The King threw out his arms theatrically. ‘Is this fair? Is it reasonable? He sends an army into my lands — mine — and then imposes rules on how I might win them back!’
‘There is another matter, my Lord.’ John Stratford, Bishop of Winchester, was reluctant to add to Edward’s woes, but this was too important not to be raised. At least the King’s worst temper appeared to be dissipating, and so the Bishop felt more comfortable about mentioning it now. ‘King Charles also complained that you were attempting to form an alliance with his enemies. He mentioned Spain, Aragon, and Hainault.’
‘I am a King! I can negotiate with whomsoever I wish!’
Despenser smiled to himself. Any suggestion that someone was encroaching on King Edward’s rights always made him jump like someone had jabbed a knife in his arse. Leaning forward, he twisted the dagger a little. ‘My Lord, the French King is aware of that, of course. And yet he is your liege-lord. You owe him loyalty.’
‘Only for Guyenne, damn his soul! That hog’s shit has no right to expect me to surrender my rights to negotiate! Would he have me submit all my policies to him for approval? That bastard encroached on my rights on my territories, and then demanded that I submit to him, and now he intends to make me little more than a puppet king, an arm of French law and nothing more!’
Despenser sat back, the seeds of additional discord already fruiting nicely. He had little care about the provinces which exercised the King so much. He had no need of them. What he was interested in lay here, in the kingdom of England, where he had all but total power. What point was there in him worrying about Guyenne when he was already the wealthiest man in England, saving only the King himself? However, it was true that all power resided in the person of the King. And if King Edward II were ever to be weakened or threatened, Despenser’s own position would go the same way. It did not bear considering that he could be left to the mercies of the barons in this country. That had happened to Piers Gaveston, and he had been captured and slaughtered by them nine years ago. Despenser did not intend to suffer a similar fate.
‘My Lord, it is natural that the French King should ask that you go to him to pay homage for lands which are held in fief from him. It is his right to demand this,’ Stratford said quietly.
Despenser glanced sidelong at him. Bishop John was a very astute, calm man. He’d been a thorn in the King’s side when he took on Winchester, because the King had set his own heart on an ally, Baldock. Bishop John had returned from the Papal Curia, at which he had been intended to promote Baldock, with the position in his own purse. Furious, the King had accused him of greed and pushing his own interests, before confiscating all the Bishop’s lands. Stratford had been forced to pay twelve thousand pounds to recover his property from the Crown.
However he was a natural diplomat, cautious, shrewd and detached. A dangerous enemy, in fact, and Despenser was unsure about him. What, for example, was the meaning behind this latest suggestion? That the King should go to Paris? How could that benefit Bishop John, he wondered. Not that he was too concerned. He was sure he could persuade King Edward to ignore that sort of suggestion.
He tried a tone of hurt shock. ‘You expect your King to go to Paris? You really want him to suffer another humiliation at the hands of the man who confiscated all his French territories last year? When all his enemies are there, living openly and under the protection of the French court?’
‘Yes — you expect me to abase myself before that thief?’ King Edward raged suddenly. ‘Had you heard that traitors are there? You want them to have a chance to assassinate me?’
‘My Lord King, I say no such-’
‘But you want me to go to Paris, don’t you?’
‘Perhaps the good Bishop is not aware of the risks involved,’ Despenser muttered.
‘The risks?’
‘Yes!’ the King shouted. ‘The risks, my good Lord Bishop! Don’t you know that the realm’s greatest traitor, that duplicitous bastard Mortimer, is there at the French court? Eh? And he’s not alone, is he? No! There are enough other men in that court who would want to do me damage!’
As he ranted, Hugh le Despenser nodded sagely. It had not been difficult to plant concerns about the King’s safety were he to go to France. His obsessional paranoia since the last wars was in fact entirely rational. Edward had killed his own cousin, Earl Thomas of Lancaster, and then embarked on a campaign of reprisals against all those who had attacked him and his authority. That was over two years ago, but rotting limbs of the knights and lords who had been executed were still dangling above the gates to all the major cities in the land, while their heads adorned spikes. Some had managed to slip away without capture, and most of them had gone to the French court, where the King liked to bite his thumb at his English brother-in-law. Now they lived there, more or less openly, at the expense of the French.
‘I will not submit to this! I want my host! Send my men-at-arms to France — I will crush this bastard!’
Despenser saw how quickly the Bishop’s eye dropped to hide his amusement, and he curbed the smile that threatened his own mouth. To openly deride the King’s martial expertise would be dangerous even for him.
‘My Lord,’ Stratford said quietly, ‘you have no host. The French King has right upon his side. You are a vassal for the Guyenne. And do not forget that the Pope wishes for peace, and he begs that you do homage for the lands you hold from King Charles IV.’
‘Sir Hugh?’
Despenser made a show of raising his hands and shaking his head. ‘My Lord King, I suppose any obfuscation must result in losing Guyenne. My Lord Bishop is quite right to say that homage must be paid.’
‘I will not go there. Must I accept the demands of this upstart who has stolen my lands from me? No! I would sooner give up my Crown! And I do not have to.’ He span on his heel and pointed at the clerk sitting in the corner. ‘I will send a delegation to Castile. We will offer my son in marriage to the Castilian woman, this … this … Sir Hugh, what was her name?’
‘Leonor, my Lord,’ Despenser said.
‘Yes. We will send ambassadors to them there. Demand three thousand men to help protect our provinces from this French King. Then we can …’
Despenser saw Stratford fiddling with the parchment in front of him. His unease was all too plain. The King was taking actions that could infuriate the French, who had the most powerful host in all Europe. Despenser shivered, and tried to cover it by lifting his arms over his head and stretching. But there was no concealing the dangers and threats from himself. He had to remain on the alert all the time.
Especially, he thought as he caught another sideways look from the Bishop, from men like this. Stratford knew that the last thing Despenser could afford was to allow the King to leave his sight. If he were to go to France, Sir Hugh le Despenser could not go with him. The French King had already declared that Hugh was an enemy of France and would be executed if he set foot on French soil.
No. He couldn’t go to France, and if he couldn’t, the King mustn’t. To be left alone here in England while Edward crossed the Channel would mean an alliance among the barons, and Sir Hugh’s neck on a block. There were few in whom he could genuinely place his trust, were the King to leave him to the wolves.
Chief among his enemies was the Queen. She despised him, because when the King lost his infatuation for her, he took all her wealth and property and used it to reward the man he adored. She blamed Hugh for that, he thought with a slow smile. As well she might. It was he, together with the avaricious Bishop of Exeter, Walter, who had hatched the scheme which would reward both by impoverishing her. Only a short while ago she had been one of the wealthiest magnates in the land; now she was reduced to the status of a humble corrodian at the King’s court.