She was wearing a simple white woollen tunic, embroidered with a pattern of plain flowers, also in white. It trailed on the ground, concealing her feet, and was loose in the skirt, but tight over her bust, with a daring, scooped neck that showed a little of the top of her breasts, though not indecorous quantities; her forearms, too, were exposed, the sleeves ending at the elbow, with long dangling strips that reached to her knees. Her hair was plaited, and partly concealed beneath a loose veil, that was little more than a square of filmy cloth sitting over her head, leaving her face free.
‘My little girl, you’re beautiful!’ Simon breathed, and in a moment he felt curiously giddy. The sadness of losing his lovely daughter was mixed with an immense pride to see that she had turned out so wonderfully. He gazed at her for such a long time that she coloured prettily and bent her head in embarrassment, but he gently lifted her head for her, a finger under her chin, and smiled at her. And then he felt the flood of tears threatening.
‘Don’t cry, Father,’ she whispered, a trace of real panic in her voice.
‘I won’t cry over this, maid. You’ve a good man here, and you’ll make him proud of you.’
She smiled, and walked beside him along the grassed pathway to the church door where everyone waited for them.
And that, in truth, was much of his memory of the day. The priest stood and portentously intoned the words, while the two children – he hoped he would grow to remember that they were adults now – smiled shyly at each other and the crowds waiting, putting on the ring on her fourth finger, swearing their vows to each other … Simon knew all this happened, but it was all he could do to keep a grip on his wife’s hand as it all progressed. He remembered to announce the dowry, which stunned the audience when they saw the King’s purse and his money, but after that, when Baldwin clapped him on the back, and Jeanne came to him and congratulated him on acquiring a stolid, stable son-in-law who would be a credit to his family, all he could do was mumble. It was only later, when he sampled the brides-ale, that he began to feel a little more normal.
‘She looks lovely, doesn’t she?’ Margaret said as the shadows lengthened and the crowds grew rowdier, the priest bellowing at a small group of men gambling on a cockfight, while others drank themselves to a stupor on a grave nearby.
Simon took a deep breath and let his eyes range over all the people in the yard. ‘She looks almost as lovely as you did, Meg, on the day I married you,’ he said, and encircled her waist with his arm. He could see his son Peterkin running about with three friends from the town, all playing tag, and as he looked over at Edith, he saw that she was wearing two little crowns, one of primroses, one of cowslips, and a necklace of violets. And suddenly he felt an enormity of sadness welling up in his breast, as though his life was all but ended.
‘Simon? Are you well?’ Margaret asked.
‘Of course I am. Are you?’
She turned a little away. ‘I feel so happy, I almost feel sad.’
‘He has a good wife, there. He’d best look after her.’
‘With that dowry, he’ll be able to afford to,’ Margaret said.
‘I hope so,’ Simon responded. ‘I wish them both all the happiness in the world.’
Baldwin had approached with Jeanne, who had arrived the day before, fetched by Edgar, and heard his last words. ‘So do we all, Simon. So do we all.’
Beaulieu
Despenser sat back in his seat as the two men entered. ‘Well?’
‘We’ve not been able to look until today, Sir Hugh,’ the first, Ivor, said. ‘We looked through all his belongings, but there was no sign of anything there.’
‘You are quite sure? The phial could be very small, perhaps only the size of a sword’s pommel?’
‘There was nothing there that could hold oil. We’ve been through everything.’
Despenser ground his teeth with frustration. It wasn’t as if he had all the time in the world. There were reports coming to him of possible invasion plans for the conquering of England. Joseph had just returned from the prior of Christ Church with another story of shipping off the coast of Holland, and here he was, trying to find the oil that could provide salvation. Oh, he’d told that fool of a friar that he didn’t believe in the oil, but that was less than honest. He didn’t know whether the oil was St Thomas’s or not, but that didn’t matter. Not now.
Before he had wanted it for himself, just to prove to the King that Despenser had his best interests at heart. However, now he was beginning to change his mind.
If he could find it and let it be known that the Abbot of Westminster, perhaps, had used it to renew the King’s vows and have him anointed again, then men throughout the realm would listen and perhaps have faith in him once more.
That was the main issue now. Despenser had picked up rumours from spies that Roger Mortimer was in Hainault. And the men there were notoriously keen on taking up arms for any man who could afford them. They were skilled, and numerous. If Mortimer succeeded in persuading Guillaume, the Count of Hainault, he would have a large army at his disposal. Only last year Despenser had learned of a plot to invade, and ships had gathered off Zeeland. He’d ordered the admiral of the eastern fleet to keep his eyes open, but fortunately nothing had come of it then. That didn’t mean Mortimer wasn’t attempting something equally audacious now.
If he was successful, the King would need as many men as possible for when the invasion force arrived. There were few enough who had shown any interest in fighting for him so far. The oil could be the last little grain of sand that tilted men back into his camp and prepared them to fight for the King again, rather than leave all to fate. Fate would be a painful experience for Despenser, he felt sure.
He had to find that oil. It may be just enough to put a little fire in the bellies of the men who needed it, and Despenser must find it to prove once again that he was the one man in the kingdom upon whom the King could rely.
‘You want us to catch the man, Sir Hugh?’ Ivor said hesitantly. ‘I could tickle him up a little with my knife, see if that loosens his tongue?’
It was tempting. But … ‘No. Not yet. We will be leaving in a couple of days. The King must return to Westminster, ready for a meeting of his barons to discuss France. He is to persuade the Bishop of Orange to join him. The king’s heralds will all be on the journey with us. It will be easier to find the oil then, on the road. He will have to bring it with him, unless he’s planning to leave it down here. It’s too valuable for that. No, leave him for now. We’ll take him and have our sport later.’
The Bishop of Orange was content to be leaving this place, but it was a source of great annoyance that he was to travel up to London. The city was no doubt diverting enough for most men, but for him it was merely an additional journey which entailed going still further out of his way. His path should take him back to the Pope, not up to London. It was almost the opposite direction, in God’s name!
When he heard the knock at his door, it made him glance quickly at his table to ensure that any indiscreet documents were hidden before he called out, ‘Entrez!’
Nicholas walked in slowly, downcast. This was no time for pride. He had to show how humble he was. At other times he could show a little pride in his habit, but not today. Today he was a mere supplicant, begging some assistance from another man of God.
‘What do you want, Friar?’
The tone was not welcoming. ‘My Lord Bishop, I am a deeply miserable friar. I have been here at Beaulieu for some weeks, trying to see the King to plead my case, but he will not see me.’
‘What is your case?’
‘The oil of St Thomas,’ Nicholas said, and felt sure that the Bishop understood. Immediately, the Bishop seemed to give him his full attention, and even as Nicholas told his story, he gained the impression that the Bishop already knew, or guessed much. Perhaps it was not so surprising, though. The Pope knew about the oil, and surely some of his closer advisers would also have been told of it.
‘This is most interestin
g,’ the Bishop said. ‘But what do you want me to do? Raise the matter with the King? I do not think he would be grateful for a foreigner to bring it up.’
‘No. I was hoping to be able to travel with you, my Lord. If you would allow me to join your party on the way to the Pope, I would be very grateful.’
‘Your gratitude is no doubt a fine thing,’ the Bishop said without enthusiasm. ‘However, I have a large entourage already. If you wish us to carry food and drink for you too, it will add a great deal to my baggage.’
‘I can walk, and I have little need of food, my Lord. We friars are used to the ascetic life and little nourishment.’
‘True enough.’ The Bishop studied him thoughtfully for a while, and at last nodded. ‘Very well. I will allow you to join my men on the journey to the Pope. However, I cannot guarantee the reception you will receive.’
‘I am very glad to hear it! I will make my peace with him as best I may.’
‘Yes. I am sure that he will be most interested to hear more about this marvellous oil,’ the Bishop said.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Lydford
It was a very exhausted Bailiff Puttock who was assisted by his wife to his bedchamber that night. Peterkin had already fallen into his truckle bed, and Simon and Margaret stood undressing, both watching their remaining child.
‘For all the arguing and troubles over the years, the house will seem quiet without her,’ Margaret said ruminatively.
‘That little devil will make up for any lack of noise on her part,’ Simon said with a mild belch. ‘He’s already taken it upon himself to talk more than all the rest of us put together.’
Margaret smiled, then lifted her tunic over and off. She only wore a linen shirt beneath, and this she now removed as well, before climbing into bed. Sitting up, she watched her man undress.
He was still firm in the body. Every so often he would put on weight, but then the rigours of his work on the moors would wear it away again. That was the case in the past, anyway. The last months, living away from her, while he was working in Dartmouth, had made him lose more weight than before, and as she looked at him, she saw how the lines had become more deeply graven into his forehead. He was a good man, she knew. All through the dreadful times when she had been trying to give him another son, he had been sympathetic, calm, generous … and all the while he was desperate for a little boy to replace the one they lost.
It was some years since that appalling disease had struck. Poor little boy, he had died slowly, and Simon had never forgiven himself. Whereas usually he was the calmest, kindest father and husband, the one thing he could never abide was witnessing one whom he loved suffering pain. And their little boy had died so miserably, vomiting, screaming, with diarrhoea, and unable to eat or drink anything at all. It had torn at both of them to see him fade away, but Simon found it harder. He had once admitted to her that he blamed himself because he had wished the child to die at the end. He was so exhausted by the three days of sitting up and trying to comfort the boy, that the end was almost a blessing. And Simon never forgave himself for that.
It was sad, too, that Edith had always been ‘his’ child. They had an unholy alliance, Margaret sometimes felt, against any form of order in the house. And now he had lost her. She was in love with another man. It must be terrible, she felt, to be a parent and see the love which once had been specifically reserved for you to be passed over to another. It was something she feared herself, because she knew that Peterkin, her little Peterkin, would always be closer to her than to Simon, and she knew that when Peterkin was old enough, she would be desolate to see him leave the home and start his own family.
Ah, well. All mothers have to accept that. Once they have given life, they have to keep on giving, until they’ve given so much that their son can leave. And the mother must hope there’s enough life left within her to keep herself alive for a little longer.
‘Feeling lecherous, wench?’ her husband leered.
She looked up and smiled. In truth, she had hardly ever felt less lecherous in her life. Yet Simon had been a good husband to her, and if she were being truthful, the loss of her daughter made her ache with sadness. She was an old woman now. Soon she might hear that she would be a grandam. She was unsure how she could cope with that.
Margaret was filled with a warm sense of love for him. This was no duty, it was a proof of her affection for him. Moving aside, she made space for him, opening her legs to ease his entry. She had the marriage debt still to pay, after all. As did her daughter now, she thought with a twinge. She hoped Edith would take as much pleasure from the debt as she always did.
Simon grunted with pleasure, smiled down at her, belched, and then, resting his head on her bosom, began to snore.
Monday before Ascension Day29
Eltham
Up as dawn was breaking, Richard of Bury found that his charge was already out of his bed and on a horse.
It was one more proof of his mental and physical fitness. The lad seemed determined always to show himself as capable as any other, no matter what the task. He was exactly the sort of fellow who would, when King, lead his hosts from the front rank. ‘Never ask others to do what you would not dare yourself’ appeared to be his motto. And since he believed that a strong man needed to make the most of every day, and a fit man would be first to rise in the morning so he could take advantage of every moment of sunshine, he was usually one of the earliest to be out of his bed. It made his guards deeply unhappy.
The Earl had always been a strong-willed lad, Richard of Bury considered. Not only did he have a mental rigour when considering abstruse philosophical arguments, but he could also be quite ruthless in his reasoning when he thought about more practical matters of kingship. When a fellow took into account the fact that he was born of such a disastrous marriage, it was perhaps no great surprise, but the mental powers which he possessed were still impressive. They would have been in a much older man.
Some might have said that he was callous, that he was cold and unemotional when viewing other people and their needs, but to Richard of Bury that was essential. A king was first and foremost the supreme arbiter of justice, and any man who would be King must be entirely impartial – unless it was an issue that affected his own authority or the realm, of course. Then the two must override all other considerations, naturally.
That the lad had the ability, Richard did not doubt. He was a thoroughly effective student, and appeared to appreciate all that Richard told him of past kings, and his analysis of what had made them great.
They had held an interesting discussion this morning, for example, while walking outside in the court.
‘So, my Earl, what do you think of the present disputes between your father and your uncle?’
The Earl had smiled slightly. ‘The King my father has a fully legitimate claim to the lands which are the remnants of the lands which he inherited. My mother brought a great deal of France with her as her dower, and it would be shameful to deprive her of that. But my uncle also has his own realm to consider. He is the King of a great land, and it has to be his desire that he might one day bring all under his authority. While my father holds on to his lands and refuses to pay homage to my uncle, his loyalty is suspect. And if my father does go there, he is accepting the fact that he is subservient to my uncle. That would be a galling draught to swallow for any man.’
‘Can there be a resolution?’
‘Only if the two crowns are united, or if they are entirely separated. If my father had no lands in France, there would be no issue. Or if my father was King of both England and France, there would also be no difficulty. It is merely this intermediate stage, when both are King, and yet one should pay homage to the other, that creates all the trouble.’
‘I see. So how would you resolve it?’
The boy looked up at the towering beech trees and for that moment looked just like any other young boy: innocent, guileless, but looking for the next mischief he could cause.
&
nbsp; ‘Me? I would stake all on a great gamble. I would raise a host and go to France to conquer her. I would take her in a series of mighty battles, relying on my ability to move about the land at speed with a number of knights and men-at-arms all mounted on horses. Forget the idea of a series of long-drawn-out sieges of cities. We would ride out on chevauchée and devastate the countryside, eating all the foodstocks, burning what we could not eat. It would be a case of ravaging the country to prevent the people from ever living comfortably again. And I would force the French King to meet me in battle, and I would destroy his forces. And once I had him captured, I would treat him with great humility and generosity, as an equal. Because the war could only be won through the magnificence of chivalry. Like Arthur, I would be magnanimous in victory, but relentless in pursuit of it. All would hear my approach and tremble.’
‘Interesting. And do you think you would be able to command enough men to make such a prospect even remotely possible?’ Richard said, half jesting. ‘You do realise that for every English knight the French King has five or six? His is a greater land than all England.’
‘I would do it.’ There was an unsettling certainty in his tone. ‘I would create more knights from the wealthy, and those who refused to accept knighthood would needs must pay a fine to permit me to fund two men-at-arms. A king must have the men he needs to fight his wars. Of course, my father cannot do this.’
‘Why?’
‘He has lost the respect of his men. When he succeeded at Boroughbridge, many were prepared to give him their respect, but that all ended when he treated his victims so shamefully. That caused others to fear him. And when the Despenser family took so many spoils, people grew to despise him. There is no respect for him. And since Boroughbridge, he has lost more battles, hasn’t he? That is no way to inspire his men. So he cannot go to France. His barons would not trust his generalship, and his men would not have faith in his largesse.’
‘You can reason very clearly. Although I should say that your father the King has the love and adoration of all his loyal subjects, of course.’
The Prophecy of Death: (Knights Templar 25) Page 23
