The Prophecy of Death

Chapter Two

Tuesday following Easter⁶

Château du Bois, Paris

Baldwin sipped his wine and tried to look appreciative.

The musicians were not all bad. Some were really quite talented. That fellow Janin was rather good with his vielle, and Ricard was a competent gittern player, although he did tend to make a little too much of a show with his playing for Baldwin’s taste. He seemed to wave his instrument about overmuch when the women were watching him. Still, at least he was making a pleasing sound. Not soothing, but definitely pleasing.

But it was soothing which his soul needed just now. He had been here in France for a month or so, which meant that it was … what? Two months, no, three since he had left his wife and children back home at Furnshill. However long it was, it felt a great deal longer. That was certain. His son was only a matter of three months old when the King’s summons had arrived to call him on this journey, travelling to France with the Queen, protecting her from dangers on the road, so that she might arrive safely at the French court.

Queen Isabella was a strong-willed woman. She had come through many disappointments with her husband and his choice of friends. In recent years she had seen all her properties confiscated, her income taken, her servants exiled and even her children taken into custody. All this while her husband ignored her and took to carousing with his favourite adviser, Sir Hugh le Despenser.

Many women would have been broken by such cruelty, but not Queen Isabella. Baldwin reckoned that at the heart of her there was a baulk of English oak, resilient, impervious, unbending. She grew more resolute with every setback, he thought. For all the hardship and the sadness which it must have brought to her, still she acted like a Queen. There was no apparent rancour in her spirit as she conducted her embassy with the French King. King Charles IV, her brother, was a man of great intellect and enormous cunning, Baldwin felt — but he tended to feel that about any king. Men with such enormous power were best avoided, in his opinion.

She was here today, sitting at her chair, listening to the music with enthusiasm as the players cavorted, her eyes sometimes straying to the little boy who sat at the back with the covers for the instruments, discarded along with the musicians’ paraphernalia.

To Baldwin’s relief the lad was playing quietly with a ball and causing no trouble. He was the adopted son of Ricard of Bromley, the musician with the gittern, and seemed content enough with his life just now. That itself was good to see.

Baldwin glanced across at his friend of so many years, Simon Puttock. A tall man, some ten years younger at nine-and-thirty or so, Simon was a strong man, used to long hours in the saddle. He had been a bailiff on Dartmoor, responsible for upholding the King’s peace on the moors. His grey eyes were set in a calm, sunburned face and had seen their share of violence in over ten years of trying to seek out felons. His reliability had led to his promotion to the post of officer of the Keeper of the Port of Dartmouth, but the reward had been bitter, as it meant leaving his wife and family behind.

And now he did not even have that post, for his Patron, Abbot Robert of Tavistock, had died, and arguments had arisen over the abbey’s choice of successor. Simon had no idea what his job would be.

Baldwin’s face twisted wryly. Unlike him, he thought. His own position was fixed: he was the Keeper of the King’s Peace, a Justice of Gaol Delivery, and most recently, a member of the king’s parliament, a council which even the king distrusted. He only used it to raise revenue.

For Baldwin, such a post reeked. He had been a Knight Templar, a member of a holy and honourable order, which had been attacked by an avaricious French king and his partner, the Pope. The Templars had been destroyed by those two, to their dishonour. Baldwin had been fortunate enough not to be in the preceptories when all were arrested, and was never caught. Yet the experience of seeing the persecution and deceit had left him with an abiding hatred of politicians and the clergy. He could trust neither entirely. Only his friend Simon seemed absolutely trustworthy.

Simon was now standing at the other side of the room — naturally all those in the chamber here listening with the Queen, the knights, the men-at-arms, the ladies-in-waiting, were all standing; none might sit in the Queen’s presence — and was stifling a yawn. Baldwin felt his own jaw respond, and vainly attempted to conceal it, sensing his mouth puckering like an old hag’s who had bitten into a sloe, before he managed to cover it with a forearm.

The Queen displayed no such weakness. She remained upright in her chair, listening with every indication of enthusiasm, as though all the tribulations of the last months were dispelled by the music, hard though Baldwin might find it to believe. And yet, he knew, for much of the time, she was bitter. She concealed her anger at, and detestation of, Despenser, the principal architect and cause of her misery, but for Simon and Baldwin, who had grown to know and understand her moods and behaviour in the last few weeks of travelling with her, the fact was that her mood was generally easy enough for them to read. It was clear that she was here to do the very best deal she could for her adopted country and her oldest son, so that he might inherit a good kingdom, but for all that, if there were any means by which she could embarrass or offend her husband, she would surely not hesitate to grasp it with both hands.

‘That,’ Simon said as they walked away from the Queen’s chamber to their own, ‘was boring in the extreme. I don’t know about you, but I’m not sure how much more of this I can bear.’

‘It’s all right for some,’ Baldwin admitted. ‘Fine wine, good food-’

‘Too damned rich.’ His friend grunted. ‘Give me some plain rabbit roasted over an open fire rather than all this coloured muck.’

‘… and yet I want to be at home to see my son. I worry about Jeanne,’ Baldwin finished. His wife had been so tired when he left her to set off for London, and all he could recall was that paleness about her features and the pinched look she had worn, as though his beautiful lady was overtired and cold.

‘I’d like to see my Meg again, too,’ Simon said sharply, adding, ‘and my daughter should have been married by now. All this wandering about France and back has delayed her nuptials. I doubt whether she, or her mother, will be too happy about that.’

It was true. Simon’s daughter, Edith, had been betrothed for an age — certainly more than a year — but she was almost seventeen now. He would have to allow her to marry as soon as he could, and that may well mean as soon as he returned home to Lydford. He had kept her waiting too long.

‘Simon, I am sorry. I have been growing irritable without my own wife and children. I forget others may have the same regrets.’

‘How much longer do we have to stay here?’

Baldwin shook his head. He had no answer to that. They had been sent here on the orders of the King, and their duty was to remain to ensure the Queen’s safety.

It was a most peculiar situation, though, and one fraught with dangers for a rural knight and bailiff.

Prior’s Hall, Christ Church Priory

The Prior rubbed at the bridge of his nose and ran through the events again, from the moment the idiots had woken him.

It was not only him. Mark and Hal had woken the whole priory. All had been deeply asleep, waiting for the bell to toll for Matins, and instead they were jerked awake by the screams of those two. Old Brother Anselm had thought that the end of the world was coming and nearly expired on the spot, poor devil. In truth, it was a miracle the deaf old stoat had heard anything.

All had rushed to the barn as soon as the fools had announced their discovery, and the priory had been all of a twitter ever since. It would have been bad enough if the man was just one of the brethren. Yes, that would have been dreadful. But worse still was the fact of who he was: a friend of Sir Hugh le Despenser. No one disliked poor brother Gilbert. The man was a pleasant fellow, bright, studious, and keen to please.

What was he doing there in the hounds’ barn? The man should have been asleep, like all the other brethren. Yet there he was, in the hay, with his throat cut. Something must have awoken him and made him rise and walk outside. A disturbance? No, surely not — if there had been something of that nature, someone else would have heard it. Another monk would have woken.

Prior Henry swallowed uncomfortably as this thought rattled about in his head. Because perhaps another monk had woken. Perhaps it was a brother monk who had slain the poor fellow?

But that would mean that someone had hated him enough to all but hack his head from his body. Surely that was no monk from Christ Church.

No. It couldn’t be.

Château du Bois, Paris

It was while Baldwin and Simon were settling down in their chamber that the messenger arrived to ask them to return to the Queen’s rooms.

‘What now?’ Simon muttered as they trotted across the courtyard. ‘She wants a brief demonstration of sword-play to help her sleep?’

‘You grow impatient with our Queen?’ Baldwin said with a flash of his teeth.

‘Not impatient with her — just with our position here,’ Simon protested.

‘Yet you think she seeks our company for a diversion?’

‘She appears to enjoy little diversions,’ Simon grumbled.

It was true — and yet she was also possessed of an intellect which was quite the match of any man’s, as Baldwin told himself. The mere fact that she was here, in Paris, at her husband’s expense, was proof of her wiliness. She was no fool. When she wanted something, she tended to win it.

‘Sir Baldwin, Bailiff Puttock, I am glad to see you return,’ Isabella greeted them as they walked in. She was still in her seat, while, instead of the ladies-in-waiting, William de Bouden, her comptroller and personal adviser, now stood at her shoulder.

Bowing, his face to the ground, Baldwin could not see her face. ‘My Lady, naturally we came as soon as you commanded us.’

‘There is no need for formality just now. Please, stand, both of you,’ she said, graciously motioning with her hands for them to rise. ‘I called you here to hear what my good friend William has to say. William, tell them too.’

The comptroller was a slightly chubby man, but square set for a clerk. He had eyes that were grey, steely and determined. He had the appearance of a fighter who had somewhat gone to seed in recent years. Now he looked at Baldwin and Simon with some doubt in his face. He had not come to know either of them during their journey here, and since arriving in Paris there had been too many calls on all their time.

‘As you know, we are all here to negotiate a lasting peace. We have the objective of having all the King’s territories returned. We cannot lose lands such as Guyenne.’

‘It’s a matter of pride,’ Simon said, trying to sound as though he understood perfectly.

William turned his eyes on Simon, and when he spoke, his voice oozed contempt. ‘You could say that. On the other hand, when you appreciate the fact that Guyenne brings more to the King’s purse than England, Scotland and Wales combined, you may understand that it is more than mere pride which makes it an attractive territory.’

‘What!’ Simon blurted, and gaped.

De Bouden pursed his lips, then, seeing he had their full attention, continued in more detail, explaining the history of the disputed territories.

Last year there had been a flare of battle over a bastide at St Sardos. The Abbot of Sarlat tried to build it with the permission of the French King, but English locals had deprecated the construction, and thrown down the works. The French tried to stop them, and the mob rose in anger, killing a French official. It gave the French the pretext they had wanted, and all the English territories had been confiscated by them.

Now the French King, Charles IV, insisted that the English King, Edward II, should come to France to renew his pledges of allegiance over the French territories under his command. But King Edward had no wish to put himself under the authority of this latest French King. King Charles IV was a dangerous opponent, wily and astute, and, the way his mind worked, it was surely hazardous to the English interest, and perhaps to the English King’s personal safety, for King Edward to cross the channel. Which was why the Queen was here. She was French by birth, so she understood them, she could speak the language fluently, and her brother would hopefully not wish to embarrass her. He may even give the lands back as a matter of chivalry.

That had been the hope.

The reality was that King Charles IV was a shrewd negotiator who knew the strength of his position and intended making full use of it. The idea that he would willingly give up the lands he had taken was farcical.

‘What is he asking?’ Baldwin said.

The Queen herself responded. ‘He demands that we surrender Guyenne, Ponthieu and Montreuil, until the King my husband comes here to pay homage to his liege lord. The Agenais will remain in my brother’s hands until the ownership and rights are decided by a French court.’

‘You think our King will accept that?’ Baldwin said, shocked.

The Queen looked at him. ‘Hardly,’ she said.

‘So we will have to make an accommodation,’ William de Bouden said.

‘Of what nature?’ Baldwin asked.

‘It is easy,’ William began. ‘Our King cannot come here himself. He could be in danger. There are many men here in the French court who are no friends to our King, and-’

The Queen cut him off impatiently. ‘The King will not come, and there is only one other who could. If the King were to elevate my son by giving him all the King’s possessions in France, then my son Edward could come here and take the oath. My husband need not come here himself. I want you to go to the King and explain this.’

Eltham Palace, Kent

Unaware of discussions taking place over the seas in France which would lead to the ruin of his family, the end of his father’s reign, and which would have a terrible impact on his own life, Edward of Windsor, the Earl of Chester, was yet assailed by dark thoughts.

He sat silently while food was brought to his table, surveying the men before him as he dipped his hands in the bowl presented, and dried them on the towel. In front of him, ranged in two lines, were the great trestle tables, and two thirds of his household were there, seated at the benches, while the remaining servants scurried to and fro with the dishes of food, one to each mess of four men. At least it was only his own household, he thought. His father was off at Beaulieu in Hampshire now.

It was a relief that his father was gone. The peripatetic life of a King was the same as that of any important lord, and involved a lot of strenuous travelling from manor to manor, because the size of the King’s household was so vast that it would drain any location of its stock of food within a few days. So the King was forced to land upon a site, despoil it, and then move on again.

But it was not the poor peasants of the area near Eltham which caused Earl Edward such relief at the King’s departure: it was that it was so hard for the Earl to control his anger and frustration in his father’s presence. How he wished, sometimes, that he had been born just a normal man. Not a peasant, but a knight who would never seek to be more than a knight. A man who had a set position in the world, maintaining the King’s Peace, controlling the mob, and making sure that the third class, the working men and peasants, kept to their allotted tasks, producing food for the bellatores and the men of God.

The life of the King’s son was different from that of ordinary men. Christ’s pains, but he knew that well enough. An ordinary man would respect his father and seek no reward. He must only show the correct reverence. But not Earl Edward. The King’s first-born son was different. From early in his life he was separated from his father. He was of the royal blood, so like his mother, he had his own establishment, his own household. And it was like his father’s in every way. The three lived more or less unconnected lives. Each with their own comptroller, their own guards, their own cooks, their own squires and heralds. When all three together descended on an area, the locals groaned under the weight of the demands on their stored foodstuffs.

But when they were together, Earl Edward was constantly aware of conflicting emotions: the natural filial love mingling with gratitude for the magnificent gifts which his overgenerous father lavished upon him, competing with the bitterness and rage caused by his father’s treatment of the rest of his family. Not to mention the other issues.

Not one of them could be raised in his father’s presence, though. The way in which he had lost the trust and goodwill of his nobles, the irrational way he dealt with the French, which risked all the foreign possessions, and, most of all, the shameful way in which he acceded to each and every demand from that snake, Sir Hugh le Despenser. All these were enough to make the Earl’s soul revolt, and yet he dared not raise them. The capricious, unreasonable way in which the King responded to any comment that could be viewed as a criticism made the very idea unthinkable. It was too dangerous.

Just as it was to bring up the way that his father was treating his brother and sisters. All of them taken from their mother and put into the care of others. And his mother, who was a queen, in God’s name, had even had her private seal taken and put in the safe-keeping of Despenser’s wife. That was disgraceful treatment, and humiliating for Queen Isabella.

But the way that the King treated his mother was none of his business, as he had been told. It was hard. Very hard. He had adored his father all those years. When he was a boy, there was nothing his father wouldn’t do for him. All through to the day when the despicable Despenser arrived. From that moment, practically, his mother had been set aside. It didn’t matter that she had remained loyal and loving to him, King Edward just ignored her. Or, worse, tolerated her presence. For the daughter of a French king and sister of three others, this was worse than contemptible.

And no, Earl Edward was not allowed to raise the matter. Despenser might discuss the queen and her children in that sly, fawning manner he had, but not the King’s own son. King Edward would brook no criticism of any sort. The subject was closed.

Even for his son.

Earl Edward of Chester was at the same time a minor, just, and one of the most senior peers of the realm. A confusing position for anyone to cope with, especially a man who had responsibilities like his. For he was not just any earl. He was an earl who would be a king to rival Arthur himself.

After all, he was to become the ‘Boar from Windsor’.