“The unhappy conflict,” said d’Eyvill, “as His Grace terms it, is the result of the King’s obduracy. He wishes to play the tyrant, without any check or restraints on his behaviour. We, his loyal subjects in all other regards, will not stand for tyranny. Even if it means our deaths.”
He shifted in his seat, wincing at the cramps shooting through his back. The bad air of the marshes was starting to affect his lungs. D'Eyvill didn’t relish spending the long dark winter months holed up in Ely. Nor was he prepared to abandon his principles for the sake of comfort.
“You come to present us with the peace terms,” he added, gesturing at the scroll, bearing the King’s seal and bound with ribbons, in Orazio’s right hand. “The Award of Kenilworth, I believe it is called.”
Orazio gave a polite little bob of his head. “This is a copy of the Award, that I am authorised to leave with you,” he said. “I can recite them from memory. Do you wish to hear all forty-one clauses?”
“Just give us the meat,” d'Eyvill said hurriedly. “We can pick over the bones later.”
The Italian smiled and cleared his throat. “His Majesty King Henry the Third insists on his rights, and will govern England without any form or impediment or contradiction on his lordship.”
“Not a good start,” growled d'Eyvill, “go on.”
“His Majesty is no tyrant, and promises to observe the laws of the kingdom, including ecclesiastical liberties and the charters of the forest. The English church shall be fully restored to the liberties and customs that it had before the time of this disturbance, and be allowed to use them freely.”
“What of the four Bishops that the King suspended for defying his edicts? Will they be restored to office?”
Orazio pursed his thin lips. “I cannot say. My task here is to merely recite the terms, not haggle over them. Might I continue?”
D'Eyvill indicated he might. The release of the bishops was a side-issue.
“The king, in his mercy, is bound not to seek or take revenge on any persons who, from the beginning of the disturbances in the realm up to the present, have done any injury or offence to him or to the royal crown. Any who come to his peace within forty days of the proclamation of this provision – you have two weeks’ grace yet, Sir John – shall be forgiven his trespasses and received back into the King’s peace.”
A knight stepped forward from the throng. “What of our lands?” he demanded. “Will they be redeemed, or not?”
This was the crux. A hush fell over the hall as every man listened intently to what Orazio had to say next. He turned pink and plucked nervously at his crucifix.
“With the assent of the venerable father, Ottobuono, cardinal deacon of St Adrian and legate of the apostolic see,” he quavered, “and of the noble Lord Henry of Almain, the King’s nephew, the course to be followed is not disinheritance, but redemption.”
It was a cold day, and the fire in the hall burned low. The atmosphere grew colder still as Orazio described, in a trembling stammer that grew worse as he went on, the price of peace.
“Those who began the war and have continued it until now, those who violently and maliciously held Northampton against the King, those who attacked and defeated the King at Lewes, those taken prisoner who had been at the sack of Winchester, or had been against the King elsewhere, and whom the King has not pardoned, those who fought at Evesham against the King, those who were at Chesterfield in battle against the King, those who freely and voluntarily sent their men against the King or his son, and all those who plundered their neighbours and instigated slaughter, arson, and other evils… all these shall pay five times what their land is worth a year. And if they pay the redemption they shall have back their lands, provided that if…”
His words were lost in the general uproar that greeted the price of redemption. Orazio was reduced to quaking silence as the hall exploded in wrath. The angry, mottled faces around him shouted and cursed and swore terrible oaths.
D'Eyvill had expected little better. He waited for the storm to blow itself out before speaking again.
“You had not finished,” he said, nodding at Orazio.
The Italian looked as though he would rather vanish into a hole. “Ah… he who pays at one time for the whole of his land shall have the whole,” he squeaked. “He who pays for half shall have half, he who pays for a third shall have a third, and so on, until the full redemption is paid. If by the end of the term of grace the man who is redeeming has not paid in full, then… then…”
“Then what?” snarled d'Eyvill. “God’s teeth, what a craven thing you are! Do you think we are going to eat you? Spit it out, man!”
“Then… then half of the land remaining shall remain in the ownership of those on whom the land was bestowed by the lord king. It shall also…”
D'Eyvill raised his hand. “Enough,” he said. “I can only stomach so much offal.”
He closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. A vein had started to throb in his neck. He was determined to remain calm, if only for the sake of the envoy’s safety. It wouldn’t take much for his knights to set on the man. They had been in an ugly mood to begin with, and the peace terms had only made things worse.
“So it amounts to this,” d'Eyvill said when he had mastered his temper, “the King states that will not be ruled or constrained in any way, in flagrant disregard of the Oxford statutes, and the memory of Earl Simon, under whose banner every man here was proud to serve. His Majesty is, however, willing to confirm the liberties of the church and the charters of the forest, even though such confirmation should have been a matter of course. Hence, he concedes nothing, and seeks to make fools of us.”
“In addition,” he went on with implacable sarcasm. “His Majesty is kind enough to offer something he is pleased to call redemption, to those who have borne arms against him. So, having unjustly taken our lands away, His Majesty is willing to let us buy them back, at five times their value, within a strict time limit. Do I have this all straight, Master Fieschi?”
The Italian swallowed and nodded, clutching his scroll tight in his delicate little hands, as though it might protect him from harm.
D'Eyvill rose from his chair and loomed like an Old Testament prophet over the trembling envoy.
“Then you shall bear this answer back to the King. Tell His Majesty that unlike him, we take pride in observing our oaths, because our cause is just. Tell him we assert our loyalty to the crown and the Provisions of Oxford, our religious faith, and we invoke the blessed memory of Simon de Montfort and his mentor, Robert Grosseteste. Tell him we plead the cause of the four suspended Bishops of London, Winchester, Chichester, and Lincoln. Tell him we utterly defy and repudiate the Award of Kenilworth, just as we have defied his soldiers. If he will not relent, and amend his terms, then the matter shall be settled by the sword.”
His voice had steadily risen to a shout, and was greeted by a thunderous roar from his knights.
To d'Eyvill’s astonishment, Orazio was not quite done, and insisted on waving his precious scroll. “Sir John, I urge you to read this thoroughly before sending back such an answer!”
“Give it here,” said d'Eyvill, holding out his hand. Orazio stepped forward and gingerly passed him the scroll.
The fire hissed as d’Eyvill added some fresh fuel.
“See, Master Fieschi,” he said with a grim smile, “the Award of Kenilworth is not entirely useless.”
The costly white vellum burned merrily, and the image of the King throned in majesty on the wax seal swiftly melted away to nothing.
*
Later that afternoon, d'Eyvill and his cousin Nicholas stood on the walkway of the upper bailey and watched Orazio ride away on a mule, blindfolded and escorted by four knights.
“Now the king has his reply,” said d'Eyvill, “we can turn to other matters. When will my brother return? He’s been off playing the fool for over a week now.”
“I heard he rode north with the Jewess,” replied Nicholas. “Perhaps he wa
nts her ransom all to himself. Robert always did snatch at things.”
“You heard right,” said d’Eyvill with a heavy sigh. “He sent back some feeble tale, excusing his absence on the grounds that he intended to lead raids on villages around Huntingdon. A raiding party of three men, with a woman in tow! He must credit me with little sense.”
Nicholas made the sign of the cross. “The Jewess will have bewitched him. Her people are said to have an accord with Satan.”
“Maybe so. Whatever the reasons for his folly, he must be rescued from himself. I have a good idea where he’s gone.”
D'Eyvill pulled out a folded square of parchment from his belt and handed it to his cousin. “Take this letter and ride up the Great North Road. Do you still have men in Sherwood?”
“A few, camped on our manor at Egmanton.”
“Good. I am sending Jocelin there to search for Robert. The men at Egmanton will have seen him if he went that way. I want you to head north, to our manors at Thirsk and Hode. If he’s skulking up there, flush him out and fetch him back to me.”
“What if he refuses to come?”
“Make him. Robert has too much pride. A good thrashing might knock some of the folly out of him.”
Nicholas usually had no objection to rough work, but looked uncomfortable at the notion of laying violent hands on a kinsman.
“I have a black soul, I know,” he muttered, “and am guilty of many bad deeds. I am certain to burn. Robert is cut from a different cloth. He has always been tender of his serfs, and never forced a man to do anything against his will. Maybe he loves this woman.”
“Then he is a fool indeed,” spat d’Eyvill. “My brother, doting on a Jewess! I’ll not let him shame our family.”
That was d'Eyvill’s last word on the matter. Naturally a man of action, so much talk had given him a thirst.
30.
Kenilworth
The King sat in his chair of state and beamed amiably at the guests assembled around the long table. They were packed inside a creaking hall of canvas, through which the winds of winter howled and provided a dreary, almost mocking echo to their conversation. Servants moved to and fro, pouring out mulled wine and laying platters of meat and fish on the board.
Queen Eleanor was present, along with her sons. Cardinal Ottobuono sat beside her, magnificent in his rich papal vestments and an air of indestructible self-regard. The Chancellor sat to her left. Roger Mortimer and Gilbert de Clare exchanged lethal glances. Between them, strategically placed as a buffer, was the King’s nephew and victor of Chesterfield, Henry of Almain.
At the far end of the table sat the Savoyard, Master John of St Michael. King Henry disliked the sinister little man and would not have invited him, but Edward insisted on him being there.
“My lords, my most beloved Queen,” said Henry when the servants had departed, “we have summoned you here to inform you of the outcome of our peace overtures to the rebels, and to ask advice on how to proceed. Henry de Hastings has once again rejected the terms of the Award. The garrison of Kenilworth continues to defy us.”
The assembled nobles and clergymen looked glum. This was news to none of them.
“We have also received a reply from the rebels at Ely,” Henry went on briskly. “They are equally intransigent. Sir John d'Eyvill has thrown back our offer of peace. Neither he nor any of his followers will accept the terms of the Award as they stand. The redoubtable efforts of His Eminence” – here Henry respectfully bowed his head at the Cardinal, who smirked fatly in response – “and his servants have, alas, proved in vain.”
Edward thumped the table, making the cups and platters jump. “What else did we expect?” he demanded. “Say what you like about d'Eyvill, the man’s a fighter, and only responds to force. Master John, how many men did you say he has with him in the fens?”
The spymaster coughed politely before replying. “According to one of my agents, recently returned from observing the rebel camp,” he said, “d'Eyvill can muster over four hundred fighting men. Of these, eighty are knights, with an equal number of esquires. The rest are sergeants and light horse.”
“Four hundred,” mused the King. “That is considerable, to be sure, but hardly a multitude to be feared.”
“We have five thousand men here at Kenilworth,” said Mortimer, “with nothing better to do than stare at the rain and devour their rations. Majesty, give me command of a thousand men and I’ll flush Sir John and his bog-troopers out of Ely by Christmas.”
“The King’s faithful servant,” sneered de Clare. “I know you, Mortimer. You would take every one of those eighty knights prisoner and grow fat off their ransoms.”
Queen Eleanor stilled Mortimer’s furious retort by raising one pale, gem-encrusted hand.
“Peace, both of you,” she said, and her mild voice had iron in it. “We have enemies enough. Kenilworth and Ely are not our only worries. The country north of the Trent is increasingly lawless. Our garrisons in the region have become isolated outposts, surrounded by a sea of foes. Many of the knights who joined d'Eyvill in the fens are northerners. Their retainers are busy plundering and burning the countryside. Under orders, we suspect.”
“There are also a few diehard Montfortians stirring up trouble,” added Edward. “John de Vescy is said to be arming his tenants and fortifying his castle at Alnwick. I’ve ordered the Sheriff of Northumberland to keep me informed. If necessary I’ll go north myself to deal with the problem.”
“As to the chaos in the north, there is a solution to that,” said Henry of Almain. “Unpalatable though it may be. Release the Earl of Derby. He may be a fool, but he commands respect in the north. If he told the dissidents to lay down their arms, they would listen.”
His suggestion went down badly. Edward and his brother looked annoyed de Clare snorted with laughter, Mortimer turned his head away in disgust, and everyone else looked incredulous.
“Release Ferrers?” exclaimed the Chancellor. “You cannot mean it. The man is a born traitor. And he’s not alone.”
This met with hostile glares. De Clare’s face flamed red. “My lords,” he said Henry, raising his voice, “show some decorum, please. The papal legate is present. Do you wish him to go back to Rome and inform the Holy Father that England is governed by a lot of squabbling children?”
This had some effect. When quiet was restored, Henry placed his hands flat on the table and tried to sound purposeful.
“Earl Ferrers shall not be released,” he said. “He is unstable and treacherous.”
“I have already tried to reason with him,” said the Queen. “He was deaf to my entreaties. The man is entirely selfish, and cares not a whit for peace in England. In truth, I doubt he is entirely sane.”
“Who can blame him?” growled de Clare. “I might run mad, too, if my manors and estates were ripped away from me and granted to others.”
“The matter of the Earl of Derby is settled,” Henry said firmly. “We can deal with the crisis in the north ourselves, and Robert de Ferrers will remain at our pleasure in the dungeon tower at Windsor.”
Cardinal Ottobuono chose this moment to weigh in. “Let us think of England in the sense of the body politic,” he said ponderously, folding his hands over his ample belly. “The body is diseased, and we must find a panacea. The Award was one such, but while it cleared up certain minor ailments, it failed to address the root of the illness.”
“In my role as surgeon-general,” he went on, “I have identified two main tumours that must be extracted before the body can begin to heal. These tumours are Kenilworth and Ely. Or else we might think of them as boils, in need of lancing.”
“We have tried a great many lances against Kenilworth,” remarked Henry of Almaine, “all of them broke against the castle walls.”
“If I may,” put in Master John, “I may be able to shed some light on one of these tumours or boils.”
“Another of your agents?” enquired the king. Master John nodded and steepled his fingers.
&
nbsp; “Half the Kenilworth garrison are dead or disabled,” he said, “the remainder are down to basic rations. They have little firewood left and have been obliged to strip the floors and ceilings for timber. Hastings remains obdurate, and the morale of his surviving men is more or less intact.”
“How much food do they have left?” Edward asked sharply.
“Only the basics, flour and meal and biscuit. Enough to last some weeks yet. I fear the defenders of Kenilworth will collapse for want of a decent supper before they consider surrendering.”
“If they are in such a weakened state, why not try another all-out assault?” suggested Mortimer. This met with groans.
“No. Never again,” said the king, wincing as he remembered the last failed assault.
“No need for haste,” said Henry of Almain, “our army here is well-supplied. His Eminence spoke of lancing the boil. I propose we simply wait for it to deflate.”
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