The Traitor's Wife (90 page)

Bright and early the next morning, October 19, he summoned the king's friends to him, one by one. But he might as well have been interrogating slugs, for each stood silent before him. All, that is, except for Montacute, the last of the lot. “Plot? I know nothing of a plot,” Montacute said. “I have done, and will do, nothing inconsistent with my duty to the king.”

Then he turned as sluglike as the rest.

“I'll let them be for now,” Mortimer said later to Isabella.

“Why?”

“I've got nothing to use against them. Nothing but hints, here and there. Nothing I can take to Parliament as we did with the Earl of Kent.”

Isabella shuddered. Mortimer stared moodily out of the window. The castle sat high and isolated atop a crag, but God only knew what the people in the bustling little town below were hatching. When would he be allowed to rest and simply enjoy his wealth and power? “But we'll have something soon,” he said finally. “Give them a day or so, and they'll go the way of stupid Edmund.”

After their meeting with Mortimer, William de Montacute and his companions deemed it best to spend the night in the town, not the castle. There being no place large enough to hold all of them, they had gone their separate ways to find lodgings. William having found a tiny room and seen his belongings bestowed there, he went downstairs to eat, hoping that the ale was better than the accommodations.

Since leaving the castle, he had had the sense of being followed, and his suspicions were confirmed when a man plunked himself on the bench beside him. “William Eland,” he said. “You've seen me at the castle.”

“Right,” agreed Montacute warily. The man was in the guard there, he believed.

“Beautiful, isn't she? I've known that castle from a boy, my lord. I know her better than the back of my own hand.”

William Eland was not an old man, only a middle-aged one, and Montacute wondered why he was beginning to reminisce in this elderly manner. More than that, he wondered why Eland was making him in particular his victim. And why was he calling the castle
she
, like a damn boat, when it was on as dry land as it could be? But his mother had taught him to be polite to bores, so he said patiently, “It has a fascinating history, I am sure. But—”

“Let me buy you an ale, sir.”

Lady Montacute had also taught her son to graciously accept an offer of hospitality, especially when one was strapped for cash, as he so often was. “Thank you.”

He sipped his ale and listened to Eland go on and on about Nottingham Castle. She had been built in wood by William the Conqueror, then rebuilt in stone by the second Henry. She had a very impressive complement of garderobes. (“Indeed,” Montacute said politely, through clenched teeth.) She had an underground passage to her, almost obscured by brush, that only Eland seemed to know about these days…

Montacute's ale crashed to the floor. “A secret passage?”

Eland nodded and swallowed his ale with relief, grateful that the young knight had finally gotten the point, for Eland had been beginning to find him uncommonly dense. “Shall I show it to you, sir?”

“Is the king no better?”

Pancius de Controne, physician first to the second Edward and now to his son, shook his head lugubriously at the queen mother. “My assistant is leeching him now, your grace, and I have given him physic, but he must be left to rest afterward.”

“It is so odd to find him sick, and so suddenly.”

“I have always believed this castle was a particularly unhealthy one, your grace.”

Master Controne had yet to find a healthy castle in all of England, Isabella knew, and would have much preferred that the court betook itself to stay in his native Lombardy. The physician added, “He complained of feeling unwell last night too, your grace, but thought it was nothing at the time. He should have let me know then. It is best to catch these imbalances of the system at the earliest possible moment.” He squinted at Isabella. “You are looking pale yourself, your grace.”

“I do not feel poorly.”

“Still, I would recommend that you not put yourself at risk.”

Isabella nodded and went back to her chamber, where Mortimer and the Bishop of Lincoln, Henry Burghersh, Chancellor of England, were deep in conversation. Hugh de Turplington, the royal steward and an old friend of Roger's, was also there, as were Simon de Bereford, escheator south of the Trent; and Oliver de Ingham, the seneschal of Gascony. Richard de Monmouth, Roger's squire and his cellmate at the Tower of London, was in attendance upon his master. “How fares the king?” asked the bishop politely.

“His physician is having him leeched.”

“Just getting those creatures off me always does me a world of good,” said the bishop brightly. “So, my lord. About these conspirators.”

“We must imprison them,” said Mortimer. “They are dangerous to us and to the king, for they fill his head with wild notions. He is impressionable that way, as was his father.” Mortimer hesitated. Criticizing the second Edward was always safe with the queen mother around, but comparing the third Edward to him was somewhat risky. “Of course, his youth excuses a great deal. But until he grows more experienced in the ways of the world, these men must be kept out of his way. We must find some excuse to detain them until—”

There was a cry and a crash, and the queen's door flew open. As it did, Richard de Crombek, an usher, fell across the threshold, bleeding to death. Then two dozen young men, brandishing maces and swords, stormed into the chamber.

Isabella would live to be age sixty-two. Not for one day in the next twenty-eight years would she forget those next few minutes. Hugh de Turplington rushing at John Neville and being killed with a single blow from his mace. Richard de Monmouth lashing out frantically with the only weapon he had, a dagger, and being slain with a stab to the heart by Robert Walkfare. Simon de Bereford and Oliver de Ingham being wrestled to the floor and bound with rope. The Bishop of Lincoln fleeing in the direction of the privy. William de Montacute and a companion whose face Isabella could not make out cornering Roger and holding him at sword point. Herself, springing from the chair to which she had seemed frozen and rushing to Mortimer's side, where she recognized Montacute's companion—the king himself. “Fair son!” she screamed. “Have pity on the gentle Mortimer! Do not harm him!”

Edward shoved her away impatiently and she fell to her knees, then slumped to the ground, only half-conscious of the events that were taking place around her. Mortimer, bound and gagged, being dragged away, along with Bereford and Ingham. Men running out of the room, yelling, “In the king's name! Mortimer is the king's prisoner! Surrender, and you shall not be harmed!” The Bishop of Lincoln, dripping filth from his unsuccessful attempt to escape via the privy, being led away politely by two young, half-grinning squires. The king's physician and Edward de Bohun, her nephew by marriage, hauling her to her feet and taking her to the king's own chamber. Her ladies and damsels, who had been huddled in an anteroom crying the whole time, being brought to her. “She is to be taken to Berkhamstead Castle at first light. No harm will come to her or to you. Pack her things for the morrow.”

Someone forced some wine down her throat, and her mind began to uncloud. “Roger! Let me see Roger one last time before—”

“You cannot do that, Aunt.”

“I demand to see him!”

“The king has forbidden it.” Bohun's voice was very polite. “And your grace, the king's word is truly the law now. Not yours, never again.”

“I wish I had been there, Eleanor. Everyone in town was getting up when the Earl of Lancaster's men rode in, announcing that Mortimer had been taken and the king would henceforth rule on his own. It was sheer pandemonium after that—sheer joy. Men buying each other drinks—it's a wonder there's any ale left in Nottingham. Women throwing flowers at the king's feet when he came out himself to greet the crowds in front of the castle. William Eland showing every child in Nottingham the passage Montacute and his men came through. The Earl of Lancaster throwing his cap in the air like a boy.”

“What will happen to Mortimer?”

“The king was for executing him then and there, they say, but Lancaster warned him that he should have a proper trial before Parliament. So a proper trial he will have, at Westminster in November. He's been taken to Leicester, but he'll soon be moved to the Tower to await trial.”

“With an adequate guard this time, I hope.”

“With a very adequate guard.”

“And Isabella?”

“The king has made it known that he will not tolerate anything being said against her. I suppose he believes that what will happen to Mortimer will be punishment enough for her.”

“I almost pity her,” said Eleanor. “
Almost
.” She shook her head. “And to think that they should have fallen so suddenly. It all seems like a dream still.”

“Doesn't it? All those plots, and what did it take to overthrow Mortimer? Two dozen men and a long-forgotten passage. The king playing sick so he could open the doors inside. Everything planned at the last minute.” William shook his head too, for he was still as dumbfounded as he had been when he first heard of Mortimer's arrest. Everything could have gone wrong with the plan, yet nothing had gone wrong. “I do have one regret,” he confessed.

“What?”

“That I wasn't in that tunnel with them. But it was a young men's operation, and it had to be a small one.”

She kissed him. “It matters not who brought it about, only that Mortimer and Isabella have fallen.”

“True. But I wish I had been there.”

On November 26, the Earl of March shuffled into the hall at Westminster, bound and gagged. There he was charged in front of Parliament with removing the late king from Kenilworth Castle and having him murdered at Berkeley Castle, of appropriating royal power, of causing the death of the Earl of Kent, of enriching himself with royal money and jewels, of putting discord between Isabella and her husband, and a host of other crimes. As had been the case with those who had gone before him—Piers Gaveston, Thomas of Lancaster, the Despensers, the Earl of Kent—he was not allowed to speak in his defense before being sentenced to be hung, the fate of common criminals.