‘But I have an especial reason to hate the man.’
‘So do many others, Simon. So do many others. He has treated almost all entirely shamefully, and the idea that they might soon be freed of the shackles of fear with which Despenser has bound so many of the good people of the realm, fills him with dread. As well it might. The English are an unmannerly lot. When they feel that their rulers have treated them poorly, they respond. All too often with extreme and swift brutality.’
‘Does he really suffer so much?’ Simon said.
‘Simon, it would do your heart good to see how much he suffers,’ the bishop said. He added, ‘It does my own heart good to see how drawn and anxious he looks.’
Simon smiled. ‘You will take the message to the king, then? Tell him about his son and the fact that he may be at Rouen?’
‘I will. And then I will pray that God will give us all the judgement to decide on the proper course of action.
‘I feel a sense of doom. The kingdom is on a knife’s edge, and I cannot see upon which side it will fall.’
Near Lisieux, Normandy
The countryside was flat here, and Sir Richard de Folville could not help but notice how rich the lands looked. ‘Much like my own homelands,’ he noted.
Duke Edward heard him and glanced back with a grin. ‘Makes you wonder what on earth William the Bastard and his men were doing travelling to England when they could have enjoyed a quiet life here, eh?’
‘But a quiet life would not suit them so well as a life dedicated to war,’ Roger Crok joked.
John Biset agreed, but with a hint of regret in his voice. ‘Just think of a life of rest and tranquillity. How tedious!’
The duke chuckled. ‘He probably bethought himself that this land would be easy enough to take back, were he to lose it. And in any case, I cannot complain about his action, can I? Would I have a crown to claim when my father dies, were it not for Duke William conquering my kingdom for me? No, I do not think so. My people are too quarrelsome, and if they hadn’t been conquered, God knows what might have become of the country.’
Richard nodded, but he was thinking of other matters. He had no money, and like all of the duke’s bodyguards, was dependent on the youth’s largesse. It occurred to Richard that it would be an easy task to knock the duke on the head and take his purse … Easy, but dangerous. Perhaps he could form an alliance with another man, and then kill him later to take all the profits? It was a thought. Biset seemed quite malleable. That Crok wasn’t — he was too quick witted to be trusted.
While his mind meandered on along this line, he frowned quickly. ‘Where is that priest?’
The duke did not turn to look at him. Not yet fourteen years old, he had the confidence of a king already. ‘He has fled.’
Roger Crok was surprised. ‘He was keen enough to be here with us at first, Your Highness.’
‘He certainly wasn’t happy when we were attacked near Montreuil, was he? Sat on his beast like a dumbstruck peasant, the poor fool. And as for his tutoring, I won’t miss that at all. He has little idea of anything. It was too easy to twist him in his own tortuous reasoning. Besides, I got the impression that he was more fearful of Roger Mortimer than he was of the king. So I would not be surprised if even now he is trying to find a ship to take him home.’
‘He cannot do that,’ Richard de Folville said. ‘If he was safe in England, he would not have been here. Only those with natural fears of Despenser or others in the king’s pay would have come here, because allies of the Despenser and his comrades would not be welcome here.’
‘I think he had some other secret,’ the duke said. ‘But whatever his reasoning, I do not wish to see his face again. He was not the most congenial company.’
Roger Crok felt a pang of anxiety at that summary. The fact that it was he who had brought the priest to their ranks made him worry that some of them might look upon Crok himself askance. He would have to be more careful, he thought, and turned to find Richard de Folville watching him from those cold, unfeeling eyes of his. They were the eyes of a killer.
Roger Crok stared calmly back at him, although inwardly he cringed. This man was truly terrifying. Roger had thought that he was a clerk of some kind who was on the run, much like Paul de Cockington, because his hair seemed to show the mark of a tonsure, but the more he saw of the man, the more he grew convinced that de Folville was a felon evading justice, and who might have shaved his head as a means of disguise, to aid his escape.
He would be wary of de Folville, he decided, because the alternative might be to wake one morning with a knife in the guts.
Canterbury
It was late when the bishop finally returned to his hall. The journey from the king’s chambers in the priory was not great, but the way was filled with the masses who were here to attend as many services as possible in the great church, and he had been forced to shove and push against the press with William and John and two clerks.
At first it had been a little intimidating, but then he had grown aware of a feeling of extreme fear. It was a tightness in his breast, a hideous pounding in his ears, and he could feel, he was sure, the death that was approaching him. He did not know whether it would come at the point of a dagger, or the tip of an arrow, but he had a most definite presentiment of his approaching destruction, and the thought was enough to make him falter and almost fall. He cast about in a panic, staring wildly at the people all around, but all he received was a series of bovine looks from the pilgrims.
And then he saw the face. Only fleetingly, but Christ’s blood it was there. Shadowy, slightly bearded, dark haired, and with blue eyes that glittered with hatred, he saw his nemesis: Paul of Taunton.
Dear God! He had nearly fainted with horror. That man should still be in Exeter, and yet here he was, ready to persecute him once more. It made his heart thunder so violently, he felt certain it must burst in an instant, but then gradually logic returned. He gazed back in the same direction, but the face was gone.
When at last they returned to the chambers in which the bishop had taken rooms, the squire looked at him anxiously. ‘Are you quite well? Uncle, you look terrible.’
‘I thank you for your care and attention, if not your frankness,’ the bishop replied wryly. ‘Some wine would be good, John! William, I saw a vision out there today. It shook me, shook me badly.’
‘What?’
‘The clerk — Paul. I saw him, so I thought, in the crowds.’
‘What!’ William had sprung towards the door, and now stood close to it, listening, as though ready to wrench it open and hurtle out to find the man.
‘William, please come back here.’
‘With the man who is sworn to kill you, wandering the streets just outside? He didn’t get close to you?’
‘No, no. He remained some distance away. It was so like him, and yet I think it must have been the light, the action of the dying sun on my eyes, or just the confusion of the mob. He couldn’t really be here.’
‘No, Uncle. I shouldn’t think so,’ the squire said, but he wore a worried frown.
‘You are not to concern yourself over this, you understand me? It is probably nothing. I was not wearing my spectacles. A face amongst all those — is it any surprise that one, two, or even a dozen, might look like my persecutor? No, it was merely my imagination,’ Bishop Walter said, and drank down the first goblet of wine without pause.
‘I am not sure, Uncle,’ William said. He was almost at the door, and the bishop saw him glance at it.
The dear boy! William had always been one of his best-loved nephews. Perhaps because his mother had been Walter’s favourite sister. Dear Mabel, so much younger than him, and she married quite late, bringing this one son into the world before she died. The young man was a reminder of his sister; he even had the vulnerability that Walter had seen in her.