“You are the king!” Hugh bellowed as the ship tossed on the waves and the noise of angry nature clamoured outside. “You sound like a frail woman!”
“No . . . please, Hugh,” Edward moaned, covering his face with his hands. “Do not speak such harsh words to me. Please, I implore you! Everyone has turned against me. I cannot bear it if you also abandon me.”
Hugh Despenser released the king’s doublet and stood back. The gale outside was so powerful that it pitched the ship forward into the waves. Hugh lost his balance and fell upon the bed, on top of King Edward, who was curled up in a foetal position.
“Listen to you,” Hugh said disdainfully. “Is this a king who will rally supporters? Will you weep and sob when you beg soldiers to follow you?”
“No, I will not,” Edward finally whispered, wiping his streaming eyes with the sleeves of his robe. “I will be as much a king as ever my father was. You will be proud of me. The soldiers will see my father in me, and they will rally to our side.”
“That’s better,” Hugh approved. “My father will hold Bristol for us when we return with our forces. We will use Bristol as our base, and from there, we will regain all that the she-wolf has taken. You must not be meek. You must be firm and punish both mother and son. If you are weak, he will be ruined. I shall tend to his punishment; you are too likely to submit to your tender feelings.”
“Yes, Hugh, whatever must be done. We shall reclaim the throne together, and once we return to London, we shall no longer have to deal with an unnatural queen.”
Restored, Edward rose from his crouched position.
“You have dared speak to your king as if addressing a commoner, Sir Hugh. For that, there must be consequences…I expect your submission.” Leisurely, he let his eyes linger on his favourite.
Hugh knew what this meant. He had seen this yearning look before. If truth be told, he did enjoy a lot of their trysts. Bedding Edward gave him a heady rush of power. However, lately, it had become a nuisance.
That said, as he had done countless of times, he would submit to his liege’s carnal needs, but even in the act, they both knew that Edward was the one who was conquered.
“Do remove your breeches. I believe that this time, I will mount you without the ointment or sweet words,” Edward whispered, his underpants already filling up.
The gale was so loud that they did not realise anyone was pounding upon the cabin door until the winds died down and they could hear the noise.
“Enter!” Edward called out, irritated that the chastising of his favourite would have to be postponed.
It was the ship’s captain. “Your Grace,” he said, bowing as he entered. “The storm is too fierce. I fear for your life. We must return to land.”
“Return to land? But I must raise an army, and I cannot do that unless I go to Ireland,” Edward objected in dismay.
“Your Grace, if it were safe to travel, I would venture forth without fear. But the winds are against us, and it’s folly to continue. You cannot raise an army from the bottom of the sea.”
“Can you not continue?” Edward questioned the captain. “I must gather my army.”
“Your Grace,” the captain pressed, reluctant to gainsay a king, “I am no craven. I have sailed in many a storm, and I have lost men to the waters. We are ordinary men; if we die, the fortunes of the nation do not change. But if aught should happen to you, we are at fault. Kings must be protected, Your Grace. We may be commoners, but we know our duty before God.”
Edward clenched his fists. “Very well; bring us back to land. You are brave to speak up to a king, captain. I will not forget your courage.”
The captain bowed and left the cabin.
“I fear, Hugh,” Edward remarked. “I fear that the Fates are against us.”
“It’s a storm, Your Grace.” Hugh opted for formally addressing the king. With any luck, that would soften the coming punishment somewhat. “It is not a divine pronouncement. Storms rise upon the waters, but only fools look for portents in them. We shall return to land, and then, when the storm subsides, we will once again sail to Lundy, and from there to Ireland.”
Edward nodded. His thoughts were his own. Would it have been so bad if he had fallen overboard in a raging storm and met his death? Would anyone have cared? Would it not have been better to meet his death with Hugh at his side?
This was not a notion that he could share with Hugh, but in the recesses of his heart, Edward wondered if death sometimes came not at once, but in stages, so that by the time the final stage arrived, a man welcomed it.
He shook his head, to clear his thoughts. He was not yet ready for death.
Taking a deep breath, he focused on his favourite. He had not missed Hugh’s reverence, but it would not save his rear-end from a proper seeing-to.
Edward had recently discovered that mounting Hugh mercilessly and frequently did wonders for the anxiety and stress generated by his rebellious family.
He reached out his hand and pulled Hugh’s breeches so forcefully that they ripped apart. With no additional words spoken, he bent him down towards the bed until he was on all fours. His smooth bottom was a magnificent sight to behold.
Any thoughts of the coming calamity fled the king’s mind. Whilst he punished Hugh ruthlessly with his member for the next half-hour, all he could think about was the promised ecstasy that always followed after filling the younger Despenser to the brim with his seed.
15 October 1326
Wallingford, England
11:32 AM
Prince Edward’s youth is swiftly vanishing as the battle for royal power wages between his mother and father. The king falls as the queen rises, but for a boy of fourteen, the son and heir, loyalties blend and divide. Family ties present a confusing web of loyalties; Henry, the earl of Leicester and soon to assume the earldom of Lancaster which his brother formerly held, is the cousin of King Edward and the uncle of Queen Isabella. For Prince Edward, trust is fragile, and he strives to discern the nature of loyalty in a time of conflict.
“Your Grace, shall I accompany you?”
Prince Edward shook his head as his horse was brought to him. Wallingford was bustling with the activity engendered by the looming rebellion, and everywhere he looked, he could see the livery and pennons of his mother’s supporters. For the Prince, the bright colours and heraldic insignias were as familiar to him as the men they identified.
They were the lords of England, the titled men whose families and lands were part of his own history. Many of them were relatives of the King, such as his kinsman Henry, a grandson of his great-grandfather, Henry III, who had offered to join the prince on his ride.
Henry, earl of Leicester, was a man in his forties. He was used to influence and power, but he had been loyal to Edward II when his older brother Thomas, the earl of Lancaster, had rebelled. After the execution of Thomas as a traitor, Henry had petitioned for his brother’s lands. The King had given him the earldom of Leicester, and he had seemed satisfied.
But now he had abandoned his cousin, Edward II, in favour of the Queen. Royal retaliation had come swiftly, as the Edward II in response had sent Hugh Despenser the Younger’s son to seize Leicester’s lands.
The grounds at Wallingford were fairly littered with the growing number of such men, who saw in the queen’s invasion a chance to stop the power of the Despensers. They were not, they had assured Edward of Windsor earnestly, against the King. They joined the Queen to bring down the favourite. They tolerated Mortimer only because there was no other option. He was the queen’s ally and her military representative, and it was more political to leave matters at that level.
“Your Grace,” Leicester said, taking hold of the horse’s reins. Prince Edward was unsure as to whether his cousin intended to help him mount or prevent him from doing so. It was symbolic of the ambiguity of loyalty, which shifted according to the winds of the moment. “The Queen does not think it safe for you to ride alone.”
“The Queen has named me Guardian of
the Realm,” Prince Edward objected. “If I am such, why should I need a nursemaid to ride with me? I can sit in a saddle, my lord.”
“I meant no slur against your horsemanship, Your Grace,” Leicester said. “I refer to the sacredness of your person. You are the heir; you cannot take risks.”
Prince Edward took the reins from the Earl’s hands. “Not take risks? I remind you, cousin, of what we are doing. We are rebelling against the King,” Prince Edward stated with deliberation.
“The King left the country, Your Grace,” Leicester returned. “The Queen named you Guardian of the Realm because the land must not be without a king. He left.”
Edward had heard the argument. Incessantly, the his mother and Mortimer had preached and cajoled, persuading him that the departure of King Edward from England had required the Queen to install him in his father’s place. It was easier to acquiesce to their logic than to allow himself to be plagued by the torment of doubt.
Prince Edward expelled his breath in a long, ragged sigh. “He returned to Wales.”
“A storm drove him back,” Leicester answered. “I beg you, allow me to accompany you.” Leicester took advantage of Prince Edward’s pause to call for his squire to bring his horse.
Prince Edward recognised that he was obliged to succumb to the Earl’s intention. As he waited for the horse to be brought, he looked over the grounds. The atmosphere was infused with a sense of waiting eagerness; the men, their swords and lances, their battle readiness, were all part of a whole.
This was an army, preparing to go to battle in the name of England, under the aegis of the Prince. How could they all be so certain? They had sworn fealty to the king; the allegiance that the lords owed to their king was sacred. Yet they were here, ebullient with purpose, as if loyalty oaths were something that could be transferred facilely simply because the king had a son to whom they could swear their oaths.
Leicester mounted his horse with the ease of a man inured to the saddle. Prince Edward led the way out of the camp; as he passed, the men raised a cheer. The Prince nodded in acknowledgment of their voices, feeling as he did so that he was playacting. He was not the king. He was the heir.
As they left the grounds, the land opened up into fields being harvested. Peasants, stolid and loyal to the soil they tilled before they gave obeisance to the men who sat on thrones, did not look up from their labour as the pounding of horses’ hooves thundered upon the ground. His father was often been mocked for his strange affinity for the lower classes.
He was a Plantagenet, not a peasant, and to share the pastimes of the commons was a form of abasement. Prince Edward understood this. There was much that he did not understand, but he was of his class, and the peasants existed to serve and to build the kingdom.
Prince Edward and Leicester galloped at a lively pace for a time, until they reached the crest of a hill, and the earl brought his horse to a halt.
“Prince Edward,” Leicester said.
“I pray you, cousin,” the Prince replied, holding up his hand in warning, “lecture me not. If I am the Guardian of the Realm, I am not subject to the lectures of my elders.”
“I would not presume to lecture my liege lord,” Leicester replied.
Prince Edward merely answered him with a dismissive gaze.
Leicester had the grace to smile ruefully. “Very well,” he conceded. “Perhaps lecturing is inevitable in a man of my age. You cannot think it was easy to turn to the Queen instead of the King. Both have claims of kinship, but now I decide as an Englishman.”
“I am told that you are styling yourself as Lancaster now, the title of your late brother.”
Edward heard all the news of the lords; Mortimer recited the details to his mother daily, the information part of his litany in a worship service designed to demonstrate to his mother how thoroughly just her cause was and how the lords of England sought to avenge their grievances by joining her.
Leicester did not reply immediately. He appeared to be lost in thought, gazing down in apparent fascination at the tableau of humble workers reaping the fruitfulness of the lands in the fields below.
“The title was my brother’s and should be mine,” he said finally. “King Edward knows this to be so. To have Despenser take it from me is an insult.”
“Is not disloyalty more than an insult?” Prince Edward countered.
“You are a youth, Your Grace, and — ”
“My lord,” Prince Edward interjected formally, “a youth took your lands. Do not be dismissive of those who lack years.”
“I meant no disrespect, Your Grace. I serve you.”
The Prince wondered if he would ever regard a declaration of service with other than a sceptical eye. “Do you serve me for a restoration of your Lancaster title?”
“I serve you because you are the heir to the throne of England. I will not serve a false king. But you are born to the crown, Your Grace. The queen has declared it so.”
“Yes.”
“The queen has been a loyal consort to your father. She has supported him in times of great urgency and travail. Few women could summon forth such courage.”
“She has the support of Roger Mortimer to strengthen her resolve,” Prince Edward returned. He was deliberately circumspect in his words. Perhaps he meant exactly what he had said, and there was nothing more in his words than recognition of Mortimer’s experience and skill. Or perhaps his words were a challenge poised upon the edge of a verbal spear.
If the latter, Leicester was apparently able to tilt the spear aside. “When you are on the throne, Your Grace,” Leicester said firmly, “you will have loyal supporters who will be honoured to offer advice when you seek it. It does not demean even a king to accept counsel from men he trusts, whose experience and leadership are known to him. I offer you my advice if you ask for it, Your Grace. But my devotion is offered to you always. England needs a strong king, such as we had in your grandfather, Edward. A strong king makes the nation powerful; a weak king diminishes the land.”
“You deem it a choice?”
“God rewards strength, Your Grace.”
This was inarguable. God was somewhere in all of this. The bonds of father and son were inviolate, except when the duty of a king intervened. What was Edward first? A prince, a son, or a servant of God?
“When you are king,” Leicester added, as if it were an afterthought, “you will not require the tutoring of Mortimer.”
17 October 1326
Cardiff, Wales
11:48 AM
Aware that his kingship is ebbing away, King Edward II is beset by an aggrieved sense of betrayal. His family has deserted him. His error came out of his clemency; he should have disposed of his enemies before they had the chance to rise against him or poison his family.
It seemed as if his kingdom had shrunk to this single castle where he and his faithful servants, the Despensers, were lodged. His family, his capital city, his lands and possessions were all aligned against him. That a king of royal lineage, in whose veins flowed the revered blood of Edward I of the Plantagenet line, of the saintly Edward the Confessor, of the valiant Richard the Lion-Heart, should be thus reduced was a betrayal of the sanctity of the monarchy.
“I should have executed him,” Edward muttered.
“You ought to have executed the lot of them,” Hugh the Younger concurred. “We would not be in this state had the traitors been punished before they joined your faithless wife.”
“They were not traitors ere this!” Edward pointed out in exasperation. This was not a new topic. Hugh had been bemoaning the fact that the traitors had been alive to go to the Queen in the first place, but how could Edward have known what they would do? He had thought them loyal. And although he would not voice the thought, he wondered whether more of his lords would have stood by him had the Despensers been less avaricious in their yearning for lands and wealth.
It seemed that, although he was king, he did not have enough goods to sweeten his nobles’ craving for luxury, deme
snes, and prestige. How did one keep a ravenous horde of wolves sated? he wondered. How had his ancestors done it? What would his son do when it was his turn to keep the wild pack at bay, attentive to his command but wary of his rage should they fail him?
King John Lackland had known the defeat of his power at the hands of his lords. Edward took some comfort in knowing that, although he was abandoned and without succour, his barons were not meeting him to force him to sign a document that would cede his power. John had truly been hated.
Of course, he had not had to address the faithlessness of his queen. But John’s father Henry II had.
Queen Eleanor, duchess of Aquitaine, of renowned beauty, lands, and accomplishments, had been just as unwomanly in her duty, siding with her sons against her husband and leading rebellions against Henry II. Legend said that the fair queen had been less than observant in her conjugal vows. But Henry had killed a priest, a dark stain upon the Plantagenets.
Were they still paying for that dreadful sin? Edward wondered. Henry had done penance, and surely the sin was expiated. Did darkness haunt the Plantagenets, and was he the latest member upon whom the light had been doused?
“The mob beheaded Stapledon with a breadknife,” Hugh told Edward, his voice harsh with the venom of hatred and rage. “They brought his head to the Queen.”
Edward knew this. His spies kept him aware of all that was happening in London and in the Queen’s entourage.
“She hated Stapledon,” he said absently.
“She gave his head to the goddess Diana!” Hugh was furious. “Yet the church flocks to her side.”
Edward doubted that Isabella had done any such thing. Where in Gloucester would she have found a shrine to a pagan goddess? Stories grew like wild weeds around royalty; one could not believe all of them.
“You should have done to all of them what you did to Lancaster,” Hugh continued.
The earl of Lancaster. Thomas, the king’s cousin.
Yes, Edward had been decisive and bold then. And yet merciful, when all was said and done. He had not, because his cousin had royal blood, subjected him to the drawing and quartering that his crimes deserved.
Isabella- She-wolf of France Page 7