‘There is another one, too,’ he said, before launching into the next little tale.
Simon watched him with a faint grin. It was very hard not to like the man, even though he generally caused Simon to panic whenever they were near to a tavern. It wasn’t his jokes; it was his ability to drink everyone else into a stupor that really concerned Simon. It tended to leave him feeling as lousy as a youth after his first serious bout of drinking. That sense of the room swimming about his head as soon as he lay down, the repellent bubbling in his gut, the morning-after feeling of acid in the throat and the knowledge that his head had swollen to many times its usual size, with the concomitant fluffiness in his brain that was only ever relieved by the pain — as of four daggers being thrust in slowly from the temples and his eye sockets. No, he did not like drinking with Sir Richard. The resultant anguish was too horrible.
As the coroner continued, Simon fell to thinking about the dead bodies. It was curious that there had been no reports of the money being stolen until he had spoken to Cardinal de Fargis. He would have thought that others should have heard of such a large theft. But the trouble was, it was the very knowledge of such transfers of cash that led to the ease of their robbery. It was normal for even huge sums of money to be transported about the country with only four or five archers involved as guards. In this case, it would seem that eight archers and a couple of men-at-arms should have been perfectly adequate, and yet the size of the force that attacked them must have been greatly superior.
His eyes narrowed as he considered some aspects that had not occurred to him before. First, the men had not travelled very far. It was a distance that Simon and Sir Richard had covered in a half-day. That was odd, although it could have been explained by the weight of the money they were carrying. A hundred pounds of money in coin was a heavy cargo. And then there was the fact of the location. The men should not have been north of Oakhampton.
There was another detaiclass="underline" most commonly, when a robbery of this kind was perpetrated, Simon was sure that it was no accident. Men did not happen to fall over a bullion transfer. No, the attacks were made by those who had heard of the money being transported and wanted to grab it for themselves. It was not a matter of luck; it was a military ambush based on good intelligence. Someone who was close to people who knew about the money must have managed to release news of its movement to colleagues, who then took it.
So someone within the abbey, possibly, had told the attackers of the presence of the money.
Simon considered this with a frown as the noise about him rose, Sir Richard laughing aloud, the men all around roaring too, as he hit another punchline with the precision of a master story-teller.
The idea that someone in the cardinal’s household could have betrayed him was not entirely surprising. Men would always think with their two brains: one for skirts, one for purses. It was scarcely a shock to learn that a man had heard of money being moved and bethought himself of the profit he could make. However, the result of his actions must have come as a shock. To learn that nineteen had died would surely make even the most avaricious thief pause for thought.
Then again, perhaps not. Simon knew that Sir Hugh le Despenser had happily caused the torture and ruin of many men and women, and none ever appeared to give him a moment’s trouble. He was happy only so long as he was increasing his wealth and power. It was hard to imagine him being plagued by concerns for his victims. He would happily sell his wife into bondage, Simon reckoned, if it meant he would win a good property or profit by the arrangement.
And then he had another thought. If a man in the abbey or the cardinal’s household had seen fit to tell thieves about the money, they might also think it sensible to warn of the king’s officers being sent to hunt down the outlaws involved and find the money again. And they might think it expedient to locate any such officers and kill them.
Simon took a long pull at his ale. Even without a hangover, he was starting to feel deeply uncomfortable.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Agnes’s house, Jacobstowe
She began to come around only a short time after the bailiff and his companions had left, but in the midst of the noise in her chamber she didn’t open her eyes.
Agnes knew what was happening about her. It was the same as when a woman went into labour. The rest of the women of the vill, friends and others alike, would congregate in the woman’s home and drink and gossip, offering some useful advice amid the general hubbub, enjoying the opportunity to have time with their own sex and no men about to cause trouble or arguments.
But Agnes wanted only peace. She could recall the sick headache beginning, and she remembered vaguely being picked up and carried here, but the reason for her sudden collapse was still a mystery. Men always said that women were weaker because of the womb. It was a strange organ that would move about the body in a predatory manner, giving rise to the odd emotions that assailed even the most intelligent of women.
This was nothing to do with organs, though. She knew that this was the result of her rage at the world and her husband. He should not have left her in that way. He had deserted her. His death had left her desolate. Her life now was barren.
Except it wasn’t his choice, was it? He wouldn’t have voluntarily killed himself. The poor man had loved her, and loved Ant too. He was a good man, a good, kind, gentle husband and father.
She would avenge him.
Exeter
Baldwin beat upon the door with his fist, paused, and then pounded again. ‘Open the door!’
There was a shout from further up the lane, and Edgar touched Baldwin’s shoulder. ‘Sir.’
Turning, Baldwin saw that there were two watchmen striding down the lane towards them. ‘Oh, in Christ’s name,’ he muttered, and slammed his open hand against the door once more. There was still no answer.
‘You are late to be banging on doors, masters,’ said the first watchman.
Baldwin stared at him. ‘Do I not know you? Did you not help me and my friends find our way to his daughter’s house?’
The watchman peered at him. His friend had a filthy cloth wrapped about his head, and Baldwin had a sudden flash of memory. ‘Your name is Gil, and this must be your friend Phil, who was hurt while walking at night.’
‘You were with the men who wanted the son of Charles the Merchant.’ Gil nodded. ‘But this isn’t their house.’
‘It is his parents’ house. I need to speak with them about their son — he’s been arrested. And his wife is missing too. But they will not open the door.’
‘Maybe they’re not there,’ Gil said.
Phil shook his head. ‘There’s someone behind that shutter up there,’ he said, pointing. ‘I can see a face.’
Gil looked up. ‘Well, they don’t have to open their door to you, sir. Not if they don’t want to.’
‘Perhaps so, but I am Keeper of the King’s Peace, and I do not want to gain a reputation by breaking it myself,’ Baldwin said suavely.
‘No. Can’t have that,’ Gil said. He hesitated, reluctant to annoy a senior member of the city’s hierarchy, but also unhappy at the thought of upsetting a King’s Keeper.
Phil grunted. ‘Oh, in Christ’s name, Gil. Just kick at the door. They’ll open it.’
‘You bleeding kick it. That thing’ll break your foot, you fool.’