The King Must Die (The Isabella Books)

by Sasson, N. Gemini

  “I give you three days, Roger. Three days with her.” I shoved past him, yanked open the door and took the steps two at a time, stumbling over the hem of my skirt as I reached the top when the light from the kitchen momentarily blinded me.

  I did not tell him not to touch her, hold her, or be with her. I did not think I needed to. He had said that he loved me—me, not her—and I had made him the most powerful man in England, next to the king himself. What reasonable man would have given that up to placate a staunch and settled wife who had outgrown her usefulness and allure?

  At supper, when Joan took her place beside Mortimer at the head table to the right of Edward and Philippa, with me to my son’s left, I finally saw Joan as she was—a face virtually untouched by the passing years, despite all the accompanying hardships and tribulations. I hated her even more then—not because I knew her at all, or that she had ever wronged me, but because when I saw her I understood ... I understood why he had loved her from so young an age and for so long after their wedding, and why he had kept from her since coming back to England: Joan Mortimer was beautiful. Exquisitely, breathtakingly beautiful, even past her fortieth year. That she had given Mortimer so many children only augmented her physical beauty with a maternal, goddess-like strength.

  As plates and platters were emptied and casks drained dry, I envied her not only for her years with Mortimer before he came to me in France, but rather that all her troubles had not taken their toll on her appearance. The only wrinkles that Joan had were almost imperceptible: a faint brushing of crow’s feet at the corner’s of her soft, brown eyes and the small indentation of lines of laughter at the folds between her mouth and cheeks. Her hair was still a river of auburn restrained by silver combs, untouched by strands of gray. My own pale hair was twined with wisps of white here and there and beneath my eyes showed the dark circles that come with years of sleepless worry. She was ten years older than me, and yet ... she could have passed for ten years younger.

  My cheeks aching from the effort, I feigned a smile of merriment while the jugglers tossed their flaming sticks between the outspread legs of one of them who was standing upside down on his hands. I drank of Mortimer’s fine imported wines as the mummers engaged in their hilarity, drank until I was light in the head and laughing at a lapdog playing the part of Philip of Valois. Then I drank some more and floated away on a cloud of melancholy while a Welsh bard, not half as mesmerizing as the blind one the former king had employed, sang in his guttural, rolling tongue and plucked plaintively at his harp. In my glum and envying mood, his singing sounded more like the torturing of a cat to me than a ballad meant for lovers.

  Mortimer conversed with his sons, Geoffrey and John, then later his namesake Roger for a good long time, while Joan made a valiant attempt to become better acquainted with her new sons-in-law.

  And while everyone else talked gaily and laughed on into the night, even before the drowsiness of drinking tugged at their eyelids, I claimed fatigue and stumbled to my chambers and waited ... and waited. For Mortimer—who never came.

  ***

  Three nights I was spurned—left to simmer alone. I did not ask if he slept in the same bed as her. I did not want to know.

  Every time I saw Joan, I seethed with murderous jealousy. When I was near Mortimer, I refused to look at him. I could not. I might not have left my chambers at all by the fourth day, but for Philippa needling me to accompany her to the mews. I had never taken much to hawking, but as most nobility does, I used it as an occasion to pass the time.

  The warm day and tranquility of the hillock where we stopped to hawk were more conducive to a long nap than any serious pursuits. So we spent most of the hour lounging in the grass beneath the shade of a hornbeam tree, its trunk twisting sideways and low to the ground so that we tethered our horses to its branches.

  Philippa balanced a merlin hen on her fist, admiring its brown spotted chest feathers. “Do you think she could take a lark?”

  The little merlin eyed Philippa with curiosity and then stretched her neck to take the piece of raw venison gently from Philippa’s gloved fingers.

  “She is too young ... and too tame,” I observed. I stretched out on my side and looked out over the curving green land. Wind rippled the grass in short bursts and swept down the hillside into the valley.

  “Taken from the nest? Then she will need a patient teacher.” Philippa stood clear of the tree’s branches, lifted her fist abruptly so the merlin felt the rush of air. The bird spread its wings and tried to lift from Philippa’s hand, but the leather strap on its leg tugged it abruptly back down, leaving it out of balance and flapping in frustration. Philippa clucked at the bird to capture its attention and calm it. “In Bruges every year, they bring cages and cages of merlins, peregrines and sparrowhawks from the north countries to sell in the markets to those who will train them. The falconers from Brabant are among the best anywhere. My father employed several of them, although he never encouraged us, his daughters, to learn hawking.”

  “And why not?” I asked. My father had encouraged me to learn anything I expressed the slightest curiosity about, raising me more like another of my brothers than a spoiled, helpless girl-child.

  “Because he thought it more important that we study books and say our prayers.” She wrinkled her nose in disagreement. “But while my sisters struggled over their letters, I learned quickly, grew bored and snuck away again and again—never mind how severely I was scolded for it. I pestered the kennel keeper, the falconers, the musicians, the squires, the guards ... anyone who could teach me anything that was not written in books.”

  So that was how she had impressed Young Edward over her sisters—not with discourse of scholarly matters and religious philosophy, but with talk of horses and hawks and hunting dogs? My son had chosen wisely. All kings needed a confidante—and who better to be that than one’s wife, always at his pillow? Royal advisors came and went, but spouses were intended to last a lifetime.

  The merlin shook its leg, tinkling the little silver bells attached to its jesses. Philippa tilted her head in thought. “Do you think that Edward would appreciate a skilled Brabant falconer, my lady?”

  But I was no longer listening. Instead, I was thinking of Mortimer—thinking of how long he had been married to Joan and that it was altogether possible she might outlive him ... and that Mortimer and I would have to go on like we had been, clinging to our shameful secret forever. Or worse, that this was the beginning of our end—that he would return to her and I would never be with him again.

  The summer breeze was strong, hot and horridly uncomfortable. I felt as though I were burning from the inside out. Vaguely, I was aware of petite Philippa plopping down beside me and the little merlin cocking its head from side to side.

  “I do not think,” she said, “that Sir Roger wants to be here now, either. He and his wife have been estranged for years, yes?”

  I sat up and hugged my knees. “You know ... of us?”

  “I think most everyone does, although they do not speak of it—openly, at least.” She draped her free arm over me and leaned her head on my shoulder. “You are going to Berwick soon?”

  Another dagger in my heart. “Yes.”

  “He will go with you then—away from here. It will get easier between you, with time, I think.” As she withdrew her arm from me and stood, I turned my face toward her. She undid the leash from the bird’s jesses. Again she thrust her fist upward, this time encouraging it to flight with a command. The bird caught a burst of air under its wings, flailed erratically above her a moment, then alighted on the branch closest to her. “See, she does not want to leave me, even though she can.”

  “Come to Berwick, Philippa.” I wanted her with me. Her intelligence was refreshing and her honesty invaluable. Besides, it would be terribly awkward, cuttingly painful actually, to travel so far with Mortimer alone. Patrice could not always be depended on for distraction because her attentions were too often on Arnaud. “As King of England, Edward should
be there, also.”

  She shook her head sadly. “I suppose he will tell you in time himself, but my husband does not approve of Joanna’s marriage to David Bruce.”

  “Why?” He had said nothing of the like to me. “It will be an insult to the future King of Scots if he’s not there.”

  “Because he feels it was done without his consent.” Philippa glanced sideways at me. “It is not to say he won’t allow it—indeed, he cannot keep it from happening, but ... he says he will not attend the wedding. That it is a farce. The treaty with Scotland—Edward feels that Sir Roger coerced him into signing it. He does not agree entirely with the terms—particularly in regards to the marriage of Joanna and David. He feels it’s giving them, the Scots, too much too soon.”

  “He is expected to go. His presence in Berwick is very important.”

  “They say King Robert is frequently ill and will likely not be there, either. Does it matter if Edward is then? After all, his attendance was not required in the treaty.”

  Those last words were Edward’s, not Philippa’s. “Still, it would be an insult—to David and to Joanna. It matters to her that he is there.”

  “Edward said it is being forced upon Joanna.”

  I almost blurted out that Joanna was only a child, but it would have only proven her point. When I was Joanna’s age, my own father had taken me aside and spoken to me about marriage—of which country I should like to live in and if I would like to be called a ‘queen’ one day. He had painted a deceptively pleasant picture of England and the mythical, handsome prince who lived there named Edward of Caernarvon. Someday, I had thought, I might like that, but not until I was much, much older. I did not know then that my father was already in negotiations with Longshanks and that documents had been shuffled back and forth, sealing my fate. Now I had done the very same thing to Joanna—telling her of the pretty jewels she would wear and how important she would be to all the people of Scotland, all the while promising to send her own set of playmates along so she would not suffer from loneliness.

  “Philippa, why are you telling me this? You should not betray Edward’s trust. You should have told him to come to me and tell me himself. I don’t wish to hear such things from someone else.”

  “No, no, please ... you don’t understand. I’m telling you this, because ... because he would never do so.” Step by step, she had inched closer to the merlin, their gazes locked. Holding out her left arm, she removed another morsel of meat from the pouch at her belt. She clicked her tongue again. The merlin beat its wings once, and then hopped down onto the perch of her waiting arm to receive its reward. She gave it several more bits of the venison to ensure its loyalty. “He told me of Stanhope Park—the Scots, how they almost took him prisoner, or could have killed him. It was William Montagu who saved his life, but Edward feels it was Mortimer who advised him poorly and put them all in danger in the first place. Ever since then, he is not sure he can trust Sir Roger.” She stroked the merlin’s back as it sat sleepily on her gloved fist, secure with her soothing touch; then, she kissed the bird on its beak. “You understand now why I’ve told you all this?”

  I did—brutally so. Edward’s faith in Mortimer had been tenuous from the beginning. Still in his minority, Edward was guided by the regency council, over which Mortimer and I held considerable influence ... but it would not be so forever. Our hold on him would one day be undone, just as the jesses on Philippa’s little merlin had been untied to set it free.

  If I trusted my son, if I believed in him, why did I so dread that day?

  Yet the day would indeed come when Edward, the son who was so poised and contemplative from such an early age, would be old enough to rule on his own. A day not so very far away.

  14

  Isabella:

  Berwick — July, 1328

  The journey to Berwick was the longest I had ever endured. I was giving away my youngest child, sweet little Lady Joanna, handing her into rough Scottish hands to live and grow up in that frightfully cold, wind-torn, wild and uncivilized land. The now very public objections of the young king only exacerbated the guilt that already plagued me.

  Furthermore, relations between Mortimer and me had decayed into bouts of hurtful spite. Even after leaving Ludlow, we slept apart. We spoke only of political matters, and then tersely so. While I treated him with open scorn, he returned quiet contempt. We were silently at war, although what either of us was fighting to gain, I do not know. Perhaps he wished for my forgiveness. Perhaps he resented my envy and no longer loved me for that pettiness. We were both proud. Each of us blamed the other. Why is it that when we are hurting most we seek to hurt others?

  Desperately, I wanted to tell Mortimer what Philippa had confided in me, but I could not, in my heart, forgive what I believed to be true—that he had lain with Joan, that he loved her still, always had ... and that he had only used me to gain his revenge on Edward of Caernarvon and achieve his power hold on England.

  Such were my preoccupations while I held Joanna’s hand as she was wedded to the four-year old David of Scotland. Joanna held herself proud and tall, bejeweled and draped in shimmering cloth like a doll painted into adult clothing, well-rehearsed in the role for which she had been diligently groomed. David, however, fidgeted, whined and tugged at his leggings like a fitful infant. Next to him stood Sir James Douglas, his black radiant hair curling behind his ears and coming to rest on his slender shoulders. His ghostly pale eyes looked straight into my soul with every furtive glance.

  Oh, how the very mention of his name, the ‘Black Douglas’, had once stricken my heart with terror! Twice, I had nearly fallen prisoner to him. More recently he had almost taken the young king at Stanhope Park. Douglas alone had virtually been the undoing of the English. Yet in spite of his fearsome reputation, James Douglas was nothing but dignified in his demeanor, his words barely above a whisper whenever he spoke. He even displayed the care of an older, concerned brother when he whisked little David aside to change the prince’s soiled clothing near the ceremony’s end. The prince was too young to be embarrassed by the event; others, however, would remember.

  As we feasted that evening, I wore the bravest face I could, but I don’t think I smiled the whole night long. When Edward and Philippa were married, it had been a joyful day—because I truly believed they loved and had chosen one another. But this day was different. It was purely political—and completely my doing. Done for England’s preservation and benefit, whether Young Edward understood and approved or not.

  And Joanna—she thought it only another holiday ... that she and I would be together again soon and her older sister Eleanor would come to visit her in the summers.

  The next morning, I wept as James Douglas and Thomas Randolph pried her from my arms on the road outside Berwick. Joanna flapped her tiny arm at me in a wave as they sat her on her gray pony. Long before she was out of sight, she was already talking to everyone around her in that commanding, precocious tone of hers. I stood there, the scouring grit of road dust wafting over me, choking my throat, until she was gone from sight ... and still I stood there, waiting for the wedding party to turn around and for Joanna to come back.

  “Isabella.”

  A finger tapped at my shoulder and I turned—reluctantly, for I thought I had seen Joanna’s party crest another hill in the distance—and saw Mortimer, his mouth drawn downward in sympathy.

  “It is not easy, I know,” he said, his arms enfolding me, “to let a child go. But it is easier for them than us.”

  I sank into his comforting embrace. How I wanted to drown myself in him, if only to forget the heartache of that day.

  ***

  York — September, 1328

  Over and over on the monotonous ride south from Berwick, Mortimer told me it was a small sacrifice to make in the name of peace and that thousands of lives would be spared because of Joanna. It was, of course, the logical thing to say. Why, then, did it feel as though I had swallowed my heart? Perhaps because I had given my daughter
into the care of that cold-hearted James Douglas. I had seen him kill a man at Tynemouth while I barely escaped with my own life.

  A queen, however ... a queen cannot cling to such dread. A queen must do what is right for all. If only Young Edward could see the wisdom in the union, the benefits of it. He could not afford to wage the same perpetual war with Scotland that his father and grandfather had engaged in. It had to end. And the sacrifice I was willing to make was my daughter.

  The days were yet warm, but the nights growing more chill, as we rode to Tynemouth, then to Durham and finally on to Pontefract. It was there that Mortimer learned that his son, Roger, had died in Ireland in a skirmish over shifting loyalties among clans. Mortimer grew quiet, but kept his composure, sorrow showing in the sunken corners of his mouth, the dark moons beneath his eyes growing heavier day by day.

  Before leaving Pontefract, Mortimer made arrangements to have his Irish estates transferred from his namesake Roger to his third oldest son John on his eighteenth birthday ... but young John, so modest and full of promise, would never be able to partake of that wealth, for when we turned back north in order to attend an important council meeting in York and were within sight of the city, a rider from Shrewsbury raced up from behind our train.

  The messenger dropped from his snorting mount in a billow of dust, barely dipping his knee before he plunged into his tidings. Our procession staggered to a halt in a long line behind us.

  “Your wife, Joan,” the messenger breathlessly said to Mortimer, pushing the brim of his cap up from a grime-covered forehead, “who was attending the tournament at Shrewsbury five days ago, wishes to inform you of the untimely and accidental death of your son, John. He was knocked unconscious from his horse in the first pass of the jousting championship. They say he failed to raise his shield in time. His opponent’s lance struck him in the forehead. Tremors gripped his body and grew worse and worse. He could not be revived. Lady Joan says that he died doing what pleased him most.”