‘What proof, sire?’ Ranulf exclaimed.
The King chuckled.
‘Precisely, Ranulf! They’ll always wonder just what proof I really have.’ The King raised his hands as a sign that the meeting was over. ‘I don’t think you should stay, Sir Hugh, when I see de Craon.’
Corbett and Ranulf got to their feet and bowed. Edward rubbed his fingers along the top of the table.
‘Do you know, Corbett,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Sometimes I wonder if the game is more important than winning? I met Philip’s wife Johanna. I often wondered how long Philip would tolerate her. I wonder what he really is after? Marriage to a Flemish princess? I’ll stop that. And, as for the Templars? Soon it will be Christmas. Perhaps it’s time I invited the Grand Master, Jacques de Molay, back to England.’ Edward clapped his hands. ‘Oh, Corbett, Ranulf, I think we’ll celebrate the feast of All Saints at Leighton!’
Corbett smiled to hide his deep anguish at having to act as host to Edward and his cronies. They would sweep into his manor and all harmony would be shattered.
‘Is there anything I can do for you?’
‘When Lady Maeve’s child is born,’ Corbett replied quickly, because he knew the King loved such requests, ‘if you could stand godfather at the font?’
‘Done.’ The King raised his hand. ‘And, before you leave, Corbett, I have something for Lady Maeve. A necklace.’ His eyes softened. ‘Once worn by my Eleanor.’ He opened the large wallet which hung from his war belt and tossed a purse of gold coins down the table. ‘And that’s for you, my Clerk of the Green Wax!’
Ranulf let it lie.
‘Come! Come!’ Edward drew his brows together. ‘Do you refuse a prince’s gift? What else do you want, Clerk of the Green Wax? Promotion? A bishopric?’
‘Lady Madeleine dead!’ Ranulf spat the words out, ignoring Corbett’s hiss of disapproval.
‘Pick the gold up!’ Edward ordered. ‘Pick it up, boy!’
Ranulf obeyed.
‘I can’t give you Lady Madeleine’s head on a platter.’ Edward drew his dagger, clasping his fingers round the hilt. ‘But, I, Edward, King of England, Ireland and Scotland, give my solemn word: before Easter comes and goes, Lady Madeleine Fitzalan will join her brother before the court of Heaven. That matter’s finished!’
Corbett tugged at Ranulf’s arm. They bowed and walked out of the chamber. De Craon, lounging in a window seat, got up.
‘Ah, Sir Hugh, your king is pleased?’
‘My king is always pleased, Seigneur Amaury.’
De Craon pulled his face into mock grief and spread his hands.
‘I hope His Majesty is in good humour. We were grieved to hear of the death of one of his clerks, Simon Roulles, a student of the Sorbonne. Such a dreadful death! Surely it proves Scripture, that we never know the time or the place of our demise?’
‘My dear Amaury.’ Corbett faced him squarely. ‘None of us know the time and place. But the good Lord be my witness. If there is a time and place when I can settle accounts with you,’ he held his hand up in a gesture of peace, ‘pax et bonum, my dear Amaury.’
The French envoy bowed, stepped aside and swept into the royal chamber.
‘My dear, dear Amaury!’ Edward of England half-rose from his seat, then slouched back as if the effort was too much. He gestured at the chair Corbett had vacated. ‘I understand you have been enjoying the air of Sussex?’
‘I am grieved, sir.’ De Craon took a seat.
Edward offered his cup. De Craon took it and sipped, pleased at this mark of favour.
‘At the death of Lord Henry and, of course, Signor Cantrone. Now I bring you official news of the death of Simon Roulles. Sire, accept my condolences as well as those of his most gracious majesty the King of France.’
‘God only knows your grief,’ Edward replied. He gestured at a sheaf of documents in front of him. ‘And I have similar bad news: Pierre Rafael?’ He raised one eyebrow. De Craon tensed. ‘A French student in the Halls of Oxford,’ the King explained. ‘A man, indeed, who seemed to spend most of his life in study. Pierre often journeyed to our eastern ports, he appeared very interested in shipping. .’
‘What happened to him?’ de Craon asked quickly.
‘Unfortunately he was drowned,’ the King replied. ‘His body was fished out of the Thames. My own clerk, Master Aidan Smallbone, was in the vicinity at the time. He examined the corpse most carefully, a boating accident.’ Edward spread his hands apologetically. ‘These students and their drinking!’
De Craon swallowed hard. He would miss Pierre. He wondered how Edward of England had discovered his spy’s true identity.
‘Simon often writes to his family in England,’ the King continued.
‘Sire, what has this got to do with the negotiations for the betrothal of your son and the Princess Isabella?’
Edward waved a hand. ‘Oh, don’t worry about that. My good friend, John de Warrenne, Earl of Surrey, will lead our embassy. You should be in Dover in three days and in France before the end of the week. Other lords and ladies will accompany him.’
‘So, the betrothal will go ahead?’
‘Of course!’ Edward smiled. ‘It is a sworn treaty, sanctified by the Holy Father in Avignon. However, there are one or two little clauses I would like to discuss with you.’
‘What clauses?’
‘Ah, that’s why I mentioned Roulle’s letters. He was a great gossiper, a friend of Lord Henry Fitzalan, not to mention Signor Cantrone and Lady Madeleine. Well, to cut a long story short, de Craon, I am deeply distressed at the malicious rumours that Queen Johanna of France did not die of natural causes.’ Edward kept his face grave though he was gratified by the alarm in de Craon’s eyes. ‘Some say that she was poisoned. Isn’t that dreadful?’
‘They lie and my master will have their heads!’ de Craon retorted.
‘Quite right.’ Edward scratched his head. ‘These same scurrilous gossips also point to the sudden and unexplained deaths of Monsieur Gilles Malvoisin, Queen Johanna’s physician, and Madame Malvoisin his wife, not to mention Malvoisin’s assistant and close friend Signor Cantrone.’
De Craon licked his lips. Edward leaned forward.
‘It grieves my heart, Amaury,’ he said in a low voice, ‘that these same gossips lay the blame for Queen Johanna’s death at the door of my beloved brother in Christ, Philip. They tell fabulous tales, how Philip wishes to marry again, a Flemish princess! Or, even worse, that he wishes to become a bachelor, gain entry into the Templars and so dominate that Order.’
‘These are lies! What is their source?’
‘We’ll come to that in a while.’ Edward offered his goblet to de Craon. ‘I merely tell you this out of friendship.’
De Craon took the cup.
‘So incensed am I by these malicious rumours,’ Edward continued, thoroughly enjoying himself, ‘that I intend to write to the Holy Father and, indeed, all the crowned heads of Europe, to refute them.’
De Craon spluttered on his wine. Edward sprang to his feet, pushed the cup away and patted him hard on the back.
‘It’s a good, strong claret,’ he said. ‘The best MY,’ Edward emphasised the word, ‘MY duchy of Gascony can produce.’
‘There is no need to do that.’ De Craon coughed. ‘Please, sire, there is no need for that. By writing such letters the rumours would only spread.’
‘Oh, I hadn’t thought of that!’ Edward admitted, retaking his seat. ‘But they are terrible lies. I mean, if the King of France married a Flemish princess or tried to control the Order of the Templars which has houses, lands and treasure throughout all of Europe, England and its allies would regard that as an act of war. The peace treaty would be rescinded and there would be no marriage between my boy and the Princess Isabella.’
‘Your Majesty jumps too far too soon!’
‘You do not wish me to write such a letter? You want me to keep the matter secret and confidential?’
‘Of course, sire. But, if you could tell us the source of such slander?’
‘I will in due time.’ Edward sat up straight in the chair. ‘But there are a few,’ he waved a hand, ‘a few anomalies about this betrothal treaty.’