Sir Hugh slowly levered himself to his feet. He rested his hand on his sword hilt, as though to remind Simon that he was unarmed. ‘Don’t think me a fool, Bailiff. I want the truth from you now. Did you make a new vow to support the queen? Have you and your friends returned to England to bring messages for others and help foment rebellion?’
‘I am a mere bailiff. What could I do?’
‘You returned here in the company of two knights.’
‘Sir Baldwin and Sir Richard acknowledge no master other than their king, and nor will they ever. They remain loyal to King Edward.’
‘In truth? That is good, then. Because I would be sorely sad to have to see them killed for dishonour and treachery.’
‘It is your own prerogative, you mean?’ Simon said snidely.
The sword was out and the point rested on Simon’s throat. ‘Do not try to insult me, churl!’ Despenser hissed. ‘I am not of a mind to tolerate your insolence. I am a loyal subject to my king, and I seek to destroy all those who would hurt him. Remember that, if you value your life!’
Simon said nothing, and as Despenser pressed the blade forward slightly, he only stared deep into Despenser’s eyes, even as he felt the skin pricked and a small trickle of blood begin to well.
‘Bailiff, you have some native courage.’
‘It is easy to be brave in the face of cowardice.’
‘You think me a coward, then? Interesting.’ Sir Hugh took his blade from Simon’s throat and gradually moved away. ‘I do all in my power to serve the crown, and you think me a coward?’
‘Drawing a sword on an unarmed man is courage, then?’
‘Living here each day does at least feel like a kind of boldness,’ Despenser said more quietly.
Simon felt a fleeting frown crease his brow. The man did seem to be honest — Simon was sure he could hear a low sigh. And no matter what he thought of Sir Hugh, it was true enough that he would himself be appalled to be left here in this great canker of intrigue and politics. If it weren’t for the tingling of the scratch under his chin, he could almost have felt some sympathy for the man.
Despenser stood at the window. From there he could see all along the eastern reach of the river, with its fabulous array of ships, boats and small craft that plied their trade each day. There were some days like this when he would have been happier to be anywhere else than here in Westminster, on the stinking bog that was Thorney Island.
‘There are so many places in this land that merit a visit, and here I remain,’ he said softly. ‘As caged as the lions in the king’s menagerie.’
Simon said nothing.
‘You have travelled the moors of the Dart — I have never so much as seen them. And yet I have heard so much about them.’
‘They reward a visit,’ Simon said after a few moments of silence.
‘Tavistock is a pleasant town?’
Simon smiled again now. He had thought there must be a purpose to the questioning. Now he thought he saw it. ‘Yes. And a rich abbey.’
‘Which is presently vacant. There is no abbot,’ Sir Hugh said, and turned to face Simon again.
‘It has an abbot.’
Despenser made a dismissive gesture. ‘A fool who will soon be removed, and then there will be a new one.’
‘You think another would be better?’
‘There is a good man there. John de Courtenay would make a thoroughly effectual abbot, I am told. This man in place presently is not competent. And he has been shown to be guilty of necromancy.’
‘No. He has been shown to have visited a man who was capable in those arts,’ Simon corrected him.
‘You quibble. You heard that he has robbed the abbey too?’
‘That is unproven, and I believe unfounded. I do not believe it.’
‘John de Courtenay would be more safe at the helm of a great institution like Tavistock.’
‘Clearly you haven’t met the man,’ Simon said with a grin.
‘You are pathetic. Be gone!’
‘My wife is well?’
‘Why should she not be? Do you think I’d take a peasant woman for my own? I have not even told my men to use her for themselves. But you should remember this, Bailiff. My men are still in Devon, and if I hear that you have been false to your king — or to me — you will be ruined, you and your family, because my anger will know no bounds. Be careful.’
Chapter Five
Abbeyford
In his house, Hoppon grunted as he heaved on the rope. It was attached by a metal hook to the six-foot length of tree trunk he was hauling across the floor to the little area of clay where he had his fire. The old trunk was almost burned through.
There were some who laughed at him for this. Aye, they laughed, the pricks. They thought bringing in logs this size was stupid, that it took too much effort. Well, they were the fools. It took an age to slice a log into short rounds, and when he’d done it in the past, they burned through on all sides. This way, the log burned from one end only, and it lasted him longer. He’d carry on with his fires like this. It was how his old man had shown him to build a fire, and if it was good enough for him, it was good enough for Hoppon too.
He had the log in now, and kicked it slightly until it rolled into the hearth as he wanted. Then he settled down, sitting on the trunk, and watched as the sparks began to fly again.
They laughed at him. The children laughed to see his anguished gait, hobbling along in the manner that had given him his name. Aye, they laughed often enough, but some had learned to laugh from a distance. He had caught a lad once, and managed two good swings of his staff at the little bastard’s backside before the bratchet had escaped his wrath. He’d think again before he made fun of Hoppon.
That leg was agony much of the time. He had been at his master’s manor, trying to rescue the animals, when a spar from the roof had fallen on him and trapped him. Christ Jesus, the pain! He still felt it. The sudden eruption of sparks, and then the baulk of timber falling, and he’d put his hands over his head, the fool, as though that could help him, and it had crashed into his back, sending him sprawling. A searing, wrenching pain at his shoulder, and then the feeling of unutterably exquisite burning as the red-hot embers from the spar scorched off his hose and began to cook his leg. That smell! That torture! Sweet Mother of Christ, but there was nothing to equal it. He had felt as though he must die just from the feel. It was as though his heart was swelling ready to burst with the torment. His mind must not be able to cope. If he had possessed a knife or axe, he would have cut his leg from his body, not from a belief that he might be able to escape, but purely because it would mean that he could leave this ruined, burned appendage behind, as well as the agony.
He had screamed so loudly that one of the men outside said they thought it was a horse whinnying in terror, but the horses were all out already. And then someone saw him in there, and three men ran in to lever the beam aside and drag him out, still screaming.
Afterwards, his master had told him he was grateful. It was as he lay on the dewy grass, knowing only the horror of what his leg had become, while he stared at the thing that had once been a part of him, that the man came out and said he was grateful. His destrier had lived. How Hoppon had hated that beast. And his master. For them he was ruined. His leg would never heal again. The flesh was burned away. The little that remained was withered for ever.
There had been enormous pleasure for him when he had heard that the destrier had reared in the river and drowned them both. That had been a day of joy for Hoppon.
Westminster Palace
Sir Hugh le Despenser lay back in his bed, his wife at his side but carefully not touching. He and Eleanor had not been intimate for some while now. Perhaps he should demand the renewal of the marriage debt, but for many weeks he hadn’t felt the urge. It was as though the worries about the land, the fears about the queen and Mortimer, had conspired to kill off his natural desires.