Dispensation of Death: (Knights Templar 23) (5 page)

‘There is another matter, my Lord.’ John Stratford, Bishop of Winchester, was reluctant to add to Edward’s woes, but this was too important not to be raised. At least the King’s worst temper appeared to be dissipating, and so the Bishop felt more comfortable about mentioning it
now. ‘King Charles also complained that you were attempting to form an alliance with his enemies. He mentioned Spain, Aragon, and Hainault.’

‘I am a King! I can negotiate with whomsoever I wish!’

Despenser smiled to himself. Any suggestion that someone was encroaching on King Edward’s rights always made him jump like someone had jabbed a knife in his arse. Leaning forward, he twisted the dagger a little. ‘My Lord, the French King is aware of that, of course. And yet he
is
your liege-lord. You owe him loyalty.’

‘Only for Guyenne, damn his soul! That hog’s shit has no right to expect me to surrender
my
rights to negotiate! Would he have me submit all my policies to him for approval? That bastard encroached on
my
rights on my territories, and then demanded that I submit to him, and now he intends to make me little more than a puppet king, an arm of French law and nothing more!’

Despenser sat back, the seeds of additional discord already fruiting nicely. He had little care about the provinces which exercised the King so much. He had no need of them. What he was interested in lay here, in the kingdom of England, where he had all but total power. What point was there in him worrying about Guyenne when he was already the wealthiest man in England, saving only the King himself? However, it was true that all power resided in the person of the King. And if King Edward II were ever to be weakened or threatened, Despenser’s own position would go the same way. It did not bear considering that he could be left to the mercies of the barons in this country. That had happened to Piers
Gaveston, and he had been captured and slaughtered by them nine years ago. Despenser did not intend to suffer a similar fate.

‘My Lord, it is natural that the French King should ask that you go to him to pay homage for lands which are held in fief from him. It is his right to demand this,’ Stratford said quietly.

Despenser glanced sidelong at him. Bishop John was a very astute, calm man. He’d been a thorn in the King’s side when he took on Winchester, because the King had set his own heart on an ally, Baldock. Bishop John had returned from the Papal Curia, at which he had been
intended
to promote Baldock, with the position in his own purse. Furious, the King had accused him of greed and pushing his own interests, before confiscating all the Bishop’s lands. Stratford had been forced to pay twelve thousand pounds to recover his property from the Crown.

However he was a natural diplomat, cautious, shrewd and detached. A dangerous enemy, in fact, and Despenser was unsure about him. What, for example, was the meaning behind this latest suggestion? That the King should go to Paris? How could that benefit Bishop John, he wondered. Not that he was too concerned. He was sure he could persuade King Edward to ignore that sort of suggestion.

He tried a tone of hurt shock. ‘You expect your King to go to Paris? You really want him to suffer another humiliation at the hands of the man who confiscated all his French territories last year? When all his enemies are there, living openly and under the protection of the French court?’

‘Yes – you expect me to abase myself before that thief?’ King Edward raged suddenly. ‘Had you heard that traitors are there? You want them to have a chance to assassinate me?’

‘My Lord King, I say no such—’

‘But you want me to go to Paris, don’t you?’

‘Perhaps the good Bishop is not aware of the risks involved,’ Despenser muttered.

‘The risks?’

‘Yes!’ the King shouted. ‘The
risks
, my good Lord Bishop! Don’t you know that the realm’s greatest traitor, that duplicitous bastard Mortimer, is there at the French court? Eh? And he’s not alone, is he? No! There are enough other men in that court who would want to do me damage!’

As he ranted, Hugh le Despenser nodded sagely. It had not been difficult to plant concerns about the King’s safety were he to go to France. His obsessional paranoia since the last wars was in fact entirely rational. Edward had killed his own cousin, Earl Thomas of Lancaster, and then embarked on a campaign of reprisals against all those who had attacked him and his authority. That was over two years ago, but rotting limbs of the knights and lords who had been executed were still dangling above the gates to all the major cities in the land, while their heads adorned spikes. Some had managed to slip away without capture, and most of them had gone to the French court, where the King liked to bite his thumb at his English brother-in-law. Now they lived there, more or less openly, at the expense of the French.

‘I will not submit to this! I want my host! Send my men-at-arms to France – I will crush this bastard!’

Despenser saw how quickly the Bishop’s eye dropped to hide his amusement, and he curbed the smile that threatened his own mouth. To openly deride the King’s martial expertise would be dangerous even for him.

‘My Lord,’ Stratford said quietly, ‘you have no host. The French King has right upon his side. You are a vassal for the Guyenne. And do not forget that the Pope wishes for peace, and he begs that you do homage for the lands you hold from King Charles IV.’

‘Sir Hugh?’

Despenser made a show of raising his hands and shaking his head. ‘My Lord King, I suppose any obfuscation must result in losing Guyenne. My Lord Bishop is quite right to say that homage must be paid.’

‘I will
not
go there. Must I accept the demands of this upstart who has stolen my lands from me? No! I would sooner give up my Crown! And I do not have to.’ He span on his heel and pointed at the clerk sitting in the corner. ‘I will send a delegation to Castile. We will offer my son in marriage to the Castilian woman, this … this … Sir Hugh, what was her name?’

‘Leonor, my Lord,’ Despenser said.

‘Yes. We will send ambassadors to them there. Demand three thousand men to help protect our provinces from this French King. Then we can …’

Despenser saw Stratford fiddling with the parchment in front of him. His unease was all too plain. The King was taking actions that could infuriate the French, who had the most powerful host in all Europe. Despenser shivered, and tried to cover it by lifting his arms over his head and stretching. But there was no concealing the
dangers and threats from himself. He had to remain on the alert all the time.

Especially, he thought as he caught another sideways look from the Bishop, from men like this. Stratford knew that the last thing Despenser could afford was to allow the King to leave his sight. If he were to go to France, Sir Hugh le Despenser could not go with him. The French King had already declared that Hugh was an enemy of France and would be executed if he set foot on French soil.

No. He couldn’t go to France, and if
he
couldn’t, the King mustn’t. To be left alone here in England while Edward crossed the Channel would mean an alliance among the barons, and Sir Hugh’s neck on a block. There were few in whom he could genuinely place his trust, were the King to leave him to the wolves.

Chief among his enemies was the Queen. She despised him, because when the King lost his infatuation for her, he took all her wealth and property and used it to reward the man he adored. She blamed Hugh for that, he thought with a slow smile. As well she might. It was he, together with the avaricious Bishop of Exeter, Walter, who had hatched the scheme which would reward both by impoverishing her. Only a short while ago she had been one of the wealthiest magnates in the land; now she was reduced to the status of a humble corrodian at the King’s court.

All of which had made her Sir Hugh’s most implacable enemy, which was why he had decided she must be removed. To have someone with her resourcefulness, with her injured pride and intense desire for revenge,
sitting at court and retaining the title of ‘Queen’, would be like setting a magnet in a box of iron filings and hoping it would remain clean. Better by far to remove all the filings or – since that was impractical – remove the magnet.

He wondered how Jack atte Hedge was getting on.

Simon scowled at his wife as he entered the hall. She was not alone.

At the table, sitting on Simon’s bench and drinking a pot of ale with every sign of delight, was a Lay Brother from Tavistock. Simon thought he recognised the fellow, although he did not know his name, but he had no doubt that whoever had sent him, it would not be for his own benefit.

‘Ah, Bailiff, I am glad to see you again,’ the man said.

‘Yes?’

Meg smiled and left the room with a special grin for her husband. He glowered back.

‘Bailiff, I have a message for you.’

‘Is it from the Abbot or John de Courtenay?’

The Brother blinked. ‘Neither, Bailiff. It came straight from Bishop Walter of Exeter. He wishes for you to join him. In London.’

Friday after the Feast of St Hilary
¹

Jack atte Hedge woke before dawn, as was his wont, and did not move in the dark as he listened to the breathing of the others in the room.

This was not the inn where he rested from choice. He had left most of his belongings and his horse over in Chelchede
²
, to the south and west of Thorney Island, but he needed to study the place from this, the Surrey side of the river as well. There could be a useful angle which could be seen from here.

The inn was filled with travellers on their way to London, and the snoring and grumbling of the tranters, carters and men of some wealth was loud to his ear. He was used to sleeping apart from others and being so accustomed, he found the noise of this party almost deafening.

In the past he would have woken beneath a tree or
beside a stream with the sound of birdsong as the thrushes, robins and blackbirds began to warm themselves for the day’s work. But that was in the days when he was more hardy. Truth be told, more recently he was grown soft. It had been many years since he had last slept in the open in winter. No one would do so from choice, and he found now that he couldn’t face the idea at all. Far better that he should sit in a warmer environment and stop his joints from aching, even if it did mean he must endure the row.

He rolled from the bed, a rough palliasse stuffed with straw, and the man who had shared it with him grunted and swore in his sleep. Dressing quickly, Jack pulled on his belt with his purse, then drew his knife’s cord over his head so that the small blade hung at his belly, down inside his shirt. This was his assurance of protection, a small knife that others might not notice. The second dangled from a leather strap, and he pulled that one over his head, feeling it as a comforting weight against his hip. No man with a brain would ever go unarmed, especially here near London. Then he had his purse on another belt, and his horn in case of troubles. With a horn a man might call for help at any time of the day or night. To walk abroad without one was almost a sign of irresponsibility. He took a few moments to stuff his pack, bind it, and then he was off.

The door was opened as he reached the hall, and he went straight out, thrusting his staff through the thongs binding his baggage to carry it more easily. It was a short walk up to the great bridge, less than a half-mile, but he chose to walk along the line of the Thames first, heading
upstream as though idly. There was a track which looked as though it was a shepherd’s path; it meandered a little too close to the river, but was less muddy than some of the flats about.

It was a very wet part of the country, this. He muttered bitterly when his boot slipped through a thin crust of ice and he felt the first prickling of freezing water at his toes. Looking west from here, he could see some low hovels, but generally this close to the river there was nothing but mudflats and sodden, reeded marshland.

Over at the turn of the river he could see the little vill of Lambeth in the Marsh, a small cluster of houses with a couple of little orchards. He bent his path in that direction, eyeing the far bank as he went. The river here was a good width – almost impossible to cross without a boat or taking the bridge. He had once been a strong swimmer, but looking at the angry ripples on this water, he knew that was no possibility. Since the bridge’s building, the river had been effectively slowed, but that only made the currents more hazardous. No, he could not hope to escape by the water unless he stole a boat.

At the vill, a second path led south along the line of the river towards the Archbishop of Canterbury’s palace. Another path led about the palace’s walls, and he wandered along it idly. Near a gate in the Archbishop’s wall there was a landing stage, with five small boats moored. Jack stopped, set his staff on the ground, then thrust his thumbs in his belt and stared out over the water. On the other bank he could see the new chapel on the left, the two-storeyed quarters for the Queen, then the King’s own rooms, and his own, newer chapel of St Stephen,
before the mass of the Great Hall. The two jetties were clear enough, and so near it looked as though a man might almost reach his hand out and touch them from a boat down there.

But there were problems. A man stood upon the wall behind him. Jack had heard the fellow sniff, hawk and spit a few moments ago, and the whole way over the river would be in plain sight of every guard here in Lambeth and over there at the island. If he were to try anything involving boats, he’d be better served to escape quickly, in any case. Rowing across the flow of the river was no good. It could only slow him, while guards on both banks loaded their bows and sent flight after flight to chase him.

However, perhaps he could use the river to his own advantage? He peered back the way he had come. There, just at the bend, was another little jetty with moorings. It was quieter, with only one boat, for this was by the vill he had passed through earlier, and Lambeth in the Marsh did not justify an enormous flotilla; however, that one little boat could be his saving. Perhaps he could use the landing stage for an escape if necessary? He could leave the island, let the current draw him away, increasing his speed quickly, and then hop off up there. It should be easy enough to escape without too much risk. They’d need boats to reach him, but he could cut the moorings before leaping into the last …