‘John Pecche has a nephew,’ said Edmund. ‘One Harry Pecche.’
‘And?’
‘He is to be found at Corfe.’
‘Not unexpected if his uncle is custodian.’
‘He has a special position, this Harry Pecche.’
‘Which is?’
Edmund hesitated. ‘He guards the prisoner, the man hidden beneath the flagstones in the hall. I say guard, but he is more of a companion as the man sees no one but him.’
‘Why did Sir John not mention this nephew?’
Edmund shrugged. ‘Who knows? Perhaps he forgot or perhaps he didn’t want to get him involved.’
‘What else did your man say?’
‘Harry Pecche and the prisoner arrived at the castle more than a year ago. They came with the lord of the district, John Maltravers.’
‘You are certain of this?’
‘Our man is quite certain. He says it is common knowledge but nobody talks much about it.’
‘And the prisoner’s name?’ This was the most vital piece of information. Edmund had given his man no clue as to the identity of the prisoner, not wanting to influence him one way or the other.
‘They call him “King Folly”. When there is a feast they bring him out of his dungeon and sit him in the hall. They put a crown on his head and drink his health. My informant tells me it is a very merry affair.’
‘He has seen the prisoner?’
‘Yes. At the nativity celebrations.’
‘And what did he say?’
Edmund’s face was bleak. ‘He said, “He is the dead spit of your brother, my lord, him that were king.” Those were his very words - him that were king.’
‘But how did he know?’
‘I chose a man who would know, a man who had once served in my brother’s household. They are ten a penny nowadays, men who served my brother. Margaret, what am I going to do?’
Now there was no doubt. Edmund’s brother was not dead as everyone believed, but alive and imprisoned in the bowels of Corfe Castle. A great deceit had been practised and knowing what we knew placed us in terrible danger. I knew what I would do but the prisoner was not my brother.
We had been a week at the royal palace of Woodstock but this was the first time we had walked to the pavilion at Everswell. The paved floor was littered with debris from last autumn: dried leaves, small twigs, dust. The grass had that dried-up winter appearance and the water running through the stone-lined channels looked icy.
Edmund took my hands and sat me down on a stone bench.
‘My mother used to bring me here. She told me that my grandmother planted the trees to remind her of home. My grandfather adored her and when she said she was homesick for the plants and sunshine of Provence, he sent for two dozen pear trees. He wanted her to be happy.’
The leafless branches moved in the wind, and the dust on the floor drifted into a corner. I shivered.
‘In spring the trees are covered in blossom but it doesn’t last. My mother said it is a reminder of the importance of love. One moment the person you love is alive, the next they are gone to God, fallen to the ground like the petals. For a short time they are remembered and then gradually they disappear as if they had never been. Remembering the blossom gave her comfort. She told me you cannot choose how long you keep those you love but you can remember them for as long as you live.’
I felt my eyes fill with tears. These were John’s trees, the ones I would have planted at Badenoch and they always reminded me of him. But now there would never be a Badenoch and John had been dead for fifteen years.
There was no-one to hear us where we sat. The men and women who had ventured out to keep us company were huddled together against the shelter of the cloisters and were too far away to be aware of our conversation.
Edmund took my hand.
‘I cannot leave him there, Margaret.’
I had been waiting for this. There had never been doubt in my mind as to which path Edmund would choose. He couldn’t endure the thought of this man he loved shut away from the light, left to rot in a dark hole. He couldn’t leave his brother where he was and continue his life as before, treading on the lies and deceits my cousin had devised. It was horribly dangerous, not just for Edmund but also for me and the children.
‘What would you have us do?’ I said.
‘He must be released.’
‘And what then?’
There was silence. I doubted Edmund had thought further than the joyful reunion when he pulled his brother out of his dungeon. But I had.
‘Edmund, if you free your brother, what will he do? Will he travel overseas and lodge with someone kindly disposed to him.’
‘Our French cousins?’
‘Would you not think that might be dangerous?’ I said. ‘Your cousin, Philip, would dearly like to have the king of England’s father in his clutches. Nothing would give him greater pleasure.’
‘Then who?’
‘His Castilian kinsmen perhaps?’
Edmund looked doubtful.
‘Or,’ I said slowly, ‘Are you entertaining the idea of restoring him to his former glory?’
He was shocked as if the thought had never occurred to him.
‘Because,’ I said, ‘you can be quite certain that is what your friends such as Sir Ingelram Berenger have in mind. They want your brother back on his throne.’
Edmund said nothing for a moment. Then, ‘I hadn’t thought.’
‘No,’ I said sharply. ‘I didn’t think you had. And what if you fail? What if your plot is discovered? What then?’
When he didn’t reply I gave him the answer. ‘My cousin will pursue you to the ends of the earth. He will hunt you down the way he hunted Sir Hugh Despenser and his father, and when he catches you he will dispose of your body to the dogs.’
And just to make sure he had no illusions, I added, ‘And Isabella will stand by and watch.’
Edmund turned as pale as the bleached grasses.
‘And what of your nephew?’ I said relentlessly. ‘What will you do with him? Pat him on the head and tell him to go back to being his father’s son? Wait his turn?’
Edmund put his head in his hands.
‘What shall I do?’
‘Leave matters be. There’s nothing you can do unless you wish to sacrifice us all.’
I didn’t have a bond of feeling with my brother as Edmund did with his and couldn’t imagine risking my own life and the happiness of my husband and children on some wild rescue plan. Perhaps my years alone had made me a hard woman or perhaps Edmund was too kind, too loving, too easily persuaded by others. All I could do was hope he would make the wise decision.
Isabella was in a bad mood. Her annoyance with her son had spilled over and affected us all.
‘In the summer the king will travel overseas to make his homage to that foundling who sits on my father’s throne,’ she said.
“Foundling” was the term of abuse for Philip, the new king of France, and Isabella delighted in its use. It was sufficiently rude without being vulgar.
‘I told him the son of a king has no business bending his knee to the son of a mere count, but my son wants us to live in harmony with those vultures across the Narrow Sea. They confiscated our tax revenues from Gascony but my son intends to send our envoys with gifts for them. And now he has just announced he will go to Amiens to do homage to the Valois pretender.’
‘Will you go with him?’
‘Never,’ she said. ‘When my son sits on the throne of France, then I shall return but not before. I will never recognise their Valois king.’
It was when she turned away that I saw. I wasn’t certain, of course I wasn’t. It was far too soon for anyone to know. Probably Isabella herself didn’t know. But to a woman who has lived with other women for all of her life there is an indefinabl
e something: a way of walking, of holding oneself; a particular sheen on the skin, a fullness around the face and the breasts. Before the sickness starts and the second course is missed, there is an unmistakable air about a woman carrying a child. And Isabella had it.
I stood frozen to the spot, not daring to speak in case my voice betrayed me. A child! My cousin had said he wanted another son. But this? This would spell disaster for us all.
Early next morning we left Woodstock. I kept my horse close by Edmund’s, hoping to be able to speak to him privately, but it was impossible. William was in conversation with him for most of the journey. They were discussing the fortifications at Arundel and whether the gatehouse should be strengthened. Then they moved on to the planned extensions to our house in Kensington and the purchase of some more horses.
That night as I lay in our sparsely-furnished chamber in the priory’s guest house, I reminded myself how lucky I was to be sharing a bed with my husband who held me close rather than with Lady Abernethy who kept me awake with her snoring. But through the walls I could hear every rustle and groan from the adjoining chamber so judged it safer not to discuss my suspicions about Isabella.
When we arrived at our town house and before I had changed my mud-spattered travelling clothes, I heard William come running and bang on my husband’s door. Curious, I peeped out of my chamber.
‘Bring him up.’ Edmund was standing in the doorway in his clean silk shirt.
William turned and retraced his steps, disappearing rapidly from view. A boy came into sight carrying a jug of hot water. Edmund shouted at him to hurry.
‘Who is it?’
‘Berenger.’
So Sir Ingelram Berenger had returned. Was this good news or bad?
‘Shall I come?’ I hoped the answer would be yes.
Edmund nodded. I withdrew into my chamber and quickly stepped out of my filthy clothes and put on something clean, brushed and lavender-scented. I decided to leave my hair and veil as they were. Sir Ingelram was an old soldier and unlikely to pay heed to female vanity.
As I stepped across the threshold I saw Sir Ingelram was not alone. He had brought another man, someone familiar, and I rather regretted the decision about my hair. The man’s eyes lit up in appreciation as he stood to greet me.
‘Lord Zouche, my lady,’ said Sir Ingelram.
Lady Despenser’s new husband! What was he doing here? I inclined my head graciously and sat down. He turned his attention to Edmund, giving me an opportunity to examine this man who had married Eleanor. A pleasant open face, long legs, sturdily built and not in the least perturbed by my presence. I wondered why he’d married her. Money of course. Hardly love as I had suggested to Countess Jeanne. I couldn’t imagine anyone loving Lady Eleanor. It had to be money.
‘I thought there would be a need for funds,’ explained Sir Ingelram. ‘Lord Zouche and I have spent a pleasant couple of days with money men in the city.’
‘Relieving them of their bags of gold,’ laughed his friend.
He was a cheerful man. I wonder if he’d used his wife’s lands as surety. I wasn’t sure how these things worked but Edmund would know.
‘I think I should explain Lord Zouche’s presence,’ apologised Sir Ingelram. ‘He came to me.’
‘There are a lot of men who think like I do,’ said Lord Zouche. ‘Nobody says or does anything because what would be the point? Nothing will change, not after Lord Henry’s humiliation. But we yearn for the days as they were, when your brother was on the throne. My wife’s first husband was a rogue, no matter what Sir Ingelram may say, but your brother was a good man, my lord.’
‘You told him,’ I said, accusingly.
The old man looked shocked. ‘No, my lady. I promised the earl I would tell no-one.’
Lord Zouche was curious. ‘Told me what?’
As Isabella had once said, I possessed a talent for reading people, and I could see a valuable ally in Lord Zouche. I didn’t like his wife but that didn’t mean I had to dislike the man. I reckoned he was trustworthy.
Edmund and I exchanged glances. I gave a small nod and Edmund proceeded to tell him the story of the prisoner at Corfe.
Lord Zouche raised his eyebrows and sucked in his cheeks. ‘God’s wounds! The scoundrel! To think I …’
‘We were all deceived, Lord Zouche,’ I said, smiling.
‘Does he intend to keep him there until he rots?’
‘Possibly, but I rather think he wants him alive. That way he is more useful.’
Edmund had not spent the hours I had mulling over this problem. He was a more straightforward person than me and the devious twists and turns of my cousin’s mind would never occur to Edmund.
‘In what way, my lady?’ Sir Ingelram was intrigued.
‘Lord Mortimer controls the king because the king is just a boy and my cousin is powerful and very threatening. But as the king becomes a man he will wish to make his own decisions. So Lord Mortimer must find another way of keeping him under his thumb.’ I let them think about that for a moment.
‘I don’t understand.’ Edmund was floundering.
‘What better threat can there be than having possession of what many see as the “rightful king”. The son can say nothing and do nothing because he knows my cousin holds his father. There are many threats Lord Mortimer could make to ensure the king does what he wants. The son would not want His Holiness to be made aware. Or the king of France. Think what they might do if they knew.’
They fell into a discussion of what to do if they freed Sir Edward from his underground dungeon. Sir Ingelram, as I had predicted, was all for restoring him to the throne, while Edmund wanted him out of England, somewhere safe. Lord Zouche had as yet, no opinion on the matter but was quite ready to consider either possibility.
‘You will need help,’ I said calmly. ‘You cannot do this alone. Whom can you trust?’
‘Melton.’ Sir Ingelram didn’t hesitate before naming the archbishop of York.
‘Fitzwarin,’ said Lord Zouche.
‘My brother-in-law Lord Wake, Lord Beaumont, his sister Lady de Vesci, Pecche and Roscelyn.’ Edmund was tallying up names on his fingers. ‘And Lancaster, naturally.’
I thought of the half-blind man kneeling in the mud. ‘Lord Henry won’t be much use to you.’
‘His name commands support. Remember his lineage.’ Edmund was dismissive as if I could not be expected to realise the importance of the earl of Lancaster. I was a mere baron’s daughter, and a lowly baron at that.
‘Donald of Mar.’
There was silence. Donald of Mar was Robert Bruce’s nephew, brought up in the household of Edmund’s brother. He was branded an enemy rebel and if he came to help he would bring thousands of men pouring across the border from Scotland. My stomach turned over and for the first time I was truly afraid. This was no small affair they were planning but a full-scale attempt to change the face of the kingdom. They were not going to stop at freeing Edmund’s brother, they were going to put him back on the throne.
As they were leaving I touched Lord Zouche’s arm.
‘How is Lady Eleanor, Lord Zouche?’
‘I have no idea, my lady. I am not allowed to see her.’
His tone was light. For a man recently married, he didn’t seem too concerned at the loss of his wife. He had her lands under his control and doubtless that was what he had wanted from the marriage, not the lady herself.
That evening I told Edmund we needed to talk. I called for the candles to be lit and the fire made up and threw the servants out. William was to guard the door because I wanted no one else to hear what I had to say.
I told Edmund my suspicions. The muscles around his mouth tightened.
‘A child?’
‘I cannot be sure, but I think it probable.’
His eyes flickered to my belly assessing the state of my womb. I
t was eighteen months since Joan’s birth and I knew he wanted another child.
‘Does Mortimer know?’
‘Isabella herself may not be certain and most women keep their suspicions to themselves until they feel the child move.’
‘Now she truly is a whore.’ He was coldly furious.
‘She desires him.’ I shrugged. ‘She always has but as long as she considered herself a married woman she held back. Now she believes your brother dead she is no longer constrained. It may be distasteful but there is nothing other than good manners to prevent a widow from taking a lover.’
‘What about your cousin? You think he is also caught in an overwhelming passion?’
‘No. I think, for him, it has been a calculated gamble from the moment they first met in Paris. I think he is using her.’
Edmund drove his fist down hard onto the table. The cups rattled against each other and the hound asleep by the hearth lifted his head in annoyance, then seeing it was only his master, settled down again, nose between paws.
‘He takes what he wants and then flaunts himself in front of us.’ Edmund was really angry.
‘She has used him too,’ I said, keeping my voice gentle not wanting him to become even angrier.
Could Edmund not see how this adventure had been to both their advantages? My cousin disposed of his enemies and regained his position and wealth, while Isabella was able to return: her husband emasculated, her worst enemy horribly put to death and her biddable son on the throne of England. She was powerful, rich and unassailable. Their passion may be pleasurable but it also served as a silken rope to bind one to the other. They used their lust as a weapon: a snare, a line, one snap, one snatch and the fish is caught, floundering, helpless unable to escape.
‘I will not allow this insult to my brother and my nephew.’
‘There is nothing you can do, Edmund,’ I said. ‘If there is a child, it will be born.’
I banished memories of a drawstring pouch and the little vial, and the gently swollen belly of Lady Eleanor Despenser.
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