‘If you are correct, that would make for a perfect scheme.’
‘Yes. Sadly, it means that the coroner is probably guilty of being complicit in the robbery and murder.’
‘Possibly. But think on this: he told you that someone else told him Pons or the other one was guilty of using aliases, didn’t he? He could have been told that by someone in the castle, couldn’t he? He may well be entirely innocent, Baldwin.’
‘I hope so. I almost liked the man.’
‘There is one issue, though,’ Simon said musingly. ‘If you are correct, it relies on the fact that the murderer was seen. What would be the point of having one man commit the crime, and then the other two take the oil a short while later?’
‘I think that that would be cleared up by the monk himself, if he were alive. Possibly he knew his murderer, or the murderer knew something about him, enough to blackmail Gilbert? Or it was simply money. Gilbert wanted it, and the killer offered to pay him for the oil.’
‘Perhaps,’ Simon said shortly.
Baldwin looked at him. ‘You are still worried about Margaret?’
‘Everything worries me at the moment. Will Despenser let us have peace? Will my house still be there when I return? Is Margaret all right? Is Peterkin safe with her? There is so much to fear when a man like Despenser decides to make life difficult. How can such a man live with himself when he knows how much pain and worry he has inflicted on others?’
‘With great ease. He settles back on to feather-filled pillows each night and pulls a soft woollen blanket over himself, and he is warm, cosy and safe. And he has no feeling or compunction about the way he treats others. There are men like that. Men who don’t care at all for their fellow men. He is one such.’
‘I couldn’t behave in the way he does.’
‘I am very glad to hear it. I don’t think you and I would be companions, let alone friends, were you to treat others in the way that he has.’
‘I suppose so,’ Simon muttered.
There was a loud bell ringing, and the two of them began to follow the general movement towards the Great Hall. Soon after the hall had filled, the King himself entered, walking slowly and majestically towards the throne.
‘It will be resolved, Simon. I am sure that we can dissuade Despenser from causing more trouble.’
‘I wish I was so confident.’
William Ayrminne was relieved to hurry away from the scruffy little man-at-arms and find his way to the palace. It gave him a little time to reflect and consider.
And the Bishop of Orange knew what he must do as well. His path was perfectly clear. In the chats which Ayrminne had held with him, it was plain enough. He would report back to the Pope that the King of England was a spendthrift wastrel with the brain of a pigeon. His treatment of his wife was a disgrace to his crown. His behaviour towards his ‘adviser’, Despenser, was a scandal.
There was no point in further discussion. The man was an embarrassment to his people. It would be a terrible shame for the throne to lose the magnificent properties in France, but while this king was in place, they must be lost. They may just as well hand over all the …
But that was unthinkable. No, better by far that they were retained somehow, and there was only one person who could ensure that. The Queen. She must be supported, no matter what.
He found his eye being drawn to the austere figure of the Bishop of Orange even as he considered.
The meeting in the Great Hall was an odd occasion, Simon felt. The last time he had been here, earlier this year, the King had impressed him, and the hall itself had been glorious, the paintwork gleaming, the rich colours almost blinding the eyes. It had seemed almost fairy-tale-like in its richness and glory.
Today it felt very different. With the gloomy weather outside, it seemed as though the entire atmosphere had subtly altered. The colours inside were dim and murky in the dull light. The windows showed only the dirt that had settled upon them, and the clothes of all the nobles and prelates were steaming in the cool interior. There was a distinct odour of damp dogs about the place. It felt less like the great hall of the most important magnate in the land and more like a cattle-shed.
Despenser called them all to listen, and gave them all to understand that the King required them to respond to some issues of national importance. As he continued, it became obvious that he was talking about the state of affairs with the English territories in France.
It was not interesting enough for Simon. Not only was he uninterested in such matters of state, he was also repelled by the voice of the man reading them. The two conspired to make his attention wander, and he found his eyes ranging over the crowd until they settled upon the full figure of Richard of Bury.
He was a fortunate soul. The opportunity of helping to guide a young mind, especially one so important as that belonging to the young Earl, was daunting, but somehow thrilling at the same time. Simon would not have wanted the job, but he could comprehend the excitement of a man like Bury. What better pupil could a man have, after all, than the son of the King?
And the Earl was there at his side, Simon saw. He noticed, as he allowed his eyes to move on, that the man nearest the Earl was the Bishop of Orange. No doubt he was there as a witness of the events. As a foreigner he could not give advice to the King, of course.
He was clearly fascinated by the way that the King was given his advice, though. Every so often Simon saw him leaning down to Bury and speaking, then nodding. As Despenser began to outline the options available to the King, the Bishop bowed to the Earl and made his way off through the crowds. As Simon watched, he approached William Ayrminne, and stood beside him for some while, head bent, while Ayrminne spoke directly into his ear, as though whispering something deeply important.
And then Simon saw Ayrminne and the Bishop turn and stare directly at him.
The King was bored with all this. It was tedious. He had already more or less made up his mind, and once it was made up, as any who knew him would be fully aware, his mind remained made up. He was not an indecisive fool like some.
His Queen wanted him to send his son to France. That was enough to set his teeth on edge. He would be damned before he’d give up all his French estates to his son. What, make his son the owner of Guyenne and the Agenais? Dear Christ in Heaven, that would make his son more wealthy than he, and if the lad decided to become a thorn in his side, as he himself had once been to his own father, how much more easy would it be from a position of such great wealth? It was a ludicrous proposal.
So the only true decision to be made was, when he should go to France to submit to that son of a diseased whore, Charles IV. It hurt, but not as much as the idea of the actual ceremony. The bastard would make the most of it. He could, as the feudal lord, but that didn’t make it any easier to swallow. Having to bend the knee to a jumped-up little prickle like him was an insult to a man of greater birth and nobility. Charles said he came from Charlemagne in a direct line! So what! The English were descended from the heroes of Troy, as any man knew who was interested in history. That was why the English were so powerful.