A Clash of Lions Read online

  Simon Merrivale, heraldus

  When the ink was dry he rolled the parchment and sealed it with a blob of wax. The final clause of the report opened the possibility that this had been nothing more than a tragic accident, but he did not believe it, and he knew Tiphaine did not believe it either. This was something more.

  ‘And so, it begins,’ he said aloud.

  3

  London, 6th of September, 1346

  Afternoon

  On reaching London the party split. Merrivale and his two remaining servants took a boat upriver to Westminster, where they would remain while the herald had his consultations with the queen and her council. Baron Grey, Lady Mary and Tiphaine were bound for the Temple quarter, and headed across the crowded bridge and into the city of London. Lady Mary had made it clear before leaving Hargate that she intended to stay at the Percys’ rented London house. Her mother had been horrified. ‘You cannot just show up on their doorstep with a party and stay for an indefinite time.’

  ‘But mother, Richard’s sisters are in London. They say they are happy to have me stay.’

  ‘You, yes, but you have not told them you are bringing the demoiselle.’

  ‘Tiphaine can share a chamber with me. I am sure they will be thrilled to meet someone who spent the summer with the army. I know I was.’

  So Lady Mary got her way, as usual, and Lord Grey escorted her and Tiphaine to the Percy house just outside the city’s western walls. Her sisters-in-law were indeed delighted to welcome her; they were even more excited to meet the exotic demoiselle, and pressed her for news. Tiphaine was economical with the details of her own exploits during the summer campaign, but was happy to tell the Percy women about what she had seen of their brothers, Sir Richard and Sir Harry. That, it transpired, was what they were mostly interested in.

  Tiphaine found it strange to be part of a family household. The lives of Lady Mary and the Percy sisters were far removed from her own girlhood convent life, then two years in prison. She felt like she was a different species. Mary was concerned for her husband and did not know when (or if) she would see him again, but she had the support of family and friends. The two young Percy women lived much of their lives on the northern frontier of the country, but again had the cushion of family and money to fall back on and the prospect of marriage and children to come. Tiphaine was not envious, but did wonder what it must be like to have such comforts to depend on. Reluctantly, she had accepted some money from Merrivale, realising that she could not live on air and at the very least would need clothes. Her hosts greeted this news with delight and promised to help her replenish her wardrobe over the next few days. They kept their promise with enthusiasm.

  The house was full of comforts and her new friends were full of kindness. But for Tiphaine something was missing. She wondered what the herald was doing, and realised she was irritated that she did not know.

  London, 7th of September, 1346

  Morning

  The queen had yet to arrive from Windsor. Parliament was due to begin its sitting in four days’ time and the barons, prelates and knights of the shires were arriving steadily in London. Merrivale used the time to gather information, in particular listening carefully for any whispers about the ‘man from the north’ who had defied identification during the Crécy campaign. His efforts were hampered by the absence, with leave, of many of the northern barons and prelates; even the Archbishop of York, recently appointed Warden of the Marches, was absent. The threat of renewed war with Scotland was talked of everywhere. Rumour was rife, but actual information was scarce.

  In search of better intelligence, Merrivale went into the city. Merchants like Sir John Pulteney and William de la Pole had interests across the whole country and de la Pole, whose origins were in Yorkshire, was a sure source of up-to-date knowledge about the northern part of the kingdom and its troublesome neighbour. These men also knew all about the finances of their fellow merchant and rival Gilbert de Tracey; and, surprisingly, his brother.

  ‘Both the Tracey brothers have had complicated finances for many years now,’ commented John Pulteney, who was himself no stranger to complex financial dealings. ‘Latterly Edward was doing many deals in the Low Countries and France, which was risky given the political situation. He must have been making a good rate of return in order to compensate for the risks and transaction costs of doing such business. But his position as one of the king’s favourites may have shielded him from accusations of removing sterling from England.’

  This was news to Merrivale; the late Edward de Tracey had claimed that his income came from land, not trade. ‘Exporting currency is illegal, of course,’ de la Pole said.

  ‘It is,’ said Pulteney, ‘although everyone does it. The coming parliament is going to discuss the subject, or so we are informed.’

  Merrivale nodded. ‘The king has been very concerned about this, particularly when there seems also to be so much false money about. Counterfeit money just adds to the expense of wars. But the two of you would know all too well about the high cost of war-making.’

  Pulteney and de la Pole gave wry smiles. As pragmatic men and important lenders to Edward III for many years, they were well used to the vicissitudes of war finance and the dangers associated with getting on the wrong side of the king in matters of money. ‘Do you know whether Gilbert de Tracey was involved in his brother’s activities? Did he follow Edward overseas?’

  ‘Not so far as I am aware, no,’ replied de la Pole. ‘He has concentrated on providing banking services to many of our barons and earls. The Percys are one of his clients, so he is well versed in the ups and downs of business on our northern border. I believe he has made somewhat of a speciality of working with the Disinherited lords. He apparently likes to live dangerously. Though there are rumours that he may be changing his mind.’

  ‘Oh?’ said Merrivale. ‘In what way?’

  De la Pole and Pulteney exchanged glances. ‘It is only a rumour,’ the latter replied, ‘but it is said he intends to retire from the world, turning all his goods over to one of the holy orders. Seems that sort of thing runs in the family.’

  ‘Which order?’ Merrivale’s voice was sharp.

  ‘I did not hear. Perhaps the Knights of Saint John like his brother? But I don’t know for certain.’

  ‘If you hear anything further, I would be very glad to hear of it,’ said Merrivale.

  ‘We shall pass on any news if we hear it,’ said Pulteney. ‘You are staying at the palace?’

  He was indeed, staying in the old palace near the queen’s apartments in a small suite of chambers kept for the use of the Prince of Wales. During the prince’s absence, Merrivale noted, his sisters had begun to encroach on their brother’s space. The prince would want to have words with them when he returned, the herald thought. A London palace was being prepared for the young prince, but it would be some time before it was ready.

  Lambeth Palace, 8th of September, 1346

  Morning

  Lambeth Palace was just across the river from Westminster, and as instructed by the king, Merrivale went to consult John Stratford, Archbishop of Canterbury and president of the royal council; the council’s titular head was the king’s second son Prince Lionel of Antwerp, but he was only eight years old. The archbishop welcomed him; they had known each other since Merrivale first began in royal service. Like de la Pole and Pulteney, Stratford’s relations with the king had not always been smooth. As with most churchmen his role as archbishop was as much political as spiritual, and while he had not suffered the fate of his famed predecessor Thomas Becket, he had incurred the king’s anger more than once. His appointment as president of the regency council had been a surprise to many.

  Baron Grey was with the archbishop. ‘His Grace and I are old friends and campaigners in parliament,’ Grey said. ‘He was kind enough to offer me a comfortable place to stay whilst we wait for parliament to assemble.’

  Stratford smiled. ‘Lord Grey prefers the air on this side of the river to the
heady atmosphere of Westminster. I hope your time in London has been profitable, Merrivale? I must say you arrived rather quickly. The official party from the army in France is not expected for a few more days.’

  ‘His Grace has given me some particular tasks to undertake and a small party travels swiftly,’ Merrivale said. ‘I understand the queen is due shortly?’

  ‘Her Grace will arrive from Windsor tomorrow and stay at Westminster for a few days before journeying on to join the king in France. She is taking her eldest daughter with her.’

  An army is no place for women, Merrivale remembered the king saying at their last meeting. Unless, that is, you are Edward III, in which case the rules don’t apply. ‘Your Grace, I wish to speak to you about a rather delicate matter.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’ Stratford glanced at Baron Grey. Merrivale shook his head.

  ‘Lord Grey knows much of the story already. It concerns Sir Edward de Tracey, who was killed the day after the battle at Crécy-en-Ponthieu. Tracey had left the army unexpectedly before the battle. After his departure, it became clear that Tracey had joined the Knights of Saint John. Equally, it became plain that he had been plotting against the king in concert with Jean de Nanteuil, the French prior, and others including John of Hainault, the king of Bohemia and the lords of Genoa and Monaco.’

  Stratford said nothing. Merrivale wondered how much he already knew. ‘Unsurprisingly, the king is concerned to know whether the Knights had any role in this treason. In your opinion, do we need be concerned about the loyalty of the English Knights of Saint John?’

  ‘Tracey never struck me as one suited to the religious life, not even in a military order,’ said Stratford, and Grey stifled a snort at the thought. ‘Far too keen on the pleasures of the flesh he is, or I should say, was. He was equally keen on wielding influence and power at court. That might have been tricky to accomplish in an Order already full of powerful, influential men. Hmm. Curious.’

  Merrivale waited while the older man considered the news and watched as the archbishop turned over options in his mind. ‘Is Philip de Thame in London?’ Grey asked.

  Thame was the grand prior of the Knights in England. ‘He is at the priory at Clerkenwell,’ Stratford said. ‘I shall arrange to see Thame and see if he has anything of interest to say.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Merrivale. ‘Thank you, your Grace. I am most grateful for your help.’

  Westminster, 9th of September, 1346

  Morning

  There was, as always in Edward III’s palaces, the sound of children in the background. Nearly twenty years of marriage to Philippa of Hainault had brought forth ten children, of whom an astonishing eight had survived infancy. It may have been the newest and youngest princess, Margaret, born only a few weeks ago, whose lungs were being exercised so lustily nearby.

  The queen sat straight on a simple throne, surveying Merrivale as he approached with intelligent, somewhat cautious dark eyes. As always, she was beautifully dressed in fine embroidered pale fabrics that contrasted with the warmth of her skin. She had a broad, unremarkable face with a short, slightly snubbed nose. She was, by some distance, the most formidable woman in the kingdom.

  Merrivale bowed low. ‘I hope my reports were informative, your Grace.’

  ‘As always,’ she said. ‘You are a diligent servant, Merrivale. My husband tells me you believe this conspiracy is still active.’

  ‘That is correct, your Grace. John of Hainault survived the battle, as did a number of the others, including Rollond de Brus, a cousin of David Bruce of Scotland. Most importantly, the Englishman we know only as the man from the north has not been identified. I am convinced he is the leader of the conspirators.’

  The queen’s eyebrows raised. ‘The man from the north?’

  ‘He speaks with a northern accent, according to one who has heard his voice. That is all we know of him.’

  ‘Not much to go on,’ she commented.

  ‘No, but his hand has been apparent in many of the problems that beset our army this past summer. It is important to identify and neutralise him.’

  ‘Indeed. I trust that this shall be one of your key tasks in the coming weeks. What then is this connection with the Knights of Saint John?’

  ‘That is not yet clear, your Grace. It is possible that the plot was confined to the French priory, and the involvement of the Knights ended with the death of Jean de Nanteuil, the prior. I have asked Archbishop Stratford to examine whether the prior of England might also have been involved.’

  ‘A wise precaution.’ She was still watching him, studying him.

  ‘The other loose end concerns the banker Gilbert de Tracey, the traitor’s brother. I don’t know whether he had any involvement in the plot, but I hear rumours that he is planning to liquidate his business and withdraw from the world.’

  ‘The rumours are accurate,’ said the queen. ‘I was informed only this morning that he intends to take holy orders at the priory of Hexham in Northumberland. He has made arrangements to give his entire fortune, some thirty thousand marks, to charity.’

  Merrivale looked puzzled. ‘I would have thought Sir Gilbert was worth more than thirty thousand marks.’

  ‘I don’t just think it, Sir Herald, I know it. Tracey has, or had, one of the largest fortunes in the country. I have already asked the Chancery clerks to look into his affairs, and parliament will take this up as well when it meets. If Sir Gilbert is giving money away in secret that is his affair. But if he is hiding it to avoid taxes, or smuggling it out of the country, that is rather different.’

  Merrivale nodded. ‘Is it known why he chose Hexham? It is rather remote.’

  ‘Perhaps that is what appealed to him. But I agree, it is a strange choice. There is a truce with Scotland, but it expires at Michaelmas. In three weeks’ time we will be at war again, and Hexham is almost on the border. Our spies have heard rumours of forces mustering at Perth, but we do not yet know how many men the Scots will raise. We expect a season of heavy raiding along the borders, to say the least.’

  ‘Hopefully the northern barons, the Percys and Nevilles and their allies, can hold them back.’

  ‘Yes,’ said the queen. ‘Hopefully.’

  There was a long pause. ‘What is it that your Grace is not telling me?’ Merrivale asked.

  Her lips twitched a little. ‘You always were impertinent, even when you were a messenger. Very well. There are other rumours too. They suggest there is disaffection among the northern lords, particularly the Disinherited.’

  ‘That is not surprising,’ Merrivale said. The Disinherited were a faction of northern barons and knights whose families had served under the king’s grandfather during the English occupation of Scotland, and been given lands there. After the collapse of English rule those lands had been confiscated by the victorious Scots, but fourteen years ago a party led by Edward Balliol, the English-backed claimant to the throne of Scotland, had invaded the country again. After a second brief occupation they had been thrown out, but they still claimed their lost lands.

  ‘If I may speak plainly, the Disinherited feel abandoned,’ Merrivale said. ‘The war with France has taken English attention away from Scotland. They feel that their claims are no longer supported by the government in London, and they have been cast aside. Lord Wake, Sir Gilbert d’Umfraville, Sir Robert de Lisle and the other leaders are angry. If I were in their shoes, I might feel the same.’

  ‘Fortunately, you are not,’ the queen said coolly. ‘I have a commission for you, Merrivale. Unless the king has commanded your return to France?’

  ‘Not immediately, your Grace. My instruction is to identify the remaining conspirators.’

  ‘Then you can kill two birds with one stone. Our officials will look into Gilbert de Tracey’s financial affairs. You will go north and continue your investigation. You will also observe the Disinherited and the other northern barons, and uncover any evidence of disloyalty among them. If there is treason in the north we need to know about it.’ The intell
igent dark eyes watched him. ‘Do you think the conspirators might try to stir up trouble in the north?’

  Merrivale nodded. ‘The Disinherited would be an easy mark,’ he said. ‘And time is pressing. With your leave, your Grace, I shall depart as soon as possible.’

  ‘I will send warrants so you may use the messenger service. Call on Archbishop de la Zouche on your way. And there is a banker in Newcastle whose services I use, and whom I trust. His name is William Blyth, and I have asked him to give you any assistance you desire. Godspeed you, herald.’

  * * *

  On his way back to his own chamber Merrivale was surprised to encounter Tiphaine, Lady Mary and the Percy sisters. Tiphaine wore a gown with an embroidered girdle that reminded him of a Giotto fresco, and though she was unmarried, a scarf over her chopped-off hair. She looked uncomfortable, he thought.

  ‘What brings you here?’ he asked.

  ‘We have come to call on Princess Isabella,’ said Lady Mary. ‘She and her mother are going to join the king at Calais shortly, and she is not happy about it. She demanded to see her friends one last time before she goes into exile. Her words, not mine. I brought Tiphaine because she knows France, and might be able to tell her Highness what to expect.’

  ‘I suspect the princess will find plenty to amuse her,’ Merrivale said. ‘Are you going with them?’

  ‘No.’ Mary frowned. ‘I have other things to occupy me,’ she said. ‘I have just seen my brother-in-law, Harry. Did you know he had returned from Calais?’

  Sir Harry Percy was the elder son and heir of Lord Percy, the most powerful of the northern barons. ‘No, I didn’t,’ said Merrivale. ‘How is he?’

  Tiphaine plucked at the sleeve of her gown. ‘He was enigmatic,’ she said.

  ‘He was shifty,’ said Lady Mary. ‘He said he was going north, where he had some business to do with Scotland. Then he closed his mouth and wouldn’t say anything more. The Percys don’t do business with Scotland. They hammer Scots into the ground and use them for tent pegs.’