The Younger Despenser carefully untangled himself from the King’s body and crept out of the royal bed. It was the dead of night and freezing cold. He padded silently across the chamber, lit by a single candle against the velvet darkness, and plucked a robe from a peg just inside the garderobe.
He plucked the flickering candle from its sconce and carried it over to the writing-desk next to the window, which was closed and shuttered for the night. Hugh turned to check on Edward. The King appeared to be soundly asleep, the golden curls on his chest gently rising and falling, his handsome, sensitive face relaxed in repose.
Satisfied, Despenser sat down and held the candle over the bits of parchment scattered over the surface of the desk. Edward had spent much of the previous afternoon locked away in his chamber, frantically drafting a fresh letter to his son in France. Two letters had been dispatched already to the prince, imploring him to leave his mother and the traitor Mortimer and come home. The entreaties had gone unheeded and Prince Edward remained in France, apparently of his own free will.
Judging by the bits and pieces of writing littered on the desk, the King’s mood towards his absent son was turning sour. He picked up the largest piece of parchment and read it, squinting in the light of the candle:
“We are not pleased with you and neither for your mother nor for any other ought you to displease us. We charge you, by the faith, love, and allegiance which you owe to us, and on our blessing, that you come to us without opposition, delay or further excuse. For your mother has written to us that, if you wish to return to us, she will not prevent it, and we do not understand that your uncle the King detains you against the form of your safe-conduct. In no manner, then, either for your mother, or to go to the duchy, nor for any cause, delay to come to us. Our commands are for your good and your honour, by the help of God. Come quickly, then, without further excuses, if you would have our blessing, and avoid our reproach and indignation...”
Despenser swore under his breath. The letter was desperate, mixed with veiled threats that Edward was in no position to make.
The King’s favourite wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. The sweating had started again, as it always did when he considered his position. He had done his best to have Mortimer and Isabella killed, smuggling barrels of silver pennies across the sea to pay assassins in the French court, but to no effect. Either his agents were simply pocketing the money and doing nothing, or the hated couple’s bodyguards were too efficient.
Now he received news that they were back in negotiations with the Count of Hainault, offering Prince Edward in betrothal to his daughter, Philippa, in exchange for a substantial dowry. Despenser had no doubt what the money from the dowry would be used for. They would raise an army of mercenaries and invade England.
The sweat was pouring off him in torrents now. Who could he trust? Who would fight for him when the invasion fleet was sighted? He and his father had monopolised power in England by cramming military and civil offices with men as bad as themselves, faithless bastards who served them for reasons of advancement, not loyalty. Only now, when it was almost too late and his enemies were massing across the Channel, did the Younger Despenser realise that money and advancement could not inspire love.
Love. The term meant little to him. Sex he understood, only as a useful weapon in the game of politics. He had no particular sexual preference. For the past twenty years he had been married to Eleanor de Clare, scion of a powerful Marcher family, and willingly done his duty by her, fathering a sizeable litter of boys and girls. Despenser was aroused by the needs and promises of power, and gender was irrelevant.
King Edward was a very different animal. Desperate for affection, he stumbled into the arms of anyone who offered it, as he had with his late, unlamented favourite Piers Gaveston. Realising the King’s weakness, and encouraged by his father, Despenser had forced his lips back into a simpering smile and allowed Edward to seduce him.
That was eight years ago, when he had first been appointed royal chamberlain. They had been sexual partners ever since, much to the disgust of Queen Isabella, who came to loathe the Despensers with a passion. Hugh had once made an abortive attempt to seduce her as well, only to be rebuffed with stunning force.
Despenser finished counting a mental list of supporters he could rely on. It was terrifyingly short. One of the precious few was Sir John Swale, the no-mark he had recently dispatched to the Midlands. Despenser chewed his nails and considered the man. Swale seemed to possess an intrinsic loyalty, something Despenser would once have sneered at, but he saw the value of it now.
When Swale returned, if he returned, Despenser resolved to reward him properly, lands and titles in abundance, not just a few barren acres in Glamorgan. Swale was a fighting man, so perhaps could be dispatched to help prepare the defences of the southern coasts. And to keep an eye on the man already given that responsibility, Sir John de St John of Basing, whose loyalty was suspect.
Edward stirred in his sleep. The bedclothes rustled as he shifted, arm groping for the reassuring warmth of his bedmate. Despenser hurriedly got up, replaced the candle and the robe, and climbed back into bed with his master.