make sense. If Berkeley would not admit to me he had sworn an oath, why would he tell Mortimer?
Mortimer glanced at the letter from time to time; I pretended not to as my mind wandered through a tangle of suspicions. Finally, I stretched my fingers toward the letter and dragged it to me. Before I even opened it, I felt its sadness seep through the tips of my fingers as I touched the seal belonging to my sister-in-law Jeanne.
Dearest Sister,
It is with a sad, sad heart that I tell you your brother and my beloved husband, Charles, died while at Vincennes. His illness was sudden and swift. He did not suffer. So few were our years together, but so very, very happy. My one regret is that he will not have lived to see the birth of our child. All France awaits ... and yet I find the impending birth, instead of joyous, a hollow event without him. Perhaps, as everyone tells me, time will heal the grievous wound in my heart, but I am not so certain. I think it will only grow greater and heavier.
With deepest sorrow,
Jeanne, Queen of France
“Charles is —” My breath caught. I could not say it. Dead. How? He was little more than a year older than me.
I stood, barely noticing the letter as it fell to the floor. With a hand pressed to my stomach, I went to the window. April rain had fallen lightly, but persistently for three days straight. Why did it always rain when someone died? Even beneath gray clouds, the grass had greened until it was blindingly bright to the eyes. Soon, the rain would stop, the sun would break through and daffodils and dandelions would spring forth like sun-yellow stars in an ocean of green.
At other times my heart would have lightened with the onset of spring, but today was not so. My heart was as heavy as Jeanne’s, even though France now had a throne without a king to sit upon it and my own son stood staunchly in line for that throne. I could not think in that manner yet—not happily, at least. My brother, who I loved greatly, was gone.
I had seen three brothers die before me, none of them old. Was it my fate, too, never to grow old, or see my children wed, or hear the first cries of my grandchildren? Would some insidious disease quietly eat away at me from within, slowly, so that my death loomed inextricably before me, or would it take me swiftly and mercifully? Or would tragedy be my end—the axe, the gallows, a dank, stinking dungeon and long, cruel starvation?
Charles ... dear, dear Charles. You always sought to protect me. I am grateful for that, even though I resented it at the time. I mourn for Jeanne and for your unborn child, but do not think less of me if the child is a girl and I must pursue the rights of my son. It is only right that I do so.
“So,” Mortimer began, setting the letter back on the table, “do you think it possible that they would dare offer our young Edward the throne? Could it be worked?” As always, he read my thoughts—or was it that I read his?
“Jeanne is with child,” I uttered despondently. Charles and Jeanne had been deeply in love. The pregnancy was a blessing she had long prayed for. In every letter she had ever written me, she had embedded the wish for a child. To her, whether it was a son or daughter did not matter, but she knew that Charles desperately needed a son. Three years had gone by fruitlessly for them and when it had finally happened—now this, his death.
Mortimer sank back in his chair. “If it is a boy —”
“If it is a girl, or if the child dies, the throne will be vacant. My cousin, Philip of Valois, will say the crown belongs to him. Roger, we must assert Young Edward’s claim, before Jeanne’s baby is born. We have very little time. We must argue for it vehemently, relentlessly, immediately.” Had I not just said to myself I was too full of sorrow to think in this vein? Mortimer had a tacit way of encouraging my ambitions.
“If this happened in England, the throne might be yours.”
“A pointless musing, Roger. Besides, if I were ever to rule France, I would have to leave England. Then everything, everything we had striven for and toiled to put in place, it would all erode in the wake of our ship as we sailed away. At any rate, it is preposterous to presume France would ever allow a woman such power, but the firstborn son of the king’s only daughter ... that is a different matter. They will, however, resist the notion of an English king upon their throne. We will have to force our arguments upon them, write to the pope. First, though, we must have the support of England’s lords.”
“When Parliament convenes then, we shall make the French throne our cause. Whatever doubts and suspicions have been hung on us will pale in comparison to that glittering temptation.” The familiar glint in his dark eyes revealed that his mind was fast at work. “We can lure them from beneath Lancaster’s wing with the baubles of French lordships ... To think, though, it all hangs on the birth of an infant—what sex it will be, boy or girl, king or nothing.”
“As it so often does, Roger. I love Jeanne with all my heart, but to wish her well in this, to wish for a son to carry on Charles’ line ... it would be to deny my own son. If I cannot rule, then he shall. I will never begrudge him the advantage of his sex. Besides, ruling a kingdom is a burden I could not bear forever. I’ve had enough as it is. You listen to advisors, do what you think is right and there will always be someone arguing over it.” I rose, went to him and placed my hands upon his shoulders from behind. “As for French lordships—how can we possibly give away what we do not have?”
“Kings of England have drawn men to fight against Scotland and Ireland for centuries with such promises. They will fight, if only for a chance at those lands. Greed drives men to seemingly impossible deeds. Do you not want this for your son? For the House of Capet?” He turned sideways in his chair and drew me into his lap, squeezing my waist in emphasis. “Think on it! He can be the greatest king in all the world. He will be remembered—like Charlemagne, like Alexander.”
Why do you try so hard to convince me, Roger? I slipped from his hold and returned wearily to my chair, slumping forward on the table, overwhelmed. It was all too much. Drained of thought, I swept aside my plate and cup, put my head down on the table and muttered into my forearm, “I cannot decide this now. I need to go away, desperately. I need to think.”
He rounded the table and knelt beside me. “Where to?”
“Castle Rising, I suppose.” I gazed at him from the pillow of my arm. Castle Rising was as good as any place. There were few distractions there. The low, flat, wet fens stretched mile upon mile. Towns were few and people kept to themselves. There was nothing but grass and sea and sky near Castle Rising. Its only beauty was in its simplicity.
Mortimer tenderly smoothed the hair on the crown of my head. “Whatever you wish. You can stay as long as you need to. If you want to come back and speak before Parliament after you’ve had time to think, we’ll return. If not, I’ll carry whatever message you want me to. This is a grave decision.”
Grave, indeed. “It could mean war, Roger.”
Just as our returning to England had posed the risk of war. We had avoided it then, only because everyone had so tired of Edward and his piggish minion that they abandoned him with glee at the first favorable opportunity, but would we be so fortunate in this venture? Sooner or later, luck will turn against us. Even knowing that, why do I dare tread so dangerously beside you?
He imparted a fleeting smile, meant to reassure me. “I know, I know. Perhaps, fortune will favor us once more and all will turn out for the better? Hasn’t it always?” He took me in his arms and held me in that gentle way that tamed my rampant fears. “We will have peace in the north, then, as you’ve wanted all along. Joanna will wed David of Scotland and one day become a queen, like you.”
My littlest Joanna! Why did Mortimer remind me of that now? I do not want to think of losing a daughter so young. I do n
ot want to think of thrones or wars or Parliament and its squabbling barons. I do not want to think of any of those things.
No matter what I do, there is neither good nor joy in it.
***
Castle Rising — April, 1328
We spoke little of politics in those rare, quiet weeks at Castle Rising. Somehow, in not speaking of it, it all became clearer to me: I would write to the pope, to the nobility of France, to the barons of England. I would not cajole or threaten or complain. I would study the laws, precedence, Scripture. I would speak reason and appeal to their sense of logic. I would not act out of impulse and I would not preach war. I would not lay that terrible burden at my son’s feet for him to carry like a load of stones. If, in times to come, he would pursue it himself, then it would be his choice, his doing, not some debacle that I, Isabella of France, would be remembered for.
I wanted the people of England to love me again, as once they had. But I feared it would never be so again. They did not trust Mortimer, now or ever. It seemed that in England one could not say his name without saying mine in the same breath, so aligned had we been since before landing at the mouth of the River Orwell. I knew how such things went. People believed what they wanted to. I had ridden both the highs and lows of it and I was never lower than in those months following Edward’s funeral. The only hope I had was in believing that it could not possibly get any worse for me.
But optimism, when frail, is a target poised to be shattered.
I lay in bed, unwilling to rise, pathetically secure in my lethargy, wrapped in my blankets like a caterpillar snug in its cocoon.
The King Must Die (The Isabella Books) Page 14