Authors: Robyn Young
Once again, Edward found himself at the mercy of his own men, forced to send his lover away. And, once again, he determined this hateful act would not be long-lived, despite the growing darkness of the storm that even he could not now fail to see on the horizon.
Langley Manor, England, 1312 AD
Edward paced the bedchamber. He had been waiting all day and, still, there was no sign of him. Earlier, as the last light was leached by the January dusk, the drapes had been drawn by his page, but Edward had since gone to peer through them so often that finally he had pulled them back, affording himself a wide view over the manor’s inner courtyard. The leaded windows were stippled with snow. There had been a fresh fall that afternoon, shrouding the rooftops, muffling the world in white.
The flames of the candles on the table guttered as he paced. Catching sight of himself in a looking-glass set beside the night lights, Edward saw his worry etched in lines on his brow and around his mouth. He had lost weight over the past year and these new creases in his face were more prominent now. In just a few months he would celebrate his twenty-eighth year.
Hearing voices outside, he hastened to the window. It was just two kitchen boys making their way to the bakehouse. One bent as if to adjust his shoe, leaving the other to walk on ahead. After a pause, the boy straightened, something in his fist. Raising his arm, he flung it at the other’s back. The ball of snow hit with a thump. Shouting in protest, his companion crouched to scoop up his own, but the offender had already taken off across the yard laughing. Watching them, Edward was reminded of his youth, which was never far from his thoughts in this place.
King’s Langley was a book, the story of his childhood written within its walls. The sound of his sisters’ laughter, the stern voices of his tutors, the soft tones of his nurse: all echoed to him still in quiet passageways and empty rooms. It was here that he had first seen Piers – a black-haired youth, standing in the courtyard with an older man, eyes darting around, taking in the buildings and the people. Edward had watched from the window of this chamber as his father’s steward had greeted the pair. His gaze had lingered on the boy with inquisitive eyes and skin warmed by a stronger sun than he knew.
As a child, Edward had often felt alone. His sisters were older, uninterested in him, his father and mother were frequently away, and, as heir to the throne, he was treated differently, even by his friends – all except Piers. At first, when the young Gascon squire was made a royal ward after the death of his father, Piers had been as a brother to Edward, both protective and teasing. Later, when he was appointed to the prince’s household, the two of them had become inseparable friends. Later still, their friendship had changed into something else, something that frightened and exhilarated Edward. Over the years, they had spent many days in this manor together, the innocence of play turning, by brief looks and tentative gestures, half-smiles and lingering touches, into the growing awareness of love.
The first time he was forced to send Piers into exile, four years ago, Edward had come to realise just how strong that love was. Without the man at his side, he felt bereft. Those twelve months had seemed, then, the longest he had endured, but even they hadn’t compared with these past three months of his lover’s second banishment, made worse by his own increasing isolation at court. In this time, the familiar loneliness of his childhood had swelled to engulf him.
The sound of hooves, muted by snow, echoed outside. Edward’s breath misted the window as he leaned in to see a dozen or so riders enter the yard. He had come. The king returned to the mirror and brushed his hands through his hair, his expression now smiling back at him, the lines of worry gone. Footsteps sounded on the stairs. There was a knock and his steward opened the door. As Piers Gaveston entered, pushing back the hood of his snow-mottled cloak, the steward closed the door.
The moment they were alone, Edward embraced Piers. ‘Thank God. I thought you would never come.’ He smelled the damp on the man’s cloak, the fresh sweat on his skin. He closed his eyes, savouring the solidity of Piers’s body against his own.
Piers withdrew with a self-satisfied smile. ‘I knew you would send for me before long. Those bastards be damned!’
Edward kept hold of his shoulders, but didn’t return the smile. This greeting was merely a prelude to another farewell, albeit one of his own choosing. ‘Piers, you cannot stay. I can’t trust that your presence here will go unnoticed for long. My cousin has spies everywhere.’
‘You’re sending me away again?’ Piers pulled from the king’s clutches. ‘Edward, I have been moving from place to place for weeks now, keeping out of their sight like a fox hiding from hounds. I will do it no longer. You are the king! Stand up to Lancaster and the others.’
‘I will – when I am ready to.’
Piers shook his head and twisted away.
‘My love, please listen, I have a plan.’ Edward waited until the man looked back at him. ‘I have gathered a company of men I trust. I am sending them with you to Scotland.’
‘Scotland?’
‘To Perth. I do not trust my cousin. In truth, I have begun to fear for your safety.’
‘And so you plan to send me into the heart of the enemy’s lands?’
‘Perth is protected by my truce with the Scots.’
‘The first truce didn’t stop Bruce raiding England, or taking castles.’
‘I wasn’t paying him then. It isn’t in Bruce’s interests to attack Perth. Besides, he doesn’t have the resources to do so – it is one of the most defensible towns in the realm. There, you will be able to stop running. What is more, your appointment as commander will prove to the barons that I am turning my attention to Scotland, as is their wish. They were appeased, were they not, when they saw your effectiveness in Ireland? I believe, this way, I will be able to win back their support.’
Piers said nothing, but neither did he turn away.
‘I will follow you north as soon as I am able.’ Taking the man’s gloved hands in his, Edward met his dark, angry eyes. ‘Your place is at my side, Piers. I swear on my crown you will be restored there before long.’
Chapter 40
Pleshey Castle, England, 1312 AD
Elizabeth sat in the window seat, her knees drawn up to her chest, watching the snow swirl into view in the glow of a lantern outside the guest lodgings, illuminating a path that ran alongside the kitchen gardens. The first fall had arrived over a fortnight ago, in the last days of January. The year was now caught between the feasts of St Bridget and St Valentine and, still, the blizzards showed no signs of stopping. Earlier, she had watched the path being cleared by servants, but it was already mottled white again.
Her thoughts turned again to Humphrey. The earl had arrived at Pleshey three days ago – Constance, the maid who brought her meals, had told her so. Elizabeth was surprised he hadn’t come to see her yet. He always did when he returned.
Sometimes, Humphrey’s visits were brief; a mere greeting. At other times he stayed longer, playing chess with her and talking into the evening, although only ever about the safe and mundane: poor harvests and unseasonable weather, the celebrations in London for Queen Isabella’s birthday. She never forced him beyond these bounds – she didn’t need to, for it was Humphrey’s silences and the things he did not speak of that told her the most. Gradually, in these past years, Elizabeth had watched him grow more and more preoccupied, secret worries weighing heavy on him. He was starting to look old, although at thirty-seven he was only nine years older than she was.
That afternoon, unable to curb her impatience, she had asked Constance whether Humphrey had left, but the maid assured her he was still in residence and that he was expecting guests, although she didn’t know whom. Watching the flakes dance around one another in the lantern light, Elizabeth told herself Humphrey was occupied entertaining some dignitary and that was why he hadn’t visited her, but a splinter of unease had lodged in her mind at his absence and she couldn’t get it out. It made her think of that night, several years ago, when he had come asking what she knew of Robert’s plans. The cold determination in his green eyes had chilled her and for weeks afterwards, when he didn’t appear, she had feared for her safety. Nothing had come of his questions and he never again asked her about Robert, but the disquiet it had roused in her had been hard to forget.
Hearing the crunch of boots in snow, Elizabeth caught sight of a tall, broad-shouldered man coming along the path. His face was shadowed by a hood, but as he passed by the lighted window, he glanced inside. Elizabeth froze. So did the man. The two of them stared at one another, only the pane of glass between them. The snow settled on Aymer de Valence’s shoulders as he stood there. His black eyes gleamed in the lantern light, filled with the same unrelenting hatred she had seen six years ago when he delivered her to Lanercost to face the king’s judgement.
After a long pause, the earl moved on, his footprints marking the snow. Elizabeth’s caught breath escaped in a rush. Moments later, more footsteps sounded, along with voices. Jumping up, she blew out the candles, plunging the chamber into darkness, save for the glow of the hearth. Heart thumping, she pulled the curtains closed, just as two more figures came into view. Peering through a gap in the drapes, she watched them pass, recognising the larger of the two as Henry Percy, the Lord of Alnwick. Both, like Aymer, were dressed in dark riding cloaks, rather than their surcoats and mantles. Somewhere out in the castle yard, she heard the clop of hooves and the creak of wagon wheels.
Elizabeth sank on to her knees on the window seat, the splinter of unease now a shard of fear. Why had these men come here under the cover of snow and darkness? Was her fortune about to change?
As the last man entered, Humphrey nodded to his knights, who pulled the doors shut. The two men would stand outside, ensuring no one overheard this conversation.
It was stuffy in the chamber. The fire blazed, throwing its shifting light across the faces of the seven men present. Those who had got to Pleshey earlier had changed from their travelling clothes. Those who had just arrived smelled of the road – of snow and mud and haste.
Humphrey scanned them. Guy de Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick, leaned his rangy form up against the back wall, his brow prominent beneath the receding line of his red hair. Henry Percy, Lord of Alnwick, sat by the fireplace, his belly straining against his doublet, his blond hair dishevelled from the ride. Henry had only just arrived, his clothes sodden, his sword still hanging from the belt at his hip. Solemn-faced Robert Clifford was seated on the window seat close to where Aymer de Valence, Earl of Pembroke, stood, his eyes raking the room, judging, assessing. Ralph de Monthermer was present as was Thomas, Earl of Lancaster, younger than all of them, yet one of the most powerful barons in England, with five earldoms to his name.
They were men now, but Humphrey had known them all since boyhood; had learned to ride and to fight with them, had served the king’s table as a page beside them. He had been at their initiations into the Knights of the Dragon and shared their excitement at the quest they had pledged to undertake; unaware of the lie behind it. They had been England’s elite, ordained to follow in the footsteps of their fathers, destined for glory. Humphrey had been with them on the march to Wales and in the forests beneath Mount Snowdon, with snow and wolves and Welsh insurgents closing in. He had been with them on the long road to Scotland, in the stinking heat of Falkirk’s bloody fields, in jubilant victory and sour defeat. He had stood beside them when they learned of Robert Bruce’s betrayal, when they buried their king and raised up his son before God. All that and, now, it had come to this.
For a moment, he teetered on the brink, wondering if there was a way he could pull them back from this. But even as he thought it he knew the answer. Humphrey caught Thomas’s eye and nodded.
At the look, Thomas rose and addressed the circle. ‘My sources have confirmed it. Piers Gaveston has returned from exile.’
There were a few muttered curses at this news.
‘Edward has sent him to command Perth. He left King’s Langley a fortnight ago.’
‘We should inform Archbishop Winchelsea at once,’ said Clifford. ‘According to the ordinances, Piers was forbidden from returning under pain of excommunication.’
‘No,’ Thomas said quickly. ‘I do not believe the king will listen any longer, not even to Winchelsea. My spies tell me my cousin has sworn on God’s soul not to heed the advice of any man on this matter, but to exercise his own judgement. As you know, he is moving his court to York. He has stated his intention is to deal with Scotland, but I believe he is placing himself between us and Gaveston.’
‘What if it is true?’ questioned Aymer. ‘What if Gaveston has been sent north to make a move against Bruce – to prove his worth? A resumption of the war is what we have been demanding. We should let it play out.’
‘Gaveston isn’t in Perth to start a war against the Scots,’ replied Thomas curtly. ‘He is there because it is one of the few places my cousin knows we cannot reach him.’
‘Then what do we do?’ asked Guy, glancing from Thomas to Humphrey. ‘Perth is a walled town, deep in enemy lands.’ He shook his head. ‘We’d need an army to take Piers from there.’