Dispensation of Death: (Knights Templar 23) (7 page)

‘The child is all right?’

‘Yes. I have called him Baldwin,’ the knight admitted self-consciously. ‘It was not my own choice, but Jeanne was insistent. I should have liked to call him after my father, or my brother.’

Simon nodded. Baldwin had left England to sail to Acre during the final defence of the city against the heathen hordes, and when he finally returned to his home, both his father and brother were dead. It was a curious thought, that he might have been gone for so long that his family ceased to exist. Simon had no brothers, so he could only guess at the effect such a loss might have upon a man. To change the subject, he shrugged. ‘I don’t know how much help I am supposed to be to the Bishop.’

‘Nor me,’ Baldwin agreed. ‘But the good Bishop appears determined to have me with him for the benefit of my advice. I suppose I am reluctant to refuse to help him, and yet it is such a bad time.’

In his mind’s eye he saw again his wife. She had been determined not to weep before him, both because Jeanne had always been a proud woman, and because she knew it would only leave Baldwin feeling miserable too. She had clung to him when he hugged her before going, and it was only later, on the ride from Fursdon to the ford, that he had felt his shoulder and realised that it was wet from her tears.

‘It is one thing for you, a knight and well-travelled
man who has seen much of the world,’ Simon muttered, ‘but I fail to see what a mere Bailiff from the moors can do to help him discuss matters of great importance.’

‘Perhaps he wishes the views of the common man,’ Baldwin laughed. ‘The most common man he could think of!’

Tuesday before the Feast of St Julian
²

The next day was the sort of day that only a frog could like. Cold, grey, miserable, and wet. God, was it wet!

Earl Edmund of Kent detested it. He was happier by far in warmer climes, but he was forced to remain here in England against his wishes, just because any man who left his manors could return to find them filched by that gannet Despenser.

There was a sermon Edmund had once heard preached by the Archbishop, which said that no man should covet his neighbour’s property or cattle or wife. But that had never been made clear to Sir Hugh, plainly. Everyone knew what sort of man Despenser was. He controlled access to the King, demanding payment before he would allow anyone to submit a petition, restricting visits to only those whom he knew would not embarrass him. He helped himself to anything he wanted. And now Earl Edmund was sure that he wanted his estates and title too. It wasn’t good enough that his father had been made Earl of Winchester and that the
title would become his on the older Despenser’s death. No, Sir Hugh had always been greedy for immediate gratification, and now he wanted his own Earldom.

‘The man is intolerable!’ he muttered.

‘My Lord?’

‘
Sweet
Jesus!’ Earl Edmund blurted, starting at the sudden interruption to his thoughts.

From behind a large pillar, Piers de Wrotham cast a look up and down the hall before beckoning his master into the darkness, out of reach of torchlight. ‘I have news,’ he breathed.

‘Well?’

Piers was agitated. Even the Earl could see that. His fingernails were bitten almost to the quick, and his eyes were red-rimmed from lack of sleep. ‘Master, you are in great danger.’

Earl Edmund felt a tightening in his throat. Ever since the shameful truce he had agreed with the French last year, he had expected to be arrested and held in the Tower, or to suffer a simpler fate, grabbed one night from behind and stabbed in the back while his mouth was covered. ‘Who is it?’

‘Sir Hugh. He wants you to die,’ Piers said earnestly.

‘There is little new in that!’ Earl Edmund said, unimpressed. ‘He never liked the fact that I used to be the King’s constant companion. It made me a rival for his affections.’

‘There is more. I have heard,’ Piers continued, ‘that he intends to make it impossible for the King to travel to France. He cannot afford for Edward to leave the country without him, but daren’t go to France himself.’

‘What could he do to make it impossible for the King to go?’

‘He could harm him – wound him sufficiently so that he couldn’t travel?’

‘Not even
he
would dare do something like that. If his plot became known, the King could well decide to charge him with attempted regicide – and that would mean death.’

Piers shook his head. ‘But my Lord, you have to understand, he is desperate. If he is left alone here with the King in France, the barons will undoubtedly slay him. But if he goes with the King, the French have already declared that they will execute him as their own enemy. He must do anything he can to keep the King over here.’

‘What could he do?’ Edward asked again. ‘He must either make King Edward so fearful of travelling that he dare not, or make it appear that our King has committed some crime against the French that would sufficiently annoy their own King … What could he have attempted?’

‘My Lord, because he wishes to ruin you in the eyes of the King, perhaps he could seek to make more of your failings in France last year. Perhaps he seeks to send someone else to make a better truce than the one that exists.’

‘Aye.’ Better than the one I sealed, Edmund told himself. ‘How would that hurt me?’

‘If he were to persuade the King that he had learned you were plotting against him, or that you were negotiating with the French to take over the lands which were confiscated from the Crown, you could be arrested.
And of course if you resisted arrest, you could be stabbed in the ensuing struggle. It would make for a simple resolution.’

‘The bastard! I shall double my guards immediately!’

‘Protect yourself, my Lord.’

‘Aye. And take a care yourself, Piers. But find out anything you can about any plots he may have.’

‘That I will, my Lord. And you shall be the first to learn everything,’ Piers promised.

‘What else for now?’

‘The same as before, my Lord. I should continue to demonstrate your ability as a politician. You are cleverer than almost any other at court.’

‘And what action should I take?’

‘You have to prove that you are more worthy of trust than Despenser. Well, you know that he wishes only to keep the King with him here in England. The best outcome for the King would be for a strong negotiator to go to France …’

‘You think
I
should recommend myself?’ the Earl snapped. ‘Do you realise I am being blamed for all the ills of the realm since I negotiated the truce last year? It was Despenser’s fault, but …’

‘My Lord, I know all that. However, if you were to propose someone who had diplomatic skills, who knew the French King, who was fluent in his language, even Sir Hugh le Despenser could hardly argue. And it would delay the need for the King to go so soon.’

‘How could that upset Sir Hugh? It is all that he could wish too.’

‘If you can persuade some of your peers, some
Bishops and others, so that Sir Hugh does not suggest it himself, perhaps it would lead to the Queen being selected on your advice. Then the success of her mission would redound to your credit.’

‘You are sure she would be successful?’

Piers looked at him with that unblinking expression the Earl knew so well. ‘How could the sister of the French King fail?’

His voice was calm, but there was a faintly accusing tone in it which implied that the Earl should not doubt her ability. ‘Very well. So my strength is to advise this before the Despenser?’

‘It is merely another proof of your statesmanship compared with his muddle.’

Earl Edmund nodded. It was little enough, but in this context every little would help. He had a long journey to make up the distance he had lost over last year’s war.

‘Very well, Piers. I shall start on this. You keep on at your sources, though, and see what else I may use to the detriment of the Despenser.’

Piers nodded, sidling deeper into the shadows as Earl Edmund marched off back into the light, his body casting a shadow that lengthened over the floor as he went.

Sighing, Piers turned away. It was sad to betray the Earl, for he rather liked the man. But money was money, and knew no loyalty.

Thursday before the Feast of St Julian
¹

Edmund Woodstock, Earl of Kent, was disgruntled to be made to stand here, kicking his heels until the Bishop deigned to appear. Apart from anything else, he was hungry. He’d come here as soon as he could, before even breakfast, to catch the Bishop first thing after his morning Mass.

He was an Earl, half-brother to the King, an important man, and this petty cleric kept him hanging about like a berner awaiting his lord and master’s command to set the hounds loose. He had half a mind to leave this damned palace and make his way homewards to the inn he was renting, when he heard feet on the steps outside.

If only he was home again. Although it was no warmer than here, he liked Gloucester, where he had his main castle and manors. Here in London and the area all about it, he was unsettled. He’d never liked it, not from the first. Give him open lands and his hounds and he’d be happy,
but here in London he felt cooped like a hen. Especially now he had at least two men with him at all times.

Piers had best be correct. The fellow was too damned uncertain. When they had met the other day, he had looked so petrified. Earl Edmund had hoped that Piers would have produced something rock-solid on which he could plan, but no. Just the same old hints and things of no value, like the news that Despenser hated him and could plot to have him killed. As if he didn’t know that already!

Edmund was no fool, but there were times when life was truly confusing. Just now, he knew that all he did must be circumspect and cautious, because otherwise, he could well lose his head. Literally. The messages he had been receiving from Piers left him with no doubts.

The realm needed strong government. The populace were sheep to be herded carefully, and shorn in due season. There were the three classes of man, as all knew: the
bellatores
, the clergy, and the commonfolk. The
bellatores
were the men who had a duty to protect all others; the clergy existed in order to maintain the souls of the rest of society; and beneath both were the commoners, who were there to labour and, by their efforts, feed all others. It was the way of all communities. It was how they functioned.

He had been loyal – no: devoted. All his life, he had fought to support his half-brother, the King. Edward II demanded ever more devotion from his men, even when his household was splintering and his own knights were leaving him to join Thomas of Lancaster, before Edward removed
his
head. When Edward had needed help in
allowing the Despensers back into the country after they had been exiled, who did he turn to? Edmund. When he wanted Leeds Castle besieged and Bartholomew Badlesmere captured? Edmund. When he wanted loyal men to take Thomas of Lancaster’s chief residence? Edmund. When he wanted his own men to hear Andrew Harclay’s trial and judge him? Edmund. He, more than anyone else, had repaid the wealth and honours given to him. God’s eyes, he had
earned
his rewards.

All the time he’d felt the sneering, though. Christ Jesus, yes. All the while, while he worked his ballocks off to help the King, he had known that they’d all looked down on him. No matter that he had successfully completed many active battlefield campaigns, they still looked on him as a lesser man. Bloody Despenser, with his airs and graces – when all was said and done, he was nothing more than a knight. Edmund was born the son of a
king
, the son of Edward the Hammer of the Scots. He was a man of honour and breeding.

He heard the mutterings all the more now, of course. Yes, while courtiers reckoned that his star was descending, they all started to show their callous disregard for him. And he knew full well that many of them laughed at him behind his back. He didn’t need Piers to tell him that. Christ’s bones, it was obvious enough. It wasn’t only the Despensers, either. There were some whom he had always looked upon as friends who now were all too content to make his life a misery.

If that were all, he’d not be too worried, but it wasn’t. He knew as well as any that among those who laughed at him was his own brother, the King. And his other brother.
Thomas of Brotherton, the older by one year, had never quite enjoyed Edmund’s successes. And truth be told, Edmund had always had that feeling that he was the least of all Edward I’s sons. He was but six when his father died, and it had left him wondering what sort of a man he had truly been. Perhaps little better than any other. Certainly his brother, Edward II, was scathing enough about him. But then, King Edward I had exiled his son’s great friend, Gaveston, and Edward never forgave his father that.

This grudge-bearing trait was one with which Edmund was all too familiar. Ever since he had signed that truce with the French last year, he had found himself marginalised, an embarrassment. And all the others seemed to think that they could manage not only Guyenne, but the whole Kingdom better without him.

‘My Lord Kent.’

The suave voice shook him from his reverie. Fitting a grin to his face, Edmund turned and took the proffered hand, kissing the Episcopal ring. ‘My Lord Bishop.’

Drokensford was a heavy-set man with a florid complexion. His face was square and lined, as befitted a man who never based himself in any home, but who moved constantly from one manor to another, usually visiting all sixteen of those within his See each year, as well as the other properties dotted about the country. His voice was gruff, and he still sounded like a farmer from that little Hampshire town where he had been born. ‘My friend, it is my honour to see you here. Would you like some wine?’ He looked across the room at the guards the Earl had brought with him.

‘If you please, my Lord Bishop.’ He jerked his head at the guards, and they walked out to wait in the screens passage.