Despenser was holed up in the Tower, mired in depression and fear for his safety, when he received word that his father was coming to join him from Bristol. The news did something to lift his spirits, for the Elder Despenser would bring much-needed reinforcements with him, but not much. The son disliked the father, and blamed the old man for his current troubles.
Hugh Despenser the Elder was a more complex character than his son, probity and honour mixed with the greed and rapacity that had marked out their family for generations. He was a truly old man now, well past sixty, but his grey hairs had made him no wiser in the matter of his only son.
The Elder Despenser was intensely devoted to his heir, and passionately committed to raising him up to be the greatest in the land, second only to the King, no matter what the cost. He cared little for the hatred and jealousy of others, or of the consequences of his many oppressions and injustices, for like his son he trusted in King Edward to protect them.
“As long as we hold his favour, we are safe,” he said at dinner, on the evening of his arrival in London. “And Edward cannot afford to cast us adrift now. He needs you, Hugh; you are his rock.”
The Younger Despenser picked moodily at his meat. “He perishes on the rocks, who loves others more than himself.”
“What does that mean?”
“It was something the Earl of Pembroke once said to the King, years ago. Pembroke meant it as a warning, that Edward should keep you and me at arm’s length, and not take us into his confidence.”
His father snorted. “Well, fuck Pembroke and his clever remarks,” he said through a mouthful of beef. “I never think of how he died, suffering apoplexy while on the toilet, without laughing.”
Despenser had been tired and frightened, and now he was annoyed. “You really are a dolt at times, father. Pembroke was one of our best friends, until you alienated him. If he was still alive, we could be using him as a tool to placate the barons. Now we have no shield against their hatred, but the King. Everyone is turning against us, father. Everyone!”
His eating knife dropped from his shaking hand, and tears started to flow down his cheeks. “You know that I dare not leave the Tower? If I do, I risk being torn in pieces by the mob! You must have seen the effigies of me being burned in the street. All night and day they gather outside the walls, baying for my head. I hear them, even in my sleep.”
He buried his face in his hands, whimpering. Baffled by his son’s sudden loss of nerve, his father swallowed his meat and wondered what to do. A hard, undemonstrative man, he had no skill or patience with emotional scenes.
“Oh, stop piping your eye,” he snapped eventually. “Let the mob howl if they wish. They have howled at me, more than once. Wave at them from the walls and give them a volley of arrows if they come too near. I have brought enough soldiers to hold the Tower against an army.”
It was no use. Lost in self-pity, Hugh continued to sob, and the older man’s attention wandered.
His knew his son, and that he would not be in such low spirits if the King was present. Hugh’s nerve tended to collapse whenever Edward left his side, since he was convinced that his enemies would descend on him like wolves once the protective aura of royalty was lifted.
Despenser the Elder was more practical, and encouraged by the King’s recent uncharacteristic display of energy and leadership. Edward had left London to tour the south-eastern coasts, personally inspecting the defences and attempting to whip up support among the nobility. French ships were reported to be lurking in the Channel, so he was currently at Portchester witnessing the gathering of his fleet.
He had left his favourite behind for his own safety, and because Edward was just about shrewd enough to know that the mere sight of such a loathed figure was bound to have a demoralising effect on his people.
“It has occurred to me recently,” said the elder Despenser, “that we could have done more to make ourselves popular. A man should have enemies, but not so many that he loses count.”
His son wiped away some of his tears, and glared bitterly at his father. “You brought me to this,” he said accusingly, “forever pushing me at the King, encouraging me to cozen him, to worm my way into his affections. First you made me a sodomite, and now you have made me a prisoner and a pariah. All thanks to you and your ambitions.”
Despenser the Elder waved this away. He had heard it all before during his prodigy’s weaker moments, and never bothered to respond. “What news from the east?” he asked. “I heard that Edward had ordered a commission of array to defend the East Anglian coast.”
His son snuffled and wiped his face with his voluminous sleeve. “He sent Norfolk there with orders to raise two thousand men,” he replied sulkily, “but I have heard no reports of the muster, and I do not trust Norfolk. He has sympathies for Isabella.”
The elder Despenser cursed. “Is there no-one we can trust?” He hurled a half-gnawed bone at one of the dogs slumbering by the fire. “Where are all the loyal men? Why did we waste so much gold and silver on so many worthless mercenaries?”
“I thought I had found a loyal man, once,” his son replied, “a no-mark and something of a fool, true, but he seemed honest. I sent him to do some work for me in the Midlands, and have heard nothing since. Perhaps he was killed. Or turned his coat.”
“Or had his throat cut by a highwayman, or drowned in a river. We cannot deal in uncertainties. My son, we must look to our own safety. I left FitzAlan in command at Bristol with a strong garrison, so we have a base in the West to withdraw to if all goes to pot here. What measures have you taken?”
“I have ordered my treasure moved to Caerphilly Castle and withdrawn two thousand pounds from my bankers. That should ensure we have the funds to fight a war. Mortimer and Isabella are not the only ones who can hire mercenaries. I have also sent orders to my Sheriffs in Glamorgan to levy Welsh troops.”
His father thought for a moment, stroking his iron-grey moustaches, and nodded. “Good,” he said. “Then all is in the balance. We will win, my son. God wills it.”
The Younger Despenser took little comfort in that. He had only ever paid lip-service to God, and suspected that He had long since abandoned him as a lost cause.