Not that it mattered. He was a duke at present, and from the way things were progressing, it was unlikely he would ever be a king. ‘My lord, I hope I see you well,’ Sir Ralph said respectfully.
‘Sir Ralph la Zouche, I believe. I am pleased to see you,’ the fellow responded. He snapped a finger, and two servants ran to the table. While one cleaned an already spotless goblet, the second poured a small measure into a cup, swilled it, sniffed it, and then took a deep swallow with a contemplative air. He nodded, and poured a larger measure into the freshly cleaned goblet, before bringing it to the duke, bowing low. As soon as Duke Edward had it, the man stepped away silently, walking backwards the whole way.
The Duke hardly seemed to notice. ‘Sir Ralph. You have come here from England. Why is that?’
‘There were matters. It was better that we should all evade Sir Hugh le Despenser’s men.’
‘You have caused him embarrassment?’ Queen Isabella asked breathlessly. She was as quick and eager as a polecat, Sir Ralph thought to himself.
He nodded. ‘I and my family killed one of the Despenser’s men. He was ever stealing from me and my family, and we could not tolerate it any longer.’
‘Who?’ the Duke asked.
‘You know Belers? His favourite in the Treasury?’
‘This is good news!’ the queen said with delight. ‘My husband must be feeling desolate. You have killed his favourite in the Treasury, while I have taken delivery of his silver.’
‘Silver?’ Sir Ralph repeated.
‘He sent five barrels of silver to bribe the peers of France,’ Duke Edward said. ‘But the ship was captured by our friends. They took the barrels to the Duke of Hainault, who naturally passed it to us.’
Sir Ralph said nothing, but thought a lot. The fact that the queen and her son possessed a vast sum in silver was worth knowing. They could reward their friends – which was no doubt why they had told him. ‘You asked us to come here to look after you,’ he said solemnly. ‘What do you wish from us?’
The duke answered. ‘I have my own household, of course, but my father is growing ever more irrational, I fear. I seek more men to guard me and protect me from capture. There are tales of ships which are being provisioned to bring Englishmen to France to catch me and take me back. I would prefer not to have this happen.’
There was just a slight hint of reticence as he spoke: the proof of a boy not yet a man, who would prefer not to alienate his father.
Sir Ralph nodded. ‘We have all these men – proven fighters – and they’ll be as loyal to you as I am.’
‘Do you think any of them could be persuaded to return to the king?’ Queen Isabella asked.
‘Any of us?’ Sir Ralph laughed. ‘I will be hanged if I return, as will my brother and the others. We are all enemies of Despenser. What, would you think we could return to England with the threat of our lives, in the hope that we might sell news to the king? No. We are all here because we have no life in England now.’
‘There is a man there with a tonsure.’
‘He is a priest from Exeter, I think. He’s run here too.’
The queen’s face hardened, and if it was possible, Sir Ralph would have said that the room grew chill.
‘If he came from Exeter, I do not blame him. It must be foul – disgusting – to live in the same city as that accursed Bishop, Walter Stapledon!’
Tiverton Castle
It was not easy for Baldwin to listen to William as the squire told all his news. The idea that a man might send messages to warn the bishop that he was soon to die seemed so irrational as to be insane. However, there was the appeal of a desperate man in Squire William’s eyes, and Baldwin would not desert the bishop when he needed Baldwin’s help. True, in the last year or more, Stapledon had been less than deft in his dealings with Despenser, and had a few times put Baldwin and his friend into difficult situations with that most powerful magnate, but that was no reason not to help him.
‘You are sure of all this?’ Baldwin asked. ‘What sort of messages were they?’
The squire related everything he could remember about the messages, describing the parchment, the little purse, everything. ‘But the real difficulty is, the bishop has no recollection of anyone whom he could have hurt, and a man who was stabbed and wounded would surely have etched himself on Bishop Walter’s memory?’
Baldwin nodded vaguely. ‘Perhaps. Not all men remember those whom they have hurt in such a manner, but I agree, I think that Walter would do so, certainly. Why did you say “a man who was stabbed”?’
‘The purse has a stain upon one side, which to me looked like blood. So I thought, if the bishop had once hurt a man, so that the man fell down later, and his blood marked his purse, perhaps then the fellow would harbour a grudge, and would try to—’
‘No, it will not do!’ Baldwin declared with certainty. ‘You propose that a fellow is stabbed, so violently that his blood is permitted to leak and stain the ground all about him? If that was the case, it would be remarkable if the man lived. Yet you say he does live and seeks revenge? Hardly likely. Then you say that he had this purse. It soaked up the blood. That is possible, but again, it would mean significant effusions of the vital fluid. Finally, you say that these notes were written. My friend, if notes were written, it is not at all likely that the man who was wounded would have written them. Unless your uncle unwittingly stabbed a clerk.’
‘A clerk?’
‘The only profession in which writing is an essential skill. But if he had stabbed a priest or cleric, he would recall it.’
William was suddenly pale as a thought struck him.
‘Speak your mind,’ Baldwin said. ‘Come – speak!’
‘He mentioned to me only the other day, when he sent me here, that he was once excommunicated. Did you hear of it?’
‘Yes. It was a long time ago though. I was abroad.’
‘The cathedral had a dispute with the friars, the Dominicans. They were attempting to bury a corpse, against the rules of the cathedral, and my uncle and another man went to the friary with the aim of bringing the corpse back to the cathedral. They took the funerary items, the candles, the cloth, all the items you would expect.’
‘And he was accused of beating a man, I recollect.’
‘Certainly the party was accused of spilling blood. Perhaps this could be one of the friars? They can write, they live nearby, and they had a man who had bled profusely, if the tale is true.’
‘And there were probably two other men badly beaten that same night who were nowhere near the friary. The pouch could have been taken and dropped into another pool of blood. There is nothing to say that the good bishop had anything to do with it. And if there was a fight and men were beaten, then it would have been the lay brothers, not your uncle, who did the beating. No, I don’t believe that is very likely.’
‘Oh, so it wasn’t one of them.’
‘Perhaps it was,’ Baldwin said kindly. The squire appeared to be quite crestfallen. ‘It would be wrong to ignore any possibility until there has been a chance of considering it in more detail. Now, what is the bishop doing about this possible threat? Let me guess – refusing to tolerate any change in his plans or routines?’
‘Absolutely. He says that to do so would only prove to those in the city who mean him harm that there was substance in the story.’
‘And he may be right. However, if the cost of proving your confidence in your innocence is your life, perhaps a different fee could be considered, eh? Well, you have convinced me. I shall ride back to Exeter with you. We will leave very soon, and stay overnight at my house. It will be good to return and see my wife once more,’ he added.
Chapter Nineteen
Montreuil
‘So, Sir Edward, I hope I can serve you well enough?’ Paul de Cockington said nervously.
It was the first time in his life that he had been so close to a member of the royal family, and that knowledge was making his mouth work all on its own, as though there was
no need for him to engage his heart or his brain to keep talking. Before he walked in here, he had been sure that he would soon show the lad that he was considerably wiser. How hard could it be, to control a mere boy? But there was something in this fellow’s face that stopped a man from taking liberties.
‘Father, I am sure you will suffice for me,’ the Duke said. He wore a slight smile on his face, as though he understood Paul’s effusiveness, and found it endearing. Like a man who enjoyed a puppy’s tail wagging. ‘I hope your duties will not be too arduous.’
‘I should be delighted to help you,’ Paul said. ‘I would do anything to serve you, my lord.’
‘Then first discover the benefits of silence, eh?’ Duke Edward said. ‘I have a need for some moments of peace.’
They had left the main chamber, and had reached the smaller room above it. The Duke was a little distracted, Paul could see, but he was scarcely interested in the feelings of the Duke, since his own mind was growing so disordered. All he could think of was that he was here, alone, with the heir to the English throne.
‘How long will you need me?’ Paul asked.
‘Hmm? Oh, I don’t know. My last confessor has been forced away, and my tutor and other men from my household have been given other duties. Good Sir Roger Mortimer has persuaded me that they must serve me in Aquitaine. So I have need of more. And those who are in England would be … a little difficult to recruit at this time.’
Paul knew that. There was the small matter of Queen Isabella’s rift with her husband. Whereas before it would have been easy to hire men to serve the Duke, now no man would be allowed to leave England to come and swell the queen’s small host. And any who were, would be viewed as spies sent by the king and therefore rejected by Queen Isabella. However, men who were already exiled from England and who would be glad of a promised pardon in exchange for their service, would be loyal. That was why he and the Folvilles and others had been brought here.
It was not long before there was a knock at the door. When Paul opened it, he found himself gazing into the blue eyes of the queen’s lady-in-waiting. She curtseyed, grinning all the while, and he found his own attention being absorbed by her embonpoint. Noticing the direction of his look, she gave him a mockingly stern shake of the head, before motioning him aside.
Commanded by this imperious little angel, Paul moved from her path, and the lady entered the room. A few paces behind her was the queen. In a few moments, Paul found himself outside the room, staring at the closed door.
‘Come, Father. I would speak with you.’
This was from a tall, strong man. He could have been well past his middle forties, from the look of him, for his face showed the passage of a number of tribulations. There was an immensity of sadness in his eyes, as well as resolution and anger. It was the anger which Paul saw most, and the sight made him pause with some anxiety, until he realised that the rage was not directed at him.
‘Sir?’
‘You are Paul de Cockington, eh? I don’t know nor do I care what brought you here to France, fellow. But know this, you have a sacred duty here to the next king of England. Understand that, and understand that you must help me to serve him by telling me of any danger that shows itself.’
‘Who are you, to tell me what to do?’ Paul said haughtily.
‘Further, if you are to have any possibility of returning to England and winning a pardon for whatever you have done to drive you away, you will keep me informed of all who come to meet the young duke and anything else which pertains to his safety, the security of his person, and the realm which he is to inherit.’
‘I am most sorry, but if you think that I will submit to you in this, you are—’
‘You will do all this, and be richly rewarded. Fail me, little priest, and you will learn that I am not an understanding opponent.’
‘Perhaps you are not, but my duty will be to the duke, and no one else.’
‘Priest, you will be answerable to me alone,’ the man said, leaning forward. ‘For I am going to invade the kingdom, and that boy in there will soon become king. And if anything happens to him and I find you implicated in it, I will personally take great pleasure in dissecting your body.’
He stared coldly into Paul’s eyes for a few moments, before abruptly turning and striding out. Almost as soon as he had gone, the door reopened and the queen and her lady-in-waiting walked out without speaking to Paul.
In the chamber, the duke stood pensively staring through the window. He heard Paul’s steps and turned quickly. The afternoon sun shone full upon the lad as he caught sight of Paul, and the rector was shocked into immobility at the expression in his eyes.
For the very first time, Paul appreciated that, although this was a powerful man, the son of a king, and a Duke in his own right, in the lad’s eyes, he saw only terror; the terror of a boy who knew that his parents loathed each other, and for whom there could never be peace in his family again.
Third Monday before the Feast of St Paul and St John*
Bishop’s Clyst, near Exeter
Baldwin trotted up the roadway to the bishop’s great house with an eye open to all dangers.
Only the last day, there had been some acts of hideous treachery committed. To hear of rape and murder was one thing, but to learn that the crimes had been committed on the Sabbath was most shocking, even to a man like Baldwin, who had witnessed so many foul crimes in his long life.
‘I am sorry that your journey was increased,’ William was saying again.
The poor fellow looked quite worn down, Baldwin thought, which was unlike him.
‘I am sure that it is merely a matter of sense,’ he said. ‘The bishop has so many calls upon his time, it is not surprising that he might decide to move away from the palace for a few days. Perhaps it was only to relax a little. He is always such a hard worker.’
‘Yes, you’re probably right,’ William said, but he retained an expression of watchful anxiety as they clattered over the drawbridge and up to the main yard.
There was good need for his concern. As Baldwin looked about him, he saw seven men-at-arms in the court, and up at the hall, he saw two more. That wasn’t counting the men on the walls. This was not a peaceful residence away from the city, it was a fortified manor in preparation for war. A sudden chill settled in his breast at the thought that the long-feared war might even now be at hand. It had not occurred to him that there could have been recent news about the queen and Mortimer. But if there were to be reports of imminent attack, it was natural that the bishop would go and see to the defences of his favourite house outside of Exeter.
So it was with some nervousness of his own that Baldwin dropped from his mount and made his way hurriedly from the court to the hall. Seeing John de Padington, he was reassured to recognise the stolid, unperturbable steward.
‘Sir Baldwin, you are most welcome. I hope you had a good journey? I am sure the good squire will have entertained you on your way.’
‘I wasn’t in the mood for entertaining,’ William said.
Baldwin nodded with mock severity. ‘No. He sought to avoid entertainment entirely, master steward. Rather, he saw fit to distract me from all pleasant contemplation of the roads, the fields, the woods, and ensured that I was engaged all the while in discussion of serious matters.’
‘I only spoke of the coming … oh. You jest!’ William said, with a roll of his eyes.
‘Friend, let’s see what the bishop has to say,’ Baldwin murmured, not unkindly.
‘He has much to tell you,’ John said. ‘There’s been another note.’
Montreuil
The weather was fine. That was the first thought that ran through Paul’s head as he gradually awoke. He could tell it was fine because he had forgotten to draw the shutters the night before, he had been so merry, and now he found that the light was a most unwelcome distraction.
At least he had slept well. His problem had been the drink. Usually he could cope with a quantity of ale, but last night, jealous
of a squire with his wench on his arm, Paul had retreated to a small, smoky den at the back of the castle’s yard, near the kitchen, where he had found a small group of men playing at knucklebones for pennies a throw. The merry fellows were keen to welcome him in among their games; later, it was a still more merry bunch of men, while Paul’s mood had risen to elation, only to crash to misery as his gambling flowed and then inevitably ebbed. He had drunk more than he should, especially of the strong local red wine, and when he left that party, he had been almost cleaned out of all money.
Recalling their faces now, he wondered whether he had been fleeced as many gulls in a new town would be. There was something about their looks which had struck him as perhaps a little secretive. One man with a face so bearded he looked like a gorilla, had winked to a companion as soon as Paul entered. That was odd, now he came to think of it: the men had all exchanged glances when he walked in, and the bearded man had been the one who accepted him into their game, but they had none of them asked who he was. After all, he was a stranger in their midst. But perhaps his face was already known to the garrison. He was the confessor to the young duke, after all.
With a flash, he remembered that today he was supposed to be aiding the duke with his lessons.
His predecessor as tutor had been a very widely read man, apparently, called Bury. But he had been sent to be Constable of Bordeaux, because Roger Mortimer had said that the town needed a good man at this difficult time. Now the prince seemed to feel the need for more education, almost as a defence against more work.
Rising and washing his face quickly, Paul shivered and made his way to the duke’s chamber.
‘Enter!’
‘My lord, I hope I find you well?’ Paul said as he knelt just inside the doorway.
‘No one has poisoned me today. Not that I know of, anyway,’ Edward replied, somewhat dully.
Paul licked his dry lips. ‘I am sure no one would wish to do that, my lord.’
The Bishop Must Die: (Knights Templar 28) Page 18