Notorious (15 page)

“Thank God I found you. Because of the long absence of the Marcher lords, the Welsh have chosen this opportune time for a massive uprising.”

“Peste!”
Roger swore. “We will have to return. Adam, get word immediately to Rickard de Beauchamp in Ireland and tell him to bring his fighting men.”

Wolf Mortimer cursed. “I foresaw a threat from the west and should have realized the Welsh would take up arms in our absence.”

Roger passed the news of the uprising to the other Marcher lords and they agreed they must leave without delay. Wolf's warning about Lancaster was foremost in Mortimer's mind. He told Thomas they were returning home and challenged him outright. “In the event Edward's army moves against us, can I rely upon you to join forces with us?”

“Sign the Doncaster Petition and I pledge to bring my fighting force to join the Marchers and defeat Edward.”

As the Marcher barons left the hall, Wolf decided to reveal a strong premonition he had about Lancaster, prompted by the sound of bagpipes only he could hear. “I believe Thomas is seeking aid from Scotland.”

“A pact with Robert Bruce would be treason—a hanging offense,” Mortimer declared.

Hereford spoke up. “The Bruce and Edward are formidable enemies. It would be one sure way to depose our degenerate king.”

“I agree. Our enemy's enemy is our friend,” d'Amory declared.

Roger was outraged. “I've fought the Bruce in Scotland and in Ireland. He is England's enemy. I'll have no part of it!”

 

“I have decided to take down Lancaster from his high perch. Once I've dealt with Thomas, I will repeal the Ordinances the whoreson forced upon me,” Edward confided to Hugh as they lay abed at Gloucester Castle. Despencer had sailed up the Severn to celebrate the New Year with his royal lover.

Hugh reached between the king's legs and rolled his flaccid member between his palms. He had learned it was a surefire method of arousing Edward. Once he had inflamed the king's desire, it was child's play to bend him to his will. “You promised to avenge me, my love.”

“And so I shall, Hugh. Lancaster has sent a petition to the people of London, accusing you of piracy and vowing to rid the realm of your influence.”

“Your royal cousin is a mere annoyance. He is filled with hot air, but the coward won't venture far from his cushy castle of Pontefract, I warrant. We can deal with him anytime.”

Hugh moved down in the bed and pressed kisses along Edward's inner thighs until the king's cock began to pulse with need. Hugh suddenly stopped and raised his head. “I want you to go after Mortimer. The whoreson bastard led the Marchers and took sixty-three of my manors. They robbed me of property worth fifty thousand pounds, and I lust for revenge. You will assuage my lust, won't you, Edward?”

“Yes, yes! Haven't I promised you whatever you desire, Hugh?”

“I desire that tomorrow you order your levies to gather at Cirencester and that you immediately march to capture Mortimer.”

 

“Why, in the name of Christ, did you not remain in Ireland where you were safe, madam?” Roger Mortimer could not hide his fury that his wife, Joan, who had chosen to live apart from him for years, turned up at Ludlow Castle two days after he arrived. It had been a long trek from Doncaster; they had already fought off a Welsh raid on his lands at Wigmore, and his temper was vile.

“What a charming welcome,” she drawled. “I'll come to Ludlow when I wish. Don't forget I brought you this castle when we wed.”

“You never let me forget. I should have known it was concern for Ludlow, rather than your children, that brought you back.” He made no effort to hide the distaste he felt at the sight of her. Once attractive, though she was always self-centered, her body was now stout from overindulgence, her face petulant with dissatisfaction.

Mortimer turned on his heel and left her presence.

Joan's eyes narrowed with something akin to hatred. She had an insatiable desire for the virile, arrogant bastard, though she could no longer lure him to her bed. She lived apart, hoping he would seek her out, but he never did. “A pox on you, Mortimer!”

Roger went to the stables in search of Rickard de Beauchamp and found him and the men he'd brought from Ireland, feeding and watering their horses. “You should have left her in Ireland, but I imagine the dominant bitch overruled you.”

“I pointed out the danger, but she insisted I make room on the ship for her.” Rickard had made sure his own wife, Catherine, who was Roger's sister, remained in Ireland. He looked at his friend with shrewd eyes. “It's not just the Welsh we must worry about.”

Roger shook his head and told Rickard the whole story. “The Welsh on one side and the king's forces on the other will have us in a vise.” He gave a confident laugh. “We've been in tight places before. You and I will survive, Rickard.”

“Is my father in danger from the king?”

“I don't honestly know. Warwick was the one who told me not to ride to Leeds Castle. He had sense enough to stay out of it.”

“I warrant you have scouts on the other side of the River Severn, watching for any sign of the king's forces?”

“I do, and so has Hereford.” Roger and Rickard de Beauchamp had been friends for twenty years, since they'd been knighted together. They never hesitated to confide in each other. “Wolf suspects that Lancaster is in secret negotiations with the Scots.”

Rickard whistled in surprise, then considered for a minute. “Thomas has always fancied himself king. If he thought the Bruce could depose Edward and put him on the throne, he wouldn't cavil at traitorous dealings with Scotland.”

“The Marcher barons have a pact with Lancaster.”

“A pact whereby Thomas will expect us to go to his aid. The question is, will he come to ours?” Rickard asked.

“I don't know the answer, but Wolf is certain that he won't.”

All at Ludlow worked until midnight, readying armor, weapons, and horses. They were prepared to fend off raids from the Welsh, and protect their landholdings and livestock, but they also needed to be ready to defend themselves if Edward's army threatened.

Roger bade his sons good night and climbed the stairs to his own chamber. He yawned and stretched his arms over his head, to ease the muscles in his shoulders. The moment he closed the door, he knew he was not alone.

Joan lay stretched out on his bed sipping from a goblet. Her robe was undone, exposing heavy thighs. “I'm tired of waiting.”

“While I'm simply tired.” His voice was curt. “You seem to have lost your way, madam.”

She drained the wine. “Poor little lamb has losht her way.”

Lamb? More like tough old mutton.
He knew she was flown with wine. Roger went to the bed, pulled her robe to cover her, and lifted her into his arms. He could hear her laugh deep in her throat as he carried her to her own chamber. Her head suddenly fell back and when he looked down, he could see she had fallen into a drunken sleep. He laid her on her bed with a gentleness that belied his true feelings and covered her with a warm blanket.

“M
arie has just told me something I think you should know.” Brianna had brought Marie to the queen's chamber the moment the nursemaids took the children away to put them to bed.

Marie hesitated, then blurted out, “The king has ordered my husband to take the army to Cirencester in Gloucestershire.”

“Did Pembroke tell you why?” Isabelle asked.

“Because the king is at nearby Gloucester Castle and has chosen Cirencester as a mustering point for the royal forces.”

“The king's brothers left this morning with their men-at-arms,” Brianna added.

Isabelle was surprised and puzzled. “Does Edward intend to march his army against the Scots?”

Brianna shook her head. “No—Edward's target is the Marcher barons—Mortimer, Hereford, and the others who took their Welsh Borderlands back from the Despencers and forced their exile.”

Isabelle's hand fluttered to her throat. “But Edward issued royal pardons for the Marcher barons.”

“The king's pardons are not worth the paper they're writ on.” Brianna clenched her fists. I warrant Despencer is demanding revenge. The greedy swine must be back…if he ever left.

“Will you excuse me, Isabelle?” Marie implored. “I'd like to spend time with my husband. He leaves at dawn.”

When she left, Isabelle turned to Brianna. “I didn't want to say anything to upset Marie, and I pray for Pembroke's safety, but the Mortimers and Lancaster have a pact. They will easily defeat the king's forces, as they always have in a showdown.”

“'Tis rumored the ranks of the royal forces are swollen to near thirty thousand. Edward raised them in your name. Men will flock to Cirencester because they prefer him as a warrior king to the weakling he has always shown himself to be.”

Isabelle was suddenly filled with anguish. “The people of England will fight for love of me. They have no idea they are being manipulated. I don't want men dying in my name!”

A picture of Wolf and Roger Mortimer flashed into Brianna's mind. “Amen to that, Your Grace.”

 

Warwick, with a troop of two dozen knights, rode into Ludlow. He dismounted and removed his helm to speak with Roger Mortimer. “I heard a rumor the Welsh heathens are raiding again. I thought you might like some help.”

“I have help. I recalled your son from Ireland.”

“Rickard is here?” Guy de Beauchamp's face lit up.

Warwick's heir emerged from the armory when he heard the clatter of hooves. “Father! Who told you I was here?”

“No one—perhaps I sensed it.” The two embraced warmly.

“Tell your men to rest,” Roger advised. “We have a foray planned for tonight. Wigmore has been hit twice this past week. Wolf had a vision they were holding our sheep and cattle at Radnor. He rode into Wales under cover of night and confirmed that his sixth sense was right as usual.”

“We'll teach them a lesson they won't soon forget,” Warwick pledged. “As soon as we've fed and watered our mounts, we'll join you in the hall for some thirst-quenching Ludlow ale.”

Rickard accompanied his father into the stables. His sire had aged a good deal since he'd last seen him. “Roger tells me you had the good sense to stay out of the Leeds debacle and advised him to do the same.”

“Your sister Brianna is serving as lady to Isabelle. She was with the queen at Leeds and learned it was a deliberate plot. I saw clearly its purpose was to divide the barons. Expedience told me that the Mortimers and I should not involve ourselves.”

Rickard put his hand on his father's shoulder. “We are expecting trouble from the king. I hope that expedience once again tells you not to involve yourself.”

“I came to fight,” Guy de Beauchamp staunchly declared.

“The Welsh, yes…the king, no. It is not your fight.”

 

At dinner that night, Guy de Beauchamp was shocked at Lady Mortimer's appearance. He remembered her when she was a youthful beauty, and he could not believe how her figure had thickened to resemble a barrel. Above a heavy double chin her mouth looked petulant. Warwick was a romantic at heart, and replied with charm when she made cutting remarks, but he sent up a silent prayer of thanks that his wife, the great love of his life, was still exquisitely lovely both in face and form.

Guy's glance moved to the table where the two Mortimer daughters, who were still unwed, were sitting. He paid close attention to young Katherine, who had been suggested as a match for his son, Guy Thomas. He was relieved to find no fault with the pretty child. She was obviously innocent and sweet tempered, unlike her mother.

When it was full dark, Warwick and his men joined those of Mortimer and Mortimer of Chirk. Added to the men Rickard had brought from Ireland, they numbered about two hundred and fifty.

Wolf was in the vanguard, unerringly leading the men to the Radnor encampment, through the pitch-dark night. A surprise attack gave the Borderers the advantage over the Welsh, though they were outnumbered two to one. These odds, however, were undaunting since the Marchers had better armor and weapons.

The Welsh were fierce fighters, but their reckless courage often proved detrimental when pitted against the more disciplined English. The tactics they used were calculated. They would fight like demons, then scatter as if fleeing in fear, only to circle back and surround their enemy. This drew their opponents closer to mountainous terrain, giving them the advantage. Once in the mountains, other Welsh tribes joined them.

Mortimer of Chirk had dropped out of the fighting hours before, and Wolf and Edmund Mortimer led his men along with their own. It was dawn before the Welsh raiders were vanquished. The dead and wounded lay strewn over miles of frozen terrain. The Marchers drew rein to allow the Welsh to retrieve their injured, but all at once a warrior inflamed with bloodlust launched himself at Warwick with a battle-ax and unhorsed him. There was a sickening crack as Warwick's head smashed against a boulder, and his helmet was split in half.

Rickard, his heart in his mouth, witnessed the combatants roll on the ground, entwined in a death grip. He bolted from his saddle to aid his father, but before he could reach him, Warwick withdrew his knife from his attacker and staggered to his feet.

“Christ, Father, are you all right?”

Guy put his hand to his helmetless head. “Almost knocked my bloody brains out—what few I have!”

The pair laughed with relief and Warwick whistled for his horse and remounted. “I'm getting too old for this.”

The Borderers' work wasn't finished yet. When they got back to the Radnor encampment they had to round up the Mortimer sheep and cattle and drive them back to Ludlow.

Late the next day, two of the scouts Roger Mortimer had sent to keep watch for the royal army rode hell-for-leather into the castle courtyard. Roger, Wolf, and Rickard greeted them warily.

“The king was staying at Gloucester with a negligible number of guards. Early this morning he left and rode to Cirencester. When we followed, we saw Pembroke already there with hundreds of men-at-arms. Hundreds more poured in by the hour. By the time we left, there were thousands, not hundreds.”

“Does Hereford know?” Mortimer asked.

“Aye, his scouts saw what we saw.”

Rickard spoke with the Mortimers. “I ask that you don't tell Warwick. He'd send for more men, and I want him well out of it.”

“Agreed,” Roger said grimly. “Unlike Chirk he's still a formidable warrior, but it's not his fight.” Mortimer dispatched two messengers to notify Thomas of Lancaster that a large number of his forces was needed in the Marches immediately.

Hugh Audley arrived with his fighting force of two hundred, but he also had his wife and young son with him. “I couldn't leave them alone. I couldn't leave men behind to guard them. I believe Margaret and James will be safer at Ludlow with your daughters.”

Mortimer greeted Margaret. “Welcome. We have plenty room at Ludlow.” He grimaced. “I should warn you, my wife, Joan, is here, though I wish she had remained in Ireland.”

They all went into the castle, and then Audley, Mortimer, his sons, and his lieutenants went to Ludlow's war room to study the maps and plan their strategy.

Rickard went to the bathhouse where his father was soaking his battered body. It wasn't Warwick's aching muscles that troubled Rickard, it was the goose egg on Guy's skull and the blood in the whites of his eyes. Rickard deliberately played down the threat.

“Pembroke has brought an army of a few hundred to Cirencester. Fortunately, Lancaster is on his way with reinforcements.”

Warwick nodded. “Thomas has spies everywhere. What if the levies at Cirencester are larger than you anticipate?”

Rickard shrugged. “Then we will negotiate. We're not fools.”

Guy de Beauchamp nodded again. “If we do what's expedient, we won't go wrong.”

“
We
? I want
you
to return to Warwick. Today. And I want you to lie low. The name of de Beauchamp must not be involved in this treasonous fight with the Crown.”

“Last I heard,
your
name was de Beauchamp.”

“None but the Mortimers know I'm here. I'm dark enough to pass as a Mortimer. You on the other hand are recognizable to all.”

“True enough. Why are you so adamant to keep me out of it?”

“To preserve Warwick and our other castles. If worse comes to worst in this fight with the king, our landholdings would be confiscated. Leave today, Father. Say hello to Jory and my brother for me. I've no idea when I'll be able to see them.”

When Guy de Beauchamp went into the hall he was surprised to see Margaret and her young son. She was the daughter of his late friend Gilbert de Clare and Princess Joanna. Warwick's wife, Jory, had been with Joanna when Margaret was born, and she was her godmother. Warwick embraced Margaret and felt her despair.

“I've told her there is naught to fear.” Joan's voice dripped with contempt for Margaret's apprehension. “The king is an inveterate coward. He won't dare come into Marcher country!”

Loath to alarm Joan, Guy chose not to argue with her. He did wish to offer Margaret his protection, however. “I am returning to Warwick today, my dear. Why don't you come with me? Jory would be overjoyed to see you and James.”

Joan, jealous of the younger woman's beauty and noble pedigree, urged her to go.

Warwick gallantly extended the same offer to Joan, but she refused with utter disdain.

Rickard de Beauchamp was relieved when his father, accompanied by Margaret Audley and her son, departed before the afternoon light faded. His relief was short-lived, however. When the inhabitants of Ludlow arose the following morning, Rickard found that seventy of the hundred men he had brought from Ireland had melted away in the night and deserted.

“The whoreson cowards!” Roger Mortimer declared. “Once they learned the size of the king's force, their backbones collapsed.”

Rickard was both angered and frustrated, and yet he understood the desertions. The men had served in Ireland for four years; now they were home and they'd had a bellyful of fighting. They'd slunk off to their families, and who could blame the poor bastards?

 

The following day, Hereford's sons, John and Humphrey de Bohun, arrived at Ludlow with two hundred men, which was only half of Hereford's forces.

“Where is your father?” Roger Mortimer asked.

The brothers looked at each other, and their fair skins flushed. “He took a force of men to meet Lancaster. He told us to join our forces with yours. He said you would know enough to remain on our side of the River Severn and keep the enemy from crossing.”

“Set up your campaign tents for tonight. We'll leave tomorrow. I'll send word to d'Amory to bring his forces to join with ours.” Roger was worried about his Uncle Chirk. He didn't have the stamina to lead men in a campaign.

Wolf spoke up. “Edmund and I will keep our eye on Chirk's men. They'll take orders from us.” He waited until the de Bohun brothers left to confer with their men, and then he spoke up. “Hereford hasn't gone to meet Lancaster. In spite of his assurances to bring his great strength to support us, Thomas won't come. Hereford has ridden north to hole up with Lancaster and make a deal with the Scots.”

Roger stared grim-faced at Wolf. “Ride swiftly to see if d'Amory has done the same fucking thing.”

Wolf Mortimer had ridden less than four miles when he encountered a messenger d'Amory had sent. They returned quickly to Ludlow.

Wolf gave his father the message. “D'Amory has taken his men to Lancaster's castle of Tutbury, hoping to meet him there.” Wolf held up his hand to stay his father's curses. “Roger d'Amory didn't desert. He naively believes Lancaster will come to our aid and will soon be at his castle of Tutbury.”

“Then he is a misbegotten fool to put his trust in a man with Plantagenet blood!”