It was Jeanne who tried to placate him now. ‘He tries to be your friend.’
‘You don’t understand,’ Simon said.
‘I think she understands better than you, Simon,’ Baldwin said.
‘What does that mean?’ Simon demanded.
Margaret said, ‘Surely if Despenser’s demanded the release of his man, the Bishop can hardly refuse? The Despenser is the most powerful man in the country after the King, you keep telling me.’
‘He is, yes, but the Bishop must be almost as powerful. The King listens to him, and-’
‘There is no “and”, Simon,’ Baldwin said. ‘You were in London with me. You saw how the King deferred to Despenser. The two are close. Very close. And the good bishop has little power compared with Sir Hugh.’
Simon turned to face him. His face showed his bitterness and concern. Margaret would almost have called it fear. ‘You want me to just accept it, then? Should I give up my home here? Make a gift of it to Despenser? What is it to him, after all? The man has so much, so many houses, castles, entire provinces! What does he want with this little place?’
Margaret shook her head. ‘He doesn’t care about the size. From all you’ve said, he’s like a hound who feeds until he cannot eat more. He won’t stop eating because he’s full, because he doesn’t know when he can gorge again; in the same way Despenser won’t stop stealing all he can because he doesn’t know how to. While he is in a position to, he will seek to continue taking all he can.’
She stopped and looked about her. This little house had been her delight. She still loved it. That screen she had had built a while ago, a neat, wooden construction that kept their private chambers beyond warmer and less draughty. She had had paintings on the wall, one of St Rumon, the patron saint of the Abbey at Tavistock, and one of St Boniface of Crediton, to remind them always where they had come from, where they had been so happy. This had been her home for almost ten years. It was a long time. Hard to give it all up. But better that than find a man like Wattere appearing again.
‘No man just keeps stealing for the fun of making mischief, though,’ her husband was saying.
‘But, Husband, he isn’t. He is doing this to upset you, as he has succeeded, and to upset Baldwin through you,’ she said. ‘Why else would he do this?’
Simon stopped and stared at her. It was Baldwin who responded, though.
‘I think you are quite right, Margaret.’
‘What can we do, then, Baldwin?’ Simon said. ‘If you two are correct, and the evil bastard son of a whore is trying to anger you and me, what should I do?’
‘Well, there is little point arguing with his henchman,’ Baldwin said. ‘It is he alone who can prevent any further problems.’
‘But would he? He hates us both, so he’ll hardly want to help us, will he? He could deny all knowledge of Wattere’s actions, and support Wattere in the background, and we’d not be able to do anything. We could take Wattere to court, and with his money, Despenser would be able to bribe any justice, any jury … I would be ruined in no time.’
‘There is no point, Simon,’ Margaret said sadly. She looked about her again. The picture of St Boniface had a lovely smile to the face, and she smiled with a weariness she hadn’t known since her boy had been weaned. ‘He has won the battle. There is no point in struggling against him. We should rent this house, and move back to Sandford. That way, we gain more time. And it won’t matter, because you aren’t Bailiff any more.’
‘You want to give up all we have done here?’
She looked at Baldwin. ‘How many men and women has he killed?’
‘I don’t know. Many, though.’
‘Simon, I cannot lose you, and I cannot risk losing Peterkin. The house is just a house. We have another. Perhaps if we move back to Sandford, he will leave us alone.’
‘Perhaps he will, at that,’ Baldwin said, to her surprise. And then he continued, ‘But I should feel happier if I had brought the whole matter to the attention of the King himself. And I think that he owes you and I a favour, Simon.’
Beaulieu
Thomas of Bakewell never felt entirely right here among all the King’s men. At heart, he was still the Queen’s, heart and soul. He would never forget her lovely face, only a little older than his own, and the frown of compassion on it as she smoothed the hair from his brow that dreadful day of the King’s coronation.
Not the only thing that went wrong, either. There were other problems. The barons all deprecated the fabulous riches worn by the King’s past lover, Piers Gaveston, the smarmy son of an impoverished Breton knight, whom the old King had exiled. Gaveston was cocky and rude, and he seemed to set out to upset all the most powerful in the land, giving them insulting nicknames and then using them in front of others. And it wasn’t helped that he was enormously competent in the lists. He beat all the older barons in a tournament.
But on that coronation day, he inspired more than jealousy or contempt. He may have set the scene for the difficulties between the King and Queen — and France.
The Queen had arrived with a fabulous dowry, not only lands, but many jewels as well. And on the evening of the coronation, she saw that Gaveston was wearing them. This was a mortal insult to her, and to those members of her family who were also there. It was a miracle, so she said later, that no one had demanded to know how the primping fool had acquired them all. But then, no one needed to. They all saw perfectly clearly how the King fawned on his ‘brother’. Sickening.
Yes, the Queen had the patience and kindness of a saint to have coped with her husband for so long. His infidelities, his deceits, his conceits, and his string of friends and advisers, on whom he lavished ever more inappropriate gifts — he could not help himself.
Thomas shook his head, hefted his little pack and blankets, and continued on his way out to his horse. He was to ride off with the King and his men, and had best hurry, for the King and his companions had almost finished their meal.
He walked from his room, down a narrow staircase, and along the passage at the side of the hall, until he came to the open air again — and was suddenly shouldered back inside.
‘What in God’s name-’ he spluttered, reaching for his sword.
Immediately a knife was at his throat, just behind his chin, pointing upwards, making him lift his head and stop struggling. There was a man at his back, who said slyly, ‘Didn’t you hear me, Herald?’
A Welshman, Thomas noted, but that didn’t mean anything for a moment. Then he heard footsteps, and he rolled his eyes to see who it might be. As he did so, he saw Sir Hugh le Despenser appear. He was ready for the journey, cloaked and gloved, but as he approached Thomas, he tugged at the fingers of his left glove, gently easing it off. At last in front of Thomas, he gripped it in his right hand and slapped Thomas twice on each side of his face. The heavy leather made his cheeks smart, and there was a loose rivet, which slashed his cheek open near his jaw.
‘That, Herald, is merely a beginning,’ Despenser said. ‘I want to know where the oil is. Where did you hide it?’
‘What oil? I don’t know what you mean, Sir Hugh.’
‘I’m glad to see you know who I am. Now listen to me carefully, Herald.’ Despenser approached closely and leaned near to Thomas, so that Thomas could see little other than his eyes, peering into his own with a look of mild enquiry. ‘You were coming back that way, weren’t you? You met with Richard de Yatton, and you killed him. Why do that? Just because he saw you there?’
Thomas frowned up at him. ‘I don’t know what you are talking about, Sir Hugh. I went up to-’
‘Canterbury. I know. And while there, you stole oil from the monks and killed one. I don’t know why, but I am not bothered about him. What is one monk, more or less? Nothing. But the oil you took, that is valuable, my friend. And murdering a king’s herald, that is still more terrible. The King has a habit of not forgiving those who shame him, and he does, I fear, consider men who steal from him to be profoundly embarrassing to him personally. He will not be pleased with you, I fear.’