‘What does Despenser wish to do?’ Simon said.
Baldwin waved the letter thoughtfully. ‘He does not say that you are to be evicted, Simon. Rather, it merely tells you that the house has been sold beneath you. Of course, now you could be thrown out whenever he desired to do so.’
‘And you can imagine how that makes Meg feel,’ Simon said.
Baldwin nodded. ‘What do you want to do about it?’
It was the question Simon had been asking himself all the way here from Exeter. Now he looked away from his old friend and stared out through the great unglazed but barred window. ‘I can only think I should remain there for now, and wait and see what happens. There is no point in the disruption of clearing out.’
‘You can always return to your farm near Sandford,’ Baldwin said.
‘Aye,’ Simon agreed. ‘And if Despenser decides he wants that too, he’ll not even go to the bother of buying it. He’ll just kill me and throw Meg and Peter out.’
Chapter Six
Saturday following Lammas Day*
Gatehouse to Louvre, Paris
Arnaud, the porter to the Louvre, was jealous as he watched her crossing the courtyard. It wasn’t enough that Sieur Hugues had money, power, and all the trappings of a lord, he had the best-looking courtesan in the castle too.
She was a leggy, black-haired woman, with the interesting looks of a woman of nearer five-and-twenty than a mere girl. Her expression was bold and appraising, challenging to a man like Arnaud. He adored the sight of her, but Christ in a bucket, she was daunting. Such confidence, such poise.
‘You wish for a little wine?’ he called shyly as she approached the gate.
To his surprise, she gave him a slow, considering stare, eyeing his boots, his tunic, even his scarred face, and then a smile gradually dawned. ‘Why not?’ she said.
Westminster, Thorney Island
Sir Hugh le Despenser felt good as he marched to the King’s Painted Chamber. The confirmation from William Wattere was welcome news. It gave Sir Hugh some leverage over the Bailiff. If Simon Puttock dared became a thorn in his side again, the cretin would soon find himself out on the moors, without a roof over his head. And this time, Despenser would be acting within the law. It was a novel experience.
The King was waiting for him, sitting on a comfortable chair amidst a large group of men. His expression, when he saw Despenser enter, was that of a man who saw his only ally among uncounted enemies.
‘And what do we have here?’ Despenser murmured as he entered. He pulled off his gloves and dropped them, then allowed his cloak to fall to the floor behind him. As he walked forward, servants rushed to take them up. ‘A glorious collection of bishops, to be sure. What should this be called, I wonder? A “mass” of bishops? A “celebration”? Or perhaps a “noise”?’
‘Your sense of humour has not left you, then,’ Bishop Hethe said. Hethe was always very favourably disposed towards the King, and that made Despenser mistrust him. Either the man was dishonest, or, worse, he was in earnest. If the latter was the case, there was always the possibility that he would do all in his power to harm Despenser so that he might serve the King more honourably.
But today he was no threat. Others who were more antagonistic to Despenser were present in that gathering.
Archbishop Reynolds was there, and the Bishops of London, Chichester, Carlisle, Ely and Exeter among others. All chattering and waving their hands like so many monkeys. On the far side of the room, Despenser saw the Earl of Chester, standing listening intently to his tutor, the deplorable Richard of Bury. The fat fool!
He was supposed to be a clever, intellectual fellow, but Despenser thought he was a fraud. He had a great collection of books, certainly, but Despenser reckoned there were too many for one man to read in a lifetime. He’d even said so to the King before now, but Edward was deaf to any comments against the bastard. As it was, Despenser watched him carefully. He didn’t trust anyone else to get too close to the King or his son.
‘So, what is the discussion concerning?’ he drawled as he walked to the King’s side and made an elaborate bow.
Bishop Stapledon said tightly, ‘The King has reconsidered, and now he feels that it would be best if he were not to leave the country. Instead, another must go.’
That, Despenser thought, must have hurt like a kick in the ballocks. Stapledon certainly looked as though he had been attacked most viciously. His face was as pale as a man who saw his house being burned before him. With his family still inside.
‘I am sure that the King knows the most sensible course,’ he said smoothly.
‘I dare say you are,’ Hethe replied.
‘I do not think I understand you, my Lord Bishop.’ Despenser’s eyes were glittering like ice.
Hethe was not one of those who would respond with fear. The pious prickle believed in his divine protection or something. ‘I suggest that you are most assured that the King’s actions are correct when they suit your aims, Sir Hugh. And I believe that you have argued most persuasively against his journeying to Paris.’
‘You think that the King doesn’t know his own mind? I am surprised at you, my Lord.’
‘Do not presume to insult my intelligence, Sir Hugh,’ Hethe said with chilly resentment. ‘The King must go, whether you wish it or no.’
‘It is not my decision,’ Despenser shrugged, ‘and I think you should be cautious of suggesting otherwise—’
‘Enough!’ The King stood up from his seat and glared about him.
He was still a magnificent-looking man. His eyes showed the nervousness that lay at the centre of his soul, and his face was drawn, but he still towered over the others in the room with him, and he inspired awe, no matter what the gathering. ‘I have decided! That should be enough for all of you. Now, on to other matters. What did you wish to say, Archbishop?’
The room was quiet a moment as all those present mentally considered whether it was safe to argue further, but after a certain amount of glancing about at each other, the Archbishop broke the uncomfortable silence.
‘Kent is in a turmoil, my Lord. There are wandering bands of discontents and felons who slay with impunity. What may a man do? I have set about building a larger wall to encircle my own manor, but if these desperate men should attack, it would be useless.’
‘You want me to provide you with guards? Can you not afford your own? I do not presume to have a monopoly on defence,’ the King said sarcastically.
‘It is not only Kent, your Royal Highness. It’s the whole realm,’ another Bishop declared. ‘The country is falling into despair, and if there is no peace for your subjects, they may …’
‘Look to yourselves for your protection, as the King said,’ Despenser snapped. ‘You are all grown men, in Christ’s name! Not maids and churls. You have your own guards. Set them to their duties!’
‘If there is no peace in your realm, the land may erupt. Your people will not respect a King who cannot give them peace.’
It was Walter Stapledon, Bishop of Exeter, who spoke, and Despenser gave him a long, threatening stare. ‘You and I have always been agreed on most matters, my Lord Bishop,’ he said. ‘I am surprised to hear you gainsaying me. Think carefully before you continue.’
Stapledon was an old man, certainly, and the last couple of months, especially since he’d lost his job, had made him look his age. But there was still a power in his eyes as he leaned towards Despenser, his head jutting. ‘You think to tell me, a man of God, where my duties lie, Sir Hugh? For shame! Keep your mouth closed if you can speak nothing but ill of others. My Lord King, you have decided not to go to France. If that is the case, and you remain here in England, you will lose Guyenne, the Agenais, and more than half your annual income.’
‘Parliament will have to increase the money sent to me in taxes.’
‘Parliament will not. It cannot. Once you have fleeced your sheep, my Lord, if you continue cutting, all you achieve is butchery. If you try to extort more money from your people
than they can afford, you will find that they will rise up. I do not speak sedition, only the truth. You need the French territories.’
‘I cannot go. I have decided.’
‘Then you must consider another alternative,’ Stapledon said, and turned to look at the Earl of Chester, who stood listening intently.
‘I will not have him go! I wish my son to remain here,’ the King declared.
‘Either you go or he does. If not, you lose all, your Highness. This is the single most important decision of your reign, my Lord.’
‘And he has decided,’ Despenser said quickly, but he felt the cold sweat breaking out on his back as the King wavered. Sweet Mother of God, yes, he was reconsidering. After all that effort, Stapledon had hit on the one ruse that could work: mention money to the King, and he’d listen all right. He would ignore comments about other men’s welfare, about the King’s Peace being broken with impunity on all sides, about the suffering of the masses … but suggest that he might lose a single farthing, and you would have his complete attention in an instant.
‘Hold!’ the King said. ‘I will not have matters bandied about like this. I have no doubt that you all seek to assist me, but what am I to do? I cannot remain here and also be in France. If I leave here, there would be consequences. I am needed in my realm to protect my people, but you say I should also be in Paris to pay homage to the French King. What should I do?’
The Earl of Chester strode forward. ‘It’s clear enough, Father – your Royal Highness – you will have to go to France. The date is set. It would be wrong for you not to honour your own word given to the French King. You must go.’
King Edward stared at his son. He was about to respond with vigour, when his answer was pre-empted.
‘The young Earl does speak a deal of sense, with a maturity beyond his years,’ said Despenser. ‘But there are some aspects of the situation of which he may be unaware. Your Royal Highness, perhaps we could discuss this with him later?’
‘Sir Hugh, I fear it is a little late already to be discussing this,’ Stapledon stated. He stepped forward. ‘You may believe that the Earl is of tender years, but I feel he has demonstrated a most sensitive and sensible attitude. For the Crown to retain the French territories, it is clear that homage will have to be paid to the French King, as he is the liege-lord for those lands. And it would be unthinkable for the English Crown to knowingly or willingly give up the estates won so hard over so many years. The Earl of Chester is quite right.’
The King shook his head violently. ‘I am the King, and I have spoken.’
‘Your Royal Highness, with respect,’ Hethe said, ‘we are your council. It would be wrong for us to allow you to act without our declaring our disagreement, if we felt this decision would adversely affect you. Your Majesty, please hear our views. You know I love you more than my own life. I have served you faithfully and loyally all these years, will you not listen to my own plea?’
Gatehouse, Louvre, Paris
Arnaud watched her walking away on those long legs of hers with a feeling of real misery. She’d been so bright and enthusiastic in his room, it was as though a ray of the sun had dropped in to speak with him, and illuminated his entire existence for those moments.
The only thing that had dimmed her smile had been the mention of the dead man.
‘I knew someone like him,’ she said. ‘I met him in a tavern not far from here in the days before he was killed.’
‘You know who he was? You must tell someone,’ Arnaud protested.
The smile was there still, but now there was a brittle quality to it, and she looked at him very directly. ‘You think so? I met him and his woman. They said that they were here to take money from the Cardinal. You hear that? The Cardinal himself. He stole money many years before, they claimed, and they wanted to blackmail him. Get some of it for themselves. I don’t know about you, but I’d be wary of mentioning that to anyone. Cardinal Thomas would make a bad enemy, so I’ve heard. He could resort to a knife.’
‘But if you know the man’s name …’ Arnaud began but quickly stilled his mouth.
‘I do not. Why should I? He was only some fellow I got chatting to in a tavern, nothing more. I think he said his name was Guillaume, but I can’t be sure. All I do know is, he wasn’t Parisian.’ She shook her head. ‘Terrible, to think that a man could come all the way here, and be struck down almost at once. So sad.’
Westminster
It was a full hour of the day later that Despenser stepped through the doors and out into the passage to the Great Hall.
‘Proud of yourself?’ he spat.
Walter Stapledon looked at him with an eye that glinted with anger. ‘You dare ask me that!’
‘You will see the King leave here and go to France?’
‘I would see the King behave as a King, just this once. Edward must go there. If not, his son must. One or other. It matters not a whit.’
‘You think that I shall be killed if he goes, don’t you?’
‘Sir Hugh, whatever happens to you is supremely irrelevant to me. This is a matter of feudal honour and the Crown.’
Despenser glanced about them, and then suddenly gripped the Bishop’s robes with both fists. He shoved Stapledon back against one of the massive pillars in the hall, his face so close the older man could feel the breath that rasped in his throat.
‘You think you’ll be safe when I’m dead? I swear to you, Bishop, I shall live longer than you, and you will die in the gutter, missed by no one, mourned by no one. You’ll regret this decision for the rest of your days, if you don’t get him to think again!’
Stapledon was unimpressed. ‘You have threatened and blustered so often in my presence, Sir Hugh, that your words no longer make me tremble,’ he said coldly. ‘In future, try to persuade yourself to emulate me and see to the benefit of the realm and others before you look to your own advantage.’
‘I swear I’ll—’
Stapledon raised his eyebrows, and then he spoke with a calm, quiet certainty. ‘I know that excommunication holds no terrors for you, Sir Hugh, but I swear on the Gospels, that if you continue to attempt to block the only sensible course for our poor King, I will definitely seek your excommunication, and then I shall also lay a curse upon you of such virulence and authority that all the saints will be unable to raise it from your putrid, stinking soul. You will leave me alone, Sir Hugh, or I shall destroy you utterly.’
‘Go, then!’ Despenser said, turning and releasing him, raising his hands from the Bishop’s robes as he did so, as though fearing that they might have been contaminated. ‘You go, old man, and we shall see who wins this battle. It will be a struggle, though, I warn you. I do not intend to see myself captured by my enemies and destroyed just because you seek to promote your own silly little cause.’
‘You call honour and the Crown silly? You dare to speak of them with such contempt? Truly, Sir Hugh, you will live to regret such disdain.’
‘You think so? Old fool, you will regret your presumption in trying to threaten me!’
Chapter Seven
Louvre, Paris
The Procureur was a clearly recognisable figure as he scurried from the front gate of the Louvre and out into the lane that led from the King’s greatest château to the city’s gates.
It was an inviolable rule that a bastion of defence like the Louvre should always be secure from the city which it was set to defend. In any city there were occasional uprisings, and the castle must stand impregnable.
These were the last thoughts on the man’s mind, though, as he followed after the Procureur.
The follower, Jacquot, was a slender man, his frame permanently weakened after the famine ten years before. He had not been able to rebuild his health after that. In fact, sweet Jesus, it was a miracle he was alive at all. All the others were dead, may their souls rest easy. Poor darling Maria, and Louisa, Jacques and little Frou-Frou, all had died. Only he remained out of his entire family.
It was only a matter of
luck that he had survived. Jacquot had been on the road from Albi, trudging miserably northwards in the rain, when he had come across a pair of bodies. At that time, there were bodies all over the place. Men and women simply sank to their knees and died, no matter where they were. They’d topple over in the road, and people would barely give them a glance. No one had the energy to help them, and no one cared for them. What was one more man or woman’s pain and misery to someone who’d already lost everything? So bodies were left where they lay, unless they were fortunate enough to die in a city which still had a little respect for itself and hoped that the famine would end.
Jacquot had at least seen to the burial of his own. They had all been installed in consecrated ground, his wife being interred under the supervision of the priest. Sadly, by the time Louisa died, the priest himself had expired, and from that moment, Jacquot himself dug the graves and set his children inside, one after the other, all at the feet of his wife’s body. After burying Jacques, there was no point in remaining. He had taken his staff and left the cottage, not even closing the door. There was nothing to be stolen. He had nothing.
But on that road he had seen the two bodies, and found himself studying them as though seeing corpses for the first time. It made some sort of connection with his soul. His own children and wife were dead, and now these two sorry souls lay before him. Suddenly, without knowing why, he began to sob. Great gouts of misery burst from his breast like vomit. The convulsions would not leave him. He was reduced to standing, leaning on the staff and bawling like a babe.
And then, when it was done, he found he could not move on. It was hard enough to walk on the level, and impossible to think of lifting a foot so high that he might step over them. At the same time his starved brain could not conceive of passing around them. Instead he stood, transfixed. And gradually a degree of determination returned.
The King of Thieves: Page 7