“Stop!” I called. “Were you not told to wait for a reply?”
“You are to be the reply, my lord!” he shouted over his shoulder. “Or not.”
He kicked his mount hard in the flanks and galloped away. I skimmed the letter once. Then, I read it more slowly. I snatched up my sword and slammed it back into its scabbard. “Christ’s blood,” I mumbled to myself, but Maltravers heard me.
He got up on one knee, still rubbing at his skull. “What? The king on his way? Is there to be a fight?”
“Not today, no. But if I’m not returned by this time tomorrow, put yourselves as far from the king as you can.”
I raced to my uncle’s tent, thrust the flap aside and found him still snoring like a bear under his heap of furs. I nudged him in the small of his back with my boot.
“Unless you’ve got food or drink,” he grumbled, “go the hell away.”
I smacked the top of his white head with the letter. He thrashed an arm at me in refusal. Unwilling to abandon the warmth of his little cave, he clutched his covers tighter.
“Sit up, old toad,” I ordered firmly. “You’ll want to hear this:
“My Lords,
King Edward waits at Shrewsbury to hear you out. Twice he granted you time to consider his offer and extended you his grace. Twice you gave no reply. There can be no more delays. King Edward was prepared to march against you this very day. I convinced him to forego spilling the blood of Englishmen and to seek a peaceful end, as our Lord Christ would wish of him. If you submit willingly to him, in person and before nightfall, he will grant you your lives and your freedom. I shall wait at the bridge until you come and I will escort you both personally to an audience with the king. You have this on my solemn word.
Aymer de Valence, Earl of Pembroke,
Given at Shrewsbury, 22nd of January, 1322”
My uncle propped himself up on an elbow and blew a thick stream of snot from his nose. “What of it?”
“Pembroke kept his word. He did as he said he would. I trust him more than any man.”
“Trust him all you like. I don’t trust the king. And Pembroke is the king’s man. That puts him in bad company.”
“Simon de Beresford. Do you know the name?”
The muscles in his jaw tensed. He looked at me with narrowed eyes. “If I do?”
“He was the messenger who brought the letter. How is it he can be in Pembroke’s ranks and your pay at the same time?”
With a groan, he struggled to his feet. He kept his furs wrapped about him so the chill would not invade his bones. “What else did he tell you?”
“Tell me first – is Beresford your spy?”
He nodded. “What did he say?”
“He told me Lancaster has allied himself with the Scots. Pembroke has proof of it. The king knows. Do you know what that means for us? Lancaster will not leave the north, because he knows there is an axe waiting for his neck here. He will never come to our aid. Never.”
Almost meekly, he proposed, “What of Adam Orleton, the Bishop of Hereford? He promised men ... and money.”
“And sent both, but it was not enough. We are on our own now, Uncle. Alone. We cannot win in battle and we cannot run. So we can die on this ground ... or we can go to Shrewsbury and take our chances. I’ll wager my life on Pembroke’s honesty over dying slowly of hunger.”
He shook his head and spoke softly into his beard. “You say these things because you are desperate.”
“And you are not?”
Instead of the quarreling I had grown so accustomed to, he shed his furs, summoned his squire and told him to saddle his horse for him and bring him some ale, if any could be found. He did not want to meet the king, he said, without having one last drink while he was still a free man.
“You believe Pembroke, then?” I asked.
“Not in these circumstances, no.”
“Then why are you going?”
He rounded on me, his face crimson with fury. “Because I know Simon speaks the truth!” As if he had to restrain from striking me, he clenched his fists before him. He gathered several deep breaths to calm himself before he went on. Finally, he stepped close and raised a crooked finger to poke me in the breastbone. His breath reeked of staleness. “We must denounce Lancaster. Turn our backs on him, as he did us.”
So, he believed a spy and not me. Well enough, I thought. We would go to Shrewsbury, each for our own reasons.
While I paced, my uncle bustled about madly. He called for a pot of scalding water, although what he got was melted snow, and washed his face clean. With a frayed twig, he scrubbed at his teeth until his gums bled. All the while, he carped at his young page for being slack and getting in his way. When he had finished grooming, his body squire helped to dress him in full mail. Next, the squire fastened on his poleyns, greaves and arm plates and then belted on his sword. When my uncle’s ale was poured, the squire went out to see to the saddling of his horse. Only then did my uncle pause in his frenzy to rest. I had not seen him so vigorous in months. But as he held his cup, I could see his hands trembling with weakness and the fear stark in his sunken eyes.
As much as he sometimes aggravated me, his recalcitrance had always been a part of his very sinew. To see it gone from him ... I found it hard to look upon him thus. I needed to leave. There were matters that required attention and not enough hours to do them all. “You wish to go later – in the afternoon?”
“I wish – ” A cough tore through his words. He let the cup fall from his grasp with a clatter and braced his hands on his knees until the fit had passed. Before he straightened, he spat at his feet and drew a shaking hand across his mouth. His words were raspy, his tone wistful. “I wish to get it bloody over with. After this, I’m going to go back to Chirk – that is if the king keeps his word. That is where I’ll stay, until I die.” He laughed dryly. “If I make it so far.”
I nodded, understanding that he had at last abandoned his stubborn pride and yielded to reason. Hastily, I backed out through the flap. A pair of light hands grabbed my shoulders and spun me around. Edmund. I passed him the letter.
He did not take even a moment to think it over. “I’m coming with you.”
“You’re to stay here,” I told him flatly.
Word had spread rapidly. The camp buzzed with preparations: the honing of blades, the packing of supplies, the strapping of armor and the fitting of bowstrings on their staves.
“Why?” He threw a sweeping glance around him at our diminishing army of rebels. We both knew that they were as much preparing for a fight, as they were preparing to run. “Lord Badlesmere is my father-in-law. I’ve as many marks against me as you, if not more. I’d rather go to the king and pray for mercy than have him come after me. If he’s in a forgiving mood, as Pembroke says, it’s best we all take advantage of it, don’t you think?”
“Go to Picardy. Find your brother Geoffrey there.”
“Run and leave Elizabeth to languish in the Tower? What would that say of me?”
The gnawing feeling in my gut told me not to let him come, but there was a raw truth to his argument. I pushed past him to find Maltravers.
*****
Snow was falling in huge, wet chunks when we went to meet Pembroke at the south end of the bridge. On the floodplain of the Severn, the king’s soldiers flanked us on both sides. I knew as we rode between them toward the earl there was no turning back. My bones jarred with every stride of my mount and the stiffness of my muscles plagued me. Even so, my blood coursed with alertness, as if I were marching to battle to fight for my life. In a way, I was. Only it would be words, not weapons, I would fight with.
I held a flat palm up to Pembroke as we halted our horses. “You said you had proof against Lancaster.”
“I do,” he said.
“What proof?”
“A letter intercepted near Pontefract. Written to the Bruce. Lancaster signed it as ‘King Arthur’.”
My uncle spat and planted a fist on his hip. “I could call myself ‘Merlin�
� if I wanted to. What sort of proof is that?”
“Proof enough,” Pembroke said.
“And where is this proof?” I asked. “Do you have it with you now?”
“I do not.” Pembroke’s left eyebrow crept upward. He tilted his head back. “The king does.”
My uncle had nothing to say to that. True or not – and in likelihood, it was – if Edward believed it, he would be bent on getting his revenge on Lancaster for betraying him with the Scots. With the king’s anger focused on Thomas of Lancaster, we were the lesser of two evils.
Pembroke swore on his honor the king would grant us pardons, although they would not come without cost: heavy fines, the loss of lands, and the stripping of high titles. It was a sore point with my uncle that almost sent him back to our camp, but I convinced him that in time Edward could be reminded of Mortimer loyalty and our influence among Marcher lords. I do not think he believed me. He simply had no more will to argue.
I rode beside the Earl of Pembroke, with Edmund and Uncle Roger behind us, over the bridge and into Shrewsbury. Twenty of the king’s soldiers escorted us through the slushy streets of the town, up the icy hill and to the castle gates. There, only after we gave up our weapons, were we led beneath the portcullis onto the castle grounds. King Edward stood waiting in the outer bailey for us. Next to him were many of those who had lately abandoned us: Arundel and Surrey among them, as well as the king’s brother, Thomas, Earl of Norfolk.
My uncle, Edmund and I tumbled down from our mounts and sank to our knees without taking a step. In a casual manner, Pembroke also dismounted and went forward to bow before the king.
“Well done, Lord Pembroke,” Edward trilled. A gleeful smile lit his face. “Well done.” An ermine-lined cloak swung from his shoulders and dragged the snowy ground as he circled us in triumph.
His head still bowed, Pembroke announced, “Lord Roger of Chirk, Sir Roger of Wigmore and his son, Edmund Mortimer come to offer their – ”
“I know why you went to fetch them,” Edward snapped. “They wouldn’t be here otherwise.”
Pembroke raised his chin, a slight look of bafflement clouding his brow. “Perhaps you wish to hear it from them, my lord king?”
“They can say whatever they want. They can sacrifice themselves to the Virgin Mary, for all I care. It doesn’t change what they have done. It is treasonous. And treason is unpardonable.”
Deep in the pit of my stomach, a knot drew tighter by the moment. I felt my uncle’s hot gaze turn on me.
“You promised you would procure our pardons,” I said aside to Pembroke.
“He tried,” Edward said, his lips curving into a sardonic smile as he stepped before me tauntingly, “valiantly. But I am not of a humor to grant any of late. Besides, you said you would go home, lay down your arms, and send your men away. That is not at all what you did. Instead, you continued to plot rebellion against me with the Earl of Lancaster.”
I chose not to argue with him over what constituted ‘rebellion’. Instead, I remembered my uncle’s words and played our acquiescence against Lancaster’s intractability. “Sire, Lancaster is not here. We are. And we disavow him and humbly submit to you. My uncle and I admit our wrong. We will do as you bid. Surely that begs some leniency?” It took every bit of my will to speak such terrible untruths, but if outright supplication was not enough for King Edward, nothing was.
With a gloved hand he brushed the snow from the red Plantagenet lions adorning the front of his surcoat. “A trifle, perhaps. Only a trifle. Pembroke was not altogether wrong in what he told you, although he took tremendous liberties with it. I was merely musing aloud when I spoke it. I will let you live – today. But you’re to be put away until it is decided what to do with you. I cannot run the risk of your cohorts clumping around you and whispering of insurrection again. Treason is a poison to kings, and a king is the beating heart of a kingdom. So I will keep you where it is safest. For me. For England.” He paused and cut Pembroke a cunning glance. “In the Tower.”
Pembroke’s countenance hardened. His arms stiffened and his fingers, slowly, curled into fists of stone. He understood the implication as well as I did. The Tower of London was where traitors awaited their deaths. I knew by his look that he had not known of this. The king had conceded to him merely to lure us into giving up. He had betrayed Pembroke as well as us.
With a flick of the king’s fingers, a swarm of guards rushed forward and began to strip us of our armor and mail. My uncle flailed his arms and cursed Edward, but the king walked away without a backward glance. His retinue of new bloods trailed after him up the steps to the great hall. There they would raise their wine goblets, exhilarated by their conquest of the rebels, and sing honeyed phrases to the glory of King Edward while they drank themselves beneath the tables.
We never saw the inside of Shrewsbury Castle, never stepped within its warmth or were offered a meal to silence our rumbling bellies. Our hands were tied with rope that smelled of damp hay and manure. Like livestock loaded up for market, we were shoved onto the bed of a wagon and taken away.
A single falsehood had robbed us of our freedom. Meanwhile, Edward was free to do as he pleased. Not a lord was left in England who would dare defy him.
6
Roger Mortimer:
Tower of London – February, 1322
THE ROPE THAT BOUND my hands together burned raw into my flesh. My wrists had been chafed bloody on the first day, the cords drawn so tight that my fingers went numb. I dared not turn or stretch my hands even slightly to try to relieve the discomfort. If I developed an infection, they would gladly let me rot to death.
The slumbering countryside rolled by in a blur; the dull gray of a winter sky blending with the mud-brown of earth. A dense mantle of smoke lay still and suffocating above the rooftops of the towns. Deep, bone-biting cold enveloped the land, sinking its teeth into exposed flesh. Every tree limb and grass stem was covered in a pearly frost. Small rivers had frozen into ribbons of ice. Had I been a free man, instead of a prisoner mired in gloom, I might have seen some beauty in it.
I wedged my fingers between my knees to warm them. The wagon that my uncle, Edmund and I were being transported in rattled incessantly. I drifted between half-sleep and hazy wakefulness. In my more lucid hours, I searched the faces of passing strangers. I hoped beyond hope that some old ally would come to our rescue. But no one afforded us more than a glance of mockery. Most dared not look at all with the king’s livery surrounding us.
I hungered. Hurt. Slept hardly at all. Lost count of the number of days we were on the road, even though it must have been no more than a week. Always, day slipped into night without distinction.
Suddenly, the right front wheel plummeted into a hole. My head banged against the back plank of the driver’s seat and my teeth came down sharply on my tongue. Before I could recover from the jolt, the wagon bounced upward. My chin snapped forward onto my chest. A blow of pain hammered through the back of my head and down my neck. I thought the axel might break and we would be tumbled into the roadway to be crushed by the hooves of the guards’ horses, but the wagon wobbled unstoppably on.
I looked around only to discover it was night again. Somehow, I had slept. To my left, still as a dog lazing by the hearth, my son Edmund lay flat on his back. Blankly, he gazed up at the stars through a rare break in the clouds. Since leaving Shrewsbury he had not spoken at all. Rather than flee to Picardy, where his younger brother Geoffrey served in the household of Joan’s relatives, the de Fiennes, Edmund had chosen to stay and fight beside me. But it had not been much of a fight for him thus far. At Bridgnorth I would not even allow him to take part in the assault across the bridge. I had wanted to keep him safe. At Shrewsbury, I had delivered him straight into Edward’s hands. Now this. A bleak end to a life barely begun.
Except for Edmund and Geoffrey, the rest of my children were at Wigmore with Joan. King Edward would have sent a small army there by now. I might never know what had become of them, or the child Joan was
expecting. I would not be there to give it a name.
“There are things,” I whispered to Edmund, “that I never had a chance to tell you, to teach you.”
He turned his face toward me, his lips drawn tight with dread, only long enough so I could glimpse the quenched hope behind his eyes.
“Fight only when forced to,” I went on, “and when you do, let others take the advance. Never lower your shield until the one you are fighting has spent himself. A knight must not waste himself with rash – ”
The wagon driver threw a look at me over his shoulder and growled a warning. I went quiet, the oppressive silence tightening like a rope around my throat. Soon, the monotonous rumble of the wheels lulled the driver into a stupor, but by then Edmund had closed his eyes. Whether he truly slept or was merely shutting me out, I did not know.
On my right, my uncle lay curled on his side away from me, his face averted so that he, too, would not meet my eyes. He blamed me. Still. He would rather have rushed to his own slaughter at Shrewsbury than bend his knee to the king and be dragged away like a common thief to meet an ignominious end on the Tower Green.
“It was not Pembroke who failed us,” I muttered at the back of Uncle Roger’s head, risking a beating from our guards. “He tried to influence the – ”
“You’re a fool!” he spat.
I looked down at my lap. “If Lancaster had – ”
“Fool!” he repeated. He drew his head deep into his shoulders like a badger retreating into its burrow. His entire body was coiled so tight with anger one touch more might have unraveled him altogether.
The driver and closest mounted guard laughed. Probably, they figured my uncle’s shunning of me was punishment enough.
In my uncle’s eyes, I deserved no forgiveness.
I gazed at Edmund’s face, ashen as a funeral effigy. So young. And I, although not old, already had much to look back on. But, what more did I have to live for? Children I rarely saw? A wife who did not love me? Not those things, no. I had been a rich and powerful man, thousands at my command, heady with my victories in battle. Efficient in office as the King’s Lieutenant of Ireland. A man on the verge of an earldom. If not for the all-encompassing greed of Hugh Despenser. Had I died in battle at Shrewsbury fighting for all I had gained, then it was Despenser who would have won, without even being there. With the resistance to Edward’s tyranny dissolved, it was only a matter of time before he beckoned Despenser back to England. I could not stop that from happening now. Not bound and bleeding in the back of a wagon. Not locked up in the Tower as the king’s prisoner. Not swinging dead from a traitor’s rope.
Isabeau, A Novel of Queen Isabella and Sir Roger Mortimer Page 6