‘No one would dare attack me with my dogs here,’ Sir Gilbert said coldly, but the man had a point. Sir Gilbert hadn’t expected to be put ashore here, he’d been hoping to be further upriver, nearer the London Bridge. Instead, here he was, with a long walk ahead of him and no horse or carriage. And only one guard, not two.
The sailor saw his expression and shook his head. Turning, he issued instructions to the other men before walking ahead to the gate again, beckoning to Sir Gilbert.
‘What is this?’ Sir Gilbert demanded.
‘You need help to cross London. This is a seaman’s land, not fit for a country knight.’
‘We can protect ourselves.’
The sailor watched him tap his sword. ‘You think so? While protecting the box?’
Sir Gilbert considered.
‘Come, Sir Knight. I’ll join you. You can be certain that I won’t betray my Lord Despenser, not while he wins me rewards from the ships he takes. With two guards there’s more chance of your mission succeeding.’
It was hard to believe he’d come to this. Philip Dyne squatted on the floor by the altar within the sanctuary and gazed ahead of him unseeing. It was dark now, and the place was lit by a few candles this late in the evening. The priest himself, the sepulchral Father Abraham, had gone to his bedchamber hours before, and Philip was alone in the great cold room.
He shivered. The memory of men pounding after him lingered; never in all his years had he known such terror. It was one thing to be found pilfering the odd spice and being soundly thrashed by his master for trying to supply it on the quiet, but this!
His legs ached, and he shifted uncomfortably while keeping a grip on the altar cloth. He wanted no mistake about his right to claim sanctuary here, not while he had no knife, no staff, nothing with which to protect himself.
Moving his legs, he carefully avoided the small pile of excrement where a dog had relieved itself. He was astonished that the priest hadn’t cleaned the spot, but then Father Abraham was very jealous of his position, proud of his standing. He would refuse to clean the place; that was the job of the sexton, not the priest.
From here Philip could see the pictures on the walls, large, round, flamboyant depictions of biblical scenes, of the seven deadly sins and the seven cardinal virtues, with angels on one side receiving Christian souls into Heaven while on the other angels sternly pointed the way to Hell for sinners.
He stared at them despondently. Every now and again he sniffed, too exhausted to sob; his emotions had been used up over the last few nights.
This church held no mystery – he’d been here so often, watching Father Abraham thundering on about the evils of sin from this very place, pointing out the pictures, ranting wide-eyed as the spittle flew, berating his congregation as he tried to instill his own loathing for pride, covetousness, lust, anger, gluttony, envy, and sloth. Philip and his friends had enjoyed those sermons with the priest roaring away, scaring maids and upsetting children. It had been fun. He could still grin weakly, recollecting the time when a pigeon had been startled from the rafters and left a deposit on the priest’s tonsured head.
His face hardened. It was all over now. His only escape was to leave England, to abjure the realm and become an exile. All for the death of Joan. Whenever he thought of her his eyes filled with tears. She was fun, exciting and bright. That was why they became engaged.
That first night together down by the river, she had thrilled him so much, lying almost naked in his arms. Then they realised how late it was and she breathily giggled into his shoulder that she couldn’t get home now: the house’s doors would be locked. It was already too late; with her warm flesh filling his hands he wouldn’t have let her go anyway. Not that she wanted to. Her hands pulled impatiently at his tunic, untying the thongs that held up his hose, releasing them so that she could lift the cloth from him before he rolled her on her back and covered her body with his own.
Her father had gone mad when she got home, she told him the next time they met. He knew she’d been up to no good. Joan laughed as she described Andrew Carter’s towering rage. Then she pulled Philip along behind her, back to their meadow, and made love to him again.
‘You won’t leave me, will you?’ she asked seriously afterwards.
‘No, ‘course not.’
And he hadn’t. She had left him.
By dying.
Chapter Three
As the end of July drew near, Sir Gilbert of Carlisle gratefully approached the West Country. Reaching the top of a rise, he gazed ahead and halted. There before him he could see the hills and woods of Devonshire.
The journey had not been easy. Before long he had been forced to appreciate the stolid sailor who stayed with him when his second guard was lost. His name was William, the sailor said; William the Small.
It had been the panic of London’s folk that had cost him his second guard. Not only were Londoners anxious at having Hugh Despenser aboard his ship in the Thames, they also had the country’s great magnates ringing the city with their armies. The Mortimers were the guests of the Knights of St John at Clerkenwell, Hereford was at Holborn, Damory at the New Temple, and Audley at St Bartholomew’s Priory at Smithfield. The city was enclosed and while the King vacillated, reluctant to banish his friend, yet fearful of the response of the Marcher Lords if he refused to do so, the lords themselves grew annoyed to hear of the King’s trips to the Despensers’ ship, or young Despenser’s visits to the shore to feast with the King.
The unease in the city had come to a head the day before Sir Gilbert landed. Parliament had met at the great hall at Westminster, and the lords demanded that both Despensers should be exiled. They were guilty of greed and treachery, they were enemies of both the King and his people.
In the streets, supporters of the Despensers hurled stones or fired arrows at the men from the marches; their attacks were returned with gusto. Before the parliamentary meeting there had been threats to fire the city of London, and that brought out the burgesses to protect their homes. Now, instead of running fights between two groups, there were battles between all three and Sir Gilbert arrived with his men in the middle of it all. London Bridge was closed, as were all the main gates while the emergency continued, and Sir Gilbert and his servants were forced to seek an inn in which to stay until they could continue their journey.
They found one close to the Black Friars’ Priory, down at the Thames where the River Fleet met it. Sir Gilbert would have been happier to have been nearer London’s bridge, but William pointed out that here they had two rivers over which they could make an escape at need.
On the second day the situation changed: the King finally agreed to exile the Despensers. Sir Gilbert breathed a sigh of relief, paid his reckoning, and he and his men left – but they had forgotten the armies about the city.
Horses had been promised, but in the new climate friends of the Younger Despenser were hard to find. Sir Gilbert had to threaten one of Despenser’s grooms to provide him with three horses. The fellow agreed with a bad grace and it was while he was preparing the mounts that Sir Gilbert went to see the Temple: he couldn’t resist taking a look at the symbol of his old Order. However, as he and his men turned a corner, they found themselves confronted by five scruffy men-at-arms.
One sat at a table drinking, while two stood behind him in a tavern’s doorway. All had the bleared voices and ruddy faces of men who have been drinking for many hours. They were egging on two more men who were practising fighting with daggers. As soon as Sir Gilbert and his little retinue appeared, the fighters stopped and eyed them with interest.