The Pearl of France

by Caroline Newark

  16

  Winter 1306-7

  The days were getting shorter and the first frosts had appeared, crisping the ground and lacing the stunted apple trees in the priory garden with white. Soon it would be time for the Christmas festivities and afterwards we would go to Carlisle for the parliament. Nobody felt in a joyful mood. My husband was still gripped by the pain in his guts and making matters worse than they already were, Ned had disobeyed his father and gone south.

  ‘I won’t have any of you leaving,’ his father had growled, when Ned suggested his journey overseas. ‘We haven’t caught Bruce yet. He’s loose out there somewhere in the hills and the glens.’

  Ned sighed. ‘Bruce has gone to ground. Our spies told us he took ship from the west. He won’t be back. You’ve successfully butchered all his followers so what support would he have? There’s nothing to keep us here and the tournament in Ponthieu will be a grand affair, just what we need after months of campaigning.’

  He rose, knowing the longer he delayed the more objections his father would find.

  ‘I need you here,’ continued my husband. ‘A prince’s place is by his father’s side, not gallivanting off with a load of fools to some charade of pretty knights who’ve never fought a proper campaign in their lives. I repeat, you are not to go. You have duties to perform. His Holiness is sending one of his cardinals to finalise the peace terms we made with the French and I need you there to greet the man when he arrives at Dover. Cardinal Pedro will not expect to be met by a servant. He will expect recognition of the importance of his visit and it would not be wise to antagonise His Holiness, it never is. You can bring the cardinal to Carlisle for the January parliament. That should keep you busy.’

  ‘I don’t need something to keep me busy, father, and I thought we were having second thoughts about the French marriage.’

  ‘Second thoughts!’ I gasped. ‘But it’s all arranged. The betrothal was binding. It was part of the agreement. You told me.’

  My husband turned to look at me, pursing his lips in annoyance.

  ‘Twelve month ago His Holiness was pressing us to bring forward the wedding,’ he said. ‘If necessary we were to use a proxy, but neither my son nor I were keen. And now, well now things are different, and it is a very delicate matter.’

  I turned to my stepson and touched his sleeve,

  ‘Ned?’

  Ned looked uncomfortable.

  ‘His grace, my father and I,’ he began hesitantly and then stopped, looking for help from his father.

  ‘The marriage with your brother’s daughter is not in our best interests at present,’ said my husband, his voice tinged with annoyance. ‘There have been approaches from Castile, from Don Enrique, and certainly a marriage there might suit us better. My son is agreeable as he has no great desire to marry your niece.’

  I couldn’t believe what he was saying. I’d set my heart on this marriage.

  ‘The cardinal is your brother’s creature so we must tread carefully,’ continued my husband. ‘We don’t want him thinking we are unwilling to proceed but on the other hand we mustn’t let ourselves be pushed into an alliance which would not benefit us. My son is a prize and we don’t want to waste him on the wrong girl.’

  I said nothing for there was nothing to be said. If my husband and my stepson had decided against the French marriage there would be nothing I could say to change their minds. I thought of my little niece alone at my brother’s court and wept silent tears.

  Ned said no more on either subject, but two days later, together with Humphrey, Piers Gaveston, Roger Mortimer and a dozen or so of the younger knights in his household, slipped away in the early morning hours before my husband had risen. The night before he’d said a fond farewell, kissing my cheeks and holding my hands. I had tried to get him to change his mind but he was adamant and I was caught between two stubborn men: my husband and my stepson.

  My husband was furious.

  ‘I’ll teach those young whoresons a lesson,’ he thundered. ‘Send me Langton, send me my clerks. I’ll deal with men who think they can defy me like this.’

  Afterwards, with great satisfaction, he told me what he’d done. Writs had been sent out for the arrest of some twenty-two men for imprisonment in the Tower and confiscation of their lands.

  ‘Let them see what it’s like to be landless and friendless and shut in one of my dungeons,’ he said, his voice rising, getting more and more enraged. ‘I am the one who gives the orders, not my son. I am the king. They think because they come from noble stock and fancy themselves as fighting men they can do what they like, but I’ll show them how shallow their titles are and who holds power in this realm.’

  He sat down and started to chew his fingernails, something I hadn’t seen him do in a long while. My heart bled for him. He was gravely ill. He was losing control of his younger men and he knew it. Despite everything I still loved him but any feelings he had for me had long since disappeared, Affection was too shallow an emotion to survive the horrors of the last few months and his illness allowed him no appetite for lust.

  He’d not visited my bed since before Eleanor was born and if I was truthful, I was glad. To embrace him with love would be hard when I was revolted by his actions. A divide had opened up between us which I was unable to bridge, however much I tried. Always before, I’d told myself I knew nothing of war and must be guided by one who did, but the savagery which he’d inflicted on Sir Robert’s women had been unforgivable. Maybe God could understand and forgive, but I could not.

  I thought of my little Eleanor and wondered what I would say to her in the years ahead if she should ever ask about the fate of Sir Robert’s women. I looked into our future for comfort, but what I saw was as cold and as bleak as the rain-lashed world beyond the high stone walls of Lanercost Priory.

  I received a letter from my stepson asking yet again for my help in his dealings with his father. His friends who had accompanied him overseas were naturally alarmed at the prospect of being landless and in the king’s disfavour. They had asked Ned to intercede on their behalf. Ned, naturally, had preferred to approach me.

  ‘They are only young, my lord,’ I said, as I sat peaceably at my husband’s side with one of his torn shirts in my lap. ‘Your captains are so diligent there was little fighting for the younger men and they became bored.’

  ‘A man should never complain of being bored,’ growled my husband. ‘He should thank God he is still in one piece and not strewn in bits around the battlefield.’

  Ii was hard to make him understand how a young man might believe a pretend battle at the tournaments was better than nothing.

  ‘Your son has suggested a tournament at Wark,’ I said brightly. ‘That would be a wonderful thing. We would see if your new knights could defeat the older, more practised men. You’re always saying experience is superior to youth and this would be an opportunity to test your belief. The elderly lord Mortimer of Chirk against his nephew. That would be a sight to see.’

  ‘No,’ said my husband. ‘There will be no tournament.’

  ‘But my lord, think how ...’

  ‘I said, no,’ he shouted. ‘Did you not hear me the first time? My son is a fool and he plays me for a fool as well. Do you know what they are saying?’

  ‘No, my lord,’ I said meekly, knowing when to be quiet.

  ‘They are saying that my son – my son, the heir to the throne - has sworn a pact with that Gascon knave, Piers Gaveston. They are brothers-in-arms, sworn to fight and protect each other. And the fool has vowed to share all his possessions with this nobody. He doesn’t just favour him with a few valuable trinkets. Oh no! He chooses to give him half of everything he possesses. Why have I been cursed with such a son? What have I done to deserve this? Have I not been a good father? Have I not given him everything a son could want?’

  ‘You have, my lord,’ I murmured.

  ‘
See how he repays me. He raises up this cur to think he is my son’s equal.’

  I didn’t know what to say. Ned had behaved outrageously. I knew he was fond of Sir Piers but to make him his brother-in-arms was foolish. Piers Gaveston could never be my stepson’s equal, they were far too many poles apart: one born to wear a royal crown, the other born to serve.

  ‘My lord,’ I said when he had calmed down a little. ‘Perhaps it would be wise to make an example of young Gaveston but to forgive some of the others, the less culpable men. Then you will be seen as not only merciful but also wise and strong.’

  He thought for a moment. I had chosen my moment well, as I had learned over the years. His physician’s new potion was giving him relief from the pain and I thought it possible he might be brought round to my way of thinking. I knew he regretted his hasty actions and would like to find a way to mitigate the harsh sentences he had imposed on his young knights without appearing to appear weak.

  ‘Yes, yes. You are right, as always. But what shall I do about Gaveston? You realise that if I died tomorrow, my son would share the governance of this realm with him. He’s that much of a fool.’

  ‘My lord,’ I said, putting my hand on his. ‘Please do not speak about dying. We will have you well again by the spring, and you have many more years ahead of you. This is just a winter sickness. And as for your son? We will teach him better ways.’

  Christmas was a muted affair. The evergreen boughs were brought into the priory church, my women and I prepared an entertainment for everyone’s enjoyment and my husband’s minstrels did their best but nobody felt much like dancing or making merry. The only good news we had was word from Humphrey: Elizabeth had been safely delivered of another son and this time, he said, the child would live. A healthy babe, the noisiest anyone could remember and bawling for his milk like the true de Bohun he was. They had called him John.

  I smiled as my husband told me the news. If little John lived this would be his twelfth grandchild. How wonderful to be part of such a large family. With Joan’s child to be born in the spring and her eldest daughter newly married, I could see an endless ever-growing nursery full of children.

  News also reached us of the death of the elderly earl of Norfolk, Roger Bigod, but this was no surprise as he’d been gravely ill for many months. I didn’t expect my husband to mourn the death of this old man, but surprisingly, he was sad and dispirited. As he’d said to me at Burstwick, all his comrades who’d fought beside him were dying, and soon there would only be him.

  My husband was too ill to go to Carlisle for the parliament. The potion had ceased to be effective and he spent hours doubled up in agony from the disease in his gut. Nothing his physician prescribed seemed to lessen the pain.

  Once he realised he couldn’t travel he sent for his treasurer. He needed the bishop to open the parliament for him and spent hours instructing poor Walter Langton on what should be said and even more importantly what should not be said. He was determined that the Crown’s rights must be upheld and that interference whether from His Holiness or his own subjects must be squashed. And he demanded the bishop come regularly to report on his progress.

  ‘It’s only ten miles,’ he said to me when I dared to suggest that the bishop looked tired. ‘In my youth I could ride four times that distance and still fight a man to a standstill at the finish.’

  We had few visitors and, with most of the men gone to Carlisle, it was a lonely time. I sat with my husband but he was morose and disinclined to make conversation so I busied myself with my sewing or occasionally in reading. I visited the scriptorium and spent useful hours in the infirmary talking with the herbalist, and in this way passed the time through the worst of the winter, waiting for something to happen or someone to come.

  I watched the horsemen ride up the muddy track towards the priory. There were eight of them and before they reached the outer walls I could see the familiar figure of my husband’s treasurer hunched within his hooded cloak. It had been raining all week and the rivers were running high. Great pools of water had collected everywhere: in the yards, at the foot of the steps, in front of the doors to the church, everywhere. Rain had even seeped in under the shutters and dripped down the walls of my room.

  As soon as he was dry, the bishop came to my husband’s chamber. I sat near the candle stitching my husband’s tunic where a seam had come loose, while the two men huddled together over the fire discussing the various disputes which had arisen at the parliament. It was quite restful in the chamber, with the fire crackling and the low tones of the men’s voices. In the distance I could hear the chanting of the brothers in the priory church and occasional noises from my husband’s men in the courtyards outside.

  His Holiness’s cardinal had, it seemed, met with a lot of complaints from our Englishmen who didn’t take kindly to what they considered as interference in England’s affairs. Apparently, they looked at the cardinal and saw a servant, not of His Holiness, but of my brother, and that didn’t incline them to trust him.

  Eventually the conversation was finished and the bishop rolled up his parchments, but he made no move to go. The fire had died down to a mass of glowing embers and the shadows in the room had become deeper. My husband leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. The bishop seemed on the verge of saying something but then stopped. There were another few moments of silence before he spoke again.

  ‘There is another matter, your grace,’ he said, speaking slowly as if drawing the words out one by one with bone tweezers. ‘A delicate matter.’

  ‘Yes,’ said my husband wearily, opening his eyes. ‘What is it?’

  ‘It concerns your son, your grace, the prince, Lord Edward.’

  ‘Langton, I know who my son is, you don’t have to tell me. What of him? What has he done? Has he been speaking in an insolent manner again, like he did last year? I thought he’d put that behind him.’

  ‘No, your grace,’ said the bishop quickly. ‘It isn’t anything like that.’

  He paused again.

  ‘Well?’ said my husband impatiently. ‘What is it?’

  The bishop eased himself forward onto the edge of his chair and fingered his rolls of parchment. He was biting his lips.

  ‘Lord Edward,’ he said at last. ‘Lord Edward has asked me to put a request to your grace.’

  There was another long silence. The bishop didn’t continue. My husband shifted in his seat. He didn’t care to sit for long periods these days, he preferred to lie down.

  ‘What is this request? And why couldn’t my son come in person? Why all the mystery? Does he want me to increase his allowance because if he does, he is going to find that my purse is empty as far as he is concerned. He’s been given the lordship of Aquitaine and he already has his Welsh estates. What more does the profligate boy want?’

  ‘No your grace, the Lord Edward is not requesting an increase in his allowance, although I must say he does seem to spend liberally for one so young. I’ve heard tales which would make your hair stand on end, your grace. But then, as you often say, young men are not what they were. Not that I’m saying anything against the Lord Edward.’

  ‘Langton,’ said my husband. ‘Stop dithering and tell me what my son wants.’

  The bishop looked as if he wished he was a hundred miles away, anywhere but here in the chamber with my husband. I wondered what Ned had done.

  ‘Your grace,’ said the bishop. ‘Lord Edward has asked me to ask your grace to arrange for the County of Ponthieu, which as your grace well knows is in Lord Edward’s hands, being part of the estate of his late mother, her grace the Lady Eleanor, the queen, God rest her soul.’

  ‘What is he fussing about Ponthieu for?’

  The bishop looked deeply uncomfortable.

  ‘The Lord Edward wishes to make a gift of the County of Ponthieu to his friend, Sir Piers Gaveston.’

  At that moment a half-charred log crashed
onto the embers of the fire sending a shower of sparks up into the air. My husband opened his mouth and then closed it again. He looked as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

  ‘Please repeat that, Langton, just in case I misheard what you said.’

  ‘Lord Edward wishes to make a gift of the County of Ponthieu to Sir Piers Gaveston, your grace. He says he wishes to bestow this gift upon Sir Piers as his dearest brother.’

  ‘God’s bones! The imbecile! The idiot! The ...’

  For probably the first time in his life, my husband was lost for words.

  ‘I’m sure the Lord Edward would have come himself, your grace, but ...’

  Even the bishop couldn’t think of a sufficiently worthy excuse for Ned sending my husband’s treasurer to his father with this outrageous request. Ponthieu was one of England’s last remaining lands across the seas. My husband’s first wife had inherited the county from her mother and she in turn had passed the lordship to her only surviving son. To give it away to anyone would be unheard of, but to give it to a mere knight, a member of one’s household, was so unbelievable I knew my husband was having difficulty in comprehending what Bishop Langton had told him.

  Unfortunately we all three knew that this was just the sort of thing that Ned would want to do. I could imagine him in a fit of generosity offering this wonderful gift to his dearest friend. He would toss it to him in the way another man would toss a coin to a beggar. He wanted to raise Sir Piers up in the world and what better way to do it than by bestowing a gift of land upon him. Gold was one thing, but land was far superior.

  My husband buried his head in his hands. I knew how unwell he was feeling as his skin had turned a horrible shade of grey. He raised his eyes and said to his treasurer, ‘Tell my son I wish to see him. I shall write a note for you to take when you leave.’