‘Yes. If only we had something we could use against him,’ Baldwin said. ‘I would feel much happier entering negotiations with him knowing that I had something more than begging as a last resort.’
‘I think you will have to wish for that.’
‘Yes … and yet we did wonder about the oil, didn’t we? The oil stolen from the King.’
‘Yes. And we agreed to avoid Despenser.’
‘We would be happy to do so, Simon, if only he had left us alone. But when we considered the murder and the theft of the oil, you were asking me about the dead man in the woods, weren’t you? Do you remember, I said that perhaps the killer of that man was the same as the murderer of Gilbert at the priory? The man killed Gilbert, stole the oil, and took to horse through the woods towards the King. He met with a man in the woods, and sought to …’
‘Sought to what?’ Simon demanded irritably.
‘I just had a most curious thought,’ Baldwin said. ‘What if he sought to conceal his identity by throwing his tabard on to the dead man he saw at the side of the road?’
‘How would that work? Unless he was a herald himself, of course,’ Simon scoffed, and then frowned.
‘Yes, it would make sense, wouldn’t it? A man who was dressed as a herald would know that a king’s herald would be sought for the murder of Gilbert, so as soon as he could, he threw aside that uniform. From that moment he would be seen as an innocent when it came to the murder. People would seek a man in that tabard, and failing that, they would assume the murderer was dead. They wouldn’t know who to seek.’
Simon frowned. ‘But they would still search for the murderer of the herald.’
‘Perhaps so. But it would be some local man, not a fellow from the King’s household, wouldn’t it? So they would hardly realise who it was they questioned. And in fact, so long as the murdrum fine was paid, there would be little need for them to investigate further. The coroner and King would be content so long as the money was in the King’s coffers.’
‘So the herald killed a stranger, and then ran into the woods with his oil?’
‘It is one possibility. I say no more than that.’
‘Then we need to consider who had a desire for the oil.’
Baldwin nodded. ‘And we already considered that, didn’t we? We both felt it was likely that only one man would have dared such a bold theft.’
‘But why should Despenser want the oil?’ Simon said. ‘It makes no sense. He could not hope to be crowned, so the oil would have no benefit to him.’
‘The only advantage it might hold would lie in the properties of the oil itself. Perhaps he thought that such a blessed unguent might help him?’ Baldwin guessed. ‘Or the alternative would be that he sought to hold on to it until the King’s need became overwhelming, and then intended to blackmail the King.’
‘Would he dare?’
‘There is little Despenser would not dare, given his appalling arrogance and greed,’ Baldwin said flatly. ‘But there is another possibility, of course. Perhaps he wanted it solely so that he could ask the King to have it used urgently now, to give him the sort of aid his reign requires.’
‘And to do so, he was prepared to see a monk murdered. Hardly the way to ingratiate the King with God,’ Simon said with contempt.
‘Despenser’s mind works in very strange ways,’ Baldwin agreed.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
First Monday after Ascension Day31
Thorney Island, Westminster
William Wattere was not happy to be here in the Bishop’s entourage. He had not actually been bound during the journey, but at all times the Bishop had two powerful men at his side, and it was clear enough that a severe bump on the head was the minimum he could expect, were he to try to escape.
The journey had been slow, too. That would not endear him to his master. Christ’s cods, the last thing he needed just now was to upset Despenser, when he had failed in his main task at the bastard bailiff’s house in Devon. Not much he could do about it, though. The bailiff had snatched him up with skill, and then having him confess while in front of the Bishop had been something he could almost admire, were it not for the fact that he could have happily cut out the bailiff’s liver and eaten it raw for making him seem a fool. He’d have that bastard. His arm still smarted badly from the cut the man had given him. It had been washed extensively by the Bishop’s men, but it still stung, and although it hadn’t gone sour and sweet-smelling, it was painful while riding. The skin seemed to have tightened, and gripping the reins made it stretch, which hurt like hell.
The pain was not helped by the reflection that he was daily coming closer to his master, to whom he would have to explain his failure. Approaching Westminster made him feel deeply uncomfortable.
At the entrance to the palace itself, he felt the weight of the gatehouse over his head like a threat, and just inside, when the Bishop ordered that he dismount, he was tempted to disobey and bolt for it, but he knew that it would not save him even if he tried it.
No, he would have to accept what fate had in store.
Simon and Baldwin had been here for over a day already. They had managed to make excellent time from Stockbridge, and were here in Westminster late on the Saturday. However, both were very tired, and now they sat outside the tavern by the gate, watching Wattere and the Bishop.
‘Come, Simon. Let us go and reintroduce ourselves to our friend,’ Baldwin said.
Simon flexed the muscles of his hand, feeling the stinging where Wattere’s blade had cut into his palm. ‘I’d like to do that.’
They stood and began to make their way over the great court, but before they could reach the Bishop’s party, another group arrived. A man rode out in front, a knight, from the look of him. Then came several others, all well-mounted on dexters, and a man on a palfrey who looked considerably less martial.
As Baldwin and Simon stood back hurriedly, the party swept past them in a rush of dust and hot air. The horses puffed and blew, one neighing, while carts and a wagon clattered in through the gates, and it was only when all was still, the horses stamping, that Simon saw the flag.
‘The King’s son,’ he said.
Richard of Bury eased himself from the saddle with some care, feeling the hideous soreness, and settled himself on the ground with that caution that only men who have experienced piles while needing to ride a horse could possibly understand.
‘Thanks to Christ!’ he murmured as he sighed with relief. The pain of that journey had been hideous, although, if he had to be honest, it could have been worse. Fortunately, his young charge was kind to him, and had not forced the pace at all. And there was plenty of time before they had to be here, so it wasn’t as though there was a need for urgency. No, but for all that, the saddle did mean that his backside felt as though someone had taken to rubbing sand and salt into his arse, and that was not a happy sensation.
The Earl himself, of course, had the constitution of an ox, while his arse was as solid as a block of oak. As much sense in it as in most men’s heads, too, he added to himself bitterly. But there was no need to be foolish. He was just a young lad who was perfectly used to travel, and to riding his horses. He took the damn things out every day. At least he was comfortable just now. It would mean that Richard would have an easier evening. Which was good, because Bury intended an early night, involving something along the lines of three jugs of good wine …
‘Master?’
‘What? Who are you, and what do you want?’
‘I am called Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, Master. And what are you called?’
‘Don’t be impertinent, Sir Knight. I am the tutor to the Earl of Chester, by the grace of God. I asked you what your business was?’
‘And I, in return, ask politely that you stop being such a rude person and instead treat your betters with the respect which they are due,’ Baldwin said, and his smile held that strange quality which Simon had seen before, of being a smile with the bottom teeth only. It reminded him of a story he had once heard of a beast abroad, a great reptile, with an enormous jaw studded with many teeth, and which appeared to smile all the time — until a man approached too close and realised his error.