The Honor Due a King (30 page)

“Harclay will receive a vast reward. Only,” – I ran a fingertip over my lower lip in thought – “it’s such a shame Hereford didn’t survive the battle, too. I would have liked to have seen him grovel for mercy alongside Lancaster.”

“And the queen has not pled for his life?” Hugh asked with a delicately raised eyebrow.

“Her cousin he may be, but sometimes blood ties are not enough.” I smiled at my triumph. Soon, all my troubles would be gone. Vanished like winter snows under an ardent spring sun. “After so long, everything is finally going in our favor.”

“As it should, my lord. As it should.”

In the barbican outside the porter’s lodge, we dismounted. Hugh and I strolled into the castle yard and made our way to the round tower that stood at the western entrance.

Before we ascended the tower stairs, I waved our escort back, stepped through the door and pulled Hugh inside for a word.

“My dear Hugh,” – I touched him lightly on the cheek, drawing my fingertips down over the slight stubble on his face until they rested beneath his jaw – “Lancaster signed his death warrant when he forced me to banish you. Please, know that I was only biding my time, waiting for the proper moment to levy a punishment upon him. It will not happen again. You will not leave me – now or ever.”

He lowered his eyes and in the same moment turned his face toward my hand so that his breath curled inside my palm. “You have him now.”

“Yes, and as I live and breathe I swear he will not get away with one whit more.” I moved my hand to his shoulder in a firm grip of reassurance. “His wickedness will end ere the sun sets this day.”

“Will you ... make an example of him?” His eyes sparkled with the glimmer of revenge. Whatever grudge he held on Lancaster for sowing envy in the ranks toward him, my grudge was a hundredfold that: for the undermining of my birthright, for the murder of Piers. I could not allow Lancaster to live if even the slightest possibility remained that he would one day do the same to Hugh.

“A very fine one. And he will not be the last. You will attend to hear the charges?”

He moved back toward the doorway. “I regret not. Confront him on your own, Edward. Let this be
your
moment.”

“Call on me an hour before sundown. Lancaster’s case will be heard and decided by then. Together we will revel in our triumph.”

***

I
sat in the Earl of Lancaster’s own chair in the great hall of Pontefract Castle. Six days past, Sir Andrew Harclay had met and defeated Lancaster and his co-conspirator the Earl of Hereford at Boroughbridge. Hereford died most ingloriously when a spear pierced him from below as he tried to flee over the bridge spanning the river.

A hobbling Thomas, Earl of Lancaster, was prodded at sword end the length of the hall. Before the dais, he fell to his knees. The gilded rays of a March sun stabbed down through high windows, warming the peers who had gathered at my bidding to witness the flaying of a traitor. Flanking the aisle, there stood a throng of nobles – among them my younger brother Edmund, in his fine furs and golden chains; Aymer de Valence, Earl of Pembroke, whose loyalty to the crown since my sire’s time had earned him high offices; and the Earls of Surrey and Arundel, shaking their heads at the misfortunate fool before them.

My chief justice, Robert de Malmesthorp, began by informing Lancaster that he was not permitted to speak or enter a plea. His treason was a known fact. He had been present at and instrumental in the murder of Piers Gaveston at Blacklow Hill. Mocked me from these very walls as we retreated in defeat after Bannockburn.

Malmesthorp continued on. “ – letter found on the person of Humphrey de Bohun, Earl of Hereford, bears evidence that there was both collusion and intent to form an alliance with one Robert the Bruce of Scotland. That said letter did contain a direct invitation to the Scottish rebel to cross over into England in force and bear arms against Edward, King of –”

The presumptuous bastard had put a leash around my neck and I would now hang him with his own device.

Those who reach for the sun burn when they grasp it, Cousin.

Tilting my crown so it sat more imposingly forward on my head, I gazed upon Lancaster. Felt no compassion for him. No pang of love, remote or real. Only a yearning to bring this chapter to its natural conclusion. To take the breath from him. To stop the blood from coursing through his body. To look upon his corpse and know that this was the day I could truly begin to live and rule as I desired. As God intended.

I ran my fingers over the threads of my brocaded robe. From the corner of my eye, I saw Lancaster’s body jerk and stiffen as he took in the chief justice’s final sentence:

“ – shall show no mercy upon him. Our lord sovereign, in regard of Lord Thomas’ noble descent, waives two of the punishments, that he shall not be hanged and quartered, but executed by beheading.”

For the first time that day, I met Lancaster’s eyes. His countenance was blanched, his eyes bloodshot. The lines that edged every fold in his guilty face were as deep and dark as chasms to the underworld.

“Edward!” He reached forward with both hands, palms up in a gesture of humility. “Mercy, I beg, as our Heavenly Father would wish you to –”

“Plead your case with Him, Cousin. I am the law of the land and the punishment for your crimes has been meted out. If you have sins to reconcile, you will meet Our Lord soon enough.”

***

W
hen Hugh arrived at my chamber door, I beckoned him to the window.

“There,” I said, standing aside so he could have the better view. “Do you see St. Thomas’ Hill in the distance? The castle yard would have been more convenient and expedient. But I remembered the name of that hill. Couldn’t resist the irony.”

The execution party had just arrived at the hill’s summit. The journey there had itself been a public trial for Lancaster. The verdict delivered in a hail of stones and pigs’ rumen.

From a velvet-lined box of carved cherry wood, I gathered the long gilded chain from which dangled a lion pendant, its eyes afire with rubies, its paws clenching four milky pearls. Hugh looked from the window.

“A gift – for my most loyal.” I held the trinket up for him to see, but he appeared more observant than impressed. “Given to me by the King of France on my wedding day.”

“Ah.” His brow lifted slightly. A smirk tilted his fine mouth. “Not a Plantagenet lion, then?”

“Oh, it
is
. One of many. But it is the most treasured one of all.”

He clasped his hands behind his back, feet braced wide, and bowed his head. I slipped the chain over his head. The pendant fell to one side and I nudged it to the center of his chest with a single finger.

As I went to pour Hugh and myself goblets of fine French wine, he caressed the facets of the jewels with his thumb.

“You like it?” I asked.

He lowered his hand from the pendant, looking at me long before speaking. “It belonged to him, didn’t it?”

“Piers, you mean?”

“Perhaps I should not –”

I scoffed. “What? You think there is some curse attached to it? I assure you not. The cause for Piers’ death is soon to die himself. In all my life, I have only ever valued one soul worthy of it. Keep it. It is a measure of my ...” – I could not say the word I meant to, even though it teetered on the tip of my tongue – “my
regard
of you.”

The sluggish pulse of drums struck up. I returned my attention to the distant hill. Sipping my wine, I watched as Lancaster was led to the block, hands bound behind him. Kneeling, he gave his last confession to a black-robed priest. The priest guided his head down, turning it to the left so Lancaster could look north and see that Robert the Bruce had abandoned him at his darkest hour.

The crescent axe blade glinted in the scarlet rays of a setting sun. It swung downward. Went up again. Down. Lancaster’s head, at last, rolled from his corpulent torso. Even from this distance, I could see the blood spurting from his neck, staining the block. I had requested the blade be dull so that he might know the same torment my fond Brother Perrot had endured.

Hugh moved away from the window and settled into a chair, taking several long drinks from his cup before speaking. “What next? Scotland? We’ve so much less in our way now.”

I pulled up another chair and took his hand, twining my fingers in his. “For now, let us forget revenge and revel in this moment of triumph. Let us be but here, now. You and I. No armies. No parliaments. No world beyond this room. Indulge me that?”

His eyes twinkled with mirth. “Your sole company and a flagon of wine?” He tipped his goblet up and drained every last drop. “I oft dream of it.”

“And what more, dear Hugh, does this dream entail? A lingering gaze? A touch?” I brushed my knuckles across his cheek, ran my fingertips around the warm rim of his ear and slowly down his neck, over the vein where his pulse throbbed. “Do you dream of sharing a kiss, Hugh?”

The goblet dropped from his grasp and clattered across the floor. He leaned toward me, eyelids fluttering, lips parted. With both hands, I held his head, tendrils of silken hair entangled in my fingers, and drew him closer. He slid from the chair to kneel before me.

Our lips grazed. His mouth trembled, yielded. Supple, craving. My breath became his breath. His heartbeat, mine.

“How long I have waited for this,” I breathed. “For you, Hugh.”

Robert the Bruce – Melrose Abbey, 1322

S
moke whipped across the sky like a black ribbon being pulled by the wind. Behind me, horses chomped anxiously at their bits, nostrils flaring wide. Men drew their swords free and strapped on their shields. But these were only familiar reactions to the unmistakable smell of blood and death that floated on the air to them from the distance. A nauseating smell, like offal left to rot behind a butcher’s shop. A terrifying, enraging excitement that fired a man’s blood in his very veins.

No enemy lingered in the valley below. They had come and gone, leaving behind nothing but the remnants of their hatred, transforming a place of tranquil holiness into a litter of rubble and hewn bodies strewn over a field of scarlet.

Gil came abreast of me on his horse. We gazed at the ruins of Melrose Abbey in sickened stupor, witnesses to the aftermath of a massacre. Helpless in our knowledge that no measure of revenge could atone for this. Only the Almighty could make the transgressors of this abomination answer for their sins.

Gil de la Haye shaded his brow with a long-fingered hand. “Randolph and Douglas are here already.”

“Too late as well.” My mount lurched forward, his ears flicking back and forth. The grass beside the road was heavily trampled in a broad swath, the ruts of wagon wheels still deeply imprinted. King Edward’s army had been here not long ago and in numbers enormous. Starvation had forced them on. If they could not win victories on the battlefield or plunder riches, then they had determined to make their mark and leave behind a spoiled land. As we came closer, the stench grew overpowering. Queasy, I swallowed back bile and looked toward the abbey. I prayed that lives were spared, but I was wholly unprepared for the profane sight that met my eyes.

Randolph, as grim of face as I had ever seen him, was there in the churchyard to hold my stirrup as I dismounted. Scottish soldiers were going to and fro, carrying away the bodies of dead monks for burial, clearing the rubble, lugging buckets of water to douse lingering sparks, searching for survivors beneath the smoldering timbers of the abbey buildings.

Randolph’s forehead dripped with perspiration. Soot was streaked across his face and clothing. “The locals say they rode through two days ago, looted the place of every relic and hunk of bread, murdered every holy man they came across and set everything aflame before clearing out.”

“Where is James?”

“There.” He pointed toward the abbey steps. “But be fairly warned, Uncle. Your eyes will behold the outcome of acts beyond hideous. Arm our bodies against spears and arrows we may, but our hearts are another matter entire.”

With Gil behind me, I made way through the litter and milling soldiers toward the front steps of the church. I had not even set foot to the first course, when I froze there. The double doors of the abbey were still on their hinges. But between them, the body of William Peebles, the abbot, was strung up like Christ at the Crucifixion: arms outspread, hands and feet pierced through with rusty nails, his head flopped to one side. Arrows had been shot full through his chest to leave his vestments dyed dark with blood. Neil Campbell pried at the nail heads with his axe. James and Boyd were reaching up, holding the abbot’s arms, waiting to free the gentle martyr from the evidence of his horrific death.

I sank down on one knee and made the sign of the cross. “Father in Heaven ... is nothing sacred?”

For minutes I remained like that, sickened with disgust, one knee grinding against the stones, my fingers clenched bloodless in prayer. A hand came to rest lightly on my shoulder. I looked up to see Angus Og, Lord of Islay. His fingernails were blackened with the crescent moons of crusted blood. Sweat matted the red hair in dark clumps around his freckled face. Through all the grime he forced a smile, then gave his hand to raise me up.

“We got here only a few hours ago, my lord,” he said, the corners of his mouth plunging beneath the fringe of a moustache that twitched when he spoke. “We wouldn’t have taken so long to retrieve the abbot’s body, but ... survivors first.”

“Did you find many?”

“A few. The only unscathed monks we came across had been down by the river, unaware until they saw the smoke rising. Of those that were here at the abbey – little good to tell. There were two badly burned still hiding in barrels in the kitchen, another trapped in a pile of stones when the second floor of the dormitory collapsed. He will live. The other two – they will have a hard time of it. They haven’t much of their skins left. It would be merciful if God would spare them the suffering and let them go to their graves with their brothers.”

I gazed at the desecration and shook my head, rife with shock. When the truce expired, Edward had wasted no time. His treatment of Lancaster had been swift and full of revenge for Piers de Gaveston’s murder. He then lunged northward into Scotland by way of Durham. In answer, I had dispatched James and Randolph to burn everything in the path of the oncoming English and had sped with my own forces into Lancashire to lay waste there, hoping to lure Edward away from the heart of my kingdom. But my ploy had failed miserably. This was a different Edward – a man bitter with revenge and imbued with more than a drop of his father’s wicked blood, not the irresolute commander who had hobbled home from Bannockburn.