‘The man was there, though. Why kill my Jehanin? And why conceal his body while leaving the man’s on full display?’
‘Good questions, to which I have no answer as yet. But I shall before long,’ Baldwin said with certainty. ‘And now, we will take our leave of you.’
Sir Richard hastily swallowed the piece of tartlet he had stolen from a tray. ‘What was that all about, then?’ he asked Sir Baldwin, spraying crumbs as he spoke. ‘Why’d the fellow tell us all that about his knave?’
Baldwin stopped and glanced back at the cook, still standing, shoulders slumped, at the doorway to the kitchen. ‘Because he truly cares for his apprentices and knaves. And at last I am beginning to gain an understanding for the story here.’
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Queen’s chambers, Louvre
Bishop Walter received the invitation to the Queen’s chambers for a meal with distinct reluctance. It was impossible to refuse, naturally, but he would have preferred to have waited for Baldwin and the others, and then rested more quietly, content in the knowledge that all three were outside his door.
But it was not to be, and with any fortune, perhaps the woman had begun to see reason. Yes, that must be it. She was going to agree to return with him. Her resolve had waned after seeing how futile her petty rebellion was, and she had grown to understand that her place was naturally at the side of her husband.
So it was with a degree of confidence that he commanded his clerks to join him, and set off along the corridors to find the Queen’s chambers.
‘Her Royal Highness is expecting me,’ he said pompously to the door-guards, and they stood back to allow him to pass.
‘My Lady,’ he said as he entered, bowing his head in the briefest display of respect he could manage. ‘You commanded me to come?’
‘Please, my Lord Bishop, take a seat,’ the Queen said graciously, waving a hand at the table ready set for their meal.
The Bishop took his seat at the head, and gazed about him. ‘There is another place set here?’
‘Yes. And I think the Cardinal is here already. Such a punctual man,’ she murmured.
As she greeted her second guest, Bishop Walter looked around him. The table was gleaming with fresh, clean linen. No trenchers and bowls for the Queen and her guests: instead her best silver plates were ready to be filled. Spoons of a delicate pattern were set out beside them – lovely things, the craftsmanship excellent. It was actually hard to see where the tail of the handle was affixed to the spoon’s bowl.
About the room were the Queen’s guards, most of them originally entirely safe and honourable. All had been picked by the King and Lord Cromwell – but now there were rumours, strong rumours, that more than half had been won over by Isabella’s charming manner, her largesse and her delicate femininity. True, she was the greatest beauty in all France and England together.
Her ladies were standing at the rear of the room. There was no sign of Lord Cromwell, which was a surprise, but the Bishop assumed that this was to be a farewell meal for the Cardinal, so it made good sense to have as few people present as possible, so that any … delicate matters could be discussed safe in the knowledge that there were few ears to listen.
The food was as excellent as he had hoped. He remembered that as a fact afterwards: as he took the first mouthfuls, he felt a warm glow fill his soul. The dishes were superb, the wine still better, and yet afterwards he could not recall what he had eaten or drunk.
‘An excellent meal,’ he said as he fell back from the table, sated.
‘I am glad.’
He looked over the tablecloths at the array of gold, silver and heavy pewter lying on it. ‘You have a table fit for a King, your Highness.’
‘The Cardinal has such expensive tastes, Bishop.’
‘Not always, my Lady,’ Cardinal Thomas said respectfully. ‘And never on this level.’
‘You are too modest.’
The Cardinal smiled in reply. ‘I was born to humble surroundings, and could never aspire to such magnificence.’
Bishop Walter took a sip of wine. Humility was not a trait he would have associated with the Cardinal.
‘So, Bishop. How much longer do you intend to make me wait?’ the Queen suddenly asked.
The Bishop glanced up at her. Even in her widow’s weeds she was a stunningly beautiful creature. For a woman in such a situation, she was dressed fabulously well. Her clothing might be all in black, but for a woman with her perfect features, pale skin and wonderful, almost luminous eyes, it set off her looks to best effect. ‘Well, we can be off as soon as you decide, my Lady. It will take little time to prepare all my books and goods.’
She set her head on one side. ‘You mean to tell me you think that I shall join you on your journey?’
‘But of course … is that not why we are all here?’ the Bishop smiled, and then he felt the first stirrings of concern as she exchanged a look with the Cardinal.
‘My Lord Bishop,’ the Cardinal began, sitting back and steepling his fingers ‘I think you have missed the point of the meeting here. The Queen had considered that your position had become clear to you, and a sensible end to this impasse was now at hand.’
Bishop Walter smiled still, but behind his smile was a growing rage. That he should be so brow-beaten was intolerable! He was the Bishop of a large diocese. He was the King’s trusted emissary, his special adviser on so many matters, especially financial, and now he was here to be persuaded to submit? He would not.
‘I have clearly been the unwitting cause of embarrassment,’ he said. ‘Excuse me, but I must return to my own rooms.’
‘No, Bishop. I am a Cardinal, and I order you to remain here and listen.’ Thomas d’Anjou’s voice did not rise, but there was no need for it to. ‘You see,’ he went on, ‘many of us are coming to the conclusion that the Queen’s situation here is quite unacceptable. It is you who prevent her from gaining access to the funds which she reasonably demands. It is a gross insult to the people of France, to the realm, and to the Crown itself. It will not continue.’
‘What do you propose?’ the Bishop asked, his jaw clenched.
‘Just this: you came here with authority to release monies to the Queen. I suggest you do so.’
‘I may not. I was told only to do so when she agreed to return to England, to her husband, her King, as he has ordered. Will she do so?’
‘No!’ Queen Isabella stated, and her eyes flashed with anger.
‘Then there is nothing more to discuss,’ the Bishop said.
‘There is one thing, Bishop,’ Thomas d’Anjou said. ‘You insult our Lady at your own peril. We are a proud race, we French. We do not tolerate foreign ambassadors, no matter how senior, arriving here and insulting her.’
‘I have letters of safe conduct.’
‘So you may do. And yet, I think you would find that they would aid you not one whit!’
It was now that the Cardinal dropped his hands to his lap and stared at Bishop Walter. His face was blank. There was no sympathy written on it, for felons deserve none; there was no understanding of the impossible position in which the Bishop found himself, only a firm resolve.
‘You suggest I pass the Queen such funds as I hold under my hand, and then what? I return to England, a disgraced and dispossessed man ready to be flung into gaol on arrival? Or perhaps you would have me remain here as an exile. To be reviled and despised by all who cross my path, neither French, nor English, merely a soulless, unwanted fool who gave up his life for the promise of extending it. Do you think me a fool?’
‘I have always been persuaded that there are compensations for the worst insults,’ the Cardinal told him. ‘In my time, I have been persuaded to leave the side of one Pope for another, I’ve been persuaded to join the service of the French Crown, and the Pope, and I’ve been able to rise. Look at me! I have the best-filled coffers outside the Vatican. And I live well – yet I was born a poor fellow with a father who had barely two sous to rub together. You could do the same
.’
‘Not with honour,’ Bishop Walter said flatly. He turned from the Cardinal and stared directly at the Queen. ‘This is your last word on the matter?’
‘No, not quite. I say this too,’ the Queen said, thoughtfully running a finger about the rim of her goblet. ‘If you refuse my reasonable demands, I shall leave you to the wolves, Bishop Walter. The truth is, your life is not your own any more. I can control it. If you do not join me, you may thwart me. I will not have that.’
‘Then so be it.’
Bishop Walter stood, bowed curtly to each, and walked from the room. And as soon as he was outside, he felt the sweat break out on his brow.
‘Sweet Jesus protect me!’ he pleaded, crossing himself.
‘So that is that, my Lady,’ Cardinal Thomas said. He selected a grape from the pile before him and chewed it carefully, the seeds crunching. ‘He will not submit to your eminently fair requests.’
‘I knew it! I knew it before he entered. Did I not say to you that he was the most stubborn and foolish of all the priests in the realm? If he thinks it is not to his profit, nor that of his damned college in Oxford, nor to his little schools for children, nor to the good of his cathedral, he will have nought to do with it,’ the Queen spat petulantly. ‘He is so irrational!’
‘He must have a letter about him for the money,’ the Cardinal said pensively.
‘Yes. But the only way to acquire it would be to capture him, ask where it is hidden and steal it from him.’
‘Quite. Exactly as I was thinking,’ the Cardinal said very softly.
‘You are serious?’
‘Never more so.’
The Queen frowned with perplexity, looking away. ‘I would prefer not to have a Bishop’s death on my conscience.’
‘And the alternative? That you salve your conscience at the risk of your son’s inheritance? Not the best option, my Lady.’
‘How may a lady find a man capable of such …’
‘Please leave it in my hands, my Lady. I can easily find the man for you.’
She was no fool, and now she looked at him very directly. ‘And what will you desire for this aid, Cardinal?’
‘My Lady, all I wish for is an opportunity to serve you, of course,’ he smiled. ‘And, perhaps, when you have the money in your hands, you will seek to reward with your largesse those who have helped you?’
Bishop Walter’s chamber, Louvre
Bishop Walter was enormously relieved to find Baldwin and Simon in his chamber waiting for him.
‘Lock the door,’ he burst out, as he crossed the room to his sideboard. On it was a jug, and a servant hurried to try to pour him a goblet of wine, but the Bishop merely slapped him away and poured for himself. Draining the first goblet, he refreshed it and stood silently a moment, staring at the wall before him, thinking desperately.
‘Bishop? My Lord?’ Simon said tentatively. ‘What is the matter?’
‘The bitch! The she-wolf! It’s all her,’ Bishop Walter said, and drank deeply again. Then, quickly, he made up his mind and turned to face the others. ‘He sits there and tells me, that Cardinal, that he was born to humble surroundings! Well, all I can say is, it is a great shame no humility wore off on him as a result!’
‘Bishop, we do not understand what you’re on about.’ Simon tried again. ‘What has happened?’
‘That Cardinal! The Queen! Very well. So be it! Simon, Baldwin, I have to leave here most urgently. Tonight you will sleep here with me. At first light, as soon as the gates are opened, I shall flee the city. We have need of haste – to warn the King of the treachery that is so alive here in Paris.’
Baldwin shot a look at Simon, then approached the Bishop. ‘What has happened? You are distressed, but when you left us earlier, you appeared content and satisfied.’
‘She threatened me, Sir Baldwin. The Queen suggested that I would not be permitted to stand in her way. She threatened me – me, a Bishop in Holy Orders, in God’s name! The whore is no more loyal than a feral cat. While it suits her, she treats others with respect, but the next moment, she forgets all trust and faith and honour—’
‘Bishop, please be still,’ Baldwin said sharply. ‘This is her city, do not forget, and there are many people who would be happy to spy on you and spread malicious stories about your conversations. Please moderate your tone.’
The Bishop was about to snap back, but then he grew uncomfortably aware of the servants in the chamber. There was the steward at his sideboard, chamber servant over by the door, and a scribe sitting with his head bowed at his desk. Taking a deep breath, he nodded, and ordered the servants to leave them alone.
‘My apologies, Sir Baldwin. I am sure that those men are safe – they are all English, but you are right to be cautious.’
‘Even an Englishman could be tempted by a bribe,’ Baldwin said.
‘True. Well, Queen Isabella has made it clear that I am not to try to thwart her any more. She wishes for the money which I can authorise from the banks, and I will not comply. For that reason I must leave here. I was threatened with death. And offered a bribe, too! The Cardinal suggested I might enrich myself, as he has. Well, I will not!’
‘Very well. We shall prepare ourselves,’ Baldwin said.
‘No. You will remain here. If we travel as a group, there is little possibility that we shall escape the nets the Queen will throw in our path. I shall wander alone, clad as a pilgrim. That way, perhaps, I can reach the coast safely.’
‘You will need some men to go with you,’ Baldwin protested.
‘I shall have my clerks,’ the Bishop said firmly. ‘That will be enough to confuse any search. If I were to go with a larger party it would be too easy to find me.’
Simon was frowning with incomprehension. ‘But what if they do find you? They would surely not dare to hurt you while you have letters of safe conduct?’
‘Simon, my friend, while I am in France, I am in enormous danger,’ the Bishop explained. ‘There are too many people here who detest me and would be keen to see me dead. The Queen for one, but since these rumours about the Procureur dying because of me, there are many others who would also like to see me die.’
Baldwin nodded. ‘There are risks in setting off with only a few clerks in attendance, but you would be safer, perhaps, in the guise of a pilgrim than in travelling with a large retinue. Are you sure you do not wish for a sword at your side?’
‘I will have my own sword,’ the Bishop said shortly. ‘I am a knight’s son, and have experience of combat. And two of my clerks have had their training in weapons. We should be safe enough.’
‘Then it is decided,’ Baldwin said. ‘And it is the more crucial since it will give you the opportunity to bring news of Mortimer to the King.’
‘Yes,’ the Bishop said, pausing suddenly. ‘I had forgotten him.’
‘What of him?’ Simon asked.
‘You remember I said that he and I had had no disputes in the past? Well, now I wonder whether he has a hand in all this. How else could the Queen have grown so poisoned against me?’
‘It is possible that she and he are allied,’ Baldwin agreed, glancing at Simon. During their last visit to Paris they had witnessed Mortimer and the Queen holding a private conference, but then there had not appeared to be any danger in two exiles talking. Now it seemed that there might be more to it. ‘But Sir Roger Mortimer was always very devoted to his wife, I am sure.’
‘He was – but he hasn’t seen her in years,’ the Bishop muttered. ‘The King has her held tighter than a whore’s purse.’ He looked up, suddenly ashamed. ‘I am sorry, friends. These last days have been tormenting to me.’
‘We understand,’ Baldwin said. ‘Now, if you are to leave at first light, there is much to plan.’
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Outside Paris, north of the Louvre
Hélias heard running feet and looked up in time to see Bernadette pelt in through the door.
‘Hélias! Hélias!’ she gasped.
�
�Well? What have you found out?’
‘There was a contract between the Cardinal and the King, and the King had his best killer put on the job. A man called Jacquot.’
Louvre
In the castellan’s chamber, Hugues was startled by the sudden opening of his door. He rolled over to grab for his sword, and Amélie squeaked as she was thrown from him.
‘Get rid of the whore, Hugues – we have business,’ the Cardinal said coldly.
Second Tuesday following the Feast of the Archangel Michael*
Courtyard of the Louvre
Baldwin and Simon were outside as dawn broke, and they watched as the small party of pilgrims walked across the grounds to the gate as it was opened by Arnaud. He paid no attention to them as they set off on their way.
‘That is that, then,’ Simon said.
‘Yes. Godspeed to the Bishop,’ Baldwin said with feeling. ‘I only pray that he makes it safely to the coast. It would be a dreadful disaster, were he to be found on his way and killed.’
‘I would miss him,’ Simon said.
‘I too,’ Baldwin said, but with less sympathy. The truth was that Walter Stapledon had been an ally of the Despenser for too long now, and Baldwin was not certain where the Bishop’s loyalties lay. He was worried that Sir Walter’s main interests were all too self-centred. Only earlier this year, when Baldwin and Simon had found evidence which showed Sir Hugh le Despenser in a less than attractive light, the Bishop had promised to hold it in safe-keeping, and then had given it to Despenser himself, who had promptly destroyed it.
But no matter what his thoughts of the Bishop’s personal actions and his integrity in matters of politics, the man had the gift of inspiring others. All too often in the past he had inspired Baldwin himself. It was only more recently that Baldwin had found his blandishments more easy to ignore – or try to. Somehow the Bishop usually managed to get his own way.
Not here in Paris, though, Baldwin reminded himself.
‘Baldwin?’ Simon nudged him out of his reverie. ‘Yesterday, while we were talking to the cook, you seemed to think you were getting an insight into the killings here. Is that right?’
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