man, quite likely to transfer his allegiance to the rival Pope at Avignon on small provocation. The Holy Father translated Arundel to St Andrews, and obligingly appointed King Richard’s own choice to Canterbury.
Before September was out, the King gave the world something fresh to gape at. He said that those who were of his own blood ought to be elevated above their peers, and in one swoop created what his lieges soon derisively dubbed his Duketti. Edward of Rutland became Duke of Aumâle; my lord of Derby was Duke of Hereford, in his dead wife’s right; the Hollands, Huntingdon and his nephew of Kent, were Dukes of Exeter and Surrey; and the Countess Marshal was made Duchess of Norfolk for life. At the same time, her grandson, my lord of Nottingham, who had served the King so well, became Duke of Norfolk. Uncle John Beaufort was raised to the degree of a Marquis, a title strange to English ears; Lord Neville of Raby was made Earl of Westmoreland; my lord of Northumberland’s brother, Sir Thomas Percy, was rewarded for his services with the Earldom of Worcester; and the King’s friends, Thomas Despenser and William Scrope of Bolton, were elevated, to most men’s disgust, to be earls of Gloucester and of Wiltshire.
Notwithstanding these marks of the King’s favour, two of the Duketti sought instant measures of self-protection. Before the new titles had been announced, the faithful Commons were begging the King to declare that my lords of Derby and Nottingham had been innocent of malice in their association with Gloucester, Arundel and Warwick of ten years ago. The King, still enjoying his private jest, smiled upon them both, and said that he would himself vouch for their loyalty.
6
At Ely House, M. de Guyenne sat gripping the arms of his chair. His robe fell in folds about his spare frame, and lay in a pool of velvet round his feet. He was beginning to look a little frail, parchment-skinned, but his eyes were as bright as a hawk’s under his gathered brows. ‘How did Thomas die?’ he asked harshly.
The chamber was close, sun-baked all day. My lord of Hereford had thrust open one of the shot-windows, and was standing by it. He answered without turning his head: ‘I think he was smothered.’
M. de Guyenne’s grip tightened on the chair-arms. ‘Do you know this, Harry?’
‘No one knows, sir, except those who slew him.’
‘Mowbray!’ said M. de Guyenne.
‘Oh, affirmably! But also Richard!’
‘Edmund is right! Richard is wood! Again and again he has broken his pledges, but I did not believe he would stain his honour with murder of his uncle. Look to yourself, my son!’
‘Be sure! But Mowbray?’
‘May he hang in hell!’
My lord turned his head at that. ‘No force! But he might be hastened hellward, sir. Shall I look to it?’
‘Look to yourself !’
‘Oh, yes!’ my lord said, with an impatient movement. ‘Richard will find it hard to revoke this pardon, and harder still to have me murdered!’
‘Leave that! He is the King.’
My lord shrugged. ‘For how long, his present gait?’
‘For as long as I hold power in this land, Harry!’
My lord looked over his shoulder, a smile lifting the corners of his mouth. ‘He has had a faithful protector in you, my father. Have you never thought – ?’
‘Christ it me forbid!’
Again my lord shrugged, and turned his head again to stare out into the leafy herber. He was silent for a while, and then said lightly: ‘Old Froissart told me that seven years before my birth he heard it had been prophesied in the Book of Brut that neither Edward of Wales nor Lionel of Clarence should wear the Crown, but that it should fall to the house of Lancaster. True?’
‘I have heard the tale. There are many old tales, most of them leasings!’
My lord laughed. ‘Why, yes! But there is another tale, which I once heard you tell, monseigneur, that Edmund Crouchback, that was the founder of our house, was King Henry III’s first-born son, but laid aside
Before September was out, the King gave the world something fresh to gape at. He said that those who were of his own blood ought to be elevated above their peers, and in one swoop created what his lieges soon derisively dubbed his Duketti. Edward of Rutland became Duke of Aumâle; my lord of Derby was Duke of Hereford, in his dead wife’s right; the Hollands, Huntingdon and his nephew of Kent, were Dukes of Exeter and Surrey; and the Countess Marshal was made Duchess of Norfolk for life. At the same time, her grandson, my lord of Nottingham, who had served the King so well, became Duke of Norfolk. Uncle John Beaufort was raised to the degree of a Marquis, a title strange to English ears; Lord Neville of Raby was made Earl of Westmoreland; my lord of Northumberland’s brother, Sir Thomas Percy, was rewarded for his services with the Earldom of Worcester; and the King’s friends, Thomas Despenser and William Scrope of Bolton, were elevated, to most men’s disgust, to be earls of Gloucester and of Wiltshire.
Notwithstanding these marks of the King’s favour, two of the Duketti sought instant measures of self-protection. Before the new titles had been announced, the faithful Commons were begging the King to declare that my lords of Derby and Nottingham had been innocent of malice in their association with Gloucester, Arundel and Warwick of ten years ago. The King, still enjoying his private jest, smiled upon them both, and said that he would himself vouch for their loyalty.
6
At Ely House, M. de Guyenne sat gripping the arms of his chair. His robe fell in folds about his spare frame, and lay in a pool of velvet round his feet. He was beginning to look a little frail, parchment-skinned, but his eyes were as bright as a hawk’s under his gathered brows. ‘How did Thomas die?’ he asked harshly.
The chamber was close, sun-baked all day. My lord of Hereford had thrust open one of the shot-windows, and was standing by it. He answered without turning his head: ‘I think he was smothered.’
M. de Guyenne’s grip tightened on the chair-arms. ‘Do you know this, Harry?’
‘No one knows, sir, except those who slew him.’
‘Mowbray!’ said M. de Guyenne.
‘Oh, affirmably! But also Richard!’
‘Edmund is right! Richard is wood! Again and again he has broken his pledges, but I did not believe he would stain his honour with murder of his uncle. Look to yourself, my son!’
‘Be sure! But Mowbray?’
‘May he hang in hell!’
My lord turned his head at that. ‘No force! But he might be hastened hellward, sir. Shall I look to it?’
‘Look to yourself !’
‘Oh, yes!’ my lord said, with an impatient movement. ‘Richard will find it hard to revoke this pardon, and harder still to have me murdered!’
‘Leave that! He is the King.’
My lord shrugged. ‘For how long, his present gait?’
‘For as long as I hold power in this land, Harry!’
My lord looked over his shoulder, a smile lifting the corners of his mouth. ‘He has had a faithful protector in you, my father. Have you never thought – ?’
‘Christ it me forbid!’
Again my lord shrugged, and turned his head again to stare out into the leafy herber. He was silent for a while, and then said lightly: ‘Old Froissart told me that seven years before my birth he heard it had been prophesied in the Book of Brut that neither Edward of Wales nor Lionel of Clarence should wear the Crown, but that it should fall to the house of Lancaster. True?’
‘I have heard the tale. There are many old tales, most of them leasings!’
My lord laughed. ‘Why, yes! But there is another tale, which I once heard you tell, monseigneur, that Edmund Crouchback, that was the founder of our house, was King Henry III’s first-born son, but laid aside
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