Bury patted the book nearest him. It was a history of the life of Alexander, a tome he often picked up and browsed through. This was the kind of man a king ought to be, he thought. Honourable, chivalrous, strong of purpose, determined in battle, and magnanimous in victory. That was the sort of king England needed. Not like the present king. He may never be able to mention such things to others, but the king was dangerous to himself and the realm. Even when he was triumphant, he was vindictive to his defeated enemies. Not only to them, but also to their families. That was hardly chivalrous.
If there was one thing Richard of Bury was determined to do, it was to show the Earl in his care that there was a better way to rule a people than this. And thanks to God, Earl Edward seemed a keen and willing pupil to his tutor.
And God had also put in his way the means by which the King’s heir might exceed all expectations. The oil of St Thomas would make him more than a mere King.
With Bury’s help, the boy would become a king to rival Arthur himself – as the prophecy predicted.
Thursday following Easter8
Château du Bois
Simon was already on his horse and eager to be away before even the Bishop’s guards were prepared. Although Baldwin tried to hold a world-weary disinterest on his face, he too was noticeably present from an early hour, his rounsey saddled, bridled and ready.
A bishop would normally require a large force to travel with him, and wagons full of provisions and plate and cash for payment along the way, but to Simon’s surprise, this Bishop of Orange apparently required little in the way of comforts. There were five pack horses and a couple of small carts, and a total of only five men-at-arms to guard him on horseback, not counting Simon and Baldwin.
‘He’s keen to travel fast,’ Simon said, nodding towards the party.
‘There is need for speed if the embassy is to be successful,’ Baldwin said. He swung himself up on his rounsey, a large beast with spirit to match. He was stamping his feet and raising sparks from the cobbles, irritated at the noise all about. Men were hurrying to and fro with baskets and sacks, while dogs milled about, some darting under the horses.
There was one dog in particular that caught his eye: a large, mastiff-like dog, but although it had a mastiff’s size, it lacked the pendulous lips and excessive flesh of a brute like Baldwin’s late and sadly missed Uther. This was an entirely different type, with a long, silky coat in several colours. Baldwin had seen dogs with these markings before, but rarely if ever quite so pronounced: black all over, but for brown eyebrows and cheeks, with a white muzzle. The paws were all white, as was the tip of the tail, while there was a large white cross on the dog’s breast. He moved with a heaviness, as was to be expected with an animal that must weigh three stone, but there was a spring in his gait that spoke of his liveliness and strength, and he ambled around the place, casting looks about him at all the people with such a benevolent, amiable expression that Baldwin was smitten.
‘Stop dribbling,’ Simon said caustically.
‘He’s a beautiful animal,’ Baldwin said.
‘He’s a dog, Baldwin. A dog. If he’s a good guard he may have a use, but that’s all. Dear Christ in Heaven, man, haven’t you enough hounds already?’
‘Simon, I fear when it comes to matters of canine interest, you are indeed a peasant,’ Baldwin said loftily.
‘Aye. And peasants know when knights talk ballocks,’ Simon said unperturbably.
In her room nearby, Queen Isabella sipped wine.
She should, perhaps, have gone down to wish them all a good journey, but she did not feel it entirely suitable. No, perhaps were she to do so, others might comment. Not immediately, perhaps, but later, and that was a risk she need not take, so she would not. Instead, she stood at her window in the castle and peered down, sipping from her goblet of wine as she prayed for their safety, and especially for the protection of the Bishop of Orange.
‘Godspeed, Bishop,’ she whispered.
For she knew that the Bishop had a most important message to take to England for her. A message to her son.
Chapter Four
Christ Church
‘Are you sure?’ Prior Henry demanded. He could feel himself sagging in his seat as he took in this new disaster.
The sub-prior, James, nodded grimly. ‘At least the relics themselves are safe, Prior.’
‘What on earth would someone have wanted to do that for? What is the world coming to, eh?’
It was a disgrace! If he weren’t a man of God, he would choose more select language for this abomination. That a man could kill another, that was appalling, but men would do so. It was ever the part of man to kill others: for money, for jealousy, for pride, for anger, for lust … the reasons were all known even to a Benedictine, and had been since the age of Adam, when one son killed another. Well, so be it. If men wished to harm each other, there was little a man like Henry Eastry, Prior of the great Christ Church of Canterbury, could do about it, but that a man would dare to break into the church itself and try to steal the relics upon which the future of the Church depended, that was an entirely different affair.
‘So, clearly, this fellow attempted to break in, found his way to the reliquary, and there was accosted by poor Gilbert. Gilbert gave chase, and the man slew him, and escaped.’
‘Yes, Prior. But what was Gilbert doing there?’
‘He was assistant to the—’
‘But yet he should not have been in there so late at night, Prior. This was the middle watch of the night, surely.’
‘What of it? That is the time that criminals will attack. Even churches are not immune.’
‘No – what was Gilbert doing there? Why was he awake?’
‘He heard something. He was woken.’
‘Perhaps.’ His flat tone betrayed his disbelief.
‘And at least nothing was stolen from the feretory.’
‘Not from there, no.’
The prior turned slowly to stare. ‘What do you mean?’
‘The man who escaped appears to have taken the oil, Prior.’
‘Eh? What do you mean? You told me that nothing had been stolen from the church. You looked carefully, you said, and nothing was missing.’
The sub-prior looked about himself nervously, and when he spoke his voice was lower and quieter. ‘Prior, the bones are all there. I counted them. But the oil from the crypt is gone. The oil of St Thomas is stolen!’
Friday following Easter9
Beaulieu Abbey
The sound could be heard all along the passageways – a roar of anger that made monks blench. But none would dare to remonstrate.
It was eight days now since the King and his entourage had arrived, and the whole place had been turned upside down in that time. The sedate life of the abbey had degenerated into an unholy mess, with the King’s servants rushing hither and thither, knights swaggering, flustered clerks hurrying from one room to another, and over all, rendering any excitement to naught, there was the malevolent spirit who controlled everything.
It was he who was bellowing with anger now.
‘You mean to tell me that the mother-swyving son of a churl won’t even return all my lands to me? He means to keep the Agenais until his own judges pronounce on it? And I suppose that won’t mean that they’ll try to please their own master, does it? It is not as though a French judge wouldn’t know which decision would best satisfy their liege lord, is it? And you thought that was a “good” deal, did you? Tell me, what would a bad deal look like?’
‘Your royal highness, this is hardly the—’
‘This is exactly the right time, my Lord Bishop! That bastard is stealing my inheritance from me, from the Crown! Christ’s Pain, would you have me give him the whole of my realm? He is stealing the revenues from Guyenne, from Ponthieu and Montreuil while you “negotiate” with him, and for what result? The result I can see here, is that you have successfully given away the Agenais for ever, while giving up a year’s revenue from all our other possessi
ons over there – and you call this a “good” deal for me? You must think me a fool!’
John Stratford, the Bishop of Winchester, bowed his head a moment and waited again until the blast of raw fury was spent. He had grown accustomed to this over the last months. He knew, dear God, he knew all too well, that he was one of the few men whom the King would trust to negotiate on his behalf, but that did not make the King’s moods any easier to bear. Every time he returned to the King, he was struck with the feeling that he was about to be penalised yet again. The cost of buying back his lands and stock before had been ruinous, and he could ill afford to do so again. All because the King had promised the bishopric to another. It was hardly Stratford’s fault if he had been able to subtly persuade the Pope that he was the more deserving man. However, the suggestion that he was oblivious to the possibility that he might be given the see was enough to give the King the vapours. Not without reason. Stratford was already known to be a master tactician in the use of words and arguments, after all. Anyone, even a purblind fool, must see that he’d so contrived matters to give himself the best opportunity to take the post himself. And although there were many words which could be used to describe the King, ‘fool’ was not one of them.
But these tantrums of his were growing more and more petulant. It was alarming for a man like the Bishop, for he knew perfectly well how even some of the most powerful men in the land had been executed in recent years. Dear God, the King had even seen his own cousin, the Earl of Lancaster, most shamefully executed. That was a very new departure for an English King. But it was only the beginning of this king’s irrationality. Since the French confiscation of Guyenne, his temper had grown ever more irascible.
‘I was persuaded to allow my dear wife to go to King Charles and negotiate with him because her persuasion, together with your skills, my Lord Bishop, were supposed to be infallible, and what have you both managed so far? You’ve passed over half my kingdom! You’ve given up all my French territories without a murmur, haven’t you? Sweet Jesus, I should have you gaoled in the Tower for bloody treason!’
‘The Queen and I have done as much as is possible, my Lord. However, a man may not make bricks without straw. If you wish to negotiate with a man like your brother-in-law, you would be better placed to have some power behind you. He respects might.’
‘Oh, yes! Power! And how would a little land like ours be able to confront the greatest host of knights and men-at-arms in all Christendom? Do you know how many men I have under my banner? Eh? Maybe two thousand knights. And King Charles? Ten thousand, maybe twenty. You suggest I threaten him? With what? War? That would destroy us. Ach! Christ’s bones, you know all this. What are you trying to do, torment me with my bloody weakness?’
And that was it. His rage was done for a moment, and when the Bishop cautiously glanced in his direction again, he saw that the King was slumped in his chair. Behind it stood Despenser, that little sneer of a smile on his face once more, the evil bastard.
There were few men in the land who were so wholeheartedly detested as Sir Hugh le Despenser, the architect of so much misery. The King’s best friend, and most fabulously rewarded adviser. Reputedly, he was the King’s lover. He was an avaricious thief of all he desired. All who tried to thwart him found themselves confronted with the full might of the King’s host, no matter that they were defending their ancient rights or property against the Despenser.
But this was not the time to wax bitter about him.
‘My Lord,’ Bishop Stratford began, ‘perhaps this is not so dreadful as you think on first sight. The fact is, the French have already taken your possessions in France. The French hold them. What we are attempting is to recover them. You know that King Charles is perfectly within his rights to ask that you go to him to pay homage for all the lands under his crown which you possess. You have a duty under the law to pay fealty to him. This is no more than you would expect from any of the lords in your kingdom. You would expect them to come to you, their liege lord, to pay their respects and make their vows to you.’
‘But he took my lands by force.’
‘Because his man was murdered.’
‘Pathetic! Is that an excuse? This is ridiculous!’
‘But we have to try to resolve it, my Lord. The best we can agree at present is to go to France and make the necessary oaths. When you do, King Charles says he will return to you Guyenne, Ponthieu, Montreuil, and the Agenais will be resolved by his courts.’
‘I cannot go! How can I go to France when the King supports and gives sanctuary to those who plot my death?’
All in the room knew whom he meant. His most detested and feared enemy: Sir Roger Mortimer of Wigmore. Sir Roger had been his most respected marshal, not only for his tactical skills in England whenever the King sent him into battle, but also for his Irish campaigns, pacifying that turbulent and troublesome country. But even the King’s most honoured friends could find themselves threatened in this topsy-turvy court. Mortimer had always been the enemy of Despenser, even from before their births. Mortimer’s grandsire slew Despenser’s at the battle of Evesham, and Despenser had sworn to uphold the feud. Thus it was that when Mortimer and other Lords Marcher lifted their flags against Despenser’s rapacity, they found themselves accused of treason against the King. Mortimer surrendered to the King’s standard, and was held in the Tower for some while, but when news came to him that Despenser had successfully persuaded the King to execute him, Mortimer was helped to escape from the Tower by some companions, and now he lived in comfort at the French King’s court – or had done until the King’s delegation arrived to negotiate this peace. It was a thorn in the King’s side that the man was still alive, let alone that he was protected by his own brother-in-law.
‘If there is no agreement on this, then there may be no peace,’ the Bishop said heavily. ‘It is clear that King Charles has every right under feudal law to demand that you go to him, and—’
‘There can be no agreement,’ Despenser interrupted rudely, stepping forward until he was almost between the Bishop and the King. ‘It is clear that King Charles is demanding this because either he knows that it’s impossible for him to retain all our Lord’s assets in France without a struggle, or because he plots the capture and downfall of the King. If our King were to travel to Paris, would he even arrive? With Mortimer planning the King’s murder from within the French court, could there be even a vestige of hope of reconciliation? The French know full well that we cannot even consider travelling there while Mortimer walks abroad under the protection of the French Crown.’
‘Mortimer was evicted from the court before the Queen arrived, my Lord,’ the Bishop said directly to the King, ignoring Despenser. ‘If he wished you harm, it is not with the connivance of the French. It is his own solitary plan.’
‘You say so? Yet I have heard that Mortimer is still in Paris, and still meets with the King’s enemies there,’ Despenser said coolly, staring at him with those unsettling eyes of his. He had eyes with all the humanity, sympathy and human sensitivity of a snake, the Bishop thought.
The Bishop shook his head, but he said nothing. There was little to say against a man with the spying resources of Despenser.
‘What say you, William?’ the King asked.
William Ayrminne was behind the Bishop. He had remained quiet while the others bickered, but now he looked up. In contrast to the ascetic-looking Bishop, Ayrminne was solidly built, and had the clear grey eyes of a man who was philosophical in outlook. He shook his head gently. ‘My Lord Bishop is absolutely correct, my Lord. There is no resolution without your travelling to France. The French are adamant.’
‘Then there is no resolution,’ the Despenser said heavily, and the King slammed his fist on the table.
‘Damn that son of a whore!’
Second Monday following Easter10
Sandwich
They had made good time, Simon thought to himself as he splashed ashore, uncaring about the water that soaked his thighs and feet. He
held his sword high at his chest to protect it from the salt spray, but his attention was more fixed on the shore and the sand, gleeful at the sensation of solid, safe ground beneath his feet once more.
He had been on ships too often for him to count now, and he held a firm and unswerving hatred of his experiences. Each occasion he had been thoroughly sick, and so demoralised that he had actively wished for death. On one journey, while returning from pilgrimage, he had been attacked by Breton pirates and shipwrecked, only narrowly escaping with his life. Ships were for sailors, so far as he was concerned, and if he never so much as saw a ship again in his life, it would be all the same to him. He disliked the feeling of wobbling about on the water more than any other.
They had been blown north. Oh, Baldwin had said that it didn’t matter, that they were still heading more or less westwards, but Simon knew better than that. They’d ended up on the Isle of Ennor when they were heading for Cornwall last time he’d crossed the Channel, and now they were going up the English Channel. Knowing Simon’s luck they’d end up in some ungodly damned country like the Norwegian lands, or even Scotland!
But instead, here they were. He wriggled his toes in his boots. Sand! Sand! Glorious, firm, solid, sound sand! He could have bent and kissed the ground, it was so wonderful to feel the shore under his sodden boots. Instead, he took the more acceptable opportunity to close his eyes and utter a prayer of thanks.
‘Pleased to see you’re rightly grateful,’ Baldwin said drily.
‘It’s all right for men like you to be cynical,’ Simon said righteously, ‘but for those of us who actually suffer, there is nothing quite so wonderful as feeling the earth again.’
‘You were hardly even sick this time.’
‘Perhaps to you it looked like that,’ Simon growled. ‘“Hardly” does not cover the feelings I had whilst in that bucket.’
‘Well, with any luck you’ll never have to see a ship again,’ Baldwin said soothingly.
The Prophecy of Death: (Knights Templar 25) Page 6
