‘You’ve ridden far?’ Luke asked as Agatha bustled about preparing drinks and tearing at a plump, cooked pigeon.
The taller man nodded. He was named Paul of Bircheston, he said. He had a well–featured face, although his dark eyes met Father Luke’s unwillingly, as if he harboured a secret shame. The other, John of Shulton, was more confident, and more warlike, from the way that he settled and immediately drew his sword to dry it and smear grease over it to protect it from the rain.
He gave a grin and lifted an eyebrow as he glanced at the priest. ‘News is slow around here, eh? It must be good to see strangers ride past.’
‘Better to see them stop and talk,’ Father Luke chuckled, leaning aside to allow Agatha to reach the fire.
Aye, we’ve ridden far. And there are evil tidings and to spare,’ Paul said, staring into the fire gloomily.
‘Why, my friend?’
‘The King is captured. That whining cur Lancaster has him, and is taking King Edward to Kenilworth.’
‘Good God!’ Father Luke exclaimed, clutching at the cross about his neck. ‘But how? There was no news . . . Are you sure, my friend? Surely God would not see His crowned King brought so low?’
‘We were there,’ Paul stated baldly. ‘The King was captured near Caerphilly with all those who remained loyal to him. There were few enough of them.’
‘What will become of him?’
‘He’ll be at the mercy of Mortimer and the Queen. What they will do . . .’ He broke off, clenching his jaw.
‘Come, Paul,’ John said. ‘There’s no need to torment yourself. We’ve done our duty.’
‘You shock me,’ Father Luke muttered. ‘This is dreadful news. If a man raises his hand against God’s anointed, He must punish the kingdom, surely.’
‘Our King must be freed.’
It was John of Shulton who spoke, stroking a hone along his sword’s edge. There was a faraway look in his eyes, but Father Luke saw the glitter in them, and the sight made him shudder.
Agatha sat beside Luke’s fire and took up his old stone, setting it on the fire while she mixed the oatmeal. Luke had done this when he was young, when he was a boy near Durham. Oat was a staple still in the north, as it was here, but many considered it suitable only for horses and cattle. More fool them – for it made a good, solid base in the belly for a cold man, Father Luke reckoned. The action of mixing it and forming a paste with a little milk and water had always been enough to distract him. Now, he saw that Agatha was listening, open-mouthed to their tale, the cakes forgotten. Luke gave a click of his tongue, and she renewed her mixing.
The men drank deeply of their cider, and while their cloaks and jacks dripped on the floor, they watched Agatha dropping rounds onto the hot stone, moving them deftly with her fingers before they could stick. Soon there were fifteen little cakes, and while they cooled on the priest’s single wooden trencher, Luke himself fetched a little cheese and some leaves from his garden. They had been badly attacked by slugs, and this late in the year they were tough, but any salad was good.
‘Are you well, Father?’ John of Shulton said, sucking a pigeon bone.
‘I suppose I am . . . distracted by this news.’
Paul said, ‘We were servants of Sir Hugh le Despenser. To think our lord could be . . . But while I have breath in my body and strength in my arm, I won’t accept my King being held.’
‘Paul,’ John said warningly.
‘I will do all in my power to release the King,’ Paul said firmly. ‘I don’t care who hears it.’
‘Oh?’ Luke said.
It was then that he had the thought: if these two were Despenser’s men, then perhaps they could take his chest with them. But dare he entrust it to two such desperate men? No, he decided reluctantly. Whatever was inside must be valuable. Maybe he should open it and take a look inside.
By early afternoon they were gone, and he was beneath the tower staring with terror at the money.
‘Despenser’s dead,’ he muttered.
‘What, Father?’
‘Nothing, Agatha,’ he said.
She had returned after the evening service to bring him some bread. Now she set her mouth into a prim line, as she turned to leave.
‘I know,’ Luke said. ‘It is shocking to think that our King—’
‘It was his wife saw to it,’ she said grimly, ‘That’s treason of the worst sort.’
‘Er, well, yes,’ he agreed, watching as she made her way from his house. Women were beyond him, but he thought he could detect a hint of jealousy. Perhaps she was thinking of her own marriage.
He walked along the grassy path to his church, and crossed himself with a little water from the stoup, before kneeling on the hard tiles before the altar.
He could not keep it. That was certain. Those coins would be a magnet for every outlaw and drawlatch in Gloucestershire.
He took a deep sigh and gazed at the cross, seeking answers. Yes, he must send the money away . . . but to whom? The owner was dead, his heir held with his father’s remaining retainers in a Welsh castle from which he might never escape. There must be someone who could take it, but at least it was safe here for now. No one knew of it but him.
He wished he had asked those two for advice, at least. They might have known what to do with it.
CHAPTER SIX
Dunchurch Manor, Warwickshire
Frere Thomas rose to his feet in the little chapel and crossed himself fervently. In the last days he had managed to avoid capture, largely because he had been aided by his brothers, but also God was preserving him too, naturally.
Ever since the Pope had made him a papal chaplain some years ago, this assurance of God’s protection had given him the peace he needed to reflect on the actions he had taken, the actions of others, and to contemplate how he could have acted otherwise. However, no inspiration came. He had done all he ought. The King had been captured despite his best efforts, and that was surely a sign that God intended the disaster. Nothing could happen without His approval. It was merely infuriating that he, Thomas, one of the most senior Dominicans in his Order, could not understand His scheme. But that was, so often, the way of God’s mystery. It was not for humans to comprehend the Almighty’s intentions.
He had returned here only after great hardship. On the way he had heard of the death of Despenser, the ravaging of all Despenser’s lands and estates, and the impudence of the Hainaulters and other mercenaries, wandering the land as though they were the saviours of the country. It was maddening! God had assuredly deserted England. He was leaving it at the mercy of the forces of evil.
A door at the rear of the chapel opened, and Frere Thomas turned to see his brother, Stephen.
‘What is it?’ Thomas demanded, his eyes going to the windows. ‘Are they here to take me?’
‘No! No, Tom, it’s the King! He is here! Well, not here, but at Kenilworth. That’s where he’s being held – at the castle.’
Thomas gaped, and then felt the thrill of holy joy pass through him like lightning, and he turned to face the altar, arms outspread.
Now he understood. God had been teaching him patience, and now that he had learned his lesson, God was giving him an opportunity to rescue the King. Of course, he would need men. His brother Stephen could help there, but they should have enough to storm the castle by wiles, rather than by great numbers. A small fighting force, infiltrating the castle and then bringing the King to freedom. There were many who would want to join in on that!
‘Dear Father, I shall not fail You a second time!’ he prayed fervently.
Morrow of the Feast of Candlemas12
Kenilworth
In his chamber, Sir Edward of Caernarfon, no longer King, now merely a knight, sat at his table and stared at the silver plate and goblet placed before him.
When he looked in his mirror, he still possessed the fair good looks for which he had been renowned. His long hair was rich and lustrous yet, his blue eyes clear, but where once laughter lines had illuminated
his features, now it was the creases of care and fretfulness that showed themselves.
To think that Mortimer had once been his most revered and respected general! Edward closed his eyes as the memories flooded back. Those happy times. From childhood Mortimer had been one of his closest, most trusted companions. It was to Mortimer he turned when the Scots invaded Ireland.
Sir Edward pulled apart the loaf of paindemaigne and rolled a piece into a small ball, pushing it into his mouth and chewing listlessly. Life had lost all savour. A king separated from his kingdom was less than a man. Less even than a peasant, since no peasant could suffer such a loss.
When the emissaries arrived at Kenilworth’s great hall, that was one day Sir Edward would never forget.
He had been warned of the delegation’s arrival, and had thought they were come for a discussion of terms. After all, he was their King. He whom God had placed upon the throne could not be removed by rebels. God’s anointment protected him. And so King Edward II had leaned back in his chair as the men filtered into the hall.
There were many: two bishops, Orleton and Stafford, two Justices, four barons, two barons of the Cinque Ports, four knights, Londoners, representatives of other cities and towns, and abbots, priors and friars aplenty.
‘I am honoured to see so many,’ the King observed drily. ‘Will you enjoy the hospitality of the castle? I fear it is a little depleted of late, but I am sure that my gaoler would not wish you to leave here hungry or thirsty. Command him as you will . . . as you already do.’
His sarcasm hit the mark with several, he noted with grim satisfaction. He would show them how a real King should behave, he told himself. ‘Well? Is there someone here with authority to treat with me?’
It was Orleton who spoke, the slug, but King Edward averted his head and gestured with his hand. ‘I will not hear you, vile deceiver! It was you who preached sedition against me – I have heard. You do not rate amongst this gathering.’
‘My lord,’ Orleton said with that oleaginous manner Edward recalled so well. He had inveigled his way into the Queen’s affections, but that did not make him any more appealing to Edward.
‘I fear you must hear me, sire,’ Orleton said, ‘and you must listen to these honourable men, and the whole community of your realm. There has been a parliament in Westminster, and there were conclusions formed during it.’
‘I will not hear you.’
‘Sire, you have ruled poorly. You have been commanded by vile traitors and wicked advisers. You elevated some, but destroyed many of the peers of your realm. Your decisions have caused bloodshed on a scale not seen for many years, and you have broken up your father’s lands in order to give them to your friends. You have shamed your inheritance, this proud land, and the people you swore to protect!’
‘You dare accuse me?’ the King had roared, and half-rose from his seat. To hear this litany of accusations – as though he was a common serf! There was no need for him to respond. He was the King! ‘God Himself placed me upon this throne, and I’ll be damned if some upstart felon like Mortimer will evict me, with or without your help, my lord Bishop!’
‘You think it is only me, sire?’ Orleton sneered. ‘The whole community of the realm accuses you. Whence the prelates, the peers and the knighthood all wish you to resign and to pass the kingdom to your son, for him to reign in your stead.’
Edward stared at the bishop with a curious feeling of dislocation, as though none of this affected him personally. This was not truly happening. It did not matter what others thought: he was King. It was not a mantle a man donned and doffed, it was his heart, his blood. His soul.
He made a gesture of dismissal. ‘My son cannot reign. I rule here.’
‘Sire, Parliament has unanimously declared itself for your son.’
‘Ludicrous! I do not agree. What of the boy – does he dare to shame me himself?’
There was a swimming in his head; his mind was befogged. Oh, if only Hugh were here, darling Hugh, to lighten his mood, to take away some of the sting of this appalling litany of complaints! If only . . .
‘Your son refuses to accept the conclusion of the Parliament unless you agree. If you will pass on the Crown to your son, my lord, he will take it. But if you do not agree . . .’
‘I remain King. I am King!’
‘In name only. The realm will find a new leader.’
‘You threaten me?’ King Edward spat. ‘You think to suggest you can remove me and install some puppet in my place?’
‘Not I, my lord. Parliament,’ Bishop Orleton said.
King Edward was stilled. The swirling sensation returned with renewed force, and it was only by a supreme effort of will that he managed to keep himself upright in the chair.
At first he dared not trust his voice because his speech must reflect the turmoil of emotions that crowded his heart. This was indeed a threat, without even a silken glove in which to conceal it. Parliament was a distraction: someone was influencing it behind the scenes. Only two men wielded enough power to control it: Earl Lancaster or Sir Roger Mortimer. They could protect Edward, or his son, or could see both father and son destroyed. Of the two, Edward knew who had dared already to remove his King: Sir Roger Mortimer. He would scarcely balk at doing the same to Edward’s son.
‘You . . .’ He had to swallow and take a firm grip on himself. ‘You threaten my son’s safety if I refuse to acquiesce?’
‘I threaten nothing, my lord. I merely warn you of the consequences. You must abdicate.’
Edward could remember that day so well – how his mind had cleared and he was able to think objectively about his boy, Edward, Duke of Aquitaine.
He owed his son little. Although he had sworn not to, the Duke became betrothed without the King’s permission. While in France with his mother, he had refused to return home when King Edward wrote and ordered him to do so, claiming he could not leave while his mother remained. Perhaps he told the truth: maybe in France the Duke had already been under Mortimer’s control. The traitor was there: all knew he had cuckolded King Edward in France.
When he was free he would have Mortimer tortured. He would have the churl put to the peine forte et dure to plead his guilt, and then see him executed in the same manner in which the bastard had tortured poor Hugh to death. Damn Mortimer to hell for eternity!
Yes, he owed the Duke little. Adam, his illegitimate son, would never have dreamed of such disloyalty. He, God bless him, was too kind, too gentle and grateful for anything his father offered.
But Adam had died five years ago during the campaign against the Scots. The lad had joined the host as a page, but died of fever on that horrible return march, as had so many others. He would never know what it was to be a grown man. He died so young – only fourteen years old.
Duke Edward was also fourteen, the King realised with a jolt. It sent a shiver down his spine to think that his oldest son was as old as his firstborn had been when he died. The two boys were so very different, it had never occurred to him before.
Edward wondered whether the Duke realised the danger he was in. He was under-age to be King. Mortimer would control him ruthlessly, and the kingdom. To agree to abdication would mean that the Duke would inherit his kingdom. Did he deserve it? Edward set his jaw. He would not willingly deprive his second son. His firstborn was already dead because he had followed him. He could not condemn his first legitimate son too.
He looked at the men in silence. But even then, back in January, Sir Edward of Caernarfon knew that the decision had already been made for him.
House of Bardi, London
Matteo had five messengers arrive that morning. The pile of different-sized parchments was daunting to him as he sat sipping wine, eyeing them.
It had taken time and a great deal of money to have the house tidied once more, but he did not begrudge Benedetto’s expenditure. This house was a symbol and a statement of the Bardis’ position at the pinnacle of English society.
Since Christmas, when they had advanced
loans to the Queen and Sir Roger Mortimer, the bank had shifted to the centre of political authority and the House of Bardi was as secure as it had been throughout King Edward II’s late, unlamented reign.
It meant stability, and that made Matteo reconsider his plan to leave the country. There was money to be made here.
Matteo was still wary of his brother. Every time they met, he felt a crawling sensation. He never turned his back on Benedetto. Instead he had spies watch him. Matteo also abandoned all outward manifestations of ambition. He wanted others to believe that his brush with death had scared him.
But he was not scared. He was hungry for more: more money, more control, more information with which to achieve what he wanted.
There was a knock, then the door opened and Dolwyn walked in.
‘You have news?’ Matteo demanded.
‘Some. I met your informant,’ Dolwyn said. ‘He is dead now.’
‘What?’
‘He was hanged for murder.’
Matteo shook his head. ‘A shame – he was useful. I shall have to find another man in that area. Did you learn anything from him before he died?’
‘That Sir Edward of Caernarfon is not so weak as some would believe.’
‘He has been deprived of his crown,’ Matteo observed.
‘But many would see him return to his throne. Plots are already being formed to bring him back.’
Matteo studied the man. Dolwyn was a useful henchman, certainly, mostly because of his brawn, not his brains. His skills lay with knives and daggers, not with the tools Matteo was happier to employ: words and information. The attack had made Matteo appreciate how different were their two worlds. ‘Who?’
‘All about Bristol and South Wales I heard the same: everywhere the people had relied on the Despensers, there is a clamour for the return of Edward of Caernarfon.’
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