Edmund walked to the door. He called William and told him to find his clerk.
‘This has made up my mind. We shall leave.’
I smiled. Life was definitely more pleasant away from the dangerous presence of Isabella and my cousin. ‘I shall give the orders. The children will be delighted to see us.’
‘We are not going to Arundel, we are going overseas: Paris, Avignon, Aquitaine, Santiago di Compestala.’
He had given me no warning and hadn’t asked my opinion. I wasn’t sure I wished to go to Avignon or the Aquitaine. And why Santiago di Compestala? I didn’t want to tread the pilgrim path and I certainly had no desire to add my coins to swell the coffers of avaricious monks at the tomb of St James. If I wished to make a pilgrimage, the bones of the blessed St Thomas at Canterbury would do me just as well.
I protested vehemently, but Edmund was adamant.
‘I need to see Beaumont and your brother who I’ve been told are in Paris. And I need to visit the Holy Father on private business. When we’ve done that we shall fulfil my mother’s dying wish.’
‘But why Avignon? What business do we have with His Holiness?’
‘I will tell you when we get there. Until then it is nothing to do with you. You will have to be an obedient wife and do as you’re told.’
I closed my mouth. When Edmund was in this mood there was no point in saying anything. If he wanted us to go to Avignon and Compestala then I would have to make the best of it and perhaps it would be enjoyable. I had never been further than Paris.
We needed letters of protection from the king to enable us to cross the Narrow Sea in safety. I listened as Edmund lied smoothly about the deathbed promise made to his mother and how he desired to visit the shrine of St James at Compestala to fulfill her last wishes. He said nothing about visiting my brother in Paris.
He would also, he explained, take the opportunity to further the cause of his late cousin of Lancaster with His Holiness. Doubtless his urgings would hasten the path towards sainthood for Earl Thomas.
‘Do we want it hastened, Mortimer?’ Isabella was proving difficult.
I watched her closely trying to decide whether or not I was right about the child. She sat with her hand protectively on her belly. I thought her face a trifle smoother, her breasts a little fuller. At meals she picked at her food, but she had never been a greedy eater. I still wasn’t sure.
My cousin smiled lazily. He was grander than ever with luxuriant fur-lined robes cast carelessly over his powerful shoulders and jewelled rings sparkling on every finger. If either of them betrayed knowledge of a forthcoming child, it was my cousin. Here was a man who had achieved more than the young Lord Mortimer of my childhood memories could have imagined. And the next step?
‘I see no reason why not.’ My cousin’s words interrupted my thoughts. ‘Lord Edmund will make a good advocate. And with your son bending his knee to the foundling in Amiens, you and I will remain here to ensure matters run smoothly.’
We stayed at Windsor for the Easter celebrations where I sat beside Countess Jeanne at the tournament. The cushions were plumper and more comfortable than usual and despite my worries I was enjoying myself.
‘I hear you plan a pilgrimage?’ Lady Jeanne sounded wistful.
I dragged my thoughts back to my neighbour.
‘It is to fulfill a vow which my husband’s mother made. She was dying and Lord Edmund promised he would go in her stead.’
‘It has taken him a long time,’ observed Lady Jeanne. ‘Dear Marguerite! It must be ten, eleven years since she went to God. Such a good woman. She saw life in a simple way. Be charitable, she used to say to me; be merciful; and most of all, have faith in God and the love of the Blessed Virgin.’
We watched Isabella toss a favour to my cousin. Her gown strained across her breasts as she leant forward, the folds of rose-coloured silk catching the rays of the sun. The brooch of rubies and sapphires at her neck glinted and sparkled.
My cousin’s horse side-stepped at the unfamiliar exchange but he kept the animal in position. The great Lord Mortimer inclined his head, saluted his queen and rode off to the end of the field where his squire waited patiently holding his helm.
Now his entire head was encased in burnished steel but somewhere behind the narrow slits which allowed him sight of his opponent, the darkness of unfulfilled ambition burned fiercely in his eyes.
I considered the new fashions: voluminous skirts, tightly-buttoned sleeves which drew the eye away from the body, sideless outer gowns which swung as a lady walked. I did some counting in my head. It would be winter when the child was born. Enveloping cloaks, furred mantles. Yes, it could be done with most people none the wiser. They would wait until they knew if it was a boy before allowing people to know. A girl wouldn’t matter, but a boy – a boy would change everything.
And what about Lady Mortimer? I shivered as I thought of her alone at Ludlow, watching her meals and lying at night in her great marriage bed, wondering if her husband would come back; or if he would send a man to end it all, a man with a knife concealed in his belt. There were so many ways to kill a woman: a push down the stairs, a slip over the battlements, an accident out hunting, or a dose of wolfsbane in the wine. So many ways to rid oneself of an inconvenient wife.
We spent two months making our preparations. Edmund was constantly in the saddle, travelling to see his men of business, first at Arundel, then at Kensington. If he had more meetings with Sir Ingelram Berenger or Sir John Pecche he didn’t tell me and I heard nothing more of Lord Zouche.
I made arrangements for the start of Mondi’s education with the children’s guardians who managed their little household with commendable efficiency. My son was nearly three and the time had come to stop playing with toys and start learning to be a man. He must receive instruction in his catechism and attend mass on Sundays. I left instructions about the children’s food and the number of sweetmeats I would permit and I discussed buttoned winter coats for Mondi with the tailor. The nursemaids, I knew, would be kept in good order. I would have liked to have put my son up on his first pony but thought that could wait until we returned.
All this and there were still three weeks to go until June and our departure for Avignon.
It was magnificently ornate. The sun shone relentlessly out of a clear blue sky and all around the courtyard, white walls and tiled floors reflected the heat. It might be October but my stockings were clinging to my legs and sweat was trickling down my back. Light silks would have been more comfortable but the Holy Father’s palace on the hill at Avignon was somewhere a woman must dress decorously and modestly. Images of the Blessed Virgin were everywhere, reminding me of my sole purpose in the eyes of these men. My brocade gown was cut high at the neck and instead of my usual crispinettes I was covered in an all-encompassing conventual veil. I felt trussed. And bored.
We had spent six weeks in Paris making polite visits to Edmund’s cousins during the day and having clandestine meetings with my brother, Lord Beaumont and Sir John Roscelyn in the evenings. They had put forward no plans, just expressions of support for some unnamed action at some unspecified time in the future. There might be money, but naturally their positions were not what they once were. They simply wanted anything other than what they had at the moment, which was exile, impoverishment and humiliation.
I visited Lady de Vesci’s manor outside Paris and found her much frailer than I remembered. She received me kindly and offered help to whatever extent she could at whatever it was my husband wanted to do. I don’t think she fully understood what was happening because several times she called me Lady Abernethy.
After the dullness of the Valois and Evreux ladies and their pointless contemplation of fashion and the doings of people I had never heard of, I was certain I would enjoy Avignon and the fabled splendour of the papal court. I found I did not.
‘My lady?’
I was jolted out of my re
verie. A familiar accent. A slight burr of the West Country? I looked up. At first I couldn’t place him. He was someone I’d seen before but I couldn’t put a name to the face. Youngish, about the same age as Edmund; straight nose, brown hair and eyes, nothing remarkable. Then he smiled and I remembered.
‘Sir William Montagu!’
He gave a small bow.
‘Countess.’
Sir William Montagu, the king’s closest friend. What was he doing in Avignon?
‘How pleasant to see someone from home,’ I said. ‘You are here on affairs of state?’ It was not my business to know, but I was curious and as always, alert to danger.
‘I am here to see His Holiness on a small matter for the king and also one for the Lady Isabella. And I am searching for the Lord of Cuyk.’
‘Alone?’
He laughed. ‘Hardly, my lady. I have brought the chancellor’s brother, Sir Bartholomew Burghersh, with me. Or if you like to put it another way, he has brought me. It all depends on who you think holds the leash.’
I didn’t think he was going to tell me any more but he must have decided I was trustworthy or else the matter was not confidential.
‘The king is keen to employ Lord Otto of Cuyk, and the dowager queen is anxious to make repayment of a debt to His Holiness. So you see I shall be busy.’
‘And Sir Bartholomew Burghersh?’
‘He is here to keep an eye on me. He has no other role that I know of.’
I presumed Sir Bartholomew was my cousin’s man. Chancellor Burghersh was most definitely a devotee of Isabella so it made sense that his brother would be in the same camp. But why didn’t they didn’t trust Sir William Montagu and what was he doing here? I thought the story about Lord Otto of Cuyk was a thinly veiled attempt to hide his real intentions. If the king had sent his most valued friend to visit the papal court, what did he want from His Holiness?
I considered the young king’s dilemma. He was dominated by his mother and by my cousin but there would come a time when he would break free and when that happened - if it happened - my cousin’s days of glory would be over. Perhaps, in secret, the king was already planning for that moment. Perhaps Sir William’s mission to the papal court was designed to see where His Holiness stood in relation to the growing antagonism between the king and my cousin.
Which way? Cousin or king or neither? Perhaps I should encourage Edmund to risk our money on the prisoner at Corfe. I wondered how trustworthy Sir William was. Not everybody was what they seemed in this life. I had learned that the hard way.
‘How fares the king, Sir William?’
‘Pleased to be back in England after our trip to Amiens, my lady. His grace annoyed King Philip and his council and left a host of problems in the wake of his homage. You must know what it’s like: the words weren’t quite what they wanted, his hands were in the wrong place, the bow wasn’t deep enough. It’s a vipers’ nest at the French court.’
I smiled. ‘And the dowager queen, the Lady Isabella?’
‘Well.’
He didn’t elaborate. Either he didn’t know or he wasn’t going to tell me.
‘And my cousin, Lord Mortimer?’
This time there was a slight hesitation. ‘As always, my lady, busy with matters of importance.’
He didn’t like my cousin, that was clear, but he was perfectly polite.
‘And you, my lady?’
‘To be truthful, Sir William, I am bored. The delights of Avignon are greatly overrated. I have found little to do but we are leaving soon to make our pilgrimage to Santiago di Compestala and as far as I am concerned it will be a welcome relief.’
Sir William hadn’t moved and nothing had happened, but with no warning a chill ran through my veins, and fingers of dust brushed the back of my neck. I felt afraid.
‘Don’t go.’
His face was serious. He didn’t smile. He wasn’t even looking at me. He was watching a man stride across the courtyard towards us: large, sweating and angry, the heels of his blood-red boots ringing out loudly on the paving tiles.
‘Why not?’
His voice low and the man was still too far away to hear. ‘If you go, you will not come back.’ He raised an arm. ‘Burghersh! I wondered where you’d got to.’
Edmund wanted to know every detail of my encounter with Sir William Montagu. ‘Did he say nothing else?’
‘Not then. But as we were taking our leave, I made sure I left my book on the bench. Sir Bartholomew kindly went back to retrieve it at my request. That was when Sir William said something very odd.’
‘What?’
‘He said it is better to eat the dog, no matter how unpalatable that may be, before the dog eats you. Just that. He didn’t explain what he meant and before I could ask, Sir Bartholomew returned and Sir William began talking of something else.’
We didn’t go to Santiago di Compestala. My nausea had settled into a familiar pattern and when I told Edmund he said no child of his was going to be born on the pilgrim path. Instead we came home and set out almost immediately for Kenilworth. The royal party had been there a month, we were told, and Edmund was anxious to discover what was happening.
‘You mustn’t go alone,’ I said fearfully. ‘I shall come with you. Remember my love, I have spied many a time for Isabella and if there are secrets to uncover I shall find them.’
It was yet more days of gruelling travel, this time through the cold of an early English winter. When we arrived we were informed that Lord Mortimer was absent, departed that morning for Ludlow but he would return shortly. The queen was resting. The news suited me. It was easier to ask questions without either Isabella or my cousin watching.
I knew what I was looking for but after a day of subtle and not-so-subtle questioning, I had discovered nothing. Isabella’s women were the same as ever: industrious, quiet and smiling. They asked had I enjoyed the wonders of the papal court and had I seen the Holy Father? Was the sea crossing calm and were the ladies in Paris still wearing gowns close-cut to the body? And what of their necklines? As to their own lives - oh, nothing much. A tear in the queen’s favourite blue silk robes which was difficult to repair and the kitchens reported a lack of cinnamon for the queen’s favourite sweetmeats - nothing unusual.
‘Have you heard?’ whispered Lady Jeanne as I took my place at the table for supper. ‘One of her women told me this morning.’
‘I have heard nothing,’ I said cautiously.
‘There is to be a child.’
It was like a blow with a hammer. My belly lurched and I began to shake. How did Lady Jeanne know? I’d found out nothing.
‘Are you certain?’
‘Oh yes and anybody looking at the two of them will be bound to guess. See how solicitous he is of her comfort.’
I followed her gaze expecting to see my cousin but all I saw was the young king helping the Lady Philippa into her chair.
‘Lady Philippa?’
‘Isn’t it wonderful. I’ve said nothing to Isabella but I’m sure she knows. One of the maids will have told her. She pays them you know.’
‘Pays them?’ I said stupidly, trying to recover from my mistake.
‘To bring her information. She will have someone in your household too. With Lord Wake’s reputation I doubt she places her trust in you any longer. Of course she trusts me, but that’s different.’
‘How is it different?’ I asked, increasingly bewildered at how foolish I had been.
‘Lineage, my dear Lady Margaret. I am a king’s grand-daughter.’
That evening I confessed my mistake to Edmund.
‘There is no child. Perhaps there was one and she lost it. It happens.’
But Edmund was not impressed with my news. ‘If there was one child there can be another. Mortimer won’t give up.’
‘No, he won’t,’ I agreed. ‘And people are sayi
ng he preens himself like a peacock. Sits higher than everyone else and acts as if he was already king.’
Edmund grasped my hand arm and led me to a settle by the hearth, away from the door.
‘What are we going to do?’
‘We could be dead if it hadn’t been for William Montagu,’ I said morosely.
‘And where do you think the warning came from? Someone must have told him.’
‘Edward.’ I kept my voice low. ‘It must have been Edward.’
‘And if the warning came from Edward who do you think is plotting our deaths?’
Many times I had imagined an assassin picking his way through the shadows and in my waking dreams, the face beneath the assassin’s hood was always that of my cousin.
I wanted it to be someone else. I couldn’t believe it of him. I was his cousin. I had loved him when I was a child. He couldn’t mean to have me killed. I could believe it of Isabella. If it suited her purpose she wouldn’t hesitate. I could imagine her twisting the knife in my cousin’s own heart if that would get her what she wanted, because Isabella loved nobody but herself. Once she had been a loving woman who had held my hand in the dark. But not now. Now she was hard and cold and merciless.
‘You know, don’t you?’
I nodded. ‘Yes. But why?’
Edmund thought for a moment.
‘Because we are a danger to him and when planning a campaign you pick off your enemies one by one.’
‘Like in a game of chess. Remove the foot soldiers then the knights and the castles until all you have left are a couple of bishops and the king and queen, isolated and alone.’
Edmund nodded. ‘First Cousin Henry who is old and blind, then me, then my brother Thomas.’
‘You forgot the softest target of all.’
‘Who is?’
‘The prisoner at Corfe. He baulked at killing a king but eliminated him just the same. Dead men can’t come back.’
I thought of us all stationed on the board. Who were we protecting? Who must be saved at all costs? The king of course. Young Edward asking me on the borders of Hainault whether my cousin was a good man. And what had I replied? How wrong I had been.
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