3

King Edward I, the finest lawmaker England had ever known, was in a foil-blown Plantagenet rage. “Whoreson! Dung-eater! Scab-arsed baboon!” Three men cowered before him, knowing their fate would be sealed once Edward Plantagenet ceased his raving. They had been caught by his spies in the Port of Berwick, smuggling a message to King Philip of France.

“If that dog turd, Baliol, and his prick-licking henchman, Comyn, think I will allow them to form an alliance with France, they have let the maggots devour their gray matter. Splendor of Christ, do they not know I will crush them beneath my boot? Baliol has sat on Scotland’s throne for three years, at my bidding, and clearly it has been three years too long!

“For months he has been yapping about my ankles, flouting my orders, and for months I have kicked him aside, thinking he would eventually learn obedience and come to heel. Does he not understand that I am the Lord Superior of Scotland?”

The king brandished a parchment in each fist. One was the damning letter to Philip of France that his spies had confiscated, the other was Baliol’s Oath of Fealty. Edward’s fierce blue eyes stared at the three men before him. “Insurrection! Treason! Betrayal! God will avail him naught now, it is too late.”

The leader swallowed hard. “Majesty, permit me to carry your words to Baliol.”

Incredulous that the messenger had the temerity to barter for his life, Edward imperiously raised a finger, summoning a guard. “I have my own royal messengers. I have no need of Scots offal! Hang them.”

King Edward returned to his privy chambers, high in Newcastle, and summoned the men who had brought in the prisoners. They were in the pay of the palatinate Bishop of Durham, who was in charge of raising an army from Edward’s northern levies. In his firm decisive hand the king wrote out a missive, praising the bishop’s diligence and ordering him to take his army to Norham Castle on the southern shore of the river Tweed on the very border of Scotland.

The king sanded the wet ink, rolled the parchment, melted the sealing wax, and stamped his leopard ring into the soft red wax. As he handed it to the Bishop of Durham’s man, he said, “If these Scots forget I am descended from conquerors, they forget at their peril!” As he finished reading the dispatches from the Bishop of Durham, his face began to turn purple. “Call my army commanders to a council meeting!” he ordered John de Warenne.

*   *   *

Edward Plantagenet entered the large vaulted chamber at Newcastle where his commanders had gathered. The previous day he had been well pleased with the numbers as the armies began to arrive. When Richard de Burgh with his horde of Ulstermen arrived from Ireland the army would total five thousand horse and forty thousand foot soldiers. He had been convinced such a show of strength would bring the Scots to heel.

Today, however, King Edward was enraged. “The Bishop of Durham reports that the English fleet has been attacked in the river Tweed while bringing supplies to the army!” The invaders had sailed out from the great seaport of Berwick, which lay on the northern shore of the Tweed in Scottish territory, and Edward proceeded to vent his temper, reviling Berwick’s citizens. Curses and foul oaths echoed around the vaulted chamber.

“The wealth of these merchants has swollen them with arrogance! The fat swines think themselves safe perched behind their fortifications on the north bank! They are about to learn otherwise!”

John de Warenne exchanged a look of understanding with the earls and barons about him. They would have to teach Berwick a lesson before they undertook the French invasion.

There was a commotion at the chamber door as Robert de Bruce pushed past the herald before he could be announced. All present knew the swarthy, handsome Bruce who thought himself the rightful King of Scotland. He made his obeisance to Edward and succinctly delivered his news without preamble.

“Sire, the Scots sent an army down into Cumberland. It ravaged the northern shires until it reached Carlisle. We rode out to fight the Scots. They suffered a sharp reversal and retreated back to their own territory.”

“The whoresons dared invade England?” Edward Plantagenet’s fury bordered on madness.

The earls and barons all spoke at once, disbelief, anger, and outrage swelling their voices to a cacophony. Finally the king lifted his arms. “Silence! The Scots have conspired to form an alliance with France against us, they have sunk our ships and now they have dared to invade England. De Warenne, we would hear what you propose.”

The Earl of Surrey got to his feet. He was a decisive general, which was why Edward had put him in command of all his armies. “Your Majesty, I propose we postpone action against the French until we have dealt with this Scottish insurrection.”

“We think alike, John.” The king brought his fist down upon the table before him with a crash. “We invade Scotland!”

Some cheers went up, mingled with some curses, but all present knew that the die was cast. Once Edward Plantagenet made a decision, he did not go back on it.

Edward’s brilliant blue eyes fastened on Robert Bruce. “It is war. Are you with us or with the Scots?” he asked bluntly. Edward knew the Bruces were powerful and he knew they had a secret bond with seven other Scottish earls to support the Brace claim to the throne. Edward also knew he could not effectively control Scotland without them. But when he had chosen Baliol king over Robert Bruce, the new Scots ruler had confiscated all of the Braces’ holdings in the western marches and handed them over to the Bruces’ bitterest enemies, the Comyns. There was no love lost between the Braces and the Scots King Baliol.

Robert clasped Edward’s arm and looked directly into the king’s eyes. “We are with you in this.” Implied in the pledge was the expectation that in return for their support of the English the Bruces would regain all they had lost. As the two powerful men stared at each other, Edward knew Brace would eventually demand reversion of the crown of Scotland.

Edward issued John de Warenne an order. “Our first point of attack will be Berwick!”

Lynx de Warenne crossed himself and murmured, “God help the citizens of Berwick. Let us hope when that city falls, Baliol will obey King Edward’s summons.”

Percy, Stanley, and Bohun joined John de Warenne to discuss strategy, while Robert Brace gave his Oath of Fealty to the king. “I want the Braces to remain governors of Carlisle Castle. It must remain impregnable as the headquarters for supplies from Wales and Ireland. Once Scotland capitulates and they hand over Baliol, all the western marches will be reinstated to you,” Edward promised.

Lynx de Warenne joined his friend, and the king watched with approval as the two men embraced. The de Warenne and Brace landholdings in Essex ran together, and the two young men had been companions in their boyhood.

“De Burgh was ordered to land his Ulstermen at Carlisle. Is there any sign of them yet?” Lynx asked.

“Aye. The minute we sent the invaders fleeing back across the border, the Irish sails were spotted in Solway Firth,” Robert said with irony. “But better late than never. They should start arriving here tomorrow.”

“They had better,” the king stated flatly. “The army moves north tomorrow.”

    Marjory de Warenne felt great frustration. King Edward had been closeted the entire day with his generals, making plans for a march on Scotland, and she had seen neither hide nor hair of him. She reminded herself that this was Edward Plantagenet, the greatest king in Christendom. It was undoubtedly presumptuous of her to expect him to spare time for her when he was making preparations for war, but Jory knew today would be her only chance to plead Joanna’s case. At dawn the king would leave and she would be sent to Wigton.

As the afternoon shadows lengthened into evening and still the nobles had not emerged from their war conference, Marjory realized how insignificant women were in men’s scheme of things. Women played no part in making decisions. Men ruled the world, fought the wars, made the laws, garnered the wealth, owned the property, and for the most part controlled the lives of their women. The only role available to the female was that of nurturer to the male.

And yet, few women seemed to resent their lot in life. Was she the only female alive who chafed at the restrictions placed upon her? Perhaps if she had had a child, she would be too busy being a mother to be bothered by the inequities between the sexes. Jory felt a pang of regret, then wondered for the thousandth time if she was barren.

Determined to shake off her gloomy mood she lit the candles and poured water to bathe her hands and face. She might have a chance to speak to the king in the dining hall and beg him for a private word. Jory decided to leave off her head veil. Her silver-gilt hair was by far her prettiest feature and had an amazing effect on the male of the species. Tonight she must look her most attractive if she hoped to gain King Edward’s attention.

When Jory arrived in the vast dining hall, flanked by Thomas and Taffy, her eyes first went to the dais and the high, carved chair where the king would sit. Finding the chair empty, her gaze traversed the length of the packed hall, seeking the tall, imposing figure of Edward Plantagenet. Disappointed, she sought a seat just below the dais and thanked the barons who eagerly made room on the bench for her.

The first platters of meat were already on the tables before she caught a glimpse of her brother, Lynx, accompanied by another man. When they climbed up on the dais, Thomas went to attend Lynx. The squire immediately returned for Marjory and led her to the dais.

“There is room with us, Jory; John dines with the king tonight.”

“Damn, I’ve been waiting all day to see Edward …” Her voice faltered to a stop as her eyes fell on the man at her brother’s side. Splendor of God, here is a man worth looking at, she thought. He was not quite as tall as Lynx, few men were, but the spectacular breadth of his shoulders more than made up for it. Suddenly, Jory’s eyes widened as she recognized the darkly handsome Bruce.

“Robert! Is it truly you? Why, I haven’t seen you in years. The last time was at the ceremony where your father passed over the earldom of Carrick to you.”

Robert Bruce grinned down at her. “You were a child of seventeen and even then beauteous enough to play hell with the hearts of all the Bruce brothers.”

“All except you. As I recall you were a wild devil who teased me unmercifully.”

“I was no exception, Jory.” His dark eyes smoldered as they feasted on her delicate beauty.

She laughed up at him. “You are still teasing me unmercifully and I warrant you are still a wild devil.”

Jory was amused when Lynx chose to sit between them and knew her brother had noticed the sparks igniting between her and Robert Bruce.

“I’m sorry you’ve had no opportunity to speak with the king, Jory. Your journey was a waste of time,” Lynx declared.

She glanced at Robert, making a moue with her mouth. “Not completely.” Then she added, “There is always tomorrow.”

Lynx shook his head. “The king and the entire army leave for Scotland on the morrow.”

The teasing light left her eyes. “Is it war?” she asked solemnly. When Lynx nodded, her eyes sought Robert’s. “For whom do you fight, my lord?”

“I fight for Robert Bruce,” he said quite frankly.

“He stands with us,” Lynx confirmed.

“At least for now,” Bruce qualified. “I have every intention of smashing my enemy Comyn and taking back my lands in Annandale and Carrick. I welcome Edward’s aid,” he said with natural arrogance.

“You are Governor of Carlisle Castle; the king expects you to keep it secure,” Lynx reminded him.

“I’ll return there for the present, but when the real fighting starts, I’ll be in the thick of it. I have enough brothers to keep Carlisle secure.”

Jory’s face lit up. “I am being banished to my family’s castle at Wigton, my lord, which you know lies not far from Carlisle. Will you give me safe escort?” Though she knew perfectly well both her uncle and her brother would provide her with de Warenne knights for her security, she fancied the protection of this powerful Scots earl.

Brace’s mouth curved sensually. “It will be my pleasure.”

“Don’t be too sure, Robert,” Lynx warned. “She is a willful little jade with a penchant for creating havoc.” “I’ll keep her in hand,” Robert Brace promised. Marjory went weak at the thought.

    Later that night, Jory paced her chamber trying to find a solution to her problem. She was as tenacious as a terrier and refused to be thwarted when she was this close to her goal. She needed to have a private conversation with the king tonight, and could think of only one place where this might be possible: in his bedchamber. Jory brushed her hair until it fell about her shoulders like a cloak of silk, then she put on lip salve and rubbed a drop of perfumed oil in the cleft between her breasts. Then she draped a veil over her head, concealing her face as well as her telltale hair, and picked up a tray of sweetmeats.

She made her way through the castle to the king’s privy chambers. Due to the advanced hour, Newcastle had settled down for the night and the only people she encountered were servants. Jory climbed the steps of the tower that Edward occupied, knowing she would be challenged by a guard at the king’s door. When she saw the king’s gentleman stationed outside his chamber, she heaved a small sigh, relieved that she did not know him personally.

“His Majesty has retired, he requires nothing more.”

“The king sent for me, my lord,” she said breathlessly, surprised at her own daring.

He shook his head. “His Majesty ordered no wench tonight.”

“Did he not?” she challenged silkily. “King Edward likes something sweet when he retires.”

“Don’t we all, sweetheart?” he asked, laughing, then reached for her veil.

“Nay!” Jory took a step backward, then lowered her voice confidentially. “My lord, I am not a wench, I am a lady. The king would be angered if my identity became known.” She had him half convinced and pressed her advantage. “He told me you would be on the door tonight and that you were the most discreet of all his gentlemen of the bedchamber.” While he digested the compliment, Jory scratched on the oaken door and slipped inside.

Edward Plantagenet, wearing a crimson velvet bed-robe, lifted his golden head, sensing, rather than hearing, the intrusion. “Yes, what is it?” he demanded.

She advanced into the chamber and lifted her veil to reveal her face. “Your Majesty, it is Marjory de Warenne.”

His brows drew together. “What the devil are you doing here?”

“Sire, I come from Princess Joanna.”

The expression on the king’s face turned cold. “I’ve had this Monthermer upstart thrown into irons! The ambitious swine has taken advantage of my daughter. Yet she will not be held blameless in this, nor will those about her who urged this disastrous step.” His voice and his eyes were like ice. “They have dishonored the memory of Gilbert de Clare, and his family is greatly insulted. The marriage will be set aside.”

Jory let the veil fall from her hair, then she went down on her knees before him in supplication. “Your Majesty, Joanna sent me to you to beg your forgiveness and your understanding. She wanted you to hear the truth from my lips before the others poisoned your thoughts with their false tales.”

Jory watched Edward’s icy gaze fall upon her lips and hoped he would thaw a little. She saw his gaze lift to her hair and she knew he had noticed her fragrance. As he reached down, taking her hands to raise her, she could see the battle he fought within.

“Say your piece,” he ordered, but not harshly.

Jory took a deep breath and saw his eyes flicker over her rising breasts. “Your Majesty, Joanna knows you honored her by wedding her to your greatest noble, the Earl of Gloucester. She did it for love, but not love for Gilbert de Clare … Joanna did it for love of you.” Jory wondered if he remembered the terrible tantrums the imperious Joanna had thrown before she’d capitulated and married the aging earl. “This time she followed her heart; she wed Ralph de Monthermer because she is deeply in love with him.”

“Monthermer is a lowly squire!”

“Never lowly, Sire. He was Gilbert de Clare’s most valiant warrior. Ralph de Monthermer was de Clare’s right hand. He was the one who won glory in battle for de Clare in his declining years. The Earl of Gloucester trusted him with his life and I believe he made Ralph swear an oath to look after Joanna always.”

Jory, caught up in her own tale, began to embroider it a little more. “It will break Joanna’s heart to see her beloved in chains, Sire. Her deepest wish is for you to know Monthermer and learn his worth. The men of Gloucester and Hertford whom he commands hold him in highest respect. Send for him, Sire. Give him a chance to show you his mettle and his loyalty.”

“You plead his case well. What is it about this Monthermer that has blinded both you and Joanna to your duty?”

Jory was suddenly inspired. “He reminds Joanna of you, Sire. That is the great attraction, I swear it.”

As Edward’s shrewd eyes roamed over her delicate beauty, his face softened a little. “I hope Joanna appreciates your friendship. What is it about the de Warennes that makes their loyalty absolute?”

“You honor us with your trust, Sire. To a de Warenne, that trust is sacred.” Jory hoped God would not strike her dead; ’twas only a slight exaggeration.

Edward took a seat before the fire and indicated that she too might be seated.

“Your Majesty, tomorrow you go to war. For the love you bear Joanna, I beg you not to go into battle without forgiving her. She could not bear it if there was a breach between you. A father’s love is so precious.”

Edward smiled at Marjory de Warenne with compassion. “Do you remember your own father?”

Jory shook her head sadly. “Lynx remembers him well, but I was too young when he died.”

“He was my dearest friend. ’Twas he who plotted my escape when Simon de Montfort held me captive.”

“I know, Sire. I’ve heard the tale recounted many times.”

“His loyalty to me was absolute, as yours appears to be toward my wayward daughter.”

Now that the conversation had returned to Princess Joanna, Marjory opened her mouth to entreat the king again. When Edward put up his hand, Jory held her tongue.

“I shall send for this Ralph de Monthermer and judge for myself.”

“Thank you, Sire.” Jory dipped her knee, knowing she had done all she could and hoped she had tipped the scales in the princess’s favor. She picked up her veil. “Godspeed, Your Majesty.”

    As she hurried from the tower, Jory was confident that all within Newcastle would be asleep at this hour. She almost made it back to her own chamber when suddenly a powerful arm reached out and pulled her into a shadowed recess. Jory was about to scream when she realized it was her cousin, Fitz-Waren, who lifted her veil aside.

“How about a kiss?”

“Damn you for a knave, Fitz, you frightened the wits from me.” When he pushed her against the wall and pinned her there, Marjory did not experience any fear, only anger. “Let me go at once.”

Fitz-Waren took hold of her chin and brought his mouth down on hers. She pulled away, disgusted. “You’ve been drinking!”

“Think yourself too good for me after playing whore to the king? I wager it’s something you wouldn’t want my father or your brother to learn.” His hand cupped her breast suggestively.

“Lynx will kill you if he learns of this.”

“Lynx is busy with his own whore.”

Jory knew she must get away from him, but realized if she screamed, she would rouse the castle. She contemplated shouting for Thomas, but could see the passageway was empty and he was no longer outside her door. In a heartbeat Marjory knew she must rely upon herself to escape her cousin’s lust. She gripped his leather jack in her fists and brought her knee up sharply into Fitz-Waren’s groin.

He doubled over in agony and sank to the stone floor. “You’ll pay for that, you vain bitch!” he swore between gritted teeth.