Isabeau, A Novel of Queen Isabella and Sir Roger Mortimer (6 page)

“That it would come to something like this. He gambled, his luck against ours. And if Lancaster does not arrive on the morrow, the king will win.”

My uncle gulped down ale and handed me the flask. “If Thomas of Lancaster could keep his blessed word, we’d be warm and dry right now. Spineless bastard.”

I had no desire to banter over the obvious. Lancaster should have arrived days ago. He had broken his promise. It was not the first time. Even Pembroke had warned us that the earl was all bombast and bluster. I emptied the flask and let it drop to the ground. Had I a dozen casks, I would have drained them dry, too.

“To think,” my uncle lamented, “our bliss lasted all of two months before King Edward lashed out like a teased and tethered dog. Longshanks was a horrid tyrant, but he honored loyalty and let no one rule him. His son is a limp kitten who wants to be stroked and suckle himself to sleep.”

I said nothing. Once, I had been high in the king’s favor; now, I was a hunted rebel. I sank to my haunches and cradled my throbbing head in my hands.

“What now, nephew? We can’t go west. The Welsh will slaughter us like lame cattle before they allow the king that pleasure.”

The taunts of Edward’s archers carried from across the bridge. Arrows hissed back and forth in the darkness, some landing astray, some piercing flesh. I pressed my fingers over my ears to deaden the screams of a dying man and spoke at the ground. “We must keep going north, then.”

“Humph. Lancaster’s not so stupid as to rush his own death.”

I raised my eyes. “Joan is pregnant again. She may have had the child by now, for all I know.”

“An even dozen, will it be?” He gave me his hand to pull me up. “How many years is your Edmund now? Nineteen?”

I nodded dully, feeling the faint buzz of ale, and stood. Together we began the walk back to camp. Ice crackled beneath our boots. “We quarreled the last time I saw her – bitterly.”

“Over what?”

“Everything. She complains incessantly – whether I come or go, whose side I take, what I have done or not done. Nothing I do pleases her.”

“It is you who complains. You’re ungrateful if you don’t realize what she’s given you and I’m not talking of inheritances. Your daughters will build you more alliances by whom they wed than any other bargains you might strike. And your sons will sire Mortimers by the score to carry on your name.”

I almost told him after what happened to the young Elizabeth Badlesmere, no man would marry his daughter to a Mortimer traitor. Instead, I held my tongue and told a passing squire to spread the order to break camp. We would leave enough men to hold the bridge and march again, through the night. Our numbers were compromised, but it gained nothing to stay and we could not leave our backs unprotected.

“To Shrewsbury?” my uncle asked.

“Yes.” Beyond Shrewsbury, the Severn snaked back westward and if we did not cross the river and race north to find Lancaster, then we would be trapped interminably between the Welsh and the royal army.

“What there?”

“Either we are met with a miracle when Lancaster arrives as our savior
 ...
or we throw ourselves at Edward’s fickle mercy.”

 In horror of the thought, he sucked his chin to his neck. “No. How can we?”

“What else can we do? Fight? It would be suicide. I want to see my children again, Uncle. I want to go home someday. It is the only way. The
only
way.”

“And what of Lancaster? Why should we grovel at Edward’s feet while he roams free? The king will take our lands. Put us in chains.”

“Better that, Uncle, than hang with him.”

The corners of his mouth plunged and he rattled his hoary head at me. “This year I turned sixty, Roger. And this is what is to become of me? I am too old to be shut up. Too damn old.” He turned his face from me and walked away.

In the darkness, I heard the short, indrawn breaths of a man weeping to himself, hopeless and exhausted. A man who had no more years of his life to waste on pursuits as futile as trying to correct a lawless king.

5

Roger Mortimer:

Shrewsbury – January, 1322

TRODDEN IN SPIRIT AND road-weary, we did not make it to Shrewsbury ahead of the king. Like fish in a net being hauled into the boat, we were trapped, bounded on three sides by the River Severn. It was only a brief matter of time before a royal detachment would cross the river somewhere behind us or a band of screaming Welshmen would fly down at us from the mountains.

Across the river, the king’s army, insouciant, warm and well fed, sprawled around Shrewsbury. The smoke from their fires, infused with the aroma of cooked meat, drifted to us on an icy January wind, reminding us constantly that starvation was only ever a few days away. Provisions were running short. Already rations had been halved. We had ceased to forage. The local farms had been wrung stone-dry. We had butchered every cow, pig and chicken within two days’ ride. The abbeys had bolted their doors against us, shouting the message that if we wanted any more from them we would have to burn them out. I considered it, but my uncle was a more reverent man than I. Each day I cinched my belt a little tighter, as I succumbed to the same, irritable languor that was slowly devouring my men and turning them against one another like starving dogs in a pit.

When we left Bridgnorth, skulking away in the darkness, I thought we would gain enough lead to get across the bridge at Shrewsbury before Edward ever took sight of us. But illness struck too many of my men along the way. Already they were weak from hunger and exhaustion. We did not march to Shrewsbury; we crawled. There, we came upon our dread – the king’s army not only holding the bridge to Shrewsbury, but encamped along the near bank. Had Edward wanted to, he could have sprung on us like a cat pounces on a cornered mouse.

Why kill the prey, though, when he could play with it a while? Supplied with provisions from Shrewsbury, the king was more than willing, and able, to starve us into submission. I could either send my men to a quick and bloody end or condemn them to a long, slow death at winter’s cruel whim. If, however, my uncle and I gave ourselves up, our men could all go home.

Edward demanded our complete submission. We were not in a position to bargain. Edward knew it. I knew it. My uncle, however, did not. He again requested full pardons. Edward refused.

For a long, wearisome week, I argued with my uncle, but he would not give in to the king. He was all stubbornness and no sense, even as he grew weaker day by day. The winter cold had gripped him hard. His skin was as white as the snow capping the mountains. The circles around his eyes were the deep blue of an evening sky. His lungs and throat were choked with phlegm. In the mornings he coughed so hard it sounded as though he might expel his innards. Between spells, he wheezed like a sickly child. I feared that if I did not deliver him to rudimentary comfort, he would die from his own obstinacy.

My uncle’s tent next to mine, I lay awake, unable to sleep. A dozen arguments swirled in my mind: why I should still hold my ground against the king, why I should give in, why I should fight
 ...
and above the muddle of questions, my uncle’s bellowed protests echoed in my head. I heard then his hacking cough, followed by hoarse retching through the canvas walls. Defeated, I sat up, hunched forward, and tugged the blanket up around my aching shoulders. My elbows on my knees, I buried my head in my hands.

Edmund stirred beneath his covers. “Uncle Roger – how is he?”

I looked toward my son through the veil of night, his face only a vague outline of black against a field of darkest gray. “He will not last, I fear.”

There was a long silence. Edmund sniffed and I heard him rub his nose with a sleeve. “Perhaps he doesn’t want to.” He flopped over and within minutes his chest rose and fell in the steady rhythm of peaceful slumber.

Half the night or more I stared at my son, wrapped tight in his thin cocoon. I did not ponder on what he might think of me. I did not want to know. Hours went by before I came back to Edmund’s simple observation about his great-uncle. If my uncle died before he was forced to give himself up, then he would have won one small victory. He would die never having given in to a tyrant.

Come morning, I would bend to my uncle, sense or no, and let him keep his pride. We would go back south, find somewhere to make our stand, and pray to God winter did not kill us before the king’s army did. If we could hold out until spring, perhaps old allies would return to defend us. Perhaps angels would swoop from the sky and strike the king dead with bolts of lightning. A man could dream
 ...

Restless, I rose at first light, even though I heard nothing but the rumbling snores of my uncle. I trudged out into the camp and wandered along the narrow rows between the tents. It was so quiet it looked as though the plague had struck. Had the king attacked early that morning, he would have butchered us beneath our blankets. Frost shimmered on the cloaks of soldiers as they lay on the ground. Even in their sleep, some shivered. I pounded my gloved palms together to bring the blood to my stiff fingers. With care, I picked my way between dozing men and poked at a dying fire with my sword. A charred pot lay overturned beside the fire, traces of burnt bean pottage crusted along the rim. Beside it was an empty cask, still smelling of ale. I jabbed at the logs, turning them over in the white ash, until I found the glowing embers. But when I looked about for more firewood, there was none to be had. I sank down, my sword resting in my lap, and stretched my hands toward the faltering flames.

Across from me, a man writhed beneath layers of muddied wool, rolled to his knees and stood. My companion Sir John Maltravers. Eyes still shut, he swayed from side to side and scratched at his crotch, yawning. He opened one eye just wide enough to locate the struggling little fire and fumbled beneath his tunic to slide a hand into his breeches.

My sword blade hovered above the dying flames. I raised it to his widening eyes. “Piss on my fire, Maltravers, and I’ll make a eunuch of you.”

At the sound of my voice, Maltravers blinked to clear the sleep from his eyes. Muttering an apology, he yanked his hand free, retreated backward, and stumbled over the cask. He fell with a thunderous thud. In lighter times I would have mocked him for his clumsiness, but I was still in a bad temper from my sleepless night. He gave a rough moan and rolled to his side, clutching the back of his head. I started toward him to offer a hand, but something, a sound in the distance, made me turn around.

Hooves pounded against frozen earth. A mounted messenger came down the row at an easy canter, searching left and right. He slowed as he saw me and brought his horse to a halt. “Where can I find Sir Roger of Wigmore or Lord Roger of Chirk?” he said.

I shoved the end of my sword blade into the rock hard ground and rested both hands on the crossguard. “That depends. Who are you?”

His fair eyebrows lifted. “Simon de Beresford.”

“And whose man are you, Simon de Beresford?”

He gave me a skeptical look. His pale blue eyes had the cold, hard look of steel. “I am Lord Pembroke’s squire.”

“Then I am Sir Roger.”

He tipped his chin up as a sly grin flickered across his mouth. “Ah then, I have, at times, had my purse filled by your uncle when he had need of information. My Lord Pembroke sends me to tell you that he has news of the Earl of Lancaster that should interest you.”

“Go on.”

“He has proof that the earl is in league with the Scots.”

That should have come as no surprise to anyone, least of all a man as well-informed as Pembroke. “And the king knows of this?

Simon nodded his head of silver-fair hair.

“What proof?”

“If you answer this, Earl Pembroke will tell you himself.” From beneath his padded tunic, he produced a letter and extended it to me.

As soon as the letter left his hands, he turned his horse and started away.

“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, 22
^nd
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.