Chapter 30

Dover

A turbid fog rolled off the English Channel, obscuring Dover's white cliffs. Phillip was sorry for that. The cliffs were impressive and he was eager for a first glimpse of his homeland. Instead the fog had settled like a giant slug upon everything, and though the trip from Calais was short, the sea proved sullen and uncooperative.

"If I never set foot aboard ship again," Phillip said to his squire, "I will count myself blessed."

Gilbert nodded. "I am impatient to stand once again upon English soil."

Phillip had had enough of the heat and stench of pilgrim ships, the passengers packed in the hold neath the rowing deck in berths eighteen inches wide and the length of a body. Light and air entered only through the hatchways; rats, lice, fleas, and maggots were even more of a nuisance than fellow pilgrims.

Mentally, Phillip urged the galley ever swifter across the choppy waters. After docking in Venice, he had heard the news of Queen Isabella's invasion and had hurried north from there. Everywhere he asked the same questions of Englishmen: "What news have you of King Edward? Has Richard of Sussex been captured?" He received so many conflicting answers he couldn't sort truth from rumor. He only knew that his liege lord must need him.

As the galley maneuvered up to the dock, he and Gilbert waited impatiently to disembark. Phillip was glad to be home, and not only because of political events.

I will never again leave.

From the very beginning this journey had been different; his restlessness had not been assuaged by people who varied only in the cut of their clothes and the look to their faces, or events which changed only in their locale.

At Jerusalem's Church of the Holy Sepulcher, with the lights from a thousand prayer candles flickering red across stone walls, with monks chanting and altar boys singing, the truth had come to Phillip with the intensity of a revelation. What he had been searching for he'd possessed all along. Maria and his children, his land, then the love of his lord and friend. He understood what Richard, his brother, so many others had tried to tell him about the futility of a quest that he'd stitched out of wishes and fantasies and the tall tales told by others as blind as himself.

Upon disembarking, Phillip was a bit disconcerted by Dover's quiet. He'd expected the port to be a cauldron of frenetic activity—of talk and worried faces, of people clustered in groups re-hashing the latest events and their meaning. Instead sailors went about their duties with a minimum of cursing, and brown-garbed pilgrims, using their staffs to balance themselves after the roll of the ship, stumbled toward the dock. An occasional merchant, tally book in hand, searched for a ship's captain and their promised merchandise.

The fog lifted, then settled again, like a restless snake. The knot in Phillip's stomach tightened. The scene seemed somehow unnatural. But, with the treason of the French queen, wasn't everything in England unnatural?

While Gilbert looked to obtaining horses, Phillip sought the latest news. He accosted a middle-aged tavern keeper, here to greet his brother on his return from Rome.

"Sir, I crave from you some information. What has been happening? Has King Edward been captured yet?"

"Aye, my lord. He is imprisoned at Monmouth. Hugh the Younger is being taken to London where he will stand trial. Hugh the Elder has already suffered a traitor's death." The tavern keeper's face was arranged in impassive lines. Philip could read nothing of his true sympathies there.

"What about Richard of Sussex? Has he been captured? What have you heard of him?"

"He yet remains free, though not for long, I'll wager. Roger Mortimer will know easy enough how to flush Sussex out of hiding. Just lay siege to Dover Castle where his whore yet resides."

"Lord Sussex is at Dover? His whore? You speak in riddles, sir."

The tavern keeper smiled, exposing black stumps for teeth. "You have been gone from England a long time, m'lord."

"More than three years."

"Sussex took for his leman the Lady Rendell. I have not personally seen her, but she is said to be the most beautiful woman in all England."

Phillip stared uncomprehendingly at the tavern keeper. "Maria Rendell?" His knees threatened to buckle beneath him. "Not Maria?"

"My lord, what is wrong?" The tavern keeper grabbed hold of the knight's arm as if to steady him.

"I do not believe it. There is some mistake. My lord would not do that." Phillip's voice sounded as muffled as the tide slapping against the piers. "She would not do that."

He turned and walked away, his mind too benumbed to function. Tendrils of breaking fog tugged at his feet. A weak sun struggled through an outer bank of clouds, only to be annihilated. The steep narrow streets he wandered did not register. Nor did he recognize his squire when Gilbert appeared, astride a bay palfrey and leading a second.

Gilbert swung from his horse and hurried to him. "What is wrong, sire? Have you heard bad news?"

Slowly Phillip emerged from his daze. "They betrayed me, Gilbert." One arm pressed against his stomach, as if shielding a wound. "I had not dreamed they would."

* * *

Maria and Richard left Dover's keep for Harold's Earthwork, where the Roman pharos and St. Mary-in-Castro were located. The fog had lifted enough to reveal ships edging toward the harbor.

Richard's hand felt cold in hers. She looked at him, taking in the new lines around his eyes, the leanness of his face and body. A new Richard had returned to her—a hunted fugitive, a man with the twin plagues of vengeance and bitterness corroding his soul.

"We will be ready to leave Dover by nightfall. Once we are safe at Conwy Castle, I will be able to rally support for my brother. Most of the Welsh lords remain loyal to him."

Since last night's return Richard had spoken of little save Edward, and the treason of Isabella. When he uttered Roger Mortimer's name, his eyes turned as cold and bottomless as the Channel itself. "Mortimer will pay. I will not rest until that whoreson is food for the carrion crow."

Maria's hand tightened in his. Richard's life consisted of kingdoms and power and loyalists crying out for him to lead them to victory. As a woman she didn't possess the words that could comfort him. The only gift Maria could offer was the gift of acceptance. She was entering her seventh month of pregnancy and any riding would be awkward. She dreaded the forthcoming trip more out of fear for her child than Roger Mortimer. She kept her concerns, however, as tightly wrapped as the mantle she clutched about her thickened form.

Soon 'twill all be over.

Maria's gaze swept the channel, the stone church and Dover's windmill, its arms swishing like the blade of a giant broadsword.

I will have time to bear my babe, and comfort my lord—or watch him ride from Conwy, nevermore to return.

Like the bolt from a crossbow, two riders hurtled from the fog, one far ahead of the other.

Maria watched their approach, thinking, 'Tis more tragedy. Instinctively she leaned against her lover, seeking comfort. I had thought we'd experienced it all.

The front rider's horse reared as he jerked to a stop and flung himself from the saddle.

Uncomprehending, Maria stared at the rider. "Husband?" She wasn't even certain at first. Phillip wore his hair longer than she remembered, his skin was burned brown by eastern suns, and he was heavier, though he'd accumulated muscle, not fat.

"You are dead," she whispered, her heart hammering. "You were not supposed to return."

Phillip strode toward them; the sword at his side clinked in concert with his movements. He addressed Richard.

"Who would have believed it? My liege lord and friend, I loved you well. I cannot think you'd repay that love by bedding with my very wife. But here you are, the both of you." His gaze swept Maria, coming to rest on her protruding stomach. His eyes widened with pain, and disbelief.

"No!" He shook his head.

A dazed Maria approached him. "Let me explain." But as easy to explain their betrayal as the babe, and both were impossible.

Richard stepped in front, to shield her. "We must talk. Maria and I did not mean to hurt you. You know that, do you not?"

"How could you?" Phillip floundered, trying to collect his thoughts, trying to react in some coherent fashion. The extent of their betrayal pounded against him with the relentless blow of a hammer. Rational thought eluded him, but action did not.

He unsheathed his sword.

Richard spread his hands, as if in supplication. "I do not blame you for your anger and pain. I have greatly wronged you. I did not mean to fall in love with Maria, and I thought to love in silence. I would rather have died myself than hurt thee."

"Why should I be hurt?" Phillip mocked. "The two people I most loved? I would have ridden to hell for you had you asked, and never questioned the rightness of it. And you, lady wife, I trusted your virtue as much as your love." His eyes flickered over her, back to the earl. "But you were truly neither woman nor wife; you were a poison that corrupts the blood."

He pointed his sword at Richard's chest. "And this hour I will have my blood."

"You cannot mean to fight your lord. 'Twas my fault; I was the one. Oh, please!" Maria stepped toward her husband, but froze at the murder in his eyes.

"I'll not fight you," Richard said. "Your anger is justified. I would just ask that you might try to understand, if not forgive."

Struggling rays from the sun glanced across the flat of Phillip's broadsword. The vanes of the windmill murmured and creaked; seagulls swooped and squawked and soared beyond Dover's cliffs out toward the sea.

"If I live to be a thousand I'll not understand. And 'tis not within me to forgive." Phillip's words were punctuated by his broadsword, which sliced down in front of Richard's face.

Maria jumped back. Richard did not flinch.

"I curse the day we ever met. I should have let you die at Bannockburn, but since I didn't, I will now rectify that error. Fight, Bastard."

Richard shook his head. "Kill me if you would but I'll not lift my sword against a man I would still call friend. If I could have overcome my weakness I would have. I know you would never have treated me so shabbily."

Swift as a leaping wolf, Phillip grabbed Maria, slamming her against the flint-rubble surface of the nearby pharos. "Fight me," he said, jabbing the point of his sword into her stomach. "Or your leman and your bastard die."

Maria tensed her muscles against the unyielding steel, as if that might somehow protect her babe. Now that death was at hand, she felt little fear—for herself at least.

If you kill me at least 'twill be an end to it.

Richard drew his sword.

The two were evenly matched. Richard was a shade taller, Phillip heavier, but both were in superb fighting form. Phillip, however, was driven by rage while Richard's every thrust and feint measured his reluctance. From the first Phillip took the offensive, methodically forcing Richard back toward the windmill. Steel clashed and slithered along steel. The promontory reverberated with each ringing blow. Their straining arms shook with each brutal contact.

With each lunge Maria imagined blade biting into skull, brains bursting onto the treeless plain. With each assault she held her breath, unconsciously jerking away from the path of the deadly blades.

Phillip was the first to draw blood—a ragged gash to Richard's thigh. Only slightly slowed, Richard parried, seeming to guess Phillip's intended direction before it began. But he did not take the offensive, even when his opponent provided opening.

Phillip pushed him back toward the circling vanes of the windmill. Their swords sighed and whistled; their breathing rasped loud. Glancing over his shoulder to gauge his distance from the vanes, Richard mis-stepped, and as he tried to right himself, Phillip slammed his blade down near Richard's hilt. Richard's sword flew from his hand. Off balance, Richard fell. And lay still.

Phillip raised his broadsword over his head, hesitated. His sword seemed to hang suspended for the length of a lifetime.

"No!" Maria shouted, shattering the moment. As the blade descended she ran toward Richard. The sword point quivered in the earth a hair's breadth from their lord's throat.

"Aye, comfort your lover!" Phillip gasped, struggling to regain his wind. "Do what you wish. But mark my words, wife. I will have an annulment from you, whether it takes five years or ten, whether I must sell all of Deerhurst to bribe Pope John that we share a common ancestor."

"Please, no more, husband. Hasn't enough been said and done—?"

"Go with the Bastard, go to hell, for that is where you both are bound." Phillip jerked his sword from the earth.

"Should I meet you again, my former lord," he said, addressing Richard, "'twill be in the service of the white lion of Mortimer. Roger Mortimer will soon bring you to heel and when he does I will rejoice the loudest."

* * *

After detouring to Walmer Castle to retrieve his son, Phillip rode for Deerhurst. Inside he nursed a cold hatred of his wife and her lover that nothing could assuage. Even little Tom, who shared common expressions and mannerisms with his mother, provided as much pain as pleasure. Every time Phillip looked at Tom he saw her, and a thousand memories rushed to the surface. He'd nursed those memories during his travels. Now he vowed to kill them, every one.

Phillip arrived home just as Queen Isabella decided that Nephew Hugh must immediately be brought to trial.

The queen had long dreamed of a triumphant march into London with the fallen favorite in tow, but since his capture Despenser had refused meat and drink and she was afraid he would die before she could enjoy full measure of revenge. Therefore, Isabella ordered Hugh's trial to be held in the nearest large town, which happened to be Hereford. If not London, at least Hereford would provide enough spectators so that Despenser would be subjected to the greatest amount of public humiliation possible.

The trial took place in the city's episcopal palace. After judgment was privately passed upon Despenser, he was stripped of his knightly garb, dressed in black, his escutcheon reversed, and a crown of nettles placed atop his head.

Massive crowds, flocking from throughout the Marcher lands, lined the narrow lanes to the gallows. Phillip and his brother Humphrey numbered among the spectators. While he'd ordered little Tom to stay at Winchcomb with Lady Jean, Phillip had willingly ridden to Hereford to witness the execution. His heart no longer possessed room for any emotion save hate and this day there would be hatred enough for all.

The day chosen for Despenser's execution, which followed the feast of All Saints, was as ugly as the malevolent atmosphere. Storm clouds drooped low. A bruising wind cut through the warmest woolen mantles, but not even its chilly breath could blow away the animosity stamped upon the expectant sea of faces. When Hugh Despenser finally appeared, slumped atop a mange-ridden pony, the resultant noise fairly shook the surrounding jumble of shops and apartments.

Phillip was shocked by Despenser's appearance. Gone, of course, was the magnificent dress. The earl's eyes appeared clouded and lifeless; the skin across his cheekbones and aquiline nose was stretched to a parchment thinness which outlined the very contours of his skull. Despenser seemed deaf to the screams, the blasts of hunting horns, the beating of spoons upon pots. Some of the more learned ran to scrawl upon him scriptural verses denouncing arrogance and evil, others befouled his tattered gown and even his face with midden.

Hugh appeared oblivious to everything. He reminded Phillip of a mortally wounded animal who wanted only to crawl off alone and die.

His indifference only incited the mob to further frenzy.

"Look at him!" Humphrey Rendell bellowed. "Arrogant and unrepentant to the very last."

Phillip thought of Richard. Will you also be ridden through city streets and similarly humiliated? He pulled his mantle closer about him. I just pray I'll be there to view your pain.

He couldn't really imagine Richard subjected to such treatment, however. Unlike Despenser he wasn't despised, his disapproval of the favorites had long been known, and would even the most hardened Englishman fault a brother's loyalty, no matter how undeserved?

A rotten egg slammed against Despenser's cheek. Phillip looked away. The feeling of anarchy, the mindless odium was beginning to unease him.

After Hugh the Younger reached the gallows, which Queen Isabella had ordered fashioned fifty feet high, his sentence was publicly read by William Trussel, who had also pronounced death upon Hugh's father.

Intermittent pellets of sleet peppered upturned faces and the wind blew wild from the north. The justiciary motioned for silence. Only the sound of Hugh being dragged up the wooden steps to the gallows broke the silence.

"You, Hugh, are found as a thief and therefore shall be hanged, and are found as a traitor and therefore shall be drawn and quartered; for that you have been outlawed by the king and by common consent, and returned to the court without warrant, you shall be beheaded; and for that you abetted and procured discord between king and queen and others of the realm, you shall be emboweled and your bowels burned; and so go to your judgment, attainted, wicked traitor."

Hugh's face registered no emotion. The crown of nettles atop his dark head drooped over his forehead.

Christ also wore a crown, thought Phillip, but there the resemblance ends, for Hugh is nearer the devil. He pulled his beaver hat lower against the sleet. 'Tis inevitable. Men who reach for the sun must always risk getting burned.

He thought again of Richard of Sussex.

"Make way for the baron of Wigmore!"

The crowd parted. Roger Mortimer rode his prancing white charger up to the steps of the gallows. After flashing a smile to the crowd, Mortimer turned to watch the favorite's execution. From the time Phillip had known his fellow Marcher lord, Roger Mortimer had never failed at any task. Was he not now bending England to his will? Phillip was certain Mortimer was the driving force behind the queen, that without him this rebellion would have died aborning.

My lord Sussex is no match for you, Phillip thought. And the knowledge gave him no pleasure.

The executioner, dressed all in black and with a hood over his face, slipped a knotted noose around Hugh Despenser's neck. He jerked Despenser up higher ever higher to the gallows' arm. The condemned man's limbs danced like a marionette's; his tattered gown flapped, then disappeared in the blackness of swirling clouds. The executioner loosed the rope, causing Hugh to plummet to the ground.

Grabbing a butcher knife, the executioner bent over Hugh, cut open his stomach and withdrew white coils of intestine. Despenser groaned but did not cry out. Taking a proffered torch, the executioner thrust the fire into Hugh's bowels. Hugh slumped back into the arms of a waiting knight, who lifted him by his arms and dragged him to a wooden block. The executioner positioned Despenser's head precisely in the wooden hollow, raised his axe, swung. Hugh's head thudded onto the platform. The crowd roared.

Above the triumphant beating of pots, Phillip yelled to his brother, "I am leaving."

"Do you not want to stay to see him quartered? Four horses will be used instead of the usual two."

"What does it matter?" he snapped.

Phillip rode back to Winchcomb to retrieve his son. He was glad for the time alone, without the blathering of his brother or the hysteria of the crowds. He needed time to think, to assimilate Despenser's execution and to resolve his conflicting feelings. The animus was still there, certainly, but other emotions were now crying for their turn.

The sleet changed to a thick falling snow, covering the fields, the backs of cattle not yet herded to their byres, and the tracks made by Phillip's palfrey along the flat stretch of highway. He squinted his eyes against the huge flakes that clung to his face before trailing downward like tears.

"I denied you a warrior's death for that of a traitor's," he said to his invisible foe. "Even I cannot wish for you such a fate."