‘I haven’t told anyone other than Sir Ingelram, my lord, not even my wife.’
‘Are you returning to Corfe?’
The man looked as if he would faint. ‘I have letters of protection, my lord. I shall leave the country and go overseas. It will be safer. I wish I’d never come back.’
We talked some more and eventually Edmund persuaded Sir John to return to Sir Ingelram Berenger and ask him to attend on my husband.
When Sir John had gone, Edmund yawned. ‘I have never heard such a ridiculous tale in all my life. It will be interesting to see what Berenger makes of it. What do you think he saw?’
He stretched his arms and folded them behind his head.
I looked carefully at my husband and wondered whether to tell him what was in my mind or whether it would be prudent to keep my thoughts to myself a little longer, until I had more proof.
On our way to York for the wedding I’d pondered the oddity of the feet that were too big or too small, of the boots which didn’t fit, and the extreme agitation of the woman who had done the embalming.
Edmund’s brother had large feet so why were the boots too small? Or had the woman got it wrong and the feet were too small for the boots. But she’d said the feet were big. I remembered how Isabella had made a joke about large men teetering on tiny feet. So why had he been wearing boots which were too small for him? It didn’t make sense. Perhaps they weren’t his boots at all. Perhaps the boots belonged to someone else. But if so, why was Edmund’s brother wearing them? But that couldn’t be right because they were clearly royal boots; the woman had said best leather, silk tassels, not what anyone other than a royal person would wear.
It had taken me all the way to Knaresborough before I’d realised my mistake, and when I did, I’d nearly fainted with shock. It wasn’t that the boots didn’t belong to Edmund’s brother, it was because the feet didn’t. Royal boots but not royal feet.
From that thought, the rest followed. A man’s feet cannot be separated from his body unless by dismemberment and the woman had said he was not hurt. So if the feet had not belonged to Edmund’s brother then neither had the rest of his body.
After we reached York and my conversation with Lord Norfolk, I’d guessed what the embalming woman had seen. That meant the funeral at Gloucester had been an illusion, a trick, something which was not what it seemed. The gorgeous covering which had lain across the body, the gilding on the lions on the hearse, the effigy with its gleaming copper crown, the candles, the solemn ceremony, the weeping - had all been for nothing because whoever was inside that coffin had not been Edmund’s brother.
But it wasn’t until Sir John Pecche arrived that I knew I was right.
I wanted to go home to Arundel but Isabella needed me and Edmund said he must stay for the Easter parliament. At the beginning of March a messenger in black arrived from France: Monseigneur Charles was dead.
‘At last,’ said Isabella with apparent satisfaction. ‘I thought he would linger all summer.’
She hadn’t liked Monseigneur Charles but I found her lack of sorrow shocking. A woman should always mourn the passing of a family member no matter what she feels personally. It was one of the responsibilities of kinship and the dead man had been her brother. I didn’t care greatly for Tom but if God should take him I would show proper grief and have a dozen masses said for his soul. It was the least a sister could do.
‘How my dear father would have grieved,’ said Isabella, shedding a delicate tear for the great Iron King, who everyone knew she had adored. ‘Three sons and not a single male heir between them. All his efforts come to nothing because my brothers failed in their duty. They were fools and they were married to fools. And look what they have left us with: my unworthy cousin of Valois who is no more fit to wear my father’s crown than a goat.’
When I ventured to remind Isabella that Madame of Evreux might yet give birth to a son, she waved the notion aside as if it was not worth considering.
‘No child can rule my father’s kingdom nor would my father want his brother’s son on the throne; he would want my son.’
On the last day of the parliament, this son of Isabella, with very bad grace, announced that he would recognise an independent sovereign Scotland. He was furious, everyone could see that. I only had to look at the set of his mouth and the expression in his eyes to know what he felt. He blamed his mother and my cousin for the humiliation of losing part of his kingdom but with no control over the treasury or the summoning of an army, there was nothing he could do. He may have been king but he must have been painfully aware how little kingship he could exert. His mother held the purse strings and my cousin had control of everything else.
He was in tears the day he told Edmund how his father had held the kingdom together but his mother and Lord Mortimer were busy giving it away. Soon, he said, there would be nothing left but his lands in England. Scotland was gone, Gascony would be next, then Ponthieu, then Wales. What else did they plan to auction off to the highest bidder?
Poor boy! He refused to speak to Isabella and went out of his way to avoid her company. He ignored my cousin and spent all his time, when he was not with his wife, with the young men who were his friends: his de Bohun cousins, Lady Clinton’s son and young William Montagu. They were usually seen together in the tilt yard practising their skills for the jousts. Gradually as the months passed he was growing away from Isabella but she was far from noticing what her son was doing because her eyes were fastened on someone else.
‘Lord Mortimer and I shall be absent for a while,’ she said to me as soon the parliament’s business was completed and the men began leaving for their homes. ‘We shall travel.’
‘Will you attend the funeral of your brother, your grace?’
‘Certainly not! Even if we were welcome, our plans are better served if I remain here. I have trusted men in Paris who can deal with the tedious formalities of royal death and who will advance my son’s cause with great vigour.’
‘May I enquire where you are going?’
‘No, you may not,’ said Isabella firmly. ‘This is a private sojourn, not a formal progress. I am merely retiring to one of my manors for a rest. You can see how fatigued I am, Margaret. I am worn out. Mortimer and I have had no peace these past two years, what with the constant claims upon our attention. Somebody has always been wanting something. We have been spied on day and night and I have had enough. It has been relentless. We need peace.’
Judging from her heightened colour and the slow secret smiles she gave when she thought my eyes were elsewhere, I deduced that peace was not what she had in mind. After keeping him dangling for more than two years I guessed Lord Mortimer of Wigmore might be about to receive his reward.
My cousin had been very patient and a lesser woman would have been either thrown aside or taken forcibly before now. But Isabella was different. Isabella was royalty. She was his gateway to a life of power and wealth, a dazzling jewel worth serving seven years for if needs be. Waiting to satisfy his lust was surely nothing compared to the rewards that he would reap. I knew myself how easy it was for a woman to succumb to a man’s mastery once she had invited him into her bed and Isabella was no different to any other woman.
‘My cousin will enjoy a respite from his cares,’ I said artlessly. ‘He has worked tirelessly in your service these past two years. Will he return to Ludlow?’
I was certain he wouldn’t but it was a most unworthy pleasure to see Isabella’s face darken.
‘No,’ she snapped. ‘Lady Mortimer will not be visited. Lord Mortimer is to attend me. I am his queen and he will be at my side.’
‘Things are different now,’ I said carefully. ‘You no longer have a husband and are free to place your favours where you will. There can be no objection from interfering bishops. All that is required is a little discretion.’
She looked at me sharply.
‘Watch
your words, Margaret. You sound more like His Holiness every day. You may be married to my late husband’s brother but that does not give you licence to comment on what I do. I shall do what I please and you will say nothing.’
I inclined my head. ‘Of course, your grace. Whatever you wish.’
They left two days later.
Returning to Arundel and our children was a joy to both of us. Although Edmund, as the new lord, had duties to discharge and was properly diligent, he liked to spend time with Mondi who was learning to walk. To the confusion of the nursemaids, who were not used to interference, we spent part of each morning in the nursery watching our son master the art of standing and moving. His little fat legs quivered, his arms flailed, he grabbed at his father’s hand and then sat down with a thump. A nursemaid swooped to the rescue but Edmund waved her away.
‘You have to learn to be a man, my son,’ he lectured a laughing Mondi who understood not a word his father said. ‘You won’t do that sitting on the floor. Come on. Up you get.’
It was a wonderful time but far too short because there were many matters more pressing than our son’s progress across the nursery floor.
‘Edmund, you remember Sir John Pecche?’ I said one day after we had handed Mondi back to a flustered nursemaid.
‘How could I forget? A foolish man who’d jump at his own shadow. What do you think he saw at Corfe?’
‘I think he saw what he said he saw.’
It took Edmund a minute to realise what I meant.
‘You mean a spirit risen up from the dead?’
‘No. I think he saw a real live man. I think he saw your brother.’
‘But my brother is dead.’
‘Is he?’
‘Christ’s blood, Margaret! Of course he’s dead. You were there. You saw him buried.’
‘I saw a fine display of pageantry,’ I said calmly. ‘I saw a hearse with a coffin and I saw an effigy of a king.’
‘You saw my brother’s coffin.’
‘No. I saw a coffin in which I was told your brother’s body lay.’
Edmund flushed with irritation.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Margaret. Of course it was my brother’s coffin. What other coffin could it have been?’
I took his hand in mine. I loved him and I needed to lead him carefully so that he understood exactly what might have occurred.
‘Edmund, when your brother died, who was there?’
‘I don’t know. His keeper. Lord Berkeley. Servants perhaps.’
‘And it was Lord Berkeley who wrote and told Isabella and the king that your brother was dead?’
‘Yes. You were in Lincoln, Margaret. You saw the letter.’
‘What happened then?’
‘What do you mean, what happened?’
‘What would have happened to your brother’s body? Who would have taken care of it?’
He furrowed his brow trying to remember the rituals of death. ‘I suppose they would have put him in the chapel at Berkeley.’
‘Surely an embalmer attended him first?’
‘Yes. Then he would have been placed in the chapel.’
‘And men watched over him in the chapel?’
‘Yes.’
‘But not before. Men didn’t watch over him before he was placed in the chapel?’
‘What does it matter if it was in the chapel or if it was before? What difference does it make?’
‘Edmund,’ I said quietly. ‘It makes all the difference in the world. Now think. Do you remember in Paris, when your uncle of Valois died and we went to view his body?’
‘Yes, of course I do.’
‘Do you recall his face?’
‘Christ’s teeth! Who could forget a last sight of that old bastard.’
‘What about your brother? Did you see his face?’
He frowned. ‘No.’
‘Did anyone?’
‘Of course they did.’
‘Who?’
‘Berkeley, some of his men, Gurney perhaps. I can’t remember exactly what Gurney said but I think he mentioned having seen my brother’s body.’
I roundly cursed myself for not finding out more from Sir Thomas Gurney when he was at Lincoln. But I didn’t know then how important it would be.
‘There was a royal sergeant-at-arms,’ said Edmund.
‘Yes, a watcher. The woman who carried out the embalming mentioned him to Isabella.’
‘Did she? I didn’t know.’
‘What was his purpose?’
‘He watched over my brother’s body. I remember Gurney telling my nephew. The boy was worried in case his father’s body was not being given proper care. So there you are, the watcher would have seen him. And the bishops and the town worthies in Gloucester, they would all have come to view the body. So you are mistaken. Whoever it was Pecche saw, it wasn’t my brother. My brother is buried in the abbey at Gloucester.’
I had taken Edmund as far as I could today. I would have to let him think about what I’d said. I’d let that little worm of doubt fester, and in good time I would lead him to think about feet: feet that were too big and boots that were too small, and things which were not quite what they seemed.
In the meantime I would turn my mind to why it should have happened. That was what was troubling me. Why would anyone do such a thing? What would be the purpose of keeping a man alive but pretending he was dead? Who would benefit from the deception and who had ordered it done?
While we were at Arundel I completed the formation of my household by taking two women as my lady companions. Their husbands were knights in Edmund’s service and it pleased them to send their wives to me and it pleased me to have company. The women were not skilled at anything in particular but they were pleasant, and good with the children.
Mondi was a delight. He reminded me so much of Aymer that it almost hurt. Little Joan was an engaging baby, beloved by everyone. She lay in her cradle and gurgled happily until such time as she was lifted up.
On our last day, Edmund had a visitor. Unlike those who had crowded in during the day to ask the new lord for favours or pray for justice in some minor dispute, this man came as the candles were lit. He had been with Edmund a long time when I was summoned to the little chamber above the private chapel. It was very secluded, approached by a single staircase and used only by Edmund and myself.
Edmund’s visitor was an elderly man, courteous, with a head of sparse lank grey hair and a neatly clipped beard. He bowed and introduced himself.
‘Sir Ingelram Berenger, my lady.’
His accent betrayed him as a West Country man.
Edmund was pacing the floor looking agitated.
‘You’d better tell the countess what you have told me, Berenger - about Pecche.’
Sir Ingelram put his fingers together. There were old scars and calluses and he had difficulty moving his right arm.
‘My lady, as I told the earl, John Pecche is a fine man; you couldn’t want for a stouter comrade. Not someone given to fancies, not like some who’d see their grandmothers dance on castle walls at midnight; and not like my daughters who believe in hobgoblins and swear the dead walk in the churchyard. John Pecche is a straight man. If he says he saw the king - the king that was - then that is what he saw.’
‘You believe him?’
‘I do.’
‘Even supposing he was right, which I very much doubt,’ said Edmund, ‘what would you have me do with this information? We don’t know who is holding this man, or why?’
‘Pecche says Maltravers has been at the castle.’
‘Sir John Maltravers?’
‘The same. But that’s no surprise, my lord. He’s a great man in the district. Has his nose in everybody’s business.’
While they talked I tried to remember what I knew about John Maltravers.
He’d been with us in Paris. A Dorset man with a connection to Lord Berkeley. Joint keeper of the royal prisoner. If I’d been asked, I would have said he was my cousin’s man, through and through.
Had he been at Berkeley on the night Edmund’s brother was said to have died? Was it perhaps he who had taken the prisoner to Corfe and if so, who had ordered him to do so? And what of the body placed in the royal coffin?
‘Perhaps we should ask Maltravers,’ said Edmund.
‘No, my lord,’ said Sir Ingelram. ‘That would be most unwise.’
‘If we don’t ask somebody we can’t discover the truth. Anyhow, the whole thing is ridiculous. If my brother were being held in Corfe, I would know. Someone would have told me.’
‘Someone has,’ I said quietly.
Edmund looked at me and then at Sir Ingleram, his face full of indecision.
‘My lord,’ said Sir Ingelram, taking advantage of his age to offer advice. ‘If this man is your brother there is only one right thing to do.’
‘And what would that be?’
‘Free him from his captivity. Whoever is holding him has practised a wicked deceit. By pretending your brother is dead they can keep him there until he rots. No-one would be any the wiser. My lord, it is your right to lead us and I for one am prepared to pledge everything I possess to enable you to carry out this task. My sword arm is of not much use these days but I have some wealth which I can put at your disposal.’
‘Berenger,’ said Edmund, visibly moved by the old man’s sincerity. ‘There is no need.’
‘There is every need, my lord. And I am not the only one. I know a dozen others who, without my even asking, would pledge themselves to free your brother.’
Edmund shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I cannot decide. I shall have to consider what I know and I must see what else I can discover. No matter how fine a man Pecche may be it would be foolish to rely on his word alone.’
After Sir Ingelram had gone, Edmund held me in his arms. He kissed the top of my head and I was so close to his chest I could hear him breathing.
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