The King Must Die (The Isabella Books) (4 page)

Salome danced on, teasing away her many colored veils one by one to entertain the mummer-king and queen. Whenever she paused in her movements, fingers fluttering over her scant clothing, the crowd banged cups and spoons on the tables. Then she would strip another veil free and, stretching its edge from hand to hand, glide on graceful feet in a circle around the thrones, the cloth billowing out behind her like a sail catching the wind.

Fascinated, my eyes followed her every movement, studied the shape and flow of her body, the smoothness of the skin exposed on her arms, shoulders, belly and legs. Never before had I seen a woman so barely clad and so
exciting
to watch.

The mummer-king clapped his hands in the air and the drums banged louder in response. Another mummer burst into the room’s center, his mask painted in grim lines, his costume nothing but loose breeches and a tunic of hemp. In his arms, he bore a platter.

“There, see,”—I shook John’s forearm—“a slave comes bearing the head of John the Baptist.”

“But that’s a boar’s head,” he objected, yanking his arm away, “not a man’s.”

“Did you think they would put the head of a real man on a platter during Christmas dinner? You
are
daft.”

“But why did they cut off
his
head? I thought John the Baptist was a good man, not like the bishop. Nobody liked Bishop Stapledon ... except Father.”

“John the Baptist did not think they should marry.”

“Why not?”

“Because they were both already married—to other people.” John flashed a quizzical look at me, but too entranced by the play, he quickly returned his attentions to it. If the distance to Crete baffled him, incestuous adultery would have made even less sense.

The slave hefted the platter to his shoulder and turned round to display the token. I searched the room, lowering my voice. “As for that being a boar’s head, I doubt the priests here will take kindly to that mockery of John the Baptist, but —”

My words died abruptly as my sight came to rest on an empty chair. My mother’s seat at the high table was vacant. Had I been so besotted by the attentions of giddy maidens I hadn’t even noticed her leaving? And earlier, at the opposite end from John and me, Sir Roger Mortimer had been seated next to Bishop Orleton, but now some unfamiliar abbot sat in his place.

I looked again at the mummer-king, his face concealed behind a garishly painted mask. A circlet of silver was perched snugly on his nearly black, wavy crown of hair. When he turned his head my way, as if he sensed my scrutiny, I knew the incisive darkness in the eyes. Knew the hunger and the doggedness behind them. They were Mortimer’s eyes. Eyes I had looked into a thousand times in the past year: in France, on the voyage home, and during the many miles I had ridden abreast of him as he spoke of how we would win England back in the name of its people and he would deliver the crown to me.

His hand crept over that of Queen Herodius’s—my mother’s.

If Mortimer smiled, it was hidden behind the oversized, false mouth of madder red. But as the slave hoisted the platter above his head with both hands and strode past all the tables, pausing every few strides to turn to the crowd so they could enjoy the spectacle, I detected the flash of a smile in the crinkling of Mortimer’s eyes and the glint of unabashed mockery.

Joanna peeked through Ida’s fingers, splayed protectively over her face, and began to wail. Ida hobbled away to carry her to safety, huffing as Joanna squirmed in her sagging arms.

The boar’s features had been unnaturally distorted by the cook’s embellishments: a gleaming red apple shoved deep between too-small jaws, so that its mouth had been split at the corners and sewn back together; charred tusks painted white and adorned with sugar to glitter in the torchlight like curved icicles; and the flesh so discolored from the heat of the flames that it looked strikingly like the bruise-mottled head of the dead Bishop Stapledon.

The twisting and fluttering notes of the reed pipe pitched to a frenzy. Salome leapt up and twirled across the floor on the balls of her bare feet, the last veil whipping around her in a swirl of palest amethyst. Delighted, the crowd applauded her fluid dance. Some of the men even called out ribald suggestions, so bewitching was her beauty. She turned back to Mortimer, dipped to her knees, and then lowered onto to her belly again, crawling to him.

The veil became entangled around her foot and when she tried to extend her leg to advance, her body jerked to a halt. Kent, who was passing before the nearest table, stooped to help her. He reached out to unravel the cloth from just above her bare ankle, his fingers tugging nervously at the delicate material as though he were afraid of both tearing the cloth and touching the woman. Then, just as he freed her and began to stand, the slave backed into him.

The platter tilted sideways, tottering in the slave’s unsteady grasp. He thrust one hand up higher, trying to right it, but the movement overcompensated and the weight shifted. The boar’s head rolled over the lip and struck Kent squarely on the back of the neck, knocking him to the floor, flat on his stomach. Air compressed from his lungs in an unflattering grunt. Chunks of leeks and carrots, sprinkled with a stuffing of suet and bread crumbs, spilled from the platter and poured over him. End over end, the pig’s head tumbled unevenly across the floor, until at last coming to rest before Mortimer’s feet. He nudged the thing once with the pointed toe of his shoe and then gave it a swift kick. It skidded on the top of its skull across the tiles, bounced off the arm of Salome and smashed into Kent’s nose. Everyone laughed—except Kent.

He sputtered and batted the thing away, visibly shrinking from it. Still dazed, he staggered to his feet. Mother tore the disguise from her head, golden hair springing from its pins, and dashed to his rescue. She gathered up the end of her long sleeve and brushed at Kent’s soiled clothing, sweeping bits of food to the ground.

Mortimer untied his mask and peeled it away to dab tears of laughter from his eyes.

Suddenly, the irony of it all sickened me. John clamped a hand on my wrist as I made to rise.

“Where are you going?” he said.

3

Young Edward:

Westminster — January, 1327

O
n the eve of the new year, we left Wallingford behind and went east. It seemed we were in a hurry to reach London. Parliament was set to assemble at nearby Westminster. There were matters to settle. Some of which, I sensed, involved me.

At dawn, long frozen ribbons of ice marked the ruts of wagon wheels along the road. In the afternoon, we passed through Ludgate into London itself. Above the jumble of rooftops, the towering spire of St. Paul’s thrust heavenward. Hour upon hour, we wended our way through the crooked streets as the crowds thickened. Eleanor at first shrieked her excitement, but in time her voice began to crackle, then went hoarse and finally silent. Meanwhile, an overwrought Joanna fussed loudly, eventually falling asleep in her litter, oblivious to the commotion.

If John had been afraid to return to London before, his fears were soon dissolved. Not hundreds, but thousands clamored to greet us. Pikes swept our way clear; otherwise we would have been stalled like merchants waiting to pay their toll at the city gates.

What a glorious day it was. Over and over, I heard my name, ringing in my ears like the peal of bells heralding some great event.

For all its wealth and wonders, though, London was still London: packed with too many people in too little space. Everywhere, a thick stench permeated the air, its components shifting with the wind and sector. The kilns of tilers and potters belched smoke. Tanneries spewed their dye waste into ditches already clogged with human waste. The stalls of fishmongers stank of herring and salmon. And the unwanted offal of butchers’ shops rotted in heaps while well-fed feral cats dashed among the alleyways. In summer, the smells would have been strong enough to tinge my tongue with the sour taste of bile. When we passed the worst of places, I pinched my nose shut, John mimicking me, and held my breath as I waved.

When we at last came within sight of the double walled Tower of London, I exhaled in relief. It had been so long since I had been there. We rode through Lion Gate, over the moat’s drawbridge and finally through the inner gate to dismount on Tower Green. I spun around to gaze at all the structures, trying hard to remember what was where.

As they took our horses away, John came and slipped his hand in mine. His slight body quivered, the angled bones of his shoulder digging into my chest as he leaned into me.

I rumpled his hair. “You’re safe here. No more riots.”

He turned wide blue eyes up at me. “Promise, Ned?”

“I’m here, aren’t I? Besides, they were angry—at Bishop Stapledon, at the way things were. They’re not anymore. It will be all right, I promise.” I wanted to add that when I was king, the people would never be so angry with me, but it seemed premature. There was still great uncertainty and it was best not to presume too much. I nudged him away, not wanting to encourage him to cling to me like the leech he was. “Have courage, will you? I may need you to fight for me one day and I don’t want a fainting lamb for a brother. I want a soldier who can charge into battle, unafraid of death. There is no glory in avoidance or surrender now, is there?”

His lips framed a question, but for once he did not give voice to his doubts. Blotting a runny nose on his sleeve, he shook his head and then darted off toward the White Tower, where the rest of our party was headed. I spotted Mother walking close to Mortimer, her head bent attentively toward him as he spoke to her. They went up the stairs together, her full skirts brushing his leg. When they reached the double doors, they paused as a porter tugged each half open.

I was unsure what to make of the man. Without him, England would have tumbled into ruin at the hands of Hugh Despenser. And I would not be poised to take the throne. Still, something about him unsettled me.

He turned to look at me then, his dark eyes commanding me to follow. I stared back, my feet firmly planted, knees locked, feeling neither the tug of admiration for him, nor the intimidating threat of his authority.

I might have remained there all day, passively defiant, had Sir William Montagu not strode before me to block my view. His cheeks were lifted in a broad, jaunty smile.

“Is there anything you need of me, my lord?”

Annoyed, I dodged to the side of him, but both Mortimer and my mother were gone from the doorway. Old Ida waddled past, Joanna propped sleepily on her broad hip and Eleanor trailing along. Ida clucked at me to come inside, out of the cold. When I didn’t move, she started toward me and I sensed a sharp cuff to the ear coming if I did not follow her orders.

Will laughed as he turned to walk with me. When I left for France, he had been tasked to serve not only as my companion, but my mentor, as well, tutoring me in the ways of warfare.

“Will?” I said, my voice low so no one would overhear me.

“Yes, my lord?”

“You’ll look out for me, should I ever need it?”

“I already do that. Every day.”

“I mean ...”—swinging before him, I stopped so abruptly he nearly plowed me over—“defend me. My life, should anyone ever try to take it.”

He arched a ragged eyebrow at me. “A sober request. Why the sudden concern?”

I shrugged. “No reason. Only that, being a king, which I will be one day, well ...”

A grin flickered over his lips and he chuckled. “Oh, I think you’ll do quite well for yourself. Then again, kings have so
many
things to concern themselves with. Let me assure you that your preservation is my sole purpose. You see, I have no fear of danger. I seek it out, pounce upon it and throttle it before it ever knows I’m there.”

Nodding, I stepped aside.

He stood firm. “Does that put your mind at rest?”

“It will once you prove that you can do more than just speak the words.”

“Ah. Well, pray it never comes to that.”

I bumped him with a shoulder as I went toward the stairs. “We can pray all we want. God will test us as he sees fit, I suppose.”

“God’s bollocks, you’re as sober as the pope on a holy day. I swear you were born forty.” In a stride he was at my shoulder, matching my steps.

“Mind your tongue, Will Montagu,” I warned him in the sternest voice I could muster. “’Tis your future king you’re speaking to. Besides, it would serve you well to be a little more pious. Eternity is a long time to pay for such profane words.”

“So the priests tell us.” He gave a pert wink. “Just wait until you’re of age, my lord. I’ll teach you what all those holy men have been missing out on. You’ll take pity on them, then.”

I gave no reply. His vices would test my devoutness. I had no doubt of that. But I didn’t need a saint as my guardian. I needed a man who wasn’t afraid to battle the devil and court death. I needed a man precisely like Will Montagu.

***

There was some confusion as to whether parliament could be held at all, given that my father would not come. Would not ... or could not, I was never sure. Bishops Burghersh and Stratford had been sent to Kenilworth and quickly returned saying that my father had cursed their invitation to sit among his enemies.

It was not the crown he was clinging to, but stubborn pride.

In truth, my father thought kingship a burden. Always, he warred with his barons, blamed the clergy for condemning him, and was resentful that the people did not love him as they did my mother, Queen Isabella, nor fear him like they had my grandfather, the first Edward, called Longshanks by some. I had even overheard him say once that he would rather have been born a commoner. I found that hard to fathom, for it seemed not only a harsh life, but devoid of glory and purpose. Even then, as young as I was when he said the words, I felt a sense of honor to be born the heir to England’s throne. To me, the promise of a crown was uplifting—a gift I embraced with every sinew and bone of my being.

Day by day, however, it was growing increasingly harder to hide my impatience. For so long, Mother had spoken to me of being king one day, not only of England, but France as well. My uncle, King Charles of France, had been married to his milk-faced bride, Jeanne of Evreux, for just over a year now. Already she had birthed one child, a girl, who died before her churching. A sad affair, but I was acutely aware that if she never bore him an heir, he might well name me as his successor.

And then, yesterday, Bishop Orleton returned from another meeting with my father, bearing a document. When he gave it to my mother, her knees swayed beneath her and she clutched it to her breast as fiercely as if it were her own infant delivered from the threshold of death by some miracle.

I knew its contents. Not the exact words, perhaps, but there could be no mistaking that the path of my destiny had finally been laid out before me. A thousand thoughts raced through my head as I lay in bed, unable to sleep, yet exhilarated. That morning I was awoken early, dressed in velvet as blue as the northern sea, my shoulders adorned with heavily linked chains of gold strung with jewels as big as coins. I was hurriedly escorted to Westminster Palace, where Parliament was convening.

Hours dragged by while I was made to wait in the King’s State Bedchamber. I rested on my back with arms folded on the oversized, down-filled bed, staring up at the ceiling’s painted oaken panels. One in particular drew my attention. On a field of blue, a winged seraph wore a cloak of dove-white feathers, his eyes cast heavenward. A halo illuminated the tightly sprung coils of his golden hair. My eyes flicked to the panel beside it, where a stern-faced prophet with a long flowing beard of gray gripped a scroll in both hands. It harkened back Orleton’s arrival.

I sat up, too anxious to remain still any longer. Grabbing the ermine-lined cloak draped over a nearby chair, I marched past my tutor, Richard Bury, who had just entered bearing an armload of books.

“I apologize profusely, my lord,” he blubbered, his fat cheeks flushed with effort, “but they did not tell me you were leaving the Tower this morning. It took some time to gather everything. Are you ready to begin your lessons?”

I lingered at the doorway only a moment, my heart racing so fast I thought it might burst inside my chest if I didn’t do
something
. “Not today, Richard. I’ve too much on my mind.”

“But your mother says —”

His voice faded to a faraway buzz as I hastened down the corridor, Will close on my heels. Two flights of stairs and several turns later, I stood in the adjoining chamber just outside the vast hall where Parliament was gathered. A row of armed soldiers flanked either side of the door, their expressions as blank as unfashioned blocks of marble. I started toward the entrance, expecting the guards closest to fling it open for me. Instead, a pair of poleaxes crossed before me, their heavy curved blades clanking as they glanced off one another.

“You are not to enter, my lord,” one of the guards said flatly, “until called for.”

“Called for?” I echoed peevishly. “By whom?”

“The queen, my lord.”

The silken tones of Bishop Orleton’s voice emanated from beyond the iron-studded doors as he delivered a long speech—or perhaps he was reading from a document.
The
document? My shoulders drew up tight toward my ears, my fingers curling and uncurling into loose fists. I lurched forward. A hand clamped onto the lean flesh of my arm and yanked me back.

“No,” Will said. “Not yet. You must wait.”

“Forever?” I jerked my arm from his hold. Once glimpse at the sharp blades barring my way told me my mother’s orders had been firm. Whatever it was they were debating in there, I was not to be a part of it. And that both angered and deflated me.

I spun around so fast, my vision went gray. I threw my hands out to steady myself, groping nothing but air. Will’s broad palm, so familiar, alighted between my shoulder blades, but I shook it off and strode forward as patches of color took shape around me. Bodies shuffled backward, clearing a path for me. It was then that I noticed how
many
people were filling the room: lesser barons and black-robed clerics, officials from various cities, and the masters of London’s many guilds. As I surveyed the gathering, waiting for my world to stop spinning and my head to clear, they all bowed to me.