The people knew him, because their noise was stilled instantly as they froze into fearful submission. Stones were dropped, knives hastily sheathed, and the fellows began to slip away, their faces bitter and surly. One man stood before Despenser with a staff in his hand, but Sir Hugh spurred his great horse onward, and the man was barged aside. He opened his mouth as though to shout defiance, but as he did so, one of Sir Hugh’s men drew his sword and casually swung his pommel into the man’s skull. He collapsed, blood spurting from a gash over his brow, whimpering with the shock as the horses passed by him.
As people realised that their fun for the day was over, the horde started to thin. After a short while, three women ran to the old man’s side, gentling him and no doubt praising him for his courage.
Simon watched them for a moment, relieved that the man was not badly hurt. ‘Thank God for that. I thought you and I were about to die trying to protect Walter from that rabble. Sweet Mother Mary, thank God they arrived just then.’
Even Baldwin was prepared to admit: ‘I never thought I should be glad to see Sir Hugh le Despenser arrive behind me with a force of men.’
‘Really, Sir Baldwin?’
Sir Hugh’s voice was nearer than Baldwin had expected. He had left his horse with one of his men, and now was only a couple of feet away, and he eyed Baldwin’s sword pointedly.
Baldwin smiled without guile and took it up to sheath it, but Sir Hugh was peering closer, and the knight felt a cold dread that seemed to settle in his bowels. Hurriedly he thrust it home, and put his thumbs into his belt, defiantly meeting Sir Hugh’s gaze.
‘This was a close affair, Sir Baldwin. You and Master Simon here could have been hurt.’
‘We naturally wished to do all we could to protect Bishop Stapledon,’ Baldwin said.
The Bishop was already making his way to them. He was pale, and his eyes reflected the anxiety which he must surely feel. ‘Ha! The London mob. I have often seen them rise to attack others, but this is the first time I have been on the receiving end of their ire. It is not an experience I should wish to repeat.’
‘You’ll be safe enough now,’ Despenser said. He glanced at Baldwin, then down at the sheathed sword. ‘There’s no one will dare to harm you here, Bishop.’
‘Shall we go inside, then?’ Stapledon suggested. For all his apparent calmness, he was plainly nervous, not without good reason.
‘Yes. And afterwards, my Lord Bishop, would you honour my little home with your presence at my feast? It will not be a large affair, but I should like to invite a friend. Of course, Sir Baldwin, you must join us too. It would be pleasant to have you and your companion with us.’
‘I would be delighted. I am very grateful to you,’ the Bishop said, and Baldwin gave a short nod.
‘Good. That is settled, then. You will like my home, Sir Baldwin. It used to be the London home of the Knights Templar. Perhaps you know of it?’
Baldwin said nothing. He did not feel safe enough to speak.
Chapter Twenty-One
Ellis had set off early that morning. He had no wish to go and visit a church to watch the Candlemas processions again. Not today. Today, he was bent on revenge.
He walked quickly along the road back towards Westminster. Before he did anything else, he wanted to pray over Mabilla’s body again.
The idea that someone had taken his sister away was so inconceivable that he found himself doubting it even as he walked — as though the events of the night before had been nothing but a bad dream. Surely he would soon see her again. She would be there in the palace, smiling and laughing to hear that he’d had such a ridiculous mare. As though anyone could want to hurt Mabilla!
Ellis and she had been born to a squire who lived up in Iseldone, the small vill north of the city beyond the marshes and bogs. Squire Robert had lived a blameless life in the service of King Edward I until he died at the hands of the Scottish on one of the King’s forays into that morass of politics. From that moment, Ellis had taken responsibility for the family. He was the oldest son.
Mabilla had married into the Aubyn family soon after their father’s death. Then their younger brother Bernard had fallen from his horse and died, and shortly after that, their mother was also dead. When Mabilla and Ellis discussed it, they both felt sure that it was a broken heart that had ended her life, because she had lived for her husband first and Bernard second. Without them, her life was not worth living. And now, only Ellis was left.
He turned off Straunde and into King Street.
Both he and Mabilla had seen what a life of effort and loyalty could bring a man. It had brought their father an early grave. And then there was Bernard — dead at the age of twenty because of a mishandled horse. Ill-luck and Fate — no one was safe from them, however blameless their life.
When Mabilla’s husband became vassal to Sir Hugh le Despenser, she formed a close friendship with Eleanor, Sir Hugh’s wife. From that it was natural that Mabilla should seek employment for her brother, and soon Ellis was a noted servant. He became Sir Hugh’s trusted sergeant, and Sir Hugh grew to depend on him more and more.
The walls of the Palace Yard were ahead now. Most people were in the Abbey for Mass, and the yard was silent as he passed through. He walked from the New Palace Yard into Old Palace Yard, and thence through the buildings until he reached the chapel where Mabilla still lay. Only then, when his face was resting on her breast, did he at last let go and begin to weep.
Despenser trusted him. Sir Hugh knew he could rely on Ellis. If he ordered it, Ellis would break legs, break arms, use screws on thumbs, pierce the flesh under fingernails with splinters, or kill. All would be done as commanded. But that did not make Despenser a friend, and just now Ellis could appreciate that the only friend he had ever truly known was Mabilla. And she was dead.
Simon walked from the Cathedral with a thrilling in his veins.
He often felt this way after a Mass. There was something about the incense, the light, the space, that never failed to excite him. It felt as though God Himself had visited Simon today and touched him. He was elated. The fact that the service had been held in such magnificent surroundings only served to heighten his emotional reaction.
Sir Baldwin, however, remained withdrawn, quieter than usual, as they left the church and began to head back down Ludgate Hill.
‘At least while Despenser’s men are with us there’s no need to worry about the mob,’ Simon remarked.
Baldwin did not comment, but cast about him warily like a warrior expecting an ambush.
The two had soon passed through the city wall and were out in the more open ground beyond. Once there, Baldwin said, ‘Simon, did you see Despenser’s expression as he asked us to go to his house? He was gleeful. Be very careful while we are at the Temple.’
‘Why? He seems to have accorded us every compliment and honour.’
‘That is true. He has done so to many whom he later destroyed!’
‘What could he have against us?’
Baldwin did not want to mention Iddesleigh and Monkleigh, but he knew that there was one other thing which Simon would appreciate. ‘My sword — you remember my engraving?’
‘Of course.’ He was about to recite the Latin inscription, but Baldwin shook his head.
‘No, not the writing. The reverse of the blade.’
‘Oh — Good Christ, did he see it?’
‘While we were protecting the Bishop, yes. I am sure of it.’
Simon grunted. On one side of the sword Baldwin had had inscribed a quotation, but on the other he had caused a Templar cross to be carved into the metal just below the cross-guard. It was there to remind him at all times of his comrades, the brave men who had endured torture in the defence of their Order. Now, it could lead to dire consequences. Renegade Templars who had not surrendered to the Crown or the Pope were subject to the full rigours of the law. Excommunicated, they could be arrested on sight. Simon was tempted to ask why his friend had considered it necessary to have the blade marked in that way, but he silenced his tongue. Baldwin was his friend, but he was also a proud man. Proud of his past and his companions who had died. It was not Simon’s place to question his reasons. If Simon had seen all his friends murdered by the inquisitors and their secular friends, he would probably want to remember them too.