Sir Hugh had his goblet refilled and waited. He had much patience. Sometimes he thought that it was the only virtue he required while here with the king. But he couldn’t deny that he’d been well rewarded over the years for his patience. All he had ever needed to show his king was humility and deference, leavened with adoration, and Edward had repaid the effort many times over. Sir Hugh’s desires became the king’s desires; Sir Hugh’s friends became the king’s, while his enemies became Edward’s most detested foes. There was nothing Sir Hugh could do that would colour the king’s opinion of him. Even when the French demanded that Edward travel to France to pay homage for the territories held from the French crown, the king was happier to send his own heir, the Earl of Chester, Duke of Aquitaine, rather than make the journey himself. Some believed it was because he feared for his safety. Sir Hugh knew it was more because he was anxious for Sir Hugh.
Edward was happier to risk the life and livelihood of his own son than he was to risk the neck of his lover.
‘He would have something to say about this, wouldn’t he?’ the king was saying.
His words brought Sir Hugh back to the present. ‘Who, your highness?’
‘I said, the prophet here, Jeremiah, he would have had much to say about my reign, wouldn’t he?’
Sir Hugh racked his brains. ‘Jeremiah — he foretold of the disaster that was about to overwhelm the Holy Land, did he not? When the Babylonians overran it?’
‘Yes. He was rejected by his own people because they felt he was a doom-monger, always giving them the worst, never telling them that all would grow better. He was as popular as I am.’
The king had a break in his voice as he spoke, and Sir Hugh took a breath. ‘Sire, you are much loved by your people. It is not your fault that-’
‘I have been astonishingly unlucky. Look at me! I was feted when I was crowned, but one thing after another has set the seal on my reign. The Scottish, the French, the bastards from the borders — and there’s been nothing I could do about any of it! As soon as I had the opportunity, I took my host to the lords marcher, and I defeated them, didn’t I? But that wasn’t good enough to recover my reign. The people detest me. No! Don’t think to lie to me, Sir Hugh! I know what they are thinking. And now even my queen has deserted me. She sits there in France with her brother and entertains his friends and my enemies, and I cannot be sure what she intends. Fickle woman!’
‘We shall soon know, sire.’
But the king was not to be consoled, and when Sir Hugh left him some while later, it was with a worried frown at his brow. Edward’s fears were all too well known to him, but it seemed that the man’s concerns were growing daily into fully developed panic. And that was enough to give Sir Hugh cause for thought. His own position in the world was dependent entirely on the king’s goodwill.
Sir Hugh had thought that when the Welsh marches rose in rebellion against him, it was a master stroke to have the king raise an army and march with him. At the time it had seemed the most ingenious response. Those who had sought to meet Sir Hugh in battle instead found themselves faced by the king’s banners. Any who attempted to fight would now be branded as traitors. Their declarations of loyalty to the king were irrelevant. They had tried to impose their will on the king, and Edward had suffered from that kind of interference before. He had been forced to submit to men who enforced ordinances restricting his freedom to rule as he wished. When he tried to reward his favourite, Piers Gaveston, the earls had captured Piers and executed him. Edward would not permit any man to stand in his way again. He had decided that he loved Sir Hugh, and any who sought Sir Hugh’s destruction was an enemy of the king.
But the sheer brilliance of his scheming had concealed one possible risk. Sir Hugh had first seen to the capture of his worst enemy, the bastard grandson of the murderer Mortimer, may he rot in hell for all eternity. Roger Mortimer, the grandfather, had slaughtered Sir Hugh’s own grandsire at Evesham, and the Despensers were not a family to forget a blood feud. So Sir Hugh’s first ambition was to have Mortimer held for a brief period, and then executed as a traitor to the king. And he had almost succeeded. The king had agreed, after two years of careful persuasion, and Mortimer would have been dead already, except the fortunate devil had learned of the death warrant being signed, and had made a daring escape from the Tower of London. Now he was living abroad, plotting the downfall of Sir Hugh, no doubt. Rumours of his negotiations in Hainault for mercenaries and ships had come to Despenser’s spies.
When the rebels were all captured or beaten, flying from the country, Sir Hugh acquired all those parts he had craved so long. He owned almost all of Wales, he possessed vast tracts of the West Country, and he was undoubtedly the second most wealthy and powerful man in the realm. No one but the king could stand against him. And while he had the king’s ear, all knew that to court Sir Hugh’s enmity meant to attract Edward’s hatred. None dared that. They’d all seen how the king would respond to those who angered him. After the rebellion, the bodies of his enemies had decorated city gates and London’s walls for over two years, until his wife’s pleas for leniency had finally persuaded him to remove them and allow the tanned, leathery remains to be buried.
Which had led, in part, to the king’s increasing dislike for his wife.
Sir Hugh entered the little chamber where his own clerks worked, and strode over to a chair. Sitting, he steepled his fingers and rested his lips on his forefingers, head bowed.
There was much now to cause concern.
Stories abounded that Mortimer was raising an army to invade: he was gathering shipping; he had money to pay mercenaries. And Roger Mortimer had been the king’s most successful general. If he were to return to England at the head of the army, there was no telling what the outcome would be. Except Sir Hugh knew full well that if it was a simple matter of generalship, with Mortimer against the king, the king would lose. His only saving would be the fear all men had of breaking their vow of loyalty to him. That might keep some by his side. But if Mortimer proclaimed that he had no fight with the king himself, many might flock to his banner. So many hated Despenser.
But there was nothing to fear yet. He must wait until he had information. There was no point in worrying about Mortimer until he knew that the bastard was a threat. He licked his lips and looked about him. The pressure of his position was growing to be insupportable, he thought as he chewed his fingernail, running his incisor under it to nibble away a little more.
There was a sharp stabbing pain, and he withdrew his hand, looking down. The nail was separated, but had torn away some of the flesh beneath. A sickle of blood stood out at the end of his finger, and he stuck it back in his mouth, sucking.
Yes. He must wait for more information, learn exactly what Mortimer was planning, see how he could respond.
And then crush the shit without compunction.
Bishop’s House, the Straunde
Simon yawned as they wandered out into the cool air again. After that short rest, he felt a little invigorated, but the halt had been too brief. Now, standing out here with their breath feathering the air, pulling on gloves or reclasping their cloaks against the chill, the men with him all looked exhausted.
It was especially apparent when he looked at Baldwin and Sir Richard. Neither was all that young, and both were fully aware of the great distance they must cover to return to their homes in the far west of the kingdom. Still, even those two did not wear such a fretful expression as Bishop Walter.
Simon wondered at that. The bishop was the oldest among them, at some four- or five-and-sixty, but his pallor was not only because of the coolness of the afternoon air. No, it was more to do with the concern he had about the king’s response to their news.