‘What will the king do?’ Baldwin asked.
‘God knows. Two days ago he was in tears, beating his breast with despair because of the money.’
‘What money?’ Simon asked, confused.
‘He sent money to Richard Perrers, Sheriff of Essex and Hertfordshire, to pay for a contingent of men to repel the queen. Perrers sent the money back, and has joined the queen. All are joining her. Despenser’s bile and greed has sown the bitterest harvest any king could reap.’
Baldwin sighed. ‘What of you, Bishop?’
‘Me? I shall remain here while the king wishes for my advice,’ Bishop Walter said with determination. He stood and stretched. ‘Damn the soul of Mortimer! If it were not for him, even the excesses of Despenser could have been restrained, and in time he could have been removed from authority, but now, the only possible outcome is the destruction of the realm in years of war. And the king will suffer for it. Poor man! Poor man! He doesn’t deserve this.’
He didn’t. The bishop had been privileged to work with the king often in the last years, and he had always found him to be honourable, if temperamental. He also had a good brain, was thrifty, and understood organisation and administration. It was this one weakness of his — his affection for the fool Despenser — that had thrown his rule into turmoil.
Bishop Walter suddenly noticed that the others were standing and watching him. ‘Well?’
‘What do you want of us?’ Simon said simply.
The bishop smiled. ‘Simon, if you wish to leave me and go back to Devon, I will quite understand. This fight will be unpleasant. You are released from service to me, if that is your wish. You too, Sir Baldwin. You ought to return home at the very least. There is nothing for you to do here. The fellow who left me those vicious notes has gone. Perhaps he was knocked on the head by someone here in London, or maybe he has not managed to reach the city. In any case, there is more to worry about than him now.’
Simon nodded slowly. ‘Perhaps. And perhaps he is very close even now, Bishop. I think I will have to remain here a little longer, just in case.’
In his mind’s eye he saw again that face under the leather cap and cape of the stevedore. The fierce face of hatred.
Bishop’s Gate, London
Richard de Folville, Roger Crok and Ralph la Zouche had ridden hard this day, all the way from Halstead, which was where they had stayed, the night of the Feast of St Michael. And now, today they had come down here to London, to bring messages and to view the lands for the queen.
So far, their journey had been quiet enough. The money Queen Isabella had given them had eased their paths no end. But she was comfortable with money just now. Wherever she went with her men, the townsfolk arrived and plied them with coin, because everyone wanted an end to the misery of the last years. So many remembered her as the kind, generous lady who had sympathised with the trials and sufferings of the common people, and they fell on their knees to her, treating her like a saint. And she, clad in black widow’s weeds, acted her part: she was quiet and appreciative, grateful for their words of kindness and, as Richard Folville felt certain, entirely consumed with the lust for revenge on her husband and all his friends.
Folville could understand that lust all too well. It was natural, to wish to destroy all those who thwarted a man, and this queen was ruthless as fire, beautiful as a spring day, and dangerous as a viper. He would trust her no further than he could throw her.
At Bury St Edmunds she had discovered and taken the treasure left there by one of the king’s justices, and distributed it among the mercenaries in her train. They were keen to remain with her, because so far they had not needed to fight, and were being regularly and richly rewarded for their marching. It was a merry band of men who accompanied the queen.
But she needed men to tell her what was happening in the land’s most important city. They must ride to London and report to her. And she had chosen Crok, Folville, and la Zouche because they had shown their courage while protecting her son in Normandy. She said that she wanted to reward them by giving them the task of highest honour.
Riding under the Bishop’s Gate, Folville glanced about at the others. Highest honour, his arse! The bitch didn’t trust them to remain too close to her precious boy, that was more like it. Well, if she felt safer with a bunch of Hainault mercenaries instead of three Englishmen, that was her mistake. For his part, Folville knew that he had to look at the job in hand with great care. There was a possibility that he might be able to increase his profit. If it appeared certain that the king would win, and that the invasion was doomed, he would be able to give some information to show Edward that he was acting for him. There were stories that men were being offered pardons if they would serve their monarch now. He could do that — turn his coat and become a loyal subject to the king again. Perhaps help in the capture of Mortimer, or catch the king’s son for him. That would be worth a goodly payment. After all, while many flocked to the queen, most among them had more than an eye on the boy at her side, Edward, Duke of Aquitaine, Earl of Chester, and the next King of England. Take away the boy, and many would begin to wonder whether they were right to place all their faith in the invasion.
Ralph was a possible ally in such an undertaking, but Folville still did not trust Crok. The latter didn’t seem as driven by hunger for possessions as the others, nor was he so determined. Rather, he appeared happy to float along, waiting to see what would happen. The only time he got angry was when someone mentioned the Bishop of Exeter or Despenser, then he grew bitter and quiet.
Ralph la Zouche was the opposite. At the mention of Bishop Walter, he would immediately fly into a rage, blaming the bishop for his present dreadful position, and especially the death of his brother. So far as he was concerned, his exile was Stapledon’s fault, and the bishop would have to pay for that — sometime soon.
Yes, if he could, Richard Folville would have to dispose of Crok, and then he would be able to use la Zouche — either to improve their position with the queen, or to leave her and go to the king.
It would all depend upon the next hours here in London.
Tower of London
Simon and Baldwin were quiet as they walked across the Tower green to Simon’s chambers, and once they were inside, and Margaret had kissed Simon and gone to fetch them wine, Simon asked his wife to sit with them a while. Hugh had heard them arrive, and he now stood at the door with his staff in his hands. Rob and Jack appeared to have formed a loose alliance, and sat listening in the corner near the fire.
‘Do you sleep with your staff now?’ Baldwin chided Hugh.
‘Reckon I do. ’Tis better than dying in my sleep,’ Hugh said.
Baldwin nodded with some sadness. It was terrible to think that men could fear attack even here in the middle of the king’s most impregnable fortress. ‘Well, Simon?’
‘I do not think I can leave here yet,’ Simon said. ‘There is one man I have seen who looks suspicious, and if something were to happen to the bishop now, I would be mortified.’
‘Who is this man?’
Simon explained about the stevedore. To his relief, Baldwin did not treat his words with amusement.
‘You are right to be concerned. A man could get work at the quayside with ease, and no one would think to check his name or details. Do you know who he may be?’
‘I have no idea. I did wonder whether he might be that priest whom the bishop spoke of — the one who invaded his chamber.’
‘Perhaps. But that name was almost certainly invention. We shall have to try to find him by some other means.’