Chapter 36

Westminster

Isabella left Parliament with her head held high, her hand grasping her lover's arm. The questions put to them by the Privy Council had been brutal and persistent. The lords had been unnerved by Edward's demise, but when word leaked out that Richard was also near death, panic had gripped the Council and Londoners had rioted. Isabella knew the only way to stop the rioting and the gossip of detractors was to tell the truth.

"There was no foul play in Edward Caernarvon's death," Roger Mortimer had insisted, facing members of the Privy Council. "And did you not all read the letter sent by Abbot Thokey of St. Peter's in Gloucester, exonerating us? He stated that he rode immediately to Berkeley, and said prayers over Edward's body. He said there was not a mark of violence upon it."

Young King Edward shot Mortimer a look of naked hatred. He'd accepted the death of his father as natural, or so Isabella assured herself, but what about Lord Sussex? Did anyone really believe that he had come down with a sickness to the lungs on the very night of his brother's death? Isabella knew that the two mishaps must be a bizarre coincidence. But still, while one death could be interpreted as fortunate, if Richard died, 'twould be a scandal.

"What about Richard Plantagenet?" spoke up Edmund of Kent, Isabella's brother-in-law. "Is he really improving? Who is caring for him?"

"My personal physician," Mortimer replied haughtily. "He daily sends reports. He assures me the earl of Sussex will recover. He said the wind blows cold off Bristol Channel; 'tis not unusual for it to attack a man's lungs."

"In the fall, Lord Mortimer?" King Edward asked, his voice edged with contempt. "And a hearty man of thirty-four?" When Mortimer did not respond, he said, "If he is strong enough, bring him to the Tower. I will have my own physicians tend him."

Isabella and Mortimer had left then. Isabella's body trembled with the effort of maintaining an unruffled exterior, though Mortimer seemed unconcerned. While walking across New Palace Yard toward their apartments, she noticed that the white lion of Mortimer seemed to be everywhere. Roger's troops were out in force and armed. He was taking no chances with disgruntled Londoners.

Church bells began calling out vespers. Isabella started before quickly composing herself. Following Edward's death, every church, from mighty St. Paul's Cathedral to the smallest, had joined in an endless wrangling of sound, rolling through the streets, accompanying her every waking moment, intruding even into her restless sleep. Always the funeral knoll—as omnipresent as God, and as accusatory.

But we did nothing wrong. We have the proof. The abbots said that the physicians...

"There goes the she-wolf and her lover," someone shouted. "Murderers both."

Isabella's eyes swept the staring faces; her nails dug into Mortimer's arm, though he didn't even notice. His thoughts were twisting like a serpent. Events had not gone according to his design. He had planned to announce Edward's death, and months later, when his power was more solid, an indifferent public would hear of the Bastard's unfortunate demise. As ill luck would have it, the poison had not done its work.

Or mayhap 'tis a good thing. At this moment two deaths is one too many.

Once safely inside their apartments, Isabella dismissed her servants, seeking privacy. She intended to discuss Edward's death and Sussex's sickness, to obtain certain concrete assurances, but when she opened her mouth, Mortimer said, "I detest you in mourning black. Take off that damnable widow's barb. It makes you look like a nun."

Isabella obediently complied. Mortimer turned his back to her and fed bits of chicken to one of his falcons, lashed to a nearby perch.

"My lord husband really did die of natural causes, did he not, Roger?"

Mortimer laughed.

"It seems such a strange thing," Isabella continued. "God must truly be on our side." She twisted her hands together. "We must not hide anything, for 'twill make us appear guilty. Our hold is yet tentative, and my son grows daily more silent. I know not what Edward thinks, but sometimes I am certain he despises you."

"I quake in my boots at the very thought of his wrath. Really, madam, how could I fear someone sprung from the loins of Edward Caernarvon?"

"He is my son, as well." Isabella began replacing her widow's barb. "I think you are shortsighted to treat him with such contempt. As you also treat me."

Mortimer threw back his head and laughed so loudly the startled falcon thrashed its wings. "I can treat you any way I please, Madam. We are wedded, you and I. Wedded by blood and ambition and tied as certainly to each other as this hawk to its perch."

Isabella moved away from him, to her dressing table filled with pots of sheep fat, cochineal paste and other beauty aids. Blindly, she worked the stopper on one of her creams.

I hate you. You are callous, greedy, and incapable of kindness. I wish I had never become your lover.

Isabella sighed. But the past could not be changed, no more than the future could be seen. And Mortimer was right. They were inextricably linked and nothing, save death, could sever that link.