Yes. He must wait for more information, learn exactly what Mortimer was planning, see how he could respond.
And then crush the shit without compunction.
Bishop’s House, the Straunde
Simon yawned as they wandered out into the cool air again. After that short rest, he felt a little invigorated, but the halt had been too brief. Now, standing out here with their breath feathering the air, pulling on gloves or reclasping their cloaks against the chill, the men with him all looked exhausted.
It was especially apparent when he looked at Baldwin and Sir Richard. Neither was all that young, and both were fully aware of the great distance they must cover to return to their homes in the far west of the kingdom. Still, even those two did not wear such a fretful expression as Bishop Walter.
Simon wondered at that. The bishop was the oldest among them, at some four- or five-and-sixty, but his pallor was not only because of the coolness of the afternoon air. No, it was more to do with the concern he had about the king’s response to their news.
They mounted, and soon afterwards they were off, through the gates and out into the roadway.
Ahead they could see the royal buildings in the distance. The massive belfry of Westminster Abbey stood slightly to the right of the other towers and walls, and between the riders and the palace there was a straggle of buildings. Some were low houses for lawyers and clerks, others taller and more prestigious properties for the merchants and traders who came here to ply their trade. Inns and shops catered for their needs, and all about there was a hubbub. Peasants and tradespeople shouting and hawking created a confusion in Simon’s mind. He would be glad to be out of the city and on his way homewards once more.
‘Did you see the bishop’s face?’ Sir Richard asked, leaning towards Simon as he spoke.
Simon nodded. ‘He is very concerned just now.’
‘Aye. But why should he be so outside St Paul’s?’
Simon gave a thin smile. ‘You’re talking about that? I’d forgotten he was upset there as well, but it’s no surprise. Earlier this year I was here with him, Baldwin too, and he invited us to join him to celebrate the Feast of the Purification of the Blessed Virgin Mary. We went to the cathedral itself, and just outside it a mob gathered, threatening to kill him. Apparently the Londoners hate him because he once had to investigate all the rights and customs of the city of London.’
Sir Richard turned slowly and gazed at the bishop. ‘Then why, in the name of all that’s holy, does the man want to come here? I’d stay down in Devon, in a pleasant land where the people all like me.’
‘That, I think, is a question you could ask of any man who seeks power over others,’ Simon said.
‘Hmm. Fortunate then that you and I don’t need any nonsense like that, eh?’ said Sir Richard affably. ‘No, just a good quart of strong wine, a little haunch of beef or venison, and a warm woman to snuggle up to on a winter’s night. Aye, a man doesn’t need much for comfort.’
They jogged on until they reached Thieving Lane, where they made their way through the gate and into the palace’s yard.
Simon couldn’t like this place. He looked about him carefully from the vantage point of his mount before he released his foot from the stirrup and swung himself down from the horse. Last time he had been here for meetings with the king, he had been impressed by the single-minded search for power that appeared to be the main characteristic of all those who lived and worked in the shadow of the palace. When he glanced over at Baldwin, he saw the same wariness, and the realisation that his concerns were shared made his anxiety weigh a little less heavily on his shoulders.
They followed in the wake of the bishop, and soon they were being led across the paved yard to the Green Yard, a pleasant grassed area, in through a doorway, along two corridors, and to a pair of doors that Simon remembered. These were the doors to the king’s Painted Chamber. Four guards stood there, and they took all the swords, stacking them neatly on shelves to the left of the doors. Then the doors were opened, and Simon and Baldwin shot a look at each other before plunging on in the wake of the bishop and Sir Richard.
Abbeyford Woods, south of Jacobstowe
Bill was awake before dawn on the day that the coroner arrived.
The three had taken it in turns to go home and fetch more food and drink. Last night it was John who had gone, leaving his friend, Art Miller, to keep Bill company. The man seemed somewhat less conversational today than the corpse with both eyes put out, and Bill would have been happier to have the company of almost any other man, but at least Art was alive. Or so Bill assumed.
There were always tales of men wandering the lands. In the last thirty years or so there had been the trail bastons, gangs of men armed with clubs who had so devastated the countryside that the king had imposed a new series of courts to come to terms with the menace.
Then, when the famine struck, still more men were displaced as they went in search of any form of sustenance. Latterly there was the danger posed by the families and friends of those who had raised their banners in opposition to Sir Hugh le Despenser in the war of three years ago. After Boroughbridge, when the king had destroyed their armies and captured many of the plotters, he had executed hundreds. The savagery of his response to their attempt to depose his adviser had shocked the whole nation, and many of those who had not been involved went in terror of their lives and had left their homes to become outlaws. Some had made their way to France or Hainault, where they knew they would not be persecuted for their opposition to the English king, but others had remained, and Bill would not be surprised if some had banded together and could have committed this crime.
John was back again before the sun had passed much over the far hills. With him he brought victuals, and the three sat around the fire to eat, chewing rhythmically. It was later in the morning that Bill heard the tramping of boots, and hurried to his feet.
A slightly scruffy-looking knight appeared through the trees with a small entourage of men-at-arms and a clerk, who walked with a screwed-up face, as though the whole of the landscape here stank.
‘Who is in charge, fellow?’ the knight asked, and then looked about him with a grimace. ‘Sweet Mother of God! How many dead are there?’
Painted Chamber, Westminster
As soon as they entered the room, Baldwin could feel the atmosphere. Earlier in the year he had come here with Simon, and the pair had served the king by uncovering a murderer. Then, when they entered the king’s presence, although there was the awareness of the difference in their respective positions, Edward had treated them remarkably well. Now there was a very different feel to the place, and Baldwin shot a warning look at Simon as he knelt, copying the bishop and Sir Richard, as soon as they had passed through the doorway. None moved until the steward had nodded to them, then they all walked in, heads still bowed, until they were nearer the king. There they knelt again, heads bent, until there was a grunt of exasperation from Edward.
‘Bishop, God speed.’
‘Your royal highness, I hope you are well?’
‘Me? Why should I not be?’ the king said petulantly. ‘My wife has been abroad, as has my son, and I am keen to see them again to learn what is happening over there in France. But still! What are you doing here alone, my lord bishop? Is my wife with you?’ He made an elaborate display of peering behind the bishop. ‘But wait! No! She is not here, is she? Or have I missed her?’
Bishop Walter bowed his head again at the heavy irony. ‘Your highness, I am sorry to say that she is not with us, no. What is more, I fear she refused to return to you and her family. I am deeply distraught, your highness, to have to tell you this.’
‘What are you saying? Do you mean to tell me that she has not received my letter?’ the king said in a dangerously cold voice. ‘I thought that I had given it to you for her so that it could not be mislaid.’
‘She received it, your highness. More, I told the French king that you desired her to return to you at the earliest opportunity, but h
e replied that your queen is also his sister, and he would not banish her from his court. If she chose to leave, that was one thing; but she would not.’
‘What …’ The king spoke softly, but the words seemed hard for him to enunciate, as though they were stuck in his throat. ‘What, then, of my son? The Earl of Chester, Edward. Where is he?’
‘Your royal highness, I am deeply afraid that he would not have been safe had I brought him with me.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Only this, your highness. I was threatened with death were I to remain. A man waylaid me and would have killed me, I think. And your queen sought to demand money from me, suggesting that I might not live if I did not give her your letters allowing her to claim money from bankers in Paris.’
‘So my wife is alienated from me, and she has taken my son to hold against his will and mine?’ the king said with icy precision. ‘But you all saved yourselves?’
‘Your highness, it would serve you not at all if we were to die,’ the bishop said with some asperity. ‘I did the best I possibly could, but when it became apparent that my life was in danger, I confess I made the most urgent plans in order that I might escape the clutches of my enemies in France and return to advise you. I was forced to take on the habit of a pilgrim, merely to protect my own life.’
‘Oh, you wish to advise me now? That is good. Very good. So, my lord bishop, why do you not? Tell me, what exactly would you advise me to do, now that you have lost me my queen, my heir, and … and …’
The bishop took a deep breath. ‘Your royal highness. We did all we might. I had private talks with her royal highness, but she made no effort to conceal her hatred for me. I made the French court aware that she was disobeying you, her husband and master, but none would support me and your reasonable request that she return to her home. All was in vain. However, there was important intelligence that I felt sure I should bring to your attention.’
‘Speak!’ The king tutted to himself, then, ‘And stand, all of you. You look untidy on your knees like that. I feel I should have the floors cleaned!’
Bishop Walter stood slowly, his knees aching from the unaccustomed position. When the others were also on their feet, the bishop fixed his eyes on the king. ‘Your royal highness, the first news that came to me, and of which I must make you aware, is that the foul traitor Roger Mortimer has returned to the French court. I feel quite sure that he is there in order that he might negotiate with the French king, and possibly to discuss matters with your queen. I know this is sore news, but—’
The rest of his words were drowned by the king’s sudden roar of anger. He stood, fists clenched, teeth showing in a fierce grimace of pure fury. ‘You mean that bastard son of a diseased whore is out there with my wife, and my son too? You left them there so that the honey-tongued traitor could inveigle his way into their good natures? He will make use of their innocence to make much trouble for us, you fools. Did none of you think to try to kill him? Or at least make it clear to the French king that his presence there was an insult, a … a sore torment to me? Eh? Did you do nothing?’
‘We had no means with which to—’
‘What of the other guardians of the queen and my son, eh? I gave you a force so that you might protect Edward, my son, and the same men could be used to deal with a man who is known as a traitor and a rebel. You think the French would argue if you removed him? You should have killed the bastard, damn it, damn him … damn you!’
‘That brings me to the second piece of intelligence, my king. The men who were with me, the men whom you set to guard the queen, and those who were told to protect your son, they have all become allies of hers. None would come back to England save these here with me.’
‘You mean to tell me …’ The king gaped, and stared at the three men behind the bishop. ‘These are all?’
‘My lord Cromwell, Sir Henry … all have allied themselves with the queen. I am truly sorry, your royal highness. If I could have, I swear, I would have enlisted the help of any of them to bring down Mortimer and destroy him.’
‘Be gone! Leave me, all of you! You bring me news like this and expect reward? Just go!’
Chapter Four
Abbeyford Woods, south of Jacobstowe
‘Well, fellow?’
The tone of the knight was invariably sharp, as though he had no regard for Bill or any of the others. Instead he stood about, still, surveying the damage all around, tapping his foot as though he was waiting for a porter to open a gate for him.
He watched as Bill and the others gathered up the jury and made them stand in a rough semicircle. Then they set out a board and stool ready for the clerk to scribble at, and checked who was and who wasn’t present.
‘All ready, Coroner.’
‘Very well. Clerk, have the jury swear,’ Sir Peregrine de Barnstaple said, and wandered to the nearest of the bodies.
While the jury was sworn in, he stood and surveyed the coppice again. Seeing Bill watching him, he beckoned. ‘Look, Bailiff, I do happily confess that I am new to this task. I have not been a coroner for long. But I would have you tell me, do you have any idea who could have done this?’
‘I have been wondering that myself. It isn’t the locals about here. You can see that.’
‘Why?’
‘Look at us! There aren’t enough to try to attack such a force as this. And why would we kill like this? This wasn’t a simple waylaying, I’d wager. No, these men were attacked and killed for a definite purpose. The man with his eyes put out? Why would a robber do that?’
‘That is what I thought too. So it would be a large band of outlaws, is what you believe?’
‘I can only think so. But …’
‘What?’
‘A gang large enough to do this would have to have been seen or heard, Sir Peregrine.’
‘True enough. So where did they come from? Do you have any idea?’
‘I’ve searched along the roads all about here in the last day or two. There is one direction I think they could have come from. North.’
The coroner shrugged and shook his head. ‘Should that mean something to me? Which castle would they be from? That’s what I need to know. Who are they and where could they have come from? Are they outlaws, is that what you mean?’
Bill eyed him closely, then looked back over the dead bodies. ‘There is no man within my manor who would have done this. North of here there are a number of men-at-arms in the employ of different lords, and there are men at Oakhampton, of course. But a group would have to be very sure of themselves to do such murder. Of the men in the area near here, I don’t know who would dare to attack such a group.’
Sir Peregrine looked at him for a moment. ‘I have the impression you are withholding something from me. Is there anything else you wish to tell me?’
Bill looked up at the coroner. Since first seeing the man, he had been impressed by Sir Peregrine’s haughtiness and self-importance. The man was the perfect example of a knight: arrogant and overbearing. He was typical of all the coroners Bill had ever met: he surely wasn’t interested in justice or protecting the people about here; he was only looking at this as a means of procuring money in amercements for the king. All murders and attacks like this led to the locals being fleeced to swell the king’s purse.
‘I can tell nothing more than you, Sir Peregrine,’ Bill said flatly.
‘Very well. Let us open the inquest and see what may be learned,’ the coroner said, and clapped his hands to get the attention of the men waiting. ‘I call this inquest to order!’
Westminster Palace
Sir Hugh le Despenser was aware of the value of good information, and he appreciated the importance of a man who would happily bring him news. The under-bottler from the Painted Chamber was an expensive ally, but his reports were worth all the money Sir Hugh lavished on him. He paid the man now with twenty shillings, a small fortune, but one that the man’s detailed account fully justified.
‘I am grateful to you,
my friend,’ he said as he passed the money over. ‘Let me know more about the king’s mood when you can.’
As the under-bottler left, Sir Hugh stood and rubbed at his forehead. The pressure was unrelenting, and the sensation of having his head in a vice was growing in virulence daily. There was so much for him to do, so much to plan, if he were to be safe. One thing was certain – his new spy was only as good as Despenser’s star. If his position began to wane, the under-bottler would not come to advise him. He would be seeking his next patron, rather. So when the fellow stopped responding to Despenser’s requests, he might have to be taught a lesson at a dagger’s point.
One thing was clear, though. If the queen and Mortimer had become so close that even a cloth-headed fool like Bishop Stapledon could spot it, the matter was more serious than he had realised. That being so, he might have to plan differently, for that could well mean that the queen and the traitor were already so far advanced in their plots that they didn’t care whether the bishop, and therefore the king, were to learn of them. Although there was the other possibility: that the queen had never expected or intended that the bishop should return safely to England. If that was so, then perhaps her devious little mind had been unsettled from its smooth road, and the result could be that the whole of her carefully laid scheme might be thrown into disarray. Although Sir Hugh had no idea how to effect that desirable outcome.
But it might not be her plan at all. Perhaps it was all conceived by Mortimer and the French king. Neither of them was a friend to Sir Hugh, of course, but if a man was being stalked by enemies, it was best to know which adversary was nearest. Was it possible that the bishop himself was also allying himself to the queen? If all the others in France had moved to support her, perhaps the bishop too had …
No. That was impossible. The haughty little bitch would never consider him as a friend. The bishop had seen to it that she had lost all power and influence at court, removing from her all her estates and revenues as soon as war with the French began last year. The result had been a shameful curtailing of her life and freedom, even the removal of her children so that she might not pollute their minds with nonsense about the French. She would only ever plot to see Bishop Walter destroyed, never with him.
No Law in the Land: (Knights Templar 27) Page 6
