Infamous (27 page)

“The Countess of Warwick set the pace, my lord.”

Jory saw that her husband's fighting force was making preparations for war. Baggage carts were piled with campaign tents, weapons, and food supplies and she knew she did not have much time to stop the madness. Yet she was far too wise to challenge him before his men. Guy de Beauchamp's unbending pride would never allow him to yield to a woman before witnesses.

Jory looked straight into his eyes and communicated without words that she needed to be alone with him. Then she lowered her lashes as if acquiescing to his authority. With Mr. Burke's assistance she gracefully dismounted and beckoned for young Catherine Mortimer to follow her into the castle. She asked Meg to plenish a chamber for the girl and told them she wanted her privacy and would not need their services again that night.

Jory knew Guy would not come for some time. At all costs he would avoid the appearance of rushing to her side like some fawning lapdog. It would give her a chance to change into something more feminine than a riding dress and make sure her face and hair were as pretty as she could make them.

Above all, Jory knew that she must not let her temper get the better of her. Flying at him and calling him names would put her at a distinct disadvantage with a man like Warwick. Rather, she must approach him as a supplicant. She must beseech him sweetly, gently, wistfully. The manipulation would have to be delicate.

Jory bathed and donned the pale green dress in which she had been married to Warwick. She chose a jewel that would draw Guy's attention to her body. From a heavy gold chain dangled a cabochon emerald that swung in the valley between her lush breasts. She brushed her hair until it crackled, then threaded a pretty green ribbon through her gilt curls. She darkened her lashes and put on deep rose lip rouge. Finally she touched her earlobes and her breasts with her favorite fragrance of freesia, the alluring scent she had been wearing the first night she went to him at Windsor.

When Guy finally climbed the steps to her tower room he stepped inside and stood looking at her with guarded eyes. The way she had arrayed herself told him more than words that she was determined to change his mind about the decision he had taken and would use all her considerable feminine wiles to manipulate him.

Jory warned herself not to recriminate him for leaving her at Flamstead. She appealed to him in a soft, sweet voice. “Guy, I don't want you to answer Edward Plantagenet's call to war. You have served him enough years. You grabbed victory from defeat at Falkirk for him and that should be enough. But it will never be enough. The king is selfish and demanding and without mercy. Instead of enjoying the time he has left to him, he thirsts to crush the Scots once again beneath his heel. I want you to have no part in the senseless killing and the bloodshed.”

As he gazed at her, he knew everything she said was true. But he was not doing this for the king. His lust for revenge was personal. Guy did not answer her harshly. He spoke low, but his deep voice was implacable.

“I have pledged my word to the king. My decision has been taken. Do not try to manipulate me, Jory.”

Her eyes widened with apprehension and she took a tentative step toward him. “Guy, please, don't go…don't do this thing.”

“Stop! Nothing will dissuade me!” His voice was now harsh.

In supplication she moved toward him and captured his arm. “Guy, please, I beseech you.
I beg you
not to make war on Scotland.” Jory fell to her knees imploring him, pleading with him to listen, as she clung desperately to his arm.

“Get up off your knees,”
Warwick snarled through clenched teeth. “It sickens me that you would beg for your
lover
!”

Jory was stunned. She sat back on her heels and tears flooded her eyes.
In the name of Christ, how did you find out?

“On our wedding night I vowed to find out the name of the whoreson who planted his seed and abandoned you. Robert Bruce is a dead man, Jory. Never doubt it!”

“Guy, no! 'Tis for
your
sake I beg. I don't want you to get wounded. I don't want you to die!”

Warwick's face darkened with fury. “
My
sake? How dare you imply my fighting skills as a warrior are inferior to Robert Fucking Bruce!”

Jory pressed the back of her hand to her mouth. “Guy, I didn't mean that!” Warwick's face was distorted by his towering pride and she feared he would never forgive her for the things she had said. Or the thing she had done. Because her lover was King Robert Bruce, Warwick was consumed by jealousy and bloodlust.

Jory sat alone long after Warwick slammed the door after he departed her chamber. “He won't go. He'll change his mind,” she whispered. Yet in her heart she knew full well that nothing would prevent him from marching into Scotland and dragging Robert Bruce from his throne. If she had not begged on her knees, Guy might have listened. But her act of abasement obliterated any chance she'd had of dissuading him.

Jory was covered with guilt. She was the driving force behind Warwick's vengeful decision. She made the sign of the cross. “Dear Lord God, don't let them kill each other.”

“D
on't have the men set up tents. If the king's vanguard fails to arrive by tomorrow, we will press on to Carlisle,” Warwick directed Sir Hugh Ashton, his second in command. Guy de Beauchamp had been given orders by King Edward Plantagenet to await him at the royal castle of Kenilworth. But Warwick, not known for his patience, was countermanding those orders.

The following day, a dispatch from King Edward was brought to Warwick by one of Ralph Monthermer's lieutenants advising that Gloucester's army would be arriving at Kenilworth shortly. De Beauchamp cooled his heels for three days until the king arrived. The next three days were spent in Kenilworth's war room arguing battle tactics. At the end of six days Warwick's temper was foul.

Though Warwick argued vociferously against it, Gloucester was sent north with all speed, while Guy and his men-at-arms were ordered to accompany Edward Plantagenet.

Guy de Beauchamp stood on the ramparts of Kenilworth from which he could see the towers of his own castle. He had to banish pictures of Jory that taunted him day and night. Each time he saw her tear-drenched green eyes begging him to spare Robert Bruce, his fury increased.

“Why the hellfire has Edward commanded we act as his escort?”

“I believe he thinks Warwick invincible,” Ashton replied.

“Then we think alike for once.” Guy's dark humor was the only thing that saved him from going mad.

Finally, the king decided to advance and Warwick's small army rode north slowly, making camp at Leicester, Nottingham, and Sheffield Castles. The earl's patience was rubbed raw, and on the days when the king rested, Guy organized hunts for his knights in the dense forests that surrounded the great castles.

After Sheffield they traversed the Pennines, rested at Burnley Abbey, and progressed through Lancashire until they came to the enormous Lancaster Castle that was owned by Thomas of Lancaster, the king's nephew. Thomas, son of the king's late brother, Edmund, had the royal Plantagenet pride in abundance. Perhaps because he recognized Warwick's towering pride, the Earl of Lancaster had always held him in great esteem.

Thomas was the hereditary high steward of England and his lavish royal entertainments were legendary. On the king's first night in Lancaster's Great Hall, he was given the place of honor on Thomas's right, and Warwick was seated on Thomas's left.

“Allow me to congratulate you on your marriage to Marjory de Warenne. I warrant she is the most beautiful countess in the land and the envy of every baron in England.”

Warwick glanced at Lancaster's richly clad wife, Alice de Lacy. She was no beauty, but because she was an only child of the Earl of Lincoln and Salisbury, Lancaster would inherit these two earldoms along with their wealth and property when Lincoln died.
I would not trade Jory for all the royal Plantagenet titles, wealth, and property lumped together!

“I need to speak with you alone,” Lancaster murmured.

Warwick nodded his understanding. He waited until after midnight when he knew the king would be abed before he sought out Lancaster in his private chamber.

“I am alarmed at Edward's appearance,” Thomas said quietly. “His Majesty's health has deteriorated since last I saw him.”

Warwick was blunt. “This will be his last campaign, I warrant.”

“This campaign will
precipitate
his demise.” It was Lancaster's turn to speak his mind. “Prince Edward is ill suited to the role he will shortly be called upon to fulfill.”

Warwick's dark glance took in the tall Plantagenet's physique, and not for the first time he lamented that Thomas had been born Edmund's son, rather than the king's son and heir to the throne. “Young Edward will benefit from your guidance and experience.”

“He is a juvenile who resents authority, mine especially.”

“The baronage will still be the dominant force in Parliament.”

“Only if we stick together and form a powerful alliance. As a leading noble of the realm will you enter into a bond with me?”

“Yes—I will pledge you my support, when the time comes.” Warwick paced Lancaster's chamber. “I chafe at the slow progress we are making. I am more suited to the role of warrior than bloody nursemaid.”

“Try to curb your impatience. He takes strength and courage from you. You are serving the purpose of prolonging his life.”

The king remained for a full week at Lancaster Castle. Before he left, Edward ordered Thomas to gather his force from his northern landholdings and follow him to Carlisle.

From Lancaster, they followed the River Lune up through Kendal and the Cambrian Mountains. Warwick's men-at-arms made camp at Penrith while the king rested at Brougham Castle. Guy de Beauchamp had a horse litter made for the king so he could journey the final miles in comfort. Three days later the cavalcade finally arrived at Carlisle. An entire month had melted away since Guy de Beauchamp had set out from Warwick.

Carlisle Castle, the ugly red fortress on the Border of Scotland, bulged at the seams with English fighting men. Prince Edward and his entourage had not set foot across the Border since they had arrived at Carlisle more than two months before.

When Ralph Monthermer, Earl of Gloucester, had arrived a fortnight ago, he saw the crowded conditions and decided to cross the Border into Scotland to crush a reported uprising near Perth.

When Edward Plantagenet encountered Pembroke and his scattered army arriving at Carlisle Castle, he demanded to know the reason they had retreated from Scotland.

“Sire, we were ambushed at the Steps of Trool. We set up camp at the foot of Mulldonach Mountain and in the night an avalanche of boulders came crashing down on our campaign tents. We fled east around Loch Trool and ran straight into the Bruce's swords. They killed hundreds.”

King Edward fell into a full-blown Plantagenet rage. “Whoreson! Dung Eater! Scab-arsed baboon! I'll hang the Bruce from the highest scaffold, then have him drawn and quartered!” The king's fair complexion became ruddy and mottled. “Get back across that Border, Pembroke, and bring Robert Bruce to me here!”

“Let
me
go, Your Majesty. My men are fresh and I am spoiling for a fight,” Warwick volunteered.

“Why should you do Pembroke's job for him? He's the fool who bungled the raid. Pembroke is the head of my army. Let him prove himself worthy of the rank of general.”

A frustrated Warwick sought out his son who had been cooling his heels for two months. “Christ Almighty, it took a whole bloody month to get here, now my men are expected to stand about and pick the lice from their heads instead of marching into Scotland and capturing the Bruce.”

“I understand your frustration, Father. I've tried to teach Prince Edward fighting skills, but he is inept and takes interest only in drinking, dicing, and playing youthful pranks worthy of a twelve-year-old. He insists that though Robert Bruce has been crowned king, all the Border strongholds are garrisoned by the English. He thinks the Scots are no threat whatsoever.”

After a week of idleness, Warwick rode out alone every day through the Border country. He kept his mouth shut and his ears open, learning what he could about the Bruce's strength. His long black hair and swarthy complexion labeled him a Celt, so he could cross into Scotland without fear. An idea took root in his mind and began to grow. When it was fully formed he acted upon it.

Warwick rode to Dumfries Castle, which was garrisoned by English soldiers. When he identified himself by showing his bear and staff device and told the guard he was with the king's army at Carlisle, he was welcomed into the castle. Presently, he sought out Dumfries's steward, the father of Lynx de Warenne's wife, Jane.

“Well met, Jock Leslie. I've heard only good things about you from Lynx de Warenne.” The two men clasped arms. “As a matter of fact, your lovely daughter Jane is now my sister-in-law.”

Warwick saw the steward try to grasp the relationship and clarified matters for him. “I am Guy de Beauchamp. I wed Marjory de Warenne when she returned to England a few months ago.”

“Congratulations, my lord. Jane and Lady Marjory became inseparable friends. Yer wife was extremely kind and generous to my daughter. Do ye know if Jane is well, my lord? When she left here, she was having another bairn.”

“I visited the de Warennes six weeks ago. Jane was blooming with health and confided she would like a daughter this time.”

“Us Leslies are prolific breeders—I'm father of ten.”

“An amazing feat,” Warwick declared. “I am trying to find Robert Bruce. I have a message for him.”

“You and a thousand others.” Jock winked. “We are castle keepers and try not to take sides, but now that the Bruce has been crowned King of Scotland, 'tis impossible to hide our pleasure.”

“You think him Scotland's rightful king.” It was a statement.

“I
know
he is. Any Scot breathing would agree—and half the English, if truth be told,” Jock declared. “If ye want to get a message to the Bruce, seek out Black Douglas.”

“I thank you, Jock Leslie.”

Jock nodded. “I'd put my trust in any mon related to Lynx de Warenne. He's the salt of the earth. Give my regards to yer beautiful lady.”

It was after midnight when Warwick gained his bed in Carlisle Castle. As he lay in the darkness, he probed the corners of his mind to see if he felt guilt over what he had done. He concluded that the end justified the means and promptly fell asleep.

At the end of the following week, messengers arrived from Pembroke with bad news. The army had met up with the Bruce's force and had been defeated in a brisk skirmish at a place called Loudoun Hill. Pembroke was sending his wounded soldiers back to Carlisle Castle, though he himself knew better than to return and face Edward Plantagenet.

In the war room at Carlisle Castle, the king had foam on his lips as he raved and shouted. “I have assembled the largest and best-trained force of fighting men England has ever seen! It should be child's play for my fumbling, idiot fourth cousin to accomplish the complete subjection of these thick-headed Scots.”

Warwick searched the maps for Loudoun Hill and saw it was at a place called Kilmarnock. His eyes followed a line directly east and there, not more than a dozen miles away was Douglas.

Edward Plantagenet was purple in the face. “By God's good grace, am I alone capable of leading this army to capture Bruce?”

Warwick was alarmed. The king had arrived here in a horse litter. How could he lead the army? “Sire, I will take my men to reinforce Pembroke.”

“You and I together, Warwick. We will get the job done.”

“I can be ready tomorrow, Your Majesty, there is no need—”

“There is
every
need. I will be ready at dawn. Do not keep me waiting, Lord Warwick.”

Carlisle Castle was a massive fortress, but Guy de Beauchamp's men were billeted together and it didn't take long to put them on notice about tomorrow's departure. It took much longer to round up Prince Edward's troops, and Rickard told his father in confidence they likely would not be ready for two or three days.

At dawn the next morning, Warwick's men-at-arms were ready. His foot soldiers were armed and his knights were mounted. Edward Plantagenet, with much difficulty and plenty of aid, climbed into the saddle and insisted on leading the cavalcade.

The snail's pace he set in his weakened condition was mentally agonizing to Warwick and physically agonizing for the king. At the end of two days, they had covered only four miles. In spite of the monarch's protests, Guy de Beauchamp improvised a horse litter and persuaded King Edward to ride in it. At the end of the third day they reached Burgh-by-Sands from which the water of Solway Firth was visible. Beyond the firth lay Scotland.

Edward Plantagenet's pain was so severe he could go no farther. Warwick's impatience dropped away from him like a cloak and was replaced by heartfelt compassion. He carried the king from his horse litter to a large stone house where a bed had been prepared for him. The royal physicians and Warwick's Welsh healers shook their heads and could do nothing for the warrior king. Edward called his priest and his scribes and prepared himself for death. He dictated his will and composed messages of farewell for the members of his family.

When Prince Edward and his troops arrived, Warwick met him. “Your father is dying. He has orders he wants to pass on to you.”

As the heir to England's throne knelt by his father's bed, all present heard the king's last orders:

“One hundred English knights must go to the Crusades and take my heart with them.” Edward Plantagenet looked his son straight in the eyes. “Piers Gaveston is not to be recalled to England without the consent of Parliament.” He struggled for breath. “Carry my bones before the army, so I may still lead the way to victory!” Edward the First had issued his last order.

Prince Edward looked upon the dead face of his father. “I am now Edward the Second, King of England!” He sounded amazed.