‘Oh, my lord, I don’t think—’
‘Do you really believe that a bunch of cutpurses would be so well armoured? Do you think that they would have aimed straight for the youngest in the group – me?’
‘I thought that they were all riding towards me! In an action like that, you see, you can be—’
‘Shut up! If I want a fool to make me laugh, I can demand the services of a better trained one. Those men were sent to capture me – I hope.’
‘What do you mean, you “hope”?’
‘If they were not, they were sent to kill me,’ the duke said, and pursed his lips.
‘I think, Your Highness, you are taking this too seriously.’
‘A man of my bodyguard is dead, and you suggest I am too serious?’
‘No, but surely if there was such a danger to you, we would already know of it, eh?’
The duke gave him a withering look, and then took his seat on a large chair. ‘Priest, you make a poor adviser. I have to understand the nature of the threat in order to be able to protect myself from it.’
‘But who would want to see you harmed?’ Paul protested weakly.
‘Either Despenser wishes to have me captured and taken back to England, or killed. If I were to die here in France, the kingdom would blame my mother and Mortimer – and can you envisage the invasion of England succeeding if all in the country thought that? No! Despenser wishes to see me dead. Well, he will not – I will see his head on a spike first!’
‘What will you do?’ Paul asked.
‘First, we shall move away from the sphere of my mother’s influence – in order to protect her. We could go somewhere where it will be easier to remain safe. Perhaps to Paris – but the king, my uncle, is not happy to have us remain. He sees us as an embarrassment now. Or I could go to Normandy. There are plenty of safe places there for us to hide in.’
‘What does your mother say?’
‘Her view does not matter. This is my responsibility,’ the duke said firmly.
Paul nodded, but did not speak. Uppermost in his mind was the reaction of Mortimer. He was due to return the next day.
Furnshill
There was another man in the hall when Baldwin entered. ‘Sir Peregrine, I hope I see you well, sir?’
‘I am very well, Sir Baldwin.’
With this man, Baldwin was perfunctory at best. He had never liked Sir Peregrine de Barnstaple. The coroner was too much the politician for his tastes and while Baldwin agreed entirely with the ambition of seeing the Despenser removed from his secure position beside the throne, he deprecated the man’s enthusiasm for plotting.
To Baldwin it was a simple matter of honour: he had sworn allegiance to the king as his sovereign, and although the king could, and often did, make an appalling mess of his governance of the realm, yet he was still the man whom God had anointed with oil. He was the rightful king, and Baldwin must seek to preserve him.
‘You have come here from Tiverton, Sir Peregrine? Has there been a murder?’ he asked as he took his wife’s hand and kissed it, saying, ‘I missed you, my love.’
She rested her head on his shoulder. ‘And I you,’ she whispered. Then she stood away and nodded to Edgar. He strode off, returning a moment later with a mazer for Baldwin. There was already a jug at the side of Sir Peregrine, and Baldwin took it up, serving his guest first, topping up his cup, before filling his own and drinking deeply.
‘No, no murder yet,’ Sir Peregrine said with a smile. ‘Or perhaps I should say, not recently. It is a long time since Tiverton suffered from a crime of that sort. The reason I am here is because I was on my way to Exeter, to meet with the sheriff.’
‘That young fool de Cockington?’
‘True, he is not so experienced as you and I, Sir Baldwin, which makes him rather a refreshing fellow to have in a position like his. The opportunities for pulling the wool over his eyes are legion. Even when he believes he has struck a hard bargain with me, I usually manage to acquire all I need.’
‘That is good,’ Baldwin said. He was thoughtful for a moment, and then asked, ‘Do you know anything about a family called Biset? A man called John Biset?’
‘I have heard of him, I think. Why?’
Baldwin shook his head. ‘Something I was wondering about. Probably nothing. So, you will stay for some food? Would you accept a bed for the night?’
‘I would like to, but no, I should ride on. I left only late this morning,’ Sir Peregrine said, ‘delayed by business. But I hope to hurry to Exeter. There is a lady there whom I would meet again.’
‘A lady?’ Baldwin asked, glancing at his wife with a faint smile. There was something endearing about Sir Peregrine’s attempts to find himself a wife.
‘Yes, the Lady Isabella, who was sadly widowed for the second time a few years ago.’
Jeanne, who was always keen for news of Sir Peregrine’s romantic progress, leaned forward. ‘Tell us about her – I do not know this lady.’
‘She is named Isabella Fitzwilliam. Her last husband was Henry, but he was captured by the king’s men and executed for treachery. Since then, she has been living in penury.’
Baldwin shook his head sadly. ‘There are so many who have lost their livelihoods. It is terrible.’
‘Yes. To think that an honourable lady like her … Well, as you say, Sir Baldwin, the last few years have seen so much injustice and cruelty, it is hard to know what to say to someone who has suffered so much.’
‘But you hope to be able to comfort her?’ Jeanne prompted.
‘I cannot hope … I would like to … But it is impossible to even dream of such things. The poor lady has lost two husbands already. I cannot imagine that she would be keen to experience such a loss again,’ Sir Peregrine said, his eyes a little downcast.
It was no more than the truth. Hard though it was to accept, Sir Peregrine was almost resigned to the fact that his life would end without a wife. He would die a bachelor.
In the past, that had been a source of extreme sadness. He had wanted to have the stability of a wife at his side, to have children whom he might teach and leave to carry on his family name. Given time, perhaps he would have seen a son of his become famous, even see him knighted in his own right. That would have been a wonder to him!
But no, it had never happened, and now, much though he desired a woman’s companionship, he would have to learn to be satisfied with the friendship of others.
‘You would like her for your wife?’ Jeanne said definitely.
‘Well, of course I would, my lady, but if I were truthful, I would have to say that my own position is scarcely sound. There are many men who are better placed than me to provide for a lady such as her.’
‘What is she like?’ Jeanne asked.
‘Well, she is no child,’ Sir Peregrine said with an embarrassed shrug. ‘Oh, I do not mean that she is old, Lady Jeanne!’
‘What, not as old as me?’ Jeanne asked sweetly.
‘You torment me now,’ the knight said distractedly. ‘I can say nothing without your twisting my words.’
‘I shall be silent, then,’ Jeanne smiled.
‘She is a little shorter than you, Lady Jeanne, and a little older, I would guess. But for all that, she has a radiant smile. Her eyes are as green as a holly-leaf, and her hair is the auburn colour of a conker. And even though she has suffered so much, she smiles and laughs a great deal.’
‘With you?’ Jeanne said.
‘She and I have laughed much.’
‘Then she will welcome your suit, Sir Peregrine. A man who makes his woman laugh is a rarity. If you make her do that, you will be able to ask her to do anything. I advise you to press your suit.’
Chapter Twenty-Three
Two Fridays before the Feast of St John and St Paul*
Montreuil
It was a very unhappy Paul de Cockington who left the chamber that morning.
The suddenness of Wednesday’s attack had appalled the queen and Mortimer. The lack of warning wa
s one aspect, but the appreciation of their danger here in France had been rammed home too. Up until the fight, they had enjoyed a fond belief that they were safe under the protection of the French king. Even the long hand of Despenser would find it hard to reach them here, so they had thought.
‘I had heard all his spies here were captured,’ had been Mortimer’s terse comment. ‘The bastard’s got more, and the French will do nothing to catch them, even though they know that Despenser is their lord’s enemy.’
The duke had said little as Mortimer strode up and down the little chamber, occasionally throwing suspicious looks at the men gathered about. More often than not, to Paul’s disquiet, the man’s eyes were on him.
Ralph la Zouche was still desperate for vengeance. ‘Is there no one can tell us who planned the attack? The devils should be forced to pay for my brother’s death!’
‘I have asked my brother,’ Queen Isabella said coldly. ‘He has searched for these men and for those who instructed them to attack his nephew, but so far there is nothing. He will continue until news is forthcoming.’
‘He is too slow!’ la Zouche cried, in a voice that was almost a howl. ‘They slew my brother! I want revenge!’
‘The man responsible is in England,’ Mortimer said. ‘He’s the one you should seek. There’s no one else who would have tried such a deed.’
‘My poor son,’ Queen Isabella muttered, and her maid put her hand on the queen’s shoulder. The queen put her own little hand over her maid’s as she stared at the young duke.
Mortimer turned to him. ‘Did you feel your life was in danger, my lord? It is one thing to consider that King Edward might have sought to kill your guard, and quite another to think that he could attempt your life.’
‘What else would a man think?’ Duke Edward demanded hotly. ‘Those men were sent for me. I have no doubt about that whatever.’
‘But perhaps they were not trying to kill? Perhaps they only wished to capture and take you away? Your father is desperate to have you back, I expect,’ Mortimer said, with a sidelong glance at the queen.
‘He would do this?’ she said, eyes wide with shock. ‘I had assumed this was the Despenser, but you think my husband could seek to take my son by force?’
‘He’d argue you held him here by force,’ Mortimer said drily. ‘He knows I stay willingly,’ the duke said. ‘He has written to me and I have replied.’
‘I know,’ Mortimer said.
There was a pause on hearing that. Paul was unsurprised, because this man Mortimer would never have allowed the duke to maintain correspondence with his father – who was determined to see Mortimer dead, and who had in fact signed his death warrant – without being able to read it.
The young duke was shocked, and his mouth gaped for a moment before he caught himself and shut it again. This new proof of Mortimer’s distrust of her son was enough to make the queen rise, eyes blazing with rage.
‘You say you have read his letters, Sir Roger? You have opened his letters, and those addressed to him?’
‘Of course. You think that we can afford to take risks? What if your husband had sought to use coercion to force your son to leave us? Could you have borne the loss of your son, lady? What if he had disappeared in the night, fled to the coast, and taken an English boat home? Your husband would have had all the money, then. He could wager anything and win. And us? We would have lost a prospective husband, we would have lost a defensive shield, and a figurehead for your army. We would have lost all. I’m not prepared to risk that.’
‘You read his messages – does that mean you read mine as well?’
‘I have had no need to. What would you write to your husband?’
‘Whatever I may write is none of your concern!’
‘Lady, everything became my concern when we first launched ourselves on this course of action.’
‘My letters are my own! You have no right to open them.’
‘Why? Would you return to your husband?’ he sneered, his face pale.
‘I may! Perhaps I would prefer to end this dreadful impasse!’
Mortimer took a step towards her, and now Paul could see the emotion in his face. It wrenched his features, as though the man was torn with desperation. ‘Woman, you do that, and I swear I’ll kill you myself with my dagger!’ he spat, his hand on the hilt.
There was an appalled silence for a moment. All Paul could hear was the raucous drumbeat of his heart and the whistle of la Zouche’s breath. There was a heightened awareness in that chamber, a sense that there might soon be an eruption of violence that would affect not only all the men in there, but all the millions in England too. Paul steadied himself, as though preparing to leap upon Mortimer, but his muscles felt as tense as a bowstring, and he found himself incapable of moving.
Instead it was the duke who spoke, ‘Sir Roger, my mother meant no insult. The strain of the last few days has affected us, that is all. Kindly remove your hand from your dagger.’
All the while, he walked forward. It was not some bold action, not a challenge, but more the gait of a man sauntering to the tavern to buy his friend a jug of ale.
Mortimer eventually nodded, and turned away. ‘I am sorry, my lady. This is indeed a difficult time for all of us. I think it just demonstrates that we must proceed as quickly as we may.’
‘Yes,’ the queen said. She sank back into her chair, blanched and discomfited after her outburst of passion. Then, even as he watched, Paul could see her face tighten, and she became the shrewd, calculating vixen he had seen before. She looked about her, smiling at Paul and her son, before catching sight of Mortimer – and suddenly she reminded Paul of a hungry snake eyeing a small creature. And then her smile became lethal.
Exeter
Sir Peregrine de Barnstaple left the castle with a light step, whistling tunelessly as he passed beneath the great gateway and strode down the cleared road to the High Street.
It was a good city, this. Rich on the trade which the ships brought each day, fed well by the numerous farms all about, and influential because of the powerful bishop who sat in the cathedral.
The streets demonstrated the city’s affluence. There was abundance in all. Rich carvings on the buildings, gilt, vivid colours everywhere. The people cared little for any sumptuary code. In the days of the old king, Edward I, there had been little interest in fashions and fripperies, but under Edward II, his son, merchants aspired to magnificence no less than bishops and earls. Women wore bright garments, while men of some stature strode about with their ridiculous, tight hosen and belly-hugging overgarments. It was enough to make a man like Sir Peregrine, who was of a more serious disposition than most, feel vaguely sad. There were so many important matters for people to consider, it seemed shameful that men preferred to preen in public like so many cockerels.
Leaving the main roadway, he made for St Peter’s Priory. Near this, he turned off down an alley, and soon he was at a door, upon which he knocked briskly.
‘Is your mistress in?’ he enquired of the servant girl, and soon he was inside.
Sir Peregrine had been to battle several times. He had killed four men in hot blood, each of them entirely justifiably, and was quietly confident in his prowess with sword and lance, and content to know that in war he did not flinch. He would hold his position as arrows rained about him, or as a fearsome lancepoint thundered towards him, gripped by a knight on a massive destrier.
So why did he feel this emptiness in his belly, and the cold sweat on his spine as he waited here to see Lady Isabella Fitzwilliam again?
It was always the same when he went to meet a lady for whom he had high regard. He would feel a similar trepidation, bordering on fear, convinced that he must surely make a fool of himself. Or that he was entirely wrong in his estimation of the lady’s feelings towards him. How might a man tell what a woman wanted? They were always so unreadable. A man would be easy. If he wished to be a friend, he would smile and speak warmly; if not a friend, he would be reserved; if an enemy, he
would be rude and objectionable. Sir Peregrine had experienced all of these. But a woman … She was a mystery not so easily solved.
‘Sir Peregrine! How good of you to come and visit me again.’
‘It is my pleasure, Lady Isabella. I am very glad to see you once more. I hope I find you well?’
‘Very well,’ the lady said, and walked to a seat, waving graciously to him to sit as well. ‘I hope you are too?’
‘Certainly! Never better! Hah!’ Sir Peregrine felt his face freeze over as he reviewed in his mind what he had just said, and his eyes became glassy. ‘I …’
‘Perhaps you would like a little wine?’ she asked kindly.
‘I would be glad of some,’ he admitted.
She stood and went to the sideboard herself, motioning to her maidservant to leave them, and then pouring his wine herself.
It was a revelation to him. He had not been alone with a woman for many months indeed. And it was hardly in keeping with the proprieties of polite custom for a man and woman to be together in such proximity. And then he heard the distinct sound of a jug clattering on the side of a goblet.
Peering closely, he saw that Lady Isabella stood stiffly, trying to hold the jug to the goblet with an easy nonchalance, but the show was betrayed by her nervous shaking making them rattle. She threw him an anguished look.
He stood, and in a moment had crossed the room to her. Taking the jug from her trembling hands, he set it down, and then the two of them stood staring at each other for what he thought was an age. He wanted to take her in his arms, but there was always this damned reticence that sprang from his upbringing. A man should not grasp a woman, not until he was sure he possessed her heart. Instead he sighed, and half turned away.
‘It is difficult, Sir Peregrine, when you find that your feelings are the same as a maiden’s, and yet you have been married. I am no child. I’m a woman, and yet the trials of such a meeting are so troublesome.’
‘I know, my lady. Perhaps it would be better were I to leave you now.’
The Bishop Must Die: (Knights Templar 28) Page 22
