Last year there had been a flare of battle over a bastide at St Sardos. The Abbot of Sarlat tried to build it with the permission of the French King, but English locals had deprecated the construction, and thrown down the works. The French tried to stop them, and the mob rose in anger, killing a French official. It gave the French the pretext they had wanted, and all the English territories had been confiscated by them.
Now the French King, Charles IV, insisted that the English King, Edward II, should come to France to renew his pledges of allegiance over the French territories under his command. But King Edward had no wish to put himself under the authority of this latest French King. King Charles IV was a dangerous opponent, wily and astute, and, the way his mind worked, it was surely hazardous to the English interest, and perhaps to the English King’s personal safety, for King Edward to cross the channel. Which was why the Queen was here. She was French by birth, so she understood them, she could speak the language fluently, and her brother would hopefully not wish to embarrass her. He may even give the lands back as a matter of chivalry.
That had been the hope.
The reality was that King Charles IV was a shrewd negotiator who knew the strength of his position and intended making full use of it. The idea that he would willingly give up the lands he had taken was farcical.
‘What is he asking?’ Baldwin said.
The Queen herself responded. ‘He demands that we surrender Guyenne, Ponthieu and Montreuil, until the King my husband comes here to pay homage to his liege lord. The Agenais will remain in my brother’s hands until the ownership and rights are decided by a French court.’
‘You think our King will accept that?’ Baldwin said, shocked.
The Queen looked at him. ‘Hardly,’ she said.
‘So we will have to make an accommodation,’ William de Bouden said.
‘Of what nature?’ Baldwin asked.
‘It is easy,’ William began. ‘Our King cannot come here himself. He could be in danger. There are many men here in the French court who are no friends to our King, and—’
The Queen cut him off impatiently. ‘The King will not come, and there is only one other who could. If the King were to elevate my son by giving him all the King’s possessions in France, then my son Edward could come here and take the oath. My husband need not come here himself. I want you to go to the King and explain this.’
Eltham Palace, Kent
Unaware of discussions taking place over the seas in France which would lead to the ruin of his family, the end of his father’s reign, and which would have a terrible impact on his own life, Edward of Windsor, the Earl of Chester, was yet assailed by dark thoughts.
He sat silently while food was brought to his table, surveying the men before him as he dipped his hands in the bowl presented, and dried them on the towel. In front of him, ranged in two lines, were the great trestle tables, and two thirds of his household were there, seated at the benches, while the remaining servants scurried to and fro with the dishes of food, one to each mess of four men. At least it was only his own household, he thought. His father was off at Beaulieu in Hampshire now.
It was a relief that his father was gone. The peripatetic life of a King was the same as that of any important lord, and involved a lot of strenuous travelling from manor to manor, because the size of the King’s household was so vast that it would drain any location of its stock of food within a few days. So the King was forced to land upon a site, despoil it, and then move on again.
But it was not the poor peasants of the area near Eltham which caused Earl Edward such relief at the King’s departure: it was that it was so hard for the Earl to control his anger and frustration in his father’s presence. How he wished, sometimes, that he had been born just a normal man. Not a peasant, but a knight who would never seek to be more than a knight. A man who had a set position in the world, maintaining the King’s Peace, controlling the mob, and making sure that the third class, the working men and peasants, kept to their allotted tasks, producing food for the bellatores and the men of God.
The life of the King’s son was different from that of ordinary men. Christ’s pains, but he knew that well enough. An ordinary man would respect his father and seek no reward. He must only show the correct reverence. But not Earl Edward. The King’s first-born son was different. From early in his life he was separated from his father. He was of the royal blood, so like his mother, he had his own establishment, his own household. And it was like his father’s in every way. The three lived more or less unconnected lives. Each with their own comptroller, their own guards, their own cooks, their own squires and heralds. When all three together descended on an area, the locals groaned under the weight of the demands on their stored foodstuffs.
But when they were together, Earl Edward was constantly aware of conflicting emotions: the natural filial love mingling with gratitude for the magnificent gifts which his overgenerous father lavished upon him, competing with the bitterness and rage caused by his father’s treatment of the rest of his family. Not to mention the other issues.
Not one of them could be raised in his father’s presence, though. The way in which he had lost the trust and goodwill of his nobles, the irrational way he dealt with the French, which risked all the foreign possessions, and, most of all, the shameful way in which he acceded to each and every demand from that snake, Sir Hugh le Despenser. All these were enough to make the Earl’s soul revolt, and yet he dared not raise them. The capricious, unreasonable way in which the King responded to any comment that could be viewed as a criticism made the very idea unthinkable. It was too dangerous.
Just as it was to bring up the way that his father was treating his brother and sisters. All of them taken from their mother and put into the care of others. And his mother, who was a queen, in God’s name, had even had her private seal taken and put in the safe-keeping of Despenser’s wife. That was disgraceful treatment, and humiliating for Queen Isabella.
But the way that the King treated his mother was none of his business, as he had been told. It was hard. Very hard. He had adored his father all those years. When he was a boy, there was nothing his father wouldn’t do for him. All through to the day when the despicable Despenser arrived. From that moment, practically, his mother had been set aside. It didn’t matter that she had remained loyal and loving to him, King Edward just ignored her. Or, worse, tolerated her presence. For the daughter of a French king and sister of three others, this was worse than contemptible.
And no, Earl Edward was not allowed to raise the matter. Despenser might discuss the queen and her children in that sly, fawning manner he had, but not the King’s own son. King Edward would brook no criticism of any sort. The subject was closed.
Even for his son.
Earl Edward of Chester was at the same time a minor, just, and one of the most senior peers of the realm. A confusing position for anyone to cope with, especially a man who had responsibilities like his. For he was not just any earl. He was an earl who would be a king to rival Arthur himself.
After all, he was to become the ‘Boar from Windsor’.
Chapter Three
Château du Bois, Paris
Baldwin and Simon left the Queen’s rooms and strode over the court by mutual unspoken consent, straight to the chamber where the guards were given their ale and wine rations. There they demanded a jug of wine each, and sat at a table with them, raising them to each other in silent thankfulness, and drinking steadily.
‘You be careful, old man,’ Simon said to Baldwin, only half jokingly. ‘You aren’t used to too much wine.’
‘Today it will have no effect, Simon. Today I am already flying high on the fumes of the wine. I feel as though my head could touch the ceiling of the chapel, I am so light-headed with pleasure. We’re going home! At last I’ll get to see Jeanne again!’
The beaming smile on his face told Simon all he needed to know about his delight.
Simon took a long pull at his drink and sighed with satis
faction. ‘I feel the same. Perhaps at last I can plan for Edith’s nuptials with an easy heart. Because I tell you this, Baldwin. Once I get home, I don’t intend to leave it again for any reason. I don’t care whether the King himself comes and orders me to travel – I won’t do it unless there’s good reason!’
‘Nor I, Simon. Nor I. I will be content to stay at my home and take up the life of a rural farming knight once more. To hell with the position of Member of the Parliament! To hell with keeping the King’s Peace and acting as judge of Gaol Delivery! I will sit at home and raise my family. I need nothing more!’
‘So all we need do is take this man back and protect him, and then we can get off home,’ Simon said, grinning broadly.
‘Yes.’
The Queen had asked that the two travel to the King with a personal message for the King from her – and another for her son, should they meet him. They would be journeying in the company of one of the papal legates who had first helped to persuade King Edward II that his wife should be sent on this peace mission: the Bishop of Orange. Bishop Stratford of Winchester and William Ayrminne, who had helped arrange the latest truce between the two countries, were already assumed to be with King Edward, and briefing him on the latest developments in their discussions.
‘There appears to be a general marshalling of all who may be able to sway the King’s thinking,’ Baldwin said.
‘Even us, you mean?’ Simon grinned.
‘Two English bishops, the Pope’s envoy, us … there were others in the party with the Bishops, too. I saw Isabella speaking at length with a King’s herald, who was surely being sent back with private messages,’ Baldwin said. ‘When a Queen feels the need to accumulate such a powerful party to her, you may be sure that the message is important.’
‘How will he react?’ Simon asked. He had no interest in the great and good who had been sent home. He was just keen to set off himself. ‘It is not all good news for our king.’
‘Hardly. Still, the Bishop of Winchester is a sound fellow, I think; a diligent, thoroughly responsible man. He’ll weather the storm. After all, he is more or less used to the King’s temper. He’s suffered from the King’s anger before.’
‘In what way?’ Simon asked.
‘When he was given his bishopric, the King had expected another to be given it, and he punished the Bishop by confiscating all his lands and assets. It cost Bishop John twelve thousand pounds to recover them, so I’m told.’
Simon winced at the sound of such a fortune. ‘At least he is reconciled to the King now, though? After all, he’s been sent here on this embassy to negotiate for the King, so there must be renewed trust, I suppose?’
‘Not necessarily,’ Baldwin said. ‘But Bishop John has more skill than almost any other in the King’s service when it comes to careful, practical negotiation. The King needs him, whether or not he likes it, or Bishop John!’
‘And William Ayrminne? Will he weather the stormy blast?’
‘He is a skilled negotiator, who’s spent plenty of time in the King’s service. He’s wily enough to see himself safe, I make no doubt. Personally, I wouldn’t trust him further than I could hurl him.’
‘Why?’
‘He’s a canon at Westminster Abbey, but he spends a great deal of time with the Queen. I think he’s looking for a new position with her as his patron. Never trust a man who is seeking advancement! He will trample anyone in his ambition.’
‘And in the meantime, we shall travel with the Bishop of Orange. Do you know him?’
‘I saw him briefly in Westminster. I think he’s a sound enough man.’ Baldwin shrugged. He did not add that any man whom a pope might choose as his legate was not to be trusted. Simon already knew his trenchant views on the papacy and the corruption of the curia, so did not press the matter.
‘In any case, all we need is to return to England with them, and we can forget all about France and get on home,’ Simon said with a broad smile.
Baldwin grinned back, nodding. There was nothing that could spoil their pleasure this day.
On the road near Crowborough, Kent
He was riding past at full tilt, when he reached the place. Someone had once told him that a man could always remember a place that was fearsome to him. Well, he didn’t need to be told that. Not now. The horse itself could sense what had happened here, even though the beast was not with him when he had originally come past.
There was not a sound. Even the wind had died. As he sat in the saddle, the beast beneath him pawing at the soft soil here in the woods, he was struck with a revulsion so distinct, it was almost a physical barrier to his dismounting. But he could not ride past. It wasn’t possible. He had to do this to ensure his safety. It was a little thing, nothing, in the scheme of things. And it wouldn’t hurt the man. Not now.
No. No sound. Not of wind, nor of people. No rattle of chains, creak of harness or regular step of man or horse. Nothing. Just the occasional song of a bird of some sort.
He dropped to the ground and stood a moment, holding the reins. Still nothing.
In a hurry now, he went to the bundled clothing and untied the thong holding it to the saddle; his fingers revolted at the touch, but there was no time to delay. He was off into the bushes, his nose leading him to the spot.
Argh! The smell was foul! After only a few days there was no disguising the odour. The weather had been too hot, and it was disgusting; he felt a trickle of ice shudder down his back at the smell. Enough to make a man puke, this was. He had to block his nose and breathe through his mouth, like he would when cleaning a gutted pig. The smell was so bad, he could hardly brace himself to continue, especially when he saw those already-empty eye sockets, but he had to do it.
It was a relief to be back on his horse. He set off at a steady trot as soon as he could, but then he had to stop.
To throw up.
Wednesday following Easter7
Christ Church Priory
Prior Henry Eastry left the refectory and walked the short distance to the cloisters, which he began to stride up and down, considering.
The King’s Coroner had arrived already, and was studying the body. Not that there was overmuch to learn from it. A corpse with the head almost removed. That was all that there was. Poor Gilbert. Mark and Hal had been instructed to look to see if there was anything which might explain why Brother Gilbert had been out there, but they had found nothing. And although the prior had questioned all his brethren himself, none admitted to knowledge of the crime.
‘Prior? May I speak with you?’
‘Of course, Coroner. I would welcome your views.’
Coroner Robert of Westerham was a shortish knight with the look of a man who would prefer to be in the saddle than idling indoors. He rested his hand on his sword hilt, and tapped at it whenever he was thinking. There were many coroners whom Prior Henry had known who had been less than honourable in the way in which they conducted their business, but this one at least seemed to try to be fair. At least, he was in his dealings with the priory.
‘Your man was killed by a sword, I reckon. When I looked at him, the blade had sunk into the bones of his neck, so that means a heavy bladed weapon struck him. Not just a knife drawn over his throat.’
‘I see.’ The prior was able to take some solace from that. ‘That means it is less likely to be a brother from the convent, then. I am relieved.’
The coroner nodded. ‘Whoever it was was experienced in the use of swords, if I’m a judge. I suppose many of the brothers will have learned swordplay, but how many would have practised recently? There’s another thing: whoever did this would have been covered in gore. The blood splashes went all over the hay, and the man who killed him must also have been smothered. But none of your monks’ habits seem to have been stained. I have checked.’
‘Good. But it still leaves the question of who could have done it.’
‘Clearly someone from without the priory. Is there anything stolen from the church?’
‘It wa
s the first thing I considered. I had a full account of all the silver and plate made as soon as I was informed of Gilbert’s death, just in case it was a robbery.’
‘Nothing gone?’
‘No. All our church ornamentation is still there.’
The coroner mulled this over a little while, frowning at the ground while he kicked at pebbles. ‘In that case … is there anything else here of value?’
The prior smiled. ‘We have much of value. St Thomas’s bones, our books … but nothing that a common thief would consider.’
There was no answering grin on the coroner’s face. ‘This was no common thief, Prior. This man was prepared to hack a monk to death.’
‘Sweet Mother of God!’ The prior’s face paled. ‘I will tell my sub-prior to search all our relics immediately.’
Eltham Palace
Richard of Bury sighed and leaned back in his chair, a deeply contented man.
This place was as comfortable as any palace in the land. For his money, it was one of the most beautiful, too. The great hall was quite new – only about twenty-five years old, and there was a magnificent park to the south which the last owner, Bishop Bek, had added. The park and the great buildings, with the massive stone walls strengthened with brick bastions, had been improved when the Earl’s grandfather, Edward I, had been given the place by the Bishop. A magnificent gift. The kind of thing that showed that Bishop Bek was looking for something significant in return.
Richard grinned to himself but his face soon hardened. There was a time when he would have said he was getting cynical, but any man who said that now would have to have been deaf and blind. Cynicism was unnecessary now, in the reign of King Edward II. Not something a man might dare to say in front of anyone else, of course, but it was a fact nonetheless. The King was mad.
There were times when a man might have a degree of confidence in his king. The best kings were undoubtedly those who sought to reign fairly and rationally. Logic was essential in a king. Promising one thing, then doing another was not rational. It was unsettling. And a king needed a kingdom that was settled and calm, if he wished to rule in peace.
The Prophecy of Death: (Knights Templar 25) Page 5