I waited to see if he would say more, if he would tell me what he had been doing, but when he spoke it was about something else entirely.
‘You have risen high, cousin. I never thought the little girl standing in my hall at Wigmore, who rebuked me over the state of my ditches, would turn into a countess. I had you marked down as some minor baron’s wife but I was mistaken. You are far too clever to spend your days stitching napkins for a husband’s table.’
‘I never planned any of this, my lord.’
‘My wife says I spend too much time planning.’
‘You have seen Lady Joan?’
‘Of course. Do you not see your husband?’
‘Yes, but I do not …’
He smiled at me. It was the old familiar smile which had bound me to him as a cousin through all our fortunes and misfortunes, the smile of a man I could so easily have loved.
‘Not what? Your tongue always did run away with you, Margaret. What is it I do that you do not do? Do you think my marriage is so vastly different from yours?’
I pressed my lips together. I did not humiliate my husband as he was humiliating Joan. But how could I tell him his behaviour with Isabella was beyond anything I would do, that it was beyond what anyone would do to someone they professed to love and respect. Then I remembered what my sister-in-law had said.
My cousin took me by the arm and ushered me back through the doorway into the gloom of the stairway.
‘You should remember, my little bwbach,’ he said softly into my ear, ‘not everything is always as it seems.’
Half way through August, our men returned. They tried to pretend otherwise but there was no disguising the failure of the campaign. From the riot in the priory which left Hainault and English archers fighting on the stairs and three hundred dead in the streets of York, to the ignominious plodding through Weardale in pursuit of an enemy who refused to come to battle, the whole affair had been a disaster.
‘My son blames you,’ said Isabella tartly, regarding my cousin as if he had just crawled out from under a stone.
‘His grace does not yet understand the realities of war.’
‘My son wished to fight and you refused to allow the attack. You overruled Lord Edmund and the earl of Lancaster. You prevented Sir John from advancing his Hainaulters and you stopped Lord Norfolk from leading the vanguard against the enemy. My son had roused his men to fight. He told me your actions were treasonable. And to think I imagined you a brave man, Lord Mortimer.’
‘Your son should be grateful to me that he is still alive and not being returned to York in a box in the back of a cart,’ snarled my cousin. ‘There is no glory in attacking an enemy who has the advantage when there is another day and another hilltop. His grace is inexperienced, my lady. There is a difference between bravery and foolhardiness. Would you have preferred him returned to you in pieces?’
‘My son is a young man of great courage.’
‘Your son burst into tears like a girl, my lady. He sat on his horse in front of a dozen battle-hardened men and wept. I don’t condemn him. It was his first taste of war. The Scots cut the ropes of his pavilion and killed his men around him. He saw how narrow the gap is between life and death and he didn’t like it. A bloodied nose in the tilt yard is not the same as a sword thrust in the belly. And a scratch on the hand from a mistimed lunge in the joust does not compare with a friend’s life-blood gushing out onto the battlefield in front of your eyes.’
‘Isabella,’ pleaded Edmund. ‘It was an impossible situation. Please try and understand.’
‘Understand? I send four of my most able commanders: my husband’s brothers, my uncle of Lancaster and my trusted Lord Mortimer, to defeat a rabble of Scotsmen - and look what happens? Now we shall have to agree whatever terms Bruce dictates. Scotland is all but lost to my son.’
‘What of those with lands across the border?’ I asked in dismay.
‘A peace treaty is their best hope of getting some recompense,’ said Isabella. ‘It is the most sensible way to proceed. We cannot afford to drain our treasury with one costly campaign after another.’
‘While your mind is on your purse,’ said my cousin drily, ‘Have you seen the account your friend Sir John has rendered? I presume you will be pledging your jewels in order to pay for it, my lady?’
‘My son’s treasury will pay the costs of the campaign. And Sir John is a friend. It is a debt of honour.’
‘Whose honour, I wonder,’ muttered my cousin. ‘Most certainly not mine.’
‘Your grace, what of those who do not get their lands back?’ I said. ‘Where is the honour for them?’
I was thinking of Lady Abernethy and her daughters, of my first husband’s sisters and of Badenoch - John’s Badenoch, lost forever beyond the mist-covered mountains of the north. With its stone-built towers lapped by the ruffled waters of a distant loch, this was the castle of my dreams; Badenoch, where pear trees blossomed all year round and the sun shone hot on bowers of scented summer flowers.
But mine was a lone voice. Apart from the king who was sunk in gloom at the reminders of his failed campaign, and Lord Henry, who Edmund said had taken himself off to sulk, the others were determined to sue for peace. England would recognise Scotland as a sovereign land. The king would clasp hands with Robert Bruce and to seal matters there would be a royal marriage. I thought of the queen’s two little daughters and wondered which one would pay the price for this peace. Which would be the “English wife” sent north to live in that cold inhospitable land and be married off to Bruce’s son?
I wept when I thought of the waste of John’s life. He had fought for England, for his lands and for his king, but it had been for nothing. The others might recognise Robert Bruce as king of the Scots - to me he would always be John’s murderer.
We were a dreary party winding our way slowly southwards from York. At Nottingham my cousin departed, saying he had business in South Wales which needed his attention. No-one questioned his decision, it didn’t seem of much importance. He ignored his summons to the parliament at Lincoln and disappeared.
9
Berkeley Castle 1327
She licked her thumb and ran it down the blade. Sharp enough! She eyed the man sitting in the shadows.
‘You got a name, Master Sergeant? I like to know who I do business with.’
He ignored her.
She shrugged. No business of hers if a man kept his own counsel.
‘I need water.’
The man grunted and went to the door. Before long there was a bumping and groaning as someone made a great performance of bringing up a bucket.
She checked her bag of tools and was surprised when the man pressed something hard and cold into her hand. It was a small bowl.
‘What’s that for?’
‘Heart.’
Ah yes, the seat of courage, of wisdom and all things valiant. She took the battered pewter bowl and placed it beside her jars. Some liked the heart kept separate. French wife probably wanted it.
Now for her customer, the man on the table.
She removed his boots: best quality leather, soft as thistledown, fancy silk tassels, but scuffed and trodden flat at the heels; ill-fitting which was a surprise. It was a job to get them off but with some tugging and heaving she managed it.
Then the clothes. Again, once of the very best but now grubby and unbrushed. The hose needed mending and the sumptuous velvet was threadbare and smelled musty. Removing the silk undergarments, she wondered why it was that lords wore such fine stuff beneath their clothing. What a waste when no-one could admire it.
There was a tear on the shoulder of the tunic as if someone had wrenched the garment off at some time or other. She folded the items carefully and placed them on the chest. They’d be needed later for dressing, though it’d be likely they’d send something more suitable - robes or sacramental garments
. It wouldn’t be old stuff like this.
She looked at him. A fine man: strong, good shoulders, well-muscled. Hair, golden still, not much grey. Beard a bit straggly, but the chin was firm. Long legs like his father. “Longshanks” they’d called him.
It was hard to ignore the life-giver. Even after all these years she found with men she couldn’t help but look and wonder. It was better not to think about the rumours, or what the bishop had said. She didn’t like to work with men like that: unclean, unnatural, and everyone knew that sin contaminated.
She looked more closely. How strange! She hadn’t seen a man like that before. She’d heard about them. When she was young there’d been a neighbour who others said was less than a man. He was the butt of jokes and wasn’t well-liked. But her mother would have dealt with him when he died because it was a long time ago.
Unstoppering one of her jars she added a small amount of bitter-smelling wormwood to the water. Then with the greatest care, using a scrap of cloth, she began to wash the body, paying particular attention to the face. The eyes were already veiled and under her breath she said a final prayer. His soul had fled and hers would be the last face he looked upon. As always she felt the need to help them on their way. Putting out her hand she smoothed the eyelids shut. The mouth was open but the jaw could be bound later.
She raised the knife and sliced swiftly downwards. A moment of resistance as the blade penetrated the skin and then the flesh parted. It was better this way, not like the Italian who said he went in through the side. This way you could see what you were doing and nothing would be left behind to fester and corrupt the body.
She probed inside, reaching up and feeling around with her fingers. A few swift cuts and with great care she lifted out the heart and placed it in the pewter bowl. Bigger than expected but he was a big man. It seemed indecent to leave his heart lying open to the gaze of others so she covered the bowl with a piece of linen cloth. Using her hands she scooped out the viscera: the lungs, the liver and the slippery entrails, placing them in another bowl, a larger one brought specially for this purpose. They’d be buried close by the castle walls but nobody had said anything to her about the arrangements.
She worked steadily: cleaning, tidying up the cavity, sprinkling it with salt and wormwood and rubbing sweet-smelling oils into the sides of the wound. It was a strangely pleasing task. When everything was completed to her satisfaction she took her sack of herbs: bell-heather, chamomile, lavender, sage and mint; and the filling: the seeds of barley and flax and special grasses gathered in secret places known only to her. A handful at a time she began to fill the body. Every inch was stuffed tight so that at a glance no-one would know what had been done.
Then came the sewing - quick neat stitches as her mother had taught her. After that, a final wash in case any bloody matter had dripped onto the skin. One more rub with oils to sweeten up the body and now it was time for the cerecloth. This was the last farewell, the moment when he ceased to look like the man he had once been and became something else, something mysterious, a traveller ready for the final journey into the long dark night of eternal rest.
She began with the feet and the legs, then the body, hands and arms. She bandaged expertly. All the injuries that man did to man: the livid scars, the bruises, the old burn marks were hidden beneath these swathes of waxed cloth. Sometimes she thought she was obliterating a man’s life and leaving him washed and clean and perfect, like a newborn babe.
When at last she reached the head, the man in the corner said, ‘Cover the face.’
She hesitated. ‘Surely …?’
‘Do as you’re told. Cover it.’
It never did to offend one’s masters so she wound the cloth tightly over the mouth, the nose and the sleeping eyes; over the broad forehead and the last wisp of hair. She did as she was told but it made her wonder. Somebody would want to come and look. Not the wife if what they said was true. But someone, surely?
Ah well, none of her business. She’d heard enough secrets in her time. One thing she knew was that secrets brought trouble and her life was trouble enough without adding more.
10
An Unexpected Death 1327
‘What’s that?’
I opened an eye. Edmund’s head was off the pillow. I could hear nothing but the usual night sounds of the castle: snoring, snuffling, coughing; the occasional hoot of an owl from the woods beyond the walls and the calling of a fox.
I yawned. ‘What is it?’
‘Horses.’
‘Lord Mortimer?’
‘No. He returned this morning, trailing half South Wales behind him.’
‘It’s nothing then, just Lincoln men celebrating. Go back to sleep.’
A moment later we both heard it: a bang and a scrape as the bolt was drawn. This was followed by urgent whispering. Edmund twitched the bed curtains and by the glow of the night lamp I could see people by the door. Edmund had his hand on his knife but it was only William.
‘My lord.’ His over-loud whisper would have woken the saints from their slumbers.
‘What is it?’
‘A messenger, my lord. From Berkeley. I thought you’d want to know.’
I dropped my head back onto the pillow. Berkeley! Another attempted escape! How many more times would these fools persist in their efforts to free Edmund’s brother? Why did some men never learn?
‘It will be for Lord Mortimer,’ said Edmund, putting the knife back under his pillow. ‘They’ll have missed him on the road.’
‘No, my lord. The man had two letters, one for the queen and one for the king. That’s why I came.’
At that, Edmund swung his legs out onto the step, pulling the curtain aside as he did so. When William saw me, he blushed and bowed his head, muttering, ‘My lady.’
‘It’s alright William,’ I said. ‘What is sleep for, but to be disturbed?’
‘Where’s the messenger now?’ said Edmund.
‘With the queen.’
This was unheard of. It must be very urgent business to disturb Isabella at this hour.
‘Get me my clothes and my boots. I’ll go and see what’s happened.’
He turned to me.
‘Go back to sleep, Margaret. I’m sure it’s nothing.’
I lay awake contemplating the possibilities and wondering which would be worse: Sir Edward free and in the hands of those who wanted him king again and us dead in a ditch; or yet another foiled plot which would mean a dungeon like Lord Mortimer of Chirk’s for Edmund’s brother, somewhere he couldn’t be reached - a fate which would cause Edmund oceans of anguish.
I was drifting back to sleep when I heard the door open and Edmund’s footsteps. He came and stood by the bed but made no move to join me. I forced myself awake.
‘What’s happened?’ I mumbled, still half-asleep.
There was no reply so I made a valiant effort and opened both eyes.
My husband’s face was grey and he was trembling. He looked ten years older than when he’d left the room.
‘He’s dead.’
‘Who?’ I sat upright, pushing a tangle of hair out of my eyes, thinking of nothing but Mondi.
‘Ned. My brother. He’s dead.’
A thousand thoughts tumbled into my mind all at once. The king, dead? No, not the king, the king’s father, the old king, the vanquished king; the king we’d pushed off his throne so that Isabella could put her son in his place.
‘Oh my dearest.’ I hardly knew what to say. Edmund looked beaten.
‘It is my fault.’
‘No it isn’t.’
‘If I hadn’t agreed to this stupidity he would still be alive.’
‘Dearest, there was nothing you could do. When a man is called to God, there is nothing any of us can do.’
‘I shouldn’t have done it,’ he sobbed. ‘I should have been steadfast. My mothe
r said I should be loyal to Ned. And look what I did.’
He climbed onto the bed still in his boots, still fully dressed, and fell into my arms.
‘Oh Margaret. What have I done?’
I held him against me and stroked the back of his head, making comforting noises as I used to do with Aymer. His cheek against mine was wet with tears as he wept for his brother, for that foolish, selfish, pleasure-loving man who knew nothing of how to be a good king. All the while my heart sang out – he cannot touch us, we are safe. Whatever we did, now we are safe. He cannot reach out from his lonely prison cell and seize us by the throat, throttling the life out of us for what we’ve done.
At last he raised his head.
‘I cannot believe he’s dead. It’s not as if he was old. He was a man in his prime. He was like a father to me, the best father I could have had. The best father any man could have had.’
‘He loved you,’ I said gently.
This was not the time to remind Edmund of his brother’s follies, of the times he had betrayed Edmund’s loyalty and casually disregarded him. There had been very little love or reward for my husband from the king; everything had been poured into the greedy hands of Sir Hugh Despenser.
We sat there for a long time while he talked of the days when he and Thomas were small, when they had followed their elder brother in everything he did: the summer they’d spent crawling through bushes at Woodstock pretending to be wild animals; the water battles in the moats; the mud fights; the dark evenings idling by the fire in the hall listening to stories of magicians and brave knights; and the long hot days spent in the saddle as they’d followed a king who was always on the move.
He told me of the mischievous games they’d played with the king’s blood-brother, Piers Gaveston, and of their horror when they learned he had been murdered. And he told me of his brother’s grief, how he had clung to the two young boys, trying to claw back the happy times; and then how he’d sunk into a melancholy so deep Edmund feared he would never recover.
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