If he could find it and let it be known that the Abbot of Westminster, perhaps, had used it to renew the King’s vows and have him anointed again, then men throughout the realm would listen and perhaps have faith in him once more.
That was the main issue now. Despenser had picked up rumours from spies that Roger Mortimer was in Hainault. And the men there were notoriously keen on taking up arms for any man who could afford them. They were skilled, and numerous. If Mortimer succeeded in persuading Guillaume, the Count of Hainault, he would have a large army at his disposal. Only last year Despenser had learned of a plot to invade, and ships had gathered off Zeeland. He’d ordered the admiral of the eastern fleet to keep his eyes open, but fortunately nothing had come of it then. That didn’t mean Mortimer wasn’t attempting something equally audacious now.
If he was successful, the King would need as many men as possible for when the invasion force arrived. There were few enough who had shown any interest in fighting for him so far. The oil could be the last little grain of sand that tilted men back into his camp and prepared them to fight for the King again, rather than leave all to fate. Fate would be a painful experience for Despenser, he felt sure.
He had to find that oil. It may be just enough to put a little fire in the bellies of the men who needed it, and Despenser must find it to prove once again that he was the one man in the kingdom upon whom the King could rely.
‘You want us to catch the man, Sir Hugh?’ Ivor said hesitantly. ‘I could tickle him up a little with my knife, see if that loosens his tongue?’
It was tempting. But … ‘No. Not yet. We will be leaving in a couple of days. The King must return to Westminster, ready for a meeting of his barons to discuss France. He is to persuade the Bishop of Orange to join him. The king’s heralds will all be on the journey with us. It will be easier to find the oil then, on the road. He will have to bring it with him, unless he’s planning to leave it down here. It’s too valuable for that. No, leave him for now. We’ll take him and have our sport later.’
The Bishop of Orange was content to be leaving this place, but it was a source of great annoyance that he was to travel up to London. The city was no doubt diverting enough for most men, but for him it was merely an additional journey which entailed going still further out of his way. His path should take him back to the Pope, not up to London. It was almost the opposite direction, in God’s name!
When he heard the knock at his door, it made him glance quickly at his table to ensure that any indiscreet documents were hidden before he called out, ‘Entrez!’
Nicholas walked in slowly, downcast. This was no time for pride. He had to show how humble he was. At other times he could show a little pride in his habit, but not today. Today he was a mere supplicant, begging some assistance from another man of God.
‘What do you want, Friar?’
The tone was not welcoming. ‘My Lord Bishop, I am a deeply miserable friar. I have been here at Beaulieu for some weeks, trying to see the King to plead my case, but he will not see me.’
‘What is your case?’
‘The oil of St Thomas,’ Nicholas said, and felt sure that the Bishop understood. Immediately, the Bishop seemed to give him his full attention, and even as Nicholas told his story, he gained the impression that the Bishop already knew, or guessed much. Perhaps it was not so surprising, though. The Pope knew about the oil, and surely some of his closer advisers would also have been told of it.
‘This is most interesting,’ the Bishop said. ‘But what do you want me to do? Raise the matter with the King? I do not think he would be grateful for a foreigner to bring it up.’
‘No. I was hoping to be able to travel with you, my Lord. If you would allow me to join your party on the way to the Pope, I would be very grateful.’
‘Your gratitude is no doubt a fine thing,’ the Bishop said without enthusiasm. ‘However, I have a large entourage already. If you wish us to carry food and drink for you too, it will add a great deal to my baggage.’
‘I can walk, and I have little need of food, my Lord. We friars are used to the ascetic life and little nourishment.’
‘True enough.’ The Bishop studied him thoughtfully for a while, and at last nodded. ‘Very well. I will allow you to join my men on the journey to the Pope. However, I cannot guarantee the reception you will receive.’
‘I am very glad to hear it! I will make my peace with him as best I may.’
‘Yes. I am sure that he will be most interested to hear more about this marvellous oil,’ the Bishop said.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Lydford
It was a very exhausted Bailiff Puttock who was assisted by his wife to his bedchamber that night. Peterkin had already fallen into his truckle bed, and Simon and Margaret stood undressing, both watching their remaining child.
‘For all the arguing and troubles over the years, the house will seem quiet without her,’ Margaret said ruminatively.
‘That little devil will make up for any lack of noise on her part,’ Simon said with a mild belch. ‘He’s already taken it upon himself to talk more than all the rest of us put together.’
Margaret smiled, then lifted her tunic over and off. She only wore a linen shirt beneath, and this she now removed as well, before climbing into bed. Sitting up, she watched her man undress.
He was still firm in the body. Every so often he would put on weight, but then the rigours of his work on the moors would wear it away again. That was the case in the past, anyway. The last months, living away from her, while he was working in Dartmouth, had made him lose more weight than before, and as she looked at him, she saw how the lines had become more deeply graven into his forehead. He was a good man, she knew. All through the dreadful times when she had been trying to give him another son, he had been sympathetic, calm, generous … and all the while he was desperate for a little boy to replace the one they lost.
It was some years since that appalling disease had struck. Poor little boy, he had died slowly, and Simon had never forgiven himself. Whereas usually he was the calmest, kindest father and husband, the one thing he could never abide was witnessing one whom he loved suffering pain. And their little boy had died so miserably, vomiting, screaming, with diarrhoea, and unable to eat or drink anything at all. It had torn at both of them to see him fade away, but Simon found it harder. He had once admitted to her that he blamed himself because he had wished the child to die at the end. He was so exhausted by the three days of sitting up and trying to comfort the boy, that the end was almost a blessing. And Simon never forgave himself for that.
It was sad, too, that Edith had always been ‘his’ child. They had an unholy alliance, Margaret sometimes felt, against any form of order in the house. And now he had lost her. She was in love with another man. It must be terrible, she felt, to be a parent and see the love which once had been specifically reserved for you to be passed over to another. It was something she feared herself, because she knew that Peterkin, her little Peterkin, would always be closer to her than to Simon, and she knew that when Peterkin was old enough, she would be desolate to see him leave the home and start his own family.
Ah, well. All mothers have to accept that. Once they have given life, they have to keep on giving, until they’ve given so much that their son can leave. And the mother must hope there’s enough life left within her to keep herself alive for a little longer.
‘Feeling lecherous, wench?’ her husband leered.
She looked up and smiled. In truth, she had hardly ever felt less lecherous in her life. Yet Simon had been a good husband to her, and if she were being truthful, the loss of her daughter made her ache with sadness. She was an old woman now. Soon she might hear that she would be a grandam. She was unsure how she could cope with that.