The House of Crows

paused, ‘they could always claim sickness or some urgent business at home.’ Athelstan continued slowly. ‘It’s possible there might be two other explanations. First, not all the knights we met this morning might have some secret sin to hide. Secondly, perhaps there’s a greater fear which compels them to stay.’ He pushed away the plate and writing-tray. ‘But come, Sir John, the day is drawing on.’ He smiled. ‘And we still have to visit Dame Mathilda and her ladies of the night.’

    In his small, beautifully decorated oratory at the Savoy Palace, John of Gaunt knelt, head bowed in prayer, at his prie-dieu. Beside him, on a red and gold embroidered cushion, knelt his ‘beloved nephew’, Richard of England. Now and again the young king, his face like that of an angel, ivory-pale framed by gold hair, would blink his light-blue eyes and glance quickly at his uncle. He’d confided so often to his tutor, Sir Simon Burley, how much he hated ‘dear Uncle’ with a passion beyond all understanding. Did Gaunt really pray? the young king wondered. Or was the oratory a place of silence and seclusion, where he could plot? Richard lifted his eyes to the silver crucifix.
    ‘Dear God,’ he prayed silently. ‘I am thirteen years of age. Three more years, only three, and I will be king in my own right!’
    Richard smiled. And what would happen then to ‘dear Uncle’? Yet three years was a long time: anything could happen! Richard, through his tutor, knew all about the peasants seething with discontent at being tied to the soil, at not being allowed to sell their labour in the markets, or bargain for what they were paid. Now a Parliament had convened at Westminster: the lords temporal and spiritual met by themselves; the Commons, assembled in the chapter-house, resolutely argued against levying taxes so ‘beloved Uncle’ could build more ships or raise more troops. Yet, what would happen if a storm broke which swept away not only Uncle but himself? Would the peasant rebels really lift their hands against the son of the Black Prince, their own anointed king? Beside him Gaunt sighed, lifted his head and blessed himself with a flourish. He turned to Richard.
    ‘Beloved Nephew,’ he purred, ‘it was good of you to join me in prayer.’
    ‘Dearest Uncle,’ Richard replied just as sweetly, ‘you need all the assistance God can send you.’
    Gaunt’s smile remained fixed. ‘In three days’ time, Sire, you are to go down to Westminster. You must walk amongst your Commons, tell them how much you love them. How you need their help.’
    ‘And will you come, dearest Uncle?’
    ‘As always, beloved Nephew, I will be at your right hand.’ “‘And, if thine right hand be a cause for scandal,’ Richard quoted from the Gospels, “‘cut it off.”
    ‘Dearest Nephew, whatever do you mean?’ Gaunt eased himself up from the prie-dieu but Richard remained kneeling.
    ‘In three years’ time, dearest Uncle, I come into my own: King in my own right.’ Richard’s voice hardened. ‘I would like a kingdom to govern, not a realm rent by division and war.’
    ‘The peasants will, in time, get what they want.’
    Gaunt sat down on the altar steps, facing his nephew. ‘I am not liked, Sire, but no man who exercises power is. The French and Spanish fleets ravage our southern coastline. The lords of the soil keep their boot on the peasants’ neck. They, in turn, plot treason and revolt.’
    Richard studied his uncle’s leonine, arrogant face. He noticed the lines round the eyes and the furrows running into the silver beard. Am I wrong? the young king wondered. Was Gaunt plotting to seize the crown for himself, as his tutor Simon Burley constantly warned him? Or was he just trying to steer the realm into calmer waters? Gaunt leaned forward and grasped his nephew’s hand.
    ‘Beloved Nephew, this kingdom is yours but, unless we raise these taxes, we will have neither the ships nor the troops to defend ourselves. Once I have this, I can settle the lords and provide relief for the peasants. When you go to the Parliament, do as I say. Speak kindly to the knights and burgesses. Tell them that my demands are yours.’ Gaunt’s face broke into a lopsided smile. ‘After all, you are the son of the famous Black Prince, grandson of the great Edward III, conqueror of France.’ Richard removed his hand. ‘I am also King of England in my own right.’
    Gaunt was about to reply when there was a knock on the door. Sir Miles