‘For now. Don’t mistreat him,’ Baldwin warned.
‘Aye.’
Simon shot a look back into the room before the door was closed and bolted. ‘What do you think, Baldwin?’
‘If it were possible for a more unpleasant little man to have wheedled his way into the companionship of the king’s son, I could not imagine it. What more undeserving fellow could there be?’
‘But could he be telling the truth?’
‘What value could there be for him to invent such a tale? No, I think he’s telling the truth well enough. And that means that we must send to the king with this news.’
‘Last I heard, the king was at Dover.’
‘Yes,’ Baldwin said. He looked at Simon.
‘I know,’ Simon said. ‘The last time we saw the king, he told us to take ourselves out of his sight, didn’t he? How do you think he’d respond to our returning?’
Baldwin could only agree that their reception last year had been distinctly frosty. ‘We had just brought news that his wife was deliberately staying in France, that she was having an adulterous affair with the king’s most notable traitor, that his son was staying there with her, and that all those sent to guard his son and his wife had turned traitor too and were now in the pay of his wife and her lover. It was not the best news he could have hoped to receive!’
‘True. But I do not wish to go and ask for an audience with him. That would mean speaking to Despenser — and I am not ready to have any dealings with that snake.’
‘You may not need to,’ Baldwin said, musing. ‘The good Bishop Walter is already there. Seek him out, and explain the situation to him. I think he will himself be grateful for the news, and for the opportunity to present it to the king. Perhaps your reception will be better than you might have thought.’
Monday before the Feast of St Laurence*
Canterbury
Their journey had been slow, and with the whining, petulant Paul in his train, Simon found it longer than it truly was.
‘How do you expect me to present a decent case when you don’t let me rest!’ the fellow complained.
‘I expect you to do the best you can,’ Simon said shortly.
It had been like this much of the way from Portchester. Naturally the man was shocked when he heard it was likely that the bishop would be with the king, and his mood had slumped into melancholy. That was three days ago. Since then they had travelled along the coastal roads to Dover, only to learn that the king and his household had recently moved from there to Canterbury, where they were eating the poor prior, Henry Eastrey, out of house and home. It was a particularly hard blow for the prior, since he had already suffered several visits that year, and was still forced to house the whole of the queen’s pack of hunting hounds, which she had given to him as a stern responsibility, hoping that he would look after them carefully, but not offering any financial assistance. Not that she could have, since the king had already confiscated all her income.
Now, at last they were entering the ancient walled city, and if anything, it appeared that Paul’s resentment and nervousness were increasing. ‘Can’t we stop for a cup of wine? A quart of ale or cider? What’s your hurry?’ he nagged as they rode under St George’s gateway.
Simon ignored him. He had been persuaded, much against his will, to come here to the city, but he would be damned if he was going to hang about here. He had too much to get back to, what with his wife and son waiting at Portchester, and the knowledge that the realm was clinging to peace by its fingernails.
It was some relief to know that Baldwin and the other commissioners had been successful, and that there was now a large force encamped all about Portchester, so if any French warriors sought to begin an invasion, they would find themselves seriously tested upon landing. That at least should guarantee Margaret and Perkin’s safety. That — and Baldwin’s sworn oath that he would not leave them alone, but would personally ride to their protection if there were an attack. Together with the sight of his own servant Hugh, grim faced and resolute as always, standing at his door with his staff in his hands, Simon was persuaded that his family would be as safe as they could be. He himself could do no better than that.
Still, he recoiled at the thought that here in Canterbury he might meet with Despenser, the man who had in the last year hounded Simon unmercifully, merely in an attempt to get at Baldwin. If he met Despenser, he must try to forget that the man had persecuted him, that he had stolen Simon’s house, that he had made Margaret cry more often than any man, that he had tormented even Simon’s daughter, and caused the split between Simon and Edith’s in-laws to the extent that Edith could not even show them her baby son. Their own grandchild. Yes, Simon must swallow all this, must behave with perfect civility and keep his hand from his sword. Because to try to stab Despenser would inevitably lead to his own death, and to the deprivation of livelihood, home and hearth to his family. He knew that. And it helped his temper not a whit.
So as he rode up the street, he had two thoughts: first, that he must pray not to see Despenser, because he might be unable to restrain himself in the man’s presence; and second, that he could hardly bear to be so close to the rapist and thief who was even now complaining yet again.
‘Shut up, or I’ll kick your arse!’ he said and trotted ahead to avoid the whingeing.
If the fellow had a brain, he would have tried to escape on the way here. Simon and Baldwin had both realised that, which was why Simon had four men from Portchester to aid him. One was a grizzled old sergeant who had served in several wars with the king, and the other three were bright enough fellows, whom Simon had handpicked for the job of guarding their charge. Paul had never once been alone, and without at least one pair of eyes watching his every move.
The city was filled, as usual, with pilgrims. It was many years since the appalling murder of St Thomas at his altar in the church here — a hundred and fifty or more — and yet Christians poured into this wealthy little city from all over the kingdom still.
It was scarcely surprising. For a man to spill blood in a church was truly shocking. Even the felons he had captured and executed, the roughest, most hardened outlaws in the country, would draw the line at that. Steal a cross, yes; take the rings from a woman’s hand, certainly; kill a priest, possibly … but kill a bishop at the altar of his church? No.
So every year, more and more people came here to seek the marvellous cures for their bodily ailments, for their misery, for redress against their persecutors. Simon drew his mouth into a moue at that thought. Perhaps he should go to pray that his own private persecutor should be persuaded to leave him alone? But what would be the point? In the last years of the effective rule of Despenser, so many must have begged God to release them from his vile exactions, and none of their prayers had been answered. God Himself, seemingly, was struck impotent in the face of Despenser’s astonishing avarice.
It was a source of great relief when Simon saw a familiar face among the teeming throng. ‘William? Squire William Walle?’
The man heard his name being called, and turned to peer along the crowded roadway, and when he caught sight of Simon, his face broke into a beaming smile. ‘God love you, my friend! How are you? And what are you doing here?’
Simon could almost feel the waves of horror emanating from the rector behind him as Paul tried to conceal himself behind the guards. ‘Squire, I have urgent news for the king, and it may be best that I speak to the bishop to try to gain an audience.’
‘Really?’ William said, but a look at Simon’s face made his smile fade, and he nodded. ‘Come with me, then. I will take you straight to him.’
Chapter Twenty-Nine