England & Son

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.

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