The Queen lifted her arms as her maids stood about and slipped them into the sleeves of her dress.
‘Dieu!’
The weight of it was astonishing! All the jewels which she had demanded, sewn into the fabric, made it extraordinarily heavy, and she looked down with some perplexity. ‘Alicia?’
Alicia was her most trusted companion. It was not a position she had sought, but it was inevitable amongst the present ladies-in-waiting that she should win it. The others had all been selected by the King and Despenser to join her, and the Queen and Alicia knew perfectly well why that was: they were here to spy upon her.
There were two main agents of the King: Lady Alice de Toeni, the Dowager Countess of Warwick, and Joan of Bar, King Edward’s niece. But the Queen was not so foolish as to believe that these were the only two who were watching her. Her husband was mistrustful of everyone recently, and the fact that his Isabella had been loyal to him through all the trials of the last ten years, that she had supported him when he most needed her aid, counted now for nothing. All the King would see when he looked at her was the woman who was sister to the French King. Nothing else.
Of course it was not spies of the King of whom she must be most on her guard. No, it was any man or woman who could be considered a friend or ally of that evil demon, Despenser. Evil demon. She rather liked that. The fact that the son of a peasant was now the most powerful man in the realm was entirely monstrous, but her husband had allowed him to take that position. It was his foolhardiness which had seeded the fruitful fields of Despenser’s ambition. And his spies would be all about her. She knew that.
Interestingly, she was beginning to feel that Lady Joan of Bar was growing more and more sympathetic towards her. Perhaps it was not surprising, for Lady Joan had suffered from a brute of a husband.
‘It pinches about my waist. I want it to be let out a little. I wish to be glorious, not suffocated!’ she stated, and the dress was taken away to be reworked.
The wedding was not until July, but she must look her best. She had a duty to England, to her husband – whether he expected or cared about it or not – and to her cousin, Jeanne d’Evreux, the King’s fiancée.
She was a lovely little thing, Jeanne. Already Isabella felt a certain understanding between them, which she hoped would only continue once Jeanne had married her brother.
He, of course, was more circumspect. As the King of France, he could not demonstrate too much compassion for her, but he had succeeded in making his feelings plain about some aspects. The fact that Despenser was gaining in wealth and treasure while Isabella’s estates were confiscated was deeply insulting to the French crown; worse, the fact that her children had been taken from her was shameful. That seemed to imply that the King viewed her as a traitor! To suggest such a thing was an affront to the French monarchy.
It was one thing to say that something was an insult, but another to live with the effects, though. Isabella missed her children so much … her little John, only eight years old, and her little darling; Eleanor, two years younger, and Joan, little more than a baby at three years. Her first-born, Edward, was almost thirteen, of course, and he would not be so dreadfully worried. He had seen his father’s irrationality before, and had seen it dissipate. She hoped he would be strong enough. But the others … to have been dragged from their mother, and still not to know their own father’s love, they must be in misery.
She refused to think of such things. To do so in front of the ladies-in-waiting would only lead to rumours of her misery becoming widely disseminated. She would not give such solace to Despenser, nor to her husband. Instead, she would keep cheerful during the day, and only relieve herself in tears in the depths of the night.
At least some people were kind enough to support her. Henry Eastry at Canterbury had been very good to her; William Ayrminne was a solid friend; even the Bishop of Orange relayed messages of encouragement from the Pope which were generous to a fault. With fortune, all those with good wishes for her would be able to make their mark.
The Bishop was an interesting man, of course. Tall, urbane, shrewd as a farmer eyeing the cattle at market, he rarely allowed anyone a glimpse of what was going on inside his head, but he was the Pope’s own ambassador just now, and that meant he was one of the most powerful men in the world.
Well, she deserved to have a man like him visit her and take up her cause. She was the daughter of Philippe the Fair, King of France, and wife to the King of England, whether he liked it or not. Isabella was a woman of standing. A noblewoman of the highest rank.
And she was deprived even of the companionship of her children.
St Mary in the Marsh
The priest was a youngish man, with mousy hair and a slightly peering stance, head leaning forward, his eyes squinting slightly.
‘Father, we’re very glad to meet you,’ André said.
‘Ah, you are foreign?’
‘From Hainault, Father. We are lost, trying to find our way to London.’
‘You are a long way from there, my son,’ the priest said, and André heard the sudden reticence, the suspicion in his voice.
Ach, it was an obvious error. He mentioned the first town that came to his mind in this strange land, and should have realised that the main city was some distance. But how could he know? It was many years since he was last in this country, and then he hadn’t made it to London.
He smiled. ‘Oh? And we thought it was so near,’ he said as he put his hand about the man’s neck and shoved his dagger into the priest’s belly.
The man just gave a quiet gasp, nothing more. He stared in horror as André carefully ripped the blade upwards, using the sawing motion he was so experienced in, the priest goggle-eyed, mouth open, as though he hated to interrupt the fellow about his business, and then André smiled at him, nodding calmly as he saw the life fade from the priest’s eyes, in a way hoping that his gentleness would ease the man’s passing. In any case, it was fast, and there was not a great deal more any man could do than that for someone.
As the priest slumped, André allowed him to slide from the blade, and watched as the fellow began to jerk and twist in his death throes. One foot beat so hard against the floor, it ended up leaving a smear of blood, but that was nothing compared with the mess about his belly and the ground about him.
He had keys at his belt, though. While Pons took the ring from his forefinger, André went to the box in the church. The second key was clearly the only one that was the right size to fit the hole in the lid, and he thrust it in and turned it. The noise of the levers being shifted was music to his ears, and he opened the lid with a tingling anticipation in his belly.
Inside, he saw with a gasp of joy, was a gold cross with jewels set into it. The church here had a marvellous patron. Ach, he would have been glad to meet the man himself, and take advantage of the fellow’s hospitality! Whoever he was, he had a goodly purse.
Back in the priest’s house, he looked for spare clothing in the man’s boxes. In his little bedchamber there was a chest, and inside it was a shirt and a thick robe. It was good enough. André ripped off his bloody and messed tunic, and replaced it. It was made of good, soft wool, and he was glad to have made the exchange.
The cross was soon installed in his shirt, next to his stomach, under his belt. He gave a low whistle, and Pons came running. The two of them walked out to their horses, and mounted, both still watching carefully. Perhaps a mile away, there was a huddle of men and women walking back from the fields, and André smiled, then turned his horse’s head to the west and clapped spurs to the beast’s flanks.
There was no need to worry about buying food now. This venture would make them both a fine profit.
Chapter Eleven
Second Thursday after Easter13
On the road near Crowborough, Kent
The Bishop grunted when their concerns were raised, but he did at least allow them a few moments of rest while they studied the land and rested their mounts.
Simon wa
s impressed with the single-minded determination of the fellow. The Bishop of Orange was a heavy-set man, with a great round face, and an oddly square shape to his skull, visible when he removed his thick woollen hat. Commonly his eyes had only a distant absentness, unless there was food in the vicinity, in which case they suddenly held an almost feral concentration. Yet all the while, whether bumping along on his palfrey or sitting as his men lighted a fire and began to warm food and drink, he appeared to ignore any hardship, and focussed entirely on the mission.
Not today, though.
‘I will not be delayed by the irrational and foolhardy concerns of a small number of peasants!’
‘We would be foolish to rush blindly into a lair of outlaws,’ Baldwin said.
‘There is no evidence that a single fellow lies in that forest, and if one did, what of it? We have many men amongst us, we do not need to fear being waylaid, do we? In God’s name, man, I say I am determined.’
Baldwin grunted and threw a harassed glance over his shoulder at the trees behind him. ‘The peasants in the farm told us to be wary. There have been many sheep stolen recently.’
‘Probably a neighbour’s dog.’
‘There are strangers who’ve been seen, the fellows said.’
‘There are strangers seen every day in the country. It is not cause to divert our route and delay our embassy. When the horses are rested we shall follow this road.’
It was not the first time that they had held this debate. The past few times they had passed under woods, Baldwin had been anxious, and cautiously cast about him for the threat of ambush, but each time his anxiety had come to naught. His warnings had been overruled by the Bishop – suavely and reassuringly, but definitely. However, this time Baldwin was more concerned.
They had paused at a small farmstead a mile or more back, and there the peasant woman had warned them of more footpads and felons who were hiding deep in amongst the trees. There was no doubt that the men in the woods were dangerous, she said as she poured them ale from an ancient, cracked earthenware jug, and Baldwin tried to soothe her with his gentlest of voices and manners, seeing that she was so anxious.
No one could doubt her sincerity. When they arrived, they saw her whirl in terror to see so many horses. For a moment or two, Baldwin had thought that she was about to flee, but something reassured her. Perhaps it was just the fact that she could see that these were no footpads or drawlatches. Outlaws would have worn shabbier clothing, or clothing that wouldn’t fit at all.
There were many outlaws near here, they learned. From the way that she looked about her, she expected them to appear at any moment. And Baldwin knew that she must be petrified that one of the outlaws might learn that she had entertained a large party. An outlaw might well assume that she had been paid in cash for her hospitality, and would soon come to rob and rape her. She had a husband, she said, and that in a way was still more worrying. All had heard tales of outlaws slowly torturing a man in front of his wife, or a wife being raped before her man, he being bound and impotent to help her, just for a few pennies.
‘Is your man here?’ he asked.
‘Working,’ she said, and although she smiled, her eyes were nervous the whole time. As she spoke, the reason for her fear became clear. ‘He has a coppice in the woods.’
She explained that having a man about the place would not protect her or the homestead. Will Fletcher and his Mabilla were both killed a month or so ago, although Will had tried to defend them both. Old Adam, the tranter who saw to the needs of so many about this way, had been set upon and slaughtered just inside the woods. Then a boy, one of Roger Hogward’s lads, was seen down near the road’s ditch, knocked down, although not killed, by a mercy.
His tale was one of misery. The lad had seen his father slain by a gang of men all armed with bills and long knives. Two had bows, and with them they used him for their practice after tying Hogward to an oak.
‘They ravage the whole area,’ she concluded.
‘Have you raised it with the Keeper of the King’s Peace?’ Baldwin asked kindly.
‘They do nothing for us. The keeper’s a busy man,’ she said curtly. ‘What does he care if a peasant woman and her husband are harassed or killed by these felons?’
He didn’t have an answer for her. He wanted to tell her that if she had complained to him, he would have raised a posse and ridden the outlaws down, for no man ought to be afraid of travelling about on his own business within the King’s realm, but that would only serve to leave her more distraught. In the end, he hurried to drink his cup, and was soon back upon his mount.
‘The woman said the boy was found only a matter of days ago, my Lord Bishop. His father’s body was still bound to the tree where he died,’ Baldwin said.
‘Sir Baldwin, your concern does you credit, but my need will brook no delay. I trust that is clear enough? We have need of speed. To circle about this immense wood will take a great deal of time, time I do not have.’
‘I am charged with others for your safety,’ Baldwin said stiffly. ‘She said that no one from this vicinity would enter those woods willingly until the outlaws have been captured and killed.’
‘Your anxiety is noted.’
Baldwin nodded and marched away before his anger could burst forth.
‘Well?’ Simon asked as he approached.
Baldwin went to his rounsey and cinched the saddle strap tighter. ‘Take my advice and make sure your mount is rested and that your saddle is tight,’ he muttered. ‘And then test your blade in the sheath. The thing may be needed soon.’
It was almost noon when the party prepared to make their way through the woods, and Simon was aware of a growing unease as the men climbed into the saddle again. The only ones who appeared entirely unconcerned were the two more recent guards from Canterbury. The older man, Peter, and the younger, who might have been his son, the one called John.
Simon had been content at first, but now he felt a little nervous at the sight of the two of them. They looked so stolid and resilient, they were Simon’s vision of a pair of outlaws. True, they were moderately clean, but that meant nothing. So far as he was concerned, they were large, bold men, just like any other felon. And they were travelling with the Bishop’s party as though they were entirely trustworthy.
Well, maybe they were. At least they hadn’t slaughtered any innocents trying to reach a city, unlike the Bishop’s original two men. Simon still reckoned that their flight was peculiar. They had been involved in the inquest and declared innocent, so what could the coroner have said to them that would have made them run away so swiftly?
More to the point, why would he have wanted to scare them away? Just so that he could have these two added to the Bishop’s entourage, perhaps? Why would he want to do that, though? Unless he wanted to have the men wander this way, and he could have them help outlaws waylay the Bishop’s party …
‘You’ve been travelling too long with strangers,’ he rebuked himself, and kicked his horse onwards.
There was nothing said, but all the men were wary and eyeing the trees with some trepidation. Nothing rustled or moved, there was no indication that there could be danger in there, but all knew the risks of walking under the trees. Woods gave too many opportunities for concealment, and a man hidden from view could do much damage with a bow. Two could halt a large force like this. They would only need to drop three or four men, and the Bishop’s party would be halved.
Baldwin edged his mount nearer to the Bishop as they walked down the slight incline to the path through the trees, and drew his sword, lifting the cross to his mouth and kissing it as he offered up a short prayer for their safety.
At first they were moving through pools of sunlight that dappled the grass. But soon they were into truly old woods, with trees standing in some places so close together that there was scarce space for the brambles to take hold. It grew dark, a darkness that was filled with the odour of dampness and mulch. The air seemed thick with the scent of decay, a sweet, pleasa
nt smell, while it grew cooler under the shadows.
‘What do you think, Baldwin?’ Simon asked, drawing level with his friend.
‘I think that this would be an ideal place for a felon to launch an attack on a party such as this … but I can see no sign of such men,’ Baldwin admitted.
Yet even as he spoke, he felt sure that he heard a shout. A bellow of fear, a shrill scream, and then the rumble of hooves.
‘Simon – the Bishop!’ he called, drawing his sword and spurring his mount.
The two men cantered forwards, past the Bishop himself, and then paused, blocking the path. And now, as his mount jerked his head up and down, pulling at the bridle, Simon heard it too. The far-off thunder of a horse at full gallop. He glanced at Baldwin, and the knight slowly nodded. They could only see a matter of twenty yards from here. After that the roadway curved gently to their left. Baldwin motioned, and the pair trotted onwards to the bend. And now Simon caught sight of the man on the horse. He was already a mere eighty yards from them.
‘Stop!’ Baldwin shouted.
‘Sweet Christ, Baldwin – he’s a King’s messenger!’ Simon breathed, seeing the uniform as the man galloped towards them.
‘Let me pass in the King’s name!’
‘Wait!’ Baldwin said, and the fellow was forced to rein in his horse, drawing to a halt only a few yards from them. ‘We are riding to the King. What is your name, messenger?’
‘Let me past! Let me through, I need to get out!’
‘You will wait, man! Are you all right?’
‘I am Joseph of Faversham, Cursor to the King, and I am carrying messages for him. Let me through!’
‘What is the reason for your haste? You were riding like a man with the devil behind him.’
‘I have urgent messages!’ Joseph looked about him at the men. He could see that one of the men was clad in the dress of a bishop, and the sight was some reassurance, but even a bishop looked suspicious to him today. ‘Who are you?’
‘I am Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, Keeper of the King’s Peace, and this is Bailiff to the Abbot of Tavistock, Master Simon Puttock. We are here watching over the Bishop of Orange on his way to the King. So speak! What has so frightened you?’
The Prophecy of Death: (Knights Templar 25) Page 12
