The Traitor's Wife (89 page)

Edward nodded and slowly made his way out to the garden, where Philippa and her ladies, along with Montacute's own wife, had ceased their walk and had settled down to work on a tapestry for the royal nursery. Even from a distance, Philippa glowed; pregnancy seemed to be her optimal state. His mother had warned Edward with a hint of malice in her voice that pregnant women were volatile and moody, but Philippa had been more even-tempered than ever. “Why, what on earth is wrong, Edward? You look positively gray.”

“I have had a tedious morning,” he lied. “Papers.”

“Are you sure nothing is wrong, Ned?”

Philippa's phlegmatic personality hid her sharp powers of observation, Edward knew, although Mortimer and the queen had never understood this. “We will talk later,” he promised. “I want to go for a walk alone for just a short time.”

He did not have far to go, only into a wooded area close to the manor house. There, soon after Edward's younger sister Eleanor had been born at Woodstock, his father had taken him for a ride on the grounds and carved him a whistle, taken from a branch of the tree Edward stood before. He knew it because of the names that had been carved into it:
Edward Rex
. And below it, carved in a much more awkward writing,
Ned
. He could almost feel his own small hand, being guided by a larger one, writing the word. “There,” his father had told him, admiring their handiwork. “Now it's our special tree.”

His father had loved him. And he had utterly abandoned his father. Not because of any grand principle, but simply because it had been the easiest thing to do at the time. No matter what kind of king he grew into, no matter what kind of man he grew into, he would never be able to erase that item from his conscience. And there was nothing he could do to make amends, nothing that would alter his father's last terrifying moments in Berkeley Castle. The Earl of Kent had thought he had been given the chance to redeem himself, but he had been wrong, cruelly wrong. And Edward had had him killed for believing, irrationally but irresistibly, that he could do so.

The king leaned his head against the tree and wept.

In June, Philippa gave birth to a fine boy, naturally named Edward after his father (or his late grandfather, Eleanor hoped). Eleanor, though by no means on the list of notables immediately notified of the birth, had found out about it fairly quickly, for she and William and the children had gone to spend some time at her manor of Caversham, not far from Woodstock.

Isabella and Mortimer were not fool enough to skimp on ceremonies for the new heir, and by the end of July word had drifted down to Caversham of the young queen's magnificent churching. “Her robe was purple velvet embroidered with golden squirrels, trimmed with miniver and ermine, William. Doesn't that sound beautiful?”

“Actually, my dear, it sounds a little warm for July.”

Eleanor took her pillow and swatted William. “She also had a robe of red velvet.”

William patted Eleanor's belly, which amply indicated that Eleanor had been correct in the spring when she thought she was with child. “Maybe we can manage a squirrel or two for you at your churching, my dear.”

“No.” Eleanor smiled and settled back into William's arms; she was lying with her back to his chest, the only way they could embrace without her belly getting in the way. “I don't need new robes, William. Just you there.”

“I hope I won't have to stand trial then.”

“I pray not.”

Eleanor had found no difficulty in assembling mainprisors to stand for William, and though Mortimer had grumbled when she brought them to Woodstock, he had not gone back on the king's word. Since William had been released in April, he and Eleanor had been on tenterhooks, dreading the day when he would have to stand trial, but weeks had gone by without any summons arriving. They were at least luckier than Edward de Monthermer, Eleanor's half brother, who had been implicated in the Earl of Kent's plot somehow and had been locked up in Windsor Castle since March. Eleanor, learning of his imprisonment, had tried to obtain his release too, as had her sister Elizabeth de Burgh and Edward's stepmother, Lady Hastings, but each of them, even Elizabeth, had received a chilly response. (Eleanor and Elizabeth's sister Margaret d'Audley was in no position to ask the king for favors; her husband had been involved with Lancaster's rebellion.) Ingelmar Berenger was in prison too, as were a handful of others. The rest were either awaiting future court appearances, like the Archbishop of York, or safely across the English Channel.

None of those remaining in England felt safe. Eleanor and William found themselves speaking more guardedly to everyone, except to each other, Gladys, and a few besides. Who knew who might be serving as a spy for Mortimer, waiting for one of them to make the misstep that would put William on the gallows, Eleanor back in prison? So in the Zouche household that summer of 1330, and in many another household, the public talk was of Philippa's churching and of little Edward's magnificent cradle. Not of the Earl of Kent's posthumous son, imprisoned in Salisbury Castle with the rest of his family. Not of the Earl of Kent's lands, granted either to the Earl of March or his followers. Not of rumors that men in Wales and men in France were plotting against Roger Mortimer. Not, certainly, of the keen disappointment that many felt when the risings came to naught. By not taking any action against his enemies that summer, Mortimer had succeeded very well in terrorizing them into inaction.

In September, Eleanor bore William a boy, whom they named after William. That same month, Mortimer summoned a great council to meet in October at Nottingham Castle.

It started with Mortimer booting the nearly blind Henry of Lancaster out of Nottingham Castle, where he had naturally expected to stay. “You should have seen him!” he told Isabella, chuckling, as they lay in bed that night. “He was red with anger. He was trying to fix me with that cold stare of his as he left the castle, being led by his squires, but of course he couldn't see well enough to tell me from his own mother. So he glared at one of his men's horses!”

Isabella did not find this as amusing as she once might have. “Roger, do you truly think he means you harm? After all, he went to France on the king's business, which we sent him on ourselves.”

“And probably took the opportunity to meet with some of the whoresons plotting against me there. It's true he's been quiet since he came back to England, and that's what worries me about him. He's been too quiet. In any case, I'm happier with him a league away from the castle, in the town.” He slipped his hand under Isabella's pillow and came up with a large ring of keys. “See these? They are the keys to the castle. They're to be with you at all times. Under your pillow at night where I put them.”

“It is not just Lancaster you are worried about, then?”

“I'm worried about the whole damn bunch of them,” said the earl succinctly. “I don't like those friends of your son, for one thing. Montacute, the son of your husband's old favorite. Your husband's nephew Edward de Bohun—why, he was with your husband until he and Despenser left Neath Abbey! Ralph Stafford, Robert Ufford, William de Clinton, John Neville—they're all too polite to me these days. God, if I could only hang them all!”

“Roger, what about my son?”

Mortimer frowned. He had found the weeks after the Earl of Kent's death, where Isabella alternated between being tipsily maudlin and tipsily lascivious, to be quite tedious, as he had never had much use for tears and had disliked being required to perform on command like a damned stallion. Since the birth of little Edward, though, the queen mother had been temperate, on the whole. Looking at her now, her eyes alert and inquisitive, Mortimer found himself missing their alcoholic glaze. “What of him, my dear?”

“He will be eighteen next month. You cannot really expect him to sit by quietly forever while you and I run the kingdom, you know. Do you want to hang him, too?”

“Of course not,” Mortimer lied. “But I put him on the throne, and I expect to be treated well for it. Not to have his band of just-fledged knights plotting against me.”

“William de Montacute is a knight banneret. So are Bohun and Ufford and Clinton.”

“I am well aware of their standing in the king's household, Isabella. Now let me ask you. Are you with me or against me?”

“With you!” Isabella laid her head on Mortimer's shoulder and gazed up at him with her beautiful eyes. “With you, always. But I am Edward's mother, and he is your king. You must not forget that. You can continue to guide him, if you will only do so tactfully and not anger him. I have seen him look more and more annoyed lately, when your servants eat in the hall besides his and when you remain seated in his presence and walk beside him as his equal. Show some humility with him, as he grows older, and you will go far.”

“They are spreading rumors around that I killed your fool husband.”

“But you did have him killed,” pointed out Isabella.

“Of course, and I'd do it again. But that doesn't mean that I want the whole kingdom to know about it from those meddling puppies.” Roger sighed. “I'm fed up with talking about the matter, and I'm tired to boot. I'll deal with Montacute and the rest of the lot tomorrow.”

He rolled on his side and began planning, as he always did in those moments before sleeping. Isabella was right: The king was too much of a man to be discounted for long. So what to do about him? He certainly couldn't be deposed like his father, nor was he likely to be willing to let Roger govern in his name, as the second Edward had done with Despenser the younger. For the old king had loved Hugh le Despenser, loved and trusted him, and if there were any two emotions the new king did not feel toward Roger Mortimer, they were love and trust. Two men could not rule England if one was unwilling. One would have to be pushed aside. But how? Roger decided to think the matter over the next time he went hunting. Hunting, he had found, clarified his thoughts.

Hunting. King William Rufus! Shot by an arrow while hunting. To this day, no one knew whether it had been by accident or design.

If the king were to meet with a hunting accident soon, he would be survived by a baby boy. A baby, in whose name Roger could rule for sixteen, seventeen years or more. By the time the baby developed a mind of his own (and with his infant character formed by Roger, how much of a mind of his own would he have?), Roger at sixty would be ready for a well-deserved retirement anyway.

He wouldn't rush things, of course. There was plenty of time to arrange it, time too to make sure the little heir survived the usual illnesses of babyhood intact. But when the right time came, there would be one of his crack Welsh archers, dressed as a common churl. Accidentally shooting toward the king…

Mortimer rolled back over and for the first time in many nights, reached for Isabella with genuine lust. History, he reflected, was full of useful lessons.