Thomas grunted. The Duke of Lancaster was nothing if not a supreme negotiator.
He had negotiated two marriages, both of which had brought him a fortune in land and income. His first marriage to Blanche had brought him the duchy of Lancaster; his second to Constance had brought him the kingdom of Castile. Between his wives and his own astute purchases and deals, Lancaster was now the richest and most powerful man in England—his wealth outstripped even that of his father, Edward III.
Consequently, Lancaster had to demonstrate even further his diplomatic skills in walking the tightrope between those who suspected him of trying to gain the throne for himself, and who thus worked night and day for his downfall, and those who curried his favor. Getting a bit of bread and meat out of a mayor scared witless by the outstanding success of an enemy army would have been nothing.
“Ah, here!” Raby said, stopping by the stall of a great black stallion. “Is he not magnificent?”
Thomas stopped, awed by the beast. He was at least eighteen hands high, his black hide rippling with muscle and health, his eyes wide and intelligent—and more than a little bellicose.
Both Raby and Thomas stood just out of biting range.
“He is Spanish,” Raby said, and Thomas’ admiration soared. Every knight prized Spanish war horses above all others: they were worth a fortune. No ordinary knight could ever possibly afford one, and Thomas suspected that even Raby, with his numerous castles and estates, would have been hard pressed to find the money for him.
Raby grinned as he watched Thomas’ face. “He didn’t cost me a single penny,” he said. “Although I did get a nasty gash on my left shoulder for my troubles.”
“Ah,” Thomas said, understanding. “He is part of your spoils of war. And the man who rode him?”
“Is waiting dejectedly for his family to come up with the ransom I have demanded.
Sweet Jesu, Tom, the number of counts, barons and sundry dukes we captured—England will be the richer by far for this war!”
“Hmm.” Tom dared a closer inspection of the destrier, keeping an eye on the whites of the beast’s eyes and the flash of his teeth as he did so. Every nobleman went to war with two purposes. Firstly, the desire to actually win the war, and secondly, and far more importantly, the desire to capture for ransom as many knights of the opposing force as he could: family fortunes could be made (and lost) on the battlefield. If the Black Prince ever managed to extract from the Dauphin a ransom for King John, England would be awash in gold coin for decades to come.
Raby had obviously done well for himself, but at that Thomas was not surprised.
His uncle was an outstanding warrior, backed by a well-trained and battle-hardened retinue. No doubt every one of his men would be going home the richer for Poitiers.
Thomas stroked his hand down the flank of the destrier, soothing the stallion’s ill-temper with quiet words.
“I do hope,” a voice said behind him, “that you can soothe Prior General Thorseby as easily as you do that destrier.”
Thomas turned quietly, careful not to startle the stallion and earn himself a sharp hoof in the belly for his troubles.
“My lords,” he said, and bowed.
Edward, the Black Prince, and his brother the Duke of Lancaster, John of Gaunt, had joined Raby. No doubt both had been visiting their own destriers and checking their comfort; the bond between rider and war horse was of vital importance, and no knight ever ignored the well-being of his mount, nor neglected to visit him at least once a day.
Both the Black Prince and Lancaster regarded Thomas thoughtfully. He’s shown such promise as a lad, and had come from such good blood, that to lose him to the Church, of all things, had been a blow.
And now, to have him bolt from his adopted stable and gallop about Europe like an out-of-control and untrained war horse was more than just an extreme embarrassment.
I can understand,” Lancaster said, “a man’s desire to take holy orders. But, in doing so, he is supposed to give up his own will for the will of God, as expressed through the Church. He is not supposed to embark on actions that violate every trust that has been placed in him.”
Thomas again bowed, lower this time. Lancaster’s quiet words had hurt where the Black Prince’s shouts had only angered. He straightened, looking the Duke in the eye. Lancaster was tall, the tallest of all Edward’s sons, a lean and spare man with deep grooves running down either side of his nose and fanning out from the corners of his eyes. His hair, once a rich brown, had now faded into a lackluster drabness.
Lancaster was showing the weight of his cares, although he did not appear ill, as was his older brother.
“I have been foolish in the extreme,” Thomas said, his eyes unflinching as he addressed both the Black Prince and Lancaster, “and have proved an embarrassment to my family and to the crown of England. Sirs, I beg your goodwill, and place myself entirely under your care until you can present me to the blessed Prior General.” Thomas bowed his head, and folded his hands before him. “My contrition is true, good sirs.”
The Black Prince and Lancaster exchanged brief glances. Like Raby earlier, they did not entirely trust Thomas’ words, and his now humble mien. It just wasn’t
“Thomas” at all… at least not the Thomas they had known.
On the other hand, both were seasoned warriors, courtiers and diplomats. If Thomas was prepared to give his word that he would place himself under their command, then …
“I am yours to command,” Thomas said, precisely on cue. He had, after all, been brought up in the same surroundings, and according to the same rules of conduct, as had the two princes standing before him now.
“And will you be commanded?” Lancaster said.
Thomas looked him in the eye. “Aye, my lord. As far as my clerical habit permits.”
Lancaster’s mouth, as the Black Prince’s, twitched in a wry smile. But it was good enough. Thomas would not, as a cleric under holy orders, give his allegiance to them before his allegiance to the Church.
Lancaster’s eyes roamed over Thomas. “You do not fit that robe well, Tom. I preferred you in helm and armor. And I fancy that you look slightly the fool with
your pate shaved in that manner.”
“I am a priest before I am a man, my lord.”
“Aye, well… my brother tells me you have talked with the pretty King of Navarre.
Will you now talk to us of him, and his offer?”
“Gladly, my lord.”
The four men turned away from Raby’s new acquisition, both princes and Thomas making suitably admiring remarks about the destrier—to Raby’s obvious pleasure—and walked into the stable courtyard to a small group of fruit trees whose leafless branches twisted black against the clear sky.
“Philip says that he will ally himself with you to—”
“Aye, aye,” the Black Prince said. “I am sure that he has promised to lay his life before me so that I might finally succeed to the French throne. No doubt he has also promised me Charles’ head and balls on a platter.”
“He did not put it quite like that,” Thomas said, and received for his troubles an irritated glance from the Black Prince.
They spoke a little about Charles, and Thomas told them what he could of his meeting with the man outside Paris, and the fact that he was going to la Roche-Guyon in the hopes of raising some troops.
The princes and Raby listened, but Thomas had little intelligence regarding the Dauphin, and Charles was only doing what any prince could be expected to do…
although that, in itself, was out of character for the Dauphin.
Whatever, the Black Prince responded to news of Charles as he almost always did, with a dismissive shrug.
“We are, perhaps, more interested in the state of the northern provinces and of Paris,” he said to Thomas. “What can you tell us?”
Thomas related what he had seen of the peasants’ bloody uprising against their lords as well as what he knew of Marcel and the revolt. He carefully explained Marcel’s stand on winning rights and dignities for the common men and women.
Now all three men stared at him, eyes wide with horror at Marcel’s ideas more than at Thomas’ description of the horrors meted out to the Lescolopier family.
“But that—” Raby said.
“Would result in utter chaos,” Lancaster finished for him. “What can they mean …
the right to determine their own paths in life?”
Lancaster shook his head slightly, unable to come to terms with the concept. “All men are born into their positions in life: some born noble, some free, some bonded, some unfree. It is the way of things, and cannot be changed. To clamber up and down the hierarchy, looking for a more comfortable place than the one you were born into… sweet Jesu! What if everyone thought they could move out of their appointed places? We would have carpenters wanting to be kings.”