King's Gold

Ever since the Pope had made him a papal chaplain some years ago, this assurance of God’s protection had given him the peace he needed to reflect on the actions he had taken, the actions of others, and to contemplate how he could have acted otherwise. However, no inspiration came. He had done all he ought. The King had been captured despite his best efforts, and that was surely a sign that God intended the disaster. Nothing could happen without His approval. It was merely infuriating that he, Thomas, one of the most senior Dominicans in his Order, could not understand His scheme. But that was, so often, the way of God’s mystery. It was not for humans to comprehend the Almighty’s intentions.

He had returned here only after great hardship. On the way he had heard of the death of Despenser, the ravaging of all Despenser’s lands and estates, and the impudence of the Hainaulters and other mercenaries, wandering the land as though they were the saviours of the country. It was maddening! God had assuredly deserted England. He was leaving it at the mercy of the forces of evil.

A door at the rear of the chapel opened, and Frere Thomas turned to see his brother, Stephen.

‘What is it?’ Thomas demanded, his eyes going to the windows. ‘Are they here to take me?’

‘No! No, Tom, it’s the King! He is here! Well, not here, but at Kenilworth. That’s where he’s being held – at the castle.’

Thomas gaped, and then felt the thrill of holy joy pass through him like lightning, and he turned to face the altar, arms outspread.

Now he understood. God had been teaching him patience, and now that he had learned his lesson, God was giving him an opportunity to rescue the King. Of course, he would need men. His brother Stephen could help there, but they should have enough to storm the castle by wiles, rather than by great numbers. A small fighting force, infiltrating the castle and then bringing the King to freedom. There were many who would want to join in on that!

‘Dear Father, I shall not fail You a second time!’ he prayed fervently.

Morrow of the Feast of Candlemas

Kenilworth

In his chamber, Sir Edward of Caernarfon, no longer King, now merely a knight, sat at his table and stared at the silver plate and goblet placed before him.

When he looked in his mirror, he still possessed the fair good looks for which he had been renowned. His long hair was rich and lustrous yet, his blue eyes clear, but where once laughter lines had illuminated his features, now it was the creases of care and fretfulness that showed themselves.

To think that Mortimer had once been his most revered and respected general! Edward closed his eyes as the memories flooded back. Those happy times. From childhood Mortimer had been one of his closest, most trusted companions. It was to Mortimer he turned when the Scots invaded Ireland.

Sir Edward pulled apart the loaf of paindemaigne and rolled a piece into a small ball, pushing it into his mouth and chewing listlessly. Life had lost all savour. A king separated from his kingdom was less than a man. Less even than a peasant, since no peasant could suffer such a loss.

When the emissaries arrived at Kenilworth’s great hall, that was one day Sir Edward would never forget.

He had been warned of the delegation’s arrival, and had thought they were come for a discussion of terms. After all, he was their King. He whom God had placed upon the throne could not be removed by rebels. God’s anointment protected him. And so King Edward II had leaned back in his chair as the men filtered into the hall.

There were many: two bishops, Orleton and Stafford, two Justices, four barons, two barons of the Cinque Ports, four knights, Londoners, representatives of other cities and towns, and abbots, priors and friars aplenty.

‘I am honoured to see so many,’ the King observed drily. ‘Will you enjoy the hospitality of the castle? I fear it is a little depleted of late, but I am sure that my gaoler would not wish you to leave here hungry or thirsty. Command him as you will . . . as you already do.’

His sarcasm hit the mark with several, he noted with grim satisfaction. He would show them how a real King should behave, he told himself. ‘Well? Is there someone here with authority to treat with me?’

It was Orleton who spoke, the slug, but King Edward averted his head and gestured with his hand. ‘I will not hear you, vile deceiver! It was you who preached sedition against me – I have heard. You do not rate amongst this gathering.’

‘My lord,’ Orleton said with that oleaginous manner Edward recalled so well. He had inveigled his way into the Queen’s affections, but that did not make him any more appealing to Edward.

‘I fear you must hear me, sire,’ Orleton said, ‘and you must listen to these honourable men, and the whole community of your realm. There has been a parliament in Westminster, and there were conclusions formed during it.’

‘I will not hear you.’