Текст книги "The Follies of the King"

Автор книги: Jean Plaidy

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opponents.

Bruce was watching the affray from some distance, Sir James Douglas

beside him.

‘By God, my lord,’ said Douglas, ‘this will be the end of Randolph. I must go to his aid.’

‘Nay,’ said Bruce. ‘To do so would mean a change of our plans. Randolph

should have stopped them before they got so Let him fight his way out of this.’

‘It will be death for him. They will be wiped out― the whole force.’

While the conflict between Randolph and Clifford was in progress the

English army had been brought to a halt while it was considered whether to begin battle that day or wait until the next. Both men and horses were tired from the long march and it was finally decided that the following day would be more appropriate.

Robert the Bruce was of the same mind regarding the time to begin the fight.

The possible loss of Randolph had meant that he must make certain adjustments to his plans, and he was riding along the line of his army, seated not on a warhorse but on his small grey mare, carrying as his only weapon his steel battle-axe when he was seen by one of the knights who was suddenly filled with a desire to win glory for himself.

The de Bohuns belonged to one of the leading families of the nobility and

their prestige had been greatly enhanced when Humphrey the fourth Earl of

Hereford and third Earl of Essex had married Elizabeth, the daughter of Edward I after she had been widowed by the Earl of Holland. It was true that the King might not have chosen this match for his daughter but Elizabeth had taken a fancy to Humphrey de Bohun and declared that as she had married once for state reasons she should be allowed the second time to marry as she wished.

Such a connection was highly desirable and Humphrey’s young nephew, had

the sudden wild urge to bring greater glory not only to the family but on himself and so win the admiration of his influential uncle.

There was Robert the Bruce, the King of the Scots, already a legend, and de Bohun remembered the old and honoured custom that battles could often be

settled by single combat and that if the leader of an army could be thus slain, the battle all but won.

What honour would befall the de Bohun family and in particular, Sir Henry

if he called out the mighty Bruce and slew him? And there he was seated on a small grey mare― with nothing but a battle-axe in his hand and the only reason he could be seen to be the King was due to the golden circlet he wore over his helmet.

Young Sir Henry rode forward.

Robert the Bruce was taken momentarily by surprise. He glanced at the

young rider magnificently equipped on a fine warhorse, armed for battle. It was madness to answer the challenge. He was seated on his steady grey mare. She was agile and surefooted in marshy land but how could she stand up to this mighty armoured figure?

To refuse the challenge was unthinkable yet to take it was perhaps

foolhardy. But he must take it. He could imagine the rejoicing there would be in the English ranks if it was said he was afraid to ride out against the young knight.

He had to go into the attack and he had to act promptly.

He heard the gasp of those around him as he spurred the grey mare and rode out to meet de Bohun.

‘Madness, madness!’ murmured Douglas and he thought: Where will this

day end? Randolph on the point of being taken by the English, the King accepting this unequal challenge―

The hoofs of the warhorse pounded the earth as de Bohun, lance ready, came thundering towards Robert the Bruce.

The Scots watched with fear, the English with exultation. There was

scarcely an English soldier who did not wish he was in de Bohun’s shoes. His name would be remembered forever.

Then the surprise. The lance should have pierced the Bruce’s heart but it did not for with incredible agility he swerved at the important moment. The lance thrust missed him and raising himself in his stirrups Bruce lifted his battle-axe and brought it down on de Bohun’s head which was all but cleft in two.

The Bruce back to his men. They surrounded him.

‘My lord, you could have been killed. This could have been the end.’

He looked rueful. ‘I have broken my battle-axe,’ he said, ‘It was a good

one.’

Inwardly, he was exultant. He could imagine what effect this would have on the enemy and his own soldiers for that matter.

They would regard it as a good augury and when a small army faces a large

one, auguries are very welcome.

Douglas had witnessed the King’s adventure and, considering it extremely -

rash, decided that he would himself take action. He was not going to let

Randolph be entirely annihilated by Clifford’s men no matter what Bruce said.

If the King could act rashly an impulse so would Douglas. The King had risked his life for a gesture. Well Douglas was going to do all in his power to see that Randolph did not lose his.

He summoned his men and rode swiftly towards the castle where the

fighting between Randolph and Clifford was still going on, but as he approached he could scarcely believe his eyes for the ground was littered with the English dead and he could see that Randolph was not only holding his own, but winning the day.

‘Hold!’ cried Douglas. ‘We will not help him. To do so would be to take

from him the honour which is his.’

He was right, even as he stood there watching, the English cavalry– or at

least that which could get away― was galloping off with some Scots in pursuit.

It was like a miracle.

Randolph had driven off the proposed attack on Stirling.

‘God is smiling on us this day,’ said Douglas.

–――――――

Night fell on the camps. The English had been sobered by the death of de

Bohun and the defeat of the cavalry on the way to the castle, but not unduly so.

They outnumbered the Scots and the spirit of Great Edward marched with them.

On that Monday, the twenty-fourth of June of the year 1314, as dawn broke

the Scottish army heard Mass performed by Maurice, Abbot of Inchaffray.

Every man was on his knees. Edward, from afar saw this and remarked to

Robert de Umfraville, ‘Do you see? They are kneeling.’

Robert, Earl of Angus since the death of his father in 1307 and who had

fought against the Scots on many occasions and as Earl of Angus was regularly summoned to the Scottish parliaments, knew Scotsmen well and he answered.

‘Yes, my lord, they kneel. But to God, not to us. I tell you this, my lord, that army will either win the day or die on this battlefield.’

‘We must see that they die on the battlefield then, Angus.’

‘My lord,’ went on Angus, who had become anglicised and believed that the

alliance of Scotland with England would be advantageous to both countries and had therefore sworn fealty to the English crown, ‘I know the Scots. They will be great fighters but they lack the discipline of your army. If you feign to retreat beyond the encampment they will rush forward to attack and fall out of order.’

‘Make semblance of retreat!’ cried Edward. ‘Never.’

In his shining armour he felt supreme. He thought momentarily, I wish

Perrot could see me now.

He was going to win. He was going to confound them all, those who had

been critical of him and had sworn that he could never compare with his father.

He glowed with excitement as he sounded the call to charge

Gloucester and Hereford prepared to advance towards the right wing of the

Scots which was under Edward Bruce.

Gloucester muttered: ‘I shall go ahead of you, Hereford.’

Hereford retorted, ‘My lord Gloucester, that will be my place.’

‘You mistake me, my lord,’ cried Gloucester, ‘if you think I shall follow

where you lead.’

As they argued, the Scots advanced and Gloucester with a small company of

men rode forward. It was folly for they found themselves surrounded by Scots and without sufficient support to withstand them. Thus the wrangle had put both Gloucester and Hereford at an initial disadvantage.

The battle had begun.

The English should have had the advantage. Their cavalry was magnificent,

but the Scots employed the custom of the schiltrom which was a formation like a hedge with each man holding his twelve-foot spear before him, so that even the heaviest cavalry must hesitate before throwing itself against those

formidable spears.

The archers provided the worst hazard for the Scots and even the schiltrom could not withstand those showers of deadly arrows which kept falling and

decimating them. The Scots however carried battle-axes beside their arrows which meant that when they had exhausted their supply of arrows they could rush forth with their axes and wreak havoc.

The hours passed and the battle raged. Bruce’s spirits were high. Luck was on his side. He had chosen the right place in which to fight and he was on his home land. The English were exhausted by their journey north; they were not in their native land. There was not a Scotsman who would not have died that day for Scotland for who knew what his fate would be if he fell into the hands of the English?

The sounds of battle were deafening. The knights shouted their war crimes

as they plunged into the fray and spear clanged against spear in the deadly conflict; arrows flying through the air pierced the horses’ flesh, driving the creatures to madden before they died, and the air was filled with the groans of the wounded and dying men; banners trailed on the ground among pennants and broken spears and the grass was spattered with the blood of Scots and English.

And still the battle persisted.

The Scottish army had in its wake the camp followers― men too old for

battle, women who wanted to be with their men, young children not of an age to fight but who were eager to see how the battle progressed and to be on the spot when the victory was complete, perhaps to take a share in what booty was

available. In any case they would not stay in their homes while Scotland’s future was being decided.

Bruce had ordered them to remain hidden by the hill and with them was the

army’s baggage and extra supplies of which they were in charge.

There was no doubt that the battle was going in Scotland’s favour.

Gloucester had been killed so had Sir Robert Clifford and Hereford had been taken prisoner.

The King’s bodyguards clustered round him and the Earl of Pembroke cried:

‘My lord, it is unwise for us to stay longer. We must leave the field without delay.’

‘I shall not desert my army,’ cried Edward fiercely.

But Pembroke took the bridle of the King’s horse and went on: ‘I am

responsible for your safety. My lord, consider what would happen to England if you were to fall into Bruce’s hands.’

‘Where my army has died so shall I if need be,’ replied Edward. .

‘Nobly said, my lord. But we must think of England without a King. Nay, if you will not come willingly then must I take you by force.’

The knights closed round the King. They agreed with Pembroke The battle

was lost, that was clear. The King was in danger. His only hope of survival was in flight.

Edward was desolate. Why should ill luck so dog hi,? Was there nothing he

could do which would succeed? If his father had been here―

No, no. It was no fault of his. Bruce was a genius just as Edward the First had been. None could stand against men like that. There was something

superhuman about them. They could not be judged by the standards of other

men and it was no use deploring the fact that one could not stand up to them.

He felt sick with disappointment.

The day had begun so gloriously. He had had everything on his side. But

Bruce was his enemy and men like Bruce, Wallace, his own father Edward,

were feared and respected; they had half-won their battles before they had started them.

Dejected and disconsolate the King allowed himself to be taken from the

field. He almost wished that he might be have been slain and so he might have been if Bruce had been able to give chase.

They rode to Linlithgow and finally reached Dunbar. There they found

refuge for a while before they were able to take ship for Berwick.

It was a miserable homecoming for Edward. He could not stop thinking of

all that had been lost– the lives of so many men, thirty-thousand some

declared. So much lost apart from lives, arms, horses, apparel, vessels of gold and silver, treasures― all gone. And perhaps chief of all– honour. None would respect the King of England now. And he must return England where it would be said: ‘Ah, if it had but been his father!’

The theme of his childhood and youth. It was hard on an unworthy son to

follow such a father. He must live in the shadow of greatness which made his shortcomings the more conspicuous.

In Scotland, there was great rejoicing.

‘For years to come,’ said Robert the Bruce, ‘Scotsmen will glow with pride when they talk of Bannockburn.’

THE KING IS WARNED

THE King was in despair. Nothing had gone right since the murder of

Gaveston, he mourned. Oh, for a return of those happy days when he and his dear Perrot had danced and conversed so gaily! Why could people have not let him alone? Why did they have to take Perrot from him? He often dreamed of the last ordeal of Perrot. How had he felt when they had taken him out to Blacklow Hill? A common soldier had run him through his heart; another had cut off his head; Those brave bold knights had dared not do the deed themselves. No

matter. They were the guilty men. He would never ever forgive them, and at their head was Lancaster.

Lancaster was his enemy, and since Bannockburn, Lancaster’s power had

risen. It was said by some that Lancaster ruled the country now.

Lancaster was too rich, too powerful and too royal. He had too grand an

opinion of himself and since he had the titles of Earl of Lincoln and Salisbury (in addition to those he already possessed) he saw himself as the most important man in the country. It was amusing that his wife― through whom he had come by the titles of Lincoln and Salisbury― did not think so much of him. There were rumours that that marriage was in such a parlous state that the lady was seeking a means of escape from it. Good luck to her, thought Edward viciously.

Lancaster had refused to come to Bannockburn although he had acted within

his rights by sending a token force. Would it have made any difference if he had come? Would the battle have been won instead of lost? None could truthfully say and yet that was exactly what people were saying. Unpleasant rumors were in circulation. If Lancaster had been Edward’s son instead of the son of his brother―

God in heaven! thought Edward. Lancaster wants to rule this country.

And there were many who would support him.

Bannockburn. Disaster, defeat, disgrace to the crown and to England!

Edward knew that all through his life and perhaps after, people would talk of Bannockburn. Ever since King John had been involved in conflict with the

barons that company of ambitious men had had grand ideas of their own

importance. They would not allow a man to be a king. They wanted him as their figurehead to move this way and that as pleased them.

It was a wretched life. And no Perrot to enlighten it!

Perrot had never really had a proper burial. He would give him a grand one.

He would have a tomb made for him so beautiful that it was worthy of him—

one of which Perrot himself would approve. He would give himself up to grief and be thoroughly wretched and he would forget those rebellious barons

gathering about him crying Bannockburn. Bannockburn― as though it were all his fault.

How humiliating it had been to fly from the field of battle as he had been obliged to do. He would never forget it: riding fast with Pembroke beside him, making for Dunbar and pausing for a brief respite there before taking ship to Berwick. The horror of it, with the entire army in flight. Many of them were drowned trying to cross the Forth; many of them fell in the pits which Bruce’s men had dug; the amount of treasure that was lost horrified him. Rarely had there been such a disaster in English history. All his father’s victories had been wiped away in one great blow.

At Pontefract, Lancaster had been waiting with an army― men who should

have been beside their King at Bannockburn and Lancaster could not hide his satisfaction at the sight of the fugitive King.

An army! Why had he assembled an army? It was because, he had implied,

he believed that if Edward had been successful in Scotland he would have

turned his victorious army against Lancaster and those earls who had not been with him at the battle.

Then Edward must ride, side by side, with Lancaster to York, where a

parliament had been called. Was there no end to the humiliation an unkind fate was heaping on him?

In York he was made aware of his subject’s contempt. He wanted to shriek

at them when they continually invoked his father’s name. Great Edward, they called him as though to differentiate between him and his ineffectual son.

I will be revenged on them all one day, Edward promised himself.

He was clearly told what he must do, and it was maddening to realize that he had no alternative but to obey. He must confirm the ordinances; he must receive back into favour those earls with whom he had recently been at cross purposes.

That meant the murderers of Perrot and most humiliating of all, he was informed that his allowance would cut to ten pounds a day.

He listened quietly but inwardly seething with rage.

Lancaster was contemplating him blandly. Edward was King in name but

Lancaster was in command now.

–――――――

Lancaster faced the King. Edward was thinking: Perrot has always hated you. He knew you meant me no good, my cousin though you might be. But

perhaps it was because you were my cousin and so close to the throne that you always believed you would make the better king.

Lancaster was indeed thinking how feeble Edward was and he was still

exulting in the defeat at Bannockburn. Surely that showed the people the kind of man they had as King. How many English were saying this day: ‘If only

Lancaster had been the son of Edward the First.’

It mattered little now. He was in command. Edward was aware of that for it was obvious.

‘My lord,’ said Lancaster, ‘there will have to be some change of office. I have long felt– and others share my view― that those who hold the highest

posts in the country are not worthy of them.’

Edward wanted to scream with rage. He controlled his anger and said coldly:

‘It is not an unusual state of affairs for those who would rule to dislike a king’s friends.’

‘Ah, if they were but your friends, my lord, none would rejoice in them

more than I. It is as you know, dear lord and cousin, my earnest wish to serve you.’

‘I am glad to hear that,’ answered Edward grimly.

‘So, my lord, it is agreed that Walter Reynolds having bestowed on him the high office of Canterbury should relinquish the Great Seal. One cannot expect him to serve two such great offices in the manner demanded of them.’

So Walter was going now. Thank God he had given him Canterbury. They

could not oust him from his archbishopric.

‘And whom would you bestow the Great Seal, cousin?’

The sarcasm was lost on Lancaster. He had never been a man to look for

subtleties. He had the answer promptly.

‘I― and others agree that John Sandale should have the Seal.’

Sandale. A good churchman and one of Lancaster’s men.

What could he say? It was true Walter held both offices and many could

agree that he had not the qualifications to do so. In fact, a great many thought it was unfortunate that such a worldly man should hold the office of Archbishop of Canterbury. Edward knew he dared not protest.

Lancaster triumphantly went on to mention other members of the King’s

household whom he thought it would be better to replace.

Inside, Edward writhed with shame. Yet what could he do? Who was there

to stand with him now? Those who had supported him at Bannockburn were no

longer esteemed by the people. They shared the shame of defeat. Pembroke and Hereford had emerged from the battle it was true, but shorn of the honours they had won in the past. Gloucester who might have stood beside him was dead. He would never forgive Warwick for the part he had played in Perrot’s murder and any case, Warwick’s health had deteriorated so much that he was a sick man. He could not be sure of Warenne, whose loyalty fluctuated. His political life reflected his domestic affairs which were invariably in a turmoil. His marriage with Joan of Bar, the only daughter of Edward the First’s daughter Eleanor and the Count of Bar, was unhappy and he was at this time living with Matilda de Nerford, the daughter of a Norfolk nobleman– a fact deplored by her family and the Church itself; and the Bishop of Chichester had threatened to

excommunicate Warenne if he did not mend his ways. He was attempting to get his marriage with Joan annulled on the time-worn pleas of nearness of kin.

Meanwhile he continued to live with Matilda who had already borne him several sons.

No he could hardly look for help to a man in Warenne’s position. There was nothing he could do but give way.

Very well, let them do as they would. He would forget them. He would give

himself up to contemplating the burial he would give to Perrot.

Dear Perrot. He had always comforted him. He was comforting him now.

–――――――

Lancaster left the King and rode back to Kenilworth well-pleased with life.

He could see that what he had always hoped for was failing into his hands. That Edward was not worthy to be King, most men knew. Strange to think that he

was still drooling over Gaveston. He was thinking of giving him a grand burial.

Let him. It would keep him quiet while weightier matters went ahead.

King in all but name. The position could not be better. For if Edward were deposed there would still be the young Edward, King of England, and who

better to guide him than his royal kinsman Lancaster. Yes, let Edward concern himself with showering honours on his dear dead friend. It would keep him

occupied and remind people– if they needed to be reminded– of that liaison which had played a strong part in bringing him to his present humiliating

position.

He rode into the castle. Grooms hurried forward to take his horse.

He was momentarily depressed thinking pleasant it would have been to have

found a devoted wife waiting for him, eager to hear of his triumphs.

Alice was there, as good manners demanded, to greet her lord, but her gaze was as cold as ice. It had always been so for him, he remembered. Alice was beautiful, dignified as would be expected of the daughter of Henry de Lacy, Earl of Lincoln and Salisbury. Impious Gaveston had called him Burst Belly because of his girth, but that could not detract from his standing in the country as one of the first earls of the realm– rich and powerful. And Alice was his heiress.

Something she never forgot.

The marriage of Lincoln and Salisbury with Lancaster, Ferrers and Derby

should have been an ideal one― and it was in one sense. But Alice had quickly shown that she had little regard for him and that she knew it was the titles of Lincoln and Salisbury which had been her great attraction. Perhaps if they had had children― But they never had and never would now. Alice had made it

perfectly clear that even for the sake of handing down these high-sounding titles, she would not resume a relationship from which children might result.

It was very unsatisfactory.

Dutifully, she poured the wine for him and offered him the goblet. He took it warily thinking of the cold glitter in her eyes. He wondered lightly whether she would be glad to see him dead. He doubted it. She seemed entirely indifferent to his existence.

‘I have come from the King,’ he said.

‘And suitably subdued him?’ she asked.

He looked over his shoulder nervously. Alice should remember that they

must speak with caution.

She saw his concern and seemed amused. He wondered then if she would

smile in that way to see him carried off as a traitor.

‘The King is eager to win back the approval of his subjects,’ he said. ‘He takes Bannockburn to heart.’

‘Small wonder,’ she replied. ‘And I’ll warrant he is none too pleased with those who did not follow him there.’

‘He is grateful to be spared. He had to fly with Pembroke and might easily have been taken by the Scots.’

‘We live in stirring times,’ replied Alice. ‘The country will be thankful that there are men who, having preserved their Scottish campaign, are at hand to guide the reins of government.’

She was smiling superciliously, hating him. And he hated her. He thought:

Would I could be rid of her? Would I could take to wife a pleasant woman, one who would welcome me, applaud me, take an interest in my actions, be proud that her husband was royal and now was the most important man in the country.

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