The Traitor's Wife (87 page)

“And so he shall be,” said Robert Howel, nearly as white-faced as the Earl of Kent himself. “The will of this court is that you shall lose both life and limb, and that your heirs shall be disinherited forevermore, save the grace of our lord the king.”

There was a faint buzz of relief in Parliament at the sound of those last words. The king would never let his own uncle die for attempting to rescue his own father from captivity. There would be a fine, perhaps, or an exile in France, perhaps a salutary stay in the Tower. Never death.

“The Earl of Kent has confessed more freely,” said Roger, waving a paper in front of Queen Isabella. “A veritable shower of names here. Ingelram Berenger, old Despenser's knight. William la Zouche—no news there, of course. William de Cliff. Fulk FitzWarren. Donald, the Earl of Mar. Henry de Beaumont. Isabella de Vescy; I thought she had more sense. The Archbishop of York, even. Traitors, all of them!” Mortimer chuckled. “Kent has promised to walk through Winchester or London, or anywhere it pleases the king, wearing only a shirt, with a rope around his neck, if the king will spare him. I'll give him a rope around his neck, all right.”

“And we caught him,” Isabella giggled. “We set him up, we showed him that tall peasant who looked so much like my wretched husband at a distance, and he believed it. The fool!” She reached for Mortimer and tried to pull him down on the bed. “We caught him.”

“Yes, my dear, we caught him,” said Mortimer patiently. Isabella's voice was slurred; could she be drunk this early in the day? She was drinking much more wine than was good for her lately, but this was a new record for her. Besides the sober person's irritation with the tipsy, Mortimer also felt the industrious person's irritation with the slothful, for he himself had spent the morning very efficiently interrogating Kent while Isabella was swilling her Bordeaux. She hadn't even changed out of her dressing gown yet. “Pull yourself together if you can, Isabella. We need to keep your son from showing him any mercy. Thank God that softhearted wife of his is at Woodstock.”

“Not until you pay me,” said Isabella. She was pouting prettily, but Mortimer also knew how fast her mood could change to one of anger. “The Earl of Kent was—is—will have been—is—my brother-in-law, and he is my first cousin as well, the son of my sweet aunt Margaret! I might ask for mercy on him myself, if you don't pay me. Because we caught him, Roger, and all those other traitors, and it was my idea as much as yours, you know.” She giggled again. “It was such a good one, Roger, wasn't it?” She wriggled out of her dressing gown and smiled at him.

“Oh, all right,” said Mortimer irritably.

“I will pardon him, I tell you! He's my uncle, damn you! I know he meant me no harm. He only wanted to help his brother, as John would me, I know.”

“You must not pardon him,” said Isabella impatiently. Her head throbbed from the morning's imbibing, and repeating herself every few minutes to her stubborn son was not helping. “He wanted to dethrone you, not to rescue your father! He was angry because he did not have the power and influence over you that the much wiser Earl of March has.”

“He felt guilty because he helped push my father off his throne, and he wanted to make amends. Can't you see that?”

“No! Look at those followers of his. Half of them were Despenser creatures, who were lucky not to be put to death with them.”

“Henry de Beaumont, a Despenser creature? He quarreled with them, and you know it. William la Zouche, a Despenser creature? He captured the younger one, for God's sake! He'd still be loyal to us if Mortimer hadn't arrested my cousin Eleanor.”

“But he is not loyal to us now, Ned. None of those men are, whatever their reason. They will put you down if given half a chance, and you know it. If you pardon the Earl of Kent, they will take you for nothing more than a fool, and you will be in the same position as your father was, never breathing easily for a moment. You do not want that, Ned, trust me. You do not want to humiliate your wife and children by being a weak king, as you and I were humiliated by your father. Never would you want that.” Isabella's lovely blue eyes welled with tears. “Remember why I came to France in the first place! I was so unhappy. And to think that your uncle would have put my husband back on the throne—or himself—perhaps to shut me up for life like Eleanor of Aquitaine!”

“You're no Eleanor of Aquitaine, Mother.”

“You must care nothing for me, Ned. Nothing, after I risked so much for your sake.”

Edward grunted and moved toward the door. “What shall you do?” demanded his mother, wiping her eyes.

“I don't know.”

The Earl of March having read the Earl of Kent's confession to Parliament that Friday afternoon, the Earl of Kent was begging for his life. “Your grace, I meant you no harm. I only wished to free my brother; he was kind to me always. Your father, your grace, lonely and forgotten in Corfe Castle! Spare me, and I will walk through the streets in my shirt, as I said. I will do anything. I will reside abroad, give up my estates, go to prison—anything! Your grace, have mercy on me.”

Roger Mortimer glanced down at the beseeching earl. “Your grace, if you have mercy upon this creature you will endanger yourself, endanger your crown, endanger your heir so soon to be born. He can plot abroad, plot in prison, plot without his estates. You will be setting yourself up for your own destruction.” In a lower voice, audible only to the queen mother and Edward, he said, “Your grace, do you want to be the king your father was, or your grandfather? Your grandfather would not have given way to pity. He would order this man to be hung, drawn, and quartered straightaway. With him, the good of the realm always took precedent over all else.”

Edward drew a breath, and the great hall was so still that everyone there could hear him do so. “I cannot grant your request, my lord. You are guilty of treason, and as you are so close to the crown, your treason is more dangerous than most. You should have shared your suspicions about my father with me instead of plotting against me with men whose loyalty to the realm is uncertain at best. But I will grant you beheading rather than a traitor's death.”

The Earl of Kent stood up, looking suddenly so much like his own imposing father that the older men in the room started. “So be the will of God. May He have mercy on your soul, Edward.”

“We must act quickly,” said Mortimer the next day to the queen mother. “Your son has gone to Woodstock to see his wife, and you know after some pillow talk he'll relent and commute the death sentence.” He handed her a paper. “This order to the bailiffs of Winchester will take care of him, if it's signed by you.”

Isabella glanced at the paper indifferently. “So he is to die Monday? What if the king comes back before then?”

“Then we'll have to get another order, won't we? But I doubt he'll leave his love nest that early, particularly as the strain here has been so great for him.” There was a contemptuous look on the earl's face that few mothers would have borne with.

Isabella merely shrugged and signed the parchment.

Isabella and Mortimer had not forgotten the Earl of Kent's wife and small children, particularly since the unfortunate countess, whose handwriting was more certain than her husband's, had written the letter read in Parliament at Kent's dictation. They were ordered to be taken to Salisbury Castle, sans the countess's jewels, and imprisoned there indefinitely. The jewels were to be sent to the king.

The Countess of Kent was nine months pregnant.

On Monday, March 19, the Earl of Kent stood in the marketplace at Winchester wearing only his shirt. The king was not there, having not yet returned from Woodstock, nor was the dowager queen, who was lying in a drunken stupor behind her rich bed curtains.

Nor, to the Earl of March's chagrin, was the executioner present. Nor the deputy executioner. Nor the butcher, nor anyone who had experience in wielding an ax. None of the knights present would move against a peer of the realm. No one wanted to kill the first Edward's golden-haired youngest son.