The King Must Die (The Isabella Books)

by Sasson, N. Gemini

  “A walk today, my love?” Mortimer brought my hand to his lips and kissed each finger in turn. Morning light shone red from behind through his dark, disheveled hair, making it look as if he wore a crown of flames. “We can ride out to the Wash, take a walk along the shore, bring something to eat. I woke up early and stared out the window for hours, waiting for you to join the living. The sun is bright. There are birds everywhere. They’re singing your name, I do swear.”

  With tremendous effort, I rolled over onto my side toward him. He was propped up on one elbow in the bed, nothing but his braies on, smiling like a little boy possessed by the devil and wanting to play. This was the private side of him that only I knew, that he showed to no one else—the capriciousness, the lightheartedness—and I loved him all the more for it. But I had not the energy for it today. There were letters to write, important minds to influence, and little time to accomplish a monumental task in such a menial way. The couriers would have to be recklessly swift.

  “I would love to, but I have work ahead this day,” I said blandly. “Important matters.”

  Pouting, he dropped my hand and flopped onto his back. “I see. The same as yesterday? And the day before?”

  “Roger, it is important. I cannot tarry away the day frolicking on the strand while my son’s and France’s futures are at stake.”

  For a long, plodding minute he stared at the ceiling. His breath came in loud, short bursts, like steam escaping from a covered pot. “Why did we come here, Isabeau, if not to be alone? You are troubled, I can tell. And yet you find all manner of duties with which to distract yourself. You are no more separated from the outside world here than you would have been in Northampton, with all the barons of England sitting in a room demanding your rapt attention simultaneously.”

  He was right. I had needed to escape, or so I thought. Instead, I was only grasping at distraction. Already, it seemed that my son, very much smitten with his new wife, was drifting away from me. Rumors were circulating among the populace of Edward’s murder and the fingers were being pointed in unison at Mortimer and me, ironically by the very people who once would have loved to see Edward hanged, beheaded and eviscerated beside his coddled favorite, Hugh Despenser. Lancaster was leading the wave of dissent. And I was excruciatingly aware that I could not even trust my own memory—but to speak to that of anyone, even Mortimer, was to admit my own insanity. One prod, one more curse upon my head, and I felt like I would tumble headlong into the absolute depths of lunacy and drown there.

  My only salvation was Mortimer.

  I inched closer to him and placed my arm across his chest. For a while I just listened to his heartbeat, felt it, let the strength of its drumming resound through my soul and carry me on its pulsing ebb up out of my blackness.

  “I wanted to be with you,” I whispered. “If I could make everything go away ... and have only you. If only I could make that happen.”

  He turned to me, enclosing my hands in his as we clasped them between us, and pressed his forehead to mine. “For now, this moment, I can make that happen for you. Surrender your troubles, Isabeau.”

  I opened myself to his kisses, let him caress me, love me, as giving as any man could, and the sweetness of it all stirred me. It was, however, as if I was not even there with him. I responded to him, did as he liked, held him as he spent himself in brief, selfish ecstasy ... and then I felt nothing but resentment that it was not so easy for me. The hour was not even done before I felt myself slipping again back into that dark space that so terrified and paralyzed me. But sometimes, even when we are not inspired in spirit, we must attend to the motions and walk among the living.

  My letters were written and dispatched to Paris and Avignon. They had not even reached their destinations when, a day before Parliament was due to convene and Mortimer and I had returned to Northampton, we received word that Jeanne had given birth to a daughter. The peers of France had elected Philip of Valois as Charles’ successor.

  In the Treaty of Northampton, Parliament approved the marriage of Joanna to David of Scotland. Reluctant as I had been to put it forth, it was unavoidable. England could afford no more wars in the north. The sacrifice I had to make to guarantee that—was my own six-year old daughter.

  The wedding would take place in a little over a month in Berwick. But first, there were other weddings to attend—those of Mortimer’s two daughters: Joanna to James Audley and Katherine to Thomas de Beauchamp. The dual ceremony was arranged to take place in Hereford.

  Mortimer’s wife would be there. He had not seen her since before his imprisonment in the Tower, not even in the two years since returning to England. That alone should have been comfort to me, but it was not. He had married her when he was only fourteen—twenty-seven long years ago. She had given him twelve children. Twelve.

  I could give him none. And I would forever remain a widow ... for I could never marry him, so long as Joan Mortimer lived.

  13

  Isabella:

  Hereford — May, 1328

  No one could have ever questioned the paternity of any of Roger Mortimer’s twelve children, several of whom had gathered at Hereford that May.

  His sons were strongly handsome. Roger, his namesake and second eldest after Edmund, was heir to his father’s Irish holdings. Soft-spoken John, who was the youthful image of his father, was developing a deserved reputation for his skill in the joust. Dearest among Mortimer’s sons, however, was Geoffrey, who had been with relatives in France at the time of Mortimer’s escape to there and thus had grown quite close to his father.

  Mortimer’s daughters Joanna and Katherine, however, were not so much beautiful as they were sturdy and lacking gross imperfection, like a good horse with which it matters not if it is well-marked, but more that it is reliable and healthy—not altogether undesirable traits in a young wife. Joanna was the older and stouter of the two, dour in expression, but surprisingly pleasant in private conversation. Her bridegroom was five years younger than her. The fifteen-year old Lord of Heleigh, James Audley, looked as wet behind the ears as a newly whelped pup. While Joanna was very staid about the ceremony, her bridegroom appeared so anxious as to be on the verge of illness. When the final words pronouncing them husband and wife rang out, it was Joanna who supported James by the elbow and guided him down the aisle.

  Hereford had been chosen because of the size and grandiosity of its church. My old friend Adam of Orleton, the Bishop of Hereford, presided over the ceremony. He had been old already when I left for France, although of good vigor. Yet I marveled at the constancy in his appearance. His devotion, he had told me, had preserved his robust health and spirit. I had always believed that one could look upon an old face and read in its lines, or lack of, either joy or sorrow—so surely all the world could read of my troubled life in the furrows that were beginning to etch my countenance.

  Not only were the king, Philippa and I in attendance, but dozens upon dozens of earls, lords, knights and their relations. The place was packed full and with the rising warmth of a late spring day, the rank scent of perspiration permeated the air, making the closeness of all those people seem even closer. My own wedding had been one of winter cold—the air like brittle glass and Edward’s soul a closed door to me.

  Katherine, just two years the junior of Joanna, and her husband-to-be, the young, rakish heir to the earldom of Warwick, Thomas de Beauchamp, could hardly keep their hands from one another. Never once, as he held her hand, did Beauchamp look away from his blushing bride.

  The wedding was not overly long, but it may as well have gone on for days, so torturous it was to me. Two reasons: first was that in a few weeks, I would give away my own daughter Joanna, a mere child, and years might pass before I could ever see her again; second ... was that she was there: Joan Mortimer.

  I entered the church, but she never glanced my way. A relief that was to me, for I would have betrayed all the enmity I felt for her in a single, damning look. As her daughters were joined in matrimony, Joan wept si
lently, conveying a mother’s love for her children and her reluctance to part from them. In that, we were alike. From the moment her daughters appeared wearing their pearl-encrusted headdresses with starched veils and their exquisite gowns of satin, though, her eyes were as much on Mortimer as on them. He, however, did not return her gaze in the same way; he merely acknowledged her with a slight nod when he took his place next to her. Her misty gaze was one of old longing and new questions. His manner—the averted eyes and constant shifting—was one of discomfort.

  That Mortimer was seated beside her—that alone made my blood boil with jealousy. But what had I expected? They were still married and this was the wedding day of two of their children. It was only for appearances that Mortimer had left my side. Soon it would be over and he would come with me to Castle Rising perhaps, or Langley, or Windsor, or any of a dozen other places. She would have to accept that. It was his duty, as my advisor, to be with me at all times. The kingdom depended on him. He could not abandon me, or Young Edward, for familial dalliances.

  As the two young pairs—one all atwitter like a pair of courting robins in springtime and the other a mismatch of apprehension and somberness—left the church, my eyes locked with hers. While the sight of her torched an inferno of disdain inside me, she radiated back nothing but kindest sympathy and perhaps a twinge of pity.

  During the wedding feast, a minstrel picked at his lute strings and sang, ironically, of joyous love. Joan—who had not wandered more than an arm’s length from Mortimer the whole day—invited the young king and his wife to Ludlow for a short stay.

  Philippa, who engaged in conversation as readily as a nightingale sang, snatched up the invitation. She ran her fingers over the buttons of the king’s tight-fitting sleeve. “Can we, Edward? It’s such a lovely time of year. We could go riding. It’s been so long since we’ve done that. And I’ve brought my best birds.”

  He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “If it would please you, I don’t see why not.”

  I should not have looked their way, for Philippa returned my gaze and proposed what I dreaded most.

  “Will you join us, my lady ... Mother?” Abruptly, her anticipation turned to embarrassment. “I’m sorry, Lady Joan. I did not mean to impose on your hospitality.”

  For the first time that day, Joan’s composure showed signs of fracturing. She pinched the handle of her spoon so hard her knuckles went white. Her left eye twitched. Then, her mouth jerked into a false smile as she gazed toward me. “My husband and I would be honored to have the queen as a guest at Ludlow.”

  How dare she gloat at me!

  I could have declined. I wanted to desperately. I no more wanted to be in the same room as Roger’s smug consort for another day than I had wished to remain married to Edward of Caernarvon for the rest of my life. Mortimer was my most trusted advisor, my constant companion, and the only man I had truly ever loved, but whether he showed her any affection or not, she, as his legal wife, would always be my rival.

  And that was precisely why I had to go to Ludlow—to remind her who it was that he had chosen.

  ***

  The royal party left Hereford the very next morning in a jumbled parade of horns and banners.

  Before I mounted my palfrey, Adam of Orleton embraced me long.

  “My lady.” He broke the embrace, his gaze one of concern and protectiveness. “I would tell you it is a mistake to go to Ludlow, but I can see what is happening.”

  “What do you see, Your Grace?”

  “You’re afraid of losing him.”

  “You are the one who is mistaken, then. I go because I am not afraid.” Arnaud helped me onto my saddle. I reached down and clasped Orleton’s hand affectionately. “I’ll write—and I am certain I’ll have nothing but happy things to report.”

  “I shall pray for you daily.”

  “If you’re praying for my virtue, Adam,” I said, winking at him, “you’re too late.”

  The hills of the Welsh Marches were low and broad and inhabited by tenfold more sheep and cattle than people. The road north from Hereford ran beside the rushing Lugg River as far as Leominster, where we spent the first night. The next morning, where the river valley turned westward, we left the narrow plain for rolling pastures to the north. I kept close to Philippa, her congenial chatter a needed diversion.

  Although Mortimer was occasionally at Young Edward’s side during the journey, he also frequently went to be with his wife. It seemed they spoke of nothing but their children. She did not ask of his duties, nor he of how she spent her time of late or what she had done in those years of his absence from her.

  But I saw through her courteous coyness. She was as clever as any temptress. If Mortimer had gone to Hereford with the guilt of adultery blackening his heart and expecting a brutal tongue-lashing, or at least a frigid reception, he had instead been put at ease with constant, unwarranted kindness. She had elected not to punish him or drive him away, but to coax him closer. And he, if for nothing more than the sake of appearances for their children and to preserve himself politically, was falling prey to it.

  Had I been her, I would not have debased myself so. She knew of us. Everyone did. I held no delusions in that regard. Why then did she not unleash her fury on Mortimer or at least treat me with cold disregard?

  When we arrived at Ludlow there was already a feast awaiting us, fit for the king himself. She had been expecting this—and Mortimer had obviously prearranged it without my knowledge or consent.

  In the hour before supper was served, Joan Mortimer flitted about issuing orders and arranging details like a finch leaping from thistle-head to thistle-head, stripping the seeds away. To see her transform in so short a time from a woman of modest tranquility to such a fountainhead of energy was amazing. I no longer wondered how she had survived twelve birthings, let alone the raising of all those children or Mortimer’s many travels and warring.

  Mortimer disappeared briefly to see to the care of our mounts and survey his stables. He had barely set foot in the great hall when I snagged him by the sleeve. He had been headed directly toward Joan, who was making sure that the best linens, plates and knives were being brought out.

  “Will you show me to my quarters?” I asked pointedly.

  He indicated a large stone-framed doorway to my right. “Over there—the new addition. Spacious, lavishly furnished. Fit for a queen. The king’s chambers are adjacent to yours.” His announcement was succinct, rigidly formal and somewhat loud, as if he meant to be overheard.

  “Your wine cellar, then? You’ve spoken of it proudly many times. I would like to see it.” My request was met with an open stare of defiance. “You do have one, don’t you—or was I mistaken?”

  He could not have been more displeased with me had I asked him to fall to his hands and knees and lick the soles of my feet. I noted the flicker of a sneer on his lips. “This way.”

  I hooked my arm through his and let him lead me straight past Joan, who faltered momentarily in her domestic tasks to watch us leave. Mortimer called for a lantern and with it we went down the narrow stairway. The low-ceilinged cellar was stacked with barrels of French wines and English ales. The walls glistened with moldy dampness, and although cramped and dank, it was seemingly free of rats and impressively stocked. Mortimer had not been to Ludlow more than a few days total since his return to England, but he kept the place—and his wife—well provisioned.

  Mortimer stood stubbornly in the doorway at the bottom of the stairs while I meandered between the rows of barrels, barely a shoulder’s width apart, pretending to inspect the selection. The light was scant with only the one lantern and I stubbed my toe on a small cask on the floor before hobbling back to him.

  “I have known many earls and kings who did not keep this much drink at hand,” I said.

  “Is there something in particular you would like?” he offered politely.

  A proper and timely question, even though I knew he meant drink. I went to him, pulled him clear of the do
or and shut it softly behind him.

  “You,” I whispered. “Quickly, before someone has a reason to bother us with petty details.”

  He glanced back at the door and set the lantern carefully on top of an empty barrel. Then he grabbed me abruptly by both arms and backed me away from the door. His voice was low, almost growling. “Isabella ... this is entirely awkward. I didn’t want to bring you here, to Ludlow. But I could not refuse her without making a terrible scene out of it. She ... she would not have said much, but others ...”

  “Others? What might others say?” I wrapped my arms about his neck and kissed his throat playfully, as he often did to me to shift my mood. “That you prefer my bed to your wife’s?” I kissed his throat again, his neatly trimmed beard, his lower lip. “Come to me later then—after midnight.”

  “Isabella, Isabella ...” He peeled my hands from his neck, hanging on to them apologetically, and stepped back. “I don’t know ... if I can.”

  I tore my hands away. “Why not?”

  “In her house ... I don’t know if I can ... can be with you. She has been my wife for twenty-seven years. Please, understand that. There was never any ill will between Joan and me. We were apart for a long time. So I put her out of my mind. I had to. And then, there was you and ...” Jaw clenched, he shut his eyes for a moment, as he fought to force the words out. “Isabella, do not question me on this. I love you and no one else—but I will not dangle you in front of her under her own roof. I beg of you, do not contest her here, not now. We—you and I—will be gone from here within the week. Can we not both endure this brief chastity for that long? We can be together again then—for as long as we wish, as often as we want.”

  Together, yes ... perhaps. In the dark of night. Behind closed doors ... or hiding in cellars like this.

  I should have ordered him to leave with me then, to abandon these sloppy pretenses of being the good and faithful husband. But when was I ever one to defy this man? He had but to speak to me in that liquid tone of authority to weaken my resolve, despite whatever presentiments might have whispered within me. Had I not loved him so much, I would have hated myself for being so servile to him.