The Follies of the King (23 page)

He rode into the castle. Grooms hurried forward to take his horse.

He was momentarily depressed thinking pleasant it would have been to have found a devoted wife waiting for him, eager to hear of his triumphs.

Alice was there, as good manners demanded, to greet her lord, but her gaze was as cold as ice. It had always been so for him, he remembered. Alice was beautiful, dignified as would be expected of the daughter of Henry de Lacy, Earl of Lincoln and Salisbury. Impious Gaveston had called him Burst Belly because of his girth, but that could not detract from his standing in the country as one of the first earls of the realm— rich and powerful. And Alice was his heiress.

Something she never forgot.

The marriage of Lincoln and Salisbury with Lancaster, Ferrers and Derby should have been an ideal one― and it was in one sense. But Alice had quickly shown that she had little regard for him and that she knew it was the titles of Lincoln and Salisbury which had been her great attraction. Perhaps if they had had children― But they never had and never would now. Alice had made it perfectly clear that even for the sake of handing down these high-sounding titles, she would not resume a relationship from which children might result.

It was very unsatisfactory.

Dutifully, she poured the wine for him and offered him the goblet. He took it warily thinking of the cold glitter in her eyes. He wondered lightly whether she would be glad to see him dead. He doubted it. She seemed entirely indifferent to his existence.

‘I have come from the King,’ he said.

‘And suitably subdued him?’ she asked.

He looked over his shoulder nervously. Alice should remember that they must speak with caution.

She saw his concern and seemed amused. He wondered then if she would smile in that way to see him carried off as a traitor.

‘The King is eager to win back the approval of his subjects,’ he said. ‘He takes Bannockburn to heart.’

‘Small wonder,’ she replied. ‘And I’ll warrant he is none too pleased with those who did not follow him there.’

‘He is grateful to be spared. He had to fly with Pembroke and might easily have been taken by the Scots.’

‘We live in stirring times,’ replied Alice. ‘The country will be thankful that there are men who, having preserved their Scottish campaign, are at hand to guide the reins of government.’

She was smiling superciliously, hating him. And he hated her. He thought:

Would I could be rid of her? Would I could take to wife a pleasant woman, one who would welcome me, applaud me, take an interest in my actions, be proud that her husband was royal and now was the most important man in the country.

She was despising him instead, and he believed secretly criticizing for not being beside the King at Bannockburn.

In truth, the Countess was not thinking much of her husband, nor the defeat at Bannockburn and his rise to power.

Her thoughts were all for a squire she had met when out riding. Her horse had gone lame and he had come to her assistance and taken her to his house. It was a small house, by the standards to which she was accustomed, but to her it had seemed warm and comforting. He was lame that squire and walked with a limp, which oddly enough she had found attractive.

They had talked while his blacksmith had shod her horse and during that time something had passed between them.

He was quite humble really, merely a squire, but proud of his land and eager to look after it and those who served him. She found that rather charming. He laughed a great deal, was well read and witty. She enjoyed their encounter so much that she had decided it should be repeated.

That had been some time ago.

Now often she rode over to his house— grey stone with turrets covered in clinging creeper. It had become like a enchanted castle to her when she and her squire had become lovers.

Now as her husband talked of how his power over the King was increasing she wondered what he would say if he knew that his wife had taken a lover and that he was Squire Ebulo le Strange, a very humble gentleman when compared with the mighty Earl of Lancaster.

* * *

How delighted Perrot would have been if he could had seen the beautiful ceremony!

Edward had ordered that his dear friend’s remains should be taken from the Black Friars of Oxford, who until now had possession of them, and brought to Langley.

It was appropriate that it should be Langley, that place where they had perhaps been happiest. There they had arranged their plays. What a clever actor Perrot had been; and an expert in showing others the way. And what fun there had been when Walter Reynolds had surprised them with boxes of clothes and articles they needed for their plays. And now Perrot was dead and Reynolds was Archbishop of Canterbury. As for Edward he was still the King , but scarcely that with Lancaster standing over him and making it clear to everyone that orders were issued from him.

A pox on Lancaster! This day he could think of nothing but his grief for Perrot.

The funeral had been costly. Never mind. He would pledge everything he had for Perrot.

Walter was with him— Thank God for Walter who had ordered that four of his bishops and fourteen abbots attend the ceremony. The barons stayed away, which was significant. They no longer thought it necessary to please the King, and Lancaster might consider it an act of defiance against himself of they attended the obsequies of a man in whose murder he had been the prime instigator.

However the ceremony was an impressive one, and Gaveston was laid to rest in the Church of the Dominicans at Langley.

The King wept openly, and it was said: ‘None can ever take the place in his heart which Gaveston held.’

* * *

During the next few days it seemed as though God had turned his face against the English. The weather was so bad that the crops failed which meant famine throughout the land and starvation for many. The price of wheat, beans and peas had gone up to twenty shillings a quarter, a price beyond most purses and due to the shortage, even the royal table could not always find supplies.

The country could have recovered in time from that first harvest but the following one was equally bad. Corn was so scarce that the brewers were forbidden to convert it into malt, so there was not only a shortage of food but of drink also.

All through the summer the rain fell in torrents; fields were under water, many villages were completely flooded so besides being out food many people were without homes. The crops were rotting in the fields and people were forced to kill horses and dogs for food.

Disease was rife. Many who did not die of starvation did so of mysterious ailments and there was a growing discontent throughout the land.

Moreover, it was hardly to be expected that after the great victory of Bannockburn the Scots would rest on their laurels. That energetic man, Robert the Bruce, consolidated his gains and made forays over the border coming as far south as Lancashire. The Welsh, seeing their opportunity, had risen under Llewellyn Bren. Llewellyn had six stalwart sons and these seven men had soon taken the whole of Glamorganshire.

The Marcher Barons had gathered together and driven the Welsh back and as a result Llewellyn Bren was captured and brought to the Tower. This was the one success since Bannockburn and was no credit to the King for it had been brought about by the might of the Marcher Barons, chief among them the powerful Mortimers.

Edward Bruce, brother of Robert, had landed in Ireland. Edward Bruce was an ambitious man; he was a great soldier but lacked the genius of his brother, though this did not prevent his desire to share the crown of Scotland. Wisely, Robert had decided that to be King of Ireland might satisfy Edward and now that the English had been so firmly routed was the time to make a bid for that crown.

It was disconcerting to know that Edward Bruce had landed in that troublesome island and with the Earl of Moray taken possession of Carrickfergus and been crowned King of Ireland.

It seemed there was no depth to which England could not fall.

The people, weary of famine and illogically blaming their rulers for that, were beginning to be disenchanted with Lancaster who seemed incapable of helping them any more than the King had.

It was frequently said that had Great Edward been alive, he would have found some way of righting their wrongs. The fact that Edward the Second looked so much like his father made them more critical.

Beset by famine, disease and the knowledge that Robert the Bruce despised them so much that he had penetrated far into the country, that the Welsh had dared raise a rebellion and that Ireland was in the hands of the Scots, they began to look round for a scapegoat.

The Queen sitting quietly at her tapestry with her women about her was not inwardly as serene as she appeared.

Young Edward was four years old. A sturdy child whose health gave no cause for concern, he was long-legged, flaxen-haired, full of high spirits and devoted to his mother. Isabella had made sure of that. On this child rested her hopes. She was certain that the time would come when they could stand together― perhaps against his father. She had thought that that day might be soon when Lancaster had taken the King’s power from him; she had admired Lancaster, but now she was not so sure. He was not an energetic man; in fact he was inclined to be lazy. What was he doing about the famine and the disastrous incursions of the Scots in Northern England and Ireland?

Lancaster was not the man she needed and it would seem that the time was not yet ripe. But she must remain watchful. She sat stitching one of her women said to another: ‘It is such a silly story. I am sure no one believed it.’

Isabella roused herself and wanted to know what this story The woman was confused. ‘I scarcely like to say, my lady. It was clearly a madman―’

‘Nevertheless I wish to hear.’

‘My lady, it is so very foolish―’

‘I have said I wish to hear,’ retorted the Queen coldly.

Her women were afraid of Isabella. She had never been severe with them and yet they were aware of a certain ruthlessness in her. They had often admitted to each other that they would not care to displease the Queen. And they would shiver and then wonder why they felt this fear of her so strongly Now the woman said quickly: ‘Just a bit of gossip, my lady. They were talking to the King― it was nonsense.’

A faint colour showed itself under the Queen’s skin; her eyes glittered and the woman hurried on: ‘They said― on forgive me, my lady― it must have been the words of a madman― they said that the king was a changeling― not the true son of Great Edward. They said that one of his nurses dropped the Prince when he was a baby. He was killed and this maid being so terrified put another baby in his place.’

The Queen burst into loud laughter in which her women joined, relieved.

‘A ridiculous tale indeed! You are right to think so.’ She smiled at the woman who had told the story. ‘Did you ever see one who more resembled his father than the King?’

‘No, my lady, never.’

‘I have heard it said that he is the image of what the old King was at his age.’

‘It is certainly so, my lady.’

‘That nurse was very clever, was she not― to find a baby who looked so like the King?’

They laughed and, chattering, recalled other absurd bits of gossip they had heard from time to time.

But the Queen did not treat the matter as light-heartedly as she pretended to do. It was true it was a ridiculous story, but the fact that it had been invented in the first place and been passed round was an indication of how people’s minds were working.

They were growing disillusioned with the King. There must be an idea— faint as yet— to dispossess him; which was why the notion that he was a changeling would be allowed to flourish.

The people no longer admired him. They wanted a King like the first Edward, a strong ruler, victorious in battle, one at the mention of whose name the enemy quailed. Robert the Bruce had never been greatly in awe of Edward the Second. What had he said? ‘I am more afraid of the spirit of Edward the First than the armies of Edward the Second. It was more difficult to get a square inch of land from the First Edward than it would be a kingdom from the Second.’

Oh yes, they were beginning to despise the King. So the changeling story was welcomed.

That night she went to Edward’s chamber and talked to him of the funeral of Piers Gaveston. She wanted to hear how impressive it was and how magnificently Walter Reynolds had presided.

How she despised him as she listened! What a fool he was! At this time when the people were suffering from the disasters of the harvest how could he spend so much money on the burial of the man whom the people had hated more than any other!

Did he not see how precarious his position was? Had he forgotten what had happened to his grandfather King Henry III and his great grandfather King John?

Edward was a fool― a weak fool.

She stroked his hair. She must have children. What would her position be without children? She had her stalwart young Edward but he was not enough.

Children were so delicate― particularly it seemed were boys. Her powerful father was dead— the victim, they said, of the curse of Jacques de Molai. She could look for little help from her family. Her brother Louis, called le Hutin because he quarrelled with everyone, was ailing. It was being said throughout France that none of the sons of Philip the Fair could prosper because of what their father had done to the Templars. Isabella shivered to contemplate what that awful scene must have been like with the Grand Master calling his curse on the royal house of France as the flames consumed him. His Queen was with child and there were fears that the curse might prevent her producing a healthy male child which was so urgently needed.