The Follies of the King

YOUNG EDWARD

WHEN the King heard of Gaveston’s murder those about him thought his grief would drive him mad. For days he shut himself into his chamber and would see no one. His attendants heard him wailing in his misery. He found some relief in calling vengeance on Lancaster, Warwick, Hereford and Arundel who had been responsible for the death of the finest man on Earth.

No one could soothe him in those first days but later the Queen insisted on going to him.

She was large with child now and the sight of her seemed to give him some comfort.

She feigned compassion but she felt none, only exultancy because Gaveston was dead. She had thought often of Lancaster and the ardent look in his eyes when he had said: ‘I will rid you of this man.’

He had taken great risks, and had removed Gaveston from their lives forever.

Edward was babbling of his talents. She pretended to listen and she let her hand rest on the child and to herself she said: We will show this man for the fool he is, when you are born, my child. You will grow up and you will be a great King and your mother will always be beside you. The people despise your father but I will give England another King such as the first Edward and the people will welcome you in place of your ignoble father.

How she despised him— his eyes red with weeping, his stupid babbling about the virtues of Gaveston. Gaveston had no virtue. All he had was a talent for self-aggrandizement and he was not even clever enough for that, for all that he had had a few years run he had ended without his head on Blacklow Hill.

Edward said to her: ‘To kill him so. To treat him thus. Oh Isabella― I cannot bear my life without him.’

She stroked his hair. What a fool he was! Like a girl. But he was indeed handsome. Who would have believed that those strong golden looks― inherited from his father― should disguise such a girlish nature. A poor weak creature masquerading as a king.

He should be her puppet now. She had powerful friends. Lancaster was undoubtedly one and when the child was born if it were a boy― She willed it to be a boy. And if not― Then she must get more and more until she had her boy.

‘What can I do without him, Isabella? You know what he meant to me?’

She said: ‘He should be given a decent burial. Why do you not have his body taken to Kings Langley? You have constantly spoken of the happy days you shared there with him in your boyhood.’

He seized her hands. ‘Oh, Isabella, you are good to me. You give me courage. You give me hope.’

Inwardly she laughed. You fool. Don’t you know that I hate him more than any of them? He had earned Warwick’s enmity by sneering at him and calling him the Mad Hound of Arden. He maddened others with his serpent’s tongue.

But none was humiliated as much as you have humiliated me, and I shall remember even as those barons did.

‘Well then,’ she said. ‘let us consider his tomb and should not prayers be said for his soul? Remember,’ she added maliciously, ‘he died with all his sins upon him.’

‘Gaveston will charm the angels. He need have no fear.’

‘They may not share your tendencies, Edward,’ she said sharply. Then she added quickly: ‘It would be well to have masses said for his soul. I am sure you see what I mean.’

‘It shall be done. Oh Isabella, it must be done quickly. Nothing― simply nothing must be forgotten.’

“We will arrange it together,’ she said.

‘I will have Lancaster’s head for this.’

‘You must be watchful of Lancaster, Edward. He is the most powerful man in the country.’

‘But I am the King, Isabella. Have you forgotten that?’

‘Not I. But others might. Much as you loved Gaveston, the people did not.’

‘They were fed lies.’

‘Oh they liked not his influence with you. Barons like Warwick and Lancaster were determined he should die. He should never have come back.’

‘Oh, no, no. If he had not, he would still be alive.’

‘Now he shall rest peacefully in Kings Langley. Edward, the barons are ready to rise against you. You will have to be careful with Lancaster.’

‘Lancaster! I will have his head.’

‘Your own cousin. He is popular with the people.’

‘I must remind you again, Isabella, that I am the King.’

‘Kings fall. Remember your grandfather Henry. There was a time when Simon de Montfort made him a prisoner. Your great-grandfather John was in even worse plight.’

‘I wish people would not always talk of those two. Look at my father. Men trembled at the sight of him and the sound of his voice.’

‘Edward, you are not your father.’

He was silent. Even the mention of the old man could subdue him still.

‘Listen,’ she said. ‘Pembroke and Warenne are disgusted with Warwick, Hereford and Arundel. Pembroke moans that he was forced to break his word and he fears he will lose his estates to you.’

‘He should have taken more care.’

‘He should indeed. Bind Pembroke to you, Edward. Don’t you see that this split between the barons can be your salvation? Pembroke and Lancaster are engaged in a feud which is greater than that between you and Lancaster.’

‘Nothing could be greater than that. I regard Lancaster as Perrot’s murderer.’

‘Yes, yes. But Pembroke is a powerful man. The people admire him. And because of what has happened he will be with you― not against you. Don’t you see, this has not turned out so badly. Oh, I beg of you, do not start again on the virtues of Gaveston. We must put that behind us. Give him the best burial we can and a good chance in heaven by exhortations to the saints. Let us set up our candles and let prayers be said for his soul, but Gaveston is gone and we are here.’

Even as they were talking, messengers came hurrying to the King from Pembroke. Lancaster, Hereford, and Warwick were marching on London. They knew full well that the King would want to take action against them and they were taking action first.

Isabella smiled secretly. Lancaster was a bold man. This was not the time however to depose Edward. Her child must be born first. He must have a son, a symbol, a new King before the old one was set aside.

Gloucester was without. An earnest young man and loyal to the king. He knelt and kissed Edward’s hand.

‘Well, cousin?’ asked Edward.

‘My lord, Lancaster marches on London. He has strong support. He must not be allowed into the city.

‘Let him come,’ retorted Edward. ‘I would have his head. I would show him what I feel for him now that he has robbed me of my best friend.’

Gloucester said: ‘If he came to London there could be civil war. Let the gates be closed my lord and warn the Londoners to be on guard.’

Isabella interrupted: ‘Our cousin is right, Edward. This is no time for conflict.’

So it was done and Lancaster himself was somewhat relieved that there should not be open conflict. Now there would be conferences between the barons which could last for weeks and meanwhile the King could subdue his grief and perhaps forget his ire; and it might well be that the difficult situation could be eased somewhat. It was hardly likely that the King would ever forgive the murderers of his beloved Gaveston but it was always better to let matters settle down before rash action was taken.

The Queen had gone to Windsor for her lying in. At last the waiting was over and her desire to hold her child in her arms obsessed her.

She had chosen Windsor for the birth. It was one of her favorite palaces as it had been for Queen Eleanor who had brought the children there because she had thought the draughtiness of the Tower of London was bad for their health.

Isabella now lay in her bed and thought of how her life would be changed when this child was born. If it were a boy, everything would have been worthwhile.

Her pains were beginning. She welcomed them. She was praying to the Virgin, who should intercede for women.

‘Oh Holy Mary, give me a son. I have waited long. I have suffered humiliation which has been hard to bear for a woman of my proud nature.

Please give me my son.’

Pain engulfed her. She did not shrink from it. Anything― anything but give me my son.

She lost consciousness and was aroused to the sound of voices about her.

Then― the cry of a child.

She heard someone say, ‘Look, the Queen opens her eyes.’

‘My lady―’

How long they were. It seemed as though time had slowed down.

‘My― child―’

Then the blessed words: ‘A boy, my lady. A healthy boy― sound in limb and in good voice. A fine boy.’

A smile of triumph was on her lips as she held out her arms.

She caressed him. She examined him. He was perfect.

‘His legs are long,’ she said. ‘He will be like his grandfather.’

They noticed that she did not mention his father.

‘He is beautiful. Look― his hair is already so fair. Like a golden down. He’s a Plantagenet. It is obvious already.’

They agreed with her. The nurses clucked over him. They had never seen such a child, they assured her. He surpassed all other children.

Of course, he did. He was to be a king.

She said: ‘I have decided he shall be called Edward.’

‘The King will be pleased.’

She thought: Not after him. After his grandfather. I pray he may not be like his father. No, he should not be. Tall, fine, manly. A great king. But one who would listen to his mother.

Edward came. He stared at the child and none had seen him so delighted since Gaveston had died. He was smiling. Just for a few moments he forgot his beloved friend.

‘He is― perfect,’ he cried incredulously.

‘In every way,’ the child’s mother assured him. ‘Give him to me. I cannot bear not to have my eyes on him all the time.’

‘ My son,’ said Edward as though bewildered. ‘My own son.’

‘Your son,’ she answered, ‘and mine.’

‘There is rejoicing throughout the land,’ he went on. ‘They are talking of it at Court. They want him to be named Louis.’

‘I will not have it,’ said the Queen. ‘His name is Edward. Louis is not the name of a King of England but a King of France. He is Edward. I will have no other name.’

Edward knelt by the bed and kissed her hand. ‘I am so proud of him,’ he said. ‘My son.’

‘Yes, Edward,’ she answered, ‘and mine also.’

He took the child in his arms and walked about the room with it.

He has forgotten Gaveston― momentarily, she thought.

She was glad to see his delight in the child, but her intentions towards him had not changed at all. He had fathered the child, and they must have more. But little Edward was hers, entirely hers.

As she lay in bed with her baby beside her, she thought of the future. The people would be with her. They liked her youthful beauty as soon as they set eyes on it and the King’s treatment of her had incensed them so that they had immediately taken her part. That she had apparently forgiven him for his disgraceful behaviour with Gaveston and now actually given them the heir they wanted, made her seem something like a saint in their eyes.

She must never lose the respect of the people and in particular those of the City of London.

She therefore decided to acquaint them with the arrival of her son, to send them a personal message and to order that there be rejoicing throughout the capital.

She wrote to the citizens of London.

Isabella, by the grace of God Queen of England, Lady of Ireland, and Duchess of Aquitaine, to our well-beloved mayor and Alderman and the Commonality of London, greetings. Forasmuch as we believe you would willingly bear good tidings of us, we do make it known to you that our Lord in his Grace has delivered us of a son, on the 15th day of November with safety to ourselves and to the child.

May our Lord preserve you. Given at Windsor on the day above named.

She sent messages to say that she wished the city to have three days of rejoicing in which to welcome the baby. Wine would be in the streets and she hoped that there would be none in the city who did not drink her child s health.

She believed they would know how to make a merry time of it and she would be glad to hear of their rejoicing.

‘God bless the Queen,’ cried the people of London. ‘God bless the little Prince!’

There were few cheers for the King. But it was said that the timely arrival of the baby had averted trouble with the barons. Everyone was so delighted that there should be a male heir that it seemed hardly likely that those critics of the King would stand a chance against him now. As for the King, he should forget his grievances against those who dispatched Gaveston.

Gaveston was dead and a good riddance.

There was now a baby heir. Let the King settle down with his beautiful wife who was so popular with the people. Let him live a normal married life and beget more children.

THE CURSE OF THE TEMPLARS

AT this time the Archbishop of Canterbury, Robert de Winchelsey, died. He had been ailing for some time and was an old man so his death was not unexpected Walter Reynolds, Bishop of Worcester, who had been an intimate friend of Gaveston, asked for an audience with the King, which was immediately granted.

Reynolds was a crafty man. He did not come straight to the point which he felt even Edward might consider a little audacious but it had always been Walter Reynolds’ opinion that no delicacy of feeling should come between a man and his ambitions. The See of Canterbury was vacant. A new Archbishop would have to be appointed and in view of the closeness of his friendship with the King, it could possibly be that Walter Reynolds might step into those shoes so recently vacated by Robert of Winchelsey.

Reynolds fell onto his knees and kissed the King’s hand. ‘My lord, my lord, I see how you still suffer from our terrible loss.’

‘I think of him continuously,’ replied the King.

‘As I do also.’

‘And the manner of his death, Walter, I shall never forget it or forgive it.’

‘You could not, my lord. The happy times we had together―’

They talked of them for a while, Reynolds deliberately arousing the King’s despair. He was more likely to agree when he was in a maudlin mood. After all the three of them had been so much together. Reynolds had made it his duty to provide for their comfort. It had been Gaveston who had considered Walter should be rewarded in the first place.

At length, Reynolds said: ‘There is Canterbury.’

‘Ah yes, poor Robert. I never liked him. An uncomfortable man, but a good one by all accounts.’

‘My lord will not be sorry to see him go. You must put someone in his place who will be your man.’

‘The monks have already elected Cobham.’

‘Cobham. That will never do.’

‘You know they claim their right.’

‘But my lord, the monks of Canterbury have no rights over their King.’

‘They were always a tiresome company. They have made trouble for my ancestors through the centuries.’

‘That is no reason why they should make trouble for you, gracious lord.

Insolent fellows.’

Edward sighed. ‘If he were here he would jibe at them.’

‘He would be angry at the manner in which they treat you.’

‘He was always eager to uphold me,’ said Edward fondly. ‘You know Clement issued a bull only a month or so ago reserving to himself the appointment of the archbishop.’

‘Clement! He sways with the wind. The French King whistles and he comes.

There is one thing I know of which could make him change his mind.’

Edward raised his eyebrows and Walter went on: ‘Money. Poor Clement, but what is he but Philip’s puppet? Philip has him there at Avignon under his nose. Philip says, Come here. Go there. And what does Clement do? He obeys.

He has persecuted the Templars. Why? Because Philip says so. There is one thing he can do without the help of the King of France, and that is amass money.

I have heard he will do a great deal for it.’

Edward was thoughtful.

‘‘Why Walter, how comforting it would be if you were Archbishop of Canterbury.’

Walter folded the palms of his hands together and turned his eyes up to the ceiling.

‘I would serve you with my life, dear lord.’ Then he fell on his knees. ‘If only this could but come to pass! Can you not see our dear friend looking down on us from Heaven. Sometimes I think, lord, that he is working for us. He could never forget us, could he, any more than we could forget him? I wonder whether Clement would go so far.’

‘Let us find out,’ said Edward.

They did, and discovered that the Pope was willing to go a very long way for the sake of thirty-two thousand marks.

It was a great deal of money, but worth it to have in the important post of Archbishop of Canterbury a man who would serve the King rather than the Church, and if his reputation was hardly that to be expected of a good churchman, the King did not care. It was comforting to have Walter in such a position. They could meet often and talk over old times. Together they could mourn for the incomparable Gaveston.

‘The King is mad,’ said Lancaster.

Pembroke agreed with him but there was a feud between them because Lancaster, Warwick and the rest had made break his word. Pembroke was wooing the King, for he feared to be deprived of his lands.

If there had not been this rift between the barons, they would have stood out against this appointment of Walter Reynolds to the important See of Canterbury but, as there was, it came to pass.

There was news from France of Philip’s final acts against the Templars and when the story was told, Edward was glad that he had acted differently towards that company of knights. In England they became absorbed into the rest of the community, and when they considered what happened to their brethren in France they must be grateful to the King and the English for evermore.

Philip the Fair had pursued them with a ferocity which was hard to understand. True, he wanted their wealth but he could have taken that without inflicting such tortures on them. The rumours which came in from France were horrifying. The Queen listened to them and told herself at least her father was a strong man. Frenchmen trembled at the mention of his name. It would never be like that with Edward. Even now many of the barons were against him and she guessed that Lancaster was waiting for the moment when he could seize power.

Edward was weak. He was a fool when the young Edward was older something would happen, she was sure of that.

In the meantime she must show a certain affection for her husband, even if she did not feel it. It was necessary to get more children and she was determined to. Her bonny Edward was the delight of her life. But she wanted him to have a brother― several if possible.

Although many of the Templars had suffered the most cruel tortures and had been burned at the stake, their Grand Master, Jacques de Molai, still lived. De Molai was a Burgundian nobleman who had joined the crusades and fought valiantly against the Infidel. When he had been invited to Paris some years before he came unsuspecting and almost immediately was seized on, fettered, and submitted to such excruciating torture that he had collapsed under it and confessed to the evil deeds of which it was suggested he was guilty.

That men of logic did not believe he was meant nothing. So rigourous had been the torture that few could have stood out against it, certainly not a man of de Molai’s age.

At this time, the Order had been suppressed and its riches were in the hands of the King of France, but the Grand Master and the Master of Normandy still lived because it had been discovered that, on account of their rank in the Order, their death sentence must be sanctioned by the Pope.

Realizing that death was at hand, and as he had suffered so much that his poor pain-racked body was indifferent to more suffering, the Grand Master made a declaration that he deeply regretted his previous statements. He had spoken as he did under duress. He wanted now to tell the King of France and his accusers that his confession had been wrung from his weak body. His soul was in protest and he now wished to state the truth. He was innocent. The whole order was innocent. His destruction had been the work of his rapacious enemies.

The Master of Normandy joined his voice with that of de Molai.

As this happened beside the scaffold which had been erected in the forecourt of Notre Dame, there was no way of hushing it up because many people had gathered to see the end of these men. Their voices rang out clearly and the crowd was hushed and it seemed, said some, that God himself was speaking through the Grand Master.

In view of the fact that they had rescinded and to placate the growing apprehension and rising anger of the crowd, it was announced that their death sentence should be temporarily waived and the men taken back to their prison.

When the King heard what had happened he was furious. He could not rest while de Molai lived. He had waited a long time to finish him, as he said, and now to have the matter delayed again was more than he could endure.

Meanwhile the prisoners had been sent back to the Provost of Paris.

‘More delay!’ raged the King. ‘There will be no real peace until those men are dead.’ He made a sudden decision. He was not going to wait for more arguments. ‘To when they shall meet their end,’ he declared, ‘They shall be burned at the stake in the Ile de la Cité at the hour of vespers.’

The King’s word was law; and news of what was about to happen spread through the city. That was why shortly before the appointed time, the streets were crowded and it seemed that the whole of Paris was making its way to the spot where the burnings were to take place.

The people were overawed by the sight of Jacques de Molai and his companion for they seemed to glow with some special power.

The poor broken men they had been were no longer there. Jacques held his head high and the light in his eyes seemed to illumine his face. People noticed that his hands did not tremble as he bared his chest.

When his hands were about to be tied, he said to the guards, ‘Suffer me to fold my hands awhile and make my prayer to God for verily it is time. I am presently to die, but wrongfully, God knows. Death is near, and I am innocent of that which I am accused. Because of this, woe will come ere long to those who have condemned us without cause.’

Then he cried out on in a loud voice which could be heard throughout that crowded square: ‘God will avenge our death.’

There was a deep silence. Some lowered their heads and prayed. The spectacle of men burning to death no longer excited them. There was a deep sense of foreboding in the crowd that day.

The crackle of the wood seemed ominous and as it burst into flame and the smoke rose many people fell to their knees and prayed.

No good would come to France, they believed. The King of France was cursed. So was the Puppet Pope. For it was those two who had been at the very heart of the Templars’ destruction.

The legend grew and when one month later the Pope died, people were certain that the curse existed. Philip himself lived only eight months after that day when Jacques de Molai and the Master of Normandy were burned to death in the Ille de la Cité.

BANNOCKBURN

EDWARD had something on which to congratulate himself. Since the death of Gaveston, his people had warmed towards him. This was largely due to the Queen whose beauty appealed to them and whose outward resignation to her husband’s conduct won their admiration. The fact that the King and Queen were seen more frequently together and had the lusty young Edward as a certain sign that they now and then lived together as husband and wife, had pleased the people. The King could never be like the great Edward the First but perhaps with his evil genius Gaveston gone forever, there was hope of a return to a normal way of life.

Moreover the feud between the barons was in his favor for they no longer stood together against him. Lancaster’s party was strong but the powerful Earl of Pembroke had quarreled with it over the death of Gaveston, and Pembroke had joined himself with the King.

Edward felt that he could enjoy a period of peace, as far as that were possible without Gaveston. Then there was trouble from the North.

The Scots had rejoiced in the death of Edward the First and the accession of his son which had resulted in their salvation. Scotland under Robert the Bruce had grown stronger, as England under Edward the Second had become weaker.

Bruce was just the man to take advantage of such a position. He had gradually but steadily begun to free his country from the English domination set up by Edward, the Hammer of the Scots.

It was clear, that the second Edward had no heart for a fight.

He was not the strong warlike figure that his father had been. He had retired from the scene of action as soon as it was possible for him to do so and had left the Earl of Richmond in the north, bestowing on him the title of Guardian of Scotland. His task was far from enviable and intermittent warfare between the Scots and English and recently Bruce had made raids over the border into England on each occasion returning with valuable spoils.

The situation was becoming dangerous. One by one those fortresses held by the English were falling to the Scots. Edward groaned and cursed the Scots but he did little to prevent the disintegration of power. Bruce, inwardly exultant, often wondered what Great Edward would think if he could see what was happening Had he lived, the conquest of Scotland would have been brought about. Indeed, it was a happy day for the Scots when he died and his son took the crown.

The Scots had no respect for Edward and an army without a leader, however well equipped, could not fail to arouse wild hopes in the hearts of its opponents.

One by one the fortresses fell. Perth, Dumfries and Roxburg were taken.

Linlithgow had been cleverly taken when a soldier from the Douglas clan, disguised as a carter, had asked leave to take a hay cart into the castle. As it drew up in the gate‚ way beneath the great portcullis, from under the hay armed men sprang out, entered the castle and took the defenders by surprise. Such incidents put heart into Bruce’s army. They were not so well equipped as the English and must rely on cunning. It seemed they had plenty of this and under Bruce’s leadership, their hopes ran high.

The Castle of Edinburgh seemed to present the greatest difficulty of all as it was surrounded by three sides which were declared to be impassable precipices.

The Scots were in despair when one of the soldiers came to his commander Randolph and told him that as a youth he had had a mistress who was in the Castle and he had cut out steps in the cliff face so that he might visit her. He realized that every time he had visited her he had risked his life but he had come through safely and now he could show them the way.

They decided to try it and with the aid of rope ladders actually made their way up the steep cliff-face to the walls of the castle. They ascended, invaded the castle, killed the unsuspecting sentinels and took it.

This was the greatest triumph and incidents like this were, said Bruce, worth a thousand men.

At this time only three important castles remained in English hands: Stirling, Dunbar and Berwick. Of these, Stirling was the most important and Bruce decided that they must take it, but the castle was well defended and Bruce knew that to attempt to storm it would mean the loss of men and ammunition which he could ill afford to lose. As a great soldier, he was less sangillnary than his men and he realized they would achieve successes in the existing circumstances it would be a very different matter if the English army marched up to Scotland.

However, the more fortresses he could wrest from them before the main attack the better, and Stirling was of the utmost importance.

Therefore he sent his brother Edward Bruce to besiege the castle; Edward harried its occupants in every way and the Governor, Sir Philip Mowbray, was unable to procure the supplies he needed. Edward Bruce however lacked astuteness of his brother and was beguiled by Sir Philip into conferring with him. To take the castle would be expensive for the Scots in men and arms; moreover there was a possibility that the operation might not be successful.

‘Edward’s armies are on the way to defend Stirling,’ was Sir Philip’s argument. ‘I can hold out until they arrive. This could spell a defeat for you which could be disastrous to the Scottish cause.’

Edward Bruce replied that all knew the nature of the King of England. He was not like his father. It seemed like he had no intention of bringing an army to Scotland. In which case in due time the Scots would have Stirling as they had Edinburgh, Linlithgow and the rest.

‘That is true,’ replied Mowbray. ‘So I will make a truce with you. If the English army is not within three leagues of this castle by the Feast of St John the Baptist, I will surrender to you without the loss of one life on either side.’

Edward Bruce agreed. When his brother Robert heard what he had done he was greatly displeased but, determined to make the best of the situation, he began to see that the arrangement would give him a chance to gather together an army to stand against the English should they come.

Pembroke came in haste to Edward. ‘My lord,’ he said, ‘you will see the urgency of this matter. Mowbray must be relieved at Stirling and we have little time in which to do it.’

Edward sighed. ‘These tiresome Scots.’

Pembroke went on a trifle impatiently: ‘Mowbray is a gallant soldier and a faithful servant. He needs assistance and he must have it.’

‘Then, let us send it.’

‘My lord, that is not enough. Since your father’s death we have lost a great deal of that which he gained. One by one the garrison towns are slipping away from us. We must stop this and the only way to do it is to amass an army and march on Scotland.’

‘The barons―’

‘It is an opportunity to unite them in a single cause. No matter what their quarrels with each other, their duty to the Crown remains. I am ready to forget my differences with Warwick until this matter is resolved and so must they.’

‘I see this could be so,’ said Edward.

‘There must be a full scale invasion from sea and land. The Scots have a great leader in the Bruce. Never have they been so united― even under Wallace.

Now is the time, my lord. If we allow Stirling to fall into the hands of the Scots it will be a disaster. We owe it to Mowbray to send relief as soon as it is possible.’

‘It shall be done,’ cried Edward. He felt a sudden enthusiasm for the fight.

‘It was true that it would bind the barons together and he was tired— and a little afraid— of their continual bickering. It would help him to forget Gaveston.

People were always comparing him with his father, now they should see that he could be warlike too. He would teach the Scots a lesson.’

‘We should summon the earls and barons without fail,’ said Pembroke ‘Let it be done,’ answered Edward.

Within a few days the commands were issued to eight earls― among them Lancaster— and eighty-seven barons.

They were to meet at Berwick by the tenth day of June.

Preparations went on apace. Edward ordered that a fleet of twenty-three vessels be assembled at the Cinque ports and their purpose was to invade Scotland.

In all this Pembroke was beside the King. He tried to instill into Edward a respect for his opponent. It would not be the first time Pembroke had faced Bruce. He had been victorious against him at Methven and beaten by him at Loudoun Hill and he knew him for a formidable foe. Edward laughed aside his warnings. Bruce was a man to be reckoned with, yes, he accepted that. But such an army would come against him that his would be completely outnumbered.

‘Even my father could not have withstood such an army had he been on the opposing side,’ said Edward.

‘ ‘Tis so, my lord,’ replied Pembroke. ‘But we must not make the mistake of expecting easy victory.’

Pembroke was a master at the art of war. He made sure that the army should have the necessary provisions; he set up men whose efficiency he could rely on to take care of the stores. They must have in their train smiths, carpenters, masons, and armourers, wagons to carry the tents and pavilions and all that was necessary to warfare. Many a battle he reminded the King had been lost through neglect of such details.

Nor must the King neglect to ask the help of God and it would be a good gesture for him to make a pilgrimage with the Queen, and his young son to St Albans.

Isabella was nothing loath. She enjoyed displaying herself to the people, and that she should show off her son delighted her.

Along the roads people came out to give loyal greetings as they passed. It was like the old days when Great Edward went to war, they said. There was the King with his Queen and his son, the heir to the throne. The Gaveston period was over. That man had been evil. He was the son of a witch and temporarily had cast a spell on the King. All Edward needed now was victory in Scotland and the people would be certain that the old days were back again.

Alas, it was not going to be so easy, as he found when he arrived at Berwick.

It was Pembroke who brought the news to him. ‘Lancaster, Arundel, Surrey and Warwick will not come in person,’ he told the King.

Edward was filled with sudden rage. ‘Why not? How dare they? Have I not summoned them?’

‘Aye, my lord, and they have sent token troops in accordance with their feudal vows to the Crown. They say that they should have been consulted before you took up arms.’

‘Traitors!’ cried the King.

‘We cannot say that, my lord. They have fulfilled their commitments though in the minimum degree it is true and we shall not have the force we expected from them.’

‘I thought at a time like this they would have considered their duty to their country.’

‘They consider only gain to themselves, my lord. And they have performed what was required of them at this time. We have the service of good men. Many have seen service in Scotland before this and Wales too. Their services will be of the greatest value to us.’

The King agreed and he glowed with pride and optimism when he surveyed his army. There must be some forty thousand men, a band of which even his father would have been proud.

Edward was going to show the Scots that his father’s spirit going to make them lived on. He was going to make them eat their words. This was going to be as great a victory as had ever glorified his father’s name.

He with his men marched on to Edinburgh.

Robert the Bruce, aware of the advancing English, should have been filled with apprehension. He was, and yet there was in him a surging hope, for he believed that it was his destiny to drive the English out of Scotland and when Edward the First had died and he had begun to realize the nature of his successor he had been certain that he was going to succeed.

There had been so much failure; the Scots could not hope to raise an army which could compare with that of Edward’s in training; in equipment they were vastly inferior; yet the spirit was there. Men who were defending their homeland always had the advantage over the invader. If they had an inspired leader, they could work miracles. Bruce was inspired. He has suffered many defeats but he knew he was going to win in the end. he liked to tell the tale of the spider which had somehow caught his imagination and that of his followers.

He would sit by the light of the camp fire and talk to them of the time when he had been lonely, depressed and defeated, when he had been routed and had barely managed to save his life. He would tell how he had lain in his bed and watched a spider try six times to attach its thread to a balk and each time fail.

The spider went on trying until on the seventh attempt when he was successful.

This seemed significant to Bruce because six times he had raised armies and attempted to defeat the English and each time he had been defeated.

‘Now shall this spider teach me what I am to do,’ he said. ‘Even as the creature failed so did I; and even as he succeeded in the end, I shall also. He has taught me a lesson which I will never forget and that is never to accept defeat. If I fail yet will I try again and go on trying until defeat turns into victory.’

It was spoken of often in his camps. They knew that their King would never harm a spider, and nor would they, for it had become a superstition that ill luck would follow any who did.

It had helped him, that spider, because the legend which had grown up round it was that one day Robert would succeed even as the spider had. He was going to turn the English out of Scotland.

This might be the time. It must be the time, for the King himself was in Scotland with a mighty army and the battle which would inevitably follow could be a decisive one. True, Great Edward was no more, but the army was there and how could the Scottish army one third the size stand up to it?

Robert the Bruce had mustered his men at Torwood close by Stirling where he reviewed his chances. With a army he must rely on his own generalship, his men’s determination and his knowledge of the ground on which the battle would take place. He must manoeuvre so that he should choose the spot and as he had few cavalry men and the English were well equipped in this field, he decided that must be fought on foot. He himself chose the battleground. It was to be New Park between the village of St. Ninian and the little stream of the Bannock which was known in the district as Bannockburn. Here by the water, the land was marshy and this would provide a danger for the English horses.

He called together the principal generals of the Scottish army. There was his brother Sir Edward Bruce, Sir James Douglas, Randolph Earl of Moray and Walter, the High Steward of Scotland.

He was very sober as he addressed them. ‘We are out-numbered three-to- one, but do not let the men know this. I have carefully examined the ground and I want the right wing of the army to rest on the banks of the burn. There we can be sure of not being outflanked. The front of the army shall extend to St. Ninian village.’

“The left will be less protected than the rest of the army,’ pointed out Moray.

‘You speak truth. It will be exposed to the garrison of Stirling Castle. That is why I have ordered that pits be dug in that area and in these shall be placed iron spikes.’

‘ ‘Tis a grand idea,’ cried Douglas.

‘And the hollows will be filled with brushwood,’ went on Bruce.

‘No horse will be able to pass over that ground,’ commented the Steward.

‘That was the intention,’ smiled Bruce. ‘Now, let us go forward with a quiet confidence. The odds are against us but we can succeed.’

‘We must succeed,’ said Randolph.

‘I thank God that it is not the English King’s father who comes against us,’

murmured Bruce.

‘Doubtless, they will carry his bones before the army,’ said the Steward, who was not a veteran of battle as the others were.

Bruce smiled at his smooth young face.

‘We learn to believe only in those omens which bring good to us,’ he said ‘But if they are good or evil―’ began the young man.

‘Evil― good― either is born in the mind. And so are victory and defeat. My friends, let us say together, “This day we shall succeed.” Come, I will speak to the men. I want every man who fights under my banner this day to be there because he wishes to see Scotland free. I want no reluctant men in my army.’

He rode forward on his small grey mare, an unimpressive animal but surefooted and chosen for this reason. He was clad on his helmet he wore a circlet of gold that all might recognize him as the King, and in spite of his somewhat unkingly mount there was that about him which inspired men and never had it been more apparent than at that moment.

He spoke in clear ringing tones. The enemy was close. Many of the men here this day would remember the bloody battles between Scotland and the late King. That King was dead now and he believed they had little to fear from his son.

‘If there is a man among you who is not fully resolved to win this field or die with honor, let him throw down his arms and go. I want no such man in my army. I would rather have but half the men who stand before me now and they good brave men, loyal to Scotland, than double the present numbers with traitors or reluctant men among you. Now is your chance. Speak now if you will. I offer you liberty to go or stay.’

There was a deep silence. Bruce’s heart was beating uncertainly. What if there cowardly men among them? What if they, sensing death close by― for assuredly it would come to some this day— grew faint-hearted and thought with longing of their bairns and their firesides away in some remote comer of Scotland far from St Ninian’s and Bannockburn?

Not a movement in the ranks. Not a sound to be heard but the ripple of the burn.

Then a great shout went up. ‘Victory for the Bruce and Scotland forever.’

I have good and faithful men to serve me, thought Bruce. That augurs well for Scotland.

Edward’s great desire was to get the battle over. He had no doubt of the outcome. He had a fine army. If his father were looking down on him now he would be pleased with him. The Scots could not stand out against him. He had been angry because of those barons who had refused to join him but now he laughed to think how sorry they would be when he returned victorious to England.

The first thing to do was relieve Mowbray at Stirling Castle. That would be a fine gesture. He sent for Sir Robert Clifford and ordered that he take an advance party of eight hundred cavalry and capture the castle.

Sir Robert rode off. It was certain that the Scots would be expecting this move. Stirling Castle was a strategic point and it was to relieve the governor that the English army had come to Scotland. He must therefore be wary. He knew where the enemy army was situated and instead of taking direct route which could have resulted in his being seen, he with his men rode quietly round the village of St Ninian’s taking care to keep themselves out of sight as much as possible. Thus Randolph Earl of Moray whom Bruce had commanded to be watchful of just such a move did not see what was happening and it was Robert the Bruce himself who caught sight of Sir Robert and his band making their way cautiously to the castle.

The Bruce rode hastily to Randolph and demanded to know what this meant.

‘You have thought too lightly of the charge I gave you. A rose has fallen from your chaplet this day, nephew.’

Overcome with horror Randolph rode off immediately in pursuit of Clifford who hearing the approach, gave the order to his men to wheel round and attack.

Randolph had only five hundred men and he was out-numbered but he formed his troops into a square with spears held before them. The English rode forward but they could not break through the Scottish spears and Clifford gave the order to surround the Scots. The English cavalry was heavily armed and the Scottish weapons were only their long spears, short knives and battle-axes. The Scots put up a magnificent fight but they were against the heavy arms of the English cavalry and surrounded as they were, it seemed inevitable that they must be defeated although they might inflict heavy casualties upon their 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 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 talking to the King― it was nonsense.’

A faint colour showed itself under the Queen’s skin; her eyes glittered and the woman hurried on: ‘They said― on forgive me, my lady― it must have been the words of a madman― they said that the king was a changeling― not the true son of Great Edward. They said that one of his nurses dropped the Prince when he was a baby. He was killed and this maid being so terrified put another baby in his place.’

The Queen burst into loud laughter in which her women joined, relieved.

‘A ridiculous tale indeed! You are right to think so.’ She smiled at the woman who had told the story. ‘Did you ever see one who more resembled his father than the King?’

‘No, my lady, never.’

‘I have heard it said that he is the image of what the old King was at his age.’

‘It is certainly so, my lady.’

‘That nurse was very clever, was she not― to find a baby who looked so like the King?’

They laughed and, chattering, recalled other absurd bits of gossip they had heard from time to time.

But the Queen did not treat the matter as light-heartedly as she pretended to do. It was true it was a ridiculous story, but the fact that it had been invented in the first place and been passed round was an indication of how people’s minds were working.

They were growing disillusioned with the King. There must be an idea— faint as yet— to dispossess him; which was why the notion that he was a changeling would be allowed to flourish.

The people no longer admired him. They wanted a King like the first Edward, a strong ruler, victorious in battle, one at the mention of whose name the enemy quailed. Robert the Bruce had never been greatly in awe of Edward the Second. What had he said? ‘I am more afraid of the spirit of Edward the First than the armies of Edward the Second. It was more difficult to get a square inch of land from the First Edward than it would be a kingdom from the Second.’

Oh yes, they were beginning to despise the King. So the changeling story was welcomed.

That night she went to Edward’s chamber and talked to him of the funeral of Piers Gaveston. She wanted to hear how impressive it was and how magnificently Walter Reynolds had presided.

How she despised him as she listened! What a fool he was! At this time when the people were suffering from the disasters of the harvest how could he spend so much money on the burial of the man whom the people had hated more than any other!

Did he not see how precarious his position was? Had he forgotten what had happened to his grandfather King Henry III and his great grandfather King John?

Edward was a fool― a weak fool.

She stroked his hair. She must have children. What would her position be without children? She had her stalwart young Edward but he was not enough.

Children were so delicate― particularly it seemed were boys. Her powerful father was dead— the victim, they said, of the curse of Jacques de Molai. She could look for little help from her family. Her brother Louis, called le Hutin because he quarrelled with everyone, was ailing. It was being said throughout France that none of the sons of Philip the Fair could prosper because of what their father had done to the Templars. Isabella shivered to contemplate what that awful scene must have been like with the Grand Master calling his curse on the royal house of France as the flames consumed him. His Queen was with child and there were fears that the curse might prevent her producing a healthy male child which was so urgently needed.

No, there was no hope of help from Louis.

Isabella must stand on her own, and now she knew that Lancaster was a weak man, she would have to look for other support if ever she was going to save herself from the humiliation the King had made her suffer.

But she would never forget.

In the meantime the more children she had the higher her hopes. Desperately she needed a son.

That was why she made herself charming to Edward, and he, obtuse as he was, believed her attitude towards him meant that she cared for him.

The Queen was pregnant and, though the King was pleased with this, and when the Queen rode out through London the people cheered her, their resentment against him was growing.

It was the old trouble— King against barons, and there was always the danger that this would break out into civil war. Only a strong King could keep the barons at bay and Edward was scarcely that.

What had angered him most about Lancaster’s high-handed manner was the fact that he had succeeded in robbing him of his friends. The departure he most regretted was that of Hugh le Despenser. Despenser, a man of more than fifty years, had served Edward the First well and he had been ready to the same for his son. At Edward’s coronation he had carried part of the royal insignia and from that time had shown himself to be the King’s man.

When the barons had stood against dear Perrot, Hugh le Despenser had been the only one of them who had given him his support. That was something Edward would always remember.

Of course a great many cruel things had been said against him at the time.

They said he was avaricious and that he thought by currying favour of the King and his favourites he would be well rewarded. They were strong, those barons, and they dismissed him from the council.

But there was something very resilient about Hugh. It was not long before he was back. The King was delighted to see him and presented him with the castles of Marlborough and Devizes. When Gaveston was murdered it was Hugh who was beside the King, trying to offer that comfort which no one could really give. Hugh understood perfectly and the King was fond of him.

They used to talk a great deal together. Hugh hated Lancaster.

‘Forgive my anger, my lord,’ said Hugh, ‘for I speak of your cousin, but I would I might challenge him to combat. With what joy would I run my sword through that arrogant body.’

‘Ah, Hugh,’ replied the King, ‘you are a true friend to me. And God knows, I have little left to me. When Perrot was alive―’

Then he would tell Hugh about the wonderful life they had had together and the King found he could laugh again over the wit of Piers Gaveston with someone who could understand it.

Then Bannockburn where Hugh had been with the army in the débâcle and afterwards, when Lancaster was saying who and who should not serve him, Hugh was one of those who were dismissed.

‘To be a King and not a King,’ mourned Edward. ‘I would be happier as one of my poorest subjects.’

Hugh le Despenser had a son named Hugh like himself. Young Hugh was a most beautiful young man― one who came as near to Perrot in that respect as anyone could come in the King’s eyes, and young Hugh had now become his chamberlain.

Strangely enough he had been sent by Lancaster, for this beautiful youth had allied himself, against his father, to the barons.

It was a pleasure to talk to him, for he was amusing and gay. He was light-hearted, cheerful and whenever he was given a present he would be so delighted that it gave Edward great pleasure to bestow gifts on him.

Isabella had watched the King’s growing absorption in young Hugh le Despenser with increasing irritation.

It is going to be Gaveston all over again, she thought. Why was I married to a creature like this?

There were times when she had difficulty in controlling her fury. She hated Edward; yet she was tied to him. She longed for a strong and passionate man, someone who would work with her, who was ambitious and above all, aware of all she had to give. Yet here she was married to one whom she considered only half a man, but he happened to be a king and as she wanted power as much as adoration and affection she had to walk very carefully. If this child she carried was a son, she would have made another step forward. She must have sons.

She saw what was happening so clearly. She understood these people around her as Edward never could.

The elder Hugh le Despenser had sent his son to the barons. The artful old schemer! She understood it might well be because he thought one of them should be in either camp. ‘You, my son,’ she was sure he had said, ‘will go to the barons and support them, while I stand beside the King. Then whichever way the tide turns one of us will be in the safe ship. Our estates will be saved and it should not be impossible for the winner to rescue the loser.’

Sound reasoning and worthy of the wily old Despenser.

Then bumbling Lancaster had stepped in. Young Hugh was a presentable fellow, one who could well find favour with the King. Let him go into the royal household, keep his eyes open and report anything worthy of note to his masters. He should make a good spy for the Lancastrian party.

Clever! no doubt Lancaster thought.

Old fool, thought Isabella. It can’t be long before even Lancaster sees what he has done.

And to think that she had once thought of throwing in her lot with him! Oh, how clever she was to wait, to play her game cautiously!

She would have a few more children by Edward— and there must be no doubt in anyone’s mind that they were royal children— and then they would see.

In the early part of August she returned to Eltham Place there to await the birth of her child and to her great joy on the fifteenth of that month a boy was born.

There was great rejoicing and the child was christened John.

He was known as John of Eltham.

There was another year of famine. Rain had fallen continuously throughout the summer; the fields were marshlands and the crops once more were ruined.

The people declared that it was not the French who were cursed, but the English.

‘This would never have happened in Great Edward’s day,’ was the constant comment. He would never have allowed his people to suffer. He would have done something. He would never have let the Scots beat him. He had been a great King. And what had they now?

There were jokes about the King’s relationship with pretty Gaveston. Did they remember all that money which was spent on making a fine tomb for him at Langley? Such extravagance while the people went hungry.

There was something wrong with England as events were proving and they must look to their King for the reason.

Then John Drydas appeared.

He was the son of a tanner from Powderham and all his life people had commented on his long legs, his flaxen hair and his likeness to the King.

People used to nod and wink and say that if Edward the First had not been a moral man, never known to stray from his marriage bed, it would have been almost a certainty that John of Powderham was the result of some rural royal frolic.

The likeness was uncanny.

John of Powderham was a dreamer. He used to fancy that he was the son of the King. When famine struck Powderham he used to sit on the green with the villagers gathered round him and tell them what he would do if he were king. He would see that the people were fed; he would have prayers said in churches, he would have prayers and offerings made to the saints that they might intercede with God to shut off the rain and bring out the sun. There was so much he would do if he were king.

‘Tis a pity you’m not the King, John Drydas,’ said his friends. ‘You’m wasted tanning skins.’

He began to think that he was. Ever since he was a boy he had been interested in the King for the likeness had been evident from early days. Some said that one of the King’s ancestors might have fathered a son on some country wench years ago and the likeness had come through in her descendants. Faithful husbands Henry the Third and Edward the First could certainly not be blamed.

But the royal streak was there.

When the story of the changeling had been spread about it had been of the utmost interest to John of Powderham. He had talked of nothing else for days.

Then the idea had come to him. ‘It were like a dream,’ he said, ‘and yet t’were not a dream. It was some fancy I had of long ago― I were lying in a room all silks and velvets― I remember it hazy-like― like there be a mist between me and that day.’

His friends urged him to try and remember. And it was amazing how the visions kept coming to him.

‘Of course I were a very young baby,’ he told them. ‘But a baby has these flashes of memory like, I do believe.’

The village was excited. It was rarely there was so much to talk about and it was a relief from the continual discussions of poverty and hardship.

Then one day as his admirers sat in a circle about him he told them that he was in truth the son of King Edward the First and therefore their King.

He was beginning to remember. One night while he was sleeping in his magnificent cradle, men came and carried him away. He was too young to know what was happening to him and his first memories after that were of the tanner’s cottage. It was perfectly dear. The man who called himself Edward the Second was a changeling. It was clear enough was it not? Look what had happened when he went to Scotland. Look at the life he had led with the wicked Gaveston.

Was that what could be expected from the son of Edward the First? Everything he did pointed to the fact that he was not his father’s son.

He looked very like him, pointed out some.

‘He is tall and fair-haired. There are many men tall and fair-haired. What of me then? Do I not look the spitting image of him?’

They had to admit this was so.

‘What will ‘ee do about it, John?’ asked the miller.

‘I reckon I ought to do some’at,’ said John.

‘You should go around the country, telling people you be the true King.’

‘Yes, maybe that’s what I should do.’

John of Powderham was a little apprehensive. It was all very well to proclaim himself the true King in his own village. Going round the country telling others was a different matter.

But his friends were determined.

They had to put a stop to the present state of affairs as soon as possible.

They wanted a real King to rule them and to see John Drydas, standing his full height with his yellow hair thrown back and his long shapely legs― Well, if that wasn’t the dead image of Great King Edward they didn’t know what was.

The Queen said: ‘This after the changeling story is too much. Every tall fair-haired man in the country will be setting himself up as the King. You have to make an example of this one, Edward.’

Edward agreed with her. He had talked over the matter with Hugh who had actually seen the man.

‘He is handsome enough,’ was Hugh’s comment. ‘Tall and fair. And he certainly has a look of the late King and yourself. But what a difference! The poor creature has no grace, no charm. He is an uncouth yokel.’

‘What do you expect him to be?’ demanded Isabella tartly, ‘brought up by a tanner! I doubt you, my lord, would be as charming and graceful if you had been brought up in a hovel instead of the ancestral home of the Despensers.’

Hugh tittered sycophantically. They were beginning to hate each other. In due course, thought Hugh, he would not have to placate her. It would be the other way round.

The Queen said: ‘I do believe this man should not be treated lightly.’

Edward looked at Hugh. Oh God, prayed Isabella, let me keep my temper.

This is going to be darling Perrot all over again.

Hugh was not completely sure of his position, so he said quickly: ‘There is much in what you say, my lady.’

‘Poor fellow,’ said Edward, ‘I doubt he means any harm.’

‘He is only helping to make you more unpopular than you already are.’

Edward said petulantly: ‘The people are so tiresome. Am I to blame for the weather?’

‘They won’t blame you for the weather,’ said the Queen, ‘but for doing nothing to combat the effects of it. They don’t realize that Lancaster rules them now― not their King.’

She was not going to argue with them. If the King liked to be lenient with this man, let him. His folly was leading him to disaster fast enough.

She left the two friends together. Now they would put their pretty heads together and talk of the past. Hugh must be sick to death of hearing of the talents and virtues of Darling Perrot.

But John of Powderham was not allowed to go free. He was arrested and imprisoned. He was given a chance to bring forward proof which might substantiate his claims to be the son of the King.

Of course, the poor fellow could do nothing of the sort. But he insisted on his claim. He knew it had happened the way he had said. What more proof did they want than the character of the present King.

He had given his accusers the opportunity they needed.

Poor John Powderham was sentenced to that horror which had become known as the traitor’s death. He was hung, drawn and quartered.

An example to any of those who might have notions that Edward the Second was not the true King of England.

There were further signs of unrest.

Soon after the affair of John Drydas, a certain Robert Messager was in a tavern having drunk a little more than his wont when he remarked that it was small wonder things went wrong with the country when the manner of the King’s way of living was considered.

There was quiet in the tavern while he went on to speak very frankly of the King’s relations with Gaveston and now it seemed there was a new pretty boy favourite. It was a wonder the Queen— God bless her― endured the situation.

Many in the tavern agreed and the more Robert de Messager drank, the more frankly he discussed the King’s friends.

There was bound to be someone who reported this conversation and the next night when Messager was in the tavern there was a man there also who plied him with wine and led the conversation to the habits of the King.

Messager, seeing himself the centre of the company and that he had the interest of all, used what were later called ‘irreverent and indecent words’ about the King.

As he uttered them, the stranger made a sign and guards entered the tavern.

Shortly afterwards Messager found himself a prisoner in a dark little dungeon in the Tower. Realizing what he had done he became quickly sober when he was seized by despair and a realization that his own folly had brought him there.

There was a great deal of talk throughout the capital about Robert de Messager. He was a citizen of London and London looked after its citizens.

Messager had spoken of the King in a London tavern. He had merely said what everyone knew to be true. Perhaps he had been indiscreet. Perhaps he owed the King a small fine. But if he were to be condemned to the traitor’s death there would be trouble.

The Queen as usual was aware of the people’s feelings. When she rode out they cheered her wildly. It seemed that the more they despised Edward, the more they cherished her. They saw her as the long-suffering Princess who had tried to be a good wife and Queen to their dissolute monarch.

‘Long live Queen Isabella!’

Then she heard a voice in the crowd: ‘Save Messager, lady.’

Save Messager! She would. She would show the people of London that she loved them as they loved her.

She looked in the direction from which the voice had come. There was a shout again: ‘Save Messager.’

She replied in a clear voice, ‘I will do all I can to save him.’

More cheers. Sweetest music in her ears. One day everything would be different.

She had some influence with Edward. He did respect her. The fact that she never upbraided him for his life with Perrot and Hugh won his gratitude. She had given him the children― two boys. What could be better? They must have more, she had said. Two were not enough. He really owed her a good deal for being so considerate. She was prepared to receive him that they might have children, and she loved their two boys— even as he did. There was a bond between them and he was ready to listen to her.

‘You must pardon Messager,’ she said.

‘Do you know what he said about me?’ asked Edward.

She did know. She did not add that Messager had spoken the truth.

‘Nevertheless,’ she said, ‘I want you to pardon him. The people have asked me to intercede for him and I think it well for them to believe you have some regard for me.’

‘But they know I have. Have you not borne two of my children?’

‘The Londoners wish him to be pardoned and they have asked me to do what I can. They want him pardoned, Edward.’

‘But to speak of his King thus―’

‘Edward, it is better for you to waive that aside. The people will gossip less if you do. It is not often I ask you for anything. But now I ask you for this man’s life.’

Edward rarely felt fully at ease with his wife, and the prospect of her begging for this favour and that it should be for the life of a man appealed to his sense of the romantic.

Let the man go. Show the people that he cared not for their calumnies and make a pretty gesture to his Queen.

When Robert de Messager was released the crowds gathered to cheer him.

He had struck a blow for freedom. He had come near to horrible death and thank God— and the Queen— that he had escaped.

‘God save the Queen,’ shouted the people of London. She rode out among them.

‘How beautiful she is!’ cried the people.

‘Shame on the King,’ said some. ‘Such a good and lovely Queen and he turns to his boys!’

And she smiled and acknowledged their loyal greetings. They loved her.

They were on her side. One day she would have need of them.

Another unfortunate incident occurred soon after that.

It was Whitsuntide and the Court was at Westminster and the celebrations took place in public according to the custom.

At such times the doors of the palace were wide open and it was the people’s privilege to come in if they wanted to see the royal family at table.

At such a time as this, with famine throughout the country, it was asking for trouble to allow the poor to see how well stocked the royal table was. There had, it was true, been certain shortages in the kitchens, even of the most wealthy, but to the poor the joints of beef and the golden piecrust looked very inviting.

The King and Queen sat side by side at the great table and the King was beginning to realize that if the Queen was beside him― as a queen should be— the people were more inclined to look with favour on him.

However, while they sat at table there was a commotion from without and then suddenly there appeared at the door a tall woman on a magnificent horse.

The woman’s face was completely covered by a mask so that it was impossible to see who she was.

She rode into the hall and brought her horse right up to the table where the King was seated. Then she handed a letter to him.

Edward was smiling, so was the Queen.

‘A charming gesture from one of my loyal subjects,’ said Edward. ‘I wonder what the letter contains?’

He gave it to one of his squires and commanded that it be read aloud so that the whole company could hear.

He was expecting some panegyric such as monarchs were accustomed to receiving on such occasions when, to his amazement, this squire began to read out a list of complaints against the King and the manner in which the country was ruled.

‘Bring back that woman,’ he said, for the masked rider was already at the door.

She was captured and immediately gave the name of the knight who had paid her to deliver the letter to the King.

The knight was brought before the King who demanded to know how he dared behave in such a manner.

The knight fell on his knees. ‘I wish to warn you, my lord. I am as good and loyal a subject as you ever had. But the people are murmuring against you and I believe you should know it. I meant the letter to have been read by you in private. I was ready to risk my life to tell you.’

A deep silence fell on the hall. Edward was uncertain. The Queen spoke to him softly.

‘You must let him go as you did Messager. To punish him would arouse the fury of the Londoners.’

Edward saw the point. He had no wish for trouble from his capital.

‘You may go,’ he said to the knight. ‘I like not your conduct but I know it was done out of no ill wish to me. Another time speak to me yourself. You need have no fear of that. Let the woman go too. The matter is over.’

It was the only way to deal with such a situation.

But it showed the mood of the people.

BANISHMENT

LIFE was not going smoothly for the Earl of Lancaster. He was President of the Council and the people were complaining about his bad rule; he was commander against the Scots and the state of affairs at the border went from bad to worse. Edward Bruce was reigning as King of Ireland and people were saying that he, Lancaster, who had been full of criticism for the manner in which the country had been governed under Edward, had made as much a disaster of affairs as Edward himself had.

It was time Lancaster was put out of office. This was the opinion of John Warenne, Earl of Surrey and Sussex, and he was ready to join with the King to bring about that desirable state.

Warenne was not the most reliable of allies; his loyalties wavered, not so much because he sought his own gain as that his opinions changed from time to time. He had hated Gaveston from the time the latter had humiliated him at the Wallington joust but he had disapproved of Gaveston’s murder and had been of the opinion that the favourite should have been brought to trial as had been promised him.

His domestic affairs gave him great cause for concern as he hated his wife Joan of Bar and had been trying for some time unsuccessfully to divorce her. He had several children by his mistress Matilda de Nerford and being devoted to her and to them, was anxious to see her securely provided for. The King had been sympathetic to him on these matters and at this time Warenne was veering towards Edward.

It was on Warenne’s advice that the King called together a council at Clarendon. Here it was decided in secrecy that an attack should be made on Lancaster, and Warenne himself would be in charge of this.

In due course Warenne with a selected band of troops marched north to Pontefract but as he approached Lancaster’s country and realized the wealth and power of his opponent he suddenly took fright and made up his mind that if he attacked at that point he would most certainly encounter defeat.

He called a halt and decided to return south and think up some other plan of action.

On the way he was joined by one of his squires who had been travelling in the south-west. This man had stayed at Canford in Dorset where Lancaster had estates, and while there had been the guest of Lancaster’s Countess. He had quickly realized that she was an unhappy woman.

‘She confided in you?’ asked Warenne in surprise.

‘In a manner,’ was the answer. ‘Of course, my lord, it is no secret that the Countess finds little satisfaction in her marriage.’

Warenne nodded in commiseration. He of all people knew what it meant to be unhappily tied to someone from whom it was difficult to escape.

‘A most charming and beautiful lady, my lord. And in despair, I think.’

‘I am not surprised. Lancaster must make a sad bedfellow.’

‘So it would seem.’

‘I should like to meet the lady,’ said Warenne.

‘There is a whisper, my lord, that the lady has found a lover.’

It was then that the notion came to Warenne. ‘We will ride to Canford,’ he said. I should like to meet the lady. I would condole with her and perhaps help her in some way.’

She was most hospitable, my lord.’

‘Would she not be to her husband’s enemies?’

‘Doubtless especially so to them, for if they were his enemies they might be her friends.’

Warenne laughed aloud.

‘You have a point there, my friend.’

Alice de Lacy welcomed the visitors.

The Earl, she told them, was in Pontefract. She had heard there had been an assembly at Clarendon which he had not attended.

She was indeed a beautiful woman and sprightly. Lancaster should have counted himself lucky, since as well as all that charm and dignity she had brought him Lincoln and Salisbury.

That she hated her husband was obvious.; his name only had to be mentioned and there would be a flash of contempt in her eyes.

Warenne’s sympathies were touched. These arranged marriages could ruin one’s life. How different it would be if he had never been married to Joan and if he and Matilda had met before he had been forced into marriage. Then he would have stood against all coercion. It would have been so simple. All this fuss with all the frustrations could have been avoided. The children would have been secure― Life would have been so much more smooth and easy. Yes, he had great sympathy with Lancaster’s wife.

‘The Earl is rarely under your roof, my lady, I believe.’ he said.

‘Tis so, and thankful I am for it,’ she replied.

He did not press the matter then, but as the evening wore on and the minstrels sang songs of hopeless love, he talked of his own predicament.

‘Married when one is too young to protest, and then to find oneself unable to escape. My dear lady, I have been unhappily married for years. I get no help from Rome. I have a lady who is devoted to me, who has given me the home I have ever really cared about. There, does that shock you?’

‘Indeed it does not. I rejoice for you, my lord. You have been bold and your boldness is rewarded. Have you any children?’

‘Yes, Matilda and I have a fine family. Would my son could inherit my title and lands. Our laws can be ridiculous at times. Would you not think that if two people were suited it should be the easiest thing in the world to untie the knot?’

‘Alas my lord,’ sighed the lady. ‘You are not the only one who is in this position. I can think of one who is far less happier than yourself. What think you it is like to be married to Lancaster?’

Warenne nodded gloomily as though there was no need for words.

‘I had no wish for the match,’ she went on. ‘It was made for me. My father thought it good for me to be allied with Lancaster and Lancaster had his eyes on Salisbury and Lincoln.’

‘They greatly enriched him.’

‘They did not make him more acceptable to me. I would I could be free of him. You at least my lord are not forced to live with a partner you so dislike.’

‘No, I left my wife. I went to Matilda and we share a home. I found someone who I could love and cherish.’

‘And I―’ said the Countess and stopped short.

Warenne allowed a short time to pass in silence.

‘I talk too freely,’ said the Countess.

‘My lady, you may talk to me as you will and I promise what you say will go no further than these four walls.’

‘It is a great relief to talk― and to someone who has suffered similarly.’

She told him how she had been riding one day and had met a man who had helped her with her horse which was in difficulties. They had met again.

‘Charming,’ murmured Warenne.

‘We are in love,’ she said, ‘but what hope is there for us? What chance have we of happiness?’

‘That is how Matilda and I used to talk and then we learned that opportunities have to be seized, that if one is bold enough, fearless enough, most things are possible.’

‘You left your wife and sent up house with Matilda. It was easy for you.’

‘My dear Countess,’ replied Warenne. ‘Would you have the courage to do what I did?’

She was looking at him with shining eyes.

‘I am a woman,’ she answered. ‘It is not so easy.’

‘True, but still not impossible. Matilda did it.’

‘You mean, I could― if I were brave enough― leave this place― leave Lancaster and set up house with Ebulo le Strange.’

‘You could. Who is this man? I know him not.’

‘You would not. He is merely a country squire.’ Her voice softened when she spoke of him. ‘Oh how I long to share his house, to live quietly― to live in harmony, to have children―’

‘Then go to him.’

‘My lord of Surrey, can you really mean that!’

‘Yes,’ cried Warenne, ‘go to him.’

‘How could I? Could I take my servants with me― his servants? Would they come― How could I trust them?’

‘Go without servants.’

‘What would Lancaster do to him? Lancaster is the powerful man in the country.’

‘His power is waning. He is a fool. He had everything― all the power a man could have but he has not been clever enough to use it. Now he is fast losing it.

If you want to leave Lancaster, now is the time.’

‘I would do it, but I fear for Ebulo. He would trump up some charge against him. Ebulo is nothing but a humble squire. Lancaster’s power may be waning but he is the King’s cousin still.’

‘If you were given shelter in one of my castles, somewhere where Ebulo could visit you in secret, none need know that he was involved.’

‘My lord, you think of the most outrageous acts.’

Warenne’s eyes were sparkling. All the mischief of his nature was uppermost. He liked the Countess. He liked attractive women. She was charming and when she talked of her lover she was quite beautiful. He liked to help lovers, particularly those for whom life was not running smoothly. And what a truly marvelous way of attacking Lancaster. It was so much better than marching on Pontefract and engaging in battle.

‘It is necessary to be outrageous to win happiness,’ he said.

‘Then― what, my lord?’

‘You and I will leave here tomorrow. We will go off as though to the hunt.

Take with you what jewels you can. Have you a few trusted attendants, those who will serve with their lives? Let them pack other valuables and be ready to follow you with a saddle horse.’

‘Are you truly serious?’

‘If you are, my lady. Let us plan this with care and who knows perhaps tomorrow you will have left Lancaster forever.’

Alice de Lacy clasped her hands and said: ‘I believe Providence sent you to Canford, my lord Surrey. For it is true that I could not have endured this state of affairs much longer.’

‘Then― tomorrow, dear Countess, we cut the knot. We shall escape together and ere long you will be making arrangement for your lover to be with you.’

‘What can I say to you?’ she asked. ‘How thank you?’ Then a shrewd look came into her eyes. ‘You have your reasons. Perhaps you dislike Lancaster as much as I do.’

‘I dislike him, my lady, as much as I love to help a lady in distress.’

It was a good enough answer.

It had to come, she told herself. And now is the time.

By this time, the Queen was pregnant again. Her plan was working well. She had young Edward, now aged six years old and sturdy; there was John aged two and now another child coming. John was not quite as healthy as his elder brother but perhaps he only seemed a little delicate because Edward was so lusty; however, his health gave no real cause for concern. She was gathering together her little family.

It was irksome that there should be so much delay, but inevitable. Each day she despised Edward more but she could remind herself that in time she would be free of him. There would come a day when they would part, when she would make him pay for all the humiliations he had heaped on her; and that day would be worth waiting for.

She cherished news from France because her hopes were fixed on her native land. Louis le Hutin was dead. His Queen had borne a son shortly after his death, a boy, Jean, but he had died within seven days. Poor little King of France who never knew that he had inherited a crown! Her brother Philip was now King. He was called The Tall because of his unusual height. People said that the curse of the Templars was working in the royal family of France. It had killed first her father a few months after it had been uttered and now her brother Louis and his infant son. She knew that the people were asking themselves what other disasters were awaiting the family of the man who had destroyed the Knights Templars. Isabella had no great hopes of her brothers. They were weak. It would have been different if her father had lived.

Still, she would wait and when the opportunity came she would be ready to seize it.

A great deal was happening in the country. Everyone was talking now of the abduction of the Countess of Lancaster by John le Warenne Earl of Surrey and Sussex.

What an extraordinary affair that was. Of course she had long known that Alice de Lacy disliked her husband and had refused to live with him as his wife.

Poor Lancaster! Why had she ever admired him? She might at one time have been tempted to take him as a lover; that would have been if she had not been determined that no one should cast suspicion at her until she was in a strong enough Position to withstand such an attack; and she was determined that no one should dare whisper that her children might not have been sired by the King.

Warenne was the devoted husband in all but name to Matilda of Nerford, so it was strange that he should have eloped with Alice de Lacy. It was understandable that Lancaster should have been furious, and had given vent to his anger by attacking Warenne’s lands in the north. A private war was going on between them and being conducted with all the methods of a civil war. She had told Edward that he should stop it. It was not good for battles to be fought in his country by his barons— one against the other.

It was better, said Edward, that they should fight each other than fight against him.

He was right in this but it was demeaning for him to have to stand aside and watch these two men fighting their own war. He might have called a halt as far as Warenne was concerned but Lancaster was too strong for him. And for Warenne too, it seemed, for already Lancaster had captured the castles of Sandal and Conisborough and the only way in which Warenne could save Grantham and Stamford was by handing them over to the King.

In vain Edward ordered hostilities to stop. Warenne had pleaded that it was impossible for him to desist while Lancaster attacked him and Lancaster, of course, was a law unto himself.

And the Countess? wondered Isabella. What of her? It was a mysterious affair, for she could not believe that Warenne and Alice de Lacy were lovers.

There was more in this little adventure than there appeared to be.

Perhaps in due course she would discover, but her own affairs were of far greater consequence. And the biggest irritation of her life was the young Despenser. She could see what was happening there. The handsome young man was creeping into that place which had been occupied by the detestable Gaveston; and, like Gaveston, young Hugh knew that she hated him, as indeed it was natural that she should. Gradually he would work against her. She must beware of that.

In the meantime there was the child.

She was at Woodstock in Oxfordshire for the birth. She had always loved Woodstock, a place which took its name from the magnificent forests which surrounded it. Vudestoc was the old Saxon name meaning a wooden spot.

Ethelred had held his Wittenagemot there, but it was chiefly noted for being the place where Henry the Second, Edward’s great-great grandfather, had kept his mistress, The Fair Rosamund, and where this little intrigue had been discovered by Henry’s vindictive queen, Eleanor of Aquitaine.

There was a woman Isabella admired. She had taken strong action against her erring husband. True it had resulted in her imprisonment but she had had sons to stand by her.

Yes, she was glad that she had come to Woodstock to bear her child.

It was an easy birth and this time a girl.

‘I will call her Eleanor,’ she said, ‘after her great ancestress.’

It seemed as though that period of ill luck was passing. The summers had returned to normal, the harvest had improved; and there was good news from Ireland where Edward Bruce had set himself up as King. Edward Bruce, great soldier that he was, lacked the genius of his brother Robert; it was said that his pride was immense and that he yearned to stand above all others. The English colonists in Ireland had been fighting against him ever since he landed but he had usually come through victorious, for when he had been in difficulties his brother Robert had joined him with reinforcements and all went well while the two were together. But Robert could not leave his newly acquired kingdom for long and there was constant trouble on the border, so Edward Bruce was left to command alone.

There came the battle of Leinster. Edward Bruce’s advisers warned him that his enemies were a strong force and that he should wait for reinforcements before going into attack, but he replied scornfully that one Scot was as good as five English and he cared not for the disparity in numbers. He was proved to be wrong, fatally for him. He was slain at Dundaik and his army routed. His head was sent to King Edward and his quarters set up in four towns so that all might know that the erstwhile King of Ireland was no more.

The Scots no longer held Ireland.

Edward was euphoric. ‘All comes well in the end,’ he said.

He had ceased to mourn so sadly for Gaveston now that there was Hugh le Despenser to comfort him.

Lancaster was once more in the ascendancy. He had been victorious over Warenne though he made no attempt to insist on his wife’s return and she remained living in comparative obscurity although all knew that she was under Warenne’s protection.

Warenne had been forced to surrender his estate in Norfolk and his possessions were considerably reduced by the action he had taken. Eyebrows were lifted when it was known that Alice de Lacy had granted Warenne tenancy of several of the manors she had inherited from her father.

It was a mysterious affair, and the fact was that although Lancaster had come out of it ostensibly the victor his enemy mocked him behind his back and the fact that he could no manage his domestic affairs better caused them to ask each other how he could hope to deal with the country’s.

Outwardly though he was still the strong man, the King in all but name.

The Despensers— the two Hughs, father and son— were taking possession of the King. There seemed to be no limit to their avarice; the more that was bestowed on them, the more they wanted, and resentment was rising against them.

A dispute was now in progress, because since the death of the Earl of Gloucester at Bannockburn his estates passed to his family and they were to be divided between Gloucester’s three sisters, one of whom had been married at an early age to young Hugh le Despenser. The other two husbands were Hugh d’Audley and Roger d’Arnory, and these two complained that Hugh le Despenser had not only claimed almost the whole of Glamorgan as his share but, because he was married to the eldest sister, had taken on the title of Earl of Gloucester.

It was an uneasy situation. Isabella watched it with calculating eyes. She was aware that the Despensers were creeping farther and farther into the King’s favour and the measure of their success was reflected in their attitude towards her. She was not entirely sure but she believed she detected a veiled insolence.

Trouble in the north broke out and this meant that all attention was focused on the border. Edward marched north with Lancaster to besiege Berwick.

Isabella and her ladies were left behind in Brotherton, a village near York. She was growing impatient. She was advancing well into her twenties; she had three children, born as she often thought, in humiliation. She, reckoned to be the most beautiful princess in Europe at one time, and none could deny she was still a handsome woman, was a notoriously neglected wife. She would never ever forgive Edward for the humiliation he had made her suffer. The people of England loved her— but it was partly because they were sorry for her. Well, one day she was going to make use of that sympathy. She was going to show Edward that she had always despised him, and that she had borne her children out of expediency. Her nature had revolted. She could not deeply love those children, because they were Edward’s too and conceived in necessity. But she was devoted to her first-born, which might have been due to the fact that all her hopes rested on him. She visualized the day when he might stand with her against his father. During her stay in Woodstock she had thought of herself as resembling Eleanor of Aquitaine whose sons had stood with her against their father.

There was a commotion below. Men were riding into the courtyard. Starting to her feet she went down to see what was happening and was startled to find men she recognized as the servants of the Archbishop of York.

‘Something has happened,’ she cried.

‘My lady,’ said the spokesman of the men who she saw were troops, ‘the Archbishop has sent us with all speed. He begs you to prepare to leave without delay. The Black Douglas is at hand with ten-thousand of his men and it seems that his plan is to take you hostage.’

Hostage to Black Douglas! A great soldier and patriot with a complexion so dark that it had earned him his name. Her eyes sparkled at the thought of adventure. At least she thought Black Douglas was a man.

‘Is this indeed so,’ she said. ‘And how has this come to your knowledge?’

‘My lady, if you will prepare to leave at once you shall hear all when you are safe.’

She hesitated.

‘There is a force of loyal troops surrounding the castle,’ said the spokesman.

‘You must leave at once or you will be in acute danger. The Scots are uncouth.

They might not know how to treat a Queen.’

In less than an hour she was riding away from the castle in the company of the Archbishop’s men.

It was then that she heard what had happened. One of the Scottish scouts had been discovered in the town and because of his strange accent suspected. He was taken to the Archbishop and asked to explain his business. This he could not do to the Archbishop’s satisfaction and finally on being threatened with torture he had admitted that Black Douglas was marching on York, his plan being to abduct the Queen and hold her prisoner.

When she arrived in York she was greeted by the Archbishop who was delighted to have saved her but at the same time he believed that it would be dangerous for her to stay and that she should leave at once for Nottingham.

The King had expressed little concern for Isabella. She was aware of this and hated him for it. She remembered how distraught he had been when Gaveston had been threatened and how he had once left her behind at Scarborough in his need to escape with his beloved friend. If Hugh le Despenser had been threatened he would have been in a state of panic.

Oh yes, indeed, it was unforgivable.

Edward could not continue the Scottish war. The Scots could not be driven out of Yorkshire. They had a grand leader in Bruce and what the English lacked was just such leadership. Edward was weak; Lancaster was little better. It was a sorry time for England.

Edward had been forced to suggest a two-year truce with Scotland, and rather to his surprise Bruce had agreed. He did not know then that Bruce was becoming alarmed by the state of his health. Years before he had been in contact with lepers and the dreadful disease had begun to show itself. It was alarming and he needed rest from the rigours of a soldier’s life and for this reason he was ready enough to agree.

Edward was jubilant. He was the sort of man who could live happily in the moment and shut his eyes to the disasters threatening the future which to the discerning eye would appear to be inevitable. He was behaving as foolishly over Hugh le Despenser as he had over Gaveston and the lesson of that earlier relationship appeared to have made no impression on him. The Despensers were as greedy as Gaveston had been, as power-hungry and because of this, growing as unpopular with the people.

He will never learn, thought Isabella.

She was pleased that Edward was to go to France to pay homage to the King — Isabella’s brother Philip V— for Ponthieu. It would give her an opportunity of sounding Philip and trying to discover how much help she could get from him if she should need it. She wondered whether it might be possible one day to place herself at the head of those barons who had had enough of the King and the Despensers. She had often thought of it when Gaveston had been alive, but it had not been possible then. At that time she had not been the mother of two fine boys. Young Edward was growing up long-legged and flaxen-haired like his father and his grandfather; he was also showing a certain seriousness which seemed to please everyone.

She had heard it said: ‘That one is going to be Great Edward over again.’

That was what she liked to hear.

Now there was the journey to Amiens. She liked to travel and in her own country she was always greeted with loyal affection. She noticed that the people were less effusive towards Edward. It was natural. News of his neglect of her would have reached the country and the people were offended on her account.

It was pleasant to be at the French Court again. She found it more graceful than that of England. The clothes of the women were more elegant. She was ashamed of her own and determined to have some gowns made to wear in France and take back with her.

Edward did the necessary homage and she had an opportunity of talking alone to her brother.

Poor Philip! He looked far from well. His skin was yellowish and he had aged beyond his years. He had only been on the throne for four years and it seemed as though he were going the same way as Le Hutin.

‘You are much thinner, Philip,’ she told him ‘Have you consulted your doctors?’

Philip shrugged his shoulders. ‘They are determined I am to die shortly. The curse, sister.’

‘I should snap your fingers at them and tell them you refuse to die at the command of Jacques de Molai.’

‘Do not mention that name,’ said Philip quickly. ‘No one does. It is unlucky.’

Isabella shook her head. If she had been in her brother’s place she would have shouted that name from the turrets. She would have called defiance on the Grand Master. She would have let the people of France see that she could curse louder than the dead Templars.

But she was not subject to the curse.

‘Charles is waiting to step into my shoes,’ said Philip ‘That will be years hence and perhaps never.’

Philip shook his head. ‘I think not. And then― his turn will come. Tell me of England, sister.’

‘Need you ask? You know the kind of man I married.’

‘He still ignores you and prefers the couch of his chamberlain to yours?’

‘I would my father had married me to a man.’

‘He married you to England, sister. You are a Queen, remember.’

‘A Queen― who is of no importance! I hate these Despensers.’

‘The two of them?’

“Father and son. He dotes on them both but it is of course the pretty young man who is his pet.’

‘Well, sister, you have a fine boy.’

She nodded and whispered: ‘Yes, brother. I rejoice. Two boys and young Edward growing more like his grandfather every day. People comment on this.’

‘What England needs now is another First Edward.’

‘What England does not need is the Second Edward.’

‘But that is what it has, Isabella.’

‘Perhaps not always. Perhaps not for much longer.’

He was startled. ‘What mean you?’

‘There is whispering against him. The barons hate the Despensers as much as I do. If it should come to― conflict―’

She saw her brother’s face harden and she thought: How wrong I was to expect help from him. All he is concerned with is his miserable curse.

‘It would be wise for you to continue to please him.’

‘Continue! I never began to.’

‘Oh come, sister, you have three children by him.’

‘Begotten in shame.’

‘You should not talk so. They are his and yours.’

‘They are indeed. But what I have to endure―’

‘Princes and princesses must always accept their fates, sister.’

What was the use of trying to get help from Philip?

But there was one other who was brought to her notice during that visit to France. This was Adam of Orlton, Bishop of Hereford, who conveyed to her that he had great admiration for her fortitude regarding her relationship with the King.

It was not long before they were finding opportunities of talking together.

He deplored the state of the country and the troubles between the barons. He hinted that he thought the Despensers were responsible for a great deal of the people’s growing dissatisfaction.

‘My lady,’ he said, ‘It is the affair of Piers Gaveston over again.’

How she agreed with him! How she longed to talk of her ambitions, but she was too wily for that.

So she let him talk.

He told her that there were growing suspicions of Lancaster.

‘I have heard it whispered, my lady, that he has been in communication with Robert the Bruce who has paid him bribes to work with him against the King.’

‘I cannot believe it. Lancaster would never work against England, and Robert the Bruce is hard put to it to pay his soldiers. How could he afford bribes?’

‘It is something which is being said,’ the Bishop replied. ‘It may be that Lancaster thinks he knows the way to bring about peace with Scotland better than the King. It is a fact that when the Scots make raids into England they never touch Lancaster’s land.’

‘I must look into this,’ said the Queen. ‘Have you told the King?’

‘My lady, I thought it wiser to tell you.’

She was exultant. What did that mean? Could it really be that men were beginning to turn away from the King and look to her?

She felt the trip to Amiens had been successful even though she realized that she would get little help from the King of France.

The Despensers must have been aware of the resentment against them, but so blind were they to anything but their personal gain and their certainty that they had the King in leading strings that they ignored the warnings.

It was the trouble over the Gloucester inheritance which brought matters to a head. The three brothers-in-law were still squabbling over their shares when young Hugh in a rage seized Newport which belonged to Hugh of Audley.

Audley complained to Lancaster who, believing that his prestige had been restored since the affair with Warenne whom he had beaten so unreservedly, called the barons together.

‘We must rid ourselves of these Despensers,’ he announced.

‘The King will never hear of it,’ was the answer.

‘The King would not hear of Gaveston’s banishment, yet he was banished,’

retorted Lancaster.

‘Aye, and lost his head too, and although many liked to pretend they had no hand in that affair, I was never afraid to admit that I was there and I believe— and so do other right-thinking men— that one of the best deeds any Englishman ever did was to rid the country of that parasite.’

This was the old Lancaster. Many of the barons were now turning to him once more for leadership, and it was certainly not difficult to rouse them against the Despensers. Even Warenne was on Lancaster’s side in this, so were Hereford and Arundel; and the fiery Marcher barons hated the Despensers too as they had taken land near the Marcher country.

The foremost of the Marcher barons were the Mortimers. They were kings in their territory and had been for centuries. The Conqueror had used them to keep peace on the Welsh border and their power had grown even greater since the subordination of the Welsh. The leaders of the Mortimer clan were the two Rogers— the elder, the Lord of Chirk, had taken an active part in the battles of Edward the First, but he had always been a man of strong will and had fallen out of favour with the King for leaving the army in Scotland without permission. At that time his lands and chattels had been confiscated but after the first Edward’s death Edward the Second had restored his possessions and given him greater power. It suited Edward’s indolent nature to set up a man like Mortimer and give him authority over many Welsh castles making him like a king in his county.

His nephew, that other Roger de Mortimer, Baron of Wigmore, joined him and they had been working closely together for some years. Roger de Mortimer the younger was a man of overpowering personality. He was tall and extremely handsome in a dark bold way. He had become Earl of Wigmore when his father had died. Roger was then in his very early teens and since he had been under age Edward the First had put him under the wardship of Gaveston for at this time Edward had not realized what an evil influence Gaveston was having on his son.

Roger had been noticed for his outstanding good looks when he was created a knight at the same time as the Prince of Wales and at the coronation of young Edward he had been a bearer of the robes. Along with his earldom he had inherited important estates and a marriage was very soon arranged for him which would enhance his possessions still further. Joan de Genville was connected with the Lusignans and therefore had associations with the royal family and among other advantages she brought to Mortimer the town of Ludlow and estates in Ireland.

In that troubled country he had achieved great success, for his experiences with the Welsh had taught him how to deal with the Irish.

It had come to Roger de Mortimer’s ears that the young Hugh le Despenser had been warning the King that it was time he curbed the power of the Mortimers, who, in the Despensers’ opinion, were becoming too powerful in the Marcher country and regarded themselves as rulers there in subservience to none. Thus when it was known that Lancaster was rousing the barons against the Despensers the Mortimers were ready with their support.

Being somewhat wild and lawless men they could not wait for conferences.

They went into the attack at once, and as the young Despenser had taken lands bordering on the Marcher country which he swore belonged to him because they were part of the Gloucester inheritance, they ravaged those lands, seized the castle, made off with valuables and cattle and declared open war.

The young chamberlain came to the King in despair. ‘See what these Mortimers have done,’ he cried. ‘Oh, it was a mistake to allow them so much power.’

‘My dear Hugh,’ cried the King, ‘we will punish them, I promise you.

Everything shall be restored.’

‘But how?’ cried Hugh.

‘My dear, I promise you something shall be done. I shall issue a writ forbidding anyone to attack you and your father. I shall threaten them with death. It is treason. Yes, Hugh, there shall be a writ and all that the Mortimers have taken shall be restored to you.’

But neither the King nor Hugh had realized how strong was the opposition.

Under Lancaster the barons stood together insisting that Edward call a Parliament to discuss the matter of the Despensers and when it was assembled, the barons were present in large numbers all wearing white badges on their arms to indicate to the King that they were unanimous in their decision to get rid of the Despensers.

It was Lancaster who led the attack. The Despensers had appropriated funds from the royal exchequer, he said. He had proof of this. They had become richer than their deserts warranted. They must be banished from the land and their ill-gotten gains taken from them.

The King’s furious despair was of no avail.

Hugh the elder saw that the country was on the verge of civil war. The King would find that there was scarcely a nobleman ready to support him. He would be defeated and deposed. His son was nine years old; the Queen would not stand with the King and she had friends in France; they could set up a regency under Lancaster. Because of this state of affairs the elder Despenser decided that they should go quietly.

The Despensers left court and the trouble subsided.

Edward wept. It was the Gaveston problem all over again.

The Queen was amused. Everything was working her way. She was pregnant once more and at the time of the banishment her time was very near.

She had decided to go to the Tower this time for her confinement. There she would brood on the future. She had two boys and her daughter Eleanor. They were all in good health. If her fourth child was a girl, perhaps her plans would be delayed. But she had two boys already. No, after this fourth child there should be no more. She had done with humiliation, with standing aside for Edward’s favourites.

She had borne enough. It was her turn now.

As she lay awaiting the birth of her child she wondered why she had chosen such a gloomy place. Although it was the month of June there was a chill in the stone walls and she had noticed that much of the place was in need of repair.

The roof was not watertight and when it rained, her bedclothes were wet.

The whole place had been neglected, and she knew who was to blame for that.

The Despensers had used money for their own needs which should have been spent in repairs. It was a well known trick, and it was one of the reasons why people considered it a boon to get the custody of such places.

Oh the cursed Despensers! First Gaveston and now them. And if some evil fate overtook young Hugh le Despenser what then? Some new young man would appear in due course.

What a man to have married her to! And what a joke that she had managed to get four children by him. Something of an achievement.

But no more. This is the end, she promised herself. Now she would start to work towards that goal which had been in her mind for some time now.

The birth was not difficult. She bore children easily; and this was another girl.

She decided to call her Joanna and she became known as Joanna of the Tower.

Edward came to the baby.

‘Another girl,’ said Isabella, watching him closely. He was good-looking still. She felt angry when she regarded him because in the beginning if he had been prepared to be a good husband to her she would have loved him and worked with him. Then there would not have been this perpetual trouble which time and time again grew out of his infatuations— first Piers Gaveston and now Hugh le Despenser. If only he would be more reasonable with them; if only he did not have make the relationship so blatant, it would have been so much easier. As it was it gave rise to utterances such as those which had almost cost the man Messager his life, and incidents like that of poor Drydas which had brought him to hideous death. If only he could have been discreet; if only he did not have to have them with him all the time, to pamper them, to bestow costly gifts on them.

Oh Edward, you fool. I wonder what will be the end of you. Our son Edward is growing up. Nine years old, a reasonable age and showing every sign of being like his grandfather. That is what the people say when he rides out. He is a growing danger to you, you foolish Edward.

Edward was laughing to himself as though enjoying some private joke. He had scarcely looked at the baby. She waited for him to tell her.

‘It’s Hugh,’ he said.

Her expression was cold, but he did not notice.

‘Did you know he is on an island in the Bristol Channel?’

‘I did not, and should he be?’ she answered. ‘Wasn’t he banished from the country?’

‘He has turned pirate.’ Edward was laughing so much he could scarcely go on. ‘He has an armed vessel and has captured two merchant ships. They were coming up to Bristol full of rich cargo. He has taken their cargo and sent them on empty.’

‘Does he know the penalty for piracy?’ asked Isabella.

‘Oh, Isabella, come now. It was only meant to be a joke.’

‘Do the captain of the ship and the owner of the vessel think that?’

‘They will be made to understand. But is it not just like Hugh?’

‘Exactly,’ she retorted with asperity. ‘The role of pirate should suit him well.’

‘It will not be long before he is back,’ mused Edward. ‘And I shall not rest happy until he is.’

The Queen regarded him cynically. You fool, she thought. You are signing your own death warrant.