Chapter 31

The Vale of Evesham

Exhausted from a week of hard riding, Maria nearly fell from her horse. She and Richard were bound for Conwy Castle, which lay yet another three days north. Conwy meant safety, though their journey north had been extremely dangerous. The most direct route lay by way of London, which was crawling with rebels, so they swung through Marcher country. The threat of Roger Mortimer remained constant as a heartbeat. His white lion seemed to be everywhere and Richard's troupe of fifteen knights was pitifully small. They kept to the back roads, well away from populated areas and arteries, and did not directly encounter his men, though Maria was beginning to fear that Mortimer was as omnipresent—and omnipotent—as God.

They rode through the poor lands of Surrey, the fertile fields of Berkshire and Oxfordshire. Near evening of the last day, they wound down into the Vale of Evesham. Before them spread a panoramic view of trees, hedge covered fields, and flocks of sheep. In the vale they discovered a long deserted milking shed, as well as the remnants of a farmer's cottage, and for the first time since leaving Dover, enjoyed shelter from the elements. After fishing in the River Avon, they risked a fire, also for the first time, and baked their catch in the coals.

Later, Maria and Richard withdrew to the dilapidated cottage where she rested as snug against him as the babe would allow. Her bulk made riding especially awkward, and as the days progressed, she experienced contractions and stabbing pains in her legs. Always she feared that she would miscarry, for what child could endure such unaccustomed agony? But she never complained, and when Richard asked, assured him that everything was fine.

This night, blessed by the shelter of a roof, Maria slept the sleep of the dead. Before she would have counted it possible, Richard was shaking her shoulder and whispering, "Time."

The other knights were already mounted. Attempting a stretch, Maria winced and limped to Baucent, the destrier Richard had provided. He had feared Facebelle would prove too delicate for such a difficult journey and could not risk a horse going lame or straggling. Clenching her teeth against her protesting muscles, Maria struggled into the saddle and awaited the earl's signal to move out.

By various landmarks, she knew they had reached Herefordshire and calculated they must be within a few hours of Deerhurst. Deerhurst meant Phillip.

I will think of him later. I cannot now.

It was this, their eighth day, that they encountered their first foul weather. Fresh snow blanketed the ground; thin layers of ice skimmed the ponds. An intermittent sleet intensified into a howling blizzard. They were forced to ride directly into the storm, braving snow that stung their faces and clung to beards, eyebrows and lashes.

Following the snaking River Severn to a familiar bridge, they discovered that the ropes had been cut. The bridge's remains bobbed in the iced-glutted water. Michael Hallam looked to his lord; Richard shook his head. His eyes swept the swirling horizon, searching for the perpetrators of the deed. It was not lost on him that King Edward had been captured in similar weather. Had the bridge been destroyed to slow them? Was Mortimer even now watching?

"We must attempt a crossing," he said to his men. "But keep a sharp lookout."

The Severn, while not over deep, was freezing cold. After fording it, Maria's wet clothes hung stiff and unyielding, without any warmth at all.

As they plunged deeper into the storm and her limbs began to ache against the relentless onslaught, Maria lost heart.

I will lose my babe; we will never reach Wales.

Her extremities had lost all feeling; her face hurt so that she began crying, but her tears froze. The beards on the knights' faces had also turned to ice.

She peered at the men hunched over their mounts, shapeless mounds in the grey swirling mass.

Either by Mortimer's black hand or God's, we are all going to die.

* * *

The following morning the sky cleared; by midday it sparkled a dazzling blue. In places the snow brushed the horses' saddle girths, but as the troupe approached the border to Wales, everyone's optimism returned.

"By this time tomorrow, God willing," Richard said, "we will be enjoying a warm fire and a steaming bath at Conwy."

The terrain grew increasingly hilly, but the piles of snow lessened. Questioning their good fortune, Richard's gaze continually probed the horizon and surrounding stands of trees. Wigmore Abbey was not far from here; they were now in the heart of Roger Mortimer's domain.

Mortimer is probably in London by now, Richard assured himself, though he could not shake his unease.

They entered a narrow valley surrounded by sharp rises and clusters of towering pines. Feeling revitalized, Maria breathed in the crisp air.

Snow nestled in the spreading branches and occasionally fell with a rolling thump to pock the smooth expanse below. From a stand to their right darted a stag, careening toward them before bounding away over a hill. Richard raised his hand. The troupe halted. For a long moment it seemed that the earth held its breath along with the knights. Images burned Maria's brain—the dazzling sky, wispy clouds, black pines straining upward, their snow-weighted branches sparkling, like sunlight off a sword.

"To arms!" shouted Richard.

The silence was shattered by battle cries; enemy knights hurled from either side of the valley. The area was a sudden mass of churning hooves, rearing horses, flashing swords and maces, struggling men. Steel clashed upon steel, mace against metal. Maria saw that they were far outnumbered, that Richard's knights hadn't had time to group into a protective circle. Next to her Michael Hallam fought a knight bearing Mortimer's badge upon his sleeve. Michael smashed his battle-axe into the knight's chest, but after the man fell a half dozen more rushed to take his place.

The press of battle continued around her. Crouching over Baucent, she tried to maneuver him to the battle's outer perimeter. If she could break free, perhaps she could ride for help. Spying an opening Maria kicked the destrier, who plunged toward it, swerving around fallen bodies and bucking animals. The mutilated snow showed red with mud and blood. She glimpsed Richard, fighting furiously, his sword a silver blur. Mortimer's men fell back, then re-formed, surrounding him. Maria broke free.

Stretching out, Baucent plunged through the snowdrifts. As Maria bent awkwardly over the charger's neck, her page's cap flew off, revealing her unbound hair which whipped behind.

"Faster!" She urged the struggling stallion. Risking a glance over her shoulder, Maria saw that several of Richard's men were already disarmed and standing off to the side, guarded by Mortimer's troops.

A knight broke from the pack and raced toward her.

She dug her heels frantically into Baucent's belly. The grunting of the enemy's warhorse, the thud-dump of its hooves sounded increasingly louder. Snow from Baucent's hooves shot upward, stinging her face. The stallion was swiftly tiring, his movements becoming increasingly labored. With a triumphant shout, the knight closed the separating distance. Momentarily Maria expected to feel the bite of his broadsword into her backbone, slicing it—and her—in two.

They rode neck and neck; the man's armored calf slammed against her. Baucent shied away. He followed. Maria glimpsed a leathery face, grizzled beard, a jupon splattered with grime and blood. The knight maneuvered so that her destrier was forced to slow. He grabbed for the reins. Baucent finally halted.

Maria grabbed her dagger.

"Do not, lady." The knight bared his teeth. "I would not like to kill The Bastard's whore. You are one of the day's finest prizes."

He led her back to the battlefield. Knights littered the muddy snow, grotesquely contorted in death. Maria counted three of Richard's men, a half-score of Mortimer's. Her lover had inflicted more damage than he'd received but it hadn't been enough. Seeking his face among the captives, she was relieved to see that he looked angry but otherwise unhurt.

A knight broke away from the others to approach her. He had a swarthy complexion, night-black hair and a beard that crawled across his cheeks to end near his eyes. The darkness of his hair and skin cast his blunt features in an unholy light. Maria did not need an introduction to recognize Roger Mortimer.

"Welcome, Lady Rendell!" Mortimer's teeth flashed white in his expanse of beard. Her dress accentuated her stomach. Watching his gleeful reaction, Maria felt a wave of revulsion along with her fear. How could Queen Isabella ever share such a creature's bed?

"'Tis honored I am to meet England's most celebrated whore." Mortimer's flat black eyes raked her. "The reports of your comeliness, Lady Rendell, do not do you justice. Though I did not hear tell of your current condition. 'Twould appear that, at least in bed, the Bastard is not impotent." He looked past her to Richard, who did not react to the taunt.

"Your brother was no match for me, Bastard, and neither are you," Mortimer called out. "I picked this spot with loving care. I know the peaks and valleys of this country as well as you know your leman's charms. 'Twas foolish of you to think that you could outwit me in my own territory."

He returned his attention to Maria, who, disguising her terror, forced herself to coolly return his gaze.

Leaning across his pommel Mortimer lifted a strand of her hair. "Though I usually enjoy the charms of fairer women, I look forward to sampling yours." His eyes narrowed. "And if you should make trouble for me, bitch, after I have my pleasure with you, I may just slice off your nipples. Was that not Edward's own punishment for adulteresses—and in this instance I would relish obeying our former monarch!"

* * *

They rode until sunset, stopping a few miles beyond the city of Worcester. Maria's wrists had been bound, which made dismounting difficult. She was helped by Ranulph Leybourne, the eldest son of her one time fiancé, Edmund. The men from her past were coming back to haunt her. Leybourne's son... and Phillip, for Deerhurst was no more than five miles southwest of their camp.

If you seek to remind me, Lord, of my many sins, I need no remembrance.

Tonight might be her last night on earth, surely it would be her most horrible, though she could not truly believe her forthcoming fate. Something will happen, she assured herself as Ranulph Leybourne tied her to a tree. But had the Despensers also believed they would be spared?

With the coming night the air had turned bitter. Maria's chausses were wet, her fingers numb with cold, her stomach a leaden weight before her. "Do not be frightened," she whispered to her baby. "Somehow we will persevere."

Maria shivered as a blast of air cut through her. She looked longingly at the campfire around which Mortimer and his men had gathered. The captors were grouped closer to the warmth than she, but Mortimer was being deliberately niggardly with his fire, as well as his food and drink.

Standing before Richard, the Marcher lord raised a measure of ale in mock salute. "I have much reason to celebrate, Bastard. All my queen's enemies are dead or imprisoned, and England will be the better for it." Mortimer wasn't certain that England was really better served, but he knew he was.

Night deepened; the drinking increased. More frequently Mortimer's gaze drifted to Maria, though others disapproved of ravaging a pregnant woman.

After talking among themselves, Ranulph Leybourne acted as spokesman for several. "'Tis wrong in the sight of God to thus violate a woman," said Ranulph, confronting their lord. "Her only sin is that she is the Bastard's leman. We agree we should take her to London and imprison her, if need be, but nothing more."

Mortimer stared at the chorus of bearded faces, all nodding in agreement. "You are as useless as a bunch of mewling, psalm-singing churchmen," he snarled. "You may stay away from her if you fear God's wrath. But Roger Mortimer fears neither God nor man. Pregnant or no, I intend to take my pleasure off the whore."

When Mortimer ordered the remaining scraps of food distributed among the captives, Ranulph brought Maria a cold slab of pork and enough ale to wet her lips.

After glancing at his lord, who was again unsuccessfully needling Richard, he spoke softly. "I would have you know, Lady Rendell, that I do not bear you any animosity. And I will try to divert my lord's attention to other matters so that he will leave you in peace."

"But Lord Sussex, what about him?"

"Lord Mortimer has assured me that the earl will receive a fair trial."

"Do you really believe he will keep his word?"

"I do not know, my lady. Things are happening so fast..."

"Come away from her!" Mortimer strode to Ranulph and cuffed him hard on the shoulder. "You are not man enough for her, so leave her be."

After Leybourne stepped away, Mortimer yanked Maria to her feet. Still tied to the tree her wrists and back scraped against the rough bark. Mortimer kissed her; one hand squeezed her breast, the other swept downward over her stomach, to her crotch. He thrust upward.

Though her every instinct was to jerk away, Maria did not cry out or flinch, but willed her body to remain passive. As she met Mortimer's black eyes anger surged through her. "What a fine man you are, bullying a defenseless, pregnant woman. If this is a sampling of your prowess then God help England—for you will soon prove a poor master."

Mortimer's eyes narrowed, but his grin remained.

"Is this how you trapped our rightful king? Did you creep up on him in sleep, or when he was alone and you were armed with thousands? If you fear one woman so much you must keep her tied, how you must have trembled before our sovereign."

Mortimer removed his dagger from its sheath. "Your tongue flaps uselessly, whore. How would you like me to cut it out?" Mortimer suddenly leapt on her, slamming her against the tree trunk. Reaching behind he slashed her bonds.

"Does that feel better, bitch?" Seeing the terror in her eyes, Mortimer laughed. "You really thought I would mutilate you before I enjoyed my fill?"

He half turned away, then spun around, hitting her square on the jaw. She struggled to her knees, then, only semiconscious, collapsed.

Mortimer loomed above her. "Your time has come. You will soon rue your every word, that I promise you." He strode back to his watching men.

Senses reeling, Maria sprawled on the snowy ground. She heard Mortimer jesting concerning her immediate future. Finally her head cleared enough so that she could take measure of her surroundings. She rose to a semi-crouch. Her hands were no longer tied, though she had no idea how she might escape two score of men. The campfire was thirty feet in front; the forest behind only half that distance. Should she bolt for the trees she knew she could never outrun her captors.

But perhaps I can trick them, 'Tis dark in the woods and the pines are stout and close together...

Mortimer's back was to her, as were the backs of the men guarding Richard. Most of the others were preoccupied with the ale or the fire. She edged past the tree where she'd been tied. Once she reached the shadowed meadow, Maria crouched and dashed for the woods. Just as she gained the forest, someone shouted.

The camp erupted. The more alert had already grabbed their weapons, but though they made their way over the crusty snow toward the trees, their movements were not as swift as they might have been. It was not only Ranulph Leybourne who misliked Roger Mortimer's behavior.

Maria plunged deeper into the forest, then struggled up a tall pine, grabbing blindly for leverage. Needles scratched her hands and upturned face; bark scraped against her stomach.

If they catch me now, she thought, struggling to control her labored breathing, Mortimer will kill me within the moment.

Maria had barely maneuvered the lower branches before the first knight entered the forest. Not high enough! While the branches were thick, surely someone would spot her. The rest of Mortimer's men followed on the heels of the first knight, making obscene jests and vowing loudly to find her. But they milled about in a small area, and their boots obliterated her tracks.

Men thrashed past her, heading deeper into the forest. Directly below two knights paused. Maria recognized Roger Mortimer's voice and that of Ranulph Leybourne. Heart hammering in her ears, she clung to the tree. A clump of snow fell from a branch beneath her, thudding to the ground at their feet. Ranulph scanned the tree. She froze, certain she had been discovered.

"The whore will die slow," said Mortimer. "I mislike having to traipse about the woods when I had other pleasures in mind."

"She couldn't have gone far," Ranulph said, "But we'll not find her standing here. I am going on." He moved deeper into the trees.

Mortimer followed. Weak with relief, Maria relaxed her iron grip and inched upward, seeking more secure shelter.

Shadows again passed, this time heading back toward camp. When the knights returned they were trailing torches that tore apart the darkness. She could clearly see their tense eager faces; surely, they could see her as well. All they need do was look overhead, but mercifully their efforts were focused on the bushes and forest floor.

The torches thrashed deeper into the timber. She climbed higher.

To Maria, it seemed her captors searched the entire night, but when Mortimer finally called off the search, dawn was yet hours away.

"The Bastard must be returned to London and we'll not get our sleep chasing his leman. Sussex is my main concern." Mortimer held high his torch. "If the ground were not plagued by a foot of snow, I'd set fire to the underbrush and flush her out."

"She is probably halfway to Hereford by now," Ranulph said. "If not, most likely we'll meet her on the road."

Mortimer stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Her husband has a manor near here. Mayhap we should lay in wait for her."

"Every moment we waste will give Sussex opportunity to escape. Besides, Phillip Rendell is a proud man. No woman would be so foolish as to beg the man she so publicly cuckolded for help."

Mortimer laughed. "She does make a habit of cuckolding her lovers, doesn't she?" When Ranulph did not rise to the gibe concerning his dead father, Mortimer continued, "I can always deal with her at my leisure. Perhaps I will even send her the head of her paramour in a basket."

He threw his arm around Ranulph and the two men moved away from Maria.

"Aye. A present from Roger Mortimer, baron of Wigmore, and someday, if God wills it, king of England."