But not powerful enough to hold France back, were she to decide to invade. That was the trouble.
There was going to be a fight about this, though. Sir Hugh would be appalled to learn that he was to be left here alone. He’d be more unhappy to hear that he was himself to be sent, because that would mean his death warrant, but when Edward left to go to France, it might well have the same impact. Everyone knew how much the barons loathed Despenser, and that might result in his murder as soon as the King was out of the country. King Edward knew this only too well. There was little he could do to protect poor Hugh while he left the land, but what else could he do? He was the King, he had a duty to protect his realm from the ravages of the French. Dear Christ, but he wished there was some other way of doing it. Of protecting his son’s inheritance.
It was possible that he could make his son the regent while he was abroad. Maybe then, if he gave Sir Hugh the task of protecting his son, the barons would be reluctant to try to hurt poor Sir Hugh. It was a possibility.
France. That was always the problem. His greatest enemy, and the land to which he was so closely bound, both geographically and by marriage. His wife was a clever woman, but she was also treacherous. Everyone told him that you could not trust a Frenchwoman. There was the risk that she might become a traitor in the English court, were she permitted. It wasn’t to be borne.
Yes, he would have to go there, to France, into the heart of his enemy’s camp, and run the risk of the death of his closest companion, friend, brother and confidant, Sir Hugh le Despenser.
He didn’t know how he could bear to lose Sir Hugh. Poor, darling Piers Gaveston had been captured and slain while the King was away from his side, and he didn’t know how he could cope without darling Hugh, if the barons were to take him away as well.
In Christ’s name, he had had enough! All he wanted was some peace. He held up his hand to call a halt to proceedings. He needed some rest. His head hurt from the constant analysis of problems and threats.
Baldwin felt the nudge. ‘What?’ he demanded less than amiably. He was trying to listen.
‘Look. Them, over there. The Bishop of Orange and your man William Ayrminne.’
‘What of them?’
‘Ayrminne was just whispering in the Bishop’s ear, and as soon as he finished, the pair of them turned and stared at us.’
‘You’re growing fearful of your own shadow,’ Baldwin scoffed. ‘What, do you think that they are joining with Sir Hugh le Despenser to attack you?’
‘No, of course not, but what if they were both involved in the theft of the oil?’
‘Simon, the Bishop couldn’t be. He was with us, wasn’t he? How could he have left us, killed the monk a week before we landed, and then returned to France, eh?’
‘Ayrminne was there before us, wasn’t he? And he is an ally of the Queen,’ Simon whispered urgently.
‘Simon, that is simply ridiculous. Ayrminne and the Bishop are both men of God. Perhaps one of them could have murderous tendencies, but both? No. That is quite-’
‘Wait, Baldwin, just think. What if they hatched the plot before even leaving France, so Ayrminne was to bring a man over here with him who could leave his party on the way from Christ Church to Beaulieu, and then hold the oil in Canterbury, and then the Bishop’s party, with us, would follow on a short while later and, as planned, we would find the oil stolen, and then follow on … the men whom the coroner insisted we should bring with us are perhaps carrying the oil?’
‘Yes? And then what? Do you mean to say that the two will return to the castle in Canterbury? Or will they take ship with the Bishop to meet with the Queen? Or perhaps they’ll attach themselves to William Ayrminne’s group and make their way to France?’
‘Any one of those options would be likely, and quite possible,’ Simon asserted. ‘The Queen could want to embarrass her husband, couldn’t she? You have seen her over the last weeks, just as I have. Ayrminne is an ally of hers, so perhaps he wants the oil for the same reason. The Pope is hardly an ally of our king, is he? I mean, he lives in Avignon, not Rome. He’s only there on the sufferance of the French, isn’t he? Perhaps the Bishop of Orange is going to be the means of shipment of the oil. He is going straight to the Pope after his sojourn here, isn’t he?’
Baldwin shook his head, but even as he did so, his eyes were drawn towards Ayrminne and the Bishop of Orange. In so doing, he caught sight of the King’s son, who was now staring at him without concealment. The Earl looked over at Richard of Bury, and then spoke a few words into his ear. Bury nodded, and began to make his way across the hall towards Baldwin.
‘Sir Baldwin? The Earl of Chester would appreciate a few moments to speak with you after this audience.’
Baldwin nodded and inclined his head to the Earl.
He looked just like any other young boy. It was cruel that life should thrust the cares of the realm on such small and insubstantial shoulders.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Ayrminne was angry as he left the hall. The King’s meeting had lasted much longer than usual, and now he was in that terrible position of having too much to achieve in a very short period of time.
The King was an obnoxious little man. Preening himself up there on the throne as though he was in some way deserving of respect and support from the barons. But few, if any, of the barons saw fit to give him more than a little word or two of support now. Nobody wanted to see his reign continue if it meant retaining Despenser at the very summit of power in the realm.
He’d already done his best to ruin so many, and now Ayrminne could feel his clammy hands on his own collar. Despenser was no ally of his. Ever since that first time that Ayrminne had stood up for the Queen, he had seen the way that Despenser’s cold gaze turned to him, as though he was measuring Ayrminne for a coffin already. That was a good nickname for him, ‘The Coffin Seller’, because wherever he went, the sale of funerary items was sure to increase.
He left the hall and strode on to Westminster Abbey, around the church itself, and on to the little room at the southern side, near to the wall that bounded the Abbey precinct, where he had been given a room. Soon afterwards there came a knock at his door, and a quiet voice called.
‘Canon?’
Ayrminne threw open the door. ‘Get in here! Now, speak!’
Jack smiled easily. ‘There were two guards with me when I came here with the Bishop. He’s arranged for the oil to be stolen.’
Ayrminne curled his lip. ‘You say that the emissary of the Pope has become a thief? Out of my way, you are wasting my time!’
‘It would give him a bargaining counter against the King, if he had the oil,’ Jack said. He gestured with his hands, palms down. ‘Just hear me out.’
While Ayrminne tapped his foot, Jack told him what had happened at Canterbury: the dead monk, the stolen oil, the disappearance of Pons and André. ‘The man who killed the monk was probably living there, in Canterbury. The Bishop of Orange’s party arrived a week or so later.’
‘Everyone said that it was the herald, Yatton, who stole the oil.’
‘I knew Yatton. He wasn’t a murderer. No, I think that he was the victim of an outlaw, nothing more. I was there at Canterbury. I know what happened. The Bishop’s men were held up for attacking some locals, and next morning took flight — even though they were found innocent by the coroner. Why would they do that, if not because they had something on them and didn’t want it found?’
‘You said they didn’t arrive until a week later!’ Ayrminne said, trying to find holes in the tale.
‘That’s right. The thief kept it that long, and passed it on to them when we all arrived. In a city the size of Canterbury, it’d be easy to meet with the man who had the oil. He gave it to them, and they took it and ran.’