‘She is a little shorter than you, Lady Jeanne, and a little older, I would guess. But for all that, she has a radiant smile. Her eyes are as green as a holly-leaf, and her hair is the auburn colour of a conker. And even though she has suffered so much, she smiles and laughs a great deal.’
‘With you?’ Jeanne said.
‘She and I have laughed much.’
‘Then she will welcome your suit, Sir Peregrine. A man who makes his woman laugh is a rarity. If you make her do that, you will be able to ask her to do anything. I advise you to press your suit.’
Chapter Twenty-Three
Two Fridays before the Feast of St John and St Paul*
Montreuil
It was a very unhappy Paul de Cockington who left the chamber that morning.
The suddenness of Wednesday’s attack had appalled the queen and Mortimer. The lack of warning was one aspect, but the appreciation of their danger here in France had been rammed home too. Up until the fight, they had enjoyed a fond belief that they were safe under the protection of the French king. Even the long hand of Despenser would find it hard to reach them here, so they had thought.
‘I had heard all his spies here were captured,’ had been Mortimer’s terse comment. ‘The bastard’s got more, and the French will do nothing to catch them, even though they know that Despenser is their lord’s enemy.’
The duke had said little as Mortimer strode up and down the little chamber, occasionally throwing suspicious looks at the men gathered about. More often than not, to Paul’s disquiet, the man’s eyes were on him.
Ralph la Zouche was still desperate for vengeance. ‘Is there no one can tell us who planned the attack? The devils should be forced to pay for my brother’s death!’
‘I have asked my brother,’ Queen Isabella said coldly. ‘He has searched for these men and for those who instructed them to attack his nephew, but so far there is nothing. He will continue until news is forthcoming.’
‘He is too slow!’ la Zouche cried, in a voice that was almost a howl. ‘They slew my brother! I want revenge!’
‘The man responsible is in England,’ Mortimer said. ‘He’s the one you should seek. There’s no one else who would have tried such a deed.’
‘My poor son,’ Queen Isabella muttered, and her maid put her hand on the queen’s shoulder. The queen put her own little hand over her maid’s as she stared at the young duke.
Mortimer turned to him. ‘Did you feel your life was in danger, my lord? It is one thing to consider that King Edward might have sought to kill your guard, and quite another to think that he could attempt your life.’
‘What else would a man think?’ Duke Edward demanded hotly. ‘Those men were sent for me. I have no doubt about that whatever.’
‘But perhaps they were not trying to kill? Perhaps they only wished to capture and take you away? Your father is desperate to have you back, I expect,’ Mortimer said, with a sidelong glance at the queen.
‘He would do this?’ she said, eyes wide with shock. ‘I had assumed this was the Despenser, but you think my husband could seek to take my son by force?’
‘He’d argue you held him here by force,’ Mortimer said drily. ‘He knows I stay willingly,’ the duke said. ‘He has written to me and I have replied.’
‘I know,’ Mortimer said.
There was a pause on hearing that. Paul was unsurprised, because this man Mortimer would never have allowed the duke to maintain correspondence with his father — who was determined to see Mortimer dead, and who had in fact signed his death warrant — without being able to read it.
The young duke was shocked, and his mouth gaped for a moment before he caught himself and shut it again. This new proof of Mortimer’s distrust of her son was enough to make the queen rise, eyes blazing with rage.
‘You say you have read his letters, Sir Roger? You have opened his letters, and those addressed to him?’
‘Of course. You think that we can afford to take risks? What if your husband had sought to use coercion to force your son to leave us? Could you have borne the loss of your son, lady? What if he had disappeared in the night, fled to the coast, and taken an English boat home? Your husband would have had all the money, then. He could wager anything and win. And us? We would have lost a prospective husband, we would have lost a defensive shield, and a figurehead for your army. We would have lost all. I’m not prepared to risk that.’
‘You read his messages — does that mean you read mine as well?’
‘I have had no need to. What would you write to your husband?’
‘Whatever I may write is none of your concern!’
‘Lady, everything became my concern when we first launched ourselves on this course of action.’
‘My letters are my own! You have no right to open them.’
‘Why? Would you return to your husband?’ he sneered, his face pale.
‘I may! Perhaps I would prefer to end this dreadful impasse!’
Mortimer took a step towards her, and now Paul could see the emotion in his face. It wrenched his features, as though the man was torn with desperation. ‘Woman, you do that, and I swear I’ll kill you myself with my dagger!’ he spat, his hand on the hilt.
There was an appalled silence for a moment. All Paul could hear was the raucous drumbeat of his heart and the whistle of la Zouche’s breath. There was a heightened awareness in that chamber, a sense that there might soon be an eruption of violence that would affect not only all the men in there, but all the millions in England too. Paul steadied himself, as though preparing to leap upon Mortimer, but his muscles felt as tense as a bowstring, and he found himself incapable of moving.
Instead it was the duke who spoke, ‘Sir Roger, my mother meant no insult. The strain of the last few days has affected us, that is all. Kindly remove your hand from your dagger.’
All the while, he walked forward. It was not some bold action, not a challenge, but more the gait of a man sauntering to the tavern to buy his friend a jug of ale.
Mortimer eventually nodded, and turned away. ‘I am sorry, my lady. This is indeed a difficult time for all of us. I think it just demonstrates that we must proceed as quickly as we may.’
‘Yes,’ the queen said. She sank back into her chair, blanched and discomfited after her outburst of passion. Then, even as he watched, Paul could see her face tighten, and she became the shrewd, calculating vixen he had seen before. She looked about her, smiling at Paul and her son, before catching sight of Mortimer — and suddenly she reminded Paul of a hungry snake eyeing a small creature. And then her smile became lethal.
Exeter
Sir Peregrine de Barnstaple left the castle with a light step, whistling tunelessly as he passed beneath the great gateway and strode down the cleared road to the High Street.
It was a good city, this. Rich on the trade which the ships brought each day, fed well by the numerous farms all about, and influential because of the powerful bishop who sat in the cathedral.
The streets demonstrated the city’s affluence. There was abundance in all. Rich carvings on the buildings, gilt, vivid colours everywhere. The people cared little for any sumptuary code. In the days of the old king, Edward I, there had been little interest in fashions and fripperies, but under Edward II, his son, merchants aspired to magnificence no less than bishops and earls. Women wore bright garments, while men of some stature strode about with their ridiculous, tight hosen and belly-hugging overgarments. It was enough to make a man like Sir Peregrine, who was of a more serious disposition than most, feel vaguely sad. There were so many important matters for people to consider, it seemed shameful that men preferred to preen in public like so many cockerels.
Leaving the main roadway, he made for St Peter’s Priory. Near this, he turned off down an alley, and soon he was at a door, upon which he knocked briskly.