They mounted, and soon afterwards they were off, through the gates and out into the roadway.
Ahead they could see the royal buildings in the distance. The massive belfry of Westminster Abbey stood slightly to the right of the other towers and walls, and between the riders and the palace there was a straggle of buildings. Some were low houses for lawyers and clerks, others taller and more prestigious properties for the merchants and traders who came here to ply their trade. Inns and shops catered for their needs, and all about there was a hubbub. Peasants and tradespeople shouting and hawking created a confusion in Simon’s mind. He would be glad to be out of the city and on his way homewards once more.
‘Did you see the bishop’s face?’ Sir Richard asked, leaning towards Simon as he spoke.
Simon nodded. ‘He is very concerned just now.’
‘Aye. But why should he be so outside St Paul’s?’
Simon gave a thin smile. ‘You’re talking about that? I’d forgotten he was upset there as well, but it’s no surprise. Earlier this year I was here with him, Baldwin too, and he invited us to join him to celebrate the Feast of the Purification of the Blessed Virgin Mary. We went to the cathedral itself, and just outside it a mob gathered, threatening to kill him. Apparently the Londoners hate him because he once had to investigate all the rights and customs of the city of London.’
Sir Richard turned slowly and gazed at the bishop. ‘Then why, in the name of all that’s holy, does the man want to come here? I’d stay down in Devon, in a pleasant land where the people all like me.’
‘That, I think, is a question you could ask of any man who seeks power over others,’ Simon said.
‘Hmm. Fortunate then that you and I don’t need any nonsense like that, eh?’ said Sir Richard affably. ‘No, just a good quart of strong wine, a little haunch of beef or venison, and a warm woman to snuggle up to on a winter’s night. Aye, a man doesn’t need much for comfort.’
They jogged on until they reached Thieving Lane, where they made their way through the gate and into the palace’s yard.
Simon couldn’t like this place. He looked about him carefully from the vantage point of his mount before he released his foot from the stirrup and swung himself down from the horse. Last time he had been here for meetings with the king, he had been impressed by the single-minded search for power that appeared to be the main characteristic of all those who lived and worked in the shadow of the palace. When he glanced over at Baldwin, he saw the same wariness, and the realisation that his concerns were shared made his anxiety weigh a little less heavily on his shoulders.
They followed in the wake of the bishop, and soon they were being led across the paved yard to the Green Yard, a pleasant grassed area, in through a doorway, along two corridors, and to a pair of doors that Simon remembered. These were the doors to the king’s Painted Chamber. Four guards stood there, and they took all the swords, stacking them neatly on shelves to the left of the doors. Then the doors were opened, and Simon and Baldwin shot a look at each other before plunging on in the wake of the bishop and Sir Richard.
Abbeyford Woods, south of Jacobstowe
Bill was awake before dawn on the day that the coroner arrived.
The three had taken it in turns to go home and fetch more food and drink. Last night it was John who had gone, leaving his friend, Art Miller, to keep Bill company. The man seemed somewhat less conversational today than the corpse with both eyes put out, and Bill would have been happier to have the company of almost any other man, but at least Art was alive. Or so Bill assumed.
There were always tales of men wandering the lands. In the last thirty years or so there had been the trail bastons, gangs of men armed with clubs who had so devastated the countryside that the king had imposed a new series of courts to come to terms with the menace.
Then, when the famine struck, still more men were displaced as they went in search of any form of sustenance. Latterly there was the danger posed by the families and friends of those who had raised their banners in opposition to Sir Hugh le Despenser in the war of three years ago. After Boroughbridge, when the king had destroyed their armies and captured many of the plotters, he had executed hundreds. The savagery of his response to their attempt to depose his adviser had shocked the whole nation, and many of those who had not been involved went in terror of their lives and had left their homes to become outlaws. Some had made their way to France or Hainault, where they knew they would not be persecuted for their opposition to the English king, but others had remained, and Bill would not be surprised if some had banded together and could have committed this crime.
John was back again before the sun had passed much over the far hills. With him he brought victuals, and the three sat around the fire to eat, chewing rhythmically. It was later in the morning that Bill heard the tramping of boots, and hurried to his feet.
A slightly scruffy-looking knight appeared through the trees with a small entourage of men-at-arms and a clerk, who walked with a screwed-up face, as though the whole of the landscape here stank.
‘Who is in charge, fellow?’ the knight asked, and then looked about him with a grimace. ‘Sweet Mother of God! How many dead are there?’
Painted Chamber, Westminster
As soon as they entered the room, Baldwin could feel the atmosphere. Earlier in the year he had come here with Simon, and the pair had served the king by uncovering a murderer. Then, when they entered the king’s presence, although there was the awareness of the difference in their respective positions, Edward had treated them remarkably well. Now there was a very different feel to the place, and Baldwin shot a warning look at Simon as he knelt, copying the bishop and Sir Richard, as soon as they had passed through the doorway. None moved until the steward had nodded to them, then they all walked in, heads still bowed, until they were nearer the king. There they knelt again, heads bent, until there was a grunt of exasperation from Edward.
‘Bishop, God speed.’
‘Your royal highness, I hope you are well?’
‘Me? Why should I not be?’ the king said petulantly. ‘My wife has been abroad, as has my son, and I am keen to see them again to learn what is happening over there in France. But still! What are you doing here alone, my lord bishop? Is my wife with you?’ He made an elaborate display of peering behind the bishop. ‘But wait! No! She is not here, is she? Or have I missed her?’
Bishop Walter bowed his head again at the heavy irony. ‘Your highness, I am sorry to say that she is not with us, no. What is more, I fear she refused to return to you and her family. I am deeply distraught, your highness, to have to tell you this.’
‘What are you saying? Do you mean to tell me that she has not received my letter?’ the king said in a dangerously cold voice. ‘I thought that I had given it to you for her so that it could not be mislaid.’
‘She received it, your highness. More, I told the French king that you desired her to return to you at the earliest opportunity, but he replied that your queen is also his sister, and he would not banish her from his court. If she chose to leave, that was one thing; but she would not.’
‘What …’ The king spoke softly, but the words seemed hard for him to enunciate, as though they were stuck in his throat. ‘What, then, of my son? The Earl of Chester, Edward. Where is he?’
‘Your royal highness, I am deeply afraid that he would not have been safe had I brought him with me.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Only this, your highness. I was threatened with death were I to remain. A man waylaid me and would have killed me, I think. And your queen sought to demand money from me, suggesting that I might not live if I did not give her your letters allowing her to claim money from bankers in Paris.’