John Stratford, the Bishop of Winchester, bowed his head a moment and waited again until the blast of raw fury was spent. He had grown accustomed to this over the last months. He knew, dear God, he knew all too well, that he was one of the few men whom the King would trust to negotiate on his behalf, but that did not make the King’s moods any easier to bear. Every time he returned to the King, he was struck with the feeling that he was about to be penalised yet again. The cost of buying back his lands and stock before had been ruinous, and he could ill afford to do so again. All because the King had promised the bishopric to another. It was hardly Stratford’s fault if he had been able to subtly persuade the Pope that he was the more deserving man. However, the suggestion that he was oblivious to the possibility that he might be given the see was enough to give the King the vapours. Not without reason. Stratford was already known to be a master tactician in the use of words and arguments, after all. Anyone, even a purblind fool, must see that he’d so contrived matters to give himself the best opportunity to take the post himself. And although there were many words which could be used to describe the King, ‘fool’ was not one of them.
But these tantrums of his were growing more and more petulant. It was alarming for a man like the Bishop, for he knew perfectly well how even some of the most powerful men in the land had been executed in recent years. Dear God, the King had even seen his own cousin, the Earl of Lancaster, most shamefully executed. That was a very new departure for an English King. But it was only the beginning of this king’s irrationality. Since the French confiscation of Guyenne, his temper had grown ever more irascible.
‘I was persuaded to allow my dear wife to go to King Charles and negotiate with him because her persuasion, together with your skills, my Lord Bishop, were supposed to be infallible, and what have you both managed so far? You’ve passed over half my kingdom! You’ve given up all my French territories without a murmur, haven’t you? Sweet Jesus, I should have you gaoled in the Tower for bloody treason!’
‘The Queen and I have done as much as is possible, my Lord. However, a man may not make bricks without straw. If you wish to negotiate with a man like your brother-in-law, you would be better placed to have some power behind you. He respects might.’
‘Oh, yes! Power! And how would a little land like ours be able to confront the greatest host of knights and men-at-arms in all Christendom? Do you know how many men I have under my banner? Eh? Maybe two thousand knights. And King Charles? Ten thousand, maybe twenty. You suggest I threaten him? With what? War? That would destroy us. Ach! Christ’s bones, you know all this. What are you trying to do, torment me with my bloody weakness?’
And that was it. His rage was done for a moment, and when the Bishop cautiously glanced in his direction again, he saw that the King was slumped in his chair. Behind it stood Despenser, that little sneer of a smile on his face once more, the evil bastard.
There were few men in the land who were so wholeheartedly detested as Sir Hugh le Despenser, the architect of so much misery. The King’s best friend, and most fabulously rewarded adviser. Reputedly, he was the King’s lover. He was an avaricious thief of all he desired. All who tried to thwart him found themselves confronted with the full might of the King’s host, no matter that they were defending their ancient rights or property against the Despenser.
But this was not the time to wax bitter about him.
‘My Lord,’ Bishop Stratford began, ‘perhaps this is not so dreadful as you think on first sight. The fact is, the French have already taken your possessions in France. The French hold them. What we are attempting is to recover them. You know that King Charles is perfectly within his rights to ask that you go to him to pay homage for all the lands under his crown which you possess. You have a duty under the law to pay fealty to him. This is no more than you would expect from any of the lords in your kingdom. You would expect them to come to you, their liege lord, to pay their respects and make their vows to you.’
‘But he took my lands by force.’
‘Because his man was murdered.’
‘Pathetic! Is that an excuse? This is ridiculous!’
‘But we have to try to resolve it, my Lord. The best we can agree at present is to go to France and make the necessary oaths. When you do, King Charles says he will return to you Guyenne, Ponthieu, Montreuil, and the Agenais will be resolved by his courts.’
‘I cannot go! How can I go to France when the King supports and gives sanctuary to those who plot my death?’
All in the room knew whom he meant. His most detested and feared enemy: Sir Roger Mortimer of Wigmore. Sir Roger had been his most respected marshal, not only for his tactical skills in England whenever the King sent him into battle, but also for his Irish campaigns, pacifying that turbulent and troublesome country. But even the King’s most honoured friends could find themselves threatened in this topsy-turvy court. Mortimer had always been the enemy of Despenser, even from before their births. Mortimer’s grandsire slew Despenser’s at the battle of Evesham, and Despenser had sworn to uphold the feud. Thus it was that when Mortimer and other Lords Marcher lifted their flags against Despenser’s rapacity, they found themselves accused of treason against the King. Mortimer surrendered to the King’s standard, and was held in the Tower for some while, but when news came to him that Despenser had successfully persuaded the King to execute him, Mortimer was helped to escape from the Tower by some companions, and now he lived in comfort at the French King’s court — or had done until the King’s delegation arrived to negotiate this peace. It was a thorn in the King’s side that the man was still alive, let alone that he was protected by his own brother-in-law.
‘If there is no agreement on this, then there may be no peace,’ the Bishop said heavily. ‘It is clear that King Charles has every right under feudal law to demand that you go to him, and-’
‘There can be no agreement,’ Despenser interrupted rudely, stepping forward until he was almost between the Bishop and the King. ‘It is clear that King Charles is demanding this because either he knows that it’s impossible for him to retain all our Lord’s assets in France without a struggle, or because he plots the capture and downfall of the King. If our King were to travel to Paris, would he even arrive? With Mortimer planning the King’s murder from within the French court, could there be even a vestige of hope of reconciliation? The French know full well that we cannot even consider travelling there while Mortimer walks abroad under the protection of the French Crown.’
‘Mortimer was evicted from the court before the Queen arrived, my Lord,’ the Bishop said directly to the King, ignoring Despenser. ‘If he wished you harm, it is not with the connivance of the French. It is his own solitary plan.’
‘You say so? Yet I have heard that Mortimer is still in Paris, and still meets with the King’s enemies there,’ Despenser said coolly, staring at him with those unsettling eyes of his. He had eyes with all the humanity, sympathy and human sensitivity of a snake, the Bishop thought.
The Bishop shook his head, but he said nothing. There was little to say against a man with the spying resources of Despenser.
‘What say you, William?’ the King asked.
William Ayrminne was behind the Bishop. He had remained quiet while the others bickered, but now he looked up. In contrast to the ascetic-looking Bishop, Ayrminne was solidly built, and had the clear grey eyes of a man who was philosophical in outlook. He shook his head gently. ‘My Lord Bishop is absolutely correct, my Lord. There is no resolution without your travelling to France. The French are adamant.’
‘Then there is no resolution,’ the Despenser said heavily, and the King slammed his fist on the table.