Gaveston was dead and a good riddance.
There was now a baby heir. Let the King settle down with his beautiful wife who was so popular with the people. Let him live a normal married life and beget more children.
THE CURSE OF THE TEMPLARS
AT this time the Archbishop of Canterbury, Robert de Winchelsey, died. He had been ailing for some time and was an old man so his death was not unexpected Walter Reynolds, Bishop of Worcester, who had been an intimate friend of Gaveston, asked for an audience with the King, which was immediately granted.
Reynolds was a crafty man. He did not come straight to the point which he felt even Edward might consider a little audacious but it had always been Walter Reynolds’ opinion that no delicacy of feeling should come between a man and his ambitions. The See of Canterbury was vacant. A new Archbishop would have to be appointed and in view of the closeness of his friendship with the King, it could possibly be that Walter Reynolds might step into those shoes so recently vacated by Robert of Winchelsey.
Reynolds fell onto his knees and kissed the King’s hand. ‘My lord, my lord, I see how you still suffer from our terrible loss.’
‘I think of him continuously,’ replied the King.
‘As I do also.’
‘And the manner of his death, Walter, I shall never forget it or forgive it.’
‘You could not, my lord. The happy times we had together―’
They talked of them for a while, Reynolds deliberately arousing the King’s despair. He was more likely to agree when he was in a maudlin mood. After all the three of them had been so much together. Reynolds had made it his duty to provide for their comfort. It had been Gaveston who had considered Walter should be rewarded in the first place.
At length, Reynolds said: ‘There is Canterbury.’
‘Ah yes, poor Robert. I never liked him. An uncomfortable man, but a good one by all accounts.’
‘My lord will not be sorry to see him go. You must put someone in his place who will be your man.’
‘The monks have already elected Cobham.’
‘Cobham. That will never do.’
‘You know they claim their right.’
‘But my lord, the monks of Canterbury have no rights over their King.’
‘They were always a tiresome company. They have made trouble for my ancestors through the centuries.’
‘That is no reason why they should make trouble for you, gracious lord.
Insolent fellows.’
Edward sighed. ‘If he were here he would jibe at them.’
‘He would be angry at the manner in which they treat you.’
‘He was always eager to uphold me,’ said Edward fondly. ‘You know Clement issued a bull only a month or so ago reserving to himself the appointment of the archbishop.’
‘Clement! He sways with the wind. The French King whistles and he comes.
There is one thing I know of which could make him change his mind.’
Edward raised his eyebrows and Walter went on: ‘Money. Poor Clement, but what is he but Philip’s puppet? Philip has him there at Avignon under his nose. Philip says, Come here. Go there. And what does Clement do? He obeys.
He has persecuted the Templars. Why? Because Philip says so. There is one thing he can do without the help of the King of France, and that is amass money.
I have heard he will do a great deal for it.’
Edward was thoughtful.
‘‘Why Walter, how comforting it would be if you were Archbishop of Canterbury.’
Walter folded the palms of his hands together and turned his eyes up to the ceiling.
‘I would serve you with my life, dear lord.’ Then he fell on his knees. ‘If only this could but come to pass! Can you not see our dear friend looking down on us from Heaven. Sometimes I think, lord, that he is working for us. He could never forget us, could he, any more than we could forget him? I wonder whether Clement would go so far.’
‘Let us find out,’ said Edward.
They did, and discovered that the Pope was willing to go a very long way for the sake of thirty-two thousand marks.
It was a great deal of money, but worth it to have in the important post of Archbishop of Canterbury a man who would serve the King rather than the Church, and if his reputation was hardly that to be expected of a good churchman, the King did not care. It was comforting to have Walter in such a position. They could meet often and talk over old times. Together they could mourn for the incomparable Gaveston.
‘The King is mad,’ said Lancaster.
Pembroke agreed with him but there was a feud between them because Lancaster, Warwick and the rest had made break his word. Pembroke was wooing the King, for he feared to be deprived of his lands.
If there had not been this rift between the barons, they would have stood out against this appointment of Walter Reynolds to the important See of Canterbury but, as there was, it came to pass.
There was news from France of Philip’s final acts against the Templars and when the story was told, Edward was glad that he had acted differently towards that company of knights. In England they became absorbed into the rest of the community, and when they considered what happened to their brethren in France they must be grateful to the King and the English for evermore.
Philip the Fair had pursued them with a ferocity which was hard to understand. True, he wanted their wealth but he could have taken that without inflicting such tortures on them. The rumours which came in from France were horrifying. The Queen listened to them and told herself at least her father was a strong man. Frenchmen trembled at the mention of his name. It would never be like that with Edward. Even now many of the barons were against him and she guessed that Lancaster was waiting for the moment when he could seize power.
Edward was weak. He was a fool when the young Edward was older something would happen, she was sure of that.
In the meantime she must show a certain affection for her husband, even if she did not feel it. It was necessary to get more children and she was determined to. Her bonny Edward was the delight of her life. But she wanted him to have a brother― several if possible.
Although many of the Templars had suffered the most cruel tortures and had been burned at the stake, their Grand Master, Jacques de Molai, still lived. De Molai was a Burgundian nobleman who had joined the crusades and fought valiantly against the Infidel. When he had been invited to Paris some years before he came unsuspecting and almost immediately was seized on, fettered, and submitted to such excruciating torture that he had collapsed under it and confessed to the evil deeds of which it was suggested he was guilty.
That men of logic did not believe he was meant nothing. So rigourous had been the torture that few could have stood out against it, certainly not a man of de Molai’s age.
At this time, the Order had been suppressed and its riches were in the hands of the King of France, but the Grand Master and the Master of Normandy still lived because it had been discovered that, on account of their rank in the Order, their death sentence must be sanctioned by the Pope.
Realizing that death was at hand, and as he had suffered so much that his poor pain-racked body was indifferent to more suffering, the Grand Master made a declaration that he deeply regretted his previous statements. He had spoken as he did under duress. He wanted now to tell the King of France and his accusers that his confession had been wrung from his weak body. His soul was in protest and he now wished to state the truth. He was innocent. The whole order was innocent. His destruction had been the work of his rapacious enemies.
The Master of Normandy joined his voice with that of de Molai.