The Prophecy of Death

Chapter Twenty-Three

Feast Day of Gordianus et Epimachus²⁷

Eltham Palace

Earl Edward was back early from hunting, and he marched heavily across the court from his stables while the grooms cleaned and brushed his horse.

There had been a good morning’s ride, with the hounds taking the scent of a fine stag early on. They had nearly lost the beast, but it was Earl Edward himself who saw him crashing off through some bracken and young trees over on the hillside east, and he’d himself drawn the hounds back to it, leading them initially with a whoop of encouragement, until they all saw his direction and the lead bitch caught the scent.

A marvellous ride, though, fast and furious, even through a tangle of briars, before the sudden death, with the deer brought down swiftly and despatched with a knife at the throat, while the hounds bayed and whined, kept back by the fewterer.

It was the sort of life he was born for. A man like him was fitted for this sort of life. It was all he knew, in truth. His training for when his father was dead.

Strange, to think of his life in those terms, but it was true. All his life was a lengthy training. He must learn to be quick-witted, to judge men and their character, to see opportunities, to listen out for deceit in any man’s words … all these were the key foundations of a king’s safety, because his would be an entirely solitary existence.

He knew that. Who better? He had seen his own father at work. No sooner had Earl Edward been born, than his father had made him an earl, the highest position to which a man might aspire, unless he sought the Crown itself. As Earl of Chester, he had his own household to look after him, and he was already to be seen as a member of Parliament at the age of seven. Great things were expected of him, as he knew. As the nation knew.

But the reward took a heavy toll. It was expensive being an earl, expensive not only in treasure. He had not known a happy family existence. The relationship between his parents was always fraught with tension. From the earliest moment, he could remember them, he shouting, she shrieking, and no calm, no peace. He was more dedicated to his friend, ‘That man Despenser’, as she always called him. And the King would assert that she was happier in the company of all her French maids and servants than in his, her husband’s.

For the Earl, it was clear that both were telling the truth. She did not love the King any more. She tried to, she was an absolutely devoted wife and mother, and Earl Edward adored her, but he could not deny that she could, on occasion, be a little hard to deal with. While the King, generous, loving, affectionate as he was, was also occasionally childish, tyrannical, petulant, and prone to displays of vicious brutality. Of course, a lot of it was deserved. If a man proved himself a traitor, he should expect the full penalty of the law to strip him of his property and livelihood, and see him executed. There were enough men who demonstrated the King’s desire for justice in those cases. All the men who had raised a sword against his standard, they had all been killed. There was no use for mercy in such matters. The Earl understood that perfectly well. Mercy was a sign of weakness. The King was right to be ruthless.

But there were times when the Earl wondered whether such extremes of violence were actually justified. Not often, no, because his father had a clearer understanding of life as a king … and yet, Earl Edward already knew from his learning with Richard of Bury that a king must be prepared to be utterly ruthless with enemies, but that was not the same as some of the men whom the King had seen executed. It was plain enough that the Earl of Lancaster, even if he was King Edward II’s cousin, had attempted to dethrone the King. He’d tried to stop the King from ruling in the manner which he had chosen for his own. And that was unforgivable. The Earl had even attempted to put constraints on the King. That was … well, it was wrong.

There were others, though, whose crimes were not so clear and deserving of punishment. In the past, men who happened to be knights attached to a lord’s household wouldn’t have been executed out of hand, their heads sent to London, or hung in chains for the crows and rooks to feast on. Yet these were. There were no towns in the country, so the Earl had heard, which didn’t have a corpse gibbeted on public display. He could believe it, too. In his own travels up and down the country, he had seen the gibbets at the town walls.

The Queen had finally managed to persuade him to show a little mercy. The bodies had been cut down, but Sir Hugh le Despenser said it was an act of weakness. Those corpses were perfect, he reckoned, because they demonstrated the King’s authority. Earl Edward wasn’t sure. He thought they proved only jealous cruelty. A man so jealous of his own power that he would exterminate any other who attempted to encroach was no leader. Alexander wouldn’t have done that. He would have had no need to — he would have been leading by example, keeping his men busy, leading them from one glorious victory to another.

Not his father, sadly. The shame had been felt by all England when the Scots destroyed his army at Bannockburn. It may have been while he was only a brat, a baby mewling and puking in the arms of Margaret, his wet nurse, but the reverberation of that catastrophe rang through every year since. Not even the mauling the King gave the Lancastrians three years ago had wiped out the memory of that disaster, nor of the other shameful losses as the Scots riders ravaged the whole of the North.

That was why he hated his father’s ‘friend’ so much. Despenser, he knew, was in truth a friend to no man. A fellow might rely on Despenser while he was of use to him, but more than that, no. Despenser was too much a creature of his own. He looked after himself and no one else.

The proof had come when Earl Edward was almost ten — nearly three years ago. After Boroughbridge, the King had been wonderfully exuberant. It was a great, a magnificent victory, and he was justified in feeling a fresh confidence. Full of his martial prowess, he launched another offensive towards Scotland.

This was to be one of the most ignominious defeats ever inflicted upon English arms. In God’s name, the memory still rankled with Earl Edward. It was enough to make any man smart, to think of it. The army marched on into Scotland, and found nothing. Only one scabby cow was left behind. The Scots were too adept at gathering all their folk and goods, and retreating before the King’s host. And that meant that there was no food. Demoralised, starving, racked with scurvy and dysentery, the King’s forces were forced to retreat. Many died. Even the King’s own bastard, Adam, whom the King had taken on his first campaign, succumbed.

Worse was awaiting them. As the King passed into Yorkshire, intent on raising more forces, the Bruce circled around them, almost cutting off the King himself. King Edward panicked and was forced to flee — but not before asking others to rescue his wife, up in Tynemouth. He was at Rievaulx, with Despenser, but Despenser refused to go and rescue the Queen. Oh, the King and he escaped, at the expense of losing all the baggage, a load of treasure and many of the state’s official documents, but they left the Queen to the mercy of the Bruce — this a man who had seen his own mother and sister tormented by Edward II’s father. Oh, the Bruce would have been happy to capture the English Queen. He would have made great sport with her, if he’d taken her. As it was, she had been forced to flee by ship, and in the dreadful journey, two of her ladies-in-waiting died.

Yes, she blamed Despenser for that, and so did Earl Edward. Despenser was a coward, who persuaded his father to run to safety while leaving his mother to the mercies of their enemies.

He wouldn’t forgive Despenser for that. Never.

Morrow of Feast of Gordianus et Epimachus²⁸

Lydford

It had come as a great surprise to him that the wedding had been so far prepared that there was little to do other than confirm the orders for ale, wine and food.

‘Edith, my child, what has happened to you?’ Simon breathed when he saw her for the first time in her wedding dress.

She was wearing a simple white woollen tunic, embroidered with a pattern of plain flowers, also in white. It trailed on the ground, concealing her feet, and was loose in the skirt, but tight over her bust, with a daring, scooped neck that showed a little of the top of her breasts, though not indecorous quantities; her forearms, too, were exposed, the sleeves ending at the elbow, with long dangling strips that reached to her knees. Her hair was plaited, and partly concealed beneath a loose veil, that was little more than a square of filmy cloth sitting over her head, leaving her face free.

‘My little girl, you’re beautiful!’ Simon breathed, and in a moment he felt curiously giddy. The sadness of losing his lovely daughter was mixed with an immense pride to see that she had turned out so wonderfully. He gazed at her for such a long time that she coloured prettily and bent her head in embarrassment, but he gently lifted her head for her, a finger under her chin, and smiled at her. And then he felt the flood of tears threatening.

‘Don’t cry, Father,’ she whispered, a trace of real panic in her voice.

‘I won’t cry over this, maid. You’ve a good man here, and you’ll make him proud of you.’

She smiled, and walked beside him along the grassed pathway to the church door where everyone waited for them.

And that, in truth, was much of his memory of the day. The priest stood and portentously intoned the words, while the two children — he hoped he would grow to remember that they were adults now — smiled shyly at each other and the crowds waiting, putting on the ring on her fourth finger, swearing their vows to each other … Simon knew all this happened, but it was all he could do to keep a grip on his wife’s hand as it all progressed. He remembered to announce the dowry, which stunned the audience when they saw the King’s purse and his money, but after that, when Baldwin clapped him on the back, and Jeanne came to him and congratulated him on acquiring a stolid, stable son-in-law who would be a credit to his family, all he could do was mumble. It was only later, when he sampled the brides-ale, that he began to feel a little more normal.

‘She looks lovely, doesn’t she?’ Margaret said as the shadows lengthened and the crowds grew rowdier, the priest bellowing at a small group of men gambling on a cockfight, while others drank themselves to a stupor on a grave nearby.

Simon took a deep breath and let his eyes range over all the people in the yard. ‘She looks almost as lovely as you did, Meg, on the day I married you,’ he said, and encircled her waist with his arm. He could see his son Peterkin running about with three friends from the town, all playing tag, and as he looked over at Edith, he saw that she was wearing two little crowns, one of primroses, one of cowslips, and a necklace of violets. And suddenly he felt an enormity of sadness welling up in his breast, as though his life was all but ended.

‘Simon? Are you well?’ Margaret asked.

‘Of course I am. Are you?’

She turned a little away. ‘I feel so happy, I almost feel sad.’

‘He has a good wife, there. He’d best look after her.’

‘With that dowry, he’ll be able to afford to,’ Margaret said.

‘I hope so,’ Simon responded. ‘I wish them both all the happiness in the world.’

Baldwin had approached with Jeanne, who had arrived the day before, fetched by Edgar, and heard his last words. ‘So do we all, Simon. So do we all.’

Beaulieu

Despenser sat back in his seat as the two men entered. ‘Well?’

‘We’ve not been able to look until today, Sir Hugh,’ the first, Ivor, said. ‘We looked through all his belongings, but there was no sign of anything there.’

‘You are quite sure? The phial could be very small, perhaps only the size of a sword’s pommel?’

‘There was nothing there that could hold oil. We’ve been through everything.’

Despenser ground his teeth with frustration. It wasn’t as if he had all the time in the world. There were reports coming to him of possible invasion plans for the conquering of England. Joseph had just returned from the prior of Christ Church with another story of shipping off the coast of Holland, and here he was, trying to find the oil that could provide salvation. Oh, he’d told that fool of a friar that he didn’t believe in the oil, but that was less than honest. He didn’t know whether the oil was St Thomas’s or not, but that didn’t matter. Not now.

Before he had wanted it for himself, just to prove to the King that Despenser had his best interests at heart. However, now he was beginning to change his mind.

If he could find it and let it be known that the Abbot of Westminster, perhaps, had used it to renew the King’s vows and have him anointed again, then men throughout the realm would listen and perhaps have faith in him once more.

That was the main issue now. Despenser had picked up rumours from spies that Roger Mortimer was in Hainault. And the men there were notoriously keen on taking up arms for any man who could afford them. They were skilled, and numerous. If Mortimer succeeded in persuading Guillaume, the Count of Hainault, he would have a large army at his disposal. Only last year Despenser had learned of a plot to invade, and ships had gathered off Zeeland. He’d ordered the admiral of the eastern fleet to keep his eyes open, but fortunately nothing had come of it then. That didn’t mean Mortimer wasn’t attempting something equally audacious now.

If he was successful, the King would need as many men as possible for when the invasion force arrived. There were few enough who had shown any interest in fighting for him so far. The oil could be the last little grain of sand that tilted men back into his camp and prepared them to fight for the King again, rather than leave all to fate. Fate would be a painful experience for Despenser, he felt sure.

He had to find that oil. It may be just enough to put a little fire in the bellies of the men who needed it, and Despenser must find it to prove once again that he was the one man in the kingdom upon whom the King could rely.

‘You want us to catch the man, Sir Hugh?’ Ivor said hesitantly. ‘I could tickle him up a little with my knife, see if that loosens his tongue?’

It was tempting. But … ‘No. Not yet. We will be leaving in a couple of days. The King must return to Westminster, ready for a meeting of his barons to discuss France. He is to persuade the Bishop of Orange to join him. The king’s heralds will all be on the journey with us. It will be easier to find the oil then, on the road. He will have to bring it with him, unless he’s planning to leave it down here. It’s too valuable for that. No, leave him for now. We’ll take him and have our sport later.’

The Bishop of Orange was content to be leaving this place, but it was a source of great annoyance that he was to travel up to London. The city was no doubt diverting enough for most men, but for him it was merely an additional journey which entailed going still further out of his way. His path should take him back to the Pope, not up to London. It was almost the opposite direction, in God’s name!

When he heard the knock at his door, it made him glance quickly at his table to ensure that any indiscreet documents were hidden before he called out, ‘Entrez!’

Nicholas walked in slowly, downcast. This was no time for pride. He had to show how humble he was. At other times he could show a little pride in his habit, but not today. Today he was a mere supplicant, begging some assistance from another man of God.

‘What do you want, Friar?’

The tone was not welcoming. ‘My Lord Bishop, I am a deeply miserable friar. I have been here at Beaulieu for some weeks, trying to see the King to plead my case, but he will not see me.’

‘What is your case?’

‘The oil of St Thomas,’ Nicholas said, and felt sure that the Bishop understood. Immediately, the Bishop seemed to give him his full attention, and even as Nicholas told his story, he gained the impression that the Bishop already knew, or guessed much. Perhaps it was not so surprising, though. The Pope knew about the oil, and surely some of his closer advisers would also have been told of it.

‘This is most interesting,’ the Bishop said. ‘But what do you want me to do? Raise the matter with the King? I do not think he would be grateful for a foreigner to bring it up.’

‘No. I was hoping to be able to travel with you, my Lord. If you would allow me to join your party on the way to the Pope, I would be very grateful.’

‘Your gratitude is no doubt a fine thing,’ the Bishop said without enthusiasm. ‘However, I have a large entourage already. If you wish us to carry food and drink for you too, it will add a great deal to my baggage.’

‘I can walk, and I have little need of food, my Lord. We friars are used to the ascetic life and little nourishment.’

‘True enough.’ The Bishop studied him thoughtfully for a while, and at last nodded. ‘Very well. I will allow you to join my men on the journey to the Pope. However, I cannot guarantee the reception you will receive.’

‘I am very glad to hear it! I will make my peace with him as best I may.’

‘Yes. I am sure that he will be most interested to hear more about this marvellous oil,’ the Bishop said.