A Child Upon the Throne Page 3

  No.

  How must young Edward III have felt, in the presence of his mother and Mortimer in the aftermath of their treason? To stand by and watch his father deposed, to observe Roger Mortimer lavishing titles and lands upon himself, his sons and minions in the exact same fashion Edward II had upon his favorites?

  Why were such actions right and proper for Roger Mortimer when he'd cited them as the very reason Edward II must be overthrown?

  Did no one ever learn?

  Young Edward did. He studied everything. Said little. And stored it away in his agile mind, all the while honing acting skills his father would have applauded.

  The young king watched his beloved mother, Isabella, enrich herself beyond all propriety. Watched her shovel honors and properties in Roger Mortimer's direction at an alarming rate, including one that had belonged to Edward II's favorite, Hugh Despenser.

  How very peculiar.

  Isabella and Mortimer behaved as if they were somehow exempt from consequences because they had deposed—and quite possibly murdered—an unpopular king.

  They'd forgotten the truth of fortune's wheel, that nothing could cease its turning.

  Already, common folk were declaring that miracles were being performed in Edward Caernarvon's name.

  That he should be declared a saint.

  That nothing good could come from deposing God's chosen ruler.

  That Roger Mortimer and his she-wolf had cursed the kingdom.

  Mortimer and Isabella ignored every criticism. They acted as if they existed outside the past, outside history, and that if they themselves pretended not to mark the rapaciousness of their actions, neither would anyone else. As if England's lords would put aside their ambitions because a boy king they all knew to be king in name only sat upon the throne. As if being Roger Mortimer rather than Hugh Despenser and Piers Gaveston, being lover to a queen instead a king, made all the difference.

  How could such a shrewd, intelligent, ambitious and accomplished warrior as Roger Mortimer be so blind? How could he so miscalculate his youthful sovereign's nature? Was it because Mortimer was so contemptuous of Edward II that he disregarded the royal blood coursing through the son's veins and chose to believe that Edward III comprised only the worst parts of his father?

  If so, it was a fatal miscalculation.

  Though not yet eighteen, Edward Windsor had already married and his queen, Philippa, was carrying the future Edward the Black Prince. The young king had a family to protect. In addition, he possessed an innate understanding of what was necessary to make a great monarch. While remaining outwardly polite in Mortimer's presence, with little more than a tightening of the lips or a narrowing of the eyes to betray his feelings, King Edward continued weighing his options, feeling his way toward the moment when the Marcher lord would be openly disrespectful, or publicly challenged his authority.

  Which happened in the fall of 1330, after Roger Mortimer had dared to order the execution of the young king's uncle, Edmund, Earl of Kent, for an aborted coup.

  On a bone-deep level, Edward III understood that should he fail to smash Roger Mortimer, he himself risked deposition and death.

  In October, young Edward surprised the lord-who-reached-too-high in a nighttime raid on Nottingham Castle, where Mortimer and Queen Isabella were ensconced. Was it because of Isabella's entreaty to her son, "Have pity on gentle Mortimer," that her lover was conveyed to the Tower rather than executed on the spot as Edward III had originally planned?

  When Roger Mortimer was in power he'd refused his enemies the right to speak at their trials. Now King Edward returned the insult, gagging the Marcher lord in addition to binding him with ropes and chains. Roger Mortimer was found guilty of a long list of crimes, some by "notoriety," meaning his offenses were 'notorious and known for their truth to you and all the realm.' Afterward, Mortimer was stripped naked and dragged behind two horses to Tyburn. While noblemen were generally beheaded, Mortimer was denied that courtesy. Rather he became the first lord to be hanged like a common criminal on Tyburn Tree.

  Thus ended the tyranny of the "King of Folly," (so later nicknamed by his very own son), and unofficially ushered in the reign of Edward III.

  And what a glorious reign it was!

  The Order of the Garter. Gallant knights and fair maidens. Chivalry. Courtly love. Magnificent tournaments, all consciously modeled after the legends of Arthur. King Edward created many new peerages and maintained his lords' loyalty with his generosity and martial prowess, but it was the ideal of Arthur and his fabled knights that bound everything together. Edward adopted Arthurian symbols and encouraged pilgrimages to holy places such as Glastonbury, the burial place of Arthur and Guinevere. Among his many tourneys was a Round Table Festival that took place inside a circular building within Windsor Castle. The Arthurian legends even provided justification for Edward's invasions of Wales and Scotland, and of course, for his conquest of France. His military victories only added to the belief, at least among the noble classes, that they were living in England's golden time.

  But now, disasters, tragedies and simply time's passing had piled up like rocks in a foundation, one atop the other, leaving the radiant legend in tatters.

  Now Edward III was a querulous old man, quaking at the possible resurrection of ancient ghosts. A handful of the opposition, more enemies of his son, John of Gaunt's, than his, terrified him with their oblique references to Edward II's strange passing in the bowels of Berkeley Castle. Easy to ignore political chatterings when you are young and strong and can stride the continent like a colossus.

  No longer.

  Oddly, as Edward slid toward the grave, it seemed that events from his father's last year were indeed being replayed. With the same players, or the sons and grandsons of those who had shaped and then shattered Edward II's reign. No wonder, as His Grace's mind grew increasingly wayward, that he must have wondered which Lancaster was being referred to, what Mortimer, what plots and intrigues. And whether he was rooted here in 1377 or had tumbled back in time to 1327.

  When the Good Parliament had been called in the spring of 1376, the king had felt as if he were beset by enemies or the children of ancient enemies; it was so hard to keep them all straight. Even his son the Black Prince had seemed on the side of the Commons, though that was mainly to ensure Richard of Bordeaux's succession to the throne for Edward III's favorite son, the child of his heart, had been so very, very ill...

  Sixty serious charges of corruption had been brought against those closest to Edward III. Richard Stury, one of the knights of the king's chamber and one of those accused of corruption, gave voice to Edward's most secret fear. He whispered into the old man's ear that some were saying he should be removed from England's throne.

  "What must I do to prevent such a thing?" Edward had asked the treacherous Stury, who told him to immediately cease all parliamentary proceedings. Would that end the horrible talk? Reverse all the terrible things the Commons were doing? And where was his mistress, Alice Perrers? What had the opposition said about her? That she was as corrupt and greedy as his ministers and must be banished?

  How can it be that I have a mistress when I am a faithful husband? But why have I not seen Philippa? Aye, she's gone. Where is she? How can I be charged with grasping favorites when I would never... when I know how such people destroyed my father? Such unspeakable things they did to him when he is at heart a good man...

  Edward leaned back upon his throne and closed his weary eyes. 'Tis all so very... vague.

  In June of 1376, the business of the Good Parliament had been mercifully—or tragically—halted, depending on one's outlook, by momentous news. England's beloved Edward the Black Prince, so long plagued with illness, had dictated his will, a signal that he knew his death was at hand.

  And now, a year later, with the Prince entombed in Canterbury Cathedral, it was King Edward himself whose life was staggering to its close.

  Chapter 3

  London, 1377

  As Margery Watson la
y beside her lover in their great canopied bed with draperies closed to keep out winter's chill, she was thinking about dead people. Some she'd known and some she'd never met.

  Matthew's breathing was blessedly rhythmic, unlike most nights when he tossed and turned, thus allowing her uninterrupted time for contemplation. Though Warrick Inn was a bustling household by day, the only sound beyond the velvet darkness was the crackle of logs in the chamber's fire. If Margery strained her ears she could hear a watchman in the street outside calling the hour, or the occasional rumble from a passing carriage.

  The dead marched across Margery's consciousness, starting with those from plague times—her mother, Alice; her half-sister Giddy; and her stepfather, Alf, all of whom, truth be told, she could scarce remember. Her husband, who she largely visualized in bits and pieces—tiny hands and feet, a bald, egg-shaped pate, broken veins alongside his nose. It only took a whiff of peppermint, which Simon Crull had used to disguise the odor of his rotting teeth, to tie her stomach in knots. Orabel, her faithful maid, who'd been murdered by the aforementioned husband and his band of cutthroats. Harry Hart, Matthew's younger brother, who had been so ineffectual and unreliable and kind and guileless.

  There were others, of course, for death was as commonplace as the calling of the hours, but those had been the ones who had most affected Margery.

  Should I include Prince Edward? she wondered. She'd largely known him through Matthew's eyes, but 'twas impossible not to mourn him all the same.

  As she mourned two men she'd never met; well, mayhap "mourn" was too strong a word, for three months past she'd barely registered their existence. Yet now they consumed much of her imaginings.

  Richard of Sussex and Phillip Rendell.

  The sun and the moon.

  At least that's how Margery's grandmother, Maria Rendell, had referred to them during their private meeting in her tower rooms.

  Maria Rendell's lover and Maria Rendell's husband.

  'Twas a stirring of ghosts, like a stirring of leftover ashes in an ancient hearth. Nothing but puffs of grey, rising startled into the air. And yet, in her nocturnal imaginings, Margery had reshaped those dusty particles into vivid life.

  Since both men were historical figures she knew some basic facts. Richard, Earl of Sussex, was Edward II's illegitimate half-brother, one of the few who'd remained loyal to the king following the invasion of Isabella and her lover.

  Phillip Rendell had become the subject of minstrel's tales after saving his lord Sussex's life at the Battle of Bannockburn early in Edward II's doomed reign. Margery had heard the story, and a heroic one it was, but she'd never connected an event sixty years past to real people. Never connected that Phillip Rendell to her grandfather.

  How her life had expanded since reuniting with her father, Thomas, in the precincts outside Canterbury Cathedral. It had been following Edward the Black Prince's final entombment and... well, 'twas something to take out on long nights when she couldn't sleep, like a child hoarding a secret treat.

  The sun and the moon.

  Maria Rendell's husband, so darkly handsome and so unapproachable.

  Margery imagined a bone-white winter moon frozen in a cloudless, starless midnight sky. Distant and alone. No wonder Phillip's reserve had driven Maria near to madness.

  Or so her grandmother had shared. No matter how Maria had tried to reach Phillip with her body, to make herself indispensable by being the perfect wife, mother and mistress, she'd always ended up frustrated. So she would try harder, ever seeking the key that would finally, finally unlock that aloof exterior and open up his heart. Maria knew the fault was in herself no matter how often Phillip assured her otherwise. His restlessness was his curse—that ever present nagging that there were sights and adventures he simply must experience somewhere beyond the sea, somewhere.

  "I wish it were otherwise," he'd said so often that Maria imagined those words chiseled on his tomb chest.

  Phillip had tried to do what was expected of him as lord and husband, but it had been as inevitable that he would succumb to adventure's siren song as it had been for Maria to turn to their liege lord, Richard of Sussex, afterward.

  Foolish maids might call such a love triangle romantic, after the fashion of Lancelot and Guinevere or Tristan and Iseault ("Apart the lovers could neither live nor die, for it was life and death together."). But there had been nothing save pain for all involved. That much Maria Rendell had also told her.

  Margery heard the pad of feet upon the rushes beyond the draperies, then the dull thud of fresh logs being thrust inside the massive fireplace. A crackling and roar as the flames took hold.

  At one time I would have been the maid tending the fire, she thought, clasping her hands across her stomach. How odd life is.

  Matthew sighed in his sleep. Or was that a moan? Margery tensed until his breathing resumed its regular rhythm. Hopefully, this night he would be spared his usual troubling dreams.

  Margery's thoughts returned to the men Maria Rendell had loved.

  What sort of man were you, Grandfather?

  Phillip Rendell had certainly been a great warrior. Epic poems were not penned about just any man. But he must also have been honorable in his own fashion. Tender. Selfless. For what ordinary man cares for his wife's wounds after she's been publicly flogged? After he's been publicly cuckolded? Phillip had even forgiven Richard, rescuing his liege from Roger Mortimer, then later riding beside him and the very young king Edward III during a border campaign against the Scots.

  Had Phillip considered those acts appropriate penance for abandoning his wife?

  If a bard wished to compose something to make maidens swoon, he might have written about what happened after that night raid in which Richard had been killed and Phillip so horribly disfigured by a Scotsman's claymore. Now Phillip Rendell was the stuff of nightmares, travelling by night and hiding his ravaged face in the depths of a hooded cloak rather than risk the frightened wails of children or the shocked stares of even battle-hardened warriors.

  As if Maria would care how he looked!

  "It is enough that you came home to me," she'd said, when she'd met him in the darkness, among the cherry trees.

  They'd fashioned a silver half-mask to cover the ruined portion of his face.

  And gone on together.

  Margery wondered whether Phillip had been bitter about his fate. I must ask my lady Grandmother when we attend this year's Cherry Fair.

  Had her grandfather been embarrassed when people pointed and stared and whispered behind their hands? Grateful that God had granted him more years so that he could hug his children and guide them into adulthood? Thankful that he'd sired another son and daughter? Had he and Maria lain in the darkness of Fordwich's solar, with the moonlight gleaming softly upon his mask and Maria whispering, "Remove it, my love"? Had she caressed the scars and hollows coursing from eye to chin with her fingertips, then ever so gently with her lips?

  Most certainly she would have thanked the saints that her beloved could yet embrace her and make love to her. That they could laugh and discuss the settling of accounts or harvest yields or their children's latest antics; that Phillip could reach out and entwine her fingers with his while they read to each other in front of the fireplace or strolled among the cherry trees.

  How would I feel if my lord returned to me so disfigured? Margery wondered. She reached across to run her fingers lightly along Matthew's naked thigh with its downy covering of hair.

  He did return to you disfigured, a voice whispered. Only those wounds you cannot see.

  Matthew sighed and shifted his muscular leg closer, as if he were a cat seeking to be stroked. Banishing that troublesome inner voice, Margery kept her hand resting upon his thigh, knowing, like her grandmother, that it would not have mattered.

  The sun and the moon.

  But here is where fate's skeins grew tangled. For upon first seeing Matthew Hart in Fordwich Castle's great hall, Maria Rendell had said, "He reminds me of someone," and, so
on, pleading her great age, had fled to her tower rooms.

  Later when she and Margery were alone, Maria had confessed how the sight of Matthew Hart had shaken her.

  "I thought he was my Richard, come to life, and I asked myself, How can this be? Though when I looked more closely the similarities faded." She'd added with a chuckle, "No one would mistake your knight for a holy man. Which is a good thing. For what woman can compete with God?" Then she'd grown serious. "Still it's passing strange, is it not?"

  Passing strange, indeed.

  "My sister... I had a twin, you know, who was gifted with the sight. Eleanora used to dream, long before I ever met Richard, of 'a golden knight who shines like the sun.'"

  At those words Margery had felt the most peculiar prickling. For hadn't she always considered Matthew to be her golden knight?

  Gazing at the canopy overhead, she could almost visually replay scenes from certain long ago dreams. Matthew, his hair an amber halo, armored and astride a white stallion with golden bridle bells that tinkled with each step as it picked its way across a moon-dappled field. To her. Matthew would reach out his hand and beckon Margery to him and she would gaze into that shining face and know she would follow him anywhere...

  Only Margery had christened Matthew her faerie knight.

  What did all this mean? Was there some sort of invisible threads connecting them all?

  Even now, cocooned in the darkness, the possible implications raised goosebumps. Margery felt as if the warp and woof of their fates was being mysteriously woven. She imagined one of the mythological moirae spinning the thread of life, while another measured it to see how long they all would live while the third chose the manner each would die with a snip, snipping of her shears.

  What will happen to us?

  Margery moved to snuggle against Matthew's chest, reassuring herself with the rhythmic beating of his heart. He looped an arm around her and murmured her name in his sleep. She pressed her lips against him, in the exact spot where his heart pulsed, and felt a sudden pricking of tears.