Earl Edward (I am reliably informed by Ian Mortimer that he was never created a prince, and the title was not in those days automatically passed on to the King’s sons, so he was at this time a mere earl) must have been an impressive character. It is true to say that he was one of our most revered Kings up until relatively recently. Attitudes have changed, largely as a result of politically correct rethinking, but, bearing in mind his dreadful upbringing – he would have witnessed his role models being executed, even his father’s cousin, seen his family broken up, and the hatred that surely existed between his mother and his father’s probably homosexual lover, Hugh le Despenser – it is astonishing that this lad developed into such a spectacularly effective king. Not only that, by all accounts he was also a loving, generous father and husband. A marvellous role model – if you can ignore the numbers of dead from his wars, the devastation of swathes of France, the consequential destruction of much of Europe when mercenaries swept over the continent, and the obscene cruelty aimed at the general population by arrogant and largely barbaric men-at-arms.
The trouble is, it is easy to admire men of his stature for what he achieved in his time – but his time was not the same as ours. It is hard to imagine living in a period when, to take the John Hawkwood example, two men arguing over which would rape a nun first were told that their leader would cut her body in two and they could both have ‘half each’ as some sort of Solomon-like judgement. The simple fact is, these were appallingly vicious people living in a harsh and uncharitable environment. Those who won were those, like Sir Hugh Despenser, who were the most appalling, the most cruel, the most ruthless. Pacifism was not a successful trait.
Those, like King Edward II, who wanted a more gentle, kindly existence, were forced to accept the facts of their era and become more cruel.
And after saying all this, the final comment has to be that this is my twenty-fifth book in the Templar series. It is rare for any author to be able to write these words, but for me to write them in the knowledge that the whole of the backlist is still available and selling, gives me a wonderful sense that the effort is worthwhile.
In my research, I have referred endlessly to so many books, from Mary C. Hill’s The King’s Messengers 1199–1377, to Ian Mortimer’s book on Edward III mentioned above, and his superb The Greatest Traitor; Alison Weir’s Isabella – She-Wolf of France, Queen of England, and many of the Selden Society records, that it is hard to know which books should be mentioned and which need not be. So I shall take the easiest line, and suggest that if you really want to learn more about the period, refer to my website at www.michaeljecks.co.uk where you will find a more detailed bibliography for the period, based on my own library.
As always, though, the mistakes are my own. And I confidently expect Ian Mortimer to point them out to me!
I hope you enjoy this book, and that for a little while it gives you the distraction from modern life which so many of us crave.
Michael Jecks
North Dartmoor
November 2007
Prologue
Saturday following Maria Visitatio, beginning of the reign of King Edward II1
Westminster Abbey
Within his burnished steel shell the knight looked utterly impregnable, standing close to the place where he was about to die.
To the boys all about he was a giant. Tom could see that. Massive, with all his limbs looking larger than natural, larger than life. It made his heart swell to see John, his brother, looking like that. He couldn’t keep his feet still. His toes were tapping a staccato rhythm as he stood, waiting with all the rest.
This was the most exciting day of his life! All his life, he’d lived under the reign of the old King, Edward, but now for the first time in many years, five-and-thirty, some said, there was going to be a coronation again! Everyone was thrilled by the idea. All the apprentices were here, most of them drunk as usual; they hadn’t the decorum of a bitch on heat, most of them. They were contemptible. But there were also all the rich ladies and their squires. He could see some merchants from the City over there, where the main gate to the abbey lay, and nearer were some Aldermen. Everybody had come here to witness the great event.
Flags were flying, there were songs being sung outside near the taverns, and from here Tom could hear the chanting from inside the great abbey church. It made his whole body tingle with anticipation. He’d never seen a king before, and today he was going to see the King, his Queen, and all the glorious chivalry of the country. It was just brilliant!
There was a sudden tension, and people started shouting and cheering. People behind him started to push forwards, and he found it hard to see over those who were standing in front. He jostled along with all the others, staring. Looking over the other side of the way, he could see John. He may be a knight, but John himself was straining to see, peering round the doorway as keenly as any boy in the crowd, his back to the new wall.
Then there was a blaring of trumpets and shouted commands, and the regular tramping of many booted feet, and … and there they were!
First in view were the prelates, all with hands clasped before their faces, mouthing their prayers for the King, asking God’s divine support for him; after them was a group of barons, one carrying the gilded spurs which would be placed on the King’s boots, another with the sceptre, another with a rod that had a white dove carved on the top – a beautiful piece of work, Tom thought; after him came three great knights – earls, he heard later – with the great swords of state. Then there were more men carrying a massive wooden board on which all the King’s royal clothing was set. Oh, there was so much! And all were knights, lords and earls. Tom could hardly breathe for the joy of the sight.
The King was behind all these, barefoot, walking on the carpet that had been laid between the palace and the abbey church. And as he passed by, the crowds grew silent, from respect and from astonishment. Such good looks didn’t seem possible on a human face. ‘Such a physique, such deportment,’ people were saying approvingly, and then he was past and the whole group of knights and others strode into the church.
He saw John again just then. John was at the wall, staring up at the altar. It was Tom’s hope afterwards that John was even then praying, and speaking with God. He was always a good man, John, and it would have been good for him to have been in a state of grace.
Because suddenly there was a low rumble and a splintering sound, and even as Tom’s head snapped up to look at it, the wall behind John suddenly crashed to the ground, smothering John with the rubble and dirt from the timbers and lathes and plaster.
Small fragments and a cloud of dust swept over everyone, getting into their eyes and noses, making everyone choke and cough. People panicked, running hither and thither, and some at the back were trampled as those who had seen the disaster tried to escape. Although Tom fought them, pushing and shoving, it took him a while to get to John. By the time he did, there was nothing he could do.
‘Back, bratchet, or I’ll have you beaten by the bailiffs,’ a man snarled, and Tom tried to explain that the knight was his brother but, before he could, he had a cuff round his ear, and he fell to the ground in the midst of the plaster and dust, staring up in horror at the arrogant young knight before him. He saw the man’s badge, and would have said something, but the knight spat on the ground near his head, and then strode off, bellowing for servants to clear up the mess.
‘John! John!’ Tom whispered, but although he tried to reach his brother’s hand, he could see that there was already no life in his eyes. John’s head was crushed.
Fields near Crowborough, Sussex
Agnes thought it was an auspicious day to be married, the day that the new King was crowned. It would set the seal on her happiness.
The field was still, with a fine haze rising in the brilliant midday sun, and they were all lying in the shade of a tree, eating their bread and cheese, drinking cider from their small barrels, tired after a long day already, gathering up the sheep from their little
flocks and washing them in the stream that passed by the pasture, all the folk ending as wet as the sheep themselves. The filth that ran from the fleeces was extraordinary, and she thought to herself, ‘Aye, they must be glad to lose all that weight, the poor beasts.’ A short while after that, she fell in fully, her shift all sodden about her. She could feel his eyes on her immediately, running over her body as he would have liked his hands to. When she looked at him, he didn’t stop, either. She liked that. He was bold, but so was she, when she wanted, and now, seeing him stare at her breasts, she arched her back a little, teasing.
For all the splashing and effort, she and the others soon dried off. More than half the flock had been washed, but there would be more to do that afternoon, and she would have to do her part.
She would do it at his side.
He was called Matthew atte Brook, and his father was a freeman, quite rare down here. While Agnes and her family lived here, near to Crowborough itself, Matthew’s family had a little hovel inside the woods. The great forest of Ashdown surrounded all this area. Villages and towns might encroach on the trees, but the trees still remained. Assarts sprang up amongst them and flourished for a while, but all too often the buildings would decay and collapse, and the trees would return. But Matthew’s father had maintained his house. It had survived much, with storms that had destroyed so many places in the last years, and a fire that had almost encircled his land last year, but for all that, he had managed to expand his holding little by little, and now he had two cows as well as his pigs. He made money by selling the cheese his wife made in their dairy.
Agnes gave him a cautious glance from under her long lashes. He was strongly made, her Matthew, with arms corded with muscle already, and his eyes were dark and broodingly intense. Oh, she wanted him! So much!
It happened at long last when she decided to wander into the woods to empty her bladder. Soon, as she rose from her crouch, she heard steps in amongst the trees, the crunch of twigs and the rustle of leaves.
‘Matthew?’
‘Agnes, I thought …’
She knew what he’d thought. It wasn’t fear for her safety that had brought him here. No, it was the thought of her tight shirt over her breasts, wet and glorious. She didn’t care. She wanted him as well.
He stood beside her, looking away, suddenly shy in her presence. He’d never been like that with her before. She had to take his hand and hold it to her cheek, and when that didn’t work, she drew it down to her breast and rested his palm over her nipple, letting him feel it harden. She reached to his head and pulled it down to her, kissing him softly at first, gradually allowing her desire to transmit itself to him.
When she put her hand on his thigh, she felt him shudder, and the proof of his lust made her tingle, and then chuckle throatily. ‘You want me?’
‘Yes!’
‘You can’t just ’ave me without the proper form, Matthew. Got to ’ave that.’
He didn’t move away. He kept his arms around her and shoved his head into her shoulder. ‘I’ll do that.’
‘You’ll take me?’
‘I will.’
‘Now?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then come on,’ she said quickly, and drew him after her, back to the stream.
‘Listen! Listen!’ She waited until all the others were quiet and watching her, and then she turned to him again, holding both hands, looking up into his beautiful face.
‘Matthew, I take you to my husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, in love, to honour and obey you, in sickness and in health, from now until I die, and there I give you my oath.’
And as soon as he had said the words too, they left the others at the stream. And while the others laughed and screamed and played and then carried on with their work, Agnes, new wife to Matthew, lay on her back and let him take her virginity, her love and her soul.
She only grew to hate him ten years later. By then all her love had been squandered by him.
Thursday following Easter in the thirteenth year of the reign of King Edward II2
Chester Castle
Bad news deserved lousy weather, the friar thought to himself bitterly.
At the very least, such news should be relayed at dusk. There ought to be a lowering sense of foulness in the air, the sort of malevolent fume that would make a man realise his life was about to be ruined. Not today, though. No, not even though his career was now effectively ended.
Nicholas of Wisbech crossed the court in front of Chester’s castle in the south-west of the city with his mind numbed. The bastard had sat there smugly as he spelled out Nicholas’s ‘difficulty’. The prickle!
Master Richard of Bury was not the sort of person whom Nicholas would ever have warmed to. A slightly short man, chubby, and with glittering little eyes in his podgy face, he didn’t inspire anything but contempt from a man like Nicholas. Nicholas was a friar, in God’s name. A Dominican. He was a papal penitentiary. And what was this Richard? A royal clerk, a man whose life revolved around writing letters and collating information on accounts, and fattening himself at the King’s expense. His flabby body was proof of his laziness and lax intellect.
He had tried to cultivate a different atmosphere, of course. Master Richard had begun to collect books, and now he sat among towers of them, although Nicholas reckoned he had not the wit to remember anything from any of them, even if he had read them. Which the Dominican found doubtful.
Master Richard’s voice was as oily as his manner. ‘Friar, I am so glad you could come to see me.’
‘Your message said it was a matter of royal importance?’ Nicholas pointed out.
‘Aha! Well, yes, it is in a way. It is a matter which is embarrassing to the King. So, rather, it’s a matter of some importance to you.’
Nicholas knew full well that the fat fool in front of him wanted him to enquire what was meant by that, but he refused to play his game. Instead, he stood silently, unmoving, his hands hooked over his corded belt.
He had once been told that he would make an excellent inquisitor, because with his sharp features, dark, intense eyes and ability to remain utterly still, he could drag information from the most reluctant witness. It was not the path he wished, and he had rejected the proposal, but now he made full use of his unsettling frown, fixing his cold, searching stare upon the clerk.
Richard moved a wax tablet from one side of his desk to the other. Then he fiddled with the binding of a scroll, as though gathering his thoughts. Richard thought he was trying to appear at ease. He failed.
‘You see, Friar, it is like this: we have the rumour from you of this marvellous oil—’
‘You dare to doubt the evidence of Saint Thomas?’
‘Hardly.’ Richard smiled, but uneasily, at the snarling tone. ‘No, it would be fine so far as I am concerned, but there are others who’re not so certain. The Pope himself …’
Nicholas could barely control himself. It was so unreasonable! He knew what had happened, of course. The others who’d spoken to the Pope had warned him of the unpopularity of the King, and warned against becoming embroiled in English politics, which was fine, but this could potentially have rescued the King, and with him, saved the realm from further damaging dispute.
‘… The Pope himself refused to listen to our King’s petition, didn’t he?’
‘I did all I could to persuade him!’
‘Of course you did,’ the clerk said suavely, but also absently, as though other, more pressing matters were already occurring to him, and he wished not to be detained. He glanced at a scroll on the table top at his left, moving it with a finger as he peered. ‘Um. But you know the whims of a king. I fear he is about to write to the Pope.’
‘To complain about the Pope’s decision?’
‘No, I rather feel he will complain about you and demand that you lose your post as penitentiary.’
‘Why? What have I done?’
But there did not have to be a reason. As the fat clerk shrugged and concea
led himself further behind his piles of books, Nicholas knew the truth. A man who put himself out to help the King must always succeed, for to fail was to bring down the full weight of the King’s enmity. He was a weakly man, this king. Nicholas had noticed his flaws often enough before in their meetings, and weakly men in powerful positions always tended to punish those who were unable to stand against them.
‘So I am ruined?’
‘I rather fear you will not be employed by the King again. But never mind. As a friar, you will be happier to be released from the arduous responsibilities of working for King and Pope. It must have been a terrible effort, trying to persuade the Pope to send us a cardinal, after all.’
He could have no understanding. The weeks of formulating the best approach to the Pope, the long journey to Rome, the difficulty of explaining how important this matter was … all had taxed his mind and body enormously. And now, simply because he had tried and not succeeded, he was to be punished.
‘I did my best.’
‘But the Pope didn’t listen. Yes, I quite understand. But you do see, don’t you, that it would be impossible for me to keep you on here? I am afraid that the King’s largesse will no longer apply to you.’
‘I have never sought it,’ Nicholas hissed. ‘Look to others who may seek only self-enhancement in the King’s service. I toiled as a loyal subject must.’
‘Without any thought of future appointments?’ Richard said, and his pale grey eyes were turned upon Nicholas. With a strong tone of sarcasm, he added, ‘How very noble of you.’
For that, if nothing else, Nicholas could have thrust his fist in the clerk’s face. But no. He remained calm and restrained, and left the room a short while later.
And now, as he left the castle and walked down the lanes to meet his brother friar, he could not even pray. There was no prayer he could utter that might express his feelings adequately.
‘Ach! God damn that fat fool!’
It was embarrassing, Richard reflected as the friar stormed out. The man hadn’t really done anything wrong, after all. He was just unfortunate. But, as Richard sighed sadly to himself, all too often weaker men were let down. The strong never were.
The Prophecy of Death: (Knights Templar 25) Page 2
