Simon nodded, bowing low. ‘Very well, my lord.’
‘And have you considered whether or not you would like to take on the duty I asked?’
‘I would be very happy to see what I can learn about the death of your man, if it was him.’
‘There is an easy way to find out. Inspect the body, and if it is poor Pietro, you will find a ragged scar as long as my hand’s breadth on his right thigh. Just here,’ he said, resting his hand on his upper thigh. ‘He was kicked by a mule once, and the brute had a worn shoe that was as sharp as a razor. It made a most impressive scar.’
The steward hurried to his side, and the cardinal nodded as he whispered in his ear. ‘Most interesting. There is a messenger from the king.’
Simon nodded, and he and Sir Richard stepped back as the dishevelled messenger appeared. He had clearly set off on his journey very early to have arrived here already.
‘Where did you come from, messenger?’
‘I was at Bow last night, my lord, and left there as early as I could to bring messages for you and for the abbey at Tavistock.’
‘Please refresh yourself while you are here, then. I am sure a little wine and bread would be good? You should not be travelling today, though. Today should be a day of rest.’
Stephen of Shoreditch nodded, but he could not say that he was travelling because he was far from keen to remain in the castle at Bow. He was sure that he was not safe there. ‘I shall take my rest when I reach Tavistock.’
‘Good. Good,’ the cardinal said. ‘In the meantime, you can join us as we go to the church, yes?’
‘I would be delighted to,’ Stephen said.
Simon thought he looked worn out, but so often, he guessed, most messengers must look like that. They had to travel at least five-and-thirty miles each day, and still be bright enough to relay verbal messages or instructions, as well as being prepared to collect a reply. It wasn’t the best job in the world.
There were worse, of course. And just now Simon didn’t envy the cardinal. He was clearly a man who was putting on a good face as he strode along the road with his clerks behind him, their gowns flying in the wind like so many bats, while the servants struggled behind. The breeze was gusting viciously every so often, and the women were forced to hold on to their wimples, the men their hoods and hats, as they walked down the road, past the great blockhouse of Lydford Castle, the stannary prison and courthouse, to the church just beyond.
Simon had always loved this church. Once Lydford had been a great focus for the rebels against King William, so he had heard, because the townsfolk refused to accept that they must lose all their privileges and customs to the upstart king. This town, which had stood for a hundred years or more, and which was so highly regarded by the ancient kings of Wessex that they had granted the place the right to mint coins, would not listen to this new king from Normandy.
They were crushed, of course, as all the rebellious towns and cities were; as all were still. The use of force, that was the most effective power a king possessed. That was why, when Bristol refused to pay the king’s tallage in 1312, King Edward II had sent the posse of the county against the city, and forced it to submit after a lengthy siege. And then his punishment of the city folk was exemplary.
But that was the way kings proved their right to rule — by regular exercise of overwhelming force. And this king was no different from his ancestors in that way. He was different because he used ruthlessness and vindictiveness on a scale never before seen. If a man was thought to have slighted him or his favourite, that man would be humiliated at best. Many were simply executed. But Edward took the whole concept of revenge to a new level, imprisoning wives, daughters and sons, and disinheriting boys for the infractions of their fathers. There was never a king who had used such formidable authority against his subjects before. Not in English history.
These reflections were enough to distract Simon from the sermon, which was, in any case, more lengthy than he would have liked, and the time passed moderately swiftly until the end of the service, when he found himself hemmed in by Sir Richard on one side and the messenger on the other.
The messenger looked not at all refreshed, Simon reckoned. ‘You look like you could do with a rest,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you stay with Cardinal de Fargis here for the day? You’ll get no answer out of the abbey today anyway — they’ll all be involved in their prayers.’
‘I thank you,’ the messenger said, ‘but I must deliver this message, and that urgently. I would return to London as soon as I may.’
‘No need to break your cods over it, though,’ Sir Richard declared, earning a scandalised hiss from a cleric in the cardinal’s retinue. ‘What? What did I say? Did I say something amiss?’
‘Do not worry about him,’ Simon said, trying not to laugh. ‘Do you only have one message to deliver, then?’ he asked. ‘I know the king’s messengers will often have entire circuits to cover, but I suppose this is the end of yours?’
‘Yes. And now I must be gone,’ Stephen said shortly.
Simon looked over at the coroner. ‘If you must, then God speed. I wish you well on your journey.’
‘Thank you. And I you,’ Stephen said, and strode off towards the cardinal’s house and stables.
‘He is lucky, that fellow,’ Coroner Richard said thoughtfully. ‘If he’d spoken to me like that, I would have had his ballocks in a bucket.’
Jacobstowe
It took a little time for her to waken again. As she gradually appreciated that she was lying on the floor, she had to shake her head to clear it of the roaring sound in her ears, and then the strange conviction that there was a weight pressing down on her breast, holding her to the floor.
She tried to rise, but there was no strength in her arms, and she must strain and strain to try to get up.
‘No, no, stay there, mistress! Wait, let me help you!’
‘Hoppon!’ she recalled. It was him. He had come to the door, two men behind him, and had drawn his cap off, twisting it between his old hands as he told her of the death of her man. Her Bill. Her Lark. Her life. Beaten to death. It was that word, ‘beaten’, that had made her breast start to spasm, made the sound roar in her ears, made the breath hot and raw in her throat. ‘Help me up.’
One of the men had set her pot on the fire with water, and stewed some mint leaves for her. He passed a cup of it to her now, and the fragrance seemed to rise in her nostrils, clearing her mind and refreshing her. But not enough. Nothing could ever be enough, not now. ‘Bill, oh my Bill!’ she said, dropping the cup and gripping her stomach in a paroxysm of grief so intense she thought her heart must burst from her breast. She felt it like a clenching deep inside her, a tearing, desperate agony. Never to hold him to her, never to see his slow smile, his serious eyes turning tender and gentle when he held her, when he held the Ant. All was turned to misery and grim despair.
‘Mistress, do you want him in here, or shall we carry him to the church now?’ Hoppon asked.
She flung her head back. ‘In here. Let me clear the table for him.’
It was something to have a reason to be busy. She stood, and for now the feebleness seemed to have left her. It took a little time to move the bowls and spoons from the table, and the pastry she had been making for a pie, and then it was clear. She took salt and a brush and scrubbed the wood until it was bleached white. The men offered to aid her, but she snapped at them. This was her grief; it was her last duty for her man.
At last, content that all was as clean as it could be, she curtly commanded Hoppon to bring in the body.
They had him on an old plank of elm. That, she thought, was suitable. There was a great elm down in the hedge at the bottom of their plot, and he had always been fond of that tree, sitting underneath it for shade on the hottest days, and taking refuge beneath it when the weather turned to rain. Once he and she had made love against the trunk, both standing, both too taken with urgent lust to walk the fifteen or twenty yards to the house. He had been such a good lover. Such a good man.