Wednesday before the Feast of Gordianus et Epimachus26
Beaulieu
It had sounded too bizarre to Sir Hugh le Despenser when the friar blurted out his story, but there was a crazy ring of truth to it. There are some tales which are too peculiar for any man to have thought of inventing them, and this had all the hallmarks of one.
He had spoken with one of his Welshmen as soon as Nicholas of Wisbech had concluded, and then had him repeat his story. The Welshman understood what was needed of him, and went about the abbey to confirm the story.
In truth, there wasn’t much to validate. Sir Hugh remembered vaguely the knight who had died on the coronation day, not that it was that much of a problem at the time. No, much more important was the obscene behaviour of Gaveston, the arrogant prickle, prancing about like some earl from a bad dream, all purple and bejewelled, as though the day was his and not the King’s.
It was appalling, his conduct so repugnant that there were many there that day at the feast who were convinced from that moment that Gaveston would have to be killed. Despenser was one of them. Not that he actually had any part in the murder. A shame. He would have liked to have participated.
But his man had been able to come back and fill in the gaps. Yes, the herald called Thomas was the brother of John of Bakewell, the knight who had been crushed to death in Westminster Abbey when the wall behind him collapsed. Thomas of Bakewell had been looked upon sympathetically by the Queen, and she had taken him into her household, and from there he had migrated to the King’s.
He had been a reliable member of the household, by all accounts, and had been sent to Christ Church to tell the Prior that the King had been travelling to Beaulieu, so that when the ambassadors arrived there, they would know where to go to speak with the King. As soon as they arrived, Thomas was supposed to have hurried back to tell the King that they were on their way.
Oddly, he had arrived only a day before the others. While they should have been travelling more slowly than he, for some reason Thomas was much more late than the journey could explain. And meanwhile, Richard de Yatton had been killed and left at the side of the road.
‘I want you to find out where this man Thomas sleeps. Go through all his belongings, in case there’s a phial of oil there. If there is, bring it to me.’
‘What about him, Sir Hugh? Do you want us to do anything to him?’
‘Not yet. If you find the oil, you can kill him.’
Chapter Twenty-Three
Feast Day of Gordianus et Epimachus27
Eltham Palace
Earl Edward was back early from hunting, and he marched heavily across the court from his stables while the grooms cleaned and brushed his horse.
There had been a good morning’s ride, with the hounds taking the scent of a fine stag early on. They had nearly lost the beast, but it was Earl Edward himself who saw him crashing off through some bracken and young trees over on the hillside east, and he’d himself drawn the hounds back to it, leading them initially with a whoop of encouragement, until they all saw his direction and the lead bitch caught the scent.
A marvellous ride, though, fast and furious, even through a tangle of briars, before the sudden death, with the deer brought down swiftly and despatched with a knife at the throat, while the hounds bayed and whined, kept back by the fewterer.
It was the sort of life he was born for. A man like him was fitted for this sort of life. It was all he knew, in truth. His training for when his father was dead.
Strange, to think of his life in those terms, but it was true. All his life was a lengthy training. He must learn to be quick-witted, to judge men and their character, to see opportunities, to listen out for deceit in any man’s words … all these were the key foundations of a king’s safety, because his would be an entirely solitary existence.
He knew that. Who better? He had seen his own father at work. No sooner had Earl Edward been born, than his father had made him an earl, the highest position to which a man might aspire, unless he sought the Crown itself. As Earl of Chester, he had his own household to look after him, and he was already to be seen as a member of Parliament at the age of seven. Great things were expected of him, as he knew. As the nation knew.
But the reward took a heavy toll. It was expensive being an earl, expensive not only in treasure. He had not known a happy family existence. The relationship between his parents was always fraught with tension. From the earliest moment, he could remember them, he shouting, she shrieking, and no calm, no peace. He was more dedicated to his friend, ‘That man Despenser’, as she always called him. And the King would assert that she was happier in the company of all her French maids and servants than in his, her husband’s.
For the Earl, it was clear that both were telling the truth. She did not love the King any more. She tried to, she was an absolutely devoted wife and mother, and Earl Edward adored her, but he could not deny that she could, on occasion, be a little hard to deal with. While the King, generous, loving, affectionate as he was, was also occasionally childish, tyrannical, petulant, and prone to displays of vicious brutality. Of course, a lot of it was deserved. If a man proved himself a traitor, he should expect the full penalty of the law to strip him of his property and livelihood, and see him executed. There were enough men who demonstrated the King’s desire for justice in those cases. All the men who had raised a sword against his standard, they had all been killed. There was no use for mercy in such matters. The Earl understood that perfectly well. Mercy was a sign of weakness. The King was right to be ruthless.
But there were times when the Earl wondered whether such extremes of violence were actually justified. Not often, no, because his father had a clearer understanding of life as a king … and yet, Earl Edward already knew from his learning with Richard of Bury that a king must be prepared to be utterly ruthless with enemies, but that was not the same as some of the men whom the King had seen executed. It was plain enough that the Earl of Lancaster, even if he was King Edward II’s cousin, had attempted to dethrone the King. He’d tried to stop the King from ruling in the manner which he had chosen for his own. And that was unforgivable. The Earl had even attempted to put constraints on the King. That was … well, it was wrong.
There were others, though, whose crimes were not so clear and deserving of punishment. In the past, men who happened to be knights attached to a lord’s household wouldn’t have been executed out of hand, their heads sent to London, or hung in chains for the crows and rooks to feast on. Yet these were. There were no towns in the country, so the Earl had heard, which didn’t have a corpse gibbeted on public display. He could believe it, too. In his own travels up and down the country, he had seen the gibbets at the town walls.
The Queen had finally managed to persuade him to show a little mercy. The bodies had been cut down, but Sir Hugh le Despenser said it was an act of weakness. Those corpses were perfect, he reckoned, because they demonstrated the King’s authority. Earl Edward wasn’t sure. He thought they proved only jealous cruelty. A man so jealous of his own power that he would exterminate any other who attempted to encroach was no leader. Alexander wouldn’t have done that. He would have had no need to — he would have been leading by example, keeping his men busy, leading them from one glorious victory to another.