King's Gold

‘Sire, you have ruled poorly. You have been commanded by vile traitors and wicked advisers. You elevated some, but destroyed many of the peers of your realm. Your decisions have caused bloodshed on a scale not seen for many years, and you have broken up your father’s lands in order to give them to your friends. You have shamed your inheritance, this proud land, and the people you swore to protect!’

‘You dare accuse me?’ the King had roared, and half-rose from his seat. To hear this litany of accusations – as though he was a common serf! There was no need for him to respond. He was the King! ‘God Himself placed me upon this throne, and I’ll be damned if some upstart felon like Mortimer will evict me, with or without your help, my lord Bishop!’

‘You think it is only me, sire?’ Orleton sneered. ‘The whole community of the realm accuses you. Whence the prelates, the peers and the knighthood all wish you to resign and to pass the kingdom to your son, for him to reign in your stead.’

Edward stared at the bishop with a curious feeling of dislocation, as though none of this affected him personally. This was not truly happening. It did not matter what others thought: he was King. It was not a mantle a man donned and doffed, it was his heart, his blood. His soul.

He made a gesture of dismissal. ‘My son cannot reign. I rule here.’

‘Sire, Parliament has unanimously declared itself for your son.’

‘Ludicrous! I do not agree. What of the boy – does he dare to shame me himself?’

There was a swimming in his head; his mind was befogged. Oh, if only Hugh were here, darling Hugh, to lighten his mood, to take away some of the sting of this appalling litany of complaints! If only . . .

‘Your son refuses to accept the conclusion of the Parliament unless you agree. If you will pass on the Crown to your son, my lord, he will take it. But if you do not agree . . .’

‘I remain King. I am King!’

‘In name only. The realm will find a new leader.’

‘You threaten me?’ King Edward spat. ‘You think to suggest you can remove me and install some puppet in my place?’

‘Not I, my lord. Parliament,’ Bishop Orleton said.

King Edward was stilled. The swirling sensation returned with renewed force, and it was only by a supreme effort of will that he managed to keep himself upright in the chair.

At first he dared not trust his voice because his speech must reflect the turmoil of emotions that crowded his heart. This was indeed a threat, without even a silken glove in which to conceal it. Parliament was a distraction: someone was influencing it behind the scenes. Only two men wielded enough power to control it: Earl Lancaster or Sir Roger Mortimer. They could protect Edward, or his son, or could see both father and son destroyed. Of the two, Edward knew who had dared already to remove his King: Sir Roger Mortimer. He would scarcely balk at doing the same to Edward’s son.

‘You . . .’ He had to swallow and take a firm grip on himself. ‘You threaten my son’s safety if I refuse to acquiesce?’

‘I threaten nothing, my lord. I merely warn you of the consequences. You must abdicate.’

Edward could remember that day so well – how his mind had cleared and he was able to think objectively about his boy, Edward, Duke of Aquitaine.

He owed his son little. Although he had sworn not to, the Duke became betrothed without the King’s permission. While in France with his mother, he had refused to return home when King Edward wrote and ordered him to do so, claiming he could not leave while his mother remained. Perhaps he told the truth: maybe in France the Duke had already been under Mortimer’s control. The traitor was there: all knew he had cuckolded King Edward in France.

When he was free he would have Mortimer tortured. He would have the churl put to the peine forte et dure to plead his guilt, and then see him executed in the same manner in which the bastard had tortured poor Hugh to death. Damn Mortimer to hell for eternity!

Yes, he owed the Duke little. Adam, his illegitimate son, would never have dreamed of such disloyalty. He, God bless him, was too kind, too gentle and grateful for anything his father offered.

But Adam had died five years ago during the campaign against the Scots. The lad had joined the host as a page, but died of fever on that horrible return march, as had so many others. He would never know what it was to be a grown man. He died so young – only fourteen years old.

Duke Edward was also fourteen, the King realised with a jolt. It sent a shiver down his spine to think that his oldest son was as old as his firstborn had been when he died. The two boys were so very different, it had never occurred to him before.