The King Must Die (The Isabella Books) (2 page)

Gulping air, Ockle rolled over onto to his knees. A sneer curled his thin lips into a ragged line. With an indrawn wheeze, he staggered to his feet. He peeked at me beneath oily hanks of hair, then lowered his eyes and dipped his torso in a bow. Another cough threatened to split his ribs.

“Will you be all right?” I asked.

“He’ll live,” Gurney answered for him, then hooked a hand gruffly beneath Ockle’s armpit to pull him away. Ockle stumbled alongside him, muttering curses. In response, Gurney yanked harder. Ten crooked strides later, they were at Lord Berkeley’s heels.

A chill whispered across my cheek and I raised a hand as if to brush it away. But as I did so, fine pellets of sleet stung at my knuckles. I looked heavenward. The sun had retreated behind a dense veil of clouds. Wind swooped over the outer walls to descend into the openness of the bailey. Even the birds were huddled in the sheltered places. With stiff fingers, I clutched at the edges of my mantle, pulling it tight around me like a cocoon in which I could withdraw from the world. A hand alighted on the small of my back and I startled, gasping.

“It’s time,” Mortimer said.

***

Already a diminutive man, Walter Reynolds, Archbishop of Canterbury, sank to his knees before me in the middle of the great hall of Wallingford, which served for now as my council chamber. From this distance, if not for the vestments of his office, I might have mistaken him for a child.

“Rise, Your Grace,” I said. The echo of my voice died away to mingle with the whisper of silk robes and the groan of leather sword belts, as twenty bodies shifted on their benches. Weak morning sunlight passed through widely spaced windows, the dusty wooden panels of the wainscoting and soot-stained, busily painted walls making the room seem even darker. The glow of the hearth did little but cast shadows. I strained to focus my eyes. To my immediate right sat Adam Orleton, Bishop of Hereford, and John de Stratford, Bishop of Winchester. To the left were my brothers-in-law Edmund, Earl of Kent, and Thomas, Earl of Norfolk. Even they had abandoned their own brother, the king, in his direst hour.

Although all had come here willingly, I was not yet sure who to trust and who to regard with caution. Unseating a king by invasion with mercenary forces was not a matter blindly supported by everyone, not even his opponents. Criticism would not die away even now that it was done. Soon, the struggle for power would begin. Likely, it would begin this very day.

Head bowed and shoulders stooped, Archbishop Reynolds tottered to his feet on stiff knees and came forward until he stood before the dais. “My lady, before these peace-loving witnesses and merciful God, I do meekly submit to you and offer my allegiance.”

“Your letter to such effect was received, Your Grace, and my protection given.” I longed to remind him of certain things, but now was not the time to scour open wounds with vinegar. The archbishop had been an adamant supporter of Edward’s until the very last. Not until Despenser was dead and the king in custody did he see it prudent to change allegiances. Perhaps he feared for his freedom—or his station? No matter, he was harmless enough and there were greater matters at hand. I sat forward in my chair, the joints of the wooden frame creaking loudly. “Your humility, I might add, is to be admired. In these uncertain times, difficult choices must be made for the good of all England, not only for the here and now, but for —”

The door at the hall’s end swung open, hinges groaning. A rush of winter air billowed in. Goose flesh prickled my arms and neck. I gripped my knees, fingernails curled into claws, prepared to admonish the person who had so rudely arrived late to interrupt. And then, Henry, Earl of Leicester and Lancaster, blustered into the hall.

My stomach lurched. No, he was supposed to still be at Kenilworth, where the king was being held. Mortimer’s eyes flicked to me. If both men did not temper their tongues, this day could end badly. I cautioned Mortimer with a glance, but his sights were already fixed on the earl. The porter, his head dipped contritely, scuttled forth to latch onto the door’s edge and yank it shut.

Stomping, Lancaster braced his feet wide. He glared down the length of each row of benches, his mouth curving into a smug smile, and rested the heel of his hand on his sword pommel. “Your pardon, my queen. I trust I have not missed anything?”

Archbishop Reynolds’s head swiveled, his mitre tipping precariously to one side. His lip twitched as he reached up with both hands and repositioned it. With an audible exhalation, he spun around and drew his shoulders up so that his embroidered amice bunched in folds at his neck. Then, his fingers teasing at the tasseled ends of his stole, he looked at me again. “My lady, you were saying?”

I peered past him to Lancaster. The last time the earl had made such a brazen appearance, he had presented me with Bishop Stapledon’s head in a basket. This time, thanks be to God, he was without any such gruesome gift.

“All is forgiven, Your Grace.” My gaze swept over the faces lining the hall to remind myself I had many supporters here. Kent’s eyes met mine and he smiled. I looked to the other side and there Bishop Orleton nodded sagely. “Let us begin. Please, be seated.”

The archbishop went to the nearest bench, the other bishops scooting aside to make room. Lancaster stepped to his right, but no one moved. Then he swung an arm to his left, as if clearing the way, and proceeded to the very middle bench where, although there was no apparent gap, he managed to wedge himself in, unresponsive to the grumbling of those around him. Nearly unseated himself, Lord Berkeley, at the very end, relinquished his spot and went to stand next to a column behind Lancaster. The earl, stretching his meaty legs before him and rubbing at his knees, took no notice of the young lord’s servile gesture.

Words stuck at the back of my throat. Having overcome so much these past few years, I would have thought myself inherently braver, but even now it was as if the demons of my fears never stopped pursuing me. I cleared my throat, clasped my hands to my belly and spoke with as much authority as I could summon. “Welcome, my lords. You have been called here because I value your counsel. I thank you for your haste, for we must act with both swiftness and resolve. I will not belabor past events. Suffice it to say it was not lightly that I undertook drastic measures to bring about change. Even so, the weight upon my soul has at times been so heavy that if not for a handful of honorable and courageous men, I might not ... no,
could
not have gone forward.” Sir John of Hainault, Count William’s brother, raised his chin proudly as I glanced his way.

“Thus, it was with immeasurable relief that I and my son found ourselves welcomed upon our return when we landed on Suffolk’s shores. That alone revealed in whom England’s people have chosen to entrust their future and extend their loyalty—as have all of you by coming here.”

Archbishop Reynolds tucked his chin down, as if aware that others there yet doubted him. Around him, a few heads bobbed subtly in agreement and I continued. “My husband’s misjudgments led this kingdom down a path of destruction and immorality. It began with Piers Gaveston—gifts of land, titles, countless favors—and did not end until Gaveston’s death. The story was much the same with Hugh Despenser, but it was at Lord Despenser’s hands that I was made to suffer. Edward’s kingship suffered as well, and with it England’s people. And so the people chose to end Despenser’s life at Hereford. Two favorites dead. Will there be another? I pray not, with all my heart. But prayer alone is not enough. We must decide wisely and we must act.

“Repeatedly, the king has defied Parliament, flouted the Lords Ordainers, ruled by whim and acted out of contempt. He has failed his people by refusing to keep his word and so lost their faith. He has flagrantly disregarded the duties of his birthright and put his own egregious interests, his own ...
perversions
above all else. If any among you denies this was so, I beg you, speak here and now.”

“No one denies it, my lady,” Kent said, “not even me. As his brother, I have witnessed firsthand how he has both abused his power and neglected his kingdom, and made a mockery of the Magna Carta and the Ordinances, both of which he swore to uphold.”

I nodded to him, and then let my gaze sweep over every face there. “I ask you all—shall Edward retain his crown?”

Murmurs and whispers rippled through the hall, yet no one spoke aloud.

Finally, Lancaster stood, arms flung wide, imploring. “Can any man rule an entire kingdom when he cannot choose wisely for himself, my lords? I say nay. Strip him of his crown. Let him wear a noose instead.”

“Hanging is a traitor’s death,” Henry Burghersh, the Bishop of Lincoln, said. “And a man, any man, cannot be convicted of treason without a trial. Besides, how can a king commit treason against himself?”

“It is not against himself,” said Lancaster, “but against the Crown.”

John de Stratford, the Bishop of Winchester, rose abruptly. “You speak in contradictions, my lord. He
is
the Crown. King Edward is God’s anointed.”

“But so was Harold Godwinson,” someone at the far end added.

“A conquest,” Mortimer countered, thrusting a finger in the air. “William of Normandy claimed his lawful right to the throne and brought King Harold to battle. God decided whose claim was the rightful one.”

“Then what is your claim, Sir Roger?” In four thunderous strides, Lancaster planted himself in the center of the hall to face Mortimer. A wicked smirk teased at the corners of his mouth.

“He makes no claim, Lord Henry,” I said, before he could add one more dry twig to already sparking tinder. “Both he and Sir John of Hainault organized and led the forces I requested on behalf of my son. But let us return to our reason for assembling today, shall we? What is to be done with the king? A trial alone is a mess that I daresay we would all like to avoid. So what then?”

 “Remove him from the throne,” Sir John said, the crease of his bulging forehead deepening as his eyes flicked to Mortimer.

Bishop Orleton scratched at his temple, his voice leveled in a cautious tone. “He would have to be kept under guard ... indefinitely.”

Lancaster scoffed loudly. “Ah, yes! Let him live and how long will it be before some other sympathizer tries to prop him back up on the throne?”

Yes, I had considered that, too. But what allure was there to free an unpopular, even loathed, king?

“If given unto your care, Lord Henry,” I said, “I doubt that would ever happen. I agree with Sir John and Bishop Orleton: King Edward should not only be stripped of his crown, but remain in custody for the rest of his natural life.”

Bishop Stratford spread his arms wide, palms upturned in question. “But if he will not voluntarily abdicate in favor of his son, what then?”

Mortimer leaned forward, one elbow resting on his knee. “There is no other way. We cannot return to things as they were before. His son must take his place, so that England can heal its wounds and once again know peace and prosperity.”

“Then I assign you, Your Grace,” I said to Bishop Stratford, “to go to him and plead with him.”

He tilted his head in thought, hesitating long before he spoke again. “If Bishop Burghersh and Bishop Orleton will assist me—although I question how much good it will do, given his defiance thus far.”

“Your Grace?” I addressed Bishop Orleton. Without hesitation, he nodded in agreement. “Good, return before Parliament with his answer.”

Kent stood, fingers laced together before him. “One question remains, my queen. What of your ...”—he cast his eyes downward, giving pause to frame his question more delicately—“living arrangements? Whether king or not, in God’s eyes Edward of Caernarvon is still your husband.”

My smile faded to a frown. I, too, looked down. “I would fear for my life.”

“How so?” Lancaster said, stifling a laugh. “The king hasn’t one whit of his father’s brutality. The man’s a coward.”

A bolt of fear shot through my spine. “Do not underestimate him, Henry. He is a man whose dearest ‘friend’ has been put to death. A coward deprived of his crown. By me. I think I have reason to fear.”

He arched a russet eyebrow at me. “Reason—or is it simply guilt gnawing at your insides?”

How was I to respond to that? It could mean so many things.