‘And William Ayrminne? Will he weather the stormy blast?’
‘He is a skilled negotiator, who’s spent plenty of time in the King’s service. He’s wily enough to see himself safe, I make no doubt. Personally, I wouldn’t trust him further than I could hurl him.’
‘Why?’
‘He’s a canon at Westminster Abbey, but he spends a great deal of time with the Queen. I think he’s looking for a new position with her as his patron. Never trust a man who is seeking advancement! He will trample anyone in his ambition.’
‘And in the meantime, we shall travel with the Bishop of Orange. Do you know him?’
‘I saw him briefly in Westminster. I think he’s a sound enough man.’ Baldwin shrugged. He did not add that any man whom a pope might choose as his legate was not to be trusted. Simon already knew his trenchant views on the papacy and the corruption of the curia, so did not press the matter.
‘In any case, all we need is to return to England with them, and we can forget all about France and get on home,’ Simon said with a broad smile.
Baldwin grinned back, nodding. There was nothing that could spoil their pleasure this day.
On the road near Crowborough, Kent
He was riding past at full tilt, when he reached the place. Someone had once told him that a man could always remember a place that was fearsome to him. Well, he didn’t need to be told that. Not now. The horse itself could sense what had happened here, even though the beast was not with him when he had originally come past.
There was not a sound. Even the wind had died. As he sat in the saddle, the beast beneath him pawing at the soft soil here in the woods, he was struck with a revulsion so distinct, it was almost a physical barrier to his dismounting. But he could not ride past. It wasn’t possible. He had to do this to ensure his safety. It was a little thing, nothing, in the scheme of things. And it wouldn’t hurt the man. Not now.
No. No sound. Not of wind, nor of people. No rattle of chains, creak of harness or regular step of man or horse. Nothing. Just the occasional song of a bird of some sort.
He dropped to the ground and stood a moment, holding the reins. Still nothing.
In a hurry now, he went to the bundled clothing and untied the thong holding it to the saddle; his fingers revolted at the touch, but there was no time to delay. He was off into the bushes, his nose leading him to the spot.
Argh! The smell was foul! After only a few days there was no disguising the odour. The weather had been too hot, and it was disgusting; he felt a trickle of ice shudder down his back at the smell. Enough to make a man puke, this was. He had to block his nose and breathe through his mouth, like he would when cleaning a gutted pig. The smell was so bad, he could hardly brace himself to continue, especially when he saw those already-empty eye sockets, but he had to do it.
It was a relief to be back on his horse. He set off at a steady trot as soon as he could, but then he had to stop.
To throw up.
Wednesday following Easter7
Christ Church Priory
Prior Henry Eastry left the refectory and walked the short distance to the cloisters, which he began to stride up and down, considering.
The King’s Coroner had arrived already, and was studying the body. Not that there was overmuch to learn from it. A corpse with the head almost removed. That was all that there was. Poor Gilbert. Mark and Hal had been instructed to look to see if there was anything which might explain why Brother Gilbert had been out there, but they had found nothing. And although the prior had questioned all his brethren himself, none admitted to knowledge of the crime.
‘Prior? May I speak with you?’
‘Of course, Coroner. I would welcome your views.’
Coroner Robert of Westerham was a shortish knight with the look of a man who would prefer to be in the saddle than idling indoors. He rested his hand on his sword hilt, and tapped at it whenever he was thinking. There were many coroners whom Prior Henry had known who had been less than honourable in the way in which they conducted their business, but this one at least seemed to try to be fair. At least, he was in his dealings with the priory.
‘Your man was killed by a sword, I reckon. When I looked at him, the blade had sunk into the bones of his neck, so that means a heavy bladed weapon struck him. Not just a knife drawn over his throat.’
‘I see.’ The prior was able to take some solace from that. ‘That means it is less likely to be a brother from the convent, then. I am relieved.’
The coroner nodded. ‘Whoever it was was experienced in the use of swords, if I’m a judge. I suppose many of the brothers will have learned swordplay, but how many would have practised recently? There’s another thing: whoever did this would have been covered in gore. The blood splashes went all over the hay, and the man who killed him must also have been smothered. But none of your monks’ habits seem to have been stained. I have checked.’
‘Good. But it still leaves the question of who could have done it.’
‘Clearly someone from without the priory. Is there anything stolen from the church?’
‘It was the first thing I considered. I had a full account of all the silver and plate made as soon as I was informed of Gilbert’s death, just in case it was a robbery.’
‘Nothing gone?’
‘No. All our church ornamentation is still there.’
The coroner mulled this over a little while, frowning at the ground while he kicked at pebbles. ‘In that case … is there anything else here of value?’
The prior smiled. ‘We have much of value. St Thomas’s bones, our books … but nothing that a common thief would consider.’
There was no answering grin on the coroner’s face. ‘This was no common thief, Prior. This man was prepared to hack a monk to death.’
‘Sweet Mother of God!’ The prior’s face paled. ‘I will tell my sub-prior to search all our relics immediately.’
Eltham Palace
Richard of Bury sighed and leaned back in his chair, a deeply contented man.
This place was as comfortable as any palace in the land. For his money, it was one of the most beautiful, too. The great hall was quite new — only about twenty-five years old, and there was a magnificent park to the south which the last owner, Bishop Bek, had added. The park and the great buildings, with the massive stone walls strengthened with brick bastions, had been improved when the Earl’s grandfather, Edward I, had been given the place by the Bishop. A magnificent gift. The kind of thing that showed that Bishop Bek was looking for something significant in return.
Richard grinned to himself but his face soon hardened. There was a time when he would have said he was getting cynical, but any man who said that now would have to have been deaf and blind. Cynicism was unnecessary now, in the reign of King Edward II. Not something a man might dare to say in front of anyone else, of course, but it was a fact nonetheless. The King was mad.
There were times when a man might have a degree of confidence in his king. The best kings were undoubtedly those who sought to reign fairly and rationally. Logic was essential in a king. Promising one thing, then doing another was not rational. It was unsettling. And a king needed a kingdom that was settled and calm, if he wished to rule in peace.
Bury patted the book nearest him. It was a history of the life of Alexander, a tome he often picked up and browsed through. This was the kind of man a king ought to be, he thought. Honourable, chivalrous, strong of purpose, determined in battle, and magnanimous in victory. That was the sort of king England needed. Not like the present king. He may never be able to mention such things to others, but the king was dangerous to himself and the realm. Even when he was triumphant, he was vindictive to his defeated enemies. Not only to them, but also to their families. That was hardly chivalrous.