by Paul Doherty
Corbett studied his king. Edward was almost beside himself with glee yet Corbett, who had sat with the rest of the King’s Council and negotiated this treaty which was to bring a lasting peace, knew how deeply Edward nurtured his hatred against Philip.
‘Seigneur Amaury de Craon,’ Corbett said, ‘is now outside, in your antechamber. He is insistent on returning to France. You must name the lord who is to lead the English delegation.’
‘Does he know that I know?’ the King teased.
‘He may suspect, sire, but what proof do we have? An entry in a Book of Hours, the corpse of a dead Italian physician?’
Edward put the cup down. He rubbed his hands together like a little boy who has won a game.
‘In a short while, Corbett, de Craon will know that I know what Philip knows but, what he doesn’t know,’ the King laughed at the turn of phrase, ‘is what I really know and where I have hidden the proof.’
‘What proof, sire?’ Ranulf exclaimed.
The King chuckled.
‘Precisely, Ranulf! They’ll always wonder just what proof I really have.’ The King raised his hands as a sign that the meeting was over. ‘I don’t think you should stay, Sir Hugh, when I see de Craon.’
Corbett and Ranulf got to their feet and bowed. Edward rubbed his fingers along the top of the table.
‘Do you know, Corbett,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Sometimes I wonder if the game is more important than winning? I met Philip’s wife Johanna. I often wondered how long Philip would tolerate her. I wonder what he really is after? Marriage to a Flemish princess? I’ll stop that. And, as for the Templars? Soon it will be Christmas. Perhaps it’s time I invited the Grand Master, Jacques de Molay, back to England.’ Edward clapped his hands. ‘Oh, Corbett, Ranulf, I think we’ll celebrate the feast of All Saints at Leighton!’
Corbett smiled to hide his deep anguish at having to act as host to Edward and his cronies. They would sweep into his manor and all harmony would be shattered.
‘Is there anything I can do for you?’
‘When Lady Maeve’s child is born,’ Corbett replied quickly, because he knew the King loved such requests, ‘if you could stand godfather at the font?’
‘Done.’ The King raised his hand. ‘And, before you leave, Corbett, I have something for Lady Maeve. A necklace.’ His eyes softened. ‘Once worn by my Eleanor.’ He opened the large wallet which hung from his war belt and tossed a purse of gold coins down the table. ‘And that’s for you, my Clerk of the Green Wax!’
Ranulf let it lie.
‘Come! Come!’ Edward drew his brows together. ‘Do you refuse a prince’s gift? What else do you want, Clerk of the Green Wax? Promotion? A bishopric?’
‘Lady Madeleine dead!’ Ranulf spat the words out, ignoring Corbett’s hiss of disapproval.
‘Pick the gold up!’ Edward ordered. ‘Pick it up, boy!’
Ranulf obeyed.
‘I can’t give you Lady Madeleine’s head on a platter.’ Edward drew his dagger, clasping his fingers round the hilt. ‘But, I, Edward, King of England, Ireland and Scotland, give my solemn word: before Easter comes and goes, Lady Madeleine Fitzalan will join her brother before the court of Heaven. That matter’s finished!’
Corbett tugged at Ranulf’s arm. They bowed and walked out of the chamber. De Craon, lounging in a window seat, got up.
‘Ah, Sir Hugh, your king is pleased?’
‘My king is always pleased, Seigneur Amaury.’
De Craon pulled his face into mock grief and spread his hands.
‘I hope His Majesty is in good humour. We were grieved to hear of the death of one of his clerks, Simon Roulles, a student of the Sorbonne. Such a dreadful death! Surely it proves Scripture, that we never know the time or the place of our demise?’
‘My dear Amaury.’ Corbett faced him squarely. ‘None of us know the time and place. But the good Lord be my witness. If there is a time and place when I can settle accounts with you,’ he held his hand up in a gesture of peace, ‘pax et bonum, my dear Amaury.’
The French envoy bowed, stepped aside and swept into the royal chamber.
‘My dear, dear Amaury!’ Edward of England half-rose from his seat, then slouched back as if the effort was too much. He gestured at the chair Corbett had vacated. ‘I understand you have been enjoying the air of Sussex?’
‘I am grieved, sir.’ De Craon took a seat.
Edward offered his cup. De Craon took it and sipped, pleased at this mark of favour.
‘At the death of Lord Henry and, of course, Signor Cantrone. Now I bring you official news of the death of Simon Roulles. Sire, accept my condolences as well as those of his most gracious majesty the King of France.’
‘God only knows your grief,’ Edward replied. He gestured at a sheaf of documents in front of him. ‘And I have similar bad news: Pierre Rafael?’ He raised one eyebrow. De Craon tensed. ‘A French student in the Halls of Oxford,’ the King explained. ‘A man, indeed, who seemed to spend most of his life in study. Pierre often journeyed to our eastern ports, he appeared very interested in shipping . . .’
‘What happened to him?’ de Craon asked quickly.
‘Unfortunately he was drowned,’ the King replied. ‘His body was fished out of the Thames. My own clerk, Master Aidan Smallbone, was in the vicinity at the time. He examined the corpse most carefully, a boating accident.’ Edward spread his hands apologetically. ‘These students and their drinking!’
De Craon swallowed hard. He would miss Pierre. He wondered how Edward of England had discovered his spy’s true identity.
‘Simon often writes to his family in England,’ the King continued.
‘Sire, what has this got to do with the negotiations for the betrothal of your son and the Princess Isabella?’
Edward waved a hand. ‘Oh, don’t worry about that. My good friend, John de Warrenne, Earl of Surrey, will lead our embassy. You should be in Dover in three days and in France before the end of the week. Other lords and ladies will accompany him.’
‘So, the betrothal will go ahead?’
‘Of course!’ Edward smiled. ‘It is a sworn treaty, sanctified by the Holy Father in Avignon. However, there are one or two little clauses I would like to discuss with you.’
‘What clauses?’
‘Ah, that’s why I mentioned Roulle’s letters. He was a great gossiper, a friend of Lord Henry Fitzalan, not to mention Signor Cantrone and Lady Madeleine. Well, to cut a long story short, de Craon, I am deeply distressed at the malicious rumours that Queen Johanna of France did not die of natural causes.’ Edward kept his face grave though he was gratified by the alarm in de Craon’s eyes. ‘Some say that she was poisoned. Isn’t that dreadful?’
‘They lie and my master will have their heads!’ de Craon retorted.
‘Quite right.’ Edward scratched his head. ‘These same scurrilous gossips also point to the sudden and unexplained deaths of Monsieur Gilles Malvoisin, Queen Johanna’s physician, and Madame Malvoisin his wife, not to mention Malvoisin’s assistant and close friend Signor Cantrone.’
De Craon licked his lips. Edward leaned forward.
‘It grieves my heart, Amaury,’ he said in a low voice, ‘that these same gossips lay the blame for Queen Johanna’s death at the door of my beloved brother in Christ, Philip. They tell fabulous tales, how Philip wishes to marry again, a Flemish princess! Or, even worse, that he wishes to become a bachelor, gain entry into the Templars and so dominate that Order.’
‘These are lies! What is their source?’
‘We’ll come to that in a while.’ Edward offered his goblet to de Craon. ‘I merely tell you this out of friendship.’
De Craon took the cup.
‘So incensed am I by these malicious rumours,’ Edward continued, thoroughly enjoying himself, ‘that I intend to write to the Holy Father and, indeed, all the crowned heads of Europe, to refute them.’
De Craon spluttered on his wine. Edward sprang to his feet, pushed the cup away and patted him hard on the b
ack.
‘It’s a good, strong claret,’ he said. ‘The best MY,’ Edward emphasised the word, ‘MY duchy of Gascony can produce.’
‘There is no need to do that.’ De Craon coughed. ‘Please, sire, there is no need for that. By writing such letters the rumours would only spread.’
‘Oh, I hadn’t thought of that!’ Edward admitted, retaking his seat. ‘But they are terrible lies. I mean, if the King of France married a Flemish princess or tried to control the Order of the Templars which has houses, lands and treasure throughout all of Europe, England and its allies would regard that as an act of war. The peace treaty would be rescinded and there would be no marriage between my boy and the Princess Isabella.’
‘Your Majesty jumps too far too soon!’
‘You do not wish me to write such a letter? You want me to keep the matter secret and confidential?’
‘Of course, sire. But, if you could tell us the source of such slander?’
‘I will in due time.’ Edward sat up straight in the chair. ‘But there are a few,’ he waved a hand, ‘a few anomalies about this betrothal treaty.’
‘Your Majesty?’
‘I want the dowry to be doubled: six hundred thousand pounds sterling.’
De Craon blanched. ‘I think that’s possible, in the circumstances,’ he stammered.
‘Good! I want my sweet brother’s assurance that all aid and sustenance to the rebels in Scotland will cease forthwith.’
‘Agreed!’
‘I want my sweet brother’s confirmation that the duchy of Gascony and the city of Bordeaux are recognised as belonging to the English crown.’
‘Agreed!’
Edward spread his hands. ‘Then we are in harmony?’
‘Nothing else?’ de Craon asked suspiciously.
Edward pursed his lips and shook his head.
‘My master the King of France will agree to these, but what assurances do we have that this malicious gossip will not be spread?’
‘I sent Hugh Corbett to Ashdown,’ Edward replied. ‘He knows about these rumours. He is sworn to secrecy. However, you’ve met Lady Madeleine Fitzalan?’
‘Half-sister to Lord Henry and prioress at St Hawisia’s?’
‘The same.’
‘An arrogant woman,’ de Craon said. ‘I heard rumours . . .’
‘Such rumours are correct, Seigneur Amaury. Lady Madeleine is a threat to the amity of both our kingdoms. She learned this malicious gossip from Cantrone and told it to her brother. Only she has the details.’ Edward waved a hand. ‘The time, the places, et cetera, et cetera. She refused to tell Sir Hugh very much. We think she is the root and cause of it all and provided details to her brother. Of course,’ Edward smiled, ‘she is now the only surviving member of that unholy trinity! I believe Fitzalan’s murder, and that of Cantrone, were over this malicious story and who should profit from it!’
‘Thieves falling out?’
‘Precisely, de Craon.’
‘So what shall we do, sire?’
Edward caught the word ‘we’ and smiled.
‘Yes, Amaury, what shall WE do?’ He lifted his hand. ‘Before you leave for Dover, I will take an oath on what I have said today.’
‘On a book of the Gospels?’ de Craon asked.
‘On a book of the Gospels,’ Edward confirmed. He picked up the cup, then remembered de Craon spluttering in it so he put it back on the table. ‘This evening, Amaury, you can lodge here and you must attend the banquet tonight. I have a special choir. I’ve taught them a beautiful hymn. We’ll have good roast beef and pledge eternal amity.’
‘Lady Madeleine Fitzalan?’ Amaury insisted.
‘Oh yes, you will write to me, offering me your condolences on the death of her brother and requesting . . .’
De Craon’s face split into a smile.
‘That Lady Madeleine Fitzalan accompany us to France so my master can console her personally?’
‘Amaury! Amaury!’ Edward stretched forward, clasped de Craon’s hand and squeezed it viciously. ‘I love our little talks.’
‘A journey across the Narrow Seas,’ de Craon mused as he nursed his bruised fingers, ‘can be fraught with dangers.’
‘If anything happened to Lady Madeleine,’ the King replied, ‘I would not hold you or your master accountable.’
De Craon bowed. ‘In which case, Your Majesty.’
He scraped back his chair and got to his feet. Edward did likewise, came round and grasped de Craon in a bear-like hug. They exchanged the kiss of peace. The French envoy, gratified, responded but stiffened as the King’s embrace became vice-like.
‘But Corbett,’ Edward whispered in the Frenchman’s ear, ‘Corbett I regard as my brother. If anything should happen to him and I can lay it at your door or that of your master in Paris, God be my witness, dear Amaury, you will be able to measure your life span in a few heartbeats!’
Edward released the envoy and stood back.
‘We have an understanding, Seigneur de Craon?’
De Craon gave the most ostentatious bow.
‘In the pursuit of a common peace, sire, I and my master understand you completely!’
Author’s Note
This, of course, is a work of fiction but it contains many strands of historical truth. In the Middle Ages relics were often forged and led to a brisk international trade which ran into literally hundreds of thousands of pounds. The best examples of a shrine making its possessors millionaires is, of course, St Thomas à Becket’s in Canterbury or the phial, allegedly containing the Precious Blood, held by Hailes Abbey.
There was intense diplomatic activity between France and England over Philip’s demand that his only daughter Isabella marry the Prince of Wales. Philip, aided by a lawyer, Pierre Dubois, dreamed of having a grandson on the throne of England. The marriage took place in January 1308. However, the best laid plans of mice and men go awry. All of Philip’s sons died without issue while Isabella’s offspring, in turn, laid claim to the crown of France which marked the beginning of the Hundred Years War.
After 1303 Philip suddenly met with a fresh set of demands by Edward I. I have looked at the original in the Archive Nationale in Paris: Carton J 655 No. 25. One of these demands was for a massive dowry which, as Professor Elizabeth Brown maintains in her scholarly study, ‘Customary Aids and Royal Finance in Capetin France’ (Med. Academy of America 1992), almost bankrupted the French treasury.
The story that Johanna, Philip’s wife, was poisoned, is contained in the Chronographia Regum Francorum edited by H. Moranville, Volume 1 (Paris 1891). The same source also repeats the rumour about Philip wishing to marry a Flemish princess and/or take over the Order of the Templars against which Philip launched his savage persecution in 1307.
Gaveston was a real historical figure. He was banished from England by Edward I but the favourite’s insistence on slipping secretly into the kingdom led to well-attested, acrimonious disputes between father and son. On Edward’s death in 1307 Gaveston was recalled only to meet violent opposition and murder in 1312.
Paul C. Doherty