‘Yes, sir.’ Peter was staring at his other shoulder.
Simon eyed him a moment in silence, then realised that the boy was gazing at the wound Wattere had inflicted on him. With a quick glance at it, he convinced himself that it was a very minor scratch, and marched across the room to his little sideboard. There was a small pewter jug on it, and a couple of goblets which he had asked Meg to set out earlier. Now he poured from the jug a little of that wonderful, potent, burned wine22. Passing one to Peter, he contemplated the lad once more.
‘You are apprenticed to Harold the Merchant?’
‘I was. I am not now. I have finished my apprenticeship, and I work with him.’
‘What of your father?’
Peter was embarrassingly keen to tell Simon all he needed to know, and as the sun passed slowly around, the pool of light from the southern window moving two feet across the floor, Peter told all about his youth, his father’s business as a merchant in the city of Exeter, and his own hopes to become a freeman of the City himself.
‘Enough!’ Simon said, pouring the last of their drink. ‘You will look after her?’
‘Of course. I love her, Master.’
‘You can call me Simon,’ he said, and with those words, he felt an emptiness as deep as a well in his heart.
With those few words he had agreed to give away his daughter.
Morrow of Feast of the Apostles23
Furnshill
Baldwin had finished a leisurely breakfast of cold meats and a hunk of bread when he heard the clattering of hooves outside on the cobbles, soon followed by a deep bark from Wolf. He turned his head to one side to listen, glancing at his wife as he did so. ‘Who can that be?’
He did not have long to wait to find out. The man who entered was a grim-faced, glowering man who gazed about him with the natural suspicion of a shepherd in an inn full of rustlers. Baldwin knew him as Hugh, Simon’s oldest and most trusted servant. Hugh had no great affection for dogs other than the native sheepdogs he had grown up with as a shepherd out near Drewsteignton.
‘Hugh, please come and take some wine or ale. What are you doing here?’
‘Have a note.’
Baldwin smiled as he took the scrap from the taciturn man, and read slowly. Gradually, his smile faded, to be replaced with a cold scowl. ‘How is Simon now?’
‘Angry.’
‘And Meg?’
‘My lady is very anxious.’
‘She is right to be.’
‘Husband? What is it?’ Jeanne asked.
Quickly Baldwin explained what had happened to Simon. ‘He asks me to send for help from Stapledon.’
‘Is he in Exeter? The Bishop is so often away in London and elsewhere.’
‘I think he should be there,’ Baldwin said. ‘I will send Edgar to seek him out.’
Hugh nodded, then turned and would have gone, but Baldwin called him back.
‘Wait, man! Where are you going?’
‘Back to Lydford. Don’t know what the man’ll do next, but my master needs me. I was the only man he could send to you, but he’ll be in danger without me.’
‘Wait, Hugh. I will be with you in the time it takes to have a horse prepared. Jeanne, do not worry about me. I shall be back in a day or two, but this matter must be resolved. The idea that Simon and Margaret could have their house stolen from over them is appalling.’
Jeanne smiled, although with a trace of fear. ‘That is fine, Baldwin. But why should Despenser seek to hurt Simon?’
‘That, my love, I hope to learn before long,’ Baldwin said. ‘Sadly, I expect it is only a vengeful, brutish sport for him. Nothing more. Still, we shall inquire as best we may.’
Chapter Twenty
Monday before Feast of Gordianus et Epimachus24
Beaulieu
The King threw down the notes and swore again. It was enough to make Sir Hugh le Despenser want to hit him. This temperamental display was growing tedious. Christ’s teeth, he had better things to be doing than listening to the regular complaints of the King.
‘The shits! They think they can scare me into this pathetic peace! I should be negotiating with—’
‘There is no one with whom you may negotiate. Not now. If you wish to keep your territories in France, you have to remain constant to the French King, my Liege.’
‘Constant to him? The base-born bastard wants all my lands. Mark my words, Sir Hugh, he won’t be content until he holds the keys to the Tower itself! He complains of my behaviour, but he would scarcely dare to do so to my face! In God’s name, the man steals from me and then demands I pay him for his efforts!’
‘Your reply will be sent once you have consulted?’ Despenser said with a mild yawn.
‘Yes. Ayrminne and Stratford must do their best as soon as I know the council is behind me. But it’s so unreasonable. I think I may write to the Pope and beg his assistance. Perhaps if he were to consider the matter …’
‘What good could he do?’
The King snapped, ‘The Pope could instruct the French to be more bloody reasonable! I’m expected to surrender my territories to the French Crown, perform homage, and hope that they’ll be restored to me, and all in so short a breadth of time as to make it next to impossible! Is that fair?’
‘Of course not,’ Despenser said smoothly. It was not the first time the King had made this speech, and he knew it would not be the last. However, it was dull to have the same arguments regurgitated so often in the space of only a few days, and Despenser was heartily bored with it.
‘And what of the other matter?’
‘I do not know what you mean.’
The King span to face him. ‘You were investigating the theft of my oil, Sir Hugh! I want that oil back – I must have it back! It could be my salvation.’
‘Why now? What does it really matter?’
The King shivered. ‘Build up that fire!’ he commanded a servant, and then he eyed Despenser. ‘What does it really matter, you say? I tell you this, Sir Hugh, that oil may just protect me and the Crown. Have you not paused to think what it may be worth to me? If the French do take my lands in France, what then could I do, other than retire in shame? But if I could make use of the oil, then I may become revered again. People would look upon me and think, “Yes, he has been anointed with the oil blessed by the Holy Virgin and St Thomas!” That would mean people would respect me again, and then, perhaps I could take a host to France, even win back my lands again, and all …’
Despenser listened with a rapt expression on his face. To listen to the King, it was almost possible to believe that he was rational. Could he seriously believe that the mere presence of a cardinal or bishop with a pottle of oil could change the attitude of his barons and people? Perhaps he did. In Christ’s name, Despenser thought, it is fortunate that I am here to protect the King, because if I weren’t, he would lose his crown, realm and probably head in an instant.
‘So I need that oil, Sir Hugh,’ the King finished. He held out a hand, and Despenser was ashamed to see that the King had tears in his eyes. Not tears of shame or embarrassment, though, only those of a man who saw salvation. ‘You understand me, don’t you? I must have it so that the people can renew their faith in me.’
Despenser studied him a moment, then nodded. ‘I have issued instructions to the Sheriff of Kent to eradicate the outlaws who are living in those woods. There is as yet no sign of them. It is quite possible that they have moved somewhere else. In the meantime, I did not worry you about this when you had so many other concerns,’ this was as close to irony as he dared sail, ‘but I am fairly content that the dead man was Richard de Yatton. You remember him?’
The King shook his head.
‘He was with you when you were last in York, and I think he served you when you were at Castle Rising.’
‘I think I vaguely remember him … a strong jaw, square face?’
‘That was him, yes. He left here to take a message to your son, and never returned, so far as I know.’
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‘What else?’
‘I have had my own men visit the Christ Church Priory, and they have told me that the oil was stolen from a monk there, who was himself slain. The man who committed the murder ran off into the night. But it is said that he was seen, and that he was a man just like Richard de Yatton. He was described even down to his tabard.’
‘Christ Jesus! You say this seriously? The man went there and stole my oil? But why? Who would dare such a thing?’
‘Maybe the man sought to blackmail you? Some people are aware how much the oil means to you.’
‘He would understand that I would never know peace until I had seen him skinned and gibbeted if I knew he had done so!’ the King growled.
‘Yes, but perhaps he hoped to keep his identity secret from you.’
‘How would he do that after robbing and then blackmailing me?’
‘I cannot tell, Your Highness. But either way, it would seem that he has paid already for his crime.’
‘A good thing – and bad that you do not say where the oil went. And is there something you have missed?’
‘I do not think so.’
‘You point out that many know how high a value I place on that oil, Sir Hugh. Who would be most alert to that value?’
‘I … I don’t think I …’ he stammered, trying hard not to allow his face to register the fact that he, of all those in the realm, knew better than any other the value the King put on this damned oil.
‘The French, Sir Hugh. The French know how important that oil is to me. Who better? Is it not likely that this whole matter was thought up by my brother-in-law?’
‘Ah!’ Despenser said, trying not to sag with relief. ‘I had thought it might be Sir Roger, Your Highness.’
‘Mortimer?’
‘He has much to gain by harming you and me, and he is a vindictive, cruel man, isn’t he? It is entirely in keeping with his devious cunning that he might try this terrible theft.’
‘Yes. The evil devil! So, in that case, does he have it already?’
‘I should think that when the felons in the wood killed your herald, they would have taken everything of value. That is why I am seeking them. Perhaps they recognised the value of the ampulla in which the oil was stored, and have kept it by in case they can sell it.’
‘It is weeks now, since my oil was stolen. I want it back!’
‘And I hope you shall have it back as soon as the Sheriff tracks down and executes all the outlaws from those woods, my Liege.’
The chamber which Despenser had appropriated for his own use was a fair-sized one only a short way along a narrow corridor near the King’s own, and Despenser went there now. He had plenty of work to occupy him, but today he wished to concentrate on his own affairs. His estates were so extensive that running them was a full-time job for several stewards, and there were some matters that called for his personal involvement.
‘Ah,’ he said as he found the message from Devon. He took it up and read it carefully, then set it down and frowned to himself a little while.
It validated his reasoning before. The affair of the friar in Iddesleigh had been at the back of his mind for a while now, ever since he had first met Sir Baldwin, and now his feeling had been confirmed. The two who had made his acquisition down there in Devon so difficult were this knight and his friend the bailiff.
The bailiff, of course, was nothing. The man was little more than a peasant. Nothing except a focus for Sir Hugh’s anger and bile. The knight, though, Sir Baldwin, he was different. Especially since Despenser had learned that he had once been a Templar.
Sir Baldwin had some credibility, it was true. Many appeared to like him, to trust him, and to court his advice and judgement. The King was one, although of course it would only take a determined assault by Despenser to force him to change his mind. Still, there were others who were less easily swayed, such as Bishop Stapledon and others. The Bishops were growing hot under the collar again, because of Despenser taking over lands. True, he was taking territory which was not necessarily his own, but that did not matter. It was the way of English rulers to take what they wished. It was the rule of the strongest. England was a powerful land, with peasants and barons who were never slow to assert their rights, and in return England found herself ruled by still more powerful lords and kings. Naturally. And their advisers, too. Like Sir Hugh le Despenser.
If a man wished to make a mark, then he had to take a firm grip on the various controls which maintained government. And Sir Hugh le Despenser was clutching hold of all he could.
If Sir Baldwin de Furnshill was a fly in his food, he would scoop out that little fly, and crush it. That was what he would do now. He would control the knight by the use of an attack upon his best friend. Simon Puttock could be ruined, entirely destroyed, if Sir Baldwin did not come to see reason. Perhaps he would, in which case Sir Hugh could make up his mind whether to appear magnanimous in victory, or perhaps just prove to all that setting one’s face against him was a recipe for disaster. Either way, the bailiff would find life more difficult shortly, he told himself with satisfaction.
No one had ever managed to mark Wattere and live before, and Sir Hugh le Despenser seriously doubted that a peasant bailiff from the bogs of Devon would achieve what so many had died in attempting.
Lydford
Simon felt the wariness again as he peered through his window.
‘There is no one there, Simon,’ Baldwin said. He was standing at the side of Simon’s large table, spearing a slab of meat and putting it upon his plate. At his side the ever-expectant Wolf watched hopefully. ‘He won’t come this early.’
‘Why?’ Simon demanded, rolling his injured shoulder. It stung badly. Margaret had treated it with some foul-smelling concoction of her own devising, which hurt more than the original wound. Well, he told himself, often the cure was a lot worse than the injury. He only hoped that was correct.
‘Because he’ll have formed a regard for your hardiness, since you scratched him. He’ll either come at some unearthly hour of the morning to intimidate you, or perhaps late at night, in the dark, when you’ll be unsettled.’
‘Not during the day?’
‘An all-out assault during the day? I doubt it greatly. That would be most foolhardy.’
‘What can we do, Sir Baldwin?’ Margaret asked quietly. She was pale with anxiety.
Baldwin smiled at her. He had never seen her look more concerned, and the sight of her paleness was enough to stir his own anger. ‘My dear, we shall wait for Edgar to arrive here with help from the good Bishop Stapledon, and then we shall take our fight to the man who has caused all this upset. This William atte Wattere. You know where he can be found?’ he asked, turning back to Simon.
‘Hugh has tracked him down to an inn at Mary Tavy.’
‘Good. Then we can take a ride there later, when Edgar arrives.’
Eltham Palace
Richard of Bury left his table and walked the short distance from his room to the great hall, where he walked through to the buttery and drew off a jug of ale.
Walking back to his chamber, he saw the Earl. ‘Your Highness, are you to come to study soon?’
‘I have other matters to occupy me just now,’ Earl Edward said.
Bury nodded, standing aside for the Earl. He was clearly very busy just now. From the look of his hosen, he had been riding through some very muddy fields, and knowing the Earl as he did, Bury guessed that he had been hunting or hawking for most of the morning. Now, however, there was something else in his eyes, too. ‘Is there anything with which I can help you?’
The Earl stopped a moment and peered at him. Bury almost had the feeling that he was going to speak, but then the moment passed, and the Earl shook his head briefly, before walking off.
It left Bury with the odd feeling that, not only was the Earl keeping something back from him, but he was also keeping something back in order to protect Bury himself.
That, Bury told himself, was not comforting. Because
if the Earl knew of something that was so dangerous to Bury that Bury himself must have it hidden from him, it was a deeply alarming secret indeed.
Chapter Twenty-One
The Golden Cock, Mary Tavy
Late in the afternoon, they reached the inn and stopped, their horses resting and cropping the scrubby grass, while they studied the land about here.
In happier times Simon had been here fairly often. It was a useful stopping point when he was on his way to or from Tavistock. Not absolutely direct, it was true, and to come here he had to divert a little from his usual path, but the landlord had always been accommodating, and the ale refreshing after a ride in the sun. Many were the evenings he had rested here after a long day’s ride.
The old inn was a long, narrow building, with the low thatch that was so common of the older long-houses. The windows were small, unglazed, and all but concealed by the thatch itself. A small hole in the thatch let out a thin mist of smoke from the fire, but more seemed to be oozing from the window and door.
Baldwin and Simon rode to the front of the place, and sat there a while, peering at it before swinging from their saddles. Wolf stood with head lowered, eyeing the place with a frown on his great head. While they waited, Baldwin’s man Edgar slipped down from the trees beside the inn and ran noiselessly to the inn’s wall. Hugh was already at the other corner of the building.
When Baldwin had been a Templar, Edgar had been his man-at-arms. The two had trained together as a unit, fighting on horseback, riding with lances, then practising with swords and axes on foot, but although Simon had seen Baldwin become enraged and fight with ruthless efficiency, it was Edgar whom he viewed with the greater respect. Edgar was that little bit younger, he was slightly faster, and he had the mind of a born killer: he could kill without compunction. Not because he enjoyed inflicting pain, but because he was perfectly honed as a weapon. Simon was a good fighter, in an untrained way. He was quick and competent, his skills built up over the years, but Edgar had been taught by the Knights Templar. A man who was originally competent, he had become thoroughly professional. Simon knew that Baldwin regretted having killed men; he was not sure that Edgar ever suffered from the same feelings.
The Prophecy of Death: (Knights Templar 25) Page 20
