‘Yet you believed he was the dead King and you wrote this letter to him. Do you know that this letter is treason. Do you know that your offers of service were to a man not our King whom you are proposing to set up against our true King ... do you realize, my lord Earl, that this is treason?’
He knew enough to recognize that it was.
He also knew the penalty for treason.
Isabella and Mortimer talked of it when they were alone. ‘You cannot sentence him to death, Mortimer,’ said Isabella. ‘He is the King’s uncle.’
‘I can and I will,’ cried Mortimer. ‘He has written this letter. He has condemned himself to death. He should not complain if the sentence is carried out.’
‘You are forgetting he is royal.’
‘Royal or not he goes to the scaffold. There is none who thinks himself so high that he cannot be brought low.’
‘The King must be told.’
‘My love, do you want to ruin our plan? You know what Edward would do. He would pardon his dear kinsman.’ ‘What then, Mortimer?’
‘Execution,’ replied Mortimer. ‘Immediate execution.’
They had sentenced him to death and the sentence was to be carried out without delay. They had taken him into the courtroom presided over by the coroner of the royal household, Robert Howel, and he had been clad only in his shirt with a rope about his neck.
He pleaded for mercy. He wished to see the King, he said.
His accusers regarded him coldly. It was too late to think of repentance, they told him. He was a traitor to the King; he had committed treason; he had tried to arouse others to share his disloyalty; he had planned to raise an army against the King. What did it matter if he were closely related to the King? He was a traitor and deserved his punishment the more for being royal.
On Mortimer’s orders he was taken through Winchester to a spot outside the walls. There the axe was awaiting him.
It was early morning for Mortimer had wished the deed to be done before the town was astir. He guessed that the execution of such a well-known man would attract crowds and there might be some to disagree with the verdict.
Half an hour passed and the headsman had not arrived. A messenger came from him. He had run away because he was afraid to do it, he had said, for the Earl of Kent was royal; he would not behead such a person. Who knew he might be blamed for it later.
Mortimer who was there in person to witness his enemy’s end was furious.
‘The knave! ‘ he cried. ‘Send for another. Anyone. But let there be no delay. The headsman had an assistant had he not?’
He had, was the answer, but hearing what his superior had done he himself had acted similarly. He also had decided that he would not take responsibility for beheading a member of the royal family.
Mortimer was fuming with rage. It was as though they were defying him, as though they said: ‘Edward the King would not wish this deed to be done.’ Of course he would not. That was why it had to be done with all speed.
‘Find me a headsman,’ cried Mortimer; and although one was sought none could be found. His knights and squires cast down their eyes lest he should command them to do the deed. He could not do that, for if he did it could be said that one of his men had murdered the Earl of Kent. It must be done by a man whose business was with prisons.
Noon had come and the Earl still lived. He was praying to God, telling himself that this was divine intervention. He was going to be saved because God would allow no one to behead him.
The afternoon wore on and still no one could be found to do the job. Then Mortimer had an idea. ‘Go to the prison,’ he said. ‘Find a man who is condemned to die. Promise him freedom if he will act as headsman to the Earl of Kent.’
That was the end of the quest.
Life was a reward too great to be missed.
At five o’clock on that March day Edmund Earl of Kent laid his head on a block and that head was severed from his body.
The King was at Woodstock when he heard the news.
He could not believe it. His own uncle. To have been executed without a word to him!
A traitor they said. He was plotting to raise an army against his King.
It was the end of March and the child was due in June. Edward must leave Philippa and ride to Winchester to hear for himself what had really happened.
She did not want him to go, of course, nor did he wish to. She wanted to come with him, but he would not allow that. True the winter was over but the roads were rough. How would she travel? Carried in a litter. That would not be good for the child.
‘Must you go?’ she asked.
‘He was my uncle,’ he answered.
‘And a traitor to you.’
‘Somehow I cannot believe that of my uncle.’
‘You always thought he was not very clever.’
‘Not very clever but he would not rise against me.’
‘Something troubles you deeply,’ she said.
‘My love, my uncle has been beheaded, accused of treason against me. In truth I am troubled.’
‘There is something more,’ she said.
He stroked her hair back from her face. ‘I am troubled that I must leave you,’ he said. ‘Never fear, I shall be back soon. I shall order that I am to be kept informed of your health every day.’
So he rode to Winchester, and there he found his mother and Mortimer.
‘Fair son,’ cried Isabella, ‘how good it is to see you here.’
‘I am not happy with my mission,’ he answered grimly. ‘I come to hear about my uncle Kent.’
Mortimer was there, smiling familiarly. One would have thought Mortimer the King and he, Edward, the subject.
‘My lord, ever zealous in your service we could not allow one to live who was trying to raise an army against you.’ ‘I do not believe that to be true.’
‘There was evidence. He admitted it. He had trumped up some story about a man at Corfe whom he believed to be your father.’
Edward was silent. He looked at this man and he thought: What happened to my father? How did he die?
His mother was watching him closely.
‘Mortimer has been a good servant to you, Edward.’
‘And to himself, my lady,’ Edward replied; and his words sent shivers of alarm through Isabella’s heart. She thought: He is growing up. He is growing up too fast.
‘My dear son, your grandfather always dealt speedily with traitors so I heard. It is never good to let them live to ferment trouble.’
‘My uncle was a fool but not a knave.’
‘The actions of fools and knaves can sometimes run on similar lines,’ said Isabella. ‘Oh, Edward, I know this is a shock to you, but it was necessary. Believe me. Believe me.’
She looked so wild that he had to soothe her. ‘I know you have my good at heart,’ he assured her.
‘Have I not always loved you? Were you not everything to me? When you were a baby you made all that I had suffered worth while.’
‘I know. I know. I do not complain of you.’
It was pointed but Mortimer shrugged it aside.
‘Only a boy,’ he said afterwards to Isabella. ‘The Scottish campaign taught him that and it is something he will never forget.’
‘What if he discovers that you set the trap for Kent? That you arranged for his downfall?’
‘How could he? Has he discovered how his father died?’ ‘Not yet,’ said Isabella.
‘Oh, my love, what has come over you? You are so fearful these days.’
‘I have a premonition of evil. Oh Mortimer, we should never have killed Edmund of Kent.’
‘Nonsense. It has shown people that they should take care before they trifle with me.’