Near Barnwell Priory
There was a chill in the air as the men of the Queen’s host moved down the broad roadway towards the next town, and young Edward, Duke of Aquitaine and Earl of Chester, shivered miserably. He was tired and feeling more than a little sick. Even with the aketon over his shirt, the hauberk and the pair of plates over that, the dampness seemed to soak into his very soul, making the nausea worse.
He was the son of the King, and the idea that he might shame himself and his father by puking in public was not to be considered. Except he was shamed already.
Always in the past the English King had travelled to Paris to pay homage for the lands owned by him in France. Guyenne was crucial to the English Crown, after all. The money from those great wine-producing regions brought in more to the exchequer than England and Wales together. It was inconceivable that the King could allow those lands to be lost.
However, the worst had happened. King Edward II had allowed the French to occupy the whole of his estates in France, and King Charles had declared them forfeit purely because King Edward had refused to pay homage. Edward was in an impossible situation. Were he to leave England, his barons would overthrow his Regent, Sir Hugh le Despenser, son of the Earl of Winchester, just as the Earl of Warwick had done ten or more years ago when he captured Piers Gaveston and had him beheaded. The King dared not leave another close friend to the mercy of his barons.
Queen Isabella, the Duke’s mother, was sister to King Charles, and had travelled to Paris to negotiate a truce and try to win back the English lands. Success seemed close at hand when she wrote to ask that her son be given the English lands in France. That way, she explained, he could travel to Paris, pay homage in his own right, and thereby satisfy the English King’s need to remain in England, while also giving the French King the gratification of knowing that he had procured the confirmation of his subject’s loyalty. It was the ideal compromise.
So the young Earl had been elevated to Duke and sent to France, but when he arrived, a year ago, he was thrown into a maelstrom of politicking. His mother had been recalled to England but refused to obey her husband, declaring that there was a third person in her marriage, and until her husband threw out Sir Hugh le Despenser, she would hold herself to be widowed. And then, although the King wrote to Edward to command him to return and not allow himself to be forced into a marriage contract or to remain under the control of his mother or the French King, he had been forced to do both.
He had not willingly disobeyed his father. He loved him – no son more; but he adored his mother too, and Isabella had made it clear that she could not return to Edward while Despenser remained at court.
‘Do not worry, he will see sense,’ she cooed to her son when he told her how anxious the separation made him. Not yet fourteen, he was a pawn in the battle between King and Queen; he feared he was the cause of their antagonism.
At first, to be in France was glorious. He had thought it a frolic, away from the stresses of life in England. But as the days grew into weeks, the weeks into months, he became aware of the influence the other man had on his mother: the witty, charming, shrewd and devious Sir Roger Mortimer.
Sir Roger, who had led the men of the Borders against the King, and who had escaped from the Tower of London when his death sentence was signed, was in France pouring acid into the Queen’s ears. Edward knew it – he had seen them together often enough. And it was clear that his mother’s relationship with this man was more than mere friendship. She was flaunting her affection for Sir Roger before all at the French court, and humiliating her son into the bargain. Duke Edward heard the whispers and gossip as courtiers discussed his mother and her adulterous affair. An affair that was not only against her marriage vows but also a terrible felony. A man committing adultery with a queen was putting the bloodline of the royal family at risk, as Queen Isabella well knew. Her brothers’ wives had committed adultery twelve years before, and their lovers had been executed, while the women languished horribly, dying in foul captivity. She knew she was causing mortification to her husband and heaping disgrace upon the family.
Unable to intervene, Duke Edward could only watch and listen as opprobrium was heaped upon his mother and her lover. And he felt that the same was his due, as he betrayed his father the King in all that he did. Now, here he was, back in England to fulfil his mother’s desire to see his father forced to lose his adviser, Sir Hugh le Despenser. And then, to lose his throne.
Edward almost despaired. All close to him were placed there by his mother or Mortimer. His life was hedged about with ‘protection’ at every turn, so that for the first time in his life, he had no independence. At almost fourteen, he was a man now, and yet the responsibilities he had assumed were taken from him and managed for him – and there was nothing he could do about it.
No. That was not quite true, he told himself as he watched Mortimer talking to a pasty-faced churl with greying hair and sallow complexion. Behind them a short way was his own fellow. Not even a knight, this, but a guard who had proved himself more loyal to Edward’s interests than any other: Sam Fletcher.
He was the one man whom the young Duke trusted.
CHAPTER TWO
First Thursday after the Feast of St Michael[4]
London
All about London, there was an air of expectation as the King finally rode out through the gates of his castle, the Tower of London, and past the great crowd of men and women watching silently in the streets outside. There was no fanfare.
From his vantage point, Thomas Redcliffe watched most intently, eyeing the King himself, the man riding at his side – Sir Hugh le Despenser – and then the other knights all riding in a knot. Behind them came the men-at-arms of all degrees, the group of Welsh knifemen whom the King honoured so highly, the pikemen with their long weapons shouldered ready for the march. And all about was the slow clank and rattle of chains and harnesses, the leaden rumble of cartwheels turning on the cobbles as wagons and carts passed by.
The King looked furious, Redcliffe thought. He rode upright, stiffly ignoring the stares from all sides. The whole world could have been here, and his disdain would have passed magnificently over it, noting nothing worth seeing, for this King was being forced to ride from his own capital by his Queen.
Those with him looked fearful of their own shadows, the marching men-at-arms ready to take up their weapons at the slightest provocation. They had been bottled up in the Tower for too long as the city began to fall apart. Law and order were collapsing as the King’s authority waned, and the men in the King’s guard knew it. It would take very little for the crowd to launch themselves on them, knowing that Edward’s son and wife were only a few leagues away. The hated Sir Hugh le Despenser would die in moments, and all those who committed such a crime would be pardoned in an instant by the Queen. There was a rich reward offered for his head.
The entourage was still passing when Redcliffe dropped from the side of the building where he had been waiting, and in a moment he was gone, invisible amongst the restless hordes about the streets.
It was something he had always regretted, this ability to disappear in the midst of a throng. In the past he was sure that it had cost him membership of the Freedom of his city, and yet now he hoped it would help him to regain his lost fortune. He had much to win back.
All because of pirates and a thieving banker.