Chapter 13

Westminster, 1320-1321

The winter of 1320 proved the severest since the years immediately following Bannockburn. Leaving Deerhurst in the competent hands of Timothy Maudelyn, Maria and Phillip had returned to Fordwich and it was here they passed the brutal months. Snow climbed halfway up Fordwich Castle's outer curtain and drifted against the portcullis and outer gatehouse. Violent winds blasted through drafty passageways, flapping wall tapestries and extinguishing struggling torches. Chilblains were a universal affliction, as were perpetually aching extremities. Maria was certain she'd never again be warm.

During Phillip's stay he'd proven himself a competent administrator. He'd also been prescient enough to have the castle's dungeon storerooms filled with wheat and other necessities, but elsewhere Englishmen went hungry, especially the poor. Poaching became commonplace. Hunting in the forests was reserved for the nobility, but with the worsening food shortages, peasants dared sneak an occasional hare or hart. By royal edict, death was ordered for any villain caught hunting in King Edward's private preserves, or those of his barons.

By choice, His Grace remained isolated from his subjects' problems. The meals Edward enjoyed were sumptuous affairs, containing a variety of dishes lesser folk could only dream about. At Edward's side sat his now inseparable companion, Hugh Despenser, who had risen to a position of favor unparalleled since Piers Gaveston, dead now seven years. As Chamberlain of the royal household, Hugh the Younger enjoyed constant personal contact with Edward, and as his hold over the king tightened, his greed and that of his father, Hugh the Elder, surfaced in an alarming manner. Both Despensers coveted land—anyone's land—and they proceeded to obtain it by lawful means or no. Resentful and frightened, England's noblemen, led by the increasingly bitter Thomas of Lancaster, laid plans to thwart the favorite's ever-increasing power.

"If it comes to force of arms," Roger Mortimer of Wigmore said, "We will wield a sword to protect our lands. I'll not suffer lightly anyone trying to carve up Marcher property for his own desires or reaching higher than he should."

Strange words coming from a man known for his ambitions, but as the Despensers' actions grew ever more outrageous, other magnates openly agreed. It was not long before Hugh the Younger provoked them beyond endurance.

Hugh the Younger had married His Grace's niece, Eleanor. Eleanor was the eldest daughter of the last earl of Gloucester, Gilbert, who had died in the first ill-fated charge at Bannockburn. Hugh's marriage made him co-heir to the great Clare estates, which suited his ambition of becoming a member of the highest aristocracy. Since Bannockburn, death had depleted the ranks of England's earls from fifteen to six. Fresh blood was needed at the top and Hugh was determined to provide that blood. Wishing to base his future greatness upon a Marcher principality in south Wales, Despenser moved to concentrate all the Clares' territories, as well as any other available land, in his hands.

Declaring that Hugh Despenser had "despised the laws and customs of the march," a coalition of Marcher lords rose against him. It was led by Roger Mortimer and his nephew, Roger of Chirk.

Behind that confederation stood Thomas of Lancaster.

In April of 1321, the Marcher barons, wearing a special green uniform with a yellow sleeve on the right arm, torched the lands of both Hughs. Phillip Rendell rode with them. Not only were his brother Humphrey's lands threatened but at one time the favorites had even expressed an interest in Deerhurst—an interest soon thwarted, Phillip was certain, by Richard of Sussex.

Across the Clare estates he and the Mortimers and the other Marcher lords rode, putting to torch thousands of acres and hundreds of manors, slaughtering or robbing the Despensers of tens of thousands of sheep, oxen, cattle, hogs, and horses. The night sky pulsated as flames annihilated acre after acre, driving animals and people before their wrath, destroying manor houses, outbuildings, food, furniture, and gold and silver worth thousands of pounds. Over brutal mountain areas and gentle farmland the Marchers raced—into the Wye Valley with its lofty cliffs and snaking river, through forests planted to pen in sheep—burning all they saw. An effluvium of smoke, the stench of roasting animals replaced the fragrance of meadow grass, fresh water, new-turned earth. Cinders raced the night wind, a glowing mirror of the stars beyond.

As Phillip executed the swift strikes, he experienced a fierce joy. He felt himself one with the darkness, an anonymous bearer of the flame. He was exhilarated by the pounding vibration of his running horse between his thighs, the hot wind, the flames clawing the night.

When the pillaging was over, he and Roger Mortimer and the other Marcher lords withdrew to their castles to await the Hugh Despensers' next move.

But Thomas Lancaster acted first. He called barons and clergymen to his castle of Pontefract and in July, accompanied by an unprecedented number of magnates, marched on London. With Lancaster rode a large army that encamped in the villages to the north of the city.

The time had come.

Edward II must either give up his favorite or give up his crown.

* * *

Royal Westminster, the seat of England's government, was located just beyond London's walls and adjacent to the River Thames. Westminster Abbey, founded by Edward the Confessor, and its palace comprised the major buildings. Two thoroughfares serviced Westminster and it was from the north, along King Street, that Thomas Lancaster and England's barons rode on August 14, 1321. Knowing he had no choice, King Edward had hastily convened Parliament to deal with the matter of the Hugh Despensers. His barons were in no mood to compromise. To signify their unity they wore on their arms a white band; already the convocation had been nicknamed the Parliament of the White Bands.

Inside Westminster Hall, His Grace studied the determined faces of the assembled lords. Though an inner fury raged, he also realized his helplessness for he no longer possessed the power to force his will. England's entire peerage stood against him.

Someday, he thought, balling his fists, I will make you all pay.

He hated his barons—always carping at him and blathering about "Nephew Hugh's" influence when Hugh Despenser was worth the lot of them. But for now Edward knew he had no choice. He must either banish the Despensers and return all their property or risk losing his throne.

From the hall's gallery, rising twenty feet from the floor, the lords clustered in small groups, their eyes constantly straying toward the entrance through which Thomas Lancaster would momentarily arrive. The Marcher lords were still dressed in the dramatic green and yellow that they had worn during their raids.

I hate you most of all, thought Edward. You arrogant Marcher lords who think you owe not allegiance to any man. You who think just because you patrol the Welsh border you can make your own laws and create your own principalities without regard to a king's sovereign rights.

His gaze came to rest on the most powerful Marcher of them all, Roger Mortimer of Wigmore. Descended from the Welsh princes and the legendary William Marshal, Mortimer was dangerous, ambitious, and following his successful Irish campaign against the Scots, the only military hero of Edward's reign. The king was beginning to fear as well as despise him.

A blast of trumpets announced the arrival of Thomas Lancaster. As Lancaster approached Edward, the king noted that Thomas's bearing was as regal as if 'twas he who ruled England. He was also wearing near as many jewels as belonged to the crown. Lancaster's scarlet and vermilion riding cloak swirled about his narrow shoulders, displaying beneath a purple and gold super tunic.

Edward suppressed a smile. No wonder Piers nicknamed you "The Fiddler." Not even a Frenchman would attire himself so garishly.

Westminster was so silent Lancaster's footsteps echoed off the cavernous roof clear as the ringing of St. Martin's at curfew. Lancaster obviously enjoyed being the center of attention. Neath his liripiped and plumed hat, his small mouth curved in a half smile. Lancaster had reason to smile. He had re-emerged from the Treaty of Leake and his period of isolation as still the most powerful man in England, next to the king.

As Lancaster swaggered to a stop before him, Edward squeezed the arms of his throne until his knuckles whitened. For a moment he thought Lancaster would not bend his knee to him. Lancaster took his own most gracious time—and made the obeisance appear contemptuous.

The two men exchanged stiff greetings. Thomas then nodded to Richard of Sussex, who stood to Edward's right, and took his place among his supporters in the gallery.

With that, the Parliament of the White Bands officially began.

* * *

Long shadows crept across the barnlike expanse of Westminster's hall, crawling across its two-hundred-forty-foot length to England's sovereign, slumped in his gilt edged chair. After five days of wrangling and threats, Edward had agreed, on this day of August 19, 1321, to sign a decree without parallel in English history. Though members of the nobility had previously been banished—witness Piers Gaveston—all had been foreign born. Never before had a true Englishman been formally exiled. Until today.

Edward's hand hesitated over the document. He tugged nervously at his reddish gold beard, then turned to Richard of Sussex. A look passed between them. Richard bent near, his tawny head appearing even darker contrasted to Edward's bright curls, topped by a jeweled crown. Thomas Lancaster shifted impatiently in his seat. His hand edged to his dagger. Roger Mortimer looked to the entrance, as if momentarily expecting Edward's royal guard to break through.

"Treachery," someone hissed.

Richard of Sussex straightened. His eyes swept the gallery. Edward looked down at the document, then back up to Richard as if he were king. The papers rattled in his hands.

Richard nodded. Edward returned his gaze to the decree. It stated that the Hugh Despensers were 'false and evil councilors, seducers, conspirators, disinheritors of the crown, enemies of the king and his kingdom.' It was false, all of it. And yet... Edward's sigh echoed in the expectant silence. Leaning forward he signed the decree that forever banished Hugh the Younger and Hugh the Elder from England.

* * *

Following the signing of the decree, His Grace retreated to the Painted Chamber in the Palace of Westminster, where he brooded over his loss. Richard occupied the Prince's Chamber, parallel to Edward's. Only yards away the River Thames slipped past, and sometimes early of a summer morn, when the palace was asleep and London's ships were to dock, Richard imagined he could hear the water whispering past. Often his brother and Hugh Despenser had enjoyed the royal barge or stood upon the quay talking as they idly tossed tidbits to the royal swans.

The chamber's once-blazing fire, lighted to take the chill off the night, had burned down to scarlet embers, partially hiding the brilliant wall frescoes. The battle and biblical scenes done in backgrounds of ultramarine and vermilion, and riotous with greens, purples, blues, crimsons, whites, blacks and golds were hardly restful. Across from Richard, with a folding table between, sat Phillip Rendell. Richard's squire, Michael Hallam, kept silent watch beside the door. A flask of wine, nearly empty, had been placed upon the table. During the past hours he and Phillip had caught up with their months of separation, but repeatedly the conversation had returned to the present crisis.

"The Despensers brought their banishment upon themselves." Richard stretched his legs toward the hearth. Phillip, who had been studying the fire's embers, swirled the last dregs of wine around in his goblet.

"They refused access to His Grace unless a bribe was offered," Richard said, "or one of them hovered nearby like a wet-nurse after her charge. They answered petitions as they pleased, replaced good officials with corrupt, appointed justices who were ignorant of the law of the land, and used false jurors to pervert that same law."

Phillip nodded. "And they finagled into prison any who displeased them or whose lands they coveted. A murrain on the both of them."

"So why then do I not feel jubilant about their exile? Even if Thomas Lancaster triumphed, 'tis also best for England. And yet I cannot rejoice."

"His Grace loves the Despensers and you love your brother. His pain is your pain."

Richard slumped in the uncomfortable wooden-backed chair, suddenly weary to the core of his being. A plethora of unrelated images crowded his benumbed brain. Queen Isabella kneeling before her husband pleading for him to banish the Despensers... If only she loved Edward more, perhaps she could prevent his unnatural attachments... Thomas Lancaster's triumphant smile... Edward's shaking hands...

Sometimes when events weighed heavy, Richard slipped at midnight to Westminster Abbey where he would listen to the monks recite their psalms and texts. He would relax with the rhythm of their voices and drink in the beauty of Edward the Confessor's shrine, located behind the high altar. In the dancing candle flame the bejeweled shrine atop its marble and mosaic base, decorated with images of kings and saints, emanated peace as well as beauty. The monks' voices blended with echoes from ceremonies long past and Richard felt a communion with his saintly forbear, a soaring of the spirit that left him at least momentarily refreshed.

But tonight he knew his thoughts would be on darker things. He would be thinking about death, and about the monks who would pray at his tomb. Only for him there would be no bejeweled shrine. Edward the Confessor had been a holy man. Richard knew that he was anything but that. Nor, he feared, was his half-brother the king.

"'Twould be so much simpler," he said aloud, "if we could choose whom we love. But we cannot."

Phillip stared into the fire. "Or how best to love them." He refilled his cup with the last of the wine. "I have a son whom I love. And a wife that any man would desire."

Richard was surprised at the personal turn of the conversation. Phillip usually kept such matters to himself. "But 'tis not enough?" He vaguely remembered Phillip's wife—auburn hair, a pleasant face and quiet manner. But a son, wouldn't that bring contentment? "You have what every man strives for. That and land and an occasional war to fight, isn't that what life is all about?"

Phillip ran his hand distractedly through his hair. "I have presided over so many manor courts they invade my dreams. I have passed judgment over trespassing pigs and wandering sheep, and the amount of shillings owed me or my father-in-law for rents, pretended interest in a dozen stolen eggs and assessed just fines when Tim defames Jack's corn so that no one will purchase it. I have inspected more granaries, storehouses, cattle byres, and slaughterhouses than England has shrines. I know more about crop yields than my brother Humphrey, by the cross!"

Richard chuckled. "You make our lives sound dull indeed."

"If I had not the Scots and the treachery of the Despensers or Thomas Lancaster to get me away at times, I would go mad."

"If a good crusade was being fought, or you had committed some great sin so that you could haunt every shrine from here to Jerusalem, your life, I think, would improve. Mayhap my brother could start a war with France or Spain or even the Saracens. He has alienated everyone else."

Phillip's mouth twisted. "We have become as wedded to our land as our villeins. A hundred years from now no one will be able to tell us apart." He sighed. "I am no longer a child. Why must I still chase the dreams of children?"

"What is it exactly that you want?"

"To fly," Phillip whispered. "To be free and unencumbered, to go where I please when I please and not be chained to routine and society and 'shoulds' and 'musts.'"

"I would fly, too." Richard reached across the table and rested a hand upon Phillip's shoulder. "But I think the difference between us, my friend, is that I know 'tis impossible."