Suddenly his defence of the Temple in Despenser’s presence was explained. This was another man of the Church who had no truck with the fanciful allegations against the Order. He was one of those who recognised that the persecution was nothing more than that: a vicious assault on an innocent brotherhood for motives of profit.
Baldwin sheathed his sword, and bowed his head in gratitude. ‘Let me offer you another toast, my Lord Bishop. To you: your health and long life.’
Ellis reached the Temple late that evening, and strode straight out to the hall where he knew his master would be waiting.
‘Good. You’re back. What did you learn, then?’
It took Ellis some little while to describe all that he had seen at the Palace that day. When he was finished, Despenser sat back, mulling over the news. ‘So — we are no further forward with the facts, then. We have learned much about how Jack got in there, but nothing about his killer or why he would want to kill your sister.’
Ellis watched him coldly. He knew his master well enough. Despenser would consider the facts carefully, weighing them, and then reach a conclusion. Although there was something different about him today. Sir Hugh was distracted. There was something else on his mind, obviously. Ellis wasn’t blind or stupid. He knew that there were arguments about the Queen’s visit to the French, that men had been trying to control Sir Hugh’s authority over the King … there were plenty of matters to take up the knight’s time.
It was all one to Ellis. He was his master’s henchman, and no one else would ever have his loyalty. While Sir Hugh lived, Ellis would be his man, and he would die to save his life. Ellis had no time for others. He had made his choice many years ago when he had first come to understand that his master would protect him, and in that time Ellis had never wavered in his loyalty.
‘It comes to this, Ellis. We know that someone must have let an ally of the Queen understand that her life was in danger. And whoever that was, he knew that your sister was helping us to monitor her. Other men would have assumed that the only person spying on her was my wife. Who knew about Mabilla?’
Ellis felt as though his stomach had fallen to his feet; there was a curious rushing noise in his ears. ‘Pilk was there that night when you told Jack …’
‘No, Ellis. He wasn’t. Jack threw him out of the room and Pilk went down the stairs. There’s no way he could have learned anything about the plan. And it wasn’t Jack, because he was always too careful. I know how much you adored your sister, Ellis, so it cannot have been you. And I hope you’ll believe me when I say it wasn’t me either. No. So — only one other man knew the plan and could have affected our plot.’
Ellis knew who Despenser meant. They had met him in the cloister yard on the day that they briefed Jack. Just before they saw him.
‘Yes,’ Despenser breathed. ‘It must have been him. Piers de Wrotham.’
Ellis frowned. ‘But you didn’t tell him about Mabilla. How would he learn about her?’
Despenser gave a shamefaced grunt. ‘I am afraid I may have mentioned her to him the next day, while you were out. I let it slip to him.’
Chapter Twenty-Three
Sunday, the Morrow of Candlemas1
Bishop of Exeter’s house, Straunde
Baldwin was already gone from his bed when Simon awoke. It was still dark, and freezing cold. Walking to the window, he peered out, only to find that the inside of the greenish glass was smeared with ice. Shivering, he hurriedly dressed and strode out to the hall.
‘Ah, Simon, it is good to see you awake,’ Baldwin said as he walked into the room.
Baldwin was standing at the hearth in the middle of the floor, holding his hands to the flames. Although he was the most abstemious man Simon had ever known, regularly drinking fruit juices through the summer when he could, today he had a quart of good ale warming in a jug by the fire, and Simon eyed it jealously before striding to the barrel in the buttery to fetch one for himself.
‘You slept well?’ Baldwin asked as Simon warmed his knife in the flames and then stirred his ale with it.
‘I think I was asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow. The Bishop has magnificent beds. It is impossible not to sleep well on them.’
Baldwin pulled a grimace. ‘Old friend, you could sleep on a bed of rock.’
‘I have grown used to a degree of discomfort,’ Simon agreed happily as the warmth began to seep slowly back into his fingers. ‘It is what a man has to do when he lives on the moors. I had to stay out in all weathers while I was a Bailiff. It makes one appreciate a comfortable bed all the more.’
A servant heard their voices and peeped around the hall’s doorway. Baldwin asked for some food and he disappeared, only to return with a platter filled with bread and cold meats. Baldwin and Simon gratefully sat on a bench at the table and broke their fast. It was early for the rest of the household, but as they were not sure what they would be doing this day, the two men were keen to take advantage of meals when they might.
‘The Bishop is celebrating Mass in his chapel with his confessor,’ Baldwin told Simon, cutting himself a slice of cold chicken. ‘I said that we might go to the church here later. Is that all right with you?’
‘Yes.’ It did not matter to Simon where they celebrated the Mass so long as there was time for them to do so at some point.
In the event, it was late in the morning before they made it to St Clement Dane’s Church. They had to look to their horses first, and Baldwin noticed that their packhorse had a degree of lameness. He wouldn’t leave the animal until he had seen the Bishop’s hostlers and asked them to put a good poultice on it to draw out any bad humours.
Later, when they had returned and eaten a late meal, the two decided to walk about the Bishop’s gardens.
It was still cold as they left the house and walked along gravel pathways towards the river. The way had been landscaped. There was a pretty garden of raised beds with vegetables for the kitchen, followed by bushes of soft fruits for the summer, and then an orchard and nuttery. This last was a very recent planting, and the nut trees were a long way from bearing fruit. However, they gave what would in a few years become a shaded walk down to the private jetty where a boat remained tied up.
Baldwin turned and looked back up towards the house. ‘Look at that.’
‘It is a lovely place,’ Simon said. ‘I can see now why the Bishop stays up here so often.’
‘It is not from choice, Simon. He is forced to stay in London, and I would think much of the time it is against his will. Did you not notice how pale he was last night? That event at the Cathedral terrified him. The mob there could have torn him limb from limb, and he knows it.’
‘From what he was saying, it is all because of a misunderstanding,’ Simon said.
‘That would be little comfort if the misunderstanding led to his death, would it?’
Simon shrugged and grinned. ‘It will hardly come to that. Bishop Walter is a friend of the King.’
‘Simon, Earls and great Lords have been killed in recent years. Do you think that the London mob would hesitate to kill a Bishop if they thought he had been a tyrant to them? I tell you this: Walter should be careful, and he knows it. He is anxious.’
‘If you are right, then he’s already being careful, I expect.’
Baldwin looked at him, then nodded towards the river. ‘How many guards do you see there?’
‘None, but his men are all at the house, of course.’
‘What of a wall, then? What is there to deter a man from launching an attack up here from the Thames?’
Simon had to concede that. ‘But I am sure that Bishop Walter would be assured of his own safety.’
‘I hope so, Simon, because if the Queen herself is in danger, no one is safe. And if an assassin managed to get so close to her …’