Worth Dying For (The Bruce Trilogy) (17 page)

King Philip fingered the golden lion pendant draped over his breast. Red light played across the rubies set within the lion’s eyes like a fire within. Clutched in its paws, four pearls shimmered.

“Do you admire this, my son?” he asked.

Although I bristled at the endearment, I did covet the trinket. It would look even more dazzling on Piers. He loved such adornments. “I do. Where is it from? I might commission the same goldsmith, if you would deign to give his name.”

“Why go to the trouble,” – he lifted it over his head and dangled it before me – “when you can have this very one?”

No sooner had I reached for it, than he snatched it away. “Ahhh, but you will promise, yes, to treat my daughter kindly and fairly?”

“With undying devotion, my lord.” I afforded him a smile of reassurance, but all the while I was thinking of Piers.

The King of France dropped the pendant into my open palm, the serpentine links of its chain twisting over my fingers to fall upon the linen tablecloth. I closed my hand firmly around it. Air hissed between my teeth as the jewels’ settings pricked my thumb. Opening my hand again, I brought it closer, inspecting the many facets of the gem and the impressive details of the lion’s mane. I slipped it around my neck, feeling its weight settle over my heart.

As I gazed toward the door through which Isabella had vanished, Charles glowered at me, his feet braced wide in a taunting stance across the threshold. As if such a foppish stripling could pose any threat to me...

 I raised my wine goblet to King Philip.

“May your offspring,” he said, tapping his goblet against mine, “be the pride and glory of both France and England.”

“Of course, my lord.” I downed my drink in one long, greedy swallow.

Ch. 17

Edward II – Dover, 1308

On the seventh day of February, the towering white cliffs of Dover came into view. As our ship glided into the harbor, I espied my faithful Brother Perrot standing on the dock awaiting me. Cousin Lancaster had worked himself into a froth upon hearing that I had left Piers as regent during my absence. But I trusted the volatile Lancaster no further than I could pluck him up and toss him. An impossible feat, given his girth.

“Ah brother! Dear, dear brother!” I shouted to Piers as they cast the rope to the dock to haul us closer. He waved at me, a weary smile on his face. I raced over the plank to him and crushed him in my aching arms. Clasping his shoulders, I perused him head to toe.

“They’ve left you in one piece, have they?” I gibed.

“Unharmed.”

“It went well, I trust?” Upon Piers’ return from Gascony, I had made him Earl of Cornwall and to further entrench him I gave him the hand of my niece, Margaret of Gloucester, my sister Joan’s daughter. Margaret was stout and long in waist, good for bearing children, and while she was agreeable company, she had the wits of an ox. He enjoyed her because she laughed at his quips, nothing more. A sound match. A peaceful existence for my faithful friend, my love of loves. I could only hope my own union would prove as pleasant.

“Beyond well,” he said. “Governance is a mindless task. Promise everything. Delay, delay, delay. Give nothing in the end.”

“Very politic of you. Any trouble from those cursed Scots while I was away? Still quarreling with their own?”

“Often enough.”

“And Bruce?”

He sneered. “They say he had one leg in his grave not a few months past. Sadly, they also say he is improved now.”

“Unfortunate.”

Servants filed past us. Chest after chest was unloaded from the ship and piled onto carts for our procession to London. Furs, silks, jewels and all manner of riches – courtesy of my French father-in-law. I intercepted two servants lugging a large, ornately carved chest and had them open it. From its depths, I lifted several chains of gold, some strung with impressive, rare jewels, and draped them over my outstretched arm for Piers to admire.

He flicked a forefinger at the lion pendant. Pale winter light glinted off the facets of the ruby eyes.

“Do you desire it, Brother Perrot?”

He gazed into my eyes so long that I forgot what day and place it was until he spoke. “I admire perfection.”

“Consider it yours. The rest I leave to your safekeeping. Wear whatever you choose, for as long and as often as you wish. There is far too much for me alone.” I was rewarded with a broad smile, like that of a child presented with sweets. “No price is too great for the honor of your friendship.” Lowering my voice, I added, “And your love.”

“It need not be bought, dear Edward.”

“A dung heap of an oath. You are more a popinjay than when I left.” But for the one I had promised him, I dropped the other chains of gold and silver back into the chest. The two servants looming behind closed it up and I instructed them to place it with Piers’ belongings when our caravan would later be assembled for the journey.

“I shall guard it with my life,” Piers said.

I placed the lion pendant’s chain over Piers’ head, my hands brushing against his tawny hair. “Shine then, like the sun, brother. Shine with the riches of Midas. I shall wear you at my arm like a jewel unto myself. Had the rest of my barons half your devotion and less jealousy… what paradise my kingdom would be.”

I was about to pull him into my embrace again, when skirts rustled behind me. Isabella stood at the dock’s edge. She tugged the hood of her fur-lined mantle over her head. At her shoulder, her brother Charles narrowed his eyes at me in judgment.

Her voice was barely loud enough to be heard above the wind. “Those were for you.”

“What did you say?” I asked, not certain that I had heard her correctly.

“The jewels – my father gave them to you, as gifts.”

Unwilling to displace my merriment with argument, I resisted raising my voice and smiled tepidly. “He did. Which means I can do with them as I please. Piers deserves to be rewarded for his service. Certainly your father would not begrudge me to loan him a token or two?”

With that, I led Piers away. Arms linked, we strolled along the dock. “I trust you arranged her quarters far from mine?”

Piers laughed. “Of course.” Abruptly, his smile slipped into a frown. “Unless you’d like her close, so that –”

“No, no. Not yet. Not for awhile – years from now, preferably.” I draped my arm around his shoulder, pulled him close and said lowly, “I’ve missed you too much to keep from you for even one more night.”

London, 1308

The streets of London flowed with wine. The coronation would be such a glorious, heavenly affair that the Londoners would tell of it to their grandchildren. Flags of green, blue, yellow and red fluttered above the streets. Carpenters had erected miniature castles along the route and during the procession the members of every guild and organization beamed and waved at the onlookers as they paraded gaily by. Leashed bears and dogs danced to the delight of all and beasts of far away places paced in their cages upon slow-moving carts.

Where days before my queen had regarded me with disdain, she now glowed with proper regality. My subjects adored their new French doll and she in turn was pleased with their reception of her.

But good soon turned to worse. My contentious cousin, Thomas, Earl of Lancaster, saw Piers readying for the procession with the crown of St. Edward on a pillow.

“A royal coronation is no place for his kind!” Lancaster fumed. “For certain, he should not be leading the procession.”

“Save your battles for bigger crimes, cousin.” I plucked a piece of lint from Lancaster’s shoulder. “Piers is like a brother to me and his place is at my side – as much on this day as on any other.”

For another hour he ranted and raged like some beet-faced toad. I think it was Pembroke who finally convinced him to yield on the matter, lest the ceremony not go on at all.

If that was not enough, too many guests were packed into Westminster Abbey. Some lowly knight, whose name I cannot recall and did not know when I heard it, was suffocated beneath the crush of guests who shoved to get out the door. It was Piers who had been in charge of the guest list and Piers who took the blame for it, but such misfortunes happen every day.

Others complained of the ceremony’s length. Tedious it may have been, but every passage, every ritual was imbued with profound, celestial meaning. Masses were said with routine monotony, but only once in their lifetimes were a king and his queen crowned.

But then, ah worse eroded to dismal. The dinner was not ready on time. The guests, tired from having to stand so long at the coronation, whined about the delay like unweaned pups deprived of their dam. Piers had simply ordered too much food to be prepared and, not being a cook himself, had no idea of the coordination that went into such an effort. How many of those malcontents would have volunteered to accept such a monumental task themselves?

It was evening before the food was brought to the tables and by then most of the guests were belly-full of wine. The pheasant was cold. The pork charred to cinders. Piers spent most of the afternoon shouting at the kitchen help, until he spun himself into a frenetic state.

My dainty French bride blubbered publicly. She declared the entire affair an outrage. I patted the back of her cold, delicate hand and called for the chief cook to be thrown into the stockades and for all his help to be immediately dismissed from service. It was not enough for her, but on what she truly wanted she bit her tongue.

I would not condemn Piers. Not at the behest of my new wife, nor at the abusive menacing of a jealous cousin or snubbed barons.

Their disaffection for Piers brewed, until finally, in late April, the barons convened and expressed their strong dislike for Piers and my favoritism for him. Favoritism – was that how they saw it? If only they would all replace their own ambitions with loyalty. Only Hugh Despenser the Older spoke out in favor of leniency. I would remember, in years to come, who had crossed me and who had stood beside me.

In the end though, when I sat before the rumbling parliament at Northampton, I had no choice. I had to send Piers away.

Leaving the pouting Isabella behind, Piers and I rode casually to Bristol. Cherry trees and hawthorn bloomed in unabashed profusion alongside the roads. Fledgling robins tested their wings and nightingales, the surest sign of spring, trilled from the hazels.

“It will not be for long,” I promised, as we watched them loading the ship with his belongings. To ease the distance between us, I had steeped upon him a large entourage, piles of clothes, stacks of plates and carts full of furnishings. “Tempers will cool, in time. All will be forgiven. You will see.”

Looking askance at me, he narrowed his eyes. “Forgiven, perhaps – but never forgotten. Once I return, how long before they take offense at some insignificant gesture of your affection, Edward?”

“How can I know? Why even care? Lancaster thinks himself deserving of absolute privilege. He will forever test me, I fear.” I lifted my chin, trying to look and sound hopeful when truly I was not. “But let’s not taint this moment with such dismal talk. You’re to be my Lieutenant in Ireland. Soon, I shall hear of your accomplishments there and all your naysayers will be shamed into praising you.”

A sad smile flitted across his mouth. “Is that the plan? Make them regret their words?”

“Whatever it takes to silence them.”

He scoffed. “I once said that your kingdom would command you, did I not?”

“Power has its price.”

Looking away, he nodded. “And your love for me is that price.”

I pulled him into my arms so hard I forced the air from his lungs. As I eased my embrace, my cheek brushed his and the warmth of his skin flowed into me. I kissed his temple, his jawline, his chin, my lips finally meeting his.

Piers shoved me back and stepped away, clenching his hands at his sides. “Edward, we
cannot
give them further cause to... to...”

“How can I hide my longing for you, Brother Perrot? How? This parting is purgatory.”

With a single finger, he dashed away the tear that threatened to roll from his eye. “Then let our reunion be a paradise that, when it comes, will never end.”

Heavy hearted, I waved farewell to him on the dock as seagulls cried with me. The journey had been too short, our parting long. My chest heaving with sorrow, I turned back on the road toward London. Back to my miserable consort, Isabella, and harping cousin, Lancaster. Back to Bruce’s incessant havoc.

Curse kingship. And curse those subjects who pretend to serve while trying to command.

In my sire’s overdue death, I have traded one devil for three others. In his grave, he laughs at me
.

Ch. 18

James Douglas – Peebles, 1308

My men and I lay low in the bracken and purple foxglove on the gentle slope above the bridle path. In the forest near Peebles in the long dusk of June, while on our way northward to rejoin Robert, we had happened upon a mounted detachment of English, not more than twenty in numbers.

Along the path that wound beside a crooked stream, the English rode. I thought to let them go by, for even though we had higher ground, they were far better armed than us. I might have let them pass, but...

“William?” I whispered to the older soldier beside me. William Bunnock had joined with Robert shortly after I did. A common crofter in times of peace, he had been fighting for the Bruces longer than I had been alive. “That man near the front... do you recognize him?”

He squinted until his eyes, permanently bloodshot, disappeared in the folds of his spotted, wrinkled skin. “Hard to say. Looks a bit like the king’s nephew: Thomas Randolph of Moray.”

“Is it him?”

“Could be, could be,” William mused.

On the other side of me lay Sim of Leadhouse, who spoke little, if ever. He ran a calloused finger along his knife blade. Then, testing its sharp edge on a piece of birch bark, he smiled toothlessly.