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.
Chapter Four
Christ Church
‘Are you sure?’ Prior Henry demanded. He could feel himself sagging in his seat as he took in this new disaster.
The sub-prior, James, nodded grimly. ‘At least the relics themselves are safe, Prior.’
‘What on earth would someone have wanted to do that for? What is the world coming to, eh?’
It was a disgrace! If he weren’t a man of God, he would choose more select language for this abomination. That a man could kill another, that was appalling, but men would do so. It was ever the part of man to kill others: for money, for jealousy, for pride, for anger, for lust … the reasons were all known even to a Benedictine, and had been since the age of Adam, when one son killed another. Well, so be it. If men wished to harm each other, there was little a man like Henry Eastry, Prior of the great Christ Church of Canterbury, could do about it, but that a man would dare to break into the church itself and try to steal the relics upon which the future of the Church depended, that was an entirely different affair.
‘So, clearly, this fellow attempted to break in, found his way to the reliquary, and there was accosted by poor Gilbert. Gilbert gave chase, and the man slew him, and escaped.’
‘Yes, Prior. But what was Gilbert doing there?’
‘He was assistant to the-’
‘But yet he should not have been in there so late at night, Prior. This was the middle watch of the night, surely.’
‘What of it? That is the time that criminals will attack. Even churches are not immune.’
‘No — what was Gilbert doing there? Why was he awake?’
‘He heard something. He was woken.’
‘Perhaps.’ His flat tone betrayed his disbelief.
‘And at least nothing was stolen from the feretory.’
‘Not from there, no.’
The prior turned slowly to stare. ‘What do you mean?’
‘The man who escaped appears to have taken the oil, Prior.’
‘Eh? What do you mean? You told me that nothing had been stolen from the church. You looked carefully, you said, and nothing was missing.’
The sub-prior looked about himself nervously, and when he spoke his voice was lower and quieter. ‘Prior, the bones are all there. I counted them. But the oil from the crypt is gone. The oil of St Thomas is stolen!’
Friday following Easter9
Beaulieu Abbey
The sound could be heard all along the passageways — a roar of anger that made monks blench. But none would dare to remonstrate.
It was eight days now since the King and his entourage had arrived, and the whole place had been turned upside down in that time. The sedate life of the abbey had degenerated into an unholy mess, with the King’s servants rushing hither and thither, knights swaggering, flustered clerks hurrying from one room to another, and over all, rendering any excitement to naught, there was the malevolent spirit who controlled everything.
It was he who was bellowing with anger now.
‘You mean to tell me that the mother-swyving son of a churl won’t even return all my lands to me? He means to keep the Agenais until his own judges pronounce on it? And I suppose that won’t mean that they’ll try to please their own master, does it? It is not as though a French judge wouldn’t know which decision would best satisfy their liege lord, is it? And you thought that was a “good” deal, did you? Tell me, what would a bad deal look like?’
‘Your royal highness, this is hardly the-’
‘This is exactly the right time, my Lord Bishop! That bastard is stealing my inheritance from me, from the Crown! Christ’s Pain, would you have me give him the whole of my realm? He is stealing the revenues from Guyenne, from Ponthieu and Montreuil while you “negotiate” with him, and for what result? The result I can see here, is that you have successfully given away the Agenais for ever, while giving up a year’s revenue from all our other possessions over there — and you call this a “good” deal for me? You must think me a fool!’