Sarum - Edward Rutherfurd [349]
Even as an old man, Edward I was impressive. Though his large form was slumped in his chair, Roger noticed at once the great mane of snow white hair, and the famous drooping eyelid. But his handsome, leonine face was terribly sunken and it was obvious that he was ravaged with pain. Nonetheless, he gave a slow, but courteous nod to the two magnates.
“This is Roger de Godefroi, Your Majesty,” one of them said pleasantly. “He distinguished himself at the Sarum tournament last year.”
While he spoke, Roger saw that the king’s eyes were fixed on his badge; but it was impossible to tell what he was thinking.
For a moment Edward was silent. Then, in little more than a whisper he said:
“So I heard.”
His eyes had not left the badge.
“His own coat of arms is a swan, sire. A coincidence,” the other said hopefully.
Edward did not reply; nor did his eyes move.
“He is the grandson of Jocelin de Godefroi, whom Your Majesty will remember,” the first continued, “and he is anxious to serve you in Scotland.”
There was silence. In the back of his mind, Edward remembered a scene. It had been at the time of the negotiations with the Scottish commissioners before the confounded Maid of Norway died and caused him all this trouble. The details came back to him now. There had been doubt about the family’s loyalty: a hint of duplicity. Perhaps it had all been untrue, but he had no time to take chances.
For a second the great eyes flashed into Godefroi’s face. They were not unkind, but they were tired.
“You come rather late, monsieur,” he said calmly. “I have all the men I need.”
Roger bowed. The king’s eyes moved on, to rest elsewhere. The interview was over. As were Godefroi’s hopes.
A year later, Edward I was dead, and the ignominious reign of his son began. The times had been depressing. Edward II was as unfit to rule as his father had been outstanding. He infuriated the magnates by ignoring them in favour of his favourites. He was thought to be a homosexual.
By 1309, the king’s favourite, Piers Gaveston, had been banished the kingdom, the Bishop of Salisbury being one of those who had insisted upon his departure. In that year, also, at Sarum, the river Avon had flooded its banks, run across the close, and burst through the cathedral’s great west doors, eddying around the stone tombs in the nave.
But all these national and local disasters meant nothing to Roger.
For by the end of the year he had sold the second estate.
He was not completely ruined. He managed to retain the fulling mill, and the original estate at Avonsford with its modest manor house was still intact. But the fact remained, half his inheritance was gone and the days of splendid living were over.
There was nothing he could do. He managed the Avonsford estate as best he could, but his heart was never in it. Steady application was needed; he did not know how to apply himself steadily. In a fit of enthusiasm, he restored the old miz-maze above the valley and would spend long hours up there alone. But he was neither praying nor reading, and he himself would have had difficulty in saying how he had passed the time.
To his son Gilbert, as the boy grew up, he gave only one piece of advice:
“Go to the wars if you can. If you do well, perhaps you can get back the estate I lost.”
He hoped the boy would forgive him. But he was not sure that he would. And Gilbert would gaze at his father, and draw his own conclusions.
High on the pinnacle, like a series of eagle’s nests, the little scaffolding had hung round the top of the spire.
For the last fifty feet of the slender spire, as it tapered to its final, miraculous point, it had been necessary to reverse the previous method and construct the scaffolding