‘It all went wrong from that first moment. Do you remember that knight who died at my coronation?’
‘Come, my Lord, we have-’
‘Do not contradict me, Sir Hugh. I was delayed for a week because of that intolerable old fool Winchelsea, and all said it was because of disputes between me and the barons. Then there was a genuine argument about which earl should carry which item of the regalia, and the death of the knight when the mob pushed forward. Dear Christ, I can see it all now!’
And he could, in his mind’s eye. The press had been so forceful that a wall had collapsed, bringing down with it the royal staging and knocking down the high altar. Sir John de Bakewell was the unfortunate man who happened to be standing at the other side of the wall, and he was crushed to death. The most devastatingly unpropitious beginning to any reign.
‘It was an accident, my Lord,’ Despenser said smoothly.
‘An accident? It set off my reign perfectly,’ the King said petulantly. ‘A man dies at my coronation, and within a day, there are rumours of my displeasing my French wife’s family, and stories about my association with my best friend. How much worse could the omens have been?’
‘Yes.’
‘And it could all have been prevented.’
‘You mustn’t let yourself dwell on such matters, my Lord.’
‘Silence!’ The sudden, snapped command held the power of a man who could inflict death in a moment with complete impunity. ‘Do not presume to tell me what I may and may not consider, Sir Hugh. I am the King. Sir Thomas, Earl of Lancaster, tried to tell me what I may and may not do, and I saw him executed. Do not forget that!’
Sir Hugh bowed his head repentantly, but in his heart he laughed to himself. Just now he was the King’s sole friend, and the King would not dare to remove him. Indeed, a large consideration that swayed the King against travelling to France to pay homage for the French estates was the knowledge that to do so would almost certainly result in a rebellion against Despenser. Without the King’s protection, he was as secure as Gaveston had been on that lonely road when he was slain. And the only man who hated Despenser more than a natural-born English Lord was the French King. He detested Sir Hugh.
It all stemmed from the dreadful days after the war of the Lords Marcher. The bastards had imposed demands upon the King, first of which was that Sir Hugh should be exiled from England. That was not something he would accept. Instead, he based himself in Kent, at the coast, and set about a life of piracy. One ship he took was French, and ever since then the French King had said he was a felon. Were Sir Hugh ever to set foot on French soil, so King Charles IV had said, he would be executed immediately.
He could not travel to France with King Edward. Yet without him, King Edward was reluctant to go to France. He trusted no other man to act in his stead, but if Despenser were left, there would be a rising against him in moments, and he would be killed. That was why the King remained here in England — it was in order to protect his companion. His irritation stemmed from the knowledge that he would lose his French possessions in his attempt to protect his lover.
‘If only I had been anointed with the oil …’
‘It is over, my Lord. What is done is done, and there is little we can do to alter our destiny now we are set upon our roads.’
‘You speak like a man who has knowledge of such matters. You were not so damned sanguine when you thought your life was threatened by the possible attack of a necromancer, were you?’
Sir Hugh shrugged. He had got over it once he’d ensured that the necromancer had been killed in gaol.
‘St Thomas’s oil,’ King Edward muttered. ‘If only I’d had it then. But no. Even then the earls were plotting my downfall, weren’t they?’
‘I am sure that-’
‘Oh, silence! I am the most unfortunate monarch this land has ever seen. My reign was cursed from the first. And you know it!’
Chapter Six
Eltham
The Earl of Chester was never happier than when on horseback. Riding out like this, his hounds and raches at his feet, he was perfectly content. There was surely no pleasure greater than that of a man who was exhausted after a day’s hunting, he reckoned.
This deer park was a wonderful testing place for a man, too. The trees were thick, and often the hounds would have to chase into the undergrowth to spring the elusive deer, which made it still more challenging for the huntsmen to see where the beasts would burst forth.
Today they had found a good stag, and he’d given them an excellent ride, all over the park and then out, when the wily old devil found a weakness in the wall, and managed to clamber over a partly collapsed section. And then the men had to hurtle over it and across three vills’ fields to catch him. A marvellous ride.
He had always been fond of this part of the country. The land was glorious, excellent for orchards and grain, and providing lush pasture for horses and cattle. And at the edges, perfectly maintained woods and copses. It was a fine example of a modern agricultural business.
Of course, it had been his mother’s until recently. She had been given it by his father as a mark of his respect for her, and she had quickly altered it to suit herself and the needs of her household, which meant making it suitable for children. John, Edward’s younger brother, was born here, and the girls always loved it too. Which was the sad thing now, with all of them away. It made the palace quiet. Quieter than it should have been. If he could, Edward would have had them all back — but his father had decreed that the others should all be looked after elsewhere, and Edward missed them.
Not too much, however. He was almost thirteen, an earl in his own right, and he didn’t need to rely on girls and his mother to keep him happy. He was a man.
It would be good to see them all again. To hear their laughter in the solar, his mother’s happy voice with that very French laughter in it as she played with them. He missed her too.
But he was a royal earl, and he had responsibilities that others wouldn’t understand. For one thing, he was born to the prophecy, and he must live with that. The prophecy said that he would be another Arthur, the Boar from Cornwall, and it was a very daunting prospect, to follow in the footsteps of the greatest King England had ever known.
Canterbury
Baldwin’s first indication of danger was the sudden movement at the gate.
The traffic entering a city was always predictable. There were streams of men and women entering by the main gates all through the day, while another roughly similar number left. Those entering in the morning were pedlars, tranters and other traders who had goods to sell, or carters bringing produce in from the lush countryside all about. Those leaving were the men and women who had work in the suburban areas, or travellers who had rested a night in the safety of the city’s walls. Later in the day the streams reversed themselves. The tradespeople, carters and sumptermen all making their way home, in various degrees of drunkenness, while those who had been at work outside made their way back to security. And travellers like Baldwin hurried to get in before the gates closed.
Yes. It was all predictable and regular, like the ebb and flow of the tide. But tonight there was something wrong. The stream of people walking to the gates had snarled up, and there was a tangle of men and women crying out. As Baldwin watched, he saw a flash, and knew in an instant that it was an unsheathed blade.
‘My Lord Bishop, there is danger ahead,’ he called quickly. ‘Simon, there’s a fight. I’ll wager those two pushed all from their path and the locals have set on them!’