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