Château du Bois, Paris
Baldwin and Simon left the Queen’s rooms and strode over the court by mutual unspoken consent, straight to the chamber where the guards were given their ale and wine rations. There they demanded a jug of wine each, and sat at a table with them, raising them to each other in silent thankfulness, and drinking steadily.
‘You be careful, old man,’ Simon said to Baldwin, only half jokingly. ‘You aren’t used to too much wine.’
‘Today it will have no effect, Simon. Today I am already flying high on the fumes of the wine. I feel as though my head could touch the ceiling of the chapel, I am so light-headed with pleasure. We’re going home! At last I’ll get to see Jeanne again!’
The beaming smile on his face told Simon all he needed to know about his delight.
Simon took a long pull at his drink and sighed with satisfaction. ‘I feel the same. Perhaps at last I can plan for Edith’s nuptials with an easy heart. Because I tell you this, Baldwin. Once I get home, I don’t intend to leave it again for any reason. I don’t care whether the King himself comes and orders me to travel — I won’t do it unless there’s good reason!’
‘Nor I, Simon. Nor I. I will be content to stay at my home and take up the life of a rural farming knight once more. To hell with the position of Member of the Parliament! To hell with keeping the King’s Peace and acting as judge of Gaol Delivery! I will sit at home and raise my family. I need nothing more!’
‘So all we need do is take this man back and protect him, and then we can get off home,’ Simon said, grinning broadly.
‘Yes.’
The Queen had asked that the two travel to the King with a personal message for the King from her — and another for her son, should they meet him. They would be journeying in the company of one of the papal legates who had first helped to persuade King Edward II that his wife should be sent on this peace mission: the Bishop of Orange. Bishop Stratford of Winchester and William Ayrminne, who had helped arrange the latest truce between the two countries, were already assumed to be with King Edward, and briefing him on the latest developments in their discussions.
‘There appears to be a general marshalling of all who may be able to sway the King’s thinking,’ Baldwin said.
‘Even us, you mean?’ Simon grinned.
‘Two English bishops, the Pope’s envoy, us … there were others in the party with the Bishops, too. I saw Isabella speaking at length with a King’s herald, who was surely being sent back with private messages,’ Baldwin said. ‘When a Queen feels the need to accumulate such a powerful party to her, you may be sure that the message is important.’
‘How will he react?’ Simon asked. He had no interest in the great and good who had been sent home. He was just keen to set off himself. ‘It is not all good news for our king.’
‘Hardly. Still, the Bishop of Winchester is a sound fellow, I think; a diligent, thoroughly responsible man. He’ll weather the storm. After all, he is more or less used to the King’s temper. He’s suffered from the King’s anger before.’
‘In what way?’ Simon asked.
‘When he was given his bishopric, the King had expected another to be given it, and he punished the Bishop by confiscating all his lands and assets. It cost Bishop John twelve thousand pounds to recover them, so I’m told.’
Simon winced at the sound of such a fortune. ‘At least he is reconciled to the King now, though? After all, he’s been sent here on this embassy to negotiate for the King, so there must be renewed trust, I suppose?’
‘Not necessarily,’ Baldwin said. ‘But Bishop John has more skill than almost any other in the King’s service when it comes to careful, practical negotiation. The King needs him, whether or not he likes it, or Bishop John!’
‘And William Ayrminne? Will he weather the stormy blast?’
‘He is a skilled negotiator, who’s spent plenty of time in the King’s service. He’s wily enough to see himself safe, I make no doubt. Personally, I wouldn’t trust him further than I could hurl him.’
‘Why?’
‘He’s a canon at Westminster Abbey, but he spends a great deal of time with the Queen. I think he’s looking for a new position with her as his patron. Never trust a man who is seeking advancement! He will trample anyone in his ambition.’
‘And in the meantime, we shall travel with the Bishop of Orange. Do you know him?’
‘I saw him briefly in Westminster. I think he’s a sound enough man.’ Baldwin shrugged. He did not add that any man whom a pope might choose as his legate was not to be trusted. Simon already knew his trenchant views on the papacy and the corruption of the curia, so did not press the matter.
‘In any case, all we need is to return to England with them, and we can forget all about France and get on home,’ Simon said with a broad smile.
Baldwin grinned back, nodding. There was nothing that could spoil their pleasure this day.
On the road near Crowborough, Kent
He was riding past at full tilt, when he reached the place. Someone had once told him that a man could always remember a place that was fearsome to him. Well, he didn’t need to be told that. Not now. The horse itself could sense what had happened here, even though the beast was not with him when he had originally come past.
There was not a sound. Even the wind had died. As he sat in the saddle, the beast beneath him pawing at the soft soil here in the woods, he was struck with a revulsion so distinct, it was almost a physical barrier to his dismounting. But he could not ride past. It wasn’t possible. He had to do this to ensure his safety. It was a little thing, nothing, in the scheme of things. And it wouldn’t hurt the man. Not now.
No. No sound. Not of wind, nor of people. No rattle of chains, creak of harness or regular step of man or horse. Nothing. Just the occasional song of a bird of some sort.
He dropped to the ground and stood a moment, holding the reins. Still nothing.
In a hurry now, he went to the bundled clothing and untied the thong holding it to the saddle; his fingers revolted at the touch, but there was no time to delay. He was off into the bushes, his nose leading him to the spot.
Argh! The smell was foul! After only a few days there was no disguising the odour. The weather had been too hot, and it was disgusting; he felt a trickle of ice shudder down his back at the smell. Enough to make a man puke, this was. He had to block his nose and breathe through his mouth, like he would when cleaning a gutted pig. The smell was so bad, he could hardly brace himself to continue, especially when he saw those already-empty eye sockets, but he had to do it.
It was a relief to be back on his horse. He set off at a steady trot as soon as he could, but then he had to stop.
To throw up.
Wednesday following Easter7
Christ Church Priory
Prior Henry Eastry left the refectory and walked the short distance to the cloisters, which he began to stride up and down, considering.
The King’s Coroner had arrived already, and was studying the body. Not that there was overmuch to learn from it. A corpse with the head almost removed. That was all that there was. Poor Gilbert. Mark and Hal had been instructed to look to see if there was anything which might explain why Brother Gilbert had been out there, but they had found nothing. And although the prior had questioned all his brethren himself, none admitted to knowledge of the crime.
‘Prior? May I speak with you?’
‘Of course, Coroner. I would welcome your views.’
Coroner Robert of Westerham was a shortish knight with the look of a man who would prefer to be in the saddle than idling indoors. He rested his hand on his sword hilt, and tapped at it whenever he was thinking. There were many coroners whom Prior Henry had known who had been less than honourable in the way in which they conducted their business, but this one at least seemed to try to be fair. At least, he was in his dealings with the priory.
‘Your man was killed by a sword, I reckon. When I looked at him, the blade had sunk into the bones of his neck, so that means a heavy bladed weapon struck him. Not just a knife drawn over his throat.’
‘I see.’ The prior was able to take some solace from that. ‘That means it is less likely to be a brother from the convent, then. I am relieved.’
The coroner nodded. ‘Whoever it was was experienced in the use of swords, if I’m a judge. I suppose many of the brothers will have learned swordplay, but how many would have practised recently? There’s another thing: whoever did this would have been covered in gore. The blood splashes went all over the hay, and the man who killed him must also have been smothered. But none of your monks’ habits seem to have been stained. I have checked.’
‘Good. But it still leaves the question of who could have done it.’
‘Clearly someone from without the priory. Is there anything stolen from the church?’
‘It was the first thing I considered. I had a full account of all the silver and plate made as soon as I was informed of Gilbert’s death, just in case it was a robbery.’
‘Nothing gone?’
‘No. All our church ornamentation is still there.’
The coroner mulled this over a little while, frowning at the ground while he kicked at pebbles. ‘In that case … is there anything else here of value?’
The prior smiled. ‘We have much of value. St Thomas’s bones, our books … but nothing that a common thief would consider.’
There was no answering grin on the coroner’s face. ‘This was no common thief, Prior. This man was prepared to hack a monk to death.’
‘Sweet Mother of God!’ The prior’s face paled. ‘I will tell my sub-prior to search all our relics immediately.’
Eltham Palace
Richard of Bury sighed and leaned back in his chair, a deeply contented man.
This place was as comfortable as any palace in the land. For his money, it was one of the most beautiful, too. The great hall was quite new — only about twenty-five years old, and there was a magnificent park to the south which the last owner, Bishop Bek, had added. The park and the great buildings, with the massive stone walls strengthened with brick bastions, had been improved when the Earl’s grandfather, Edward I, had been given the place by the Bishop. A magnificent gift. The kind of thing that showed that Bishop Bek was looking for something significant in return.
Richard grinned to himself but his face soon hardened. There was a time when he would have said he was getting cynical, but any man who said that now would have to have been deaf and blind. Cynicism was unnecessary now, in the reign of King Edward II. Not something a man might dare to say in front of anyone else, of course, but it was a fact nonetheless. The King was mad.
There were times when a man might have a degree of confidence in his king. The best kings were undoubtedly those who sought to reign fairly and rationally. Logic was essential in a king. Promising one thing, then doing another was not rational. It was unsettling. And a king needed a kingdom that was settled and calm, if he wished to rule in peace.
Bury patted the book nearest him. It was a history of the life of Alexander, a tome he often picked up and browsed through. This was the kind of man a king ought to be, he thought. Honourable, chivalrous, strong of purpose, determined in battle, and magnanimous in victory. That was the sort of king England needed. Not like the present king. He may never be able to mention such things to others, but the king was dangerous to himself and the realm. Even when he was triumphant, he was vindictive to his defeated enemies. Not only to them, but also to their families. That was hardly chivalrous.
If there was one thing Richard of Bury was determined to do, it was to show the Earl in his care that there was a better way to rule a people than this. And thanks to God, Earl Edward seemed a keen and willing pupil to his tutor.
And God had also put in his way the means by which the King’s heir might exceed all expectations. The oil of St Thomas would make him more than a mere King.
With Bury’s help, the boy would become a king to rival Arthur himself — as the prophecy predicted.
Thursday following Easter8
Château du Bois
Simon was already on his horse and eager to be away before even the Bishop’s guards were prepared. Although Baldwin tried to hold a world-weary disinterest on his face, he too was noticeably present from an early hour, his rounsey saddled, bridled and ready.
A bishop would normally require a large force to travel with him, and wagons full of provisions and plate and cash for payment along the way, but to Simon’s surprise, this Bishop of Orange apparently required little in the way of comforts. There were five pack horses and a couple of small carts, and a total of only five men-at-arms to guard him on horseback, not counting Simon and Baldwin.
‘He’s keen to travel fast,’ Simon said, nodding towards the party.
‘There is need for speed if the embassy is to be successful,’ Baldwin said. He swung himself up on his rounsey, a large beast with spirit to match. He was stamping his feet and raising sparks from the cobbles, irritated at the noise all about. Men were hurrying to and fro with baskets and sacks, while dogs milled about, some darting under the horses.
There was one dog in particular that caught his eye: a large, mastiff-like dog, but although it had a mastiff’s size, it lacked the pendulous lips and excessive flesh of a brute like Baldwin’s late and sadly missed Uther. This was an entirely different type, with a long, silky coat in several colours. Baldwin had seen dogs with these markings before, but rarely if ever quite so pronounced: black all over, but for brown eyebrows and cheeks, with a white muzzle. The paws were all white, as was the tip of the tail, while there was a large white cross on the dog’s breast. He moved with a heaviness, as was to be expected with an animal that must weigh three stone, but there was a spring in his gait that spoke of his liveliness and strength, and he ambled around the place, casting looks about him at all the people with such a benevolent, amiable expression that Baldwin was smitten.
‘Stop dribbling,’ Simon said caustically.
‘He’s a beautiful animal,’ Baldwin said.
‘He’s a dog, Baldwin. A dog. If he’s a good guard he may have a use, but that’s all. Dear Christ in Heaven, man, haven’t you enough hounds already?’
‘Simon, I fear when it comes to matters of canine interest, you are indeed a peasant,’ Baldwin said loftily.
‘Aye. And peasants know when knights talk ballocks,’ Simon said unperturbably.
In her room nearby, Queen Isabella sipped wine.
She should, perhaps, have gone down to wish them all a good journey, but she did not feel it entirely suitable. No, perhaps were she to do so, others might comment. Not immediately, perhaps, but later, and that was a risk she need not take, so she would not. Instead, she stood at her window in the castle and peered down, sipping from her goblet of wine as she prayed for their safety, and especially for the protection of the Bishop of Orange.
‘Godspeed, Bishop,’ she whispered.
For she knew that the Bishop had a most important message to take to England for her. A message to her son.