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.
Lydford, Devon
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.’
Chapter Three
Friday after the Feast of St Hilary1
The Tabard Inn, Southwark, Surrey
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 Chelchede2, 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 …
No. That would be the act of a much younger man, he grinned wryly to himself. He picked up his pack and shouldered his staff once more, setting off back the way he had come.
He only managed to cover fifty or sixty yards, and was some ten yards from a thicket, when he suddenly felt a hand grasp his shoulder.
‘Wait there, you. I saw you back there, staring down at our boats. What were you thinkin’ of, old man?’
Jack found himself pulled around to face a man of maybe two- or three-and-twenty. The fool had a leather cap, and a coif that was stained and marked with sweat. He was a man of no importance, that much was obvious, just a scruffy guard in the pay of the Archbishop, probably.
‘Friend, I am just a traveller. I wanted to look at the river, that’s all.’
‘That’s all, eh? I saw you staring out at the river, all right, but you were mainly watching what was happening all about here, weren’t you?’