Within A Forest Dark

by Mary Ellen Johnson

  "While our queen was alive, such things could not happen," Elizabeth said. "Lady Perrers is a poor influence."

  "She has taken advantage of a sick man and a sick nation," Ravenne said. They had passed through Ravennesfield and were nearing Ravenne Castle.

  I will tell Meg, Matthew thought, swiveling in his saddle to better view his surroundings. I will say that the mill wheel no longer turns and the fruit trees go unpruned and the oxen in the fields for the last ploughing have a hungry look to them, as do the ploughmen guiding them, and the stream that I remember running strong and clear is little more than a muddy trickle.

  "...with the prince himself at death's door, 'tis certain our next king will be a boy. You know what 'tis said, 'Woe to a country ruled by a child.'"

  That sentiment caught Matthew's attention. At least in one respect, Ravenne spoke truth. The prospect of a boy king was frightening, though he sometimes wondered whether any monarch would have made a difference, that the golden times, like a cascade of water, had slipped forever through England's fingers.

  They passed the outer gatehouse to the inner bailey where Matthew spotted a cluster of dismounted knights in traveling gear. Lashed to the saddles of their horses, even now being led away, were shields bearing a trio of bears heads impaled beside those of the hart. Along with a bustle of servants in familiar livery unloading a line of baggage carts to the accompaniment of shouted orders and barking hounds. Plain enough, Desire and Ralph had arrived.

  Matthew dismounted.

  Mayhap Jacques was right all those years ago. Mayhap Desire really will be mistress to a king.

  He was indifferent to seeing her again, not even able to muster up the proper antipathy. She'd been Harry's helpmeet after all, and he had seemed genuinely fond of her. Matthew's and her relationship was so ancient, scarcely worth becoming exercised over...

  Near the stables two of the remaining Ravenne children, Bors and Kay—the other six were either pages or squires or grown and gone with offspring of their own—had been showing their cousin Ralph two new ponies. When Matthew approached, Ralphie broke away from the others and ran to him. Harry's six-year-old son found the world a bewildering, rather unpleasant place and loved and admired his larger-than-life uncle, who seemed the epitome of a true knight. Had not his father said as much? Did not his mother still say so?

  Ralphie thought to temper his exuberance by slowing to a walk but Matthew grabbed the boy, lifted him off his feet and wrapped him in a fierce hug. After setting his beaming nephew aright again, he said, "What a strong lad you're growing into."

  "Have you heard that as soon as I turn seven I am going into service for the Earl of Gloucester?"

  Matthew tousled his brown hair. "I had heard something about it." In fact, he had arranged for Ralph to begin his knightly training with Gloucester. "You will become a fine knight."

  "As fine as you, uncle?"

  Laughing, Matthew put his arm around Ralph's shoulder. "Much finer, I suspect."

  Matthew was struck by his nephew's increasing resemblance to his brother.

  The only thing left of Harry in this world. Matthew glanced sideways at the boy. 'Tis not enough.

  But nothing could be enough. Ralph was a fine lad, but like Harry, he seemed confused by life. Often Matthew experienced the same urge to protect his nephew as he had Harry. More so than he'd ever felt about Serill, who seemed cut from a different cloth altogether.

  Pray to God Ralphie will never have to depend on me, Matthew thought, crossing the bailey, with his arm still looped about his nephew. I protected Harry by letting him die.

  Chapter 22

  Westminster and Kennington 1376

  Near the end of April 1376, Westminster's bells signaled the opening of what came to be called the Good Parliament. Proceedings ran for nearly 10 weeks, which made it the longest Parliament anyone could remember. Recognizing the danger of calling the House of Commons and House of Lords into session during a period of public dissatisfaction, Edward III and his councilors had postponed this unpleasant necessity for more than two years. But the war machine must needs be fed and the Exchequer, so named for the accounts which were made up on a checked cloth, was devoid of all counters. In other words, the kingdom's coffers were empty. His Grace and the Royal Council had no choice but to face those gathered in the Palace of Westminster.

  Why were so many so unhappy? Far beyond the nobility and clergy, knights and burgesses gathered in small groups whispering, strategizing, and plotting; ordinary men and women complained of the corrupt court. Many blamed John of Gaunt, who'd not spent twelve consecutive months in England during the last six years and had exercised little influence in domestic affairs. But with the king enfeebled in mind and Prince Edward in body, John's enemies accused him of being England's ruler in all but name. And an unseemly ambitious one at that.

  Peter de la Mare, a charismatic knight of the shire representing Herefordshire, was elected Speaker by the House of Commons. On the first day de la Mare delivered a powerful address criticizing England's recent military failures, condemning the venality of those in power, and calling for close scrutiny of the royal accounts.

  "His Grace is poor because his ministers are greedy and criminal," he charged, and vowed that before so much as a shilling in new taxes would be voted on, the Commons' side must be heard.

  Whether de la Mare was hero or villain depended on one's point of view, and John of Gaunt, unhappily presiding over the proceedings, leaned to the latter. The Herefordshire knight presented the longest list of petitions ever sent to a monarch by the Commons. John knew what this was really about; since the Houses of Parliament could not demand an explanation for England's misfortunes from their sovereign, whose position was unassailable, they demanded it instead of his closest representative, which he, John, most certainly was.

  As John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, listened to day after day of de la Mare's charges, he found it difficult to keep his Plantagenet temper in check. De la Mare and his cohorts were flirting dangerously with the theory of popular control of the administrative portion of the government. The ministers being attacked were King Edward's servants, after all, and the way John looked at it, criticizing his father's administration was criticizing the Crown.

  Corruption in the Royal Council WAS uncovered with the three ringleaders being unmasked as two members of the Royal Council who belonged to the second order of nobility, and Richard Lyons, a London merchant and moneylender who had been sucking money from the royal coffers as diligently as a hound sucked marrow from a bone. Around this trio had gathered a crew of thieves, smugglers and swindlers who had successfully stuffed their own pockets at England's expense.

  By the end of May, the members of the Royal Council were all removed, fined heavily, and committed to prison "at the king's pleasure."

  Riding their triumph, Parliament turned to His Grace's hated mistress, Alice Perrers. Not only was she dismissed from court, but if in the future she should emerge from her enforced seclusion, her lands would be confiscated and a sentence of banishment pronounced against her.

  As the Good Parliament wound down, John of Gaunt suffered the humiliations, charges and counter-charges with dignity—his opponents would have said haughtiness—but a larger, more personal worry clouded his concentration. It was obvious that his elder brother was dying. After all the years of sickness, after the false cures and false hopes of recovery and cascade of prayers beseeching God for surcease, there was no doubt Edward of Woodstock was approaching the end of his time.

  Immediately following Parliament's pronouncement concerning Alice Perrers, a messenger swept into the chamber. When John recognized the man's livery, his fingers gripped the carved arms of his throne, emblazoned with castles and lions. The knight was a retainer in his brother's household. The messenger would not have interrupted the proceedings unless something untoward had happened. John knew, aye, he knew, that for Edward of Woodstock, Fortune's wheel had completed its full circle. He thought suddenly of lines
from Dante's Inferno that he had put to memory and often meditated upon:

  No mortal power may stay her spinning wheel.

  The nations rise and fall by her decree.

  None may foresee where she will set her heel:

  She passes, and things pass.

  John closed his eyes.

  Man's mortal reason cannot encompass her.

  She rules her sphere as the other gods rule theirs.

  Season by season...

  Aware as always that he was being watched, he composed himself with an effort and watched the messenger's approach.

  "Your Grace!" The man was so distraught he forgot to bend his knee.

  "What is it?" John asked, though the question was merely a formality so that the knight could publicly inform the rest of the chamber. John needed not the words. "What has happened to my brother? He is not dead, is he?"

  "Nay, but his condition has worsened," the knight said, his voice breaking. "I fear this time, sire, our prince has reached his end."

  * * *

  Prince Edward had recently been moved via litter from his damp, dark stone house on Fish Street to the airy royal palace of Kennington, where he and Joan of Kent had married. From spacious windows the prince could look out on verdant rolling lawns spotted with deer, budding flowers and hedges, and above, the softly smudged sky that was so much a part of London's summer. He felt neither appreciative of Kennington's beauty nor sad because he would not live to celebrate any more feast days and celebrations such as Midsummer, scarce two weeks away. An eerie night that was with its huge bonfires, which were stoked to keep at bay the dragons that would otherwise crawl from their lairs to wreak mischief upon the land. The lure of the world, of its material offerings, its feast days and celebrations, its mysteries and superstitions, no longer engaged Edward. He wanted one thing and one thing only: to ensure his son's claim to the throne.

  "I must make them see," Edward told his wife for the hundredth time. Because his body was useless he was reduced to stewing like an old woman. "'Tis right and proper for Richard to be king of England. They would not dare thwart tradition, would they?"

  "Do not fret." Joan smoothed his hair away from his feverish forehead with her plump beringed hand. She had fears of her own, but she would not further burden her husband. "Your father and the duke have sworn their allegiance to our son, as has Parliament. And the people love you. They'll not forsake us."

  Everything is wrong with England, Edward thought, tossing upon his sweat-soaked cushions. A poor heritage Richard will receive, should he ever ascend the throne. But he will. He must. John will see to that.

  He felt so weak, so ready to depart, to slip away like the smoke that rose from Midsummer fires and London's chimneys, and from all the chevauchees he'd known. How well he remembered those particular tableaus—billowing black plumes above crackling fields, burning barns and haystacks and humble huts. Above fleeing villagers and frightened livestock and his men racing after them all like Avenging Angels. From a strategic vantage point he would watch the roiling darkness spread out across the sky until it became grey as a ghost.

  And then until it simply drifted away into nothingness.

  * * *

  "Open the doors and allow those who wish to see me, from my brothers-in-arms to the beggars along Newgate, to enter as they please." Prince Edward spoke from the couch in his chamber at Westminster, where he'd been taken after there was no mistaking his time was nigh. "Refuse no one entrance."

  How weak my voice sounds, Edward thought, as he tried to shift himself upon the pillows. Even weaker than I feel.

  Always he'd understood his life was geared toward one moment and one moment only—not battles, but death. The hour of his death. Since earliest memory, he'd known death was perched like a giant raven upon his shoulder. Not one day had passed without at least a fleeting contemplation of it. How could he NOT think on it when the priests relentlessly preached upon its inevitability, when every church was filled with tombs of the dead—many of them his relatives? In Westminster Abbey he had touched the waxen masks of his ancestors, whose images had been cast upon their death, and handled their garments, which were perpetually on display. He'd lived in castles and prayed in cathedrals built by architects and kings long buried.

  Death is the culmination of my every action, of my very life, Edward thought, as the first of his household servants approached to bid him a formal good-bye. As it is the culmination of every man's.

  Edward's servants filed past. The prince spoke to each one, as well as the merchants, common people and fellow soldiers who shuffled through his chamber. To the best of his ability, he had fulfilled his duty as Prince of Wales and as a warrior. His passing must be accomplished in like manner, no matter what the pain, and the pain was often considerable.

  Though Edward's body was grotesquely bloated, his skin such a mass of bedsores that a comfortable position was impossible, he did not even think to wish for privacy. His entire life had been spent surrounded by people, from the moment he awakened until the time the last light was doused in his chamber. He could not remember ever having been alone for more than a few moments. Not during the glory of his youth, nor in the humiliating aspects of his illness. He had prospered and suffered in full view of his fellow man.

  At the opposite end of the room, a group of clergymen were huddled, including the Bishop of Bangor, watching him, awaiting his last moment.

  The priests yet call me arrogant. They tell me to confess my sinful pride, forgetting that I of all men have naught to be prideful about. Trapped as I am in this putrescence for all to see, an object of pity, how could I be other than humble?

  Often Edward pondered that most common of symbols, the wheel of fortune. He pictured himself in a chair tied to the wheel. As his life had evolved, the wheel had slowly turned until it had carried him to its apex, when he had been the highest of men; then the wheel had descended, the chair had overturned, and he had been flung headlong.

  But soon 'twill all be over and I will see the face of my savior and his mother, if God be merciful and has forgiven me my sins.

  The large room, hung with shimmering tapestries and appointed in the most luxurious style, suddenly blurred, as if sheeted by mist. Haloes appeared around its many occupants—knights, clergy, surgeons and doctors, so easily recognizable in their long fur-edged gowns, fur capes, special caps, and gold-headed canes. Edward shifted his weight against the cushions—or at least he thought he did—sometimes it was so hard to tell.

  If doctors dressed like beggars, I would know them by the look in their eye, the mere touch of their hands. I have seen more physicians than trees have leaves, and none did me one whit of good.

  Throughout the day, Edward drifted in and out of consciousness. These past weeks he'd been prone to fainting spells, and though he tried to have a special word for every man who filed past, he was not always capable of such courtesy. He did manage, however, to ask every baron to loyally serve his son—and every one agreed.

  While Westminster's bells rang out vespers and the June air wafting through the open windows began to cool with evening, the Bishop of Bangor leaned over to whisper, "His Grace and your brother, the Duke, have arrived."

  Edward nodded. His other brothers and sister had been here since early morning—Edmund of Langeley, Thomas of Woodstock, and Isabella. The rest of his siblings—had it been nine in total? His mind was thick as mud—had all passed. Would he see them soon? As well as his young son, and his mother the Queen? Edward's lips curved in a smile. Or at least he imagined so.

  We will have a joyous reunion, if God be merciful.

  Edward forced his attention back to the present, to the task at hand. His son's succession.

  John of Gaunt had led their father into the room. His Grace leaned against the duke's shoulder for support, weeping loudly with each step. Most everyone clustered on the sidelines joined in, for England was suffering an incomprehensible loss. Their most magnificent prince was about to die. What would
happen now?

  Edward motioned for his body servant to prop him up so that he could better face his father and brother. He repeated the words he'd used to every man of gentle blood. "I commend you to my son, who is very young and little, and I pray you, as you have served me, to serve him loyally." Edward paused. "You will both swear upon the Book also, will you not, to ease my mind?"

  "Of course," John said, yet again, and did as requested. He would have repeated the act a thousand times over if it would ease Edward's mind.

  Their father could only nod.

  By pre-arranged signal, Princess Joan had brought their son into the chamber. While Joan's face and form had thickened so that few would still call her "the Fair Maid of Kent", there was no doubting the beauty of her son. Richard of Bordeaux was tall for his age, slender, his movements already graceful. His hair was as bright as his father's had ever been, his eyes the same cornflower blue as his mother's.

  While Richard approached the couch, his long tapering fingers grasped the hilt of the small sword upon his thigh, as if seeking comfort. Richard knew his father was dying, and though he must remain outwardly composed, he was frightened by the multitude of clergy hovering about, with their holy water and paternosters; by seeing not only his grandfather weeping, but grown knights as well. Knights who were great warriors and yet were crying just as piteously as he himself did after falling from his horse, Black Morel.

  Richard looked up at his mother. "They are sad because Father is dying, are they not?"

  Joan squeezed his shoulders in reply.

  Richard could not remember his father being anything but sickly, though his mother and Froissart the Chronicler often recounted marvelous tales of his deeds. Richard could never understand why such a wondrous soldier could not also just conquer illness. But looking into his father's bloated face, the mouth stretched in a shape of perpetual pain, the bloodshot eyes surrounded by drooping sacs of flesh, Richard understood he would not.