Michael Jecks - The Prophecy of Death

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.

Not his father, sadly. The shame had been felt by all England when the Scots destroyed his army at Bannockburn. It may have been while he was only a brat, a baby mewling and puking in the arms of Margaret, his wet nurse, but the reverberation of that catastrophe rang through every year since. Not even the mauling the King gave the Lancastrians three years ago had wiped out the memory of that disaster, nor of the other shameful losses as the Scots riders ravaged the whole of the North.

That was why he hated his father’s ‘friend’ so much. Despenser, he knew, was in truth a friend to no man. A fellow might rely on Despenser while he was of use to him, but more than that, no. Despenser was too much a creature of his own. He looked after himself and no one else.

The proof had come when Earl Edward was almost ten — nearly three years ago. After Boroughbridge, the King had been wonderfully exuberant. It was a great, a magnificent victory, and he was justified in feeling a fresh confidence. Full of his martial prowess, he launched another offensive towards Scotland.

This was to be one of the most ignominious defeats ever inflicted upon English arms. In God’s name, the memory still rankled with Earl Edward. It was enough to make any man smart, to think of it. The army marched on into Scotland, and found nothing. Only one scabby cow was left behind. The Scots were too adept at gathering all their folk and goods, and retreating before the King’s host. And that meant that there was no food. Demoralised, starving, racked with scurvy and dysentery, the King’s forces were forced to retreat. Many died. Even the King’s own bastard, Adam, whom the King had taken on his first campaign, succumbed.

Worse was awaiting them. As the King passed into Yorkshire, intent on raising more forces, the Bruce circled around them, almost cutting off the King himself. King Edward panicked and was forced to flee — but not before asking others to rescue his wife, up in Tynemouth. He was at Rievaulx, with Despenser, but Despenser refused to go and rescue the Queen. Oh, the King and he escaped, at the expense of losing all the baggage, a load of treasure and many of the state’s official documents, but they left the Queen to the mercy of the Bruce — this a man who had seen his own mother and sister tormented by Edward II’s father. Oh, the Bruce would have been happy to capture the English Queen. He would have made great sport with her, if he’d taken her. As it was, she had been forced to flee by ship, and in the dreadful journey, two of her ladies-in-waiting died.

Yes, she blamed Despenser for that, and so did Earl Edward. Despenser was a coward, who persuaded his father to run to safety while leaving his mother to the mercies of their enemies.

He wouldn’t forgive Despenser for that. Never.

Morrow of Feast of Gordianus et Epimachus 28

Lydford

It had come as a great surprise to him that the wedding had been so far prepared that there was little to do other than confirm the orders for ale, wine and food.

‘Edith, my child, what has happened to you?’ Simon breathed when he saw her for the first time in her wedding dress.

She was wearing a simple white woollen tunic, embroidered with a pattern of plain flowers, also in white. It trailed on the ground, concealing her feet, and was loose in the skirt, but tight over her bust, with a daring, scooped neck that showed a little of the top of her breasts, though not indecorous quantities; her forearms, too, were exposed, the sleeves ending at the elbow, with long dangling strips that reached to her knees. Her hair was plaited, and partly concealed beneath a loose veil, that was little more than a square of filmy cloth sitting over her head, leaving her face free.