The suddenness of his question threw the befuddled Paul off balance. ‘Spy? Me? I wouldn’t-’
‘No, you don’t have the look of a spy. That would imply dissembling, and you don’t seem very good at that, do you? Still, I would watch your tongue when in the company of Englishmen. There are many here who would happily execute a friend of Despenser’s.’
‘I … I had not thought …’
‘Plainly. Here, you are safe from the French. In this castle you are protected by the King of France himself. But that won’t serve to help you if you tell all inside that you are a friend of the Despenser. Even the French King detests the man.’
Third Wednesday before the Feast of St John and St Paul*
Louvre, Paris
He had thought that the blessed realm of France was one of continual sunshine and delight, but this was the second day on which Paul de Cockington had awoken to find that the skies were black with filthy clouds that were determined, apparently, to wash all evidence of the castle from the city. The rain fell in torrents, until a man standing at one side of the great courtyard at the Louvre might find it impossible to see the wall opposite. Paul had never seen such appalling weather.
In England, he had heard France spoken of as the epitome of style, culture and elegance. Well, as far as Paul was concerned, the people ate mostly peasant food, even here in the castle, and the French knights and squires he had met appeared to lack even a modicum of politeness and civility.
It was not as if he had offended anybody. After his little chat with Crok, he had been enormously careful to whom he spoke, and what he said. There was no point in taking risks. If it were not for the men he had seen with Crok that day, he would have returned to his little chamber … But that would mean going back to the companionship of that tedious clerk, and in fairness to the staff of the Louvre, it was probably better here than there.
Especially since there were so many Englishmen here in the castle. In some ways, it put him in mind of a massive gaol, with so many malcontents all living together. If King Edward could have simply locked the doors and set fire to the whole place, it would have saved him a great deal of time, effort and worry, for almost every soul inside was his enemy. The only significant two who were missing were Queen Isabella and the appalling Roger Mortimer, the man whom all knew as the greatest traitor this king had been forced to suffer. Mortimer had escaped from his captivity in the Tower of London and, so all said, was now the lover of the king’s own wife. The poisonous little vixen! Paul would like to chastise her properly. Ha, that would be a wonderful experience. She was said to be the most beautiful woman in all Christendom.
Yes, but even without the two most significant enemies, the rest of the fellows cooped up in the Louvre were all dedicated to ending the oppression of his rule. If they were not dedicated to regicide, which was a peculiarly hazardous ambition, bearing in mind God’s anointing of King Edward, they were all devoted to the death of his ally and adviser, Sir Hugh le Despenser.
Sir Hugh was so cunning, so able and devious, that he had contrived to steal the houses from about the ears of many men. Not alone, of course. Since arriving here in Paris, Paul had been staggered by the number of men who spoke with scorn and detestation of his own bishop. There were many who said that Walter Stapledon was just as guilty of theft and extortion as Despenser himself. All of which came as a big shock to Paul, who had assumed all believed the bishop to be as nearly saintly as was possible for a man on this earth. Stapledon had always been spoken of with regard, in his experience. All in Devon knew how hardworking and assiduous in the improvement of the diocese, how organised and effective he had been. Not that it changed Paul’s opinion of the bastard! And yet here, he found himself just one among those who considered the bishop to be the least honourable clerk in Holy Orders. It was refreshing.
The weather began to clear at midday, and Paul walked outside in order that he might find a local tavern in which to spend the afternoon, but as he stepped over the threshold and found himself in the lane just south of the Louvre, he saw a group of men sitting at a table, all talking earnestly, one jabbing with a finger, while others nodded seriously.
‘Here’s a man who can assist us,’ said Crok, glancing up as Paul approached.
‘Assist? I shall, if I may,’ Paul said. He took pains to ensure that he held the appearance of an honourable priest whenever he met with others, and he attempted that feat now, as he clasped his hands and bowed his head respectfully.
‘We are to be honoured with the presence of a notable fellow soon,’ Crok said. ‘But although we and others can form his honour-guard, he will require a priest as well. Would you stand as his confessor?’
‘If he be a man without evil in his soul, I would be pleased to be his confessor. But who is this man? One of you here?’
Paul looked about them smiling vaguely at each man in turn. He knew them all. There were the two brothers, one fair, one dark, both tall and with eyes that appeared too close together: Sir Ivo la Zouche of Harringworth and Sir Ralph la Zouche; the strange young man with the black Celtic hair and blue eyes called Sir John Biset; the young man with the tonsure still growing out, who called himself Sir Richard de Folville, and of course Roger Crok, the man who had saved him from the French in the street, and brought him here to rescue him. Of them all, he was sure that Crok would be the safest.
It was Ivo la Zouche who curled his lip and chuckled. ‘You think it’s one of us, eh? No, little priest. We have a better man for you to concentrate on. You will be the confessor to the Earl of Chester.’
‘The Earl of Chester?’ This was better than he had hoped. There wasn’t an Earl alive who didn’t have a purse filled with gold. As confessor to a man like that, he would have access to better food, a new chemise, perhaps even the odd trinket of his own …
‘He’s counting the coins already!’ Crok said delightedly.
Richard de Folville was eyeing him with a look of disdain. ‘He hasn’t any idea who you’re talking about, Sir Ivo. Tell him.’
‘Don’t you know who the Earl of Chester is?’ Sir Ivo asked. He looked slightly shocked when Paul shook his head.
‘He is the son of the king, man,’ John Biset said, and gave a sour grin at the expression of sheer horror that passed over Paul’s face.
Exeter Cathedral Close
The familia gathered outside the little chapel and waited for the bishop to arrive.
It was Bishop Walter’s routine to have his people wait outside for him, and then they would all troop into his private chapel together for the morning’s Mass. Later, he would have a quiet period of prayer with his chaplain alone, and only on feast days would he go to the cathedral itself and take his throne, the new massive wooden seat which he had helped design as a part of the rebuilding of the quire. More commonly, this most devout bishop preferred a quiet service, away from the noise of the rebuilding and the public.
To John’s eye, it was too austere. He had mentioned it often enough, but Bishop Walter would not listen.
‘You ought to be in full fig, and with a golden goblet and cross,’ the steward grumbled.
‘All that folderol is unnecessary in my own chapel. I want peace in there, so that I can concentrate. That is not too much to ask.’
‘So you praise God while denigrating Him by wearing that old black robe,’ John said dismissively.
The arguments would always rage from that point, with the bishop convinced that there was no point in excess in his private chapel, while John remained certain that God would expect it.