‘Sir John has been invited?’ he asked coolly.
‘Yes,’ replied his mother. ‘And he is delighted.’
‘Perhaps it would have been proper for the invitation to have come from me.’
‘My lord,’ cried Mortimer with mock consternation, ‘but of course it was given in your name.’
‘Without my knowledge! ‘
‘Such a trivial matter seemed far beneath the notice of the King, my lord.’
Mortimer was smiling that rather sly smile. His mother laid a hand on his arm. ‘You have no objection to this banquet, Edward?’ she asked anxiously.
‘Oh no, no. It is merely that ...’
He looked from one to the other. They managed to assume expressions of concern. He was unsure. Oh how he wished he were not fourteen years old. He had the feeling though that Mortimer was laughing at him.
He said quietly: ‘I shall be glad to welcome Sir John and his men to the House of the Friars Minor.’
There was a certain tension in the hall of the House of Friars Minor. In the centre of the table on the dais sat the King and on one side of him was Sir John, on the other his mother. Beside his mother was Roger de Mortimer and men of rank made up the rest of the table.
From the tables in the main body of the hall it soon became obvious that the men of Hainault did not mix with the English. It was almost as though two enemies had met for a banquet rather than two allies, for it was impossible not to be aware of the contemptuous looks they bestowed on each other and Edward heard a few insults flung from one side of the hall to the other.
The Queen did not appear to notice. She was chatting amiably with Mortimer, but Sir John was alert.
He whispered to the King that his men were getting restive. They had been away from home too long.
‘After this campaign,’ he added, ‘they must be disbanded. They need to go home to their families.’
‘We should not be long in Scotland,’ said Edward. ‘They say Robert the Bruce is a sick man.’
‘A sick man,’ agreed Sir John, and added: ‘but a shrewd one. Let us not delude ourselves into thinking this will be an easy victory.’
‘I am determined to win back all that my grandfather won.’
‘Yes, my lord, you will be another such as he was. It was a pity so much won with blood and toil should have been so quickly lost.’
It was another reproach to his father, Edward knew; and he was not displeased because it was a further justification of what had happened. It was good that he was the King. He was going to be all that his grandfather had been ... and perhaps ... Yes, it was a dream of his that he might even surpass him.
At that moment two men who were playing dice at one of the tables stood up and faced each other. Suddenly a stool went flying through the air. It hit one of the men and he fell. That was the signal. For a few seconds Edward watched dismayed. Sir John, the Queen and Mortimer were equally and silently disturbed.
Mortimer cried out in a loud voice: ‘Stop that. By God, any man who brings his quarrels before the King condemns himself as a traitor.’
That should have sobered them. The traitor’s death of hanging, drawing and quartering was the most dreaded end which could befall any man. But it had no effect on these men. In a matter of seconds the quarrel between two men had become a general brawl and the hall was quickly becoming a battle field.
Edward rose to his feet and shouted: ‘Order! In the name of the King ...’
But his voice was lost. They did not hear it and even if they had he knew that they would have ignored him.
He felt frustrated and angry. A moment before he had seen himself as a triumphant king whose word was law. How different was the reality. He was only a young boy who shouted in vain and whose voice could not even be heard above the cries of battle.
It was Sir John and Mortimer who strode into the crowd. Edward would have followed them but his mother held him back.
‘Release me, my lady,’ he said authoritatively.
But she clung to him. ‘They are in a dangerous mood, my son, I fear.’
He wrenched himself free and ran into the main part of the hall shouting: ‘Desist. Desist I say. The King commands it.’
But it was Mortimer and Sir John who called order by shouting to their men to rally to them and stop their senseless fighting. It was some five minutes before there was quiet in the hall.
Then it was possible to see that in the sudden brief battle several men had been killed and many wounded.
Sir John cried out: ‘Shame. You have come to fight the Scots not each other.’
His words were greeted with silence but the sullen looks of the Hainaulters and the truculent ones of the English as they surveyed each other showed that they were by no means penitent, nor were they ready to tolerate each other.
The King standing there felt young and inadequate. He had been unable to call a halt to the fighting and these men had dared to let it happen in his presence.
They would never have dared to do that before his grandfather.
And nor shall they before me again, he promised himself. How tragic it was to be a king and but fourteen.
The uneasy tension between the allies persisted.
Sir John talked a great deal to the young King and Edward listened. The affray had taught him that he had more to learn of warfare than he had realized. He was determined to be a great soldier; therefore he must learn all he could; he must forget he was a king and become a pupil; and he must never be too proud to listen. Sir John was a seasoned warrior. He had much to impart.
‘The trouble with these men is that they have no heart for the fight,’ he explained. ‘They are not fighting in their own land. Men fighting in their land or for a cause in which they believe fight like lions. It is never the same fighting other people’s battles. They fought in England because they were fighting for a beautiful lady whose husband had been cruel to her. So they fought well. Men want a motive if they are to fight.’
‘The motive of many is to loot and ravage.’
“Tis true, lord King. But such a reason does not bring out heroic deeds. Those men seek an advantage and they will retreat if it is expedient for them to do so. No, my men must go home after this campaign. I have talked with them and I have promised that they shall do this. I said: “Make it a speedy campaign, my friends, and then it will be home.” ‘
‘And you think they will fight for that?’
‘I do, my lord. This I am sure. Within a few weeks from now we shall have the Scots begging for mercy. Then will follow your fine treaty. Peace with the Scots for you and home for John of Hainault and his army.’
Yes, it was more pleasant talking with Sir John than with Roger de Mortimer. Sir John instructed in a most respectful way. There was something about Mortimer’s manner which the King disliked and distrusted.
A few days after the fight in the hall messengers came from the North.
The Scots had crossed the Tyne and were advancing, ravaging the countryside as they passed through it.
‘It is time I met Robert the Bruce,’ said Edward.
And he with Sir John rode out from York with their armies, leaving behind the Queen and Mortimer with the royal children.
‘You will soon be back ... victorious,’ said the Queen as she bade her son farewell.
Edward noticed Mortimer standing by watching sardonically. Afterwards Edward thought it was almost as though he had foreknowledge of what was to come.
It was true that Robert the Bruce was a very sick man. The dreaded disease of leprosy was advancing rapidly and he knew that death could not be far off. It was for this reason that he was particularly anxious to make a lasting peace with England. His son David was little more than a baby and he dreaded what would happen to the child, heir to Scotland, when he was left, as he soon surely would be.