Yes. That was one problem which was hopefully to be cured very soon.
But there were other issues which beset him. Times when he stood and stared out through the windows here and wondered, desperately, what his enemy was doing at that moment. There was only one man who deserved that title: Sir Roger Mortimer of Wigmore.
‘Sir Roger,’ he muttered with a swift curse. The hogswyving son of a mongrel was the biggest thorn in his side. Of course it was possible, quite possible, that Sir Roger Mortimer was enjoying his time in France so much that he had had no time to even consider Despenser. And sows might fly. No, Sir Roger was still the most dangerous threat to England, to the King, and to Despenser himself, naturally.
He had been an enemy of Despenser even before they had been born. It was three-and-forty years since Roger Mortimer had slain Hugh Despenser. The two, grandsires of Sir Hugh and Sir Roger, were opponents at the Battle of Evesham, and ever since he had heard of his grandsire’s death at Mortimer’s hand, Sir Hugh le Despenser had wanted revenge for that bloodletting. His family was humiliated by it.
But there had been no possibility during the long years of Mortimer’s ascendancy. It was only when Sir Hugh became the King’s closest friend and adviser that he had been able to begin to scheme the end of Mortimer. And he had managed much, even precipitating a war with Roger and the other Marcher Lords – although that was not intentional, and at the time Sir Hugh had been petrified, thinking he would lose everything. After the brief war, Roger Mortimer was locked away in the Tower of London, where he festered for eighteen months.
And then he managed a dramatic break out and escaped! The bastard was incredibly lucky all his damned life. The warrant for his execution had finally been signed by the King, and Sir Hugh was going to ensure that it was swiftly carried out, but then the crazed shite got clean away. And somehow to France.
It was this which occupied his mind so much of the time. Mortimer had been the King’s most competent, experienced general. All through the King’s reign, it was Mortimer who had been sent off to Scotland, Ireland, anywhere. And he was astonishingly lucky even then. Now, though, since he was ensconced in France, he was still more dangerous than ever before.
The first intimation of danger had been when the plot to have Sir Hugh and some others murdered by means of that damned magician had been uncovered. Well, Despenser had seen to it that as soon as the man was captured, his life and prospects were reduced to precisely nothing. But that wasn’t all. There were stories of men being sent here to England by Mortimer and his friends, spies, ill-contents, rumour-mongers, all trying their best to destabilise the realm.
Well, Sir Hugh le Despenser wouldn’t stand by and let them have their way. The most important thing to him was to protect the realm from all these scum. And that was what he’d do, right up until the day he found Roger Mortimer in front of him and he could kill the bastard, nice and slowly, and as painfully as possible.
Of course, Sir Roger had an incentive to unsettle the King, and he knew the King well enough, too. He would know just how much the theft of the oil would affect the King. The King would be bound to think it unbearable that a man would dare to take something quite so valuable from him; still more so now, while his reign was being looked upon with contempt by so many in the land. Perhaps it was all an affair of Sir Roger Mortimer’s making. He had sent a man to find the oil and take it to France for him. It wouldn’t matter whether it would serve any useful purpose, the mere fact that he had deprived the King of it would be enough.
Yes, he nodded, it was sure to be him. Sir Roger had taken the oil. So the question now was how to retrieve it for the King?
Lydford
At his house, Simon looked through all his business and especially the state of the farm itself. His other affairs were in good repair, fortunately. All his finances were strong, and that was fortunate because he had the expense of the impending nuptials for his daughter to cover.
‘How is she?’ Simon asked his wife.
Meg looked at him seriously. ‘How would you have felt when we decided to marry, if you had heard that my father had left the country and no one knew when he would return so that the marriage could go ahead?’
‘I’d have grabbed you and given you my oath and hoped you’d have done the same.’
‘Just because the Church accepts that you don’t have to wed in a church, doesn’t mean that it’s right,’ Meg said pointedly. ‘Your daughter is a good child, who wouldn’t marry until her father was here to join in.’
‘I suppose her boy doesn’t have enough money to be able to support her without the dowry, then?’ Simon demanded grumpily.
‘Nonsense!’
‘And you haven’t answered me yet. Wouldn’t you have made your oath to me if I swore mine to you?’
‘If you think, you great lummox, that you can evade the issue by asking silly questions like that,’ Meg said, tossing her blond hair severely, ‘you don’t know me very well. Now, what will we do about this wedding?’
‘Arrange it urgently and save her any more damned torture, I suppose,’ he said heavily. He had no desire to see her married. She was his little girl still. Allowing her to marry would be like admitting to himself that he was an old man now.
‘Very well. Where is she?’
‘In the field, I think.’
‘Get her here. I will need to discuss this with her. If I’m to give away my daughter, I’ll need to see the man who’s getting her, too.’
‘Simon, you’ve already met him.’
‘I know. And I’ll meet him again, and make sure he’s going to be a good husband to her.’
Little Edith marrying. Leaving him and Meg. It hurt him just to think it.
It hurt more than the idea of losing his farm.
Chapter Nineteen
Beaulieu
The Bishop of Orange was sitting in the chamber given to him when the gentle knock came on the door. He felt quickly for the dagger which he always carried strapped to his calf before calling, ‘Entrez!’ A man who knocked so quietly was often a man who was set upon violence. A quiet knock meant no one else would hear.
‘What do you want?’ he asked as Peter walked in.
Peter smiled. ‘Don’t worry, Bishop. My son is in the corridor out there. He’ll let me know if anyone comes.’
‘What do you want, I said?’
‘Well, now. Only this: we were asked to come here to help guard you on the way, but now it looks like our work is more or less done, so we’d like to get back home again.’
‘You are to remain with me all the while I am in England.’
‘Yes, but there is little point. You’ve already got your old two back.’
‘Pons and André? Those two? I do not think that they are reliable men. No, I need you two, still.’
‘I don’t think so. We should return to our master.’
‘Your master? And what do you think he would say about you deserting me here before my long return journey? If any harm comes to me, he will be most displeased.’
Peter grinned. ‘Ah, well, I think I can take that risk.’
‘He is perhaps little more than a boy, but make no mistake, my friend. The Earl of Chester is yet the heir to a realm. He will be your king one day, if you live long enough to witness it.’
‘My master would want us back with him.’
‘Then go. But I will tell him you deserted me.’
‘Hardly deserted.’ Peter’s grin and expansive wave of his hand took in the whole abbey, indicating that there were many others nearby to protect the Bishop.
‘In any case, it would seem likely that we shall meet him shortly.’
‘How so?’
‘We shall move to London, nearer him, before long. The King wishes to discuss the treaty provisions with his barons. He is calling all his barons to Westminster. I am myself to go there to take any further instructions from your king.’
Peter nodded, still grinning, but there was little humour in his voice
. ‘Very well. We’ll remain with you a little longer. But only a little. We owe our service to him, and no one else.’
Feast of the Apostles21
Lydford
Waiting for his daughter and her husband-to-be, Simon was fretful and on edge. He had already sent his wife off out, and his manservant, Hugh, away to speak to Sir Baldwin, so that he could speak with his prospective son-in-law in private, but he was not looking forward to the interview. The idea of losing his daughter was as painful as the idea of losing a limb. She was a part of him. But, as Meg would keep pointing out, Edith was over seventeen now. She was old enough to know her mind.
When he heard the horses arriving, he went slowly across the floor of his hall, and stood by the fire, now smoking gently, and waited there, his back to the flames, arms folded, legs firmly planted. The boy would have to enter and confront him like that, a challenging father. Perhaps a fearsome one.
The man who entered was not Edith’s Peter, though.
‘Who are you?’ Simon demanded.
‘You are whom?’ the man asked.
‘I am the owner of this farm, friend. Who are you?’ Simon grated.
‘My name is known to you already, I think. I am called William atte Wattere. And you are, I suppose, Simon Puttock, one time Bailiff of Lydford for Abbot Robert?’
‘That is correct.’
‘Ah, good. Then I have the right place.’
‘I do not think so.’
‘You are wrong.’ Wattere smiled.
‘By what right do you claim to be able to take my land?’
‘It is not your land, friend. It belongs to my Lord Hugh Despenser. He owns it now, and wants it for his own, so I have been sent to remove any obstructions.’
He did not look like the brutal enforcer of an illegal act of theft. Rather, he was a mild-looking man with a slight squint. He had the narrow features of an ascetic, but without any appearance of a rat. He had gleaming eyes, which seemed to be bright with pleasure and fun, and Simon had the distinct impression that he would be enormously enjoyable as a drinking companion, if the circumstance of their meeting was different.
‘Such as the true owner?’
‘Such as any squatter, yes.’
Simon looked about him. His hall was as familiar to him as his own hand, and yet as he stood here, it looked to him slightly different, as though it was already taken from him, and he was, in fact, a trespasser here.
And then a flood of pure anger washed through his veins.
He was no petitioner! He was no humble churl who could be forced to submit to the rape of his property and treasure. No man, none, could take from him what was his own. The bastard who tried it would have his head broken!
‘You must have your things out of here within the week,’ Wattere said. ‘I gave your wife a week, but in your absence, so I suppose a little compassion is in order. Unless you make it difficult, of course.’ His mild grin grew wider. ‘I’d like that.’
‘Make it difficult?’ Simon snarled. ‘I’ll be damned to hell before I agree to being robbed by a felon like you!’
‘If you take that attitude, I will ensure that you are out of here in days, and your eviction will be as unpleasant as I can contrive.’ And now the eyes changed. The humour and pleasantness left them, and in their place was an icy calmness. A calculating expression that was almost desire.
Simon felt a red curtain of rage fall over his eyes. He grasped his sword-hilt and moved towards the man, sweeping out the blade.
Wattere had seen Simon’s sudden movement, and he stepped back and to the side in the same instant. His sword was out, and the two swords clashed, ringing. ‘It will make things worse for you if you try to thwart Sir Hugh’s official,’ he grated, all amiability gone from his voice.
‘You dare threaten me for defending my own?’ Simon roared, and sprang forward, sword up.
There was a scream, and he shot a look over his shoulder. There, in the doorway, was his daughter Edith and her fiancé. Simon felt a swift burning over his left shoulder, and knew he had been struck. Then he lifted his own sword and felt Wattere’s slide down its edge. The two were watching each other, their eyes firmly locked. Simon could remember once being taught that it was a mistake to watch the man’s sword. Better by far to keep an eye on the man’s face. ‘Watch his eyes, boy. Watch his eyes. You’ll see his intention there, and when he wants to attack, he’ll betray it.’
And he saw it now. A momentary narrowing of the eyes, and suddenly the blade was lancing forward to his breast. A slash of his own, and the blade was swept aside, an upward flick, and Simon’s point raked along the man’s inner forearm. He felt it strike the elbow with a soft sucking, and yanked it free. Wattere’s arm was oozing blood, a thick mess, and his sword was already on the ground when Simon took a pace forward and rested his sword-point on Wattere’s throat. ‘Yield.’
‘Why? What will you do?’
‘You attack me in my own house, my own hall, and you ask what I shall do? This is my home, churl. You desecrate it with your presence. Yield, or I’ll destroy you.’
Wattere looked up at him and curled his lip. ‘You? Kill me?’ he sneered. He knew enough about Simon Puttock. He had checked on him before threatening him, for a man was a fool who tried to bully another without being aware of his strengths, and he had been told that this man was a mere clerk at best. He’d been a bailiff on the moor, but that was an easy job, and then he’d got an even softer position as Keeper of Dartmouth. That, Wattere had been told, was more or less a clerical post, and the man was a lightweight. He hadn’t drawn sword in many years. Anyway, these Devon boys were mere children when they were set against a man like Wattere, with years of fighting and enforcement for Despenser. There was nothing to fear here.
Now, though, he saw something different in Simon’s eye, and was prey to a sudden doubt. Wattere recognised pure, blind rage when he saw it, and the expression in Simon Puttock’s eyes just now was not that of a gentle, bovine creature. If this was a soft-hearted animal, it was one which had contracted rabies. His eyes were more like those of a terrier when put in a sty with a sackload of rats. The red mist had fallen over him, and he was perfectly capable of killing, especially now, in hot blood.
‘Shit! I yield! I yield!’ he snapped quickly as he saw Simon’s sword move.
‘Get up, and go. If I see you here again, I will have you arrested and held at Lydford.’
‘Lydford, Puttock? You forget yourself. You have no authority to hold me there or anywhere. You are no bailiff any more. And you’ve lost your job at Dartmouth, I hear? You are nothing. Me, I represent Sir Hugh Despenser. You have made him your own personal enemy. I should leave quickly now, before you earn more of his just ire.’
He bent to pick up his sword, but Simon put his boot on it. ‘You will leave that. You draw steel on me in my hall, you prickle, and you lose it.’
William Wattere nodded, his eyes lidded, and then he cast a long, slow look about the hall. ‘I shall tell my Lord what you have done. I’ll show him this injury. I hope you enjoyed your time here, Bailiff, because it’s coming to a swift conclusion. My respects to your wife.’
Beaulieu
Peter found his son outside and said nothing as he came level with him; he just nodded to John and continued on his way.
‘So we leave here and go back?’
‘Our master will have to cope without us for a little longer. We are to stay here with the Bishop. He tells me that the King’s going to have a meeting of his advisers in Westminster before long, so we can travel there with the Bishop. All the members of the King’s council will be there. That means all the Bishops and earls will be present for it.’
‘So if we stay with the Bishop, we’ll get up there anyway? Good.’
‘Yes. The sooner we can return the happier I’ll be.’
Lydford
Simon had a hurried conversation with his daughter and her man before sending Edith from the room.
‘Right, Master Peter,�
� Simon said grimly, walking back to the fire with the two swords in his hands. He sheathed his own, and peered at the one he had retrieved from William Wattere. ‘Hmm. Not bad.’
Peter was a young apprentice who lived not far from Lydford. He had been the cause of Simon’s unhappiness ever since he had been given the post of Keeper at Dartmouth, and he held the lad in little regard as a result.
It wasn’t his fault, though. He had fallen in love with Edith, and she with him. That was why Edith had complained so bitterly at the thought of going with Simon and Meg to Dartmouth: she had no wish to be further away from her Peter than necessary. That was why she’d wailed and moaned and complained about the idea of being sent into ‘exile’ so far from her home. Peter couldn’t go with them – he was apprenticed to a successful merchant, Master Harold – so that was that. Edith did not wish to go, and they could not leave her behind. So Margaret, his Meg, remained here in Lydford with Edith and their son Perkin, and Simon travelled on alone.
Peter was staring at him with unabashed astonishment. Perhaps mingled with fear. It was that realisation that made Simon grunt an apology. If he had attempted to beg the hand of his own wife in marriage at a tender age from a man whom he had just witnessed fighting with another, Simon might have been reticent, too.
‘What, boy?’ Simon demanded.
‘Do you want a cloth? A towel?’
Simon frowned, and looked down at his hand. His sword hand had blood all over the palm where Wattere’s blood had run along the blade and down to the hilt. With a gesture of irritation, Simon wiped it on his breast. ‘It’s nothing. Not mine,’ he added. ‘Now, you are still determined to take my daughter?’
The Prophecy of Death: (Knights Templar 25) Page 19