Leatherhead, Surrey
Their passage so far had been quiet and uneventful, which was how it should have been. Sir Peregrine of Barnstaple glanced over at the lady beside him on her horse, and felt his heart glow. She was beautiful, wise, accomplished … He was entirely smitten with her.
‘You enjoy the view, Sir Peregrine?’ she asked sweetly.
‘How did you know I was looking at you?’ he protested. ‘You were not watching me, I know.’
‘My dear Sir Peregrine,’ she said, turning and facing him in that strange little manner she had, her head a little lowered, her eyes studying him seriously. It was a fascinating idiosyncrasy, making him feel that she was treating him like a wayward son, but it was also enormously seductive.
‘Yes?’
‘You perhaps do not realise that even a widow can tell when a man is studying every facet of her dress to see where the mud lies. Or that he is searching her face for any new wrinkles.’
‘My lady, you know that is not true! I have only allowed myself to view you in an entirely chaste manner, seeking to remember every aspect of your beauty so that, when I am no longer in your company, I may still be able to bring it to mind.’
‘Oh, in truth, gentle charmer? I think that if you were to seek such magnificence, you would do better to have stayed last night with that delicious young wench at the inn.’
‘Which?’
‘You liked more than one, then?’ she said, mock-chidingly.
‘My lady, please do not torment me!’ he groaned. ‘If you prefer, I can ride at the rear with the men in the van.’
She allowed a smile at that. ‘You would be happier there?’
‘No. I feel warmed by you as though you were the sun. You fill me with delight. In truth, I do not know how to describe my feelings for you. You are all kindness, all generosity, all beauty …’
‘Enough! You must stay here, and continue to pretend to adore me with your eyes. I cannot believe you are serious, for I am a mean little creature, in truth. No, don’t deny it.’
‘But I do! Fervently! I have been so happy to escort you these last days, and would prefer that you wished to travel to France, or to the Holy Roman Empire, so that our time together was not to end so soon. I … I wish we could spend more time together, madam.’
‘Oh, I am sure you would grow to dislike my pettiness, my many faults.’
‘How could a man grow to dislike the stars? How could he dislike the beauty of the sun? No man could look upon you once and fail to be utterly possessed by you.’
‘Really? And do I possess your heart, then?’ she smiled, and in an instant the smile was blotted out, and she put her hand up. ‘Nay, do not answer, I beg you.’
‘I cannot hope that you may one day reciprocate my feelings?’
She looked at him again, with that serious consideration he was growing to recognise so well. ‘I think that I do already, my friend. But that is one thing: to bind ourselves at this time is another. I do not wish to hurt you.’
‘How can you?’
‘By dying. By being taken from you. You have lost so much already. You have told me of your other women.’
That much was perfectly true. He had been so unfortunate with his loves, and he was left, at each loss, with an ever-increasing sense of his own loneliness. ‘You too have known tragedy,’ he sighed.
‘Yes. I fear that together, you and I would be a great source of danger,’ she said lightly. ‘I have two dead husbands, and you have three women you have loved. What, would I die first, before we could wed, or would you expire shortly after our wedding?’
‘Or would we both live, enjoying our time together, nourishing each other, and living to a happy, contented old age?’
He could hear the hope in his voice as he tried to show her how easy this would be, and for a moment, he thought he had succeeded. She turned to him again, and there was a gleam in her eyes. But then the light faded, and her face took on a sad, faraway look that he didn’t understand. He wanted to speak, but the words wouldn’t come, because even as he saw her expression change, and she turned away from him to face the road once more, he realised that he had lost her. She would not be his.
There was nothing more he could say. He rode on with poison in his heart.
Canterbury
The sight of Simon arriving was enough to make the bishop rise from his chair. ‘Simon, you are a sight to gladden the heart of the most jaded bishop. Enter, please! Tell me all that has happened since I left Sir Baldwin in Portchester. I would have news of-’ His voice was cut off as sharply as though a knife had severed his throat.
Simon had to grin. ‘My lord bishop, you know this disreputable knave, I believe.’
‘William — fetch a guard. I want that dishonourable churl in gaol here before he pollutes the floor of my chamber.’
Paul hurriedly fell to his knees. ‘Listen, please, my lord! I have terrible news from France that must be taken to the king. Perhaps my indiscretion in Exeter was merely God making use of me as He saw fit, in His divine perfection. He took the least deserving vessel and sent me-’
‘Shut up, fool! You mean to deride God Himself?’
‘I think you ought to hear him,’ Simon said.
‘I will listen, then, until I decide he is lying. What do you mean “terrible news”? Speak out, man!’
With many a sidelong glance at Simon, Paul told his story, finishing with the ambition of the duke to travel to Rouen. ‘It should be easy to find him and capture him there.’
‘You say so? You have had experience of fighting and battles, have you?’
‘I only mean to-’
‘Don’t! Simon, what do you think?’
‘If this fellow’s telling the truth, it would be hazardous not to inform the king. If he lies, let the king discover it and punish this git. Better that he does than we soil our hands.’
‘You think so? Even after what this evil cretin did to poor Agatha de Gydie?’ The bishop stared down at Paul with an expression of intense disgust. ‘You make me want to vomit, rector. Rise, and remove yourself from my sight — and William? Go with him. Do not let him near anything that he could steal, eat or drink. He is to wait on a bench in the hall until I call for him.’
He waited until they had left the chamber, and then lifted an eyebrow to Simon. ‘Well, I suppose I shall have to take this unwelcome news to the king. I don’t know what to make of it.’
‘The clear suggestion he made was that the Despenser had paid silver to have the duke murdered,’ Simon said. ‘I would suggest that you leave that side of matters to the rector to bring up. You do not wish to be the man who stands between the king and Despenser.’
‘True enough. Not that he has much time for affairs of any kind just now,’ the bishop said.
‘How do you mean, my lord?’
‘He is so entangled in the webs he has woven for himself, he can find little pleasure in anything just now,’ the bishop said, motioning to John to bring wine. ‘He is terrified, I think, that Mortimer will arrive at our shores with an army. He is under no illusions as to his popularity in the realm, while Mortimer has the queen and the young duke with him. The mother of the heir and the heir himself, and arrayed against them are the king and Despenser.’
‘The country will rally to the king,’ Simon said scornfully. ‘Would you, Simon?’ the bishop shot out.
It was so sudden and unexpected that Simon could not respond instantly with the answer he would have intended: ‘Of course!’ Instead he reflected briefly, and as he opened his mouth to answer, the bishop was already smiling cynically and shaking his head.
‘My son, do not lie to yourself, nor to me. You have been most shamefully treated by the Despenser, and if you were suddenly called upon in the heat of battle, would you really be able to defend the man who defends your enemy? I know what Despenser has done to you, to your family, to your daughter. So do not answer, but make sure that you behave with honour and integrity. That will be enough.’