been for Lancaster’s protection …
“My Lord of Lancaster supports a great many writers and philosophers, my lady.
Without him, no doubt many of us would by now have long starved, or—”
“Been tossed into gaol,” Thomas said, but with a grin. He liked Chaucer, and if some of his work did overly satirize the more corrupt members of the clergy, well…
criticism of sin had never gone astray, from whichever mouth it came.
“There are many who now speak against the overweening ambition and wealth of the Church,” Chaucer said, watching Thomas carefully. “Many who criticize. You have, of course, heard of John Wycliffe …”
Thomas’ face closed over completely. There were, however, some voices that should be silenced rather than allowed free rein.
Margaret waved a hand, as if to dismiss Wycliffe. “Have you heard the new dissident poem, Master Chaucer, called ‘God Speed the Plow’?”
“Yes! Yes! Magnificent, isn’t it? I cannot think who can be the author, but he deserves his place in heaven for it.”
“I have not heard of it,” Thomas said, “Perhaps …”
“As a husbandman drives his plow and team through a muddy field,” Margaret said, “he is disturbed by a never-ending stream of clerics—friars, monks, priests, bishops, university students—as well as those who live off charity—beggars, freed prisoners, disbanded soldiers, lepers—all of whom demand of him money and food.
As you know, Thomas, we are all supposed to give charitably to wandering clerics, as to those in need. Those of us in this great hall,” she motioned about the glittering display, “can well afford it. But the poor plowman who has the food snatched out of his babe’s mouth to feed the needy? He has a reason to complain, do you not think?”
“We are all obliged to partake in good works,” Thomas said.
“Yes, but to the point where our ‘good works’ starve the families of the poor?”
Chaucer asked. “There are some who believe that our entire society is so corrupt a new order is needed to alleviate the plight of the mass of poor laborers and husbandmen. Their voices, as you know, are growing.”
To this Thomas said nothing. His eyes were fixed on some distant point, appalled that the demons had planted their ideas so successfully. What they complained of was true enough—there were members of the clergy, and religious orders within the Church, who were clearly corrupt—but to plant the idea of an overwhelming social upheaval to fix what could be cured by an internal Church investigation, to question God’s order of things, that was unprecedented.
“Ah,” Chaucer said, “this is a joyous occasion, and we have talked of nothing but want and starvation. I am sure, indeed I am positive, that every Englishman tonight enjoys a table as laden as ours.”
Thomas gave him a black look, but whatever he wanted to say was interrupted by the sound of bells, and bright voices, and the ringing tones of horn.
“Our king!” Chaucer said, and rose with every other member of the assembly.
King Edward III of England entered from a side door in the hall to be greeted with a deep bow and a kiss on his cheek by his most senior son present, Lancaster.
Thomas watched the king curiously. This was the first time he had seen him in six or seven years. In that time Edward seemed to have aged twenty years. When Thomas had last seen him—at a tournament staged in Durham—the king had been strong and vibrant and lusty, belying his age. Now the king was clearly close to death, in spirit if not in body.
He had thinned, and his richly bejeweled and furred robes, although carefully tailored, hung unbecomingly from his gaunt frame. His gait was uncertain and Lancaster had to take the old man’s arm from the valet who had led him this far to get him safely to his throne on the dais. His hair had grown scant, and his beard was streaked and straggled, and his yellowing skin, like his robes, hung slack and carelessly from the bones of his skull.
His mouth hung open, revealing a few blackened teeth amid a greater expanse of reddened gum. If he were not a king, Edward would be snugged down into a chair by a fire and left with a child-minder to make sure he didn’t fall into the flames.
Chaucer glanced at the expressions on both Thomas’ and Margaret’s faces.
“He is not the man he once was,” he said.
“How long has he been like this?”
“Some four or five months. His physicians have bled him, and administered a multitude of purges, but they cannot cleanse his mind of the shadows that inhabit it.”
Thomas watched as Lancaster led Edward to his throne and sat him down, bending to speak briefly with the Black Prince’s son, Richard, who sat on the king’s right hand.
If Edward was incapacitated, and the Black Prince in France, and Richard of yet tender years, then that meant Lancaster was effectively king.
“Pray God the Black Prince returns soon,” he said, and all those within hearing distance of Thomas mumbled agreement.
“TYLER!” RABY shouted above the howling wind. “Get the prince’s horse saddled, as mine and yours, and as many spare destriers as we can safely lead.”
“Aye, my lord!” and Tyler had, with two steps, disappeared into the swirling snow.
Raby struggled toward where he thought the Black Prince’s position was, occasionally falling over men half buried within snowdrifts.
God damn this devil-driven tempest! he thought for the tenth or eleventh time as he regained his feet and stumbled a few steps further. There was nothing for it but to get the prince out— now!—and to give the rest of the party (what still survived of it, for several of the men Raby had tripped over were stone cold dead) permission to scatter and find what shelter they could.
He could not let the prince drown in this cold, nor could he risk the demons sinking their talons into him.
Trying to get the prince to safety with only himself and Tyler as escort was risky, but Raby was prepared to take that risk. For every extra man as escort Raby must sacrifice speed, and the prince’s condition now meant that speed was of paramount
importance.
Besides, Raby was certain the storm existed for one reason only—to kill the Black Prince. The more he thought about it, the more likely it seemed that the letter from Joan had been a ruse, meant to lure the prince out of his stronghold in Bordeaux.
Later, if he survived, if any of them survived, he must try to discover who had been that messenger that had delivered the letter.
Raby finally reached the prince’s fire—now damp, gray ashes—just as Tyler miraculously arrived with the horses.
“My lord!” Raby leaned down and shook the prince’s shoulder.
There was no response.
“Edward!” Raby screamed, and now the prince stirred slightly, and moaned.
“I have ropes, my lord,” Tyler said. “And blankets. We’ll have to tie him on and rope together all the horses, otherwise we’ll lose ourselves in the storm.”
Raby nodded, relieved that Tyler had thought so well and so quickly, then turned to the man huddled the other side of the Black Prince.
“Robert!” he yelled. “Spread the word. Tell the men to scatter and find what shelter they can. Now. It is the only way any will survive. Robert… tell them I wish them Godspeed.”
Robert nodded, struggled stiffly to his feet, and moved away.
Tyler stepped close to Raby, and between them the two managed to get the Black Prince onto his horse and secured with blankets and ropes.
It was only then, as Raby stepped back and finally found the time to wipe the ice away from his cheeks, that he realized he’d been crying.
NOW THAT the king had made his entrance, as unstately and unregal as it might have been, the festivities could begin.
Scattered groups of musicians took up their lutes and pipes, and heady music filled the hall. Servants scurried in from service entrance ways, some bearing cloths and bowls for the washing of hands, others laden with Gascon wines, and foods of every description: meats, fishes, poultry and puddings and pastries whose shape and variety defied the imagination.
Margaret, looking about, leaned close to Thomas. “The French king is not to join the revelry?”
A wry look crossed Thomas’ face. “No doubt it was felt that two inane kings was one too many. Doubtless John is back in the Savoy enjoying his own feast, and with enough warm ladies to keep him busy for the entire night.”
He looked back to Edward. The old man was ignoring the food servants had laden on to his plate, and was in animated conversation with Richard, although Thomas could see that the youth was barely managing to humor his grandfather and was proving somewhat inept at trying to hide his boredom.