The Lion and the Leopard Page 12

  Not until the clerk referred to Piers Gaveston and his death did King Edward, who had feigned indifference throughout the entire proceedings, even look at Lancaster. Now Edward's body went rigid, his expression became suffused with hatred.

  'Tis not really any "understanding" with the Scots or thwarting of the king's dictates that has sealed Thomas's fate, Richard thought, but his part in Piers' death.

  Speaking for the first time, Lancaster cried out, "This is a powerful court and great in authority, where no answer is heard or given."

  Edward fixed Lancaster with a contemptuous smile. "This is the usual summary process of martial law, as you must know, cousin. A defendant is not allowed to make a defense once his offenses have been recognized by witnesses."

  Richard ran a hand across his brow and sat up straighter, trying to shake off his fatigue. He'd not had a full night's sleep since the Despensers' arrival at Lichfield. Edward's open hatred bothered him. Should not hatred, no matter how justified, be tempered with justice, if not mercy? Was it true that men of Edward's proclivities were vengeful creatures, or just that human love knew no reason?

  Besides, Lancaster had touched on something that worried Richard. There were those who said that the entire trial was illegal because martial law had not been in effect at the time of Thomas's capture. Since the courts had been sitting it could not be definable as "time of war." Nor had Edward ever unfurled his banners, a second requirement. When he'd been readying to do so he'd been stopped by Nephew Hugh who feared that if time of war were declared and Edward lost the last battle, he and his father would immediately lose their heads.

  "Wherefore our sovereign lord," droned the clerk, picking at a tear in his tunic,"...having duly weighed the great enormities and offenses... has no manner of reason to show any mercy..."

  Richard stifled a yawn. A man will today lose his life, history is being made, and I cannot even stay awake. He arched his back which had developed an ache. If I could whisk you back to happier times I would do that for you, Tom, or rush you past your judgment to when you are moldering in your grave and will not care. But I cannot. The world will not pause, the clerk will not cease worrying his tear, and time will not wait, even for one moment—not for you, Thomas, nor me, nor any other man.

  The final verdict was delivered by the royal justice. "Because you are most highly and nobly descended, you shall not be drawn and hanged but execution shall be done upon you by beheading."

  Thomas cried out, "You cannot do this. You cannot execute someone of royal blood. 'Tis without precedent. You might dispossess me, but you cannot murder me."

  Two knights rushed forward. One held Thomas while a second jerked a hood over his face.

  "I can do anything I please, cousin!" Edward called after him as he was dragged from the hall. The king turned to Hugh Despenser and grinned as if he'd just related the punch line to a favorite joke.

  Thomas might have been weak and foolish, Richard thought, turning away from his brother's triumph, but he is not alone.

  It was not only the lack of sleep that made Richard so bone weary.

  * * *

  While the sun was yet high and the day mild, Thomas of Lancaster was taken to St. Thomas Hill. He made the journey on the back of a grey pony and was pelted with stones and offal by subjects who'd previously cheered him.

  "King Arthur," some shouted, in obvious reference to the nom de plume he'd used in his correspondence with Robert the Bruce, "where are your knights to help you now?"

  Lancaster swayed in his saddle and suddenly called out, "King of heaven, grant me Thy mercy, for the king of earth has forsaken me!"

  Atop St. Thomas Hill the executioner's block was ready. The trembling earl, flanked on either side by Sussex and several other lords, dismounted and knelt beside the block, facing east.

  Two more minutes and your world will be ended, Richard thought. What does it matter now that you're a traitor when you will lose your life? No more will you breathe the sweet English air, see the wispy clouds crossing the sky, track a starling, hold a woman, hear the voices of your children...

  Though his thoughts were his own, Richard addressed Thomas in a flat emotionless voice. "Place your traitorous head not to the east but toward the north, cousin. Look in the direction of your friends, the Scots."

  Richard closed his eyes when the ax fell.

  Chapter 17

  Fordwich Castle

  For most Englishmen and women spring was the busiest time of the year. Heifers had calved and dairy work was in full swing; wheat was threshed, lumber cut, and autumn sown corn weeded. The countryside also sprang to new life. Daisies, periwinkles, and bluebells blanketed meadows and edged swift-running streams. Cuckoos called from their nests, pigeons cooed in their dovecotes, and bees left their apiaries to feed on the nectar from garden flowers. Robins and wild geese returned from the south.

  In recognition of the earth's renewal, all Englishmen welcomed in the May. King Edward made merry at Shooter's Hill in London with his favorite at his side. Elsewhere milkmaids, woodsmen and townsfolk arose at dawn and gathered branches to adorn their cottages. Maids wove garlands for their hair; men tucked daisies and pennyroyals in their belts. Villagers danced around the maypole and drank wine scented with violet and wild thyme.

  At Fordwich Castle, Maria and her family enjoyed an afternoon banquet in the orchard, mere weeks after the Cherry Fair. Then she and her father and other guests rode across flowery meadows, freshly-plowed fields and holts thick with game. Maria relished the headlong flight. She was too busy concentrating on her horsemanship to muddy up her mind with unsolvable problems and worries.

  And those she had.

  Maria was distressed by Richard of Sussex's coldness toward her. Since his return to Chilham Castle following Thomas Lancaster's death, he'd seldom visited Fordwich. Phillip often rode to see him, but they'd not shared more than three words. She also worried about her husband, as well as the political state of England. With King Edward's recent actions, she feared Phillip would once again be called upon to war or to parliament.

  Following their ride, Maria stretched out beneath a horse chestnut. From her position, she could see villagers dancing round the maypole, and the Queen of the May upon her flowery throne. Nearby Michael and Eleanora napped in the shade of a giant oak; Phillip took turns shooting arrows into a straw target. Richard and Lady Constance Warenne, a recently arrived guest, strolled across the meadow. Maria recognized Ivetta Smythe, the Sturry Whore, among those near Richard and Lady Warenne.

  What is she doing here? Maria wondered. Had one or the earl's men invited her? Once she had overheard Lord Sussex and his squire discussing the Sturry Whore.

  "Who do you think she looks like?" Richard had asked.

  And Michael's succinct response, "Trouble."

  Shadows crept across the meadow rue, stands of purple willow, and dainty mousetail. Phillip flopped down beside her. "I have forsaken archery. All I want to do for the day's remainder is sleep."

  He rested his head in her lap. "And what a fine pillow I have here." Phillip pressed his lips against her stomach. "Tonight," he whispered, smiling up at her, "I will show you how to properly welcome in the May."

  Maria returned his smile. Lately she'd been much more demanding. She didn't know what was wrong, but her behavior often struck her as irrational, or at the very least, contradictory. She was also more aggressive during lovemaking, and afterward felt vaguely dissatisfied.

  She brushed her fingers through Phillip's hair. Most times I have no idea what I want, so how could you?

  After Phillip fell asleep, Maria gently disentangled herself, rose and slipped away, into nearby Oldridge Wood where moss rested like shadows upon the horse chestnuts and snow yet lay in the thickest copses. A covey of quail scattered at her approach.

  Following the course of Lampen Stream, which slid through the trees to open meadow, Maria's mood lightened. She might have been a kingdom away from the revelers rather than a few hillocks. Here sh
e didn't have to deal with confusing emotions or troubling situations over which she had no control. Here she could just enjoy the day.

  Sunlight sparkled like diamonds on Lampen Stream's bubbling surface. As a child Maria had believed faeries lived in the water and could change it to precious jewels. Stooping, she scooped up a handful and watched the droplets fall through her fingers in a shimmering cascade.

  "Aye, faeries," she whispered.

  On impulse she removed her slippers, wadded her skirt inside her girdle and plunged into the icy water. The years slipped away until she might have been eight years old again. She filled her lungs with the sweet May air, removed her wimple and the pins from her hair and allowed it to tumble free down her back.

  Hearing a noise Maria raised her eyes to the nearby forest. A fat ewe, near ready to drop her lamb, grazed beside a lone cherry tree in full blossom.

  Its snow white petals seemed to radiate a mystical light. Odd. 'Twas past time for cherry blossoms. And she had been in Oldridge Wood many times without seeing such a tree.

  Suddenly, Maria remembered: Life, though pleasant, is transitory, even as is the cherry fair.

  The tree shimmered, its soft fragrance filling her senses. The water tugged at her calves.

  "Aye, transitory," whispered Maria. She thought of her mother and the past, and of Lord Sussex and her husband and tears stung her eyes. If only she could halt time's passing, chart a happy life, relive her childhood so that she could resurrect her relationship with Henrietta. But she couldn't. Her mother was dead. And someday she too—everyone she loved—would die.

  Leaving the stream she approached the cherry tree. Time's passing. Maria felt a great weariness as she settled herself against its trunk.

  If only I knew what the point to my life is. Or whether there is any point at all.

  * * *

  Maria's eyelids fluttered open. She must have fallen asleep, and now it was dark. She sat up. A full moon hovered above the horizon. Her eyes sought the moon's shadowed face. Once hadn't she said she wanted the moon—and didn't she possess it? What more was left, the sun?

  "Lady Rendell." Richard of Sussex stood near the forest's edge, beyond the cherry tree.

  "What are you doing here?" she asked, struggling to her feet. "How long have you been standing there? Where is my husband?"

  "Phillip had to take your father home after he enjoyed a bit too much wine. He bade me find you."

  Maria busied herself by brushing off the back of her kirtle. "Are the others near? Lady Warenne, I mean?" She imagined Richard's paramour momentarily charging through the trees with all the grace of a snorting boar.

  "She rode back to Chilham." Richard moved to stand beside Maria. His eyes sought the rising moon. The shielding darkness forged between them a certain tenuous intimacy.

  Though Lady Warenne had done nothing more in Maria's presence than enjoy an innocent stroll with the earl, she blurted, "I do not like her much."

  Richard laughed. "Nor do I. Especially on nights like these when I would be alone."

  Maria understood that feeling all too well.

  "Sometimes I mislike the turn my thoughts take. Does that ever happen to you, m'lady? Do you ever find yourself lusting after some man besides your husband?"

  Maria gasped. "That is a lecherous remark unworthy of you, my lord."

  "I feel lecherous tonight. And not for some flaxen-haired, jewel-laden court creature who thinks to charm me into matrimony. Tonight I crave darker charms." His mouth twisted. "I am beginning to understand how Phillip sometimes feels. 'Tis a trying thing to be smothered."

  Furious at his cruelty and unsettled by words that uncannily matched her private fears, Maria faced him. "Smothered? 'Tis unkind of you, my lord, and you have no right to hurt me with your lies and insinuations. My husband loves me well and—"

  Richard studied her, though in the darkness she could not read his expression. "What man wouldn't? Though love can be smothering. How must your husband feel, knowing that you want him body and soul, and knowing that if he relinquishes himself, a part of him will die?"

  "Did my lord husband tell you that? Is that what you talk about when you are together? About what a trial I am, and what a shrewish grasping wife?"

  Richard sidestepped the question. "You forget. Last winter I spent many pleasant evenings at Fordwich. I had opportunity to study certain—things."

  "And what have you seen?"

  "Something I haven't had, mayhap. Something I envy. Perhaps I believe I am not like Phillip, that I could return a love body and soul. That I wouldn't mind being chained to a woman and a way of life, whereas it chafes your husband greatly. Any such man would feel like running when a woman looks at him with her soul in her eyes. Yet in my case I would stay."

  "You would?"

  "Forever."

  In the shadow of the moon Richard appeared to be smiling. He bent over her.

  Thinking he meant to kiss her, Maria pushed against his chest. "Stop it! I've had enough of your boorish ways. Breeding does have a way of showing—or lack of it."

  Richard's expression stiffened, but his voice remained soft. "You over-estimate your charms, Lady Rendell. I would not touch my friend's wife. And I certainly would not be interested in someone who sounds nearer fishwife than gentlewoman."

  Embarrassed, hurt and angered in equal measure, Maria spun away from him. She intended to splash across the stream toward the forest, but her feet slipped on the smooth stones and she tumbled into the icy water. Intent on making the shore she struggled up, trying to ignore the sharp jab in her left ankle. When she put her full weight on the leg, she gasped.

  "Are you hurt?" Leaping across the stream Richard hurried to her, helping her ease down on the opposite bank.

  "My ankle, I fear 'tis broken."

  "Where does it pain you?" Anger forgotten he knelt beside her, cradling her calf with one hand while gently probing the area with the other. "I cannot feel any broken bones."

  No, but Maria felt his touch, the warmth of his hand on her leg much too vividly. As he bent over her his hair shimmered, radiant as the cherry blossoms caught in the moonlight.

  "Perhaps you sprained it." Richard's hand still cradled her ankle.

  Maria averted her eyes. The thoughts she was experiencing were improper. You are a man like any other, she thought, repressing the urge to reach out and touch his hair. A man I don't even like.

  Placing a hand on the earl's shoulder, Maria struggled up but was overcome by a sudden knifelike pain.

  He stood slowly, carefully so that he wouldn't jostle her and they shifted position until they faced each other. Richard bent forward and his lips brushed hers so lightly she wasn't certain whether she'd imagined it. But she didn't imagine the instinctive pleasurable response she felt in his arms—a response she struggled to ignore.

  While keeping her hand upon his arm, she eased safely away, careful not to meet his gaze. Rather, she looked beyond to the cherry tree–where a figure stood, watching them.

  "Husband!"

  Richard spun toward him, causing Maria to lose balance. Phillip made no move to help her even when she fell against the earl.

  Tension charged the atmosphere.

  "We... I was... I fell," Maria said. "My ankle twisted and Lord Sussex was helping me."

  Phillip turned and disappeared back into the night.

  Chapter 18

  York Castle

  The Parliament of York met in mid-May. Clergy, barons, and commons were represented, but few barons attended. Some, like Phillip Rendell, had chosen to stay away; others were dead or imprisoned. The missing magnates made Edward' II's will that much easier to execute. The subsequent Statute of York left His Grace virtually free to rule as he pleased. He ignored all the matters that had sparked his barons' original rebellion and allowed the Hugh Despensers to take active part in all matters. At Parliament's end Hugh the Elder was made earl of Winchester, though fear of the Marcher lords caused Edward to withhold from the younger Hugh the t
itle—if not the authority—of "earl of Gloucester."

  To Richard of Sussex the titles were the last outrage in an increasing list of acts that ranged from bizarre to dangerous. While awaiting his half-brother's arrival from a late night of gambling with Nephew Hugh, Richard crossed to a window in his small chamber, tucked away in York Castle. A sudden gust of wind rattled the shutters. He felt a cold blast of evening air, heard a low rumbling of thunder. The threatening storm well matched Richard's mood.

  "Pour us both some wine, Michael," he said, and as his squire moved to obey, stared unseeing into the night. The world had gone awry, and was spiraling into madness. Edward's revenge had careened beyond the bounds of reason. He and Hugh had ignored the laws of the land with nightmarish results. Not only England's magnates, but even ordinary folk, trembled over King Edward's actions.

  I am also frightened.

  Richard accepted the wine from his squire. Horrible precedents were daily being set. Not only would Edward be remembered for Bannockburn but also for the atrocities he was committing in the wake of Thomas Lancaster's execution.

  On the same day as Lancaster's death, a group of northern retainers had been hanged. At Bristol, Gloucester, Windsor, Cambridge, Wales, and Cardiff multiple executions had occurred. To terrify the rebels' vassals, Edward had ordered the executions to take place where they held their lordship—a novel, albeit ghoulish, idea. Though in the past hanging, drawing and quartering had almost invariably been limited to foreign rebels, multiple Englishmen had already suffered the same fate.

  A jagged bolt of lightning came to ground seemingly in York's courtyard. A log crumbled in the fireplace. Flames shot upward. Richard stared into the darkness as a scattering of rain rattled on the roof tiles. Never had he felt such bleakness. 'Twas as if he'd glimpsed into Edward's soul and found there a blackness as yawning and infinite as the night.

  In Kent, Bartholomew Badlesmere had been dragged by his horse through Canterbury to the crossroads at Bleen. There he'd been hanged—though not dropped—and allowed to nearly strangle before being revived with vinegar. Then Badlesmere's belly had been cut open, his entrails drawn out and burnt before him. Finally Badlesmere had been beheaded and his body cut into quarters. As a silent reminder of King Edward II's justice, his head had been stuck on Canterbury's Burgate.