The first rebellion, so the King said, was when his close friend Piers Gaveston was captured and murdered by the earls of Hereford, Lancaster and Warwick. Gaveston had been the recipient of too much of the King’s largesse, and the earls resented royal generosity at the expense of others who had more noble birth. So they took the King’s adviser and killed him.
When Gaveston was removed, the King seemed to settle and willingly spend his time with his other friends and his family. The birth of his first son gave him enormous pleasure and pride, so they said. But the King was not content. And soon he found a new favourite — a man of such rapacious greed that he set all the land against himself and the King: Sir Hugh le Despenser. It was his fault that there was a fresh civil war.
The Lords Marcher allied themselves with the lords of the far north and rampaged over the territories owned by the Despenser. They burned and looted all the vast Despenser estates, and then marched upon London, forcing humiliating terms on the King, demanding that he exile his friend and agree to rule within limitations set by them. It was degrading for a man of pride; shameful for a King. So, at the first opportunity, the King took action, and the war was finally concluded when he encircled the rebels at Boroughbridge.
If only he had shown tolerance and demonstrated that magnanimity which was the mark of a great man … but King Edward II was driven by baser motives. Instead of accepting apologies and forgiving those who had shown him such disregard, the King launched a ferocious attack on all those who had set their standards against him.
His own cousin, Earl Thomas of Lancaster, was led to a field on a donkey, and there beheaded. The Lords Clifford and Mowbray were executed at York, and up and down the country lords, knights and squires were hanged. The tarred bodies were left there on the gibbets, pecked over and desiccated, for two years and more, proof of the vindictiveness of the man who ruled the nation.
Except he didn’t. Not alone. He had left his wife, and it was he and Despenser who controlled the management of the realm together, for all the world as close as lovers. Both of them feared by his subjects; both of them hated.
No king could be universally loved, of course. The boy may be just twelve years old, but he knew this; he had been well tutored, and he had read enough of the lives of Arthur, Alexander and others to know that a powerful leader would always have his enemies. But this was taking matters too far. It was one thing to alienate certain members of the nobility, but another entirely to turn even a wife against him. And her children.
Especially, Edward of Windsor, the Earl of Chester and first-born son of King Edward II, told himself, when it meant losing the trust and love of your own heir.
Night of Monday and Tuesday following Easter5
Christ Church Priory, Canterbury
It was the howling of the blasted creatures that woke him — again — and Mark of Faversham rolled over in his little cot with a grunt and a muttered oath, rubbing at his eyes.
By the names of all things Holy, they were terrible. Here he was, a man in his middle forties, worn, old, and in need of his sleep, in God’s name, and each night the damned creatures would wake him. And if they could wake him, they could wake anyone. It wasn’t as though Mark was a light sleeper. If they could get through to him, they could wake half the monks in the cemetery.
The things were worse than bloody wolves descending on an innocent flock. Locusts had nothing on them. He had managed this estate with efficiency, with economy, and with cautious good sense over some years now, and built it into a modern, profitable little manor. And it still would be, if it wasn’t for her damned hounds!
The prior hadn’t wanted them. Hounds were an expense Henry of Eastry could well do without. Who on earth would want them eating the priory’s wealth week in and week out? Not Prior Henry. He knew the way that they could eat through food. It wasn’t as if you could throw them all the crusts from the table, either. Oh no. Dear God in Heaven, what would she say if she heard that? And she would. There was always someone looking for a small reward, and the hope of largesse to follow, by speaking out of turn.
He pulled on boots and, without bothering to lace them, stomped over the floor to the truckle bed in the eaves, kicking it. Twice.
The first served only to set the figure snuffling and grunting, which was at least better than the rumbling, discontented snoring, but at the second blow, there was a short rasping snort, and the fellow sat upright, bending over to the side of the bed so he didn’t brain himself on the rafters angled over his head. ‘Hey? Wa’?’
‘The bloody hounds again,’ Mark growled unsympathetically. ‘The Queen’s hounds.’
‘Not again! Sweet Jesus’ pains, can’t the things sleep like everyone else?’
‘Not everyone, Hal. Not you and me.’ Mark took the candle from the wall’s sconce, and set it on the floor beside him as he knelt, reaching for his tinderbox.
‘Thanks, Brother. Thanks for reminding me,’ Harry said.
He flopped back on his bed as Mark struck again and again with flint and steel to light some tinder. It was hard in the dark. The flash of sparks illuminated the tinder at the first attempt, but that brief explosion of light blinded him for the next three, and he kept missing the target, sending sparks flying uselessly to the rough timber floor.
Hal had been a Godsend to Mark. For too many years he had tried to manage this estate with the help that the lay brothers could provide during those odd moments when they had time to spare. But it was never enough, and when a man had a sudden emergency, like when he discovered that the shepherd had fallen and broken his head on a rock, and the sheep were all escaped, a man needed more than the promise of some aid towards the middle of next week, in God’s name!
Prior Henry was good, though. When his steward went to him and explained about the problems, he listened sympathetically, and told him to leave the matter with him. Mark had thought he meant he’d to dispose of Mark’s complaints in the same way his predecessor always had, by ignoring his troubles and hoping that the problem would go away. It was often the way that priors would deal with their more difficult staff — tell them not to bring problems but solutions, and threaten punishment if they continued to bother their betters. And then Hal arrived, young, strong, keen, and eminently capable.
At first Mark made the usual uncharitable assumption: that the boy was the love-child of the prior, and the prior had found him the best post he could while not admitting paternity. But more recently Mark was forced to consider that the lad was nothing of the sort. Apart from anything else, he came from a place some distance from the priory, and Mark had never heard that the prior had ever been up that way. Then again, the prior seemed to show no interest in the lad’s development. No, Mark was forced to conclude that Hal was nothing more than a boy whom the Prior had heard of, who happened to be bright enough, and who Prior Henry considered might be a useful additional body to have in the priory. He came from a good area — other novices had come from his part of Kent, like John, Simon and Gilbert. They were all from the same vill, almost.
‘Ah. Good. At last!’ he grunted as a tiny glow glittered in the tufts of tinder. It remained, golden, even as the flashes played with his eyes. Picking up the tinder in a bundle, he blew gently until a flame caught, and with his other hand he patted the floor looking for the candle he had placed there. At last he found it — it had rolled under his leg — and set the blackened wick to the flame. As soon as it caught, he carefully extinguished the tinder and replaced it in his box. Tinder took so long to find, to dry, and prepare, it was best not to waste it.