‘So what do you think King Arthur would do?’ Bury asked with a smile.
‘You mean if he were King? He would not have come to this pass.’
‘So, if you were to become King, what would you do, bearing in mind how matters stand?’
‘I would have to curry favour with my uncle, and betray my father.’
Now, back in his chamber, Bury could see the expression on the lad’s face once more. There was no sign of irony there. Only a fixed, serious concentration. Bury was sure that the lad meant what he said. If he had been King at the time, the realm would not have come to this pass. And if he were to take over in the near future, he would be forced to become a traitor to his own father.
He also wondered … the boy looked as though he could easily plot to do just that … but no. No, that was stretching things too far. He was a lad of not yet thirteen years. There was no possibility of his planning anything at his age.
Still, he was plainly the right heir to Arthur, just as the prophecy foretold.
A series of shouts from outside made him look up, momentarily forgetting his disturbed thoughts. He went to the window and peered down into the courtyard, and saw a messenger dismounting and stretching.
‘Message for the Earl of Chester.’
As Earl Edward’s tutor, he was soon to hear that the message was a summons to Westminster. Usually that would be a cause of excitement for Richard of Bury, because any excuse to go to the centre of power was reason for rejoicing, as it also involved excellent food and drink. But not today. Today Bury had a cold sensation in his belly. He remembered that look on the boy’s face the other day, a week ago, when he had seen Earl Edward. That day, the Earl had seemed on the verge of saying something. In God’s name, he hoped the Earl hadn’t done anything that could be regretted.
Perhaps his tutoring of the boy had been too rational, too worldly. Maybe he should stop the teaching of political and military achievement from ancient Greece to Rome, and instead, concentrate on less martial subjects.
But how could he deny the training Arthur’s heir demanded?
Lydford
Baldwin was already outside in the little garden when Simon rose that Monday morning. It was a lovely, fresh, late spring day. The clouds were few, and high in the sky, the sun casting long shadows this early, and there was a fine dew on the grass as Baldwin went through his exercises.
Simon sat on an upturned stump. Soon afterwards Wolf came and sat beside him, leaning against his thigh and resting his head on Simon’s leg, staring up at him beseechingly, demanding his attention. Simon patted his chest, enjoying the peace of the morning. Both their wives were still in their beds, as was Simon’s son. Baldwin’s children were still at his house. Jeanne had left them with their nurses rather than make the journey too slow. She would not be here for long, after all.
As he watched, the knight span and whirled, sword in his right hand, now in his left, making the movements that had been taught to him as a Templar. His order had placed a great deal of emphasis on daily weapons practice, and now Baldwin’s muscles were inured to the routine. He stood with his sword up, point angled downwards, right hand over his forehead, left hand flat like a blade, over his belly, where he could slap away an attack. Then he whirled, sword sweeping about, until he stopped with his right fist at his belt buckle, sword pointing upwards to block, left hand over his breast. Each manoeuvre carefully distinct, every time the blade glimmering with speed, only to halt firmly, unwavering. And as uncompromising as the movements of the steel was the expression on his face.
‘You should train as well,’ Baldwin said.
‘At this time of day? I don’t think so.’
‘At any time, Simon,’ Baldwin said.
Simon gave a twisted smile and nodded towards his shoulder and hand. ‘With the wounds still this fresh? Meg would kill me if I opened them.’
‘Aye, you may have a point there.’ Baldwin grinned. He sheathed his sword before wiping a forearm over his sweaty brow. ‘Let us not be fools. We both know that Despenser sent his man to you to make a threat. But the fact that we bested his man may lead Despenser to decide to try again, just to soothe his feelings of injured pride. He does not need your land or house, but the fact you stood up to him and prevented him from taking it makes it unbearably tempting for him.’
‘What will William Wattere do about it?’ Simon scoffed. ‘He’s in gaol.’
‘For now. Do not forget that Bishop Walter is a close associate of Sir Hugh Despenser. Despenser is perfectly capable of demanding that his man be freed. He will twist the King’s arm until he has a pardon, or perhaps he will simply deny that there is a case to answer and have his man released by threatening the Bishop.’
‘How could he threaten the Bishop?’
‘Simon, to my knowledge, he has stolen lands from ladies up and down the country. He has threatened and captured men, and taken all he wanted from them. He has deprived men and women of their treasure. He will stop at nothing to maintain his power and authority, and if he finds a man is in his way, he will do all he can to force him to move. Now if news of your success against his man was to become known, he would be in an intolerable position: he would be in a situation where others could see that he could be prevented. If men see that an outlaw can be stopped, they do not fear that outlaw again. It is only the ruthless exercise of might that keeps Despenser in power. Take away that might, and he becomes a nothing. That is what he fears.’
‘So what do you propose that I do?’
‘Keep a wary ear on any sounds of escape from the Bishop’s gaol. So shall I. If Wattere is freed, we know that Despenser is tensing his muscles ready for some kind of demonstration. And beyond that, plan to defend your home.’
‘You do not fill me with confidence.’
‘I fear I have little enough of it,’ Baldwin said heavily.
It was later that same day that they heard Wattere had been released.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Beaulieu
Jack set about his own packing early in the morning. There was little for him to worry about. A small parcel of clothes which was bound inside a linen sack, a goatskin for some wine, a leather wallet with some bread, smoked sausage and cheese, and a pair of thick fustian blankets, rolled tightly and bound with thongs, for the colder nights. He pulled his cloak about him, and he was ready.
Everyone else here appeared to be preparing to leave as well. The Bishop of Orange was watching carefully as men stored his papers in a cart, the King’s steward and Despenser’s bottler were stalking about among the wagons and sumpter horses ensuring that all was packed, while clerks of the various departments of state were hurrying about, squeaking at men who looked as though they might drop a chest or misstore a box in the wrong wagon, and generally getting in the way of everyone else while making themselves thoroughly miserable at the same time.
It was not the kind of sight a man like Jack would see often in a lifetime. Once, he would have stood here on the steps near a hall watching for very different reasons. Then he would have been here to assess the best method of stealing as much as possible. He would have kept an eye on the wagons so that he could see which was holding all the gold or coins. Treasure was best, of course, because a handful of rubies was lighter than its value in coin. Yes, there had been a time when he would have been eyeing all this with carefully concealed desire. But not today.
Strange to think that a man like him could change so much. Yet he had. What had he been? A farmer, a sailor, a fisherman, an outlaw, and now a guard. Honourable again, he knew he was a rarity. Most men, if they once turned out bad, were bad for life. That was what all said. A man who became a felon was as dangerous as a wolf. That’s why they were called ‘wolfshead’, and the law entitled any man to strike off their head without fear of punishment.