No Law in the Land

Chapter Three

The Painted Chamber, Westminster

‘It would be better that you rested, your royal highness,’ Sir Hugh le Despenser said.

‘I am not in a mood to rest,’ King Edward II replied.

Sir Hugh ducked his head, then signalled to a waiting servant. The man nodded and fetched him a goblet of wine, bowing low as he passed it.

It was good to see men who understood their position in the world. This bottler, for example. He knew that his place was to wait for the merest signal, and then to rush to serve his betters. And Sir Hugh le Despenser was definitely his better. As the second most wealthy and powerful man in the realm, after only the king himself, Sir Hugh was the better of all. The king alone he viewed as an equal.

But even knowing his own importance, Sir Hugh could not help but stare at the bottler as he poured, wondering for how much longer he would merit such respect. It felt as though the entire realm was a tower teetering on the brink of complete failure, undermined by enemies that could not be seen, swatted away or exterminated. They were deep underground, hidden from view. And if the realm failed, Sir Hugh would die. He and all his friends must be taken and slain. The strain of his position was like a band of steel tightening around his skull. ‘My lord, would you not take a seat? I can arrange for some diverting-’

‘Be still, Sir Hugh! Do you not see when a man needs peace and silence to consider? I have much to think of, in Christ’s name!’

‘I do understand, your highness,’ said Sir Hugh. It was harder and harder to restrain his own tongue in the face of the king’s bile. ‘But surely a rest would do no harm.’

The king continued as though he had not heard him speak. ‘It is humiliating that my wife is not yet home. She should have returned as soon as Stapledon arrived there. What could be holding her up? There is no news, and we do not know how the French are responding. Christ Jesus! She must know how it embarrasses me. And my son is still there. I want him home again. I do not want my heir to be held there any longer than is entirely necessary. He is young, vulnerable. He is not yet thirteen years old, and already he has been forced to go and pay homage to the French like a mere knight, when he is a duke!’

‘It was better that he did so than that another should go,’ Despenser said. ‘It was better than that you should go.’

‘I couldn’t!’ the king snapped. He was at the farther end of the chamber now, the easternmost end, near his bed. There were three large oval windows above him, and he appeared to be staring up at them, but when Sir Hugh followed his gaze, he saw that the king was peering up at a picture of a prophet on the ceiling.

It was the most beautiful room in the kingdom. In fact Sir Hugh had heard that the French king himself was jealous of the chamber, and had ordered that a similar one be built for his own use. There were paintings over the walls and the ceilings, all with an exuberant use of colour and gilt. Even the meanest feature had decoration upon it. As Sir Hugh glanced at the window nearest him, he saw that the soffit itself had a picture of an angel staring down. Below her was a virtue, Debonerete, or meekness, triumphing over the vice Ira, wrath. As was normal, the virtue was depicted as a woman, holding a shield on which the arms of England were differenced by two bars, while the arms of St Edmund and other saints were carefully painted around her in a border. She was a stunning figure, especially since she stood some three yards tall, and gleamed with fire from the gilt and gold leaf.

Nearby there was another figure in the same vein. Here the virtue was Largesse, and she was triumphing over Covoitise, covetousness. That at least was one vice which the king never suffered from. Not in the presence of Sir Hugh.

Sir Hugh had his goblet refilled and waited. He had much patience. Sometimes he thought that it was the only virtue he required while here with the king. But he couldn’t deny that he’d been well rewarded over the years for his patience. All he had ever needed to show his king was humility and deference, leavened with adoration, and Edward had repaid the effort many times over. Sir Hugh’s desires became the king’s desires; Sir Hugh’s friends became the king’s, while his enemies became Edward’s most detested foes. There was nothing Sir Hugh could do that would colour the king’s opinion of him. Even when the French demanded that Edward travel to France to pay homage for the territories held from the French crown, the king was happier to send his own heir, the Earl of Chester, Duke of Aquitaine, rather than make the journey himself. Some believed it was because he feared for his safety. Sir Hugh knew it was more because he was anxious for Sir Hugh.

Edward was happier to risk the life and livelihood of his own son than he was to risk the neck of his lover.

‘He would have something to say about this, wouldn’t he?’ the king was saying.

His words brought Sir Hugh back to the present. ‘Who, your highness?’

‘I said, the prophet here, Jeremiah, he would have had much to say about my reign, wouldn’t he?’

Sir Hugh racked his brains. ‘Jeremiah — he foretold of the disaster that was about to overwhelm the Holy Land, did he not? When the Babylonians overran it?’

‘Yes. He was rejected by his own people because they felt he was a doom-monger, always giving them the worst, never telling them that all would grow better. He was as popular as I am.’

The king had a break in his voice as he spoke, and Sir Hugh took a breath. ‘Sire, you are much loved by your people. It is not your fault that-’

‘I have been astonishingly unlucky. Look at me! I was feted when I was crowned, but one thing after another has set the seal on my reign. The Scottish, the French, the bastards from the borders — and there’s been nothing I could do about any of it! As soon as I had the opportunity, I took my host to the lords marcher, and I defeated them, didn’t I? But that wasn’t good enough to recover my reign. The people detest me. No! Don’t think to lie to me, Sir Hugh! I know what they are thinking. And now even my queen has deserted me. She sits there in France with her brother and entertains his friends and my enemies, and I cannot be sure what she intends. Fickle woman!’

‘We shall soon know, sire.’

But the king was not to be consoled, and when Sir Hugh left him some while later, it was with a worried frown at his brow. Edward’s fears were all too well known to him, but it seemed that the man’s concerns were growing daily into fully developed panic. And that was enough to give Sir Hugh cause for thought. His own position in the world was dependent entirely on the king’s goodwill.

Sir Hugh had thought that when the Welsh marches rose in rebellion against him, it was a master stroke to have the king raise an army and march with him. At the time it had seemed the most ingenious response. Those who had sought to meet Sir Hugh in battle instead found themselves faced by the king’s banners. Any who attempted to fight would now be branded as traitors. Their declarations of loyalty to the king were irrelevant. They had tried to impose their will on the king, and Edward had suffered from that kind of interference before. He had been forced to submit to men who enforced ordinances restricting his freedom to rule as he wished. When he tried to reward his favourite, Piers Gaveston, the earls had captured Piers and executed him. Edward would not permit any man to stand in his way again. He had decided that he loved Sir Hugh, and any who sought Sir Hugh’s destruction was an enemy of the king.

But the sheer brilliance of his scheming had concealed one possible risk. Sir Hugh had first seen to the capture of his worst enemy, the bastard grandson of the murderer Mortimer, may he rot in hell for all eternity. Roger Mortimer, the grandfather, had slaughtered Sir Hugh’s own grandsire at Evesham, and the Despensers were not a family to forget a blood feud. So Sir Hugh’s first ambition was to have Mortimer held for a brief period, and then executed as a traitor to the king. And he had almost succeeded. The king had agreed, after two years of careful persuasion, and Mortimer would have been dead already, except the fortunate devil had learned of the death warrant being signed, and had made a daring escape from the Tower of London. Now he was living abroad, plotting the downfall of Sir Hugh, no doubt. Rumours of his negotiations in Hainault for mercenaries and ships had come to Despenser’s spies.

When the rebels were all captured or beaten, flying from the country, Sir Hugh acquired all those parts he had craved so long. He owned almost all of Wales, he possessed vast tracts of the West Country, and he was undoubtedly the second most wealthy and powerful man in the realm. No one but the king could stand against him. And while he had the king’s ear, all knew that to court Sir Hugh’s enmity meant to attract Edward’s hatred. None dared that. They’d all seen how the king would respond to those who angered him. After the rebellion, the bodies of his enemies had decorated city gates and London’s walls for over two years, until his wife’s pleas for leniency had finally persuaded him to remove them and allow the tanned, leathery remains to be buried.

Which had led, in part, to the king’s increasing dislike for his wife.

Sir Hugh entered the little chamber where his own clerks worked, and strode over to a chair. Sitting, he steepled his fingers and rested his lips on his forefingers, head bowed.

There was much now to cause concern.

Stories abounded that Mortimer was raising an army to invade: he was gathering shipping; he had money to pay mercenaries. And Roger Mortimer had been the king’s most successful general. If he were to return to England at the head of the army, there was no telling what the outcome would be. Except Sir Hugh knew full well that if it was a simple matter of generalship, with Mortimer against the king, the king would lose. His only saving would be the fear all men had of breaking their vow of loyalty to him. That might keep some by his side. But if Mortimer proclaimed that he had no fight with the king himself, many might flock to his banner. So many hated Despenser.

But there was nothing to fear yet. He must wait until he had information. There was no point in worrying about Mortimer until he knew that the bastard was a threat. He licked his lips and looked about him. The pressure of his position was growing to be insupportable, he thought as he chewed his fingernail, running his incisor under it to nibble away a little more.

There was a sharp stabbing pain, and he withdrew his hand, looking down. The nail was separated, but had torn away some of the flesh beneath. A sickle of blood stood out at the end of his finger, and he stuck it back in his mouth, sucking.

Yes. He must wait for more information, learn exactly what Mortimer was planning, see how he could respond.

And then crush the shit without compunction.

Bishop’s House, the Straunde

Simon yawned as they wandered out into the cool air again. After that short rest, he felt a little invigorated, but the halt had been too brief. Now, standing out here with their breath feathering the air, pulling on gloves or reclasping their cloaks against the chill, the men with him all looked exhausted.

It was especially apparent when he looked at Baldwin and Sir Richard. Neither was all that young, and both were fully aware of the great distance they must cover to return to their homes in the far west of the kingdom. Still, even those two did not wear such a fretful expression as Bishop Walter.

Simon wondered at that. The bishop was the oldest among them, at some four- or five-and-sixty, but his pallor was not only because of the coolness of the afternoon air. No, it was more to do with the concern he had about the king’s response to their news.

They mounted, and soon afterwards they were off, through the gates and out into the roadway.

Ahead they could see the royal buildings in the distance. The massive belfry of Westminster Abbey stood slightly to the right of the other towers and walls, and between the riders and the palace there was a straggle of buildings. Some were low houses for lawyers and clerks, others taller and more prestigious properties for the merchants and traders who came here to ply their trade. Inns and shops catered for their needs, and all about there was a hubbub. Peasants and tradespeople shouting and hawking created a confusion in Simon’s mind. He would be glad to be out of the city and on his way homewards once more.

‘Did you see the bishop’s face?’ Sir Richard asked, leaning towards Simon as he spoke.

Simon nodded. ‘He is very concerned just now.’

‘Aye. But why should he be so outside St Paul’s?’

Simon gave a thin smile. ‘You’re talking about that? I’d forgotten he was upset there as well, but it’s no surprise. Earlier this year I was here with him, Baldwin too, and he invited us to join him to celebrate the Feast of the Purification of the Blessed Virgin Mary. We went to the cathedral itself, and just outside it a mob gathered, threatening to kill him. Apparently the Londoners hate him because he once had to investigate all the rights and customs of the city of London.’

Sir Richard turned slowly and gazed at the bishop. ‘Then why, in the name of all that’s holy, does the man want to come here? I’d stay down in Devon, in a pleasant land where the people all like me.’

‘That, I think, is a question you could ask of any man who seeks power over others,’ Simon said.

‘Hmm. Fortunate then that you and I don’t need any nonsense like that, eh?’ said Sir Richard affably. ‘No, just a good quart of strong wine, a little haunch of beef or venison, and a warm woman to snuggle up to on a winter’s night. Aye, a man doesn’t need much for comfort.’

They jogged on until they reached Thieving Lane, where they made their way through the gate and into the palace’s yard.

Simon couldn’t like this place. He looked about him carefully from the vantage point of his mount before he released his foot from the stirrup and swung himself down from the horse. Last time he had been here for meetings with the king, he had been impressed by the single-minded search for power that appeared to be the main characteristic of all those who lived and worked in the shadow of the palace. When he glanced over at Baldwin, he saw the same wariness, and the realisation that his concerns were shared made his anxiety weigh a little less heavily on his shoulders.

They followed in the wake of the bishop, and soon they were being led across the paved yard to the Green Yard, a pleasant grassed area, in through a doorway, along two corridors, and to a pair of doors that Simon remembered. These were the doors to the king’s Painted Chamber. Four guards stood there, and they took all the swords, stacking them neatly on shelves to the left of the doors. Then the doors were opened, and Simon and Baldwin shot a look at each other before plunging on in the wake of the bishop and Sir Richard.

Abbeyford Woods, south of Jacobstowe

Bill was awake before dawn on the day that the coroner arrived.

The three had taken it in turns to go home and fetch more food and drink. Last night it was John who had gone, leaving his friend, Art Miller, to keep Bill company. The man seemed somewhat less conversational today than the corpse with both eyes put out, and Bill would have been happier to have the company of almost any other man, but at least Art was alive. Or so Bill assumed.

There were always tales of men wandering the lands. In the last thirty years or so there had been the trail bastons, gangs of men armed with clubs who had so devastated the countryside that the king had imposed a new series of courts to come to terms with the menace.

Then, when the famine struck, still more men were displaced as they went in search of any form of sustenance. Latterly there was the danger posed by the families and friends of those who had raised their banners in opposition to Sir Hugh le Despenser in the war of three years ago. After Boroughbridge, when the king had destroyed their armies and captured many of the plotters, he had executed hundreds. The savagery of his response to their attempt to depose his adviser had shocked the whole nation, and many of those who had not been involved went in terror of their lives and had left their homes to become outlaws. Some had made their way to France or Hainault, where they knew they would not be persecuted for their opposition to the English king, but others had remained, and Bill would not be surprised if some had banded together and could have committed this crime.

John was back again before the sun had passed much over the far hills. With him he brought victuals, and the three sat around the fire to eat, chewing rhythmically. It was later in the morning that Bill heard the tramping of boots, and hurried to his feet.

A slightly scruffy-looking knight appeared through the trees with a small entourage of men-at-arms and a clerk, who walked with a screwed-up face, as though the whole of the landscape here stank.

‘Who is in charge, fellow?’ the knight asked, and then looked about him with a grimace. ‘Sweet Mother of God! How many dead are there?’

Painted Chamber, Westminster

As soon as they entered the room, Baldwin could feel the atmosphere. Earlier in the year he had come here with Simon, and the pair had served the king by uncovering a murderer. Then, when they entered the king’s presence, although there was the awareness of the difference in their respective positions, Edward had treated them remarkably well. Now there was a very different feel to the place, and Baldwin shot a warning look at Simon as he knelt, copying the bishop and Sir Richard, as soon as they had passed through the doorway. None moved until the steward had nodded to them, then they all walked in, heads still bowed, until they were nearer the king. There they knelt again, heads bent, until there was a grunt of exasperation from Edward.

‘Bishop, God speed.’

‘Your royal highness, I hope you are well?’

‘Me? Why should I not be?’ the king said petulantly. ‘My wife has been abroad, as has my son, and I am keen to see them again to learn what is happening over there in France. But still! What are you doing here alone, my lord bishop? Is my wife with you?’ He made an elaborate display of peering behind the bishop. ‘But wait! No! She is not here, is she? Or have I missed her?’

Bishop Walter bowed his head again at the heavy irony. ‘Your highness, I am sorry to say that she is not with us, no. What is more, I fear she refused to return to you and her family. I am deeply distraught, your highness, to have to tell you this.’

‘What are you saying? Do you mean to tell me that she has not received my letter?’ the king said in a dangerously cold voice. ‘I thought that I had given it to you for her so that it could not be mislaid.’

‘She received it, your highness. More, I told the French king that you desired her to return to you at the earliest opportunity, but he replied that your queen is also his sister, and he would not banish her from his court. If she chose to leave, that was one thing; but she would not.’

‘What …’ The king spoke softly, but the words seemed hard for him to enunciate, as though they were stuck in his throat. ‘What, then, of my son? The Earl of Chester, Edward. Where is he?’

‘Your royal highness, I am deeply afraid that he would not have been safe had I brought him with me.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Only this, your highness. I was threatened with death were I to remain. A man waylaid me and would have killed me, I think. And your queen sought to demand money from me, suggesting that I might not live if I did not give her your letters allowing her to claim money from bankers in Paris.’

‘So my wife is alienated from me, and she has taken my son to hold against his will and mine?’ the king said with icy precision. ‘But you all saved yourselves?’

‘Your highness, it would serve you not at all if we were to die,’ the bishop said with some asperity. ‘I did the best I possibly could, but when it became apparent that my life was in danger, I confess I made the most urgent plans in order that I might escape the clutches of my enemies in France and return to advise you. I was forced to take on the habit of a pilgrim, merely to protect my own life.’

‘Oh, you wish to advise me now? That is good. Very good. So, my lord bishop, why do you not? Tell me, what exactly would you advise me to do, now that you have lost me my queen, my heir, and … and …’

The bishop took a deep breath. ‘Your royal highness. We did all we might. I had private talks with her royal highness, but she made no effort to conceal her hatred for me. I made the French court aware that she was disobeying you, her husband and master, but none would support me and your reasonable request that she return to her home. All was in vain. However, there was important intelligence that I felt sure I should bring to your attention.’

‘Speak!’ The king tutted to himself, then, ‘And stand, all of you. You look untidy on your knees like that. I feel I should have the floors cleaned!’

Bishop Walter stood slowly, his knees aching from the unaccustomed position. When the others were also on their feet, the bishop fixed his eyes on the king. ‘Your royal highness, the first news that came to me, and of which I must make you aware, is that the foul traitor Roger Mortimer has returned to the French court. I feel quite sure that he is there in order that he might negotiate with the French king, and possibly to discuss matters with your queen. I know this is sore news, but-’

The rest of his words were drowned by the king’s sudden roar of anger. He stood, fists clenched, teeth showing in a fierce grimace of pure fury. ‘You mean that bastard son of a diseased whore is out there with my wife, and my son too? You left them there so that the honey-tongued traitor could inveigle his way into their good natures? He will make use of their innocence to make much trouble for us, you fools. Did none of you think to try to kill him? Or at least make it clear to the French king that his presence there was an insult, a … a sore torment to me? Eh? Did you do nothing?’

‘We had no means with which to-’

‘What of the other guardians of the queen and my son, eh? I gave you a force so that you might protect Edward, my son, and the same men could be used to deal with a man who is known as a traitor and a rebel. You think the French would argue if you removed him? You should have killed the bastard, damn it, damn him … damn you!’

‘That brings me to the second piece of intelligence, my king. The men who were with me, the men whom you set to guard the queen, and those who were told to protect your son, they have all become allies of hers. None would come back to England save these here with me.’

‘You mean to tell me …’ The king gaped, and stared at the three men behind the bishop. ‘These are all?’

‘My lord Cromwell, Sir Henry … all have allied themselves with the queen. I am truly sorry, your royal highness. If I could have, I swear, I would have enlisted the help of any of them to bring down Mortimer and destroy him.’

‘Be gone! Leave me, all of you! You bring me news like this and expect reward? Just go!’