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  The flames of the candles on the table guttered as he paced. Catching sight of himself in a looking-glass set beside the night lights, Edward saw his worry etched in lines on his brow and around his mouth. He had lost weight over the past year and these new creases in his face were more prominent now. In just a few months he would celebrate his twenty-eighth year.

  Hearing voices outside, he hastened to the window. It was just two kitchen boys making their way to the bakehouse. One bent as if to adjust his shoe, leaving the other to walk on ahead. After a pause, the boy straightened, something in his fist. Raising his arm, he flung it at the other’s back. The ball of snow hit with a thump. Shouting in protest, his companion crouched to scoop up his own, but the offender had already taken off across the yard laughing. Watching them, Edward was reminded of his youth, which was never far from his thoughts in this place.

  King’s Langley was a book, the story of his childhood written within its walls. The sound of his sisters’ laughter, the stern voices of his tutors, the soft tones of his nurse: all echoed to him still in quiet passageways and empty rooms. It was here that he had first seen Piers – a black-haired youth, standing in the courtyard with an older man, eyes darting around, taking in the buildings and the people. Edward had watched from the window of this chamber as his father’s steward had greeted the pair. His gaze had lingered on the boy with inquisitive eyes and skin warmed by a stronger sun than he knew.

  As a child, Edward had often felt alone. His sisters were older, uninterested in him, his father and mother were frequently away, and, as heir to the throne, he was treated differently, even by his friends – all except Piers. At first, when the young Gascon squire was made a royal ward after the death of his father, Piers had been as a brother to Edward, both protective and teasing. Later, when he was appointed to the prince’s household, the two of them had become inseparable friends. Later still, their friendship had changed into something else, something that frightened and exhilarated Edward. Over the years, they had spent many days in this manor together, the innocence of play turning, by brief looks and tentative gestures, half-smiles and lingering touches, into the growing awareness of love.

  The first time he was forced to send Piers into exile, four years ago, Edward had come to realise just how strong that love was. Without the man at his side, he felt bereft. Those twelve months had seemed, then, the longest he had endured, but even they hadn’t compared with these past three months of his lover’s second banishment, made worse by his own increasing isolation at court. In this time, the familiar loneliness of his childhood had swelled to engulf him.

  The sound of hooves, muted by snow, echoed outside. Edward’s breath misted the window as he leaned in to see a dozen or so riders enter the yard. He had come. The king returned to the mirror and brushed his hands through his hair, his expression now smiling back at him, the lines of worry gone. Footsteps sounded on the stairs. There was a knock and his steward opened the door. As Piers Gaveston entered, pushing back the hood of his snow-mottled cloak, the steward closed the door.

  The moment they were alone, Edward embraced Piers. ‘Thank God. I thought you would never come.’ He smelled the damp on the man’s cloak, the fresh sweat on his skin. He closed his eyes, savouring the solidity of Piers’s body against his own.

  Piers withdrew with a self-satisfied smile. ‘I knew you would send for me before long. Those bastards be damned!’

  Edward kept hold of his shoulders, but didn’t return the smile. This greeting was merely a prelude to another farewell, albeit one of his own choosing. ‘Piers, you cannot stay. I can’t trust that your presence here will go unnoticed for long. My cousin has spies everywhere.’

  ‘You’re sending me away again?’ Piers pulled from the king’s clutches. ‘Edward, I have been moving from place to place for weeks now, keeping out of their sight like a fox hiding from hounds. I will do it no longer. You are the king! Stand up to Lancaster and the others.’

  ‘I will – when I am ready to.’

  Piers shook his head and twisted away.

  ‘My love, please listen, I have a plan.’ Edward waited until the man looked back at him. ‘I have gathered a company of men I trust. I am sending them with you to Scotland.’

  ‘Scotland?’

  ‘To Perth. I do not trust my cousin. In truth, I have begun to fear for your safety.’

  ‘And so you plan to send me into the heart of the enemy’s lands?’

  ‘Perth is protected by my truce with the Scots.’

  ‘The first truce didn’t stop Bruce raiding England, or taking castles.’

  ‘I wasn’t paying him then. It isn’t in Bruce’s interests to attack Perth. Besides, he doesn’t have the resources to do so – it is one of the most defensible towns in the realm. There, you will be able to stop running. What is more, your appointment as commander will prove to the barons that I am turning my attention to Scotland, as is their wish. They were appeased, were they not, when they saw your effectiveness in Ireland? I believe, this way, I will be able to win back their support.’

  Piers said nothing, but neither did he turn away.

  ‘I will follow you north as soon as I am able.’ Taking the man’s gloved hands in his, Edward met his dark, angry eyes. ‘Your place is at my side, Piers. I swear on my crown you will be restored there before long.’

  Chapter 40

  Pleshey Castle, England, 1312 AD

  Elizabeth sat in the window seat, her knees drawn up to her chest, watching the snow swirl into view in the glow of a lantern outside the guest lodgings, illuminating a path that ran alongside the kitchen gardens. The first fall had arrived over a fortnight ago, in the last days of January. The year was now caught between the feasts of St Bridget and St Valentine and, still, the blizzards showed no signs of stopping. Earlier, she had watched the path being cleared by servants, but it was already mottled white again.

  Her thoughts turned again to Humphrey. The earl had arrived at Pleshey three days ago – Constance, the maid who brought her meals, had told her so. Elizabeth was surprised he hadn’t come to see her yet. He always did when he returned.

  Sometimes, Humphrey’s visits were brief; a mere greeting. At other times he stayed longer, playing chess with her and talking into the evening, although only ever about the safe and mundane: poor harvests and unseasonable weather, the celebrations in London for Queen Isabella’s birthday. She never forced him beyond these bounds – she didn’t need to, for it was Humphrey’s silences and the things he did not speak of that told her the most. Gradually, in these past years, Elizabeth had watched him grow more and more preoccupied, secret worries weighing heavy on him. He was starting to look old, although at thirty-seven he was only nine years older than she was.

  That afternoon, unable to curb her impatience, she had asked Constance whether Humphrey had left, but the maid assured her he was still in residence and that he was expecting guests, although she didn’t know whom. Watching the flakes dance around one another in the lantern light, Elizabeth told herself Humphrey was occupied entertaining some dignitary and that was why he hadn’t visited her, but a splinter of unease had lodged in her mind at his absence and she couldn’t get it out. It made her think of that night, several years ago, when he had come asking what she knew of Robert’s plans. The cold determination in his green eyes had chilled her and for weeks afterwards, when he didn’t appear, she had feared for her safety. Nothing had come of his questions and he never again asked her about Robert, but the disquiet it had roused in her had been hard to forget.

  Hearing the crunch of boots in snow, Elizabeth caught sight of a tall, broad-shouldered man coming along the path. His face was shadowed by a hood, but as he passed by the lighted window, he glanced inside. Elizabeth froze. So did the man. The two of them stared at one another, only the pane of glass between them. The snow settled on Aymer de Valence’s shoulders as he stood there. His black eyes gleamed in the lantern light, filled with the same unrelenting hatred she had seen six years ago
when he delivered her to Lanercost to face the king’s judgement.

  After a long pause, the earl moved on, his footprints marking the snow. Elizabeth’s caught breath escaped in a rush. Moments later, more footsteps sounded, along with voices. Jumping up, she blew out the candles, plunging the chamber into darkness, save for the glow of the hearth. Heart thumping, she pulled the curtains closed, just as two more figures came into view. Peering through a gap in the drapes, she watched them pass, recognising the larger of the two as Henry Percy, the Lord of Alnwick. Both, like Aymer, were dressed in dark riding cloaks, rather than their surcoats and mantles. Somewhere out in the castle yard, she heard the clop of hooves and the creak of wagon wheels.

  Elizabeth sank on to her knees on the window seat, the splinter of unease now a shard of fear. Why had these men come here under the cover of snow and darkness? Was her fortune about to change?

  As the last man entered, Humphrey nodded to his knights, who pulled the doors shut. The two men would stand outside, ensuring no one overheard this conversation.

  It was stuffy in the chamber. The fire blazed, throwing its shifting light across the faces of the seven men present. Those who had got to Pleshey earlier had changed from their travelling clothes. Those who had just arrived smelled of the road – of snow and mud and haste.

  Humphrey scanned them. Guy de Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick, leaned his rangy form up against the back wall, his brow prominent beneath the receding line of his red hair. Henry Percy, Lord of Alnwick, sat by the fireplace, his belly straining against his doublet, his blond hair dishevelled from the ride. Henry had only just arrived, his clothes sodden, his sword still hanging from the belt at his hip. Solemn-faced Robert Clifford was seated on the window seat close to where Aymer de Valence, Earl of Pembroke, stood, his eyes raking the room, judging, assessing. Ralph de Monthermer was present as was Thomas, Earl of Lancaster, younger than all of them, yet one of the most powerful barons in England, with five earldoms to his name.

  They were men now, but Humphrey had known them all since boyhood; had learned to ride and to fight with them, had served the king’s table as a page beside them. He had been at their initiations into the Knights of the Dragon and shared their excitement at the quest they had pledged to undertake; unaware of the lie behind it. They had been England’s elite, ordained to follow in the footsteps of their fathers, destined for glory. Humphrey had been with them on the march to Wales and in the forests beneath Mount Snowdon, with snow and wolves and Welsh insurgents closing in. He had been with them on the long road to Scotland, in the stinking heat of Falkirk’s bloody fields, in jubilant victory and sour defeat. He had stood beside them when they learned of Robert Bruce’s betrayal, when they buried their king and raised up his son before God. All that and, now, it had come to this.

  For a moment, he teetered on the brink, wondering if there was a way he could pull them back from this. But even as he thought it he knew the answer. Humphrey caught Thomas’s eye and nodded.

  At the look, Thomas rose and addressed the circle. ‘My sources have confirmed it. Piers Gaveston has returned from exile.’

  There were a few muttered curses at this news.

  ‘Edward has sent him to command Perth. He left King’s Langley a fortnight ago.’

  ‘We should inform Archbishop Winchelsea at once,’ said Clifford. ‘According to the ordinances, Piers was forbidden from returning under pain of excommunication.’

  ‘No,’ Thomas said quickly. ‘I do not believe the king will listen any longer, not even to Winchelsea. My spies tell me my cousin has sworn on God’s soul not to heed the advice of any man on this matter, but to exercise his own judgement. As you know, he is moving his court to York. He has stated his intention is to deal with Scotland, but I believe he is placing himself between us and Gaveston.’

  ‘What if it is true?’ questioned Aymer. ‘What if Gaveston has been sent north to make a move against Bruce – to prove his worth? A resumption of the war is what we have been demanding. We should let it play out.’

  ‘Gaveston isn’t in Perth to start a war against the Scots,’ replied Thomas curtly. ‘He is there because it is one of the few places my cousin knows we cannot reach him.’

  ‘Then what do we do?’ asked Guy, glancing from Thomas to Humphrey. ‘Perth is a walled town, deep in enemy lands.’ He shook his head. ‘We’d need an army to take Piers from there.’

  Humphrey and Thomas shared a look. Humphrey nodded at the younger man. ‘Tell them.’

  The room fell silent as Thomas spoke, outlining the plan. When he had finished, a mixture of emotions played on the men’s faces. Humphrey saw surprise, doubt, thoughtful agreement and, on Aymer’s, incredulous fury. He was the first to speak.

  ‘You cannot be considering this?’ Aymer demanded, challenging the others, before rounding on Humphrey and Thomas. His lips pulled back to reveal the wire on his front teeth. ‘No! I’ll not agree to it!’

  ‘Not even for the good of our realm?’ Thomas asked him.

  ‘Not for anything. Do you hear me? I’d rather deal with a sodomite than that serpent!’

  Henry Percy levelled Thomas with his blue eyes. ‘I’ll not ally with him either. The bastard took me prisoner.’

  ‘Why do we even need his help?’ questioned Robert Clifford. ‘Why not send our own men into Perth to seize Gaveston?’

  ‘Edward will doubtless have his guards on the alert not to open the gates to anyone they don’t trust – whether Scot or Englishman,’ responded Thomas. ‘Gaveston has a large number of men with him. Gloucester has stayed loyal to the king, as have others.’

  Humphrey pressed his lips together. Earlier, Thomas had delivered the bad news that Henry, his nephew, had gone north with Piers.

  ‘He is well protected,’ Thomas continued. ‘As you said, Sir Guy, we would need a strong force to take him – a force that might then draw attack by Bruce’s forces.’

  ‘Even if we could take him,’ Humphrey added, his eyes on Clifford, ‘his abduction would be traced back to us. This way, we maintain our innocence.’

  ‘This stone will kill two birds, Sir Aymer,’ said Thomas, his eyes following the agitated earl. ‘If Bruce agrees to this he will be breaking the terms of the truce. King Edward will have no choice but to turn his attention to Scotland then. The war will be resumed. We’ll bear no more tributes paid out to our enemy.’

  ‘But if this works, we lose Perth,’ Henry Percy cut in.

  Thomas nodded. ‘A sacrifice, yes. But one I believe will benefit us in the long term.’

  Ralph frowned. ‘Why would Bruce do this, knowing he will break the truce and forfeit any more tributes?’

  ‘We have things that will make it worth his while,’ responded Humphrey. ‘His family, for a start.’

  ‘And if it works?’ asked Guy, ignoring Aymer’s glare. ‘We all agreed we would take action if Piers returned from exile, but once he is in our custody – what then?’

  ‘He’ll be taken to France,’ Thomas answered quickly. ‘To be held in a foreign prison.’

  Humphrey nodded. ‘We know King Philippe is angry over Edward’s treatment of his daughter, who has complained her husband is married to another. We believe he will help us.’

  ‘Gaveston will be missing after the attack, assumed dead,’ added Thomas. ‘My cousin will mourn him and that will be that.’

  Aymer turned on Humphrey, his eyes filling with accusation. ‘Is this something you concocted in that secret meeting? You and Bruce?’

  Humphrey met his gaze. ‘This again? Christ, Aymer, how many times must I repeat myself?’

  ‘Until the truth comes out!’

  ‘The truth is that I met with Bruce that day in order to ensure Sir Henry’s release.’

  ‘Why did you keep it from me? Why did you not even attempt to capture him when you had the chance?’

  Humphrey bristled, feeling the eyes of the others on him. ‘I had no chance. I would have been dead before I drew a blade.’

  ‘Henry said yo
u were with Bruce for an age. What did two so-called mortal enemies have to talk about? Old times perhaps?’ Before Humphrey could answer, Aymer continued. ‘Maybe he was thanking you for helping him escape from Westminster.’

  ‘How dare you accuse me of that!’

  ‘Someone helped Bruce that day,’ spat Aymer. ‘Someone had to have warned him the king was about to arrest him.’

  No one noticed Ralph de Monthermer tense and drop his gaze, all their attention on Aymer and Humphrey. The two earls stood a few feet from one another, drawn up to their full heights, facing off like stags in the rut.

  ‘You are always the wronged one when it comes to Bruce, aren’t you?’ Humphrey struck his chest with his fist. ‘I was his friend, God damn it, Aymer! I was the one he betrayed the most!’

  Aymer didn’t falter. ‘You’re right about one thing – we do have his family. I’ll show you how we deal with Bruce.’

  Before anyone could stop him, Aymer stormed out through the doors, pushing past the startled guards outside. Humphrey went after him with a shout, but was brought up short by Henry Percy. The large man stepped in front of him, drawing his sword.

  ‘I am sorry, Humphrey,’ Henry said, his voice low. ‘But Aymer is right – when it comes to Bruce your judgement has never been clear.’

  ‘Dear God, Henry,’ murmured Ralph. ‘You would threaten one of your brethren?’

  Henry’s cool blue eyes darted in his direction. He licked his lips, but kept the blade pointed at Humphrey’s chest.

  Humphrey’s heart was pounding, but his fear wasn’t for himself. Aymer’s footsteps had receded down the passage. His knights hadn’t gone after him. They were standing in the doorway, their own swords drawn, staring at the frozen tableau uncertain how to act.

  Thomas walked slowly over to Henry and put his hand on the lord’s blade. ‘This wasn’t Humphrey’s plan, Henry. It was mine. If we do this we can save our realm from the blight that is Piers Gaveston. Then, united, we can concentrate our strength against Bruce. Our alliance with him will only be temporary. I swear it.’