I have not written on this page as often as I intended to. Lack of time is the culprit, and that is not easily remedied, which is very frustrating indeed. However, today, on the anniversary of the battle of Crécy, I decided that I had to post something about it. So, here is a little short story - a total fiction rather on the romantic side, and not entirely about Crécy, but which developed from a contemporary French rumour from the siege of Calais. It came my way and tickled my love of the two main characters - King Edward III and his son Edward, the Black Prince. So I am sharing it with you, though sadly the author wishes to remain anonymous - shyness I suspect. I hope you enjoy it.
 |
| The Black Prince's tomb in Canterbury cathedral |
England & Son
*
In memory of Edward of Woodstock, the
Black Prince, 1330 - 1376 *
Windsor, December 1347
That his father wasn't in his
grand seat in the stand really didn't bother Ned, not when he was in this sharp
mood. He was seventeen years old and he
needed no one. His mother was there, as
ever. Queen Philippa watched his every
move, flinching whenever a blow rang on his shield. She thought he was unaware of this, but he
knew. Joan had teased him for it, trying
to make him react.
"Your
mother is always worried," she'd said.
She'd meant 'Your mother thinks you are not as good as your father' and
he hated her for that. Hated her and
loved her. Damn her! If she would, just for a moment, stop
flicking her ridiculous blonde hair at him and keep it in her sodding hair net,
maybe he'd be able to ignore her. Being
handsome and the king's eldest son had not helped him in matters of the heart
and Joan was not the only woman to refuse him, but he recalled with
satisfaction Joan's hurt look as he had snubbed her to demand a favour from the
pretty brunette with the green eyes. Two
could play that game, Cousin.
Ralph
watched Ned from behind the screen in the tent, wondering what troubled his
young lord. Ned was rarely anything
other than chirpy, even before a tournament.
His father brooded certainly, but so far that trait did not appear to
have been passed to Ned; he favoured his good-humoured, spirited mother.
"Is
everything well, my lord?" the aging man-at-arms asked cautiously as he
readied Ned's pristine black armour. A
veteran of wars in France, Brittany and Scotland, Ralph had been sceptical of
Ned's youth and ability, right up to the moment the lad had stepped in front of
a French mace at Crécy and saved Ralph's life.
His devotion to his charge was demonstrated through his careful, some
said obsessive, preparation of the prince's arms and armour.
Ned's
black curls, so reminiscent of Queen Philippa, obscured his face as he stared
down at his booted feet.
"Yes," he said flatly.
"You
have to get ready then," Ralph ventured and rattled the mail coat on its
stand.
"Yes,
yes," Ned responded with impatience.
Ralph
planted himself in front of Ned.
"Out with it. You can't take
a sour mood into the arena. It'll get
you killed."
"Now
you think I am not good enough." Ned's head snapped up. His black eyes were filled with pain.
"Of
course you are. You'll bloody win this
thing. Don't be so idiotic."
"So
I am now an idiot," the prince declared, but his lips twitched and Ralph
relaxed. "Thank you, Ralph,"
the younger man said. "I saw Joan
earlier," he confided. "She
was not kind."
"Ignore
her. What does a slip of a girl know of
such things?"
"My
mother knows." Ned shook his head
slowly. "Is it not ironic the only
person I need to fight and defeat to be the best in England is the only person
I cannot fight and defeat - my father, the best in England."
"His
grace has not competed for years."
"And
yet he is held to be better than me."
"Different
times, my lord, you can't compare the two."
"But
they do," and his arm swung out
to encompass the whole tournament field.
"They do not believe I could beat him. They think as Joan does."
"Why
should they?" Ralph pulled the
unusual black mail coat off the stand and brought it to Ned. "You proved yourself at Crécy last year,
and your father acknowledged you in front of the entire army." Ned clambered to his feet and pulled on his
padded tunic over his silk shirt. "Just
because your twice-married hussy of a cousin doesn't appreciate you, doesn't mean
she is in the majority. Walk out there
now, into the crowds and smile. See how
many sweet little things hurl themselves at your feet."
Ned
shrugged, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.
"But
my father is not here. He did not
come."
Ralph
pulled the mail over Ned's head, the metal rings tugging at his curls until the
coat sat on his shoulders and the curls bounced back into place.
"You
can't hide in his shadow forever. Let
today be the day you shine."
* * *
Ned had never felt more
exhilarated, not even when he'd won the day at Crécy. He'd done it, despite his own worries. He was tournament champion. He'd taken on all-comers and he had beaten
them. His father was still absent from
the stands, but he did not care. All the
earls were there. They would not call
him 'boy' again.
His
sword glinted in the weak winter sun as he thrust it in the air, accepting the
adulation of the crowd.
Sir
Lionel de Calais, the unknown knight from France, still lay where he had fallen. Ned had thought him a chancer,
disenfranchised when the English took Calais last August and seeking retribution
in England, but he had put up one hell of a fight. A few groans emanated from his helm,
revealing he yet lived. Servants hurried
to him and began to help him up.
Ned
paid little heed, too busy revelling in the cheers from the crowd. He was not prepared for the gasp that flew
around the arena, the sudden silence that descended, nor the eruption of noise
that greeted Sir Lionel when he finally removed his helm. Ned turned to accept the man's capitulation
with all the grace of an English knight but his chin fell to the sand at his
feet, gawping in disbelief.
King
Edward of England stood with a weary smile, his hand raised in acknowledgement
as his people poured adoration on him.
"Father!"
Ned howled in bewilderment. "Why
did you not tell me?"
Coated
in sweat and awkward after his fall, King Edward grinned. "You would not have tried as hard had
you known. Now you have beaten me, in
front of everyone." He sighed
wearily and wiped his eyes with a cloth given to him hastily. "You are my son, and you are my
successor, in all things."
Ned
grinned as what he had done dawned on him.
He had beaten him. He had beaten
his glittering father, his magnificent king, in a fair fight, and in front of
the whole court. He threw himself into
his father's arms and then continued to celebrate as the king limped from the
field.
King Edward was not surprised to
be joined by the slender figure in the turquoise silk gown as he rounded a
large pavilion, heading to 'Sir Lionel's' tent.
His paramour had not been in the main stand but he knew she would have
watched every moment of his bout with Ned somewhere out of sight, no doubt fidgeting
with her glorious red gold hair as she worried for them both. He dropped a quick but tender kiss on her
lips, moved that she still took such rosy pleasure in his touch.
"Very
skilful," she said as she fell into step beside him. His shortness of breath had vanished along
with his limp and he stood tall and easy again.
"Thank
you," Edward replied.
"To
lose like that. And Ned will never
realise, will he?"
Edward
turned to watch Ned. He was still in the
arena, surrounded by pretty girls. His
head was thrown back and he was laughing, thoroughly enjoying his new status as
undisputed champion of England.
"You'll
never tell, will you?"
"You
know I love him aswell," she said.
"I would never say a word to him.
And I shall probably never speak of it again to you either."
She
grinned and wandered away leaving Edward trying to shift inside his mail at the
familiar discomfort roused by those few moments in her company.
The
guilt had still to fade completely. He
had been forced to admit to himself the truth - that he'd stolen her, his lady
of Calais, from Ned. Had she not refused
Ned first, he would never have spoken to her of his desire; and if any man
could persuade a woman to his way of thinking it was Ned, but he had not been
given the opportunity. So today he had repaid his debt to his son, in currency
that Ned understood. He had given him
something he craved far more than any girl - he had finished what he started at
Crécy and had made him into a legend.
© All rights reserved.
