The King Must Die (The Isabella Books)

by Sasson, N. Gemini

  “With this horse, no,” Edward replied with a scowl of displeasure as he slid down from his saddle. His horse was yet another gift from his father-in-law, the Count of Hainault. Evidently it was proving harder to train than he had anticipated. “No, I cannot trust him yet. He could take me to the next town faster than any steed without tiring, but he would spook at the first crash. Next time, perhaps. Or else I will turn him into a plow horse. But the foot combat, now there is where I stand to win, if I may boast this once. Will is a master of swordsmanship and as good a teacher of it, but I beat him last time handily. Gave him a good battering and the bruises and bloody lip to prove it.”

  I looked about—in the crowds jammed in the stands, amongst the onlookers milling curiously about higher up on the hill, in the teeming swarm of squires and knights making preparations in the closest pavilions—and nowhere did I see Sir William Montagu. “Where is he?”

  “Who?” Edward asked too innocently.

  Precisely then, Thomas of Norfolk, having climbed unseen and unheard to stand behind us, appeared to my right. Sweeping his arm across his waist, he bowed deeply and plopped himself down lazily in what should have been Edward’s chair, however uninvited. He looked over at me, then at Mortimer, a glib smile on his crooked lips.

  “My lady. My lords.” Norfolk cast a swift glance down the length of the stands. “Your daughter Beatrice, Sir Roger ... what a lively little creature. Reminds me of a sparrow—always flitting about, singing. Neither too slight, nor too plump. Pretty eyes. I am pleased for my son.”

  “And I for my daughter, Lord Thomas,” Mortimer replied, but the use of Norfolk’s title was meant as a reminder for others to address him likewise in the future.

  A sneer flitted across Norfolk’s upper lip, but he quickly pretended to yawn and covered his mouth with his hand. “I heard mention of Sir William Montagu. Did he accompany Edmund, dear nephew?”

  Edward scratched at his horse’s muzzle, avoiding the question. “I have no idea where Uncle Edmund disappeared to. I am disappointed not to see him here. I shall have to scold him for it later.”

  Norfolk scoffed. “Then it will be a good while before you can. He’s in Avignon—at least that is the excuse he gave when I invited him to the wedding. He wrote me from Bristol before he left and said that Sir William was thereabout seeking passage to the south of France. I only assumed he was headed for Avignon, too ... but, maybe I was wrong?”

  “What would take Uncle Edmund to Avignon?” Edward leaned his shoulder against the low wall of the stands in repose. Slowly, he drew his sword from its scabbard and tested its weight by balancing the blade on a single finger. Very adroitly, he spun the blade upward with a turn of his thumb and caught it by the handle, blade down. Then he slammed the point into the dusty ground between his feet. “Has he heard the call of God and gone on pilgrimage?”

  Norfolk rubbed at his narrow nose. “Not any more so than Sir William, I would say.”

  “Since you will not let it go —” Young Edward began, glancing slyly over his shoulder at Norfolk, then back to the tournament action, which was about to commence, “I thought the pope should know that I went begrudgingly to France and bent my knee to Philip of Valois, who would have taken me prisoner had I not escaped. His ‘hospitality’ deserves reproach, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Granted,” Norfolk agreed. “That was rather uncivilized of him, if indeed true.”

  “It is.”

  “By what source?”

  “Does it matter? Besides, I’ll not lie down and let him primp about forever with that crown on his head. It’s not his.” Two knights, their lances pointing up at the sky, rode across the field on their mounts, great clouds of dust billowing up around them and trailing in drifts behind. “How curious, though, that Uncle Edmund is also in Avignon.” He wiped his sword clean on the corner of his royal surcoat, ironically bearing the fleur-de-lis of France, and returned it to his scabbard.

  “I had heard Kent speak,” Mortimer joined in, his tone purposefully bland to convey only casual interest in the topic, “of going on pilgrimage with his wife to Santiago de Compostela.”

  Edward smiled. “I imagine he will tell us all about his journey as soon as he returns. Chances are we will find out something about it before that, though.”

  Suddenly, the king’s countenance brightened even more. Philippa waved to him from the adjacent side of the field to our right. “Ah, there she is—my fair queen! Perhaps she’ll grant me a kiss?” Lighthearted, he rode away to collect on his lady’s blessing before preparing for combat.

  I glanced at Norfolk, but his expression betrayed nothing. He was an uncomplicated man. Meddlesome, perhaps, but a follower and not the opportunist his brother Kent was. Had he known more, it would have been plain.

  At the trumpet’s signal, the two knights spurred their horses forward on a collision course. The tall points of their lances dipped downward over the arched necks of their mounts. The rumble of hooves was lost in the rolling roar of the crowd.

  They leaned hard behind their weapons, the distance closing quickly, tips bearing to the left of each knight, level and steady. But both missed their mark by a foot as the horses rumbled past without a blow being exchanged. The crowd let out a collective groan.

  “I still favor Sir Walter,” I said to Mortimer, leaning toward him and touching his forearm, “although I find his reputation has yet to match his prowess.”

  But Mortimer was staring straight forward over the heads of the crowd across the field, his eyes focused on nothing in particular, his fingers clamped over the arms of his chair possessively. I pinched the skin of his wrist. He turned his face toward me, his eyes followed, but his mind was elsewhere, preparing against troubles yet to come.

  20

  Isabella:

  Kenilworth — Winter, 1330

  When I read the letter from Pope John, heat rose in my breast, building to an inferno with each word.

  Most Devout and Beloved Queen,

  I pray this day finds your heart overflowing with love for our Savior and reverent of his ways. I advise virtue in private matters. Yours is a delicate position ...

  Evidently, someone had complained to the pope of my relationship with Mortimer. Did the pope before him ever chastise Edward of Caernarvon for unnatural weaknesses? No, he turned a blind eye. A woman’s voice does not carry as far as a man’s, it seems.

  Weeks later, I was told that when Kent visited the pope in Avignon, he told him that he knew Edward of Caernarvon to be alive. Alive?! Why would he say that? What proof could he possibly have? Later, Kent denied having made any such claims to the pope.

  Rumors grow in malice the longer they live and yet ... yet I have known some rumors—stories that I thought too fantastical or distorted to be real—to later prove true.

  Once more, I spoke to Lord Berkeley and implored with him to break his vow of silence and reveal to me if Edward of Caernarvon had evaded death. Again, he claimed ignorance and expressed his concern for my wellbeing. I was left courting madness, isolated by my own unwillingness to beseech comfort from anyone. How desperately I wanted to give up all my secrets, thinking that if I did I would feel the weight cast off my chest. But I feared losing Mortimer, or my son ... or worst of all that my husband might indeed be discovered alive and returned to the throne. No, it was best to bear my burden silently.

  Not all the news that winter was bad. Philippa was pregnant. She grew slightly plumper around the middle, but that being her natural shape it was hard to notice the change day by day. Young Edward, meanwhile, hunted and went riding more often and treated Philippa as if she were a delicate moth whose wings might tear with a careless touch.

  I remained at Kenilworth much of the winter with Philippa. Normally, I would have chafed at being fixed in one place for so long a time. The last few years of prolonged worry and, of late, gnawing suspicion and rampant rumors had driven me to a restless state. But Philippa became a pleasant diversion for me. I delighted in her optimism and
truthfulness. So as we lingered at Kenilworth, she and I grew close, taking short walks through the orchard on the sunnier days or doing needlework by the hearth when the weather turned rough.

  Being from the Lowlands, Philippa was skilled with a needle, although she often complained that she only partook of such domesticities to be among friends. Books were her greatest love, but it was a very solitary endeavor, she complained. And so she idled in the solar with me, Ida, who was too weak in the eyes to thread her own needle, and Patrice, who spent most of her time filling in the empty moments with a stream of gossip that delighted the younger ladies who had also joined us.

  The hours went by quickly for once. Ida was the first to retire. Mortimer’s daughter Beatrice was kind enough to escort her to her pallet in an adjoining room. When even Patrice began yawning, the other ladies begged their leave and she went, too—to Arnaud’s bed, I was certain.

  I leaned over Philippa’s shoulder to admire her handiwork. “A beautiful piece.”

  She shifted on her stool and arched her back to stretch, eyeing the work critically. It was a small scene of sheep in a rolling pasture, dotted with fruit trees in bloom, no bigger across than the width of her palm, but painstakingly done. “My distraction shows. The stitches are uneven here and here,” she grumbled, pointing, “but from arm’s length, I suppose it is not obvious—not unless one knows what to look for.” She stood and placed the needlework on a table nearby. Lips pursed, she finally turned to me with a questioning squint.

  “Yes?” I asked.

  Her brows flitted upward. “What?”

  “You are about to ask me something, yes?”

  She blinked and shook her head. “No, nothing, nothing at all.” Her hand wandered back to the needlework, tracing the bumps of thread beneath her fingertips. “Perhaps, there is ... something. Only that ... I don’t know how to ask, or if it’s even proper to. If what is happening is normal?”

  “About the baby? Your body changes when a child is growing inside. It can seem unusual and —”

  “No, not that, actually.” Her mouth twisted strangely and she averted her eyes, embarrassed. “H-h-he ... he does not hold me, or reach for me in that way anymore.”

  “Since when?”

  Philippa gave me a hurtful look. “Since I told him about the child. He was happy, so he said ... but he hasn’t been the same. And so I wonder, if ...” Her lower lip began to quiver and a furrow shadowed the small space between her brows. “I don’t like it this way. He is not at all the same and I wonder how I have changed to appear so terrible and uncomely to him. I’m not so far along that I look like a ...”—she struggled for the right words—“a bulging heifer in calf, am I?”

  I went to her, took her hand and stroked the back of it gently. “Philippa, it will not last forever. After you have had the baby and your churching is done, he will be more amorous than ever. Trust me. There is little more a man prides himself on than his ability to put a child in you. The more the better.”

  “But until then? Must I suffer his neglect? Idle here as I mindlessly jab a needle—and meanwhile, he rides the forest with his hounds loping along and drinks barrels of ale long into the night, singing those bawdy songs with drunken friends?”

  “He will do none of that if you tell him not to.” I said that not from my own experience with Edward’s father, who would not have heeded my wishes one whit, but from knowing my son, who loved his wife dearly. “As for now—doubtless some ill-informed person has told him he could ‘damage’ your delicate parts or the child somehow by being intimate with you. I doubt he is avoiding you out of disdain for your figure, which has yet to change at all.” I embraced her and kissed her lovingly on the cheek. “He only wants to keep you safe.”

  She hugged me back, and then parted with a pat on my wrist. I had thought my words would soothe her and fill her with reason, but she was dubious still. Her chin brushed her shoulder as she looked toward the window. Wind gusted against the shutters and blasted through the cracks around them, sending a frigid blast of air through the room. The flames in the torches along the wall wavered.

  “Perhaps it is so,” she said half-heartedly, gathering up her needle and colored threads and heaping them in a basket, “but there must be something more in his head. France maybe? Trouble with Scotland? Usually, he speaks to me of such things. I cannot help but wonder ...”

  One hand buried in her basket, she paused in thought, looking at me. I had no answers for her. I simply smiled and dismissed her fears with a shrug.

  She left the room, leaving me standing alone. A draft curled down the neck of my gown and blew the icy breath of suspicion down my spine. What she had said—that there was something Edward was not saying—I had felt, too. My mind leapt to the rumors I had heard of Kent’s visit with the pope.

  In February, Philippa was crowned Queen of England at Westminster Abbey. I did not begrudge her that privilege, although some might say I did. I loved her as much as my own daughters, born of my own womb.

  More than that, I had her trust and her confidence—and because of those, I still had influence over my son

  ***

  Winchester — March, 1330

  A few days after Philippa’s crowning, the court moved on to Winchester. I rose early, dressed and entered the great hall, expecting to see no more than a few servants beginning their daily tasks. Tables had been moved aside for cleaning, benches resting upside down on top of them. Except for an old hound, there was no one there. The fluted columns flanking the central area stretched upward, traces of soot from a fire twenty years ago evident in the joints of the masonry. The entire central roof had been rebuilt and fresh timbers sprung from the stone arches like the ribs of a whale. The pale golden light of morning flooded through the high, traceried windows topped with quatrefoils.

  I was almost at the opposite door when I saw Mortimer standing between one of the far windows and a column, a letter clutched in his palm. The brush of my footsteps on the flagstones made him look up. When I reached him, he shook his head, opened the letter and began to read in a hushed tone:

  “Brother,

  I have moved Earth to find you, knowing you were alive—somewhere. I tremble to think what they have done to you. Patience and faith, I beg you. You shall be freed. Justice will be done. Arrogance and greed will be the downfall of those who have wronged you—but all in its proper time. I must be careful and cannot misstep.

  The great lords of England are with me. You shall be king once again.

  Until then, God keep you. Be strong of mind and will.

  Edmund”

  Mortimer gave me the letter. “Delivered into Sir John Deveril’s hands at Corfe Castle.”

  I read it four times before handing it back to him. In my heart, the tone rung too true. Had Berkeley carried out my wishes and then lied to me, because I made him swear on his life never to speak of it again?

  “Corfe?” I uttered. “I don’t understand. What is he talking about?”

  “Kent has been interrogating the servants there and all the nearby townspeople. He claims Edward of Caernarvon is alive and being kept at Corfe. Could he conjure a more absurd fantasy?”

  My stomach turned inside out. Everything around me tossed and swirled. Colors blurred together. Edges lost their sharpness. I wanted both to run in fright and lie down and shut out the world in denial at the same time. I pressed a hand against the nearest column, leaned into it for support.

  He lives, he lives, he lives ... And now everyone shall know. My son will lose his crown. And I will lose Mortimer. I will lose—everything. Everything. I will bring down those around me because of what I have done—or what I did not do. Tumble into darkest hell.

  Oh God—have gentle mercy on me and let me die rather than witness what horrors my sins shall bring.

  “Isabella? Isabella? This is a lie. A great and terrible lie.”

  A lie? A lie? What is a lie? What is truth? What we say it is? What we pretend it to be? I do not know the difference
anymore.

  “You know it is a lie, Isabella!” Roger smacked the letter against his palm. “And we shall stop it from going any further. We must! Do you hear me?” He grabbed my upper arm with one hand and dug his fingers deep into my flesh.

  The black look behind his eyes snatched the breath from my lungs. It was the terrified, wide-eyed look of an animal backed into a corner, bared fangs dripping with spit, ready to bite.

  Does he still believe, even upon learning this, that Edward of Caernarvon is dead? He deceives himself.

  “How do we stop it?” I asked in a voice so small and feeble even I barely heard it.

  “A sentence of treason. An execution.” He reeled me in so close the heat of his breath singed my face. “Kent will never trouble us again.”

  “But Roger —” I could not look at him, so possessed he seemed that I thought surely the devil would leap from his chest and devour my soul. “To accuse the king’s own uncle of treason? When will it end, Roger? When?”

  He pierced his fingernails even deeper into my skin. His words seared into my ears like a burst of fire from a smith’s bellows. “When he draws his last breath, king’s uncle or not. This letter is his condemnation, his blood in ink. I need give no more proof than that.”

  His fingers loosened and slipped away. My arm throbbed. I rubbed at it as Mortimer stomped about the room, grumbling on and on about Kent’s falsehoods.

  He doesn’t know. He must not. He still thinks that Ockle carried out his orders and Maltravers and Gurney murdered Edward of Caernarvon. And I ... Everything rests on my shoulders. Everything that is the truth. The real truth.