‘Very good.’
‘And, fellow, tell no one of this talk. Understand?’
Chapter Thirty-Two
The morning was as grim as any on Dartmoor. Grey clouds loured overhead, blocking out all sight of the sun, while the rain drummed incessantly, turning the roads into quagmires, and pelting at the Thames, churning the surface into a pock-marked mess that looked astonishingly uninviting. Looking at it, Simon remembered journeys he had made by sea, and told himself that he would never again go aboard a ship. They were too hazardous.
He hurried with Baldwin along the roadway to the palace, both of them trying to keep their heads down, Simon wearing his hood up to try to keep his hair dry, while Baldwin wore a fashionable cap made from a thick but soft wool. It was a mess before they had reached the palace, but he didn’t care. All who walked outside today would be in a similar position.
‘Whom do you want to speak to?’ Simon asked.
‘I never thought of this before, but what if there was a conspiracy at the priory, Simon? The two fresh guards who were sent to replace the two fools from the Canterbury city gate who ran, might they have been sent to us for some ulterior motive?’
‘I don’t … you mean they were involved in the robbery, and were sent along with us in order to … what?’
‘If you were seeking to conceal something, would it not be best to have a decoy? Someone who was probably above any investigation, someone who was unlikely to be searched, so that if somebody caught wind of the attempt, he could believably deny everything? And then you would send the thing with someone else in a similarly impregnable position. Perhaps you might send them with the oil in a second party, a party that didn’t arrive until long after the murder and theft? But this is the clever part: you would ensure that you had your own men added, so that although it appeared that the party was all innocent, in fact your representatives were there for the robbery, they had the oil, and then they were added to the Bishop of Orange’s party, let us suppose, where they were allowed to pass through any suspicions. No suspicions would adhere to these two, any more than they would to you or me.’
‘If you are correct, that would make for a perfect scheme.’
‘Yes. Sadly, it means that the coroner is probably guilty of being complicit in the robbery and murder.’
‘Possibly. But think on this: he told you that someone else told him Pons or the other one was guilty of using aliases, didn’t he? He could have been told that by someone in the castle, couldn’t he? He may well be entirely innocent, Baldwin.’
‘I hope so. I almost liked the man.’
‘There is one issue, though,’ Simon said musingly. ‘If you are correct, it relies on the fact that the murderer was seen. What would be the point of having one man commit the crime, and then the other two take the oil a short while later?’
‘I think that that would be cleared up by the monk himself, if he were alive. Possibly he knew his murderer, or the murderer knew something about him, enough to blackmail Gilbert? Or it was simply money. Gilbert wanted it, and the killer offered to pay him for the oil.’
‘Perhaps,’ Simon said shortly.
Baldwin looked at him. ‘You are still worried about Margaret?’
‘Everything worries me at the moment. Will Despenser let us have peace? Will my house still be there when I return? Is Margaret all right? Is Peterkin safe with her? There is so much to fear when a man like Despenser decides to make life difficult. How can such a man live with himself when he knows how much pain and worry he has inflicted on others?’
‘With great ease. He settles back on to feather-filled pillows each night and pulls a soft woollen blanket over himself, and he is warm, cosy and safe. And he has no feeling or compunction about the way he treats others. There are men like that. Men who don’t care at all for their fellow men. He is one such.’
‘I couldn’t behave in the way he does.’
‘I am very glad to hear it. I don’t think you and I would be companions, let alone friends, were you to treat others in the way that he has.’
‘I suppose so,’ Simon muttered.
There was a loud bell ringing, and the two of them began to follow the general movement towards the Great Hall. Soon after the hall had filled, the King himself entered, walking slowly and majestically towards the throne.
‘It will be resolved, Simon. I am sure that we can dissuade Despenser from causing more trouble.’
‘I wish I was so confident.’
William Ayrminne was relieved to hurry away from the scruffy little man-at-arms and find his way to the palace. It gave him a little time to reflect and consider.
And the Bishop of Orange knew what he must do as well. His path was perfectly clear. In the chats which Ayrminne had held with him, it was plain enough. He would report back to the Pope that the King of England was a spendthrift wastrel with the brain of a pigeon. His treatment of his wife was a disgrace to his crown. His behaviour towards his ‘adviser’, Despenser, was a scandal.
There was no point in further discussion. The man was an embarrassment to his people. It would be a terrible shame for the throne to lose the magnificent properties in France, but while this king was in place, they must be lost. They may just as well hand over all the …
But that was unthinkable. No, better by far that they were retained somehow, and there was only one person who could ensure that. The Queen. She must be supported, no matter what.
He found his eye being drawn to the austere figure of the Bishop of Orange even as he considered.
The meeting in the Great Hall was an odd occasion, Simon felt. The last time he had been here, earlier this year, the King had impressed him, and the hall itself had been glorious, the paintwork gleaming, the rich colours almost blinding the eyes. It had seemed almost fairy-tale-like in its richness and glory.
Today it felt very different. With the gloomy weather outside, it seemed as though the entire atmosphere had subtly altered. The colours inside were dim and murky in the dull light. The windows showed only the dirt that had settled upon them, and the clothes of all the nobles and prelates were steaming in the cool interior. There was a distinct odour of damp dogs about the place. It felt less like the great hall of the most important magnate in the land and more like a cattle-shed.
Despenser called them all to listen, and gave them all to understand that the King required them to respond to some issues of national importance. As he continued, it became obvious that he was talking about the state of affairs with the English territories in France.
It was not interesting enough for Simon. Not only was he uninterested in such matters of state, he was also repelled by the voice of the man reading them. The two conspired to make his attention wander, and he found his eyes ranging over the crowd until they settled upon the full figure of Richard of Bury.
He was a fortunate soul. The opportunity of helping to guide a young mind, especially one so important as that belonging to the young Earl, was daunting, but somehow thrilling at the same time. Simon would not have wanted the job, but he could comprehend the excitement of a man like Bury. What better pupil could a man have, after all, than the son of the King?
And the Earl was there at his side, Simon saw. He noticed, as he allowed his eyes to move on, that the man nearest the Earl was the Bishop of Orange. No doubt he was there as a witness of the events. As a foreigner he could not give advice to the King, of course.
He was clearly fascinated by the way that the King was given his advice, though. Every so often Simon saw him leaning down to Bury and speaking, then nodding. As Despenser began to outline the options available to the King, the Bishop bowed to the Earl and made his way off through the crowds. As Simon watched, he approached William Ayrminne, and stood beside him for some while, head bent, while Ayrminne spoke directly into his ear, as though whispering something deeply important.
And then Simon saw Ayrminne and the Bishop turn and stare directly at him.
The King was bored with all this
. It was tedious. He had already more or less made up his mind, and once it was made up, as any who knew him would be fully aware, his mind remained made up. He was not an indecisive fool like some.
His Queen wanted him to send his son to France. That was enough to set his teeth on edge. He would be damned before he’d give up all his French estates to his son. What, make his son the owner of Guyenne and the Agenais? Dear Christ in Heaven, that would make his son more wealthy than he, and if the lad decided to become a thorn in his side, as he himself had once been to his own father, how much more easy would it be from a position of such great wealth? It was a ludicrous proposal.
So the only true decision to be made was, when he should go to France to submit to that son of a diseased whore, Charles IV. It hurt, but not as much as the idea of the actual ceremony. The bastard would make the most of it. He could, as the feudal lord, but that didn’t make it any easier to swallow. Having to bend the knee to a jumped-up little prickle like him was an insult to a man of greater birth and nobility. Charles said he came from Charlemagne in a direct line! So what! The English were descended from the heroes of Troy, as any man knew who was interested in history. That was why the English were so powerful.
But not powerful enough to hold France back, were she to decide to invade. That was the trouble.
There was going to be a fight about this, though. Sir Hugh would be appalled to learn that he was to be left here alone. He’d be more unhappy to hear that he was himself to be sent, because that would mean his death warrant, but when Edward left to go to France, it might well have the same impact. Everyone knew how much the barons loathed Despenser, and that might result in his murder as soon as the King was out of the country. King Edward knew this only too well. There was little he could do to protect poor Hugh while he left the land, but what else could he do? He was the King, he had a duty to protect his realm from the ravages of the French. Dear Christ, but he wished there was some other way of doing it. Of protecting his son’s inheritance.
It was possible that he could make his son the regent while he was abroad. Maybe then, if he gave Sir Hugh the task of protecting his son, the barons would be reluctant to try to hurt poor Sir Hugh. It was a possibility.
France. That was always the problem. His greatest enemy, and the land to which he was so closely bound, both geographically and by marriage. His wife was a clever woman, but she was also treacherous. Everyone told him that you could not trust a Frenchwoman. There was the risk that she might become a traitor in the English court, were she permitted. It wasn’t to be borne.
Yes, he would have to go there, to France, into the heart of his enemy’s camp, and run the risk of the death of his closest companion, friend, brother and confidant, Sir Hugh le Despenser.
He didn’t know how he could bear to lose Sir Hugh. Poor, darling Piers Gaveston had been captured and slain while the King was away from his side, and he didn’t know how he could cope without darling Hugh, if the barons were to take him away as well.
In Christ’s name, he had had enough! All he wanted was some peace. He held up his hand to call a halt to proceedings. He needed some rest. His head hurt from the constant analysis of problems and threats.
Baldwin felt the nudge. ‘What?’ he demanded less than amiably. He was trying to listen.
‘Look. Them, over there. The Bishop of Orange and your man William Ayrminne.’
‘What of them?’
‘Ayrminne was just whispering in the Bishop’s ear, and as soon as he finished, the pair of them turned and stared at us.’
‘You’re growing fearful of your own shadow,’ Baldwin scoffed. ‘What, do you think that they are joining with Sir Hugh le Despenser to attack you?’
‘No, of course not, but what if they were both involved in the theft of the oil?’
‘Simon, the Bishop couldn’t be. He was with us, wasn’t he? How could he have left us, killed the monk a week before we landed, and then returned to France, eh?’
‘Ayrminne was there before us, wasn’t he? And he is an ally of the Queen,’ Simon whispered urgently.
‘Simon, that is simply ridiculous. Ayrminne and the Bishop are both men of God. Perhaps one of them could have murderous tendencies, but both? No. That is quite—’
‘Wait, Baldwin, just think. What if they hatched the plot before even leaving France, so Ayrminne was to bring a man over here with him who could leave his party on the way from Christ Church to Beaulieu, and then hold the oil in Canterbury, and then the Bishop’s party, with us, would follow on a short while later and, as planned, we would find the oil stolen, and then follow on … the men whom the coroner insisted we should bring with us are perhaps carrying the oil?’
‘Yes? And then what? Do you mean to say that the two will return to the castle in Canterbury? Or will they take ship with the Bishop to meet with the Queen? Or perhaps they’ll attach themselves to William Ayrminne’s group and make their way to France?’
‘Any one of those options would be likely, and quite possible,’ Simon asserted. ‘The Queen could want to embarrass her husband, couldn’t she? You have seen her over the last weeks, just as I have. Ayrminne is an ally of hers, so perhaps he wants the oil for the same reason. The Pope is hardly an ally of our king, is he? I mean, he lives in Avignon, not Rome. He’s only there on the sufferance of the French, isn’t he? Perhaps the Bishop of Orange is going to be the means of shipment of the oil. He is going straight to the Pope after his sojourn here, isn’t he?’
Baldwin shook his head, but even as he did so, his eyes were drawn towards Ayrminne and the Bishop of Orange. In so doing, he caught sight of the King’s son, who was now staring at him without concealment. The Earl looked over at Richard of Bury, and then spoke a few words into his ear. Bury nodded, and began to make his way across the hall towards Baldwin.
‘Sir Baldwin? The Earl of Chester would appreciate a few moments to speak with you after this audience.’
Baldwin nodded and inclined his head to the Earl.
He looked just like any other young boy. It was cruel that life should thrust the cares of the realm on such small and insubstantial shoulders.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Ayrminne was angry as he left the hall. The King’s meeting had lasted much longer than usual, and now he was in that terrible position of having too much to achieve in a very short period of time.
The King was an obnoxious little man. Preening himself up there on the throne as though he was in some way deserving of respect and support from the barons. But few, if any, of the barons saw fit to give him more than a little word or two of support now. Nobody wanted to see his reign continue if it meant retaining Despenser at the very summit of power in the realm.
He’d already done his best to ruin so many, and now Ayrminne could feel his clammy hands on his own collar. Despenser was no ally of his. Ever since that first time that Ayrminne had stood up for the Queen, he had seen the way that Despenser’s cold gaze turned to him, as though he was measuring Ayrminne for a coffin already. That was a good nickname for him, ‘The Coffin Seller’, because wherever he went, the sale of funerary items was sure to increase.
He left the hall and strode on to Westminster Abbey, around the church itself, and on to the little room at the southern side, near to the wall that bounded the Abbey precinct, where he had been given a room. Soon afterwards there came a knock at his door, and a quiet voice called.
‘Canon?’
Ayrminne threw open the door. ‘Get in here! Now, speak!’
Jack smiled easily. ‘There were two guards with me when I came here with the Bishop. He’s arranged for the oil to be stolen.’
Ayrminne curled his lip. ‘You say that the emissary of the Pope has become a thief? Out of my way, you are wasting my time!’
‘It would give him a bargaining counter against the King, if he had the oil,’ Jack said. He gestured with his hands, palms down. ‘Just hear me out.’
While Ayrminne tapped his foot, Jack told him what had happened
at Canterbury: the dead monk, the stolen oil, the disappearance of Pons and André. ‘The man who killed the monk was probably living there, in Canterbury. The Bishop of Orange’s party arrived a week or so later.’
‘Everyone said that it was the herald, Yatton, who stole the oil.’
‘I knew Yatton. He wasn’t a murderer. No, I think that he was the victim of an outlaw, nothing more. I was there at Canterbury. I know what happened. The Bishop’s men were held up for attacking some locals, and next morning took flight – even though they were found innocent by the coroner. Why would they do that, if not because they had something on them and didn’t want it found?’
‘You said they didn’t arrive until a week later!’ Ayrminne said, trying to find holes in the tale.
‘That’s right. The thief kept it that long, and passed it on to them when we all arrived. In a city the size of Canterbury, it’d be easy to meet with the man who had the oil. He gave it to them, and they took it and ran.’
‘It is an interesting theory.’
‘More than that, it’s likely,’ Jack said smugly. ‘Now, what we must do is get the oil back.’
‘What will you do with it?’
‘Bring it to you so you can take it to the King.’
‘Good.’
‘Unless …’
Ayrminne held his face carefully blank. ‘What?’
‘Unless you felt it better that you took it to the Queen.’
‘Me? Why should I wish to do that?’
‘I know you are in her favour. And then, when I get back to France, you can ask her to look on me favourably. I’ll have saved it for her son, so he can use it at his coronation.’
‘What makes you think she wouldn’t punish you for keeping what was her husband’s?’
Jack grinned. ‘It’s you who’ll take it to her. I’ll just keep in the background until you tell me to come to her. Is it a deal?’
The Prophecy of Death: (Knights Templar 25) Page 31