Rivals for the Crown (19 page)

In the afternoon it snowed, and she stood on the porch with Lady Dickleburough for a moment, watching the flakes descend, at first just a dusting, then with a fury that drove them inside. There she learned that the king would spend the Yule in Norham on Tweed, at the castle of Anthony Bek, the bishop of Durham, who had left London three days earlier. Which meant Rory MacGannon could not have been hurrying to meet him. And no doubt Walter Langton would discover the same. She told herself Langton would not remember, that although she remembered his every action clearly, he was an important man who had no doubt already forgotten her words. She also learned that all the queen's ladies would accompany the king north for the Yuletide. She sighed, thinking of the return to London with the queen's body, and the snow now falling outside.

That evening she went to tell her mother that she would be leaving for Durham. Her mother opened the door at Isabel's knock, pulled her inside the room, her eyes blazing. And slapped her face twice.

"You fool! I warned you! I told you! And what did you do?"

Isabel put her hand to her stinging cheek. "What have I done, Mother?"

"You know what you've done! The whole palace knows what you are!"

Isabel fought her anger. "And what am I, Mother? What is it that you've heard? And how is that you would believe the worst of me?"

"You spent yesterday afternoon with a man."

"Yes. I walked with Rory MacGannon, one of the Scots who brought me Rachel's message. I told you of them. He is taking my letter to Rachel."

"You told me you gave him your letter at your grandmother's. Why did you see him again?"

"Because he would take no money for the messenger he would give it to. He asked me to show him the Tower, Mother, and I did. We were never alone. And nothing happened!"

"You were seen in his embrace in the City."

Isabel blanched, remembering Rory pulling her into his arms to comfort her. "Briefly," she said. "I was cold. It meant nothing."

"Tell me you are not his whore!"

"What is the matter with you, Mother? I am no man's whore!"

"You told the world you find Henry de Boyer handsome."

"And I do. He is handsome."

"I hear he has a woman, that she sneaks out of the palace in the night to go to him."

"It's Alis, Mother!" Isabel rubbed her cheek. "Who is telling you all this?"

Mother's
fury
faded. She sank to sit on her bed. "Does it matter?"

"Yes! Whoever it is, is lying! I walked with Rory, nothing more. Why would you believe lies about me?"

"I.. .1 worry so, Isabel. You must be wiser than I was."

"You have told me that my whole life. I listened." Isabel hugged her arms to herself, miserable.

"I am sorry, child. But when I heard, I was so angry that you had not listened to me."

"I remember everything you've told me, Mother. I always have."

"Then how could you let this Scot touch you?"

"He was comforting me. I was frightened." She told her mother the whole story then, of her first visit to Walter Langton's offices, and what had happened the day before. "He terrifies me, Mother. The way he looks at me is.. .it makes me feel.. .1 now believe all the stories I've heard of him."

"You should be terrified if he has noticed you. He is a powerful man, Isabel. You have no weapons to fight him."

"I will not go to the Tower again. And I will avoid him when we are at court. He will not do anything there. I will be very careful. And now I know what he is."

"Yes." Mother came to her and pulled her into an embrace. "You poor child."

Isabel stood stiffly in her arms for a moment, then relented and hugged her mother. "I did nothing wrong, Mother. You must believe that."

"I do. And I am sorry, child. I need to trust you to be sensible."

"Yes." Isabel nodded, then told her mother about the journey north. "I will not be here for Yuletide, Mother. And I am so sorry to have to miss celebrating it with you and Grandmother."

Her mother nodded. "Yes. It will be lonely without you. But you must remember, on this journey, there will be men.

Isabel let the words flow over her.

The next few days were full of preparations for the journey north. Isabel and Alis worked in companionable silence for the most part, but Lady Dickleburough seemed to have enough words for the three of them. Isabel was still wary of whoever it was who had carried tales to her mother, and she kept her thoughts to herself —what little time there was to think between Lady Dickleburough's outpourings.

At the midday meal, while most around them were quiet in recognition that the court was still in mourning, Lady Dickleburough was voluble. At first Isabel ignored her, paying attention instead to Henry, who today, of all days, sat near them. Far too near, for he and Alis were close enough to share glances. And once, a cup of wine. Isabel told herself she did not mind, but she could not look away from the two of them. She sipped one cup of wine, then another. And another, feeling herself relax.

"I've been told that the king is traveling north in case he is needed in Scotland," Lady Dickleburough said, when asked if she knew why the king would spend Yuletide at Durham Castle. "How tedious the Scots are. They cannot rule themselves. Never could. I don't know why King Edward doesn't simply take the cursed land and make it his own."

"As he did with Wales?" one of the ladies of the court asked, her words and tone reminding Isabel that she had Welsh relatives who had lost everything by resisting Edward's incursion.

"As he did with Wales," Lady Dickleburough said. "Think of all the masons and carpenters and stone carvers and haulers who

have prospered. Your uncle has been there for years, has he not, Alis?"

"He has," Alis said.

"And no doubt earned much more money than he would have elsewhere. Everyone involved has. Traders have new ports to supply. All the new castles need fittings. It is a great boon for all of us. And Scotland could be the same. The Scots will thrive as well. And why, if they did not want King Edward's assistance, did they ask?"

"I'm told it was one man, Bishop Fraser, who wrote, asking the king's assistance," Isabel said. "And if Scotland is a cursed land, why would we want it?" She drained the last of her wine.

Lady Dickleburough gave Isabel a glance that clearly said she thought her an idiot. "Why would we not want Scotland? There is great wealth there. Berwick alone would be worth much to us. It is Scotland's busiest port—imagine the revenue it brings in. Many of our nobles own lands in Scotland as well as England, and most of their nobles own lands here. It would simplify things for everyone."

"I'm told parts of it are beautiful."

Lady Dickleburough shrugged. "The eastern half is arable, and there is much wealth there as a result. It is absurd that it is a separate country. We should rule the whole of the island."

"And perhaps Ireland as well," Isabel said. "We should make it a matched pair of islands. Isn't that what the king is trying to do? He's all but finished what Henry II began there. We could have both islands entirely to ourselves soon. Of course, the king would have to alter his crest. He's already called King of England, Lord of Ireland and Duke of Aquitaine. Why not Scotland as well? He could arrange everything to his tastes then, expel the Jews from every part of his kingdom and subdue all those who resist him. I think perhaps we could call him Potentate of Scotland. I quite like it. What do you think?"

The ladies laughed, but Henry gave Isabel a long, measuring look that made her pause. Isabel ignored him, looking instead at the dais, where King Edward sat with two of his
favourites
, John de Warenne and Robert Bruce.

"I wonder if Robert Bruce would agree with you, Lady Dickleburough," Isabel said, "for while his family has considerable holdings both here and in Scotland, his grandfather is one of the contenders for the Scottish throne. Of course, he stands to gain either way, does he not, for if his grandfather becomes Scotland's king, he will be in line for the throne. And if King Edward becomes king of Scotland, Robert might continue to be one of the king's
favourites
."

Lady Dickleburough nodded. "I've been told that the king has lent young Robert considerable coin to pay his debts. Robert would be wise to be loyal to the king, would he not? Or visit the same Italian moneylenders the king does now that he has expelled the Jews."

"Look," Henry said, pointing at the doorway. "The mummers have arrived."

The procession of the mummers through the hall distracted them from their conversation, their bright costumes and cheerful music drawing the attention of everyone in the hall. Isabel usually enjoyed their antics, finding the acrobatics, singing, and lively music a delight. But the mummers were muted this day, in recognition of the queen's passing, and she found it difficult to keep her gaze on them with Henry watching her so intently.

After the meal the court dispersed. Henry rose to his feet, as did the queen's ladies. Isabel sat where she was, not wanting to leave with Alis and Lady Dickleburough, content to be away from them for a time. The servants hurried to clear the tables, piling the soaked bread trenchers on boards to be carried outside and fed to the poor. The minstrels put their instruments aside and were finally able to eat themselves, and underfoot the dogs scrambled for the last of the scraps. Isabel turned her back to the others and watched a group of lords talk among themselves, their expressions serious. Which meant, she told herself, that the topic was some weighty matter of politics. Or money.

Henry's voice caught her off guard.

"Have a care, my lady," he said. "Heads have rolled for less."

She looked up into his eyes, his handsome face serious as he took a seat next to her. He glanced around them, then leaned close.

"Your words about what the king would call himself if he ruled Scotland."

"It was merely a jest, sir. No harm was meant by it."

"Only the king makes jests at Edward's court. I would have you remember that. And to imbibe less. Remember that next time, Isabel."

"I will, but surely—"

He put a finger to her lips. "Edward is not a happy man just now. Do not let his wrath fall upon you." He let his finger fall to her chin and stroked a line along her
jaw line
. "Keep yourself safe, Isabel. I would see you more cautious. Those were foolish words and, if repeated, could be dangerous."

"I will be more careful in the future."

"Good." He let his hand drop and rose to his feet. He strode away without looking back.

She watched him until he was out of sight.

Rory had sent word to Isabel twice, with no reply. He went to Westminster twice, attempting to see her, but both times was told she was unavailable. The king was leaving soon, he knew, to travel to Norham for the Christmas festivities, muted though they would be this year. Edward would stay at the castle of Anthony Bek, the bishop of Durham, the man Isabel had told Langton he was going to see in Westminster. Norham was not far from Newcastle-Upon- Tyne, the largest city in the far north of England, conveniently close to the Scottish border.

He and Kieran had talked on what was best to do, whether it would be wiser to travel north as well, or to stay in London. There would be little to learn here while the king was gone, but certainly neither he nor Kieran would gain admittance to the bishop of Durham's castle, and lingering overlong in the nearby villages would bring unwanted attention to them. They concluded that the best thing to do was to go home, or at least to Stirling.

He'd done some investigating about Walter Langton and did not like any of what he'd discovered. The man might be a bishop, but he was far from a man of God. Wealthy, arrogant,
rumoured
to have at least one mistress and a penchant for deflowering young and often unwilling women, Langton would be formidable enough without the
armour
of being the Steward of the Wardrobe. Langton was the man who oversaw the royal households, including the wages and living quarters of the queen's ladies. And he oversaw the king's wars and weapons and knights, of which Henry de Boyer was one. A powerful man. Little wonder Isabel feared him. He worried that she'd paid a price for lying to Langton, for he knew the man had plans for Isabel. And he was curious about Henry de Boyer. He'd asked about the man, but had been told little interesting information.

He also worried that Isabel would leave with the royal entourage without him having a chance to see her again. Kieran

was out somewhere, pretending to be playing dice and drinking with young nobles, but actually gathering the latest news. Rory ate his midday meal, then made up his mind.

He was surprised when Isabel's grandmother received him, and even more surprised by how warmly she did so, inviting him to join her before the fire and offering him ale or mead. He took the ale and let her drink the honey mead that had always cloyed in his throat. She sipped the sticky liquid, then nodded at him.

"I thought you might come, sir," she said.

"Did ye, madam? I dinna ken it myself."