by Mark Alder
Osbert swallowed drily.
‘And no food or ale tonight,’ said La Cerda. ‘You sleep in a stable. I want you cold, wet and starving by the time you arrive. Now thank me and get out of my sight. You ride at dawn.’
‘Thank you, My Lord,’ said Osbert, with a bow. ‘You do me much honour with such patronage.’
Then he went to the stable, wondering how far he would get if he stole a horse and set off across the snow that night.
Not far, was his conclusion. He sniffed at his armpit. He did stink a bit. Well, at least he wasn’t drunk. At least? He would give anything for a draught of wine. And here came one of La Cerda’s men, swigging from a bottle.
‘Brother!’ said Osbert.
The man grunted. ‘I’m here to watch you.’ He tapped the bottle. ‘This is for me.’
10
Bonne, it was said, had died of the Plague. Such a blow so close to the royal personage of Prince John was too much to take. It was agreed the queen would be buried that day, with as much ceremony as could be mustered at such a difficult time, and then that the prince and his entourage would move to the hunting lodge at Vincennes outside the city to join with his father King Philip.
This would also give the monarch a chance to meet his new daughter-in-law Blanche. In other times it may have seemed unseemly that the prince should marry with such haste. However, with the country under the grip of the Pestilence, with the threepronged fork of Lucifer openly daubed on churches and palaces, such niceties could be ignored for a while. In such shocking times, nothing from man could offend the conscience. Even murder, it was said, began to look reasonable as the killer spared his victim a lingering death. A story was told of a man who had gone to murder his cheating wife and her lover, only to find them dead in each other’s arms and to die on the way home himself.
So Charles found himself at the great lodge at Vincennes. The hunt was still out when they arrived. Protocol would have seen them wait outside but John, at the beseechment of Blanche, agreed to take them inside to await his father.
Charles was very much looking forward to seeing La Cerda. The old king could not have much longer to live and, with Charles’s enchanting sister betrothed to the prince, the tables, it might be said, had turned.
The great room of the lodge was well named – high mullioned windows shining golden light over a great table; a comfortable throne for the king; deeply padded couches for the courtiers. The place smelled pleasantly of sage and cooking meats, and the clatter from the kitchens and the movement of servants might have almost convinced you the land didn’t lie under a curse. The ladies of the court kept themselves to themselves until the men returned from the hunt. It wouldn’t do to be chatting with a foreign prince while your husband lay dead in a ditch. Besides, old Queen Joan the Lame was laid up in bed again, her left leg a torment. God could be cruel, he thought. A just deity would have made the right one just as bad. High-minded, holy bitch.
Charles bit upon a spiced apple. The fresh ones were on the trees but he preferred these, preserved in sugar and cinnamon. The French did them much better than the Navarrese. John had wasted no time in calling the king’s minstrel – his own having died. The man was a saucy fellow and paused at the end of each air to take coins from the nobles. Charles was inclined to strike him but, in these days, that wasn’t a wise course of action. The minstrel could play well and, more pertinently, was alive. Drive him off and you might not find another for months. He flicked him a coin of his own.
It was good to see John dancing with Blanche, spinning beneath the shafts of light. He imagined the shafts as strings, the dancers as marionettes, turning and bowing to his command.
Finally, the king’s bugles. A little off-key. More deaths in the court musicians, clearly. In fact, when Charles came to look at it, there was death in every detail of modern life – in the new arrogance of low men, in the damp of a sheet that would have once been properly aired, in the garden that the great hall overlooked, overgrown, given over to mere nature. A satisfying state of affairs from his point of view. He had not won the game, not sat himself upon that comfy throne, but he had seen Philip’s wine turn to gall in his cup.
Someone was cursing a groom – a heavy Castilian accent. La Cerda. Charles strained to hear. La Cerda was asking someone if he would have all the horses lame. The count was in a bad mood. Charles smiled. It was about to get worse. John bowed to Charles and took Blanche out of the room to greet the returning riders.
The hunt had a flavour all of its own: the smells of the summer evening, of sweating horses, of leather; the call of the grooms and the boasts of the noblemen, their ladies rushing to meet them. Charles bit little chunks out of the apple. One for the high, chomp, one for the base, one for the beggar and one for his grace. Chomp. One for the lad who chases the maid, chomp, one for the father who’ll see him well flayed.
A great cry from outside, wailing and shouting. Of course, John had not told anyone of the death of Bonne yet. At Vincennes, his father must be the first to know. At other times – the birth of a grandson, news of a victory – an enterprising nobleman or even a lower man might have run to the king to be the first to tell him the glad news. No one wanted to be the one to bring Philip the news of his daughter-in-law’s death. He hadn’t much time for his son, but Philip had loved Bonne.
Charles sat for a while drinking in the pleasant noises, saying to himself a little snippet of verse from the Bible: ‘In that place there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth’. That was meant to come at the end of the world, wasn’t it? What if this was the end of the world: France one big pit of corpses; devils and demons free on the earth; the dragon tearing angels from the sky at Crécy? Well, he had no cause for concern. All he had done was make life hard for the usurper Philip. God would smile on him.
The door flew back and into the room strode La Cerda. He came flying towards Charles, taking him completely by surprise and lifting him bodily off the floor. Charles’s six cats went flying from him.
‘You,’ said La Cerda. ‘You! I never thought you’d have the nuts to face me. You’re going to wish you’d stayed out of my sight!’
‘Hold on, old man!’ said Charles, who feared his head might be shaken from his shoulders. Only when he saw La Cerda’s hand go to his knife did he become worried.
‘A blade drawn in the presence of the king?’ said Charles. ‘I think not, sir – that way lies the gallows!’
La Cerda threw Charles down onto his back. The cat-like king hopped to his feet again.
Now his sword was free.
‘You think to strike a crowned head. Who are you, you base man?’
‘I’m the one who’s going to save France from you.’
‘From me? Oh yes, the Pestilence, the English, the demands of the peasants – all those pale beside the threat posed by little Navarre.’ Charles bowed, sarcastically lowly.
‘I think you plot against our prince and against our king. And now who has drawn before the king?’
‘To defend myself against a ruffian!’
La Cerda didn’t look much like a ruffian, it had to be conceded, in his cap of deep green velvet, matching coat embroidered with a stag shot by an arrow.
Philip came into the room. Slightly puzzlingly, from Charles’s point of view, he was hand in hand with Blanche. That wasn’t very seemly.
‘What a daughter we shall have!’ he said.
He wore a look of complete bliss, a radiant smile on his face. He was dressed identically to La Cerda. Well, the Castilian interloper had really got his feet under the table here, had he not? Until, of course, Charles cut them off.
Blanche smiled too – her hair the lustre of a panther’s back, her olive skin as smooth as buttermilk, her dress of deep emerald seeming almost chosen to match the king’s own. She looked, thought Charles, frightening. This was more than normal beauty, more even than his aunt Isabella possessed. This was something beyond and above nature, the dream of a supreme artist. Yes, she looked like the dream of
God.
La Cerda crossed himself and touched a charm he wore at his neck, a curious scribbled circle on parchment worn like a bib. Charles had seen its like before in the scrolls of the Templars he had stolen from their former stronghold at Le Marais. A ward against enchantment. Well, he’d put it to the test here, for sure.
The whole court was dumbstruck by the sight of Blanche unveiled. Dukes and counts bent the knee, Prince John wore a look like a spaniel doting on a mutton chop, even the ladies of the court were enraptured.
‘Is this sorcery?’ said La Cerda.
‘You have a refreshing directness, La Cerda. I understand it to be the mark of low men. This is simply my sister, Blanche. She is engaged to the prince.’
The words seemed to trouble Philip, though he had moments before announced Blanche as his new daughter. La Cerda saw the look on the old man’s face.
‘Sire,’ he said. ‘Great Lord. Your wife will expect to see you and hear your tales of valour from the hunt. Do not disappoint that invalid lady.’
‘My place is here,’ said Philip. ‘This beautiful lady must enjoy our best hospitality. Bring wine, bring the most delicate meats, bring flowers, bring all the splendours our court can afford.’
‘You honour me greatly, father,’ said John.
‘It’s not to honour you but this wonderful creature of Navarre!’ said Philip.
‘Sir, your wife.’ La Cerda was pleasantly desperate now. Charles wondered what it would take to make the Castilian beg? Not the threat of death, that wouldn’t do it. The loss of loved ones? No, loved ones were being lost at a terrific rate anyway. He examined his rival carefully. My God, was he that rarest thing? A good and selfless man? Rare as a cockatrice.
‘Yes, my king, your wife,’ said Blanche. ‘Go to her. No one can come between a king and his holy queen.’
Wait a moment, Blanche was acting on her own accord. She was possessed by his angel and owed fealty to him. She should be waiting for instruction.
‘If I must part—’ said Philip.
‘I shall await you,’ she said.
She gave a little wave as Philip allowed his grooms to escort him through the great hall. Prince John quickly came to her side and took her hand. She looked down at his hand as if she didn’t quite know what it was.
‘My betrothed,’ said John.
‘He is the king,’ said Blanche, somewhat absently.
‘Sister, dear,’ said Charles, ‘you’re not making any sense.’
‘The king is put there by God,’ said Blanche. ‘We seek always union with God.’
Charles drew her down to his level – he was still short, despite heading for manhood.
‘That was not the plan, sister, dear.’
She smiled at him and patted him on the head.
‘It’s God’s plan. Fear not, brother, I shall rule wisely and not trouble you in Navarre, which is your place and where you should stay. I shall be in my rooms until dinner. Do not disturb me there, for I shall be at prayer.’
She swept through the room, her maids scuttling after her, Prince John scuttling after them.
In all the confusion Charles had forgotten to ask her to expel La Cerda.
Charles jabbed his finger at the charm at La Cerda’s neck.
‘Where did you get that?’
‘My own business.’
‘Well make this your business. Saddle your horses and get back to your lands, for once I have spoken to my sister, you will find yourself safer there.’
‘I ought to cut off your head!’ said La Cerda.
‘Presuming you could do it, I wonder what my sister would make of that.’
He smiled. The king of Navarre was beginning to enjoy himself properly for the first time since he’d strangled his mother.
11
The priest at St Michael’s had finally been caught, betrayed by a farmer with whom he had taken refuge. His screams seemed to echo around the halls of Windsor for a week or more. That could not be so, because he had only been interviewed for a few hours before he died.
Sloth had roasted him over a fire in the courtyard of the upper keep. Edward had watched the torture in great anguish, almost weeping to see it.
‘You will not take me, devil,’ said the priest, ‘for I know that, I will die now come what may. And what if I break my vow? An eternity of this! I will bear the pain and keep my hope of Heaven!’
Edward had stopped it there. He had, he said, an idea. The Bishop of London was brought, fat old Stratford, shining with gold and gems, half drunk as usual. He had excommunicated the priest. For what? For defying God’s king. The priest wept and said he had no choice; his vow was greater. The Bishop pointed out to him that, since he was no longer a priest, his vow meant nothing. He could break it, be forgiven, reinstated to the Church and blessed. The lion would kill him quickly and Heaven would be his reward. Otherwise? They would make the fire smaller and return him to the spit. He would die outside the protection of the church, outside of the favour of God. The torments he would face would make the roasting look like soft treatment indeed.
Philippa had tried to intercede. This was too great a manipulation, surely an offence to God.
‘Is it an offence to God?’ said Edward to the bishop.
‘No, sir.’
‘Then there you are.’
The Black Prince had watched proceedings without blinking, splendid in his jerkin of sable picked out with silver leaves.
Did he know what might be said? Surely he could not remain so calm if he did. Philippa felt as though she would burst. She must reveal what the glass had shown her, remove this devil from their midst. What purpose had he been put there for? Where was her real son? Her heart ached to think of it. She had stared into that fragment of glass so many times now, and always seen the same vision. Was it a vision sent from Hell to trick her? She had prayed earnestly, sprinkled the glass with dust from Becket’s tomb. No, she was sure it was a holy thing, from a sacred window.
The priest had cried and blubbered, wrung his hands and told how Isabella had travelled to Hell; how she had dealt with Satan but discovered Mortimer was not in Hell but in Heaven. The courtyard had fallen silent, barring the sobs of the priest. Finally, Edward broke it.
‘That’s a lie. How could such a traitor, a usurper, go to Heaven?’
Sloth struck the priest, slapping him with the back of his great grey paw.
‘I swear, My Lord, I swear. And there is more. If you will reinstate me to the Church I will tell it and go to Heaven, for I fear you cannot let me live once I have revealed it. Please, send your courtiers away. This is for your ears only. Send away your wife too, please, Lord, I beg you.’
‘Tell,’ said Edward. ‘Men are bound by secrets and those I have about me here are dear to me as any.’
Philippa glanced about her, her heart racing. Twenty, maybe thirty courtiers – numbers were thin since the Plague had bitten – stood around the courtyard. Three years before the king would have had a hundred in attendance, maybe more. There was Thomas Holland, who had captured Eu along with Sloth; there was Otho Holland, his brother, such a kind and gentle man but an ogre on the battle field; there was the paragon of chivalry Jean de Graily, Captal de Buch; there William Montacute – the traitor Montagu’s son – a loyal boy whom the king had rewarded despite his father’s sins; there was Roger Mortimer, the grandson of the greatest traitor, Mortimer himself, unmoved by the priest’s claims. As a king, Edward’s greatest strength was that he bore no grudges, and so disputes in one generation did not turn into vendettas for the next. Could he trust all of them? Could he trust Alice, the spy who had brought the priest to such a pass? There she was in her dress of pale yellow, hovering at the edge of the crowd of knights.
‘My Lord, such is your mother’s offence that I cannot say it in front of these men.’
‘You are afraid of her? A lady?’ said Edward. ‘Afraid not of mail and armour or swords and lances but of embroidery needles, of skirts, and petticoats and garters!’
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‘I am afraid of she who wears them, afraid here and in the world to come.’
‘I give you my word against her, here and in the world to come. Let us all swear. Let us swear to defend something greater than family, or friends or oaths or allegiance. Let us swear to defend England. For though we are men of many lands, this is what we fight for. This soil, defended against all.’
‘She is the land’s greatest enemy.’
‘Then let us band together against her. You, here, you men who I trust with my life, now prove to me that you will face Hell, enchantment, angels’ wrath and hellfire for this thing we will call England.’ He switched from his court French into English to say his speech.
‘My mother is my enemy and, though that may seem an offence against God, it is not. Evil be to he who thinks of evil! God is gone from the world, or unreachable. But that does not mean His order or holy laws must be abandoned. We fight for Him no matter what.’
The men drew as one.
‘For England! We are Knights of . . .’ He cast around for words.
‘The garter?’ Alice had spoken out of turn and it seemed she knew it. She put her hand to her mouth. Edward smiled. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘yes. Let us be knights of the garter! For any knight can defend his realm against the sword and the axe. These days we face pressures more subtle and diabolic. Knights of the Garter! Swear that what wrongs you hear today, you will put right. The angels are gone. God is sleeping in His Heaven! What must we vow to? To England!’
The priest wept.
‘My Lord, your mother believes Mortimer was sent by God. Your father’s line is corrupt. She would exterminate you all. She wants to cut off the Plantagenets at the stem.’
The men looked around at each other. Some let their swords fall, others held them up as if paralysed. As Edward had asked them to unite around a new idea – England – they had been reminded of their old ties. Many of them were cousins to the king, their families joined by blood. Devil blood.