Slowly, he drew breath and held it long before speaking. “I ask, but I think you have already chosen who to believe.”
I shook my head, implying that I had not. But it was my head that said so, not my heart. “Roger, you must offer an apology for this. Tell him you were only seeking the truth, not accusing him of betraying you. If you don’t, it will only get worse between you. What you fear may very well happen then.”
“What I know, I know to be true. He lies, Isabella. Your own son lies to you. And you, will you do nothing to save me from those lies?”
“Everyone’s truth is not the same.” I turned to him. “It is up to you, Roger, to save yourself. Beg his forgiveness. Lower yourself before his eyes. Vow your loyalty over and over publicly. Then prove it, day after day, year after year. And never, ever, put yourself above him. A kingdom can have only one king.”
He recoiled from me. It was as if a stark realization was finally seeping into him—one that, even now, as brutally obvious as it was becoming, he did not want to accept. He turned halfway and uttered caustically, “What irony, coming from you.” Then he looked once more at me, only briefly, and left.
Was it courage or cowardice that bade me stay silent and let him go? Even now I do not know. It was done.
***
For five days more, the mood at Nottingham was as strained as a bridge of sticks under the weight of an ox. Every word that passed between Mortimer and me was measured and forced, every response coldly polite. I looked often for Arnaud and Montagu, noting that whenever one was absent, so was the other. Young Edward, however, was always visible—sometimes walking the gardens with Philippa, other times talking to his infant son of things the babe would not be able to comprehend for decades. His routine seemed entirely undisturbed.
Parliament was set to begin in two days. Lancaster, despite his umbrage at being excluded from Nottingham, humbly restrained himself from complaint.
Mortimer wore the haggard look of one who had not slept for a fortnight. At supper, he would lean forward, elbows on the table, and hold his head in his hands as his eyes drifted shut. The sawing of a knife blade on bone far down the table or the soft treading of a servant behind him would startle him into alertness. When he was not fighting sleep, he watched Young Edward—something which began to visibly unnerve the king more and more with each passing day.
On the fifth day, supper was profoundly hushed, like a funeral awaiting mourners. Mortimer’s seat sat vacant. A few hours ago, I had received word that William Montagu had fled Nottingham in the wake of Mortimer’s interrogation. That would perhaps explain why Edward was so distracted, dunking his spoon in his bowl of soup repeatedly without ever taking a sip. Philippa spoke quietly with Margaret, Lord Berkeley’s wife, but they, too, often fell silent, dabbing at their beef drippings with hunks of bread, nursing their wine. The side tables seemed to take their cue from the king, the ping of knives and plunk of cups barely rising above the gentle murmur of voices. Suddenly, every face in the hall turned as Mortimer tripped through the doorway.
Eyes downcast, Mortimer walked down the center of the hall, his old injury apparent in the hitch of his stride. He stopped before the king’s chair and bent his knee to the floor. “I beg your forgiveness, my lord.”
Edward’s left eyebrow curved upward. “For what?”
Still, Mortimer kept his gaze down. “For presuming wrongly and acting upon it. I should not have.” It was a feeble apology, but a humbling one nonetheless for a man as proud as Mortimer. “I owe you too much to question you thus.”
“You were misled. It is forgotten. Done. Think no more upon it.”
Mortimer stood, finally looking at the king as if to judge further whether or not he had truly been exonerated, but Edward had already turned his attention elsewhere. The king beckoned at a server to refresh his cup and immediately began to engage Philippa in conversation about their son.
Mortimer remained standing before the king, waiting. Edward ignored him entirely, but it was Philippa who could not ignore his brooding stare a minute more. She laid her hand over Edward’s as he stabbed a slice of beef with his fork and whispered into his ear. Edward flashed a perfunctory smile at Mortimer, and then instructed one of the servers to bring Mortimer a goblet of his finest wine. Deeming the gesture adequate, the king continued his conversation with Philippa, even as she glanced toward Mortimer from time to time. But Mortimer had not yet moved, nor had he taken the wine offered to him.
I did not fully understand, at first, why Mortimer did not depart graciously. It was almost as if he were challenging the king to open the dialogue further. But the more I looked upon Mortimer, the less I saw it as an act of impudence and more a plea for pity. His once proud bearing had vanished, the shoulders slumped forward, spine slightly stooped. His meticulously trimmed beard had gone unshaven for days, so that stubble shadowed his neck and cheeks. The look in his eyes, though—it was the same morose look that Hugh Despenser had when he had been dragged before us at Hereford. The look of a man who finally realizes he is mortal. That he will die, perhaps all too soon.
Mortimer’s brow began to twitch. Several times, he closed his eyes and then opened them, more slowly than a blink, like one who is trying to cleanse them of dust. I thought he was going to say something more, but whether an offering of peace and atonement or an outright, final confrontation was not revealed. For as he looked up at the king again, and then I at the king, as well, Philippa was hovering over her husband, one hand rubbing his back and the other lifting his forehead from the table.
“Are you ill, my lord?” she asked.
“My head,” the king said, followed by a distinct moan. “It has not ached like this in months. The light from outside ... it hurts to look upon it. God’s teeth, it feels as though someone is rapping on my skull with a mallet.”
Philippa pressed the back of her small hand to his forehead and then called for a physician.
“No.” Edward waved a hand at her. “I only need sleep—and darkness. See that I am not disturbed. Come morning, all will be well.”
Why did I not believe that?
***
“Did you see the look on his face, Patrice?” I said to my dear friend as she helped me into my night shift.
“He looked ... hmmm, I was going to say ‘sad’, but that does not seem like the right word.”
“Afraid, perhaps?”
Her round mouth twisted as she contemplated it. “No, I cannot imagine Lord Roger ever being afraid of anything. More like—sorrowful. Yes, like how people look when they ... when they are burying a loved one.”
“A morbid thing to say, Patrice.” I sat at my bed’s edge, rubbing cold feet. Patrice abated my discomfort by fetching a pair of woolen stockings. Far from flattering, but practical.
“But do you not think it is true, Isabeau? I mean, did he not look like a man in mourning? All he wanted for were the proper clothes and a grave to stand over.”
His own, perhaps.
“I would not say that,” I said. “All the same, though, it was strange. Beyond awkward, really. I am not certain the king ever fully trusted Lord Roger. Relied on him, needed him—maybe. But trusted him, in the way that you and I trust each other with one another’s secrets? No, never. And now ... Mortimer fears for his life.” I eased back onto the bed, crossing my arms over my breasts. “Oh Patrice, I have tried everything. Everything.”
Patrice, who knew more than anyone when to be honest with me, also knew when things were better left unsaid. Just as she used to when we were little girls, she lay down beside me and wrapped her arm over me and held me tight, letting me know she would always be there.
“In the morning,” I said, more wishful than resolute, “I will go to Edward and implore with him to show Mortimer some kindness.”
But even if I did—to what end? For all that I had fought so hard to gain, for as much as I wanted to believe I could influence those around me and change the future ...
The worst does not need to
happen. Not like it did to Kent, or Young Edward’s father, or even Despenser, tyrant though he was. Yet it will happen.
My wishes are but whispers against the roar of the wind. There are forces beyond my control. People whose greed and ambition consume them and those around them.
Who am I to them anymore, but a shadow upon the wall? A spring flower crushed under foot? The buzz of an insect in their ears to be swatted away?
Patrice hummed a French lullaby—one that she had sung to Young Edward when he was a babe. My hand crept downward over my belly, feeling the growing fullness there like a hot coal that would burn me from within.
23
Edward:
Nottingham — October, 1330
Patience and secrecy were weapons as powerful as the sharpest blade, as accurate as a well-aimed arrow. I had learned that from my mother.
Isabella of France, proud daughter of the House of Capet, was a clever, clever woman—a match for any man, including myself. My father had never stood a chance against her. And now, as I neared my eighteenth birthday—the day on which I would unfetter myself of the shackles known as the regency council and rule of my own volition—she was grappling to tighten her hold on me in order to guard herself, and Mortimer, against being deprived of the power she had so stealthily gained.
It pained me to think of causing her harm, but some things simply must be done. And once done, there is no undoing them.
Her hand light upon my elbow, Philippa guided me to my bed. A servant pulled back the covers and she eased me onto the bed’s edge, and then pressed a cool, damp cloth into my hands. I clamped it to my forehead, groaning.
“Leave one candle burning,” I said. “Then make them go.”
For days, my head had pounded, but it was not an illness that plagued me. If I did what I had to do, there would be casualties. Yet if I did nothing, England and my kingship would suffer. I could not let the guilty go unpunished.
I heard the hushed scurry of feet, smelled the smoke of candles being snuffed. Philippa pulled off my shoes, kissed me on the cheek and stepped away.
Dropping the cloth, I grabbed her wrist and firmly tugged her back to me. “No, stay awhile. Just you. I need your comfort.”
And I did. Tonight more than ever. For what I was about to do. For all I might regret in years to come.
Philippa whispered to the two servants who lingered by the doorway. Heads bowed, they disappeared into the shadows beyond. The door closed with a muffled thud that echoed in my head like a boom of thunder.
“Tell me,” Philippa began, turning to me with a compassionate smile, “what I can —”
With a twist, I yanked her onto the bed, pinning her body beneath mine. She gasped in surprise. Then her hands reached for me, pulling my mouth to hers. Laughter welled in my throat. I kissed her full on the lips, but she, too, was laughing by then. In defeat, I collapsed beside her, both of our bellies shaking with mirth.
She mopped away tears of merriment and smacked me on the thigh. “My husband is a shameless liar.”
Jutting my lip out, I rubbed at a stinging leg. “But my head does hurt.”
“Not overly much, if it indeed does.”
“Very well. If I am a shameless liar, my wife is the most beautiful creature on the Isle of Britain. More beautiful than any woman in France, the Lowlands, Denmark, the Holy Roman Empire —”
“You’ve been to neither Denmark nor the Holy Roman Empire.”
“Doesn’t matter. I speak the truth. Not even the angels in heaven could rival you, my love, my life,”—I nudged back the veil covering her head, my fingers threading through her hair, finding the pins hidden there and pulling them loose one by one—“my reason for being. Without you, why draw breath? Why hunger or think or even bother to feel anything? But with you lying next to me, ah, the world is mine, if only for that moment.”
She gazed at me dreamily, the playfulness in her eyes softening to desire. “A convincing ruse in the hall, my lord. No one will dare to knock on your door until well after sunrise. What shall we do with a whole night to ourselves?”
Her hair free of adornments, I teased the strands apart, laying it in a golden fan about her ivory face as I slid my leg over hers. “Sleep, perhaps?”
“You’re being presumptuous, my lord.” Philippa shoved my leg off and rolled away, swinging her feet over the edge of the bed. She stood, small hands braced on her curving hips. “I can sleep quite well in my own bed.” Skirts flaring as she whirled around, she stomped away.
I sat up, disappointment crashing through my chest. She couldn’t go. Not now. I needed her. I shot to my feet, scrambling after her. “Where are you going?”
But she reached the door long before me. And slid the bar across, locking us inside. Together. Alone.
Her arms slipped inside the loose side openings of her cyclas. In a single, seamless move, she lifted the garment over her head. It landed in a heap beside her. She kicked it away and lifted the hem of her skirt to just above her ankles. “Your help?”
I sauntered to her, bunched her skirt in my hands, and inched it upward. Dear God, how badly I wanted her. But I wanted to draw this out, make the delight of her last if only to forget what morning would bring. “Changing into your nightclothes, my sweet?”
“Hmm, eventually.” She tilted her head back, letting me take command.
Layer by layer, I undressed her, until nothing separated us. We drifted closer to the bed, my clothes scattered upon the floor as we went. She slid beneath the silken sheets, holding them open for me as I joined her. I traced eager fingers over her taut nipples, and then took one in my mouth, tasting the saltiness of her flesh, licking and sucking as I held her full breast in my kneading hands.
Her breathing deepened and then caught. I leaned back, thinking I had hurt her somehow. But she pulled me close again and arched her body, pushing her breast deep into my hungry mouth. I suckled greedily. A low moan rose in her throat. Gently, I eased over her. My hand brushed the inside of her smooth, milky thigh, my fingers wandering upward until she shivered, her knees opening wide, inviting. No, no, too soon.
I eased back and took her in, reveling in the glory of her body and all its promises. “Are you ready for another child, so soon after the first?”
Why had I even asked? God knows I didn’t want her to refuse me. If she did, I might have to follow Will to the Boar’s Head and spend my pleasure elsewhere.
“If the answer to that were ‘no’,” she murmured, her fingertips drawing small circles at my hipbone, around my navel, lower, “do you not think I would have said so by now? I love you, Edward. I always, always will. Until the end of our days.”
It was all I needed to hear.
***
For a long time, I watched her chest rise and fall, the blanket drawn up high about her shoulders, the beckoning curves of her body hidden deep beneath. In the steady rhythm of her breathing, I found comfort. In her presence, I knew completeness.
I wanted to stay there, with her asleep beside me, until dawn was long past. But I couldn’t. Not tonight.
One last kiss upon the crown of her head. One final glimpse before the fateful dawn.
As I rose, my movements stirred a draft. The candle flame went out, cloaking me in darkness. Then slowly, my eyes adjusted to view the faint outline of Philippa’s form.
“Forgive me, my love,” I whispered, “for what I’m about to do. But ... it must be done.”
Then I gathered up my clothes, dressed hastily and left.
***
Will lifted a torch from its sconce on the wall and handed it to me. “I was beginning to think you’d changed your mind.”
“After all the lies, the secrecy? No,” I said. “But I do wonder how it will all unfold.”
Dampness shimmered on the stones behind him. We were in a storage cellar of Nottingham Castle. The room was stacked to its cobwebbed rafters with barrels and sacks. Somewhere, a rat scampered.
He suppressed a grin. “Ah, you asked m
e not to reveal anything to you until tonight, so you’d have nothing to hide. I’ve kept my word on that—protected your virtue and your good name.”
“As you should, Will. Now, let’s get on with it. Show the way.”
While I had known for months now that I needed to take command of matters, I had struggled with how to do it. When it was announced that Parliament would convene at Nottingham, Will had proposed a plan. Until tonight, he had kept the details from me, at my request.
Will lifted a sack from a pile against the wall and placed it on the one bare spot on the floor big enough to fit it. One by one, he moved the rest, eight in all. When the last was removed, he bent down, wedged his fingers between the planks and pulled up, revealing a trap door. He peered down into it. A blast of cold, musty air wrapped around my legs.
“Give me your torch, Ned.” He lowered a foot into the gaping black hole until it landed on something solid. Carefully, he turned and climbed partway down a rickety ladder, pausing when only his head was above floor level. “You can take the other torch off the wall by the outer door.”
I looked over my shoulder. The door was on the other side of the now chest-high pile of grain sacks. I looked back at him.
He shrugged. “Sorry, I didn’t think of that part.”
“I certainly hope you’ve thought the rest of this out more thoroughly.”
“Oh, come now. You tasked me to sort this all out months ago. Have you no faith?” He glanced down into the hole, then back at me. “There has, however, been a slight change in plans.”
“What do you mean ‘slight’?”
“Just that. You said you wanted Mortimer taken care of. By morning, it will be done. Now get the torch and come with me. I’ll explain everything.”
Handing the torch down, I jabbed a finger at him. “Wait there.”
The King Must Die (The Isabella Books) Page 26