by Robyn Young
At the sight of the man who had lied to him about Christopher’s execution and who revealed his treachery to Robert, Alexander felt bile rise sour in his throat. He staggered back into the alley before Humphrey caught sight of him. Leaning against the damp stone wall, he closed his eyes as the company clattered past. In the inns, gambling dens and whorehouses of London, mixing with the drunk, the desperate and the anonymous, he could forget who he was, but these parades of nobility just served to remind him of where he had come from and how much he had lost in the fall.
After Neil Campbell escorted him to the border, Alexander had made his way to London, aiming to get as far away from Scotland as possible. But his ghosts had followed him here and he had come to realise the prison a man could make in his own mind was far worse than any dungeon. The hatred and anger of the early days was gone. All that was left was grief. In Scotland, living hand to mouth, an outlaw under Robert’s command, he had thought himself stripped of everything.
He hadn’t known that there would be so much more to lose.
Westminster Abbey, England, 1308 AD
The feast of St Matthias the Apostle dawned overcast and stormy. The crowds all along the route of the expected procession clasped cloaks tighter at their breasts and held on to their caps as the wind buffeted them. Odours of mud and sewage from the marshes that surrounded the Island of Thorney were strong on the air and the wheel of the nearby watermill clattered loudly in the fast flow of the Tyburn. It was soon drowned by the cheers that rose from outside the buildings of Westminster Palace.
People further down the route pressed in at the sound, leaning on one another’s shoulders and hoisting children up to catch a glimpse of their king and queen. Royal soldiers hastened down their lines, pushing them back from the edges of the carpet that stretched from the palace halls to the soaring white edifice of Westminster Abbey. The host of clergy were the first to come into view, singing a solemn hymn. They were dressed in sumptuous ceremonial robes, the bishops bearing gold crosiers. The acolytes who followed swung censers that wafted clouds of frankincense over the onlookers. At the sight of Edward, walking in their wake, the crowds surged in.
At over six foot, the twenty-four-year-old king towered above most men in the crowd, his head erect as he trod the line of the carpet, which served to protect his feet, bare save for his black hose. In some places the carpet was soggy, having soaked up the water from the recent floods, in others his feet crunched over the heads of dried flowers, thrown before him by women and children. Edward’s blond hair was blown wild by the wind, which snatched at the thin green robes clinging to his muscular frame. Following the king were the barons of the realm, clad in cloaks of shimmering samite and bearing the regalia.
First was Humphrey de Bohun, holding the royal sceptre surmounted by its jewelled cross. After him came the earls of Warwick and Lincoln, carrying two of the three ceremonial swords. The third, broken-bladed Curtana, the Sword of Mercy, was borne by Thomas of Lancaster. The king’s cousin was tight-lipped, unsmiling. The earls of Arundel and Oxford followed, helping to carry a wooden board, on which were displayed the king’s new robes, shoes and spurs. The men were forced to place their hands on the garments to stop them flying off in the gusts.
The last and most honoured position in the stately train was taken by Piers Gaveston, the newly made Earl of Cornwall. The Gascon strode in the wake of the other magnates, resplendent in a velvet doublet of imperial purple, festooned with pearls, the milky beads like a hundred gleaming eyes. He appeared the very picture of nobility; his black hair sleek with perfumed oil, his face handsome, his smile arrogant. In his hands he held the crown, the myriad gems flashing in the stormy light.
Behind, struggling through the spectators, came a host of dignitaries from France and England, the mayor of London and hundreds of courtiers. As they shuffled in through the abbey’s arched doors, the crowds crushed in behind them, tracking mud across the tiled floor and elbowing one another to reach the best spot from which to watch the king’s coronation. A scuffle broke out, royal soldiers fighting their way through to suppress it. More people were still pouring in as Edward reached the high altar.
There, the Bishop of Winchester, officiating on behalf of the bedridden Archbishop of Canterbury, performed the unction with holy oil and the consecration. After Edward took the oath of kingship the earls of England came forward, one by one, to dress him in his ceremonial garments. Aymer de Valence helped him put on one of his boots, after which Piers ornamented it with a golden spur. Once the scarlet mantle, trimmed with feather-soft ermine, had been placed around his shoulders, Edward was led to his throne.
The coronation chair, created by his father, was waiting for him, raised on a dais in front of the choir. The throne, painted in gilt with an image of a seated king surrounded by birds and flowers, contained in its base the Stone of Destiny, taken from Scone Abbey after the first invasion of Scotland. As the crown was placed upon Edward’s head, Piers watched, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Oaths of fealty and acts of homage were then performed by the barons, before the queen was escorted in.
More brawls broke out in the nave, rough shouts punctuating the sweet rising voices of the choir that accompanied the twelve-year-old Isabella, daughter of the King of France. All eyes upon her, she lowered her gaze as she was guided to the altar, the long train of her red velvet gown sweeping the pavement of precious stones that lined the abbey floor. After her consecration she was led, her cheeks still glistening with tracks of holy oil, up to the dais, where she was seated beside the king on a small cushioned throne.
The barons led the cheers that reverberated through the abbey. The wave of sound drowned out the din of a wall collapsing in the older section of the abbey. Rubble cascaded in a shuddering rush on top of the heaving crowd. The first the king and queen knew of the disaster were the screams and the clouds of dust that billowed up into the nave. Edward half rose from his throne and Isabella pressed her hand to her mouth, before the Bishop of Winchester ushered them down from the dais and led them quickly out of a side door. The royal couple were followed by a stream of nobles, all hastening to the palace for the feast, leaving the soldiers and clergy to deal with the chaos.
Westminster Hall, England, 1308 AD
King Edward nursed his wine, watching in silence as his subjects celebrated the occasion of his crowning. Never before had he seen Westminster Hall so crowded. The vast chamber, two hundred and forty feet long, was lined with trestles that stretched in long rows from the raised platform that held his table. Dignitaries were stuffed into the benches, the silk and taffeta gowns of ladies crushed against the fur-trimmed mantles of lords. In spite of the grand congregation, here in honour of him, Edward felt utterly alone. Things had not gone well since his return from France and the tragedy in the abbey earlier that afternoon, in which one man had died, was a terrible omen for the start of his reign. How he longed for this day of disasters to be over. But it seemed God wanted to toy with him a little more yet.
A dozen arched windows on either side of the hall let in some light, but the day was drawing to a close and most of the illumination now came from scores of candles on the trestles. Most had melted to stubs, covering the linen cloths with pools of wax. Silver platters stood empty all along the tables, spoons resting on polished surfaces. Edward saw people craning their heads towards the servers and carvers who waited by the hall’s doors. Others followed the flustered steward with their eyes as he hastened between the tables, checking the basins were being refilled with wine, which the pages had been ladling into goblets all afternoon in the absence of any food.
Varlets were traversing the hall with the animals from the Tower’s royal menagerie that had welcomed people to the feast, in an effort to amuse the gathering. But the small black bear, being led around on chains, had snarled at a French countess, frightening her from the chamber, and the gyrfalcons had peppered several people’s cloaks with droppings. The entertainment was rapidly growing stale and the f
lood of wine on empty stomachs was fraying tempers already worn thin. Many of the barons were livid that Piers had been chosen to bear the crown during the procession – an honour reserved for the highest noble in the realm – and Edward knew this fiasco with the food was just giving his men more reason to complain and the courtiers more chance to gossip. He could see them now, glancing up at his table, shaking heads, talking behind their hands.
Snapping his fingers at one of his pages, he ordered the man to the high gallery at the other end of the hall, where the minstrels were playing. After a moment, the music shifted in tempo, the pulse of drums inciting some of the younger men to get up and dance, taking the hands of the daughters of earls. Many of these knights, among them Henry de Bohun and Gilbert de Clare, the Earl of Gloucester, whom Edward had dubbed that morning, wore masks fashioned in the likeness of stags, boars and wolves. Older ladies and lords turned in their seats to watch as the young dancers threaded between one another.
Over the music, Edward heard a voice to his left. Glancing round, he saw Charles de Valois, one of Isabella’s uncles, leaning closer to address him.
‘I said I hear, my lord, that your men are concerned about the recent campaign of Robert Bruce in Scotland. Apparently, the territory captured by your father is all but lost?’
Edward felt himself pricked by the barb. He saw other dignitaries along the table staring at him. Among them were Isabella and his stepmother, Marguerite, the aunt of his new bride. Also there was Louis d’Evreux, another of the queen’s uncles who had accompanied her from France. Edward smiled coolly at Charles. ‘I can assure you, I am very much in command of my lands. Edinburgh, Perth, Stirling – and many other castles are under my control. Bruce may have had some minor successes against his countrymen in the far north of the region, but he will not find my garrisons so conquerable.’
Charles de Valois arched an eyebrow in response, but said nothing. Neither did Louis d’Evreux, who continued to study Edward coldly. Both men had been hostile towards him since they discovered he had sent all the wedding gifts, some of which had been from King Philippe himself, to Piers.
Just before the wedding, Edward had spent the Christ Mass with his lover. One night lying naked together by the fire, Margaret de Clare – Edward’s niece and now Piers’s wife – asleep in the next room, Piers had become inconsolable at the prospect of the marriage. His voice rising dangerously, referring to Isabella as that French bitch, he swore he would not be able to live if he lost Edward to the daughter of King Philippe, the man who had driven him and his father out of Gascony. Edward promised he would not, but to prove it had sent him those gifts. The act had been a reckless one, he had been aware of that at the time, but he needed Piers to know that though his bride might have his hand, she would never have his heart.
Edward looked at her now, sitting beside him. Isabella had changed from her coronation robes into a gown of green satin, the tight bodice of which pressed flat her barely budding breasts. A crown was perched on her head, her long, flaxen hair piled up around it with emerald-tipped pins. Isabella had a soft face, with full pink cheeks and a rosebud mouth. He had heard many people comment on her beauty, but he could not see it.
Although they had been married more than a month, they hadn’t yet consummated their union. Edward knew her ladies-in-waiting and his squires had prepared, with much giggling and secrecy, the bed in the Painted Chamber, expecting this night would see the marriage blessed. In truth, the nervous girl beside him repulsed him. He knew what he must do to her – had done it when he was younger to the sister of one of his friends – but the thought made him feel sick to his stomach. Isabella would bring him and his kingdom benefits, both financial and political, and one day she would bear him the heirs he needed. But all she would ever be was a vessel, an egg.
His gaze moved to his love, seated along from him, a wolf mask perched on top of his head. Piers was seated beside his wife, but was turned away from her, watching the young men dance below, his fingers caressing the stem of his goblet. His face was cast in candlelight, his coal-black eyes gleaming. He had changed from his coronation outfit and now wore a green silk mantle, emblazoned with the six golden eagles of his coat of arms. Edward tried to catch his eye, but Piers was lost in thought. Instead, the king caught the intent gaze of Humphrey de Bohun, seated at the head of one of the trestles. The earl rose as if to come over, but just then the ring of trumpets announced the long-awaited feast, forcing him back down. Edward felt relieved – Humphrey had been keen to talk to him since he had arrived, no doubt about the damn Scots.
The pages entered to rowdy applause, ducking between the dancers to set down platters of venison scattered with wrinkled plums and boar surrounded by cinnamon-dusted apples. There was whale meat and roasted geese, pickled salmon, custards flavoured with spices and gingerbread.
After the young knights and ladies sat back down and the Bishop of London had said grace, Edward was the first to be served. As he put the venison in his mouth, he realised the meat was cold and greasy, sitting too long in its own fat. He swallowed with difficulty, but at his smile and nod, the nobles at once dug in heartily. Edward pushed his plate away. He could lose his temper at yet another debacle, but the man responsible for the celebrations was Piers – and he was the only one in this sorry gathering that he wanted to be with right now.
While everyone’s attention was on the food, Edward rose, his white mantle, strung with emeralds, falling heavily around him. A few people got to their feet, but he waved them back down. His hand briefly brushing Piers’s shoulder, he headed from the dais and out through a side door. Ignoring a man in a boar’s mask, who had pressed a maid up against the passage wall and had a hand inside her gown, Edward hastened through the shadowy maze of corridors.
Inside the Painted Chamber, the warm light from the braziers glowed in the gold of the murals. Beneath a scene of Chastity conquering Lust, a firm hand pressing down the leering Vice, Edward halted, staring at the canopied bed. It had been decorated with scores of ribbons and bells, green leaves and fragrant herbs strewn across the covers – emblems of fertility. His hands clenched at his sides. He wanted to tear down the foolish garlands – burn them in the braziers’ coals. Hearing a rap on the door, he turned.
Piers entered, his face hidden by the wolf mask. ‘My lord king.’
Edward crossed the chamber in a few strides. After pushing the door shut, sliding the bolt in place, he shoved Piers against the wood, pulling up the mask so he could get at his mouth. He kissed the man hard. Piers drew back after a moment, his lips wet, surprise in his eyes at Edward’s ardour. Then, he smiled.
They fell together on to the bed, the bells jingling madly, ribbons swirling down around them as they rolled across the covers. Edward wrenched off Piers’s silk surcoat. Opening the man’s shirt, he paused, devouring the sight: an expanse of muscle and smooth skin he had mapped so well with hands and tongue. This was what he wanted – this man he had loved since he had known how – not some pale, plump girl-child, who, like the war in Scotland, was just another product of his father’s ambition. He leaned forward to kiss Piers’s neck.
There was a knock on the door.
‘Ignore it,’ murmured Piers, reaching up to grasp his shoulders.
The knock came again, more insistent. Edward cursed. Jumping up, he drew one of the curtains around the bed, concealing Piers, then strode to the door. Pushing his hands through his hair, he opened it.
Humphrey was outside. The earl frowned on seeing him. ‘My lord? Is everything all right? You left the feast.’
‘I was feeling unwell,’ Edward responded curtly.
‘Do you need your physician?’
‘No. Just a moment to rest. Alone.’
Humphrey’s eyes flicked into the chamber.
Edward wondered if he had seen Piers leave. He moved to block Humphrey’s view of the bed. ‘I will return shortly.’
Humphrey put a hand out to the stop the door closing. ‘My lord, I realise you have had
much on your mind with the coronation, but we need to discuss the matter of Scotland as soon as possible. We need to make preparations – strengthen our garrisons in case Bruce attacks.’
‘He doesn’t have the strength to mount an assault on our castles.’
‘Not yet perhaps, but soon he may have.’ Humphrey’s brow furrowed further. ‘My lord, are you not concerned that you could lose lands your father fought so hard to win for you – lands on which so much silver and blood has already been sacrificed?’
Edward bristled at the comment, having just heard something similar from Charles de Valois. ‘My father’s obsession left England in a state of suffering, Humphrey. For now, the Scots pose no danger to us. Bruce is clearly intent on dealing with enemies among his own people. I will ensure that continues by negotiating a truce with him. When I am ready I will tackle him, but not until England is healed.’
‘A truce?’
‘Yes. I intend to send one of the prisoners with the offer, as soon as the celebrations are done.’
‘Which prisoner, my lord?’
But Edward was already closing the door.
Portchester Castle, England, 1308 AD
‘On your feet.’
William Lamberton, Bishop of St Andrews, stared up at the two guards who had entered. He shielded his eyes from the flame in the lantern held aloft by one of them. The chains around his wrists rattled. ‘What do you want with me?’ His voice, which had once boomed sermons around churches, had become a dry whisper after almost two years in this dank darkness.
