‘I believe so, Father.’
‘How can you be so sure?’ Despenser demanded. His voice was like a well-oiled blade: well-formed, polished, and lethal.
‘I relied on some of my men to find it, Sir Hugh,’ Earl Edward said, with just the level of contempt to annoy without upsetting. He was the King’s son, after all.
The King stood up and motioned to Despenser. ‘Sir Hugh, please come here a moment.’
He waited until his closest friend was at his side, and then murmured softly, ‘Do not ever presume to insult my son in that manner again in my presence, Sir Hugh. I will not have the future King of England browbeaten. Is that clear?’
‘Perfectly.’
‘Good. Now,’ he said, turning back to his son. ‘You may leave us, Sir Hugh.’
‘What did you say to him, Father?’ Earl Edward said as the door closed.
‘It was a private matter. A private talk.’
‘Yes. What did you say to him?’
The King smiled thinly. ‘I warned him against insulting you. I will not have the future King of our land made to look foolish by him.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Now. About this oil,’ the King said. He hefted the phial in his hand. ‘It is a pretty bottle, is it not? Anything in a bottle like this must be enormously valuable.’
‘I think so, my Lord.’
‘Yes. It is the way that a boy would think. The more valuable the covering, the more important the oil.’ As he spoke he pulled the cork and sniffed at it. He nodded approvingly before tipping the phial upside-down, and watching his son as the oil dribbled out on to the slabs of the floor.
‘But, Father!’
‘Do not assume me to be a fool. The oil was stolen, it was taken by that ingrate Yatton and lost in the forest when he was attacked by the outlaws there. I know this as well as any. I shall never see it again. This, this is an insult to me.’
‘Father, I am sorry. I only-’
His voice softened. ‘I know, my son. You wanted to make me happy by providing me with another phial. But I can accept the failure and the loss. My reign is a mess, Edward. When you accede to the throne, promise me this: you will reign more cautiously than me.’
‘I swear it, Father.’
The King stared down at the phial in his hand. ‘I shall keep this, though. It is a good little container. I have not seen its like before.’
‘Really, Father?’ said his son. He wondered at that, for it was the same phial in which the oil had arrived with him. Still, no matter. He was only relieved that he had rescued the real oil before coming here.
‘And now, please leave me. There is still much for me to consider about this new treaty with the French,’ the King said heavily.
‘Yes, Father. Father? I am sorry.’
‘So am I, my son. I could almost bend my knees now and beseech the Almighty to send me another phial of the same oil, just to try to protect us. Because I am as sure as I can be that the King of France is not going to aid us. Not from the look of the treaty he proposes.’
Friday after Feast of St Boniface36
Baldwin and Simon clattered thankfully out of the great gate of the royal palace, and set their heads down Thieving Lane, and on towards the west.
‘Home again at last,’ Baldwin said.
‘I am looking forward to seeing Meg again,’ Simon said, smiling.
‘And I Jeanne,’ Baldwin said. He was quiet a moment. ‘You know that the forest where the herald’s body was found has now been cleared of all the outlaws who infested the place?’
‘I would hope so!’
‘It is a safe area to visit now — until the next marauding group settles there.’
‘Good. I am glad to hear it.’
‘I suppose it would be a great deal out of our way,’ Baldwin said musingly, gazing down at his new dog.
Simon gaped at him. ‘Are you serious? The woods are straight south from here, while home is westwards. What would be the point of going down there?’
‘I had a mind to see that woman again. You remember her?’
‘Yes. The scared one. What of her?’
Baldwin looked at him. ‘I wanted to visit them and tell the man that he is safe now. Everyone believes him dead.’
Simon opened his mouth to speak, but Baldwin continued in his quiet, insistent manner.
‘You see, Simon, we were right in the beginning. I think it might have been you who said it. I wondered about it when I was looking at the tabard and pondering what on earth someone would have been doing, pulling the tabard on over his head, but we had the confirmation that it was Yatton, because of the other messengers and heralds telling us it was him.
‘But as Joseph said — even his own mother wouldn’t have recognised him in that state. No one could. He was so badly decomposed that it was mere guesswork to see who it was.’
‘Who was the man, then?’
‘Again, you had the right idea. It was the husband of the woman we met in the woods, I think. I don’t know, but I’d assume she was unhappily married, and gradually over time she grew to hate her man. And at the same time she came to know a man who kept riding past, a King’s herald, a fine man on horseback, always smart and with coin in his purse. Is it any surprise that she and he began to talk? You set my mind on that path when you asked me about his being so religious. You recall, we were told originally that he was intensely religious, and then we heard that it was untrue. If that was the case, why was he spending so much time away from his duties? I think he was spending as much time as he could with his woman, the woman in the forest.’
‘So he rode past, all the way to Canterbury, stole the oil from Gilbert …’
‘Who then tried to blackmail him into paying more for the oil, threatening to tell his father’s best friend, Despenser.’
‘And then rode back to the forest, where he set upon the man and killed him, dumping his body in the woods, and, as an afterthought, placed his own tabard over him?
‘But not before he had given the oil to someone else. Perhaps to the castellan at Canterbury, or the coroner. Then, when we passed through, the oil was given to Peter and John, who carried it with them in our party, and only when we reached Beaulieu did they realise that the Earl was not to arrive, so they proposed to the Bishop of Orange that they should continue with him and come to London too. And once here they could give the oil to Earl Edward.’
‘And the true murderer lives on in a wood south of London?’
Baldwin pulled a grimace. ‘Perhaps. And yet, who can tell? Perhaps Gilbert sought to attack him, and he killed the brother in self-defence? And the husband was murdered by his own wife. Or perhaps died naturally, and she dragged his body into the woods, anxious that anyone finding it at her home would automatically assume her to be guilty of his death? It may have been nothing to do with Yatton whatever.’
‘And I may be a bishop.’
‘Do you want to know the truth of it?’
Simon looked south towards the Thames. The river flowed sluggishly here, grey and slumberous, but it was an obstacle he preferred not to dare. ‘No,’ he said with certainty. ‘The man is alive or dead. It matters not a whit to me. All I know is, I want to see my wife again and make sure that she is perfectly safe. If you want to follow this fellow, I think I shall have to ride on alone, Baldwin.’
Baldwin stared west, then south, and at last he nodded. ‘You know, I think you may be right this once.’
Despenser walked back into his chamber and saw that Wattere was already there. ‘Well? What do you want?’
‘I have been investigating that bailiff you wanted me to remove. If you still wish it, my Lord, I think I have found a way to remove him legally.’
‘Speak!’
‘His house is not his own outright. He owns it on a seven-year lease. Usually, it would be perfectly safe for him, but he has spent so much time this year in France and here, that I am sure he will be in arrears with the rent.’