The Powder of Death

by Julian Stockwin

  He had brought with him two ribaudequins and a pair of his cannones with an apple-sized bore, the largest that could be said to be movable. With these he had to convince the King of England to take up gunnes as a military weapon.

  Jared set out, Daw by his side. Not to Westminster Palace, for King Edward travelled the land taking his court with him, and at this time was at Wallingford Castle, to the south of Banbury.

  It took slow days on horseback, following behind the creaking wagon as it crossed heath and meadowland, hillsides and streams but for Jared it was not lost time, as he was with his son. On the roadway, at supper in a tavern and before the fire with an ale, they talked together on subjects that time had not allowed before.

  Daw’s respect for Jared was boundless: a man who’d risen from a village freeman to talking with kings, one who’d seen foreign lands and marvellous sights but had returned to follow through a vision that was going to change the world.

  And Jared saw in Daw someone who was level-headed, quiet but resolute and who had mastered the gunnery arts through to his own level of understanding. As he faced his greatest trial it would be with the best possible companion.

  In Wallingford they stayed at the Lamb, hard by the Corn Exchange; its stabling allowed them to keep their wagon safe.

  The Barnwell agent, William Rawlin, met them there. ‘There is nothing I can do that will set you before King Edward,’ he said flatly. ‘He trusts no one. Saving Mistress Barnwell’s instructions, I only deal with the Queen’s household, and that with worriments that would try a saint.’

  ‘I think this may help me.’ Jared handed over a letter of introduction and Rawlin studied it closely.

  ‘Good, very good. It will probably get you as far as John Bury, the King’s treasurer, but no further. I’d advise you to have a very good story for him, the vulture.’

  It took a shameful amount in bribes but three days later he was brought to the chamber of the treasurer.

  ‘Jared Barnwell. I’ve not heard of you that I should pay my respects?’ Bury was a dry, shrewd individual in almost scholarly plain black, who didn’t rise to greet him.

  ‘My lord, I am new returned from the Low Countries and—’

  ‘You will state your business with me, and pray be brief, I have little time.’

  ‘Sire. I come for concern at the tidings of war with France.’

  ‘And you’re offering scutage or knight-service,’ he said sarcastically. ‘Or …?’

  ‘On my travels, My Lord, I came upon a new weapon, a terrifying man-slayer that may be placed on the killing field to do its work at a distance from the enemy, that no man need raise spear nor sword but let it ply its trade.’

  ‘As does our archery, our mangonels, our crossbows …’

  ‘Sire, this does its business invisibly, striking any, and with thunder and lightning at its command it can—’

  ‘And for a trifle in the way of a fee you’ll allow our Liege Lord to take it up in some wight.’

  Jared felt the prick of desperation.

  ‘My Lord, your caution is understandable. Therefore I have brought several of these gunnes with me to display and make manifest their powers. These are the very devices lately causing fear and despair in several battles in Italy and Brabant where they—’

  ‘Odd. I’ve not heard of any “gunne” nor yet a calamitous battle from either kingdom.’

  ‘If you witnessed these dread engines at the first hand, My Lord, you may judge for yourself their powers.’

  ‘Yes, well, Master Barnwell, you have heard there is a war afoot. I’m sorely pressed. Do leave your name with the clerk and if we do find need for a … er, gunne, then be assured you will be the first to be summoned.’

  ‘My dearling, there’s nothing more you – or we can do,’ Rosamunde said gently, resting her head on his shoulder. ‘The world’s not yet ready for your gunnes.’

  Tears not far off, Jared turned away.

  ‘After I’m concluded here in Coventry we’ll go back to Ghent, and there I’ll have time to turn you into a fine merchant prince whom all will respect and obey.’

  ‘The guild?’ he said huskily.

  ‘It will have to take care of itself, my love. We have our lives to lead together.’

  She looked at him fondly, teasing his hair. ‘Have you seen yourself in a mirror these days? I spy silver and grey in your locks, as you might in mine if I should let nature take its course.’

  He kissed her lightly. ‘As always you’re in the right of it, dear Rosamunde. I’ve no right to question my fortune in this life and will do as you bid.’

  ‘Bless you, Jared,’ she said, her countenance unreadable. ‘Besides, have you not heard? The French war is near over. The Queen and young Prince Edward have gone to France to parlay a treaty. They have no need of gunnes now.’

  CHAPTER 95

  As winter was drawing in shocking news reached England.

  In a love affair with the exiled Marcher warlord Roger Mortimer, Queen Isabella had refused to return to England with the kingdom’s prince and heir and was in open defiance of the King, her husband.

  Worse was to come. Many of those who detested the King, and his powerful allies the Despensers, crossed over to Paris and joined them there.

  It plunged the country into despair for there was every possibility that this was the opening move in a civil war. Memories of the terrible suffering of two centuries before when Stephen and Matilda had contended for the crown returned to prey on their fears.

  Trade and commerce were thrown into turmoil – would the King invade France to seize back his queen and prince? Or was it to be Mortimer and his paramour landing in England to rally the country to his side to rid the King of his false counsellors?

  Coventry seethed with rumours as the crisis deepened. Trade credit evaporated as risks increased.

  If the King sailed with his army to France, England would be laid open to a counter landing by Mortimer. The northern lords could rise under his banner and a full-scale war would then lay waste to middle England as it had done before.

  And if Mortimer landed with an army, every earl and baron in the land must choose sides, and who knew how the Earl of Warwick might act?

  ‘Do we flee to Ghent?’ Jared asked Rosamunde with concern. ‘In war there’s no place for gentlefolk.’

  ‘I think not. Should there be battles and the city is plundered it’s my bounden duty to do what I can to safeguard the House of Barnwell.’

  ‘As I must too, sweetling.’ In a twist of dark irony it crossed his mind that it would have been a good plan to use gunnes to fortify the house – if he had any.

  Matters came to a head. Smuggling secret letters of readiness into the country, Mortimer betrothed the young prince and heir to Philippa of Hainault. His price for the alliance – a fleet of over a hundred ships. It was the invasion of England.

  Their worst fears had come true: it was now in the open. This was a struggle to the finish between the forces of the usurper Mortimer and King Edward of England.

  The invasion fleet put Mortimer ashore in Suffolk.

  This was now the point of no return and in the clamping bitterness of winter it would be seen whether he would be welcomed, or fall before the avenging might of the King in his realm.

  Heralds and messengers thundered along the flat roads and rumours flew.

  It was becoming clear that the end could not be long coming – the King had summoned the barons for the biggest army ever seen, some fifty thousand men to set against the almost insulting fifteen hundred of Mortimer’s band.

  Sighs of relief went up, but they were premature.

  In a fierce show of defiance, the King’s own uncle, the Earl of Norfolk, sent a thousand men to Mortimer’s aid. It was a signal: waiting lords and knights thronged eastwards to join, swelling the array hourly. More and more flocked in until a mighty concourse was on the march, the Queen at its head with a future king at her side.

  King Edward was now on the defens
ive.

  Where were his men?

  They were holding back, shying from their duty to defend country and King. Many did turn out but crossed to join the great host advancing on London.

  In panic the King fled the capital as it rose up around him in chaos and riot.

  Heading for the west to escape the pursuing host he entered the soft Cotswold countryside. It was there that he heard the worst. Henry of Lancaster, his cousin and paramount lord, had declared for Mortimer.

  Abandoning the few men left to him, Edward made for the wilds of the Welsh hills, but in revenge for his brother’s execution Henry turned on him and closing in on the fleeing monarch, captured him, together with the hated Despenser.

  In triumph the King of England was taken to the great fastness of Kenilworth Castle where he was imprisoned.

  It was over – but the kingdom held its breath. Who now ruled – King Edward or Lord Mortimer?

  The canny Mortimer had an answer. Since the King had fled beyond England without appointing a regent he would rectify the situation. He and Isabella would stand by the young Prince Edward, the King’s fourteen-year-old son and heir, the new regent.

  No one doubted for a moment who would be his protectors and advisers.

  While the country seethed in excitement and fear at the fast-moving events, Isabella and Mortimer were on shaky ground. They had the reins of power but the King was back in England and a regent was no longer required.

  The answer was obvious – but Isabella forbade any talk of murder.

  Mortimer found another way. The King would give up the throne in favour of his son.

  The people acclaimed it, and the barons took it as a guarantee that Mortimer was not reaching for the crown himself. Parliament assembled and shouted their approval.

  The young Prince Edward was brought out to meet his people and formally offered his place on the throne of the King of England. But he refused it.

  In the fevered times that followed turbulent crowds seethed through the streets of London and disorder spread through the countryside.

  Again Mortimer found an answer. Going to the King he presented him with a stark choice. Either he resigned the crown to his son or that prince would be disinherited and the throne would pass to another.

  In a climactic scene in Kenilworth Castle, the weeping King Edward the Second of England signed instruments of abdication.

  Edward the son could now no longer refuse or the realm would be left without rule, and the boy prince took the crown as King Edward III.

  Throughout the land there was relief and celebrations – the kingdom had a king and the whole business was over with but little bloodshed.

  Naturally, there were executions and banishment but both the common people and the nobility craved order and peace and life resumed its old ways.

  And while the past king lived out his days in a dank castle cell, and the new monarch began his rule shut off from the world under Mortimer’s protection, Jared Barnwell of Coventry studied the ways of merchantry and the fine-cloth trade.

  For Rosamunde’s sake he applied himself, earning his place in the Guildhall, standing by her as the threads of business were picked up again and revenue began to flow.

  As winter receded, the French peace allowed the continental trade to recover. Jared learnt more of foreign commerce, the practices of the great Florentine banking houses and the delicacies of form and courtesy in a merchant’s world.

  But he grieved for his lost gunnes, now a memory only.

  Out of love for Rosamunde he had hidden his feelings, his only concession to what had been: the working of a miniature gunne, just six inches long but perfect in every way. Polished bronze, it was mounted on a handsome rosewood block and in full working order could even be made to fire a ‘pea’.

  Now it was on display in Barnwell Hall as a curio.

  CHAPTER 96

  As spring turned to summer on the northern border of England there were rumbles of discontent then outright fury. The aged Robert the Bruce, impatient in his desiring of independence for Scotland and in spite of peace treaties in existence since Bannockburn, had unleashed his kerns and gallowglasses once again to raid and plunder.

  Jared heard rumours in the streets but initially didn’t give it much thought; he was busy with the House of Barnwell and missing Rosamunde, who was in Italy settling some business matters.

  The gossip among the merchants of Coventry was that the young king was incensed at this affront to his rule and yearned to punish the invaders as his grandfather, Edward ‘Hammer of the Scots’ had done. Sceptical voices wondered whether, in fact, this was Mortimer speaking, but later talk had it that in any event, an army was to be gathered that would put a stop once and for all to the harrying.

  It would mean more taxes, tolls and levies and not too much in it for a merchant of fine stuffs even if there was little to fear of trade being affected.

  But what if …? Jared tried to thrust the thought away. Rosamunde had trusted him to oversee affairs in her absence – what would she think? And given that he’d tried it before, did he have any right to …?

  He couldn’t sleep that night, overwhelmed by whirling thoughts. Gunnes were not being placed because they were too costly for even a noble lord to field. But what if an entire nation did take them on under their king? Receiver of taxes, dispenser of treasure, if any had the means to, it was a country’s sovereign, anxious to keep ahead of others and keen to display his might in the most conspicuous way.

  Why not go to the young King and provide him with gunnes to take on his Scots war? It was an exciting fantasy, but after his experience with the court of the previous Edward, Jared knew it would take much even to reach one of his high officials. And he had nothing on hand to demonstrate in this gunne-less land.

  In the cold light of day it was an undeniably foolish and impertinent notion – but his mind would not let it go.

  The next morning Jared woke with a way to see it through. The more he pondered the overnight revelation the more certain he was that it would work, and he set about sketching out a plan. Simple, straightforward and costing little.

  He knew one thing: he would have to go through with it or regret it for the rest of his life.

  Rosamunde was still in Italy; he could neither ask her advice nor beg for money. He felt a twinge that he was not able to discuss this with her.

  But as a principal of the House of Barnwell he had access to discretionary funds. And time was precious. He had to move fast.

  Jared took great pains having a gift for King Edward alluringly wrapped in dark-blue satin and silver-threaded ribbon.

  Discreet enquiry told him that the court was at present at Wallingford Castle, where he’d attended the year before last and not far away.

  How should he dress? He had now a respectable wardrobe and could hold his own with any minor courtier. Yes, the new blue cote-hardie would be appropriate.

  Next morning, with two servants, he took horse for the royal court.

  He knew precisely what he was going to do: take rooms at the Lamb as before, then locate the under-steward of the Wardrobe, who for a certain consideration would see to it that the cofferer would place Jared’s gift safely in the muniments chamber with the other offerings.

  And then, sat anxiously by the fire, Jared awaited developments. If his outlay to the royal servants was in vain …

  He’d give it three days, and if in that time …

  CHAPTER 97

  Wallingford Castle, England

  The summons came the next afternoon.

  Heart thudding, he followed the pursuivant into the royal apartments.

  ‘Jared Barnwell of Coventry, Sire.’

  He fell to one knee, head bent.

  ‘Hail to you, honest burgher.’ It was a youth’s voice but held a sharp ring of authority.

  Jared raised his eyes. Edward III, by the grace of God, King of England, Lord of Ireland, Duke of Aquitaine, and Count of Ponthieu and Montreuil was a handsome
fourteen-year-old boy, with long fair hair and startling blue eyes. Attired in ermine and velvet he looked every inch a prince.

  ‘Is this your work, Master Barnwell?’ Edward went on, his childlike curiosity barely concealed.

  It was Jared’s miniature gunne, polished to perfection and nestling innocently on its rosewood block.

  ‘Entirely, My Liege,’ he answered, overawed at the splendour of the surroundings and so improbably finding himself addressing his King.

  ‘Then I confess I cannot penetrate your riddle. Pray tell us its meaning.’

  He picked up the square of parchment and asked Jared to read it.

  Lay me down and charge me up

  and at your bidding I will shout;

  Yet spurn me not, O Majestie

  for wonders yet your eyes may see!

  His stratagem had been simple but effective. What boy could fail to be taken by such an attractive and mysterious object accompanied by a cryptic verse, its creator named beneath and conveniently to hand?

  ‘Sire, by this we talk of the gunne, a wonderful engine indeed.’ Jared looked about the apartment: a modest hall, its stone walls hung in tapestries, the furniture massive and stern. He spied what he needed – in the corner was a suit of armour on a stand.

  ‘It asks that we charge it first.’ He took the gunne to a table, carefully removing a crystal goblet. With a flourish he produced a vial from his purse and shook out some of the grey powder into his hand and showed it to the fascinated youth.

  He upended the vial in the gunne’s mouth. Then he produced a dried pea and displaying it like a magician used a wooden dowel to tamp the charge.