‘A valuable treasure of the King’s,’ Baldwin said evasively. ‘It appears to have been mislaid.’
Ayrminne gave a low whistle. ‘Really? But surely a herald wouldn’t steal something from his master?’
‘We do not know. All we can do is seek the truth,’ Baldwin said.
‘Then good hunting, Sir Baldwin.’
‘Except we’re not, are we?’ Simon said pointedly as they walked away from Ayrminne.
‘Hmm?’
Sir Hugh le Despenser acknowledged the demand for his presence with a curt nod, and as the messenger from the King turned to walk out, Sir Hugh was already following.
‘Sir Hugh, come in. So, Sir Baldwin has already seen you about this dead herald?’
Despenser smiled without humour. ‘Yes indeed.’
‘And have you managed to discover anything about him? Sir Baldwin mentioned a necklace of pilgrim badges. Is that right?’
‘Quite right. He was a well-travelled man. That should make it easier to find out who he was.’
‘Good. Sir Hugh, do you know of a Brother Gilbert who was living in the Canterbury priory?’
‘Yes, he’s the son of my old friend Sir Berengar. Why?’
‘Didn’t you know? He has apparently been killed. In Christ Church Priory. Sir Baldwin told me just now.’
‘Sir Baldwin did? How good of him.’ Despenser nodded to himself. His face displayed none of his internal turmoil at this sudden revelation.
The King turned his back and was discussing some matter of his purchase of new horses from Spain, but Sir Hugh could barely concentrate.
That knight from Furnshill had known of the murder all the while he was in his room.
And forebore to mention it.
‘I was thinking,’ Baldwin said quietly, as he walked to their room with Simon, ‘that the man killed in the roadway in those woods was probably the King’s herald, and after stealing the oil and murdering Gilbert, he perhaps rushed on to bring the oil to the King, and was waylaid and killed. By sheer misfortune, he happened upon felons who slaughtered him, and he was left there.’
‘You didn’t mention the theft of the oil in front of the King!’ Simon protested.
‘No. A degree of caution struck me while I was speaking to him – it was Despenser’s attitude. It was teasing at my mind. But so was the matter about the tabard. What if the man was, for example, involved in the theft of the oil? It seems a little remarkable as a coincidence that the King’s herald was killed at about the same time as the theft. Could that mean that the thief passed along that same road?’
‘That would be possible, except …’
‘Yes?’
‘It is a little unlikely, isn’t it? The chances of a man coming along that road by chance? How many roads are there from Canterbury? What on earth would be the reason for a man coming along exactly that route?’
‘I think it is not so unlikely. King’s messengers and heralds will know the same paths, and they always tend to use these ones. One messenger will pass on his knowledge to the next to take his path, and thereby the roads used tend to be the same. The interesting possibility of this, though, is that the herald stole the oil and then was robbed of it in this area. Could that mean that the theft of the oil came to be more common knowledge, or that the herald had an accomplice who killed him to steal the oil?’
‘That is hardly likely. That presupposes two killings by accomplices. One, the monk, I could believe; two, I cannot. An escalation of violence isn’t credible. Not to me, at any rate.’
‘An excellent point, Simon. And another is the fact that we are told that the dead man was not from the good William Ayrminne’s party. You remember, the coroner told us that he thought that a herald had been seen on the night of Gilbert’s death. He appeared to assume that this herald was from the men with Ayrminne. But not so, according to Ayrminne himself. So this thief was not one of the men who came back from France with the ambassadors.’
‘No.’
‘So let us consider it from another angle. A thief took the oil. Perhaps he rode to the woods, and was there waylaid by felons, then; felons who live in the wood. They killed this false herald, and stole the oil. Yet why would they take the oil? I cannot believe that. I doubt they needed oil for their meal that night! And I doubt whether ordinary outlaws would have killed a churl and thrown his body aside like that. It was merely left by the side of the roadway. Surely an outlaw would have hidden the body a little so that the murder would not be brought to his door?’
‘Outlaws can be astonishingly dim, Baldwin. I have seen it on the moors.’
‘Perhaps, but concealment would surely be more likely. And especially given the rank of the dead man. Murder of a herald is not common, and more to the point, it is astonishing that such a thing might happen to the very man who had just stolen a phial of inconceivably valuable oil. What is the likelihood that the thief, clad in a King’s tabard, would then come across a felon set on murder?’
‘So what do you think happened?’
‘I have no idea. Perhaps the man was already dead, and when the man with the tabard happened along with the stolen oil, he saw the corpse, and chose to conceal his own identity by shoving the corpse’s head through his tabard. That is possible … also possible is that the killer of Gilbert came by the same route – there are only a few through those woods and that one may have been commonly used by messengers, for example – and killed the first man he encountered, throwing his tabard over the dead body to conceal his own identity.’
Simon considered. ‘That would involve a lot of boldness on the part of the killer.’
‘Yes.’
‘It would also surely imply a purpose. The King would not steal the oil – it was his own, stored where he had ordered it – so it was someone else, if you are right.’
‘Yes. Someone who had something to gain by removing the oil. Either that was someone who wanted the oil for his own purposes, or it was someone who sought to ransom it to the King.’
‘And your guess would be?’
‘What would the King do to someone who thought he could ransom the King’s own property back to him? He would have the fellow in his gaol in no time. A blink of an eye. No, this was no simple theft for swift gain. This was a carefully plotted theft with a longer-term benefit in mind.’
‘Who could think in those terms?’ Simon asked. And then he thought a moment, and added, ‘Oh.’
Baldwin nodded. They had both had enough experience of Sir Hugh le Despenser to know what he was capable of. ‘Yes.’
Simon’s face hardened. ‘Well, in that case, the best thing we can do is leave well alone and return home as soon as possible.’
‘Simon, he could well have been responsible for the murder of that monk – and the man in the woods.’
‘Yes, Baldwin. And I don’t want him responsible for our murders. Baldwin, if he were guilty, what could we do about it? Accuse him in front of the King? The man who is his best friend? You think we’d achieve anything by doing that? Who are you trying to fool, Baldwin? There is no possibility of our getting anywhere. Me? I’m for leaving him alone. He’s the most powerful baron in the country after the King himself. If you accuse him or irritate him, you will be signing your own death warrant. Do you want that?’
‘I am a keeper of the King’s Peace. I have a duty to justice.’
‘No, Baldwin,’ Simon said, and this time his voice was more gentle. He stepped forward and rested a hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘You have an honourable duty to finding the truth in your own lands, back in Devon, and you have a duty to protect and serve your wife. You and I have to look to our families, Baldwin. If you go chasing Despenser, you will die. You know that. And when you die, he will not stop from persecuting Jeanne and your children. You know Despenser. He is relentless and ruthless. He will destroy you, then your family, and he will steal your lands and property to leave your widow utterly penniless. You will have nothing at all to leave to Jeanne and your children.
Think of them, Baldwin.’
‘But if he was guilty of that murder …’
‘He is guilty of other killings, Baldwin. We both know that. We’ve seen the results of his jealousy at Iddesleigh and at Westminster. Remember that innkeeper? What would it serve justice for us to die too?’
‘You won’t help me, then?’
‘Yes, I will. I’ll help you all the way home, Baldwin. But I won’t help you to see yourself destroyed. That will serve no useful purpose.’
Baldwin had been looking at the ground. Now he looked up, and Simon was relieved to see that the veil of grim determination which had harshened his features was now gone. In its place a shamefaced smile appeared. ‘Yes. You’re right. It’s time to give up any ideas I may have had of a great destiny, and to return to my quiet life in Devon. I was forced into the limelight by Stapledon, and we have done our part by escorting the Queen to France. Surely that is enough. We’ll go home.’
‘Good,’ Simon said with a grin. And then he slapped Baldwin on the back and laughed aloud. ‘I cannot wait to see my wife’s face when I appear!’
‘Nor I mine,’ Baldwin said. And as he spoke, his eyes took on a faraway look. The Bishop’s dog lay asleep a few yards away. ‘But before I go, there is one purchase I should like to make.’
Third Thursday After Easter17
The summons came a little after his midday meal. Sir Hugh le Despenser had elected for a quiet lunch with his steward and two clerks to discuss the income of his Welsh estates, and the messenger received a cold stare when he demanded Despenser join the King.
Matters of state came before his own estates, though. At least it was nothing more that the slimy turd Furnshill had slipped into conversation. He had been glad to see that prickle riding off a couple of days ago with his friend the bailiff. At least they were two problems fewer for him to deal with here in Beaulieu.
‘If His Highness desires it,’ he said, rising.
The King was in an even more explosive frame of mind than usual. ‘Did you know? Did you?’
‘Know what, my Liege?’ Despenser responded mildly. He observed the King’s mannerisms with interest. The man appeared to be losing control of his mind.
‘Look! This messenger has just brought news from Prior Eastry. You remember him? The wretch who was so persuasive on behalf of my wife, and insisted that she should have large funds to draw on while she was over there in France. Him! You remember? I told you that one of his brothers had died, didn’t I? That young fool Gilbert.’
‘Yes. What has happened now? Sir Baldwin told me most of this.’
‘Did he also mention that my coronation oil has been stolen!’
‘Your … what?’
‘St Thomas’s oil is gone!’ the King snapped. In an instant his face had blackened with anger. ‘How would someone dare try such a thing?’ His fist slammed down on the table, making the jug and goblets jump. ‘My oil! Taken! I want you to instigate a full inquiry into how this was done, Sir Hugh. Seek for it, and find it, and when you do, I want the men responsible to be punished for this. Punished so that no one will even think of stealing such a thing again!’
‘My Liege, surely—’
‘Find it, find the oil, and find me the man who took it, Sir Hugh! The last man who stole from my father was skinned, and his pelt still adorns the door to the crypt at Westminster Abbey as a sign to all the monks never to try their King’s patience again. Well, someone has dared to try my patience, and I want his skin for it!’
Chapter Seventeen
‘The oil is gone,’ Despenser repeated quietly to himself.
It was a bad piece of news, certainly, although not a catastrophe – yet – and he would have to ensure that it never grew to be one. True, the King should not have been told so quickly; Despenser should have been told first, so he himself could have told him, but Despenser could rectify that. It was better to seek the oil and find it first. And hang the man who stole it, by the cods from the highest beam in the ceiling at Westminster Palace! Any man who dared to steal from the King was dangerous, but someone who was bold enough to take something that was useless to any but the King, he was a dangerous opponent. Or mad. Either way, he was a threat to Despenser. And Sir Hugh did not like to leave threats go unheeded.
The King shouldn’t have been told yet. There was no need for him to know. He had that damned knight from Furnshill to blame for this.
This was not the first time he had come across Sir Baldwin de Furnshill. Sir Baldwin, the meddler who had stood in his path in Devon, in that outlandish vill called Iddesleigh, and who then had gone to France with the Queen. Somehow, whenever Sir Baldwin was about, Sir Hugh le Despenser’s plans went awry. Not only him, either. Sir Hugh was reminded of the little embarrassment at Dartmouth, when he had lost one of his better allies. At the time the name of the Keeper of the Port had meant nothing to him, but now the name ‘Puttock’ took on a certain significance.
Well, no more! Furnshill had deliberately kept both these pieces of information from him. First that his own friend’s son had died, and then that the King’s oil was stolen.
Sir Hugh le Despenser had many more important fishes to fry, but these two were treating him with contempt. The knight was withholding information from him. From him! The King’s most favoured adviser, in Christ’s name! Shit, the bastard deserved to be grabbed and hauled off to the Tower!
But he had some powerful friends, from Bishop Stapledon downwards. Even the King appeared immoderately fond of him. That was one of the strange things about King Edward. He would sometimes pick a man and decide that he was an honourable, decent fellow. It didn’t matter what the man had done before, the King could forgive almost anything, unless it was disloyalty or treachery to him. Now he appeared to have chosen Sir Baldwin. That was why the knight was sent to France in the first place. King Edward actually trusted him about his wife.
Well, swyve him. Swyve them both! They’d learn that it was not a good idea to twitch the tail of Sir Hugh le Despenser.
Sir Baldwin and Bailiff Puttock. Stannary Bailiff, he was. Or had been until the Abbot of Tavistock died … he could be intimidated. He could be taught an object lesson in civility. Sir Hugh had not formed a very strong opinion of Simon Puttock. He was a churl, a serf in the pay of the Abbot of Tavistock, and nothing more. Being made Keeper of the Port of Dartmouth may have inflated his self-importance, and he had a few brains, no doubt, but little capacity to defend himself intelligently against an astute man. Or a powerful one.
Sir Hugh had just such a man. A man who would teach the pathetic little Bailiff to be more careful with his betters, and who would thus show Sir Baldwin that when he picked an enemy, he should be more wary. Sir Hugh was not a man to make bitter.
With his jaw set, he walked through to the door at the rear of his chamber. From there he passed through his solar block and out into the sunlight, where he cast about for a little while, before seeing his man at the far side.
He beckoned, waiting with composure.
‘Sir Hugh?’
‘William, I wish you to travel to Devon as fast as you can. There is a man there, a fellow called Simon Puttock. He is a bailiff, I believe, with a house in Lydford near the stannary gaol, as I understand it. Go there, and take his house.’
‘It’s yours.’
‘He may be there. If he becomes angry, provoke him. He’s not well trained in fighting. You know what to do.’
‘Sir.’
‘It is possible, if you ride hard, that you may reach his home before him, though. That would be amusing. You could enjoy yourself with the man’s wife. You would like that?’
William Wattere smiled. He had an easygoing manner, and an ever-ready grin for the women, which concealed a lust for brutality that was unequalled in Despenser’s experience.
Watching him swagger away bellowing for a horse and shouting at four or five others, Sir Hugh gave a thin smile himself. But then he shook himself. There was much else to do.
There was a
nother of his men near the horse trough. He crossed to the fellow, then held up the necklace of pilgrim badges. ‘You recognise this?’
‘No.’
‘They were found on the neck of a dead man in some woods. Apparently he was clad in a tabard of a King’s herald. And now we have been set the task of learning who could have been responsible for the King’s loss. And I want to know, too. Do you have any idea who was the most devout herald among the King’s men?’
‘There was that Richard de Yatton. He was very keen. I remember someone saying he travelled half as far as all the others in a day because he stopped at every chapel to pray. He would be the most religious.’
‘Good. Now, I have something I need you to do for me.’
Monday before Feast of the Apostles18
Furnshill
Jeanne de Furnshill, a tall, slender lady in her middle thirties, with a pale complexion and straying reddish hair, stood upright, hands resting in the small of her back as her daughter ran across the grassed pasture before her house.
‘My Lady, you want some wine?’
‘No, thank you, Edgar. I am fine just now.’
She had much to thank Edgar for. When her husband had left her to travel with Bishop Stapledon, it had appeared that there was no alternative. She had at the time only recently given birth to her son, and Edgar, her husband’s sergeant from those far off days when he had been a Knight Templar, had been a sturdy support for her. He was reliable, constant, and although often all but invisible, she had only to raise her voice and he would materialise at her side like some faithful hound, or so she always thought.
His wife, too, had been a great companion to her. Petronilla had more experience in childbirth than Jeanne, and just as her own Baldwin was born, Petronilla was weaning her own little boy. It was all too easy for her to become nursemaid to Jeanne’s child, to the comfort of both women. Jeanne found breastfeeding her boy a trial, and Petronilla was very glad to be able to help. She adored Jeanne’s boy almost as much as she did her own.
There came a pattering of feet, and Jeanne had to brace herself to absorb the impact as her daughter pelted into her, arms clinging to her thighs beneath her skirts. ‘Richalda!’
The Prophecy of Death: (Knights Templar 25) Page 17
