Chapter 19 Bordeaux, Gascony, spring 1369
Edward and Jeanette stood side by side in the mews, enjoying their hawks and taking a moment’s leisure time together.
The April sun shone through the building’s slatted windows, creating stripes of gold across the sawdust floor and changing the colours as they folded from brightness to shadow.
Outside, the trees had broken bud and wore new garments feathered in green.
Edward’s gyrfalcon was perched on his hand, tearing at a gobbet of raw chicken tucked into his fist. Jeanette experienced tender sensations of pleasure and anxiety to see him on his feet and looking better than he had done for months.
There had been a time after Christmas during a grey January when she had thought he might die.
Even now he was not fully recovered. His illness continued to wear a rut in his days leaving him frustrated at his own weakness, and what he perceived as a lack of virility and manhood.
Constantly confined to his bed, his muscles had wasted, and his strength had diminished – devastating for a man once so physically adept and powerful.
The bird beat its strong white wings and danced on Edward’s glove. Jeanette loved to hawk but had not ridden out for months, and likely would not do so for many more, for the vultures of war were circling as the French gathered their forces.
Edward had written to his father following the French envoys’ visit, explaining his difficulties and saying he would always serve his father to the best of his ability, but was too unwell to fulfil his role – the most bitter of admissions that had cost him much humiliation and grief.
The letter had finally spurred his father to act, especially as Edward had sent his pleas via John Chandos, who had not minced his words.
Plans were now afoot to deal with the French, although whether they would come to fruition and be successful was another matter.
Chandos had returned with the good news that the King was sending a relief force to Gascony under the command of Edward’s third brother Edmund, together with John Hastings, Earl of Pembroke, and bringing with them the King’s most trusted physician, Guillaume Hermon, to treat Edward’s condition.
Hermon, a fussy little man with sparse grey hair and sparkling eyes, had examined Edward thoroughly, listened to his litany of symptoms, and eventually prescribed a strictly measured tincture to drink each morning when he broke his fast, and last thing at night.
The results so far had been promising, and although Edward’s health remained fragile, he was well enough to dress and leave his chamber and stroll in the gardens.
Jeanette had recently returned to sharing his bed, although they no longer made love, but he would still kiss and stroke her body and hold her close.
They would drink wine, eat pastries and talk as they had always done in the days before his illness.
He could leave his bed and eat in the hall and visit the mews to see his falcon.
He could play with his sons, watch and instruct the men at battle practice, and still have the mental energy to dictate to his scribes and discuss strategy with his advisers.
All of this, Hermon’s magic tincture had wrought for him.
Eventually, they left the mews and walked arm in arm in the gardens where Jeanette’s ladies were playing with the children in the spring warmth.
Little Edward, now four, was poking a stick in the fountain pond, closely observed by his two-year-old infant brother.
Among Jeanette’s ladies the Castilian princesses sat with heads bowed over their needlework.
Jeanette was gradually coming to know the girls.
Constanza possessed the stronger personality and harboured a fierce desire to return to Castile where she viewed herself as the heir to her father’s usurped throne, a queen in waiting rather than a hostage for her father’s false promises to pay what he owed.
Her sister Isabella was less concerned with such matters and preferred ogling the squires to plotting the downfall of their father’s enemies.
Little Edward ran to his father, the stick in his hand dripping water. ‘I’m fishing for pike!’ he declared. His nurse had told him all about the big fish that were often presented as prizes at tournaments.
‘I see,’ his father said. ‘And how many have you caught so far?’
‘Six,’ the child replied solemnly. ‘And Richard’s caught two.’
Edward snorted with amusement. ‘That’s enough to feed all of us tonight,’ he said. ‘And all from one small fountain pond. A veritable miracle.’
Richard had toddled after his brother and held up his arms to Jeanette.
She picked him up, such a solid weight, and kissed his face, and he kissed her in return, a wet imprint on her cheek.
He was a loving child when he chose, although capricious.
His mood could change from minute to minute, whereas little Edward’s nature was fixed and sunny.
The Prince picked up his eldest son. ‘My beautiful boy,’ he said, lifting him to his shoulders.
‘You sit upon your royal horse as I once sat on my own father’s!
I could see the world, and it looked so different as I became taller than the tallest king.
One day, God willing, your own sons will sit upon yours and see for themselves. ’
Jeanette could tell that the child did not understand what his father was telling him, but he was still laughing with the special pleasure of sitting aloft.
‘And daughters also,’ she said.
‘Daughters, of course.’
They walked around the garden enjoying the moment. Edward had just set his son down to run along the path when John Chandos arrived, clutching a piece of parchment, his expression grave.
‘Sire, there is calamitous news from Castile. King Pedro is dead, murdered in cold blood while negotiating a truce with Trastamara.’
Jeanette gasped.
Edward stared at Chandos. ‘How?’ he demanded.
‘He was lured into de Guescelin’s tent to finalise the details as he thought, but Trastamara was waiting with a sword and hacked him to death, then left him lying in his own blood for three full days.
He refused to let anyone move the body and ate his meals while he looked at it.
’ Chandos twisted his upper lip in disgust. ‘Dear God, Edward, what kind of man does that even to his enemies, let alone his own brother? I tell you, they are all mad and unholy.’
Shaken, Edward crossed himself. ‘God rest his soul wherever it may be. This is a vile crime.’
Jeanette said nothing. The images conjured by Chandos were shocking.
With Pedro of Castile dead, there was not a chance of recouping the money they were owed – not without returning to war with Castile, and they no longer had the resources to do that.
Edward was a spent force, fighting to keep a grip on his own rule in Aquitaine.
She glanced towards her ladies. Constanza and Isabella had to be told, and that task fell to her. With her father murdered and no male heir of his line to succeed, Constanza was now the queen she had wished to be.
‘Get the men together,’ Edward commanded Chandos.
‘Summon the scribes. We must look to our defences, and I must write to my father and give him the news. It is more imperative than ever we receive aid now. Dear God, what a price we pay for letting Trastamara slip through our hands when we almost had him.’
Jeanette took Constanza and Isabella to her chamber, dismissed the maids, and broke the news to them of their father’s death. Both girls let out wails of anguish and fell upon each other in frenzied grief, ripping off their veils, clutching their braids, beating their breasts.
Constanza glared at Jeanette through her wildness. ‘How did my father die?’ she demanded, her eyes as bright as daggers. ‘Tell me, I need to know!’
It was pointless not to answer, and Constanza would discover the truth anyway.
Jeanette told them what John Chandos had reported, and Constanza screamed in rage.
‘I will tear the Bastard limb from limb with my own hands, I swear I will! I will kill him a dozen times over, and then again until there is nothing left of him but bloody dust!’ She struck her breast and dragged at her braids until Jeanette had to slap her face.
‘Enough! All this fury will not help your cause. You have every right to your anger, but raining curses at the sky is pointless. You might think I know nothing, but I understand very well, for in my past I too have shaken my fists at the world and railed at the injustice visited upon me. You are a queen. Now, in God’s name be a queen. ’
Constanza drew a deep breath, pulled the fire back inside herself and raised her chin. Sitting upright, she clenched her fists in her lap. ‘I hate him,’ she hissed, with vehemence but more control than before. ‘I shall never cease trying to destroy him.’
‘Indeed not, but you need to feed that fire, not spew it like a volcano,’ Jeanette said. ‘Come, we shall go to church and pray for your father’s soul.’