Except he did have a friend with political influence. He was friends with Bishop Walter II, the Bishop of Exeter. Bishop Walter would know what to do. And with luck, he would be prepared to help Simon.
Beaulieu
Sir Hugh le Despenser was not known for dilatoriness. Rather, he was likely to make a swift decision and stick to it. It was always his belief that, generally, the first decision made was the best, and in any case, he had enough men at his command to be able to rectify any occasional little embarrassment.
He had no need to worry about Simon or the course upon which he had launched William Wattere. That was one decision that had been taken. The bailiff would soon be neutralised as an effective tool of any enemy, and his friend the Knight of Furnshill would either learn from his friend’s discomfiture, or would overreach himself to get back at Sir Hugh. More than likely, he would bow down and hope to avoid Despenser’s rage. That was what most men did. No matter how often they espoused their convictions and declared their loyalty to a man or a cause, at the first sign of personal risk they were silenced.
Yes. That was one problem which was hopefully to be cured very soon.
But there were other issues which beset him. Times when he stood and stared out through the windows here and wondered, desperately, what his enemy was doing at that moment. There was only one man who deserved that title: Sir Roger Mortimer of Wigmore.
‘Sir Roger,’ he muttered with a swift curse. The hogswyving son of a mongrel was the biggest thorn in his side. Of course it was possible, quite possible, that Sir Roger Mortimer was enjoying his time in France so much that he had had no time to even consider Despenser. And sows might fly. No, Sir Roger was still the most dangerous threat to England, to the King, and to Despenser himself, naturally.
He had been an enemy of Despenser even before they had been born. It was three-and-forty years since Roger Mortimer had slain Hugh Despenser. The two, grandsires of Sir Hugh and Sir Roger, were opponents at the Battle of Evesham, and ever since he had heard of his grandsire’s death at Mortimer’s hand, Sir Hugh le Despenser had wanted revenge for that bloodletting. His family was humiliated by it.
But there had been no possibility during the long years of Mortimer’s ascendancy. It was only when Sir Hugh became the King’s closest friend and adviser that he had been able to begin to scheme the end of Mortimer. And he had managed much, even precipitating a war with Roger and the other Marcher Lords — although that was not intentional, and at the time Sir Hugh had been petrified, thinking he would lose everything. After the brief war, Roger Mortimer was locked away in the Tower of London, where he festered for eighteen months.
And then he managed a dramatic break out and escaped! The bastard was incredibly lucky all his damned life. The warrant for his execution had finally been signed by the King, and Sir Hugh was going to ensure that it was swiftly carried out, but then the crazed shite got clean away. And somehow to France.
It was this which occupied his mind so much of the time. Mortimer had been the King’s most competent, experienced general. All through the King’s reign, it was Mortimer who had been sent off to Scotland, Ireland, anywhere. And he was astonishingly lucky even then. Now, though, since he was ensconced in France, he was still more dangerous than ever before.
The first intimation of danger had been when the plot to have Sir Hugh and some others murdered by means of that damned magician had been uncovered. Well, Despenser had seen to it that as soon as the man was captured, his life and prospects were reduced to precisely nothing. But that wasn’t all. There were stories of men being sent here to England by Mortimer and his friends, spies, ill-contents, rumour-mongers, all trying their best to destabilise the realm.
Well, Sir Hugh le Despenser wouldn’t stand by and let them have their way. The most important thing to him was to protect the realm from all these scum. And that was what he’d do, right up until the day he found Roger Mortimer in front of him and he could kill the bastard, nice and slowly, and as painfully as possible.
Of course, Sir Roger had an incentive to unsettle the King, and he knew the King well enough, too. He would know just how much the theft of the oil would affect the King. The King would be bound to think it unbearable that a man would dare to take something quite so valuable from him; still more so now, while his reign was being looked upon with contempt by so many in the land. Perhaps it was all an affair of Sir Roger Mortimer’s making. He had sent a man to find the oil and take it to France for him. It wouldn’t matter whether it would serve any useful purpose, the mere fact that he had deprived the King of it would be enough.
Yes, he nodded, it was sure to be him. Sir Roger had taken the oil. So the question now was how to retrieve it for the King?
Lydford
At his house, Simon looked through all his business and especially the state of the farm itself. His other affairs were in good repair, fortunately. All his finances were strong, and that was fortunate because he had the expense of the impending nuptials for his daughter to cover.
‘How is she?’ Simon asked his wife.
Meg looked at him seriously. ‘How would you have felt when we decided to marry, if you had heard that my father had left the country and no one knew when he would return so that the marriage could go ahead?’
‘I’d have grabbed you and given you my oath and hoped you’d have done the same.’
‘Just because the Church accepts that you don’t have to wed in a church, doesn’t mean that it’s right,’ Meg said pointedly. ‘Your daughter is a good child, who wouldn’t marry until her father was here to join in.’
‘I suppose her boy doesn’t have enough money to be able to support her without the dowry, then?’ Simon demanded grumpily.
‘Nonsense!’
‘And you haven’t answered me yet. Wouldn’t you have made your oath to me if I swore mine to you?’
‘If you think, you great lummox, that you can evade the issue by asking silly questions like that,’ Meg said, tossing her blond hair severely, ‘you don’t know me very well. Now, what will we do about this wedding?’
‘Arrange it urgently and save her any more damned torture, I suppose,’ he said heavily. He had no desire to see her married. She was his little girl still. Allowing her to marry would be like admitting to himself that he was an old man now.
‘Very well. Where is she?’
‘In the field, I think.’
‘Get her here. I will need to discuss this with her. If I’m to give away my daughter, I’ll need to see the man who’s getting her, too.’
‘Simon, you’ve already met him.’
‘I know. And I’ll meet him again, and make sure he’s going to be a good husband to her.’
Little Edith marrying. Leaving him and Meg. It hurt him just to think it.
It hurt more than the idea of losing his farm.
Chapter Nineteen
Beaulieu
The Bishop of Orange was sitting in the chamber given to him when the gentle knock came on the door. He felt quickly for the dagger which he always carried strapped to his calf before calling, ‘Entrez!’ A man who knocked so quietly was often a man who was set upon violence. A quiet knock meant no one else would hear.
‘What do you want?’ he asked as Peter walked in.
Peter smiled. ‘Don’t worry, Bishop. My son is in the corridor out there. He’ll let me know if anyone comes.’
‘What do you want, I said?’
‘Well, now. Only this: we were asked to come here to help guard you on the way, but now it looks like our work is more or less done, so we’d like to get back home again.’