An Honourable Estate (2 page)

Dirty and dishevelled but
still defiant, Gaveston looked up at Lancaster and sneered.

“So the Churl thinks he
has me in his power?” he asked with contempt, using his dismissive nickname for
the earl.  “I don’t think the king will be happy when he hears of
this.  I think there is a dungeon within the Tower of London and a block
with your name upon it, Thomas of Lancaster,” he jeered with the confidence of
a man who truly believed that no one was able or willing to harm him.

William watched the
bloodlust creep up Lancaster’s neck and across his cheeks as his anger raged
barely within his control.

“I think you will find
that it is you who must die,” he seethed, as he glanced at the faces of the
assembled earls who all nodded solemnly in agreement ‒ both judge and
jury.

William had found it
difficult to watch as the look on Gaveston’s face turned slowly from disdain to
disbelief and finally fear.  He found himself an unwilling participant as
they were ordered to drag the protesting prisoner out to the courtyard where
his eyes streamed tears in the sudden unaccustomed sunlight and the guards taunted
him for weeping.  William looked to Lancaster, awaiting his instruction,
still not convinced that he actually meant to kill the man.  But the
earl’s eyes were filled with contempt and gleamed with the pleasure of exacting
his revenge.

“Take him up the hill!”
he commanded and the men-at-arms who held him jerked at the chains that
shackled the prisoner’s hands and feet, kicking out at him as he hesitated.

“No!” he pleaded as
realisation at last came that his life was indeed forfeit to his enemies. 
He had no well-bred stallion to ride or lance to wield now.  The man who
had been a champion had no chance against the armed guards of the Earl of
Lancaster.

William was sickened as
they dragged Gaveston, struggling and protesting, to the summit of Blacklow
Hill where Lancaster told them to pull the prisoner to his knees and sent a man
to find a log to serve as a makeshift block.  But Gaveston was not
prepared to die; he was not a man to be subdued without a fight.

“God damn you
Lancaster!  You will rot in hell for this!” he shouted as the gloved hands
pushed him down.  William held back.  He wanted no part in this
murder.  Surely, he thought, Lancaster must relent now that he had seen
the man humiliated.  Surely now he would have him beg forgiveness on his
knees and be content with that.  Even he, for all his hatred and
resentment, could not mean to kill the man in such a manner.  But as
William looked to his master for a sign of compassion, Lancaster signalled to
two Welsh knights who had followed them up the hill to come forward with their
broadswords.

“Kneel, you traitor!” he
yelled at Gaveston from his saddle, as he watched the man struggle and squirm
for his freedom.  “Die like a man at least!”

“Have pity!” begged
Gaveston as he fell to his knees before Lancaster, his tone changed as he saw
that the earl did indeed mean to take his life.  “I beg you have pity
on...”  William watched in horror and disgust as the man’s words were
stopped by the broadsword thrust through his belly.  He watched as the blood
ran, along the blade of the sword that still impaled Gaveston’s body, drips at
first from the sword point, then a flow and then a torrent gushed as the sword
was twisted and withdrawn and the scream from the victim rent the still air and
carried around the valleys beyond; it was an inhuman, primal scream that would
haunt William’s sleep for years to come.  He watched, unable to look away,
although he wished he could, as Gaveston slowly sank to the ground, disbelief
written across his features.  As he fell, still conscious, the second
knight drew his sword and began to hack off his head, the metal of the blade
screeching at the bones of the dying man’s neck until at last the head rolled
free and came to rest a little way down the slope of the hill, still wearing
its expression of surprise.  William retched and vomited into the grass,
shivering uncontrollably despite the oppressive heat of the day.  Then the
Earl of Lancaster ordered their return to the castle, leaving the body of Piers
Gaveston, still seeping dark, cloying blood, lying beside the road where he had
been killed.

Mabel watched her husband as he sat and brooded, his eyes unseeing
as he stared at the flames and his hand still absently caressing the ears of
the dog lounging beside him.  Even now, though they had been married for
twenty-five years, the sight of him stirred a physical excitement within her.

William sighed and the dog looked up into his face as if it
sensed his disquiet.  “It may be time to act, Mab,” he said.  “I
cannot just watch as people starve.  If I do nothing their deaths will be
on my conscience.”

She laid a hand on his damp shoulder.  “Do you think
that I don’t come home and weep every night when I’ve been about the village,
seeing the haunted eyes of mothers whose children have been buried and the
terror on the faces of men who risk their lives to take a hare for the pot to
feed their families?  Don’t you think I pray for them every night and yet
give thanks we can feed our own little girls?  But what can we do?” she
asked him with a note of despair in her voice.

William picked up the stick again and began to stir the
fire.  Mabel watched the steam rise from his clothes into the damp
air.  “Adam Banastre says we must rise up; rise against Robert Holland and
against the Earl of Lancaster. I believe that he is right.”  Mabel stared
at her husband until at last he turned his head to look at her.  “Don’t
you agree?” he asked.

“I... I don’t know what to say.  Banastre is
brother-in-law to Holland.  I thought he would have supported him.”

“There is no love lost between them.  He believes that
now Holland has been promoted to being Lancaster’s secretary he has lost all
interest in his own estates, except as a resource to fund his own table and his
fine clothes.”

“So Banastre speaks openly of rebellion?” asked Mabel with a
shiver.  “That’s dangerous talk, William.  I wish that you would stay
out of it.”

She felt her husband’s muscles tense under her hand and he
shrugged away from her touch as he threw the stick down again, making the dog
growl.

“God damn it, Mab!” he said as he leapt up, knocking over the
stool and began to pace the hall.  “I will not stand by and watch children
starve to death whilst the Earl of Lancaster does nothing!  If he cannot
show any compassion then let us act in the name of the king.  There is a
famine for God’s sake, and no one in authority seems to have even
noticed.  Money needs to be spent to keep people alive not taken from them
in dues and taxes when they have nothing!”

 “William! Hush!” she warned, reaching out a restraining
hand as he passed her.  “Someone may hear,” she said, glancing at the
shuttered windows and the door, half expecting armed men wearing surcoats
emblazoned with the lions of Lancaster to burst in and arrest her husband for
his disloyal outburst.

“Mama?”  The voice of their elder daughter Bella, at the
door of the bedchamber made her turn.  She had left the little girls
tucked under a thick fur coverlet to sleep a little.  They had both been
tired after a thunderstorm the previous night had kept them awake and
afraid.  Now she saw the fear on Bella’s face again, not fear of thunder
this time, but of the unaccustomed raised voice of her father.  But before
she could go to comfort the child, William had crossed the hall in long strides
and gathered Bella in his arms, lifting her and carrying her back to the fire
where he sat her on his knee and nuzzled his face into her blonde hair. 
Then he looked up at Mabel and asked, “Would you have me do nothing?”

 She sighed.  She knew that her husband hated the
unfair treatment of anyone and deep down she had to acknowledge that his anger
at those who ill-governed the country did not surprise her.  But what did
surprise her was that he felt it so deeply that he was prepared to act against
the law.  It made her afraid for him; proud, but afraid.

“I wish there was something to be done less risky than
rebellion,” she said.

“And what about the blacksmith and his wife?  What of
their loss?  How many more children must die?” he asked as he kissed the head
of the little girl who clung to him.  “What if the next loss is ours?”

William
glanced up into the evening sky that was reddening into a spectacularly bloody
sunset.  It was the Wednesday before the feast of St Wilfrid and Adam
Banastre had told him to be at the Angel in Wingates before dark.  William
rode at a leisurely trot, beset by doubt and guilt and toying with the idea of
turning his horse’s head to ride back home again.  He recalled his last
conversation with Mab.  She was set against this rebellion.  She said
that their success was unlikely and their defeat would mean certain death, and
he knew that she was right.  He could still see her bright, pleading eyes,
her delicate little hand with its slender fingers on his sleeve as she had
begged him not to come. She was afraid, he knew, and he also knew that his
reassurances that they would prevail, and that they would return home
victorious and that things would get better had rung hollow, like a cracked
bell chiming tunelessly from a church tower.  He loved his wife and he
respected her opinion.  In the years before and during their marriage they
had taken most decisions in agreement with one another.  Mab now
understood the business of running their manor better than he did himself and
he knew he could rely on her to deal with the villagers and the servants
whenever he was away fulfilling his knight’s service.  She had an astute
mind and was an unerringly good judge of character.  She was adept at
seeing an overall picture of any situation and could predict the outcome of a
decision with unfailing accuracy, which was why, after riding under the arch at
the centre of the stone building and into the mud-caked yard he gave the horse
into the care of a stable boy and walked to the wooden door with some
disquiet.  Since the king’s defeat at Bannockburn it was the Earl of
Lancaster who held all the power at court, having replaced most of the members
of the royal household with Lancastrian supporters.  To rebel against
Lancaster was tantamount to treason. 

The hall was full and noisy and the louvre in the roof was
making a poor job of removing the smoke from the fire on the central
flagstones.  A crowd of travellers was already seated at the trestle and, as
William glanced around for his friend, the innkeeper caught his eye and
gestured upwards with a thumb as he carried in two jugs of ale.

“If you’re seeking Banastre, he’s taken an upper
chamber.”  William frowned as he went back outside and up the wooden
stairs two at a time.  Now was not the time to be whoring and it was not
what he had thought Adam had in mind.  He wanted no part of it and he
would tell his friend so and then leave.  He had been faithful to Mab
since their marriage and he intended it to stay that way.

He pushed open the door a little too vigorously, causing it
to crash back and reverberate on its hinges.  The faces of three men
looked up in surprise.  They were sitting around a scrubbed wooden table
on which was placed a pitcher of ale and four cups.  A candle burned
brightly amongst them, although the outer edges of the chamber were shadowed in
darkness apart from the corner where charcoal burnt in a brazier.  As far
as William could see the men were alone; there wasn’t a woman in sight.

He had pushed the door closed behind him before anyone
spoke.  “Adam,” he nodded, and recognised the other men as Sir Henry Lea
of Park Hall and Harry Duxbury.

“Bradshaigh!  A cup of ale?” asked his friend as he
kicked out a stool from under the table.  “You know Harry Duxbury?”

“Harry,” said William with a brief nod towards both him and
Sir Henry.  He sat down at the table and drank at length from the weak
brew before putting the cup down in front of him and looking from one to the
other of his companions.  “So, what’s this all about?” he asked, although
he knew full well what was on Adam’s mind.

“Holland,” said Adam, almost spitting the name.  “It’s
time he was stopped.  Or are you content to see him bleed this county
dry?”

William glanced at Harry and Henry Lea and saw that they were
both in agreement.  He supposed that Adam would not have asked them to
come if he’d not been sure of their support.

“You look doubtful,” he remarked. 

William took up the cup again, but didn’t drink; he turned it
in his hands watching the ale swirl in eddies around the vessel. “Holland is
powerful.  He has the ear of the Earl of Lancaster,” he said after a
moment’s silence.

“And is a greedy, scheming bastard who sends his bailiffs to
extract every last penny from us.  Damn it, Will!  You’ve seen the
starvation and the hardship.  We cannot let it continue.  It’s time
to act!”  He thumped the table so hard the flagon and cups jumped into the
air and Henry Lea thrust out a hand to save his drink from spilling. 
“What ails you man?  Are you afraid?” demanded Adam.

“No!” retorted William, his anger flaring at his friend’s
challenge.  “But this needs thought.  We need to be sure we have men
enough who are willing and able to fight.  If they come under our
protection we will need to feed and even arm them.  Men cannot march and
fight on empty stomachs, nor go into battle empty handed.  And in this we
take on not just Holland, but Lancaster himself, who is as good as king. 
It is not a decision to be taken lightly.”