Chronicles of Pauncefoot and Longshanks , livre ebook

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200 pages

English

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The medieval world, in all its piety, passion, romance, superstition and bloody barbarity, comes to vivid life through the eyes of an ambitious court jester to tell the true story of Edward Longshanks, who literally battled his way to his rightful inheritance, the throne of England. This is the purportedly long-lost account of Hamo Pauncefoot, a crafty and ambitious jester who daringly insinuates himself into the service of the future King Edward I, known as Longshanks. He reveals his story of clever scheming but also courageous loyalty as he rises, through war and battle, to a high rank and becoming indispensable to Edward's cause. As Pauncefoot plots and connives his way further into Edward's life, he introduces us to other historical characters such as Leonora of Castile, Edward's passionate and beautiful wife; the pious but naive King Henry III; his scheming wife Queen Eleanor of Provence and his noble brother Earl Richard of Cornwall. The prince of Wales, Llwelyn ap Gruffyd attempts to invade England, while the ruthless and self-assured earl of Leicester, Simon de Montfort, very nearly snatches the throne of England for himself. But in Pauncefoot's most triumphant moment, after he has risen to exalted favour with Edward, everything he has built comes crashing down following a shocking revelation that leaves him in the thrall of a man who is a more cunning manipulator than Pauncefoot himself... With chapters headed by dates that guide the reader through the authentic time frame of these historical events, Pauncefoot's fictional account is woven into the true story of Edward's bloody and tragic ascent to the throne. This makes the book a fascinating read for those who enjoy a good story that is backed up by facts and history.

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Historical fiction

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Publié par	Troubador Publishing Ltd
Date de parution	28 avril 2014
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781783067015
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0200€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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The Chronicles of Pauncefoot and Longshanks
The Making of a King
David Stedman

Copyright © 2014 David Stedman
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study,
or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents
Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in
any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the
publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with
the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries
concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
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For my mother and father
Contents

Cover

Author Website

The Chronicles of Pauncefoot and Longshanks

August 1253

May 1254

September 1254

November 1254

1255

September 1255

November 1255

1256

May 1256

June 1256

August 1256

November 1256

1257

April 1258

June 1258

July 1258

1259

March 1261

May 1261

July 1261

November 1262

1263

June 1263

July 1263

May 1264

May 14th, 1264

1265

March 1265

May 1265

July 1265

August 4th, 1265

October 1265

December 1267

June 1268

August 1270

September 1270

October 1270

May 1271

June 1271

July 1271

June 1272

September 1272

November 1272

January 1273

1273

August 1274

August 18th, 1274

August 19th, 1274

NOTES
Author Website
Visit David Stedman at his website:
www.gradgrind.co.uk
The Chronicles of Pauncefoot and Longshanks
The first time I met Lord Edward he flung me into the sea. I could not condemn him because I asked him to do so. It was an encounter that transformed my life and the fate of my mother country England and of barbarous Wales and quarrelsome Scotland.
I was born into low station but I moulded myself to be almost as influential as the future king, Lord Edward, himself. I was nothing, but I was steely determined, from a young age, to escape the torment of the life I had been born into.
My wizened soul ached for love, for comfort, for solace, for friendship, for peace, and for recognition of my worth as a fellow human being. Thus I was willing to strive without cease against any obstacle, within me and outside me, which obstructed my ascent from bleak lonely poverty to wealth and influence.
During that ascent I was compelled to risk my life and liberty, time and again, fighting in the bloody encounters that also marked the ascent of my liege lord Edward Longshanks to the throne of England, the subjugation of Wales, and the bitter overlordship of Scotland.
No-one could be allowed to know the full extent of my scheming while I lived. If anyone, especially Lord Edward, had discovered the true extent of my deception I would have been condemned to death, perhaps by his own hand.
But what would be the purpose of achieving, by stealth and guile, all that I did achieve and never anyone knowing of it?
*
Thus I have committed my life story to this parchment through my amanuensis, a young monk named Brother Godfrey of Tournai. Already he shakes his head in disapproval of my confessions. Well, my young friend, you try shedding the protection of that shabby brown habit and scrabbling for every advantage against a world constructed to keep the low-born firmly in their place. Brother Godfrey is disapproving and believes in morals and ideals, but he is being well paid. Yes, write all that down as well, you tonsured halfwit. I have walked with kings, boy, and what is more, I bent them to my will, so do not presume to censor or censure me.
*
So, dear reader of the future, it is for you to know and judge what I did. Well, to know anyway. Judge me as you like, I am now foul dust, and your opinion cannot harm me. Just know…

So begins the most extraordinary document ever discovered about the life and times of the English king, Edward I, known as Longshanks because of his unusual tallness. This chronicle was purportedly written by a man who served Edward in the office of jester and musician. He makes claims that, if ever completely verified, must revolutionise our understanding of British history during the second half of the 13th century.
The document, in the form of parchment sheets, was discovered in 2007, 700 years after the death of Edward I, when work was being carried out in a certain university college. The document had been sealed in an airtight lead box and placed in a space behind a wall that had then been bricked over.
The parchment document has given a carbon tested date of mid-14th century and so is certainly consistent with being written when the author claims to have dictated it. Current methods of carbon dating, however, do not allow for dating of the actual ink used to write the document, so the possibility of a later forgery, albeit using an authentic 14th century parchment, cannot be completely ruled out.
What is certain, however, is that the author displays a knowledge of the events of the life of Edward I that is completely consistent with modern historical research, knowledge that is hard to conceive being known to a 16th century forger. The facts revealed by the author that have not been confirmed by modern research must be taken on trust but, apart from a few mistakes that could easily be attributed to the failing memory of an old man, his account of known events is entirely accurate.
At the end of the narrative are brief footnotes to explain some medieval references, arcane to modern minds, which need clarification. The text has been rendered into modern English, hence the presence of words and phrases that were not known to the author but are an attempt to capture the flavour and style of the original account.

My name was Hamo Pauncefoot. I was born in Portsmouth in September of the year 1238. My mother, God protect her shriven soul, died soon after giving birth to me, thus depriving me of the maternal comfort that is the birthright and consolation of most children.
My father was Peter Pauncefoot. He owned a prosperous inn, named the St. Nicholas Inn, Saint Nicholas of Myra being the patron saint of Portsmouth. This saint was supposed to have brought back to life three young boys who had been murdered and then pickled in a barrel of brine, a story that, in the light of a later event concerning my father and myself, has a melancholy resonance.
The St. Nicholas inn flourished and, by the time I was born, the inn was a veritable warren of ramshackle extensions and additions. My father also built a large and sturdy wooden brewhouse, at the back of the courtyard, to make his own ale.
In 1233, when he was well over forty years of age, my father married a young girl who had been working as a kitchen maid at the inn. This kitchen maid was my mother, Matilda.
As far as I know, because my father would never talk about her, my mother married him when she was very young, no more than eighteen years of age, and she died five years later after giving birth to me.
For many years I would make pictures in my head and see my mother as I hoped she would be, if she had lived. I pictured her warm and loving comfort as she held me on her lap and sang songs to me as we sat by the fire. Why is it possible to feel bereaved of someone you have never known? Even to this day, when the darkness of night comes to shroud me, I see my mother’s arms reaching out for me, and then I wake to endure the icy aching void in my soul.
I am not sure why my mother married Peter Pauncefoot. Perhaps it was owing to the strongbox full of silver pennies that he kept securely chained and locked in his room. There was little else to recommend my father as a man or a husband. He was a cruel, drunken, cold-hearted tyrant. If he nurtured any love, or even liking, for me then he kept it a secret locked within his shrivelled soul.
From the very earliest age my role in life, as considered by my father, was to be an added attraction and an auxiliary worker in his tavern, and to be the victim of his beatings whenever I displeased him. I hated and resented him for the burdens he thrust upon me but his arbitrary disciplines compelled me to fashion myself into a form that made me indispensable to the most powerful man in the land, Edward Longshanks, by the Grace of God King of England, Lord of Ireland, overlord of Scotland and Wales, Duke of Aquitaine, and close friend of humble Hamo Pauncefoot.
*
I was fifteen years of age when I first encountered Lord Edward. I was short of stature, no more than five feet tall. Lord Edward, when we had both grown to full height, was fourteen inches taller than me.
My head was topped with a mop of thick black tousled hair that I could never control, although its tenacity has saved me from becoming bald. My eyes, so I have been told, were my most becoming feature. They were cerulean blue before they clouded with old age. Below my eyes came an uptilted nose and a full mouth that provided me with a wide and ingratiating smile.
My visage was one of blithely happy and innocent contentment. That was how most people assumed me to be, especially my father and his drinking cronies, who took malicious delight in taunting me for their own amusement. When I attempted to answer back or stand up for myself, the taunting and beatings became brutal.