No Law in the Land: (Knights Templar 27) (5 page)

Their way took them from the city’s gates and west, down along Candelwryhttestrate, but they had to turn southwards where
a wagon had shed its load, and Bishop Walter took them along narrower roads that Sir Richard didn’t recognise.

‘You know these lanes like I know my own manor,’ he said as they rode along Athelyngstrate towards the cathedral church of
St Paul’s.

‘I would be a sorry bishop if I didn’t know this city well,’ Bishop Walter replied. ‘I have spent so much of my life here
in London. The king saw fit to make me his lord high treasurer some years ago, and since then I have spent much of every year
here – apart from those periods when he has discarded me,’ he added with a thin little smile.

‘Why would he do that?’ Sir Richard asked.

‘Because my advice was unwelcome. The last time he removed me from office it was because he split the treasury into two –
one to deal with the north, one for the south. That would be a fair way to deal with the problems of the treasury, separating
it into two halves in the same way as the Church is split between Canterbury and York, but only if there was a corresponding
increase in staff to cope with the workload. Such administrative corrections are necessary once in a while, after all. No
man could dispute that. However, the king is ever seeking greater efforts by all without considering the impact on individuals.
And that is what happened here. He divided the one institution into two parts, and expected these two new courts to be able
to cope with the same number of staff as the one court employed before. It could not work!’

‘That is why you resigned the post?’

‘Yes. I will not be a part of an effort like that.’ The bishop’s tone was sharp, but Sir Richard was sure that it was merely
a reflection of his concern at the impending interview with the king.

That there might be another reason for the bishop’s shortness did not occur to him until they were near the cathedral itself.
There Sir Richard saw Bishop Walter’s eyes turn this way and that, and he didn’t seem happy until they had left the cathedral
behind them. It seemed to Sir Richard that there was something about that area that was distasteful to the bishop.

They rode on down the hill to the Ludgate at the bottom, and then continued on the Fletestrete. Sir Richard saw Baldwin stare
down at the Temple buildings, which Sir Hugh le Despenser had taken for his own only recently, and glanced over them himself.
There was not much to interest him, though, and soon he found himself studying the Straunde as they rode on towards Thorney
Island and Westminster.

The buildings here were all grand. Too grand for Sir Richard’s taste, if he was honest. He required only a simple dwelling.
Space for himself, a few mastiffs and raches, perhaps a mews for a pair of hawks, and that was about it. Here, though, there
was an apparent need for ostentation on all sides. And when they reached the Temple Bar and passed beyond, the houses were
even more extravagant.

‘We shall rest here a while before continuing,’ the bishop said as he turned left just before St Clement Danes.

‘Where’s this, then?’ Sir Richard asked, eyeing the hall with some
suspicion. It was even more splendid than the other places they had passed, or so he felt.

Bishop Walter was already passing under the gatehouse. It was the steward, John de Padington, who turned in his saddle and
eyed the knight with an amused look. ‘It’s the bishop’s house, Sir Richard. He built it himself so that the bishops of Exeter
would always have a comfortable billet in London.’

The Painted Chamber, Westminster

‘It would be better that you rested, your royal highness,’ Sir Hugh le Despenser said.

‘I am not in a mood to rest,’ King Edward II replied.

Sir Hugh ducked his head, then signalled to a waiting servant. The man nodded and fetched him a goblet of wine, bowing low
as he passed it.

It was good to see men who understood their position in the world. This bottler, for example. He knew that his place was to
wait for the merest signal, and then to rush to serve his betters. And Sir Hugh le Despenser was definitely his better. As
the second most wealthy and powerful man in the realm, after only the king himself, Sir Hugh was the better of all. The king
alone he viewed as an equal.

But even knowing his own importance, Sir Hugh could not help but stare at the bottler as he poured, wondering for how much
longer he would merit such respect. It felt as though the entire realm was a tower teetering on the brink of complete failure,
undermined by enemies that could not be seen, swatted away or exterminated. They were deep underground, hidden from view.
And if the realm failed, Sir Hugh would die. He and all his friends must be taken and slain. The strain of his position was
like a band of steel tightening around his skull. ‘My lord, would you not take a seat? I can arrange for some diverting—’

‘Be
still
, Sir Hugh! Do you not see when a man needs peace and silence to consider? I have much to think of, in Christ’s name!’

‘I do understand, your highness,’ said Sir Hugh. It was harder and harder to restrain his own tongue in the face of the king’s
bile. ‘But surely a rest would do no harm.’

The king continued as though he had not heard him speak. ‘It is humiliating that my wife is not yet home. She should have
returned as
soon as Stapledon arrived there. What could be holding her up? There is no news, and we do not know how the French are responding.
Christ Jesus! She must know how it embarrasses me. And my son is still there. I want him home again. I do not want my heir
to be held there any longer than is entirely necessary. He is young, vulnerable. He is not yet thirteen years old, and already
he has been forced to go and pay homage to the French like a mere knight, when he is a duke!’

‘It was better that he did so than that another should go,’ Despenser said. ‘It was better than that you should go.’

‘I couldn’t!’ the king snapped. He was at the farther end of the chamber now, the easternmost end, near his bed. There were
three large oval windows above him, and he appeared to be staring up at them, but when Sir Hugh followed his gaze, he saw
that the king was peering up at a picture of a prophet on the ceiling.

It was the most beautiful room in the kingdom. In fact Sir Hugh had heard that the French king himself was jealous of the
chamber, and had ordered that a similar one be built for his own use. There were paintings over the walls and the ceilings,
all with an exuberant use of colour and gilt. Even the meanest feature had decoration upon it. As Sir Hugh glanced at the
window nearest him, he saw that the soffit itself had a picture of an angel staring down. Below her was a virtue,
Debonerete
, or meekness, triumphing over the vice
Ira
, wrath. As was normal, the virtue was depicted as a woman, holding a shield on which the arms of England were differenced
by two bars, while the arms of St Edmund and other saints were carefully painted around her in a border. She was a stunning
figure, especially since she stood some three yards tall, and gleamed with fire from the gilt and gold leaf.

Nearby there was another figure in the same vein. Here the virtue was
Largesse
, and she was triumphing over
Covoitise
, covetousness. That at least was one vice which the king never suffered from. Not in the presence of Sir Hugh.

Sir Hugh had his goblet refilled and waited. He had much patience. Sometimes he thought that it was the only virtue he required
while here with the king. But he couldn’t deny that he’d been well rewarded over the years for his patience. All he had ever
needed to show his king was humility and deference, leavened with adoration, and Edward had repaid the effort many times over.
Sir Hugh’s desires became the king’s desires; Sir Hugh’s friends became the king’s,
while his enemies became Edward’s most detested foes. There was nothing Sir Hugh could do that would colour the king’s opinion
of him. Even when the French demanded that Edward travel to France to pay homage for the territories held from the French
crown, the king was happier to send his own heir, the Earl of Chester, Duke of Aquitaine, rather than make the journey himself.
Some believed it was because he feared for his safety. Sir Hugh knew it was more because he was anxious for Sir Hugh.

Edward was happier to risk the life and livelihood of his own son than he was to risk the neck of his lover.

‘He would have something to say about this, wouldn’t he?’ the king was saying.

His words brought Sir Hugh back to the present. ‘Who, your highness?’

‘I said, the prophet here, Jeremiah, he would have had much to say about my reign, wouldn’t he?’

Sir Hugh racked his brains. ‘Jeremiah – he foretold of the disaster that was about to overwhelm the Holy Land, did he not?
When the Babylonians overran it?’

‘Yes. He was rejected by his own people because they felt he was a doom-monger, always giving them the worst, never telling
them that all would grow better. He was as popular as
I
am.’

The king had a break in his voice as he spoke, and Sir Hugh took a breath. ‘Sire, you are much loved by your people. It is
not your fault that—’

‘I have been astonishingly unlucky. Look at me! I was feted when I was crowned, but one thing after another has set the seal
on my reign. The Scottish, the French, the bastards from the borders – and there’s been nothing I could do about any of it!
As soon as I had the opportunity, I took my host to the lords marcher, and I defeated them, didn’t I? But that wasn’t good
enough to recover my reign. The people detest me. No! Don’t think to lie to me, Sir Hugh! I know what they are thinking. And
now even my queen has deserted me. She sits there in France with her brother and entertains his friends and my enemies, and
I cannot be sure what she intends. Fickle woman!’

‘We shall soon know, sire.’

But the king was not to be consoled, and when Sir Hugh left him some while later, it was with a worried frown at his brow.
Edward’s
fears were all too well known to him, but it seemed that the man’s concerns were growing daily into fully developed panic.
And that was enough to give Sir Hugh cause for thought. His own position in the world was dependent entirely on the king’s
goodwill.

Sir Hugh had thought that when the Welsh marches rose in rebellion against him, it was a master stroke to have the king raise
an army and march with him. At the time it had seemed the most ingenious response. Those who had sought to meet Sir Hugh in
battle instead found themselves faced by the king’s banners. Any who attempted to fight would now be branded as traitors.
Their declarations of loyalty to the king were irrelevant. They had tried to impose their will on the king, and Edward had
suffered from that kind of interference before. He had been forced to submit to men who enforced ordinances restricting his
freedom to rule as he wished. When he tried to reward his favourite, Piers Gaveston, the earls had captured Piers and executed
him. Edward would not permit any man to stand in his way again. He had decided that he loved Sir Hugh, and any who sought
Sir Hugh’s destruction was an enemy of the king.

But the sheer brilliance of his scheming had concealed one possible risk. Sir Hugh had first seen to the capture of his worst
enemy, the bastard grandson of the murderer Mortimer, may he rot in hell for all eternity. Roger Mortimer, the grandfather,
had slaughtered Sir Hugh’s own grandsire at Evesham, and the Despensers were not a family to forget a blood feud. So Sir Hugh’s
first ambition was to have Mortimer held for a brief period, and then executed as a traitor to the king. And he had almost
succeeded. The king had agreed, after two years of careful persuasion, and Mortimer would have been dead already, except the
fortunate devil had learned of the death warrant being signed, and had made a daring escape from the Tower of London. Now
he was living abroad, plotting the downfall of Sir Hugh, no doubt. Rumours of his negotiations in Hainault for mercenaries
and ships had come to Despenser’s spies.

When the rebels were all captured or beaten, flying from the country, Sir Hugh acquired all those parts he had craved so long.
He owned almost all of Wales, he possessed vast tracts of the West Country, and he was undoubtedly the second most wealthy
and powerful man in the realm. No one but the king could stand against him. And while he had the king’s ear, all knew that
to court Sir Hugh’s
enmity meant to attract Edward’s hatred. None dared that. They’d all seen how the king would respond to those who angered
him. After the rebellion, the bodies of his enemies had decorated city gates and London’s walls for over two years, until
his wife’s pleas for leniency had finally persuaded him to remove them and allow the tanned, leathery remains to be buried.

Which had led, in part, to the king’s increasing dislike for his wife.

Sir Hugh entered the little chamber where his own clerks worked, and strode over to a chair. Sitting, he steepled his fingers
and rested his lips on his forefingers, head bowed.

There was much now to cause concern.

Stories abounded that Mortimer was raising an army to invade: he was gathering shipping; he had money to pay mercenaries.
And Roger Mortimer had been the king’s most successful general. If he were to return to England at the head of the army, there
was no telling what the outcome would be. Except Sir Hugh knew full well that if it was a simple matter of generalship, with
Mortimer against the king, the king would lose. His only saving would be the fear all men had of breaking their vow of loyalty
to him. That might keep some by his side. But if Mortimer proclaimed that he had no fight with the king himself, many might
flock to his banner. So many hated Despenser.

But there was nothing to fear yet. He must wait until he had information. There was no point in worrying about Mortimer until
he knew that the bastard was a threat. He licked his lips and looked about him. The pressure of his position was growing to
be insupportable, he thought as he chewed his fingernail, running his incisor under it to nibble away a little more.

There was a sharp stabbing pain, and he withdrew his hand, looking down. The nail was separated, but had torn away some of
the flesh beneath. A sickle of blood stood out at the end of his finger, and he stuck it back in his mouth, sucking.

Yes. He must wait for more information, learn exactly what Mortimer was planning, see how he could respond.

And then crush the shit without compunction.

Bishop’s House, the Straunde

Simon yawned as they wandered out into the cool air again. After that short rest, he felt a little invigorated, but the halt
had been too brief.
Now, standing out here with their breath feathering the air, pulling on gloves or reclasping their cloaks against the chill,
the men with him all looked exhausted.

It was especially apparent when he looked at Baldwin and Sir Richard. Neither was all that young, and both were fully aware
of the great distance they must cover to return to their homes in the far west of the kingdom. Still, even those two did not
wear such a fretful expression as Bishop Walter.

Simon wondered at that. The bishop was the oldest among them, at some four- or five-and-sixty, but his pallor was not only
because of the coolness of the afternoon air. No, it was more to do with the concern he had about the king’s response to their
news.

They mounted, and soon afterwards they were off, through the gates and out into the roadway.

Ahead they could see the royal buildings in the distance. The massive belfry of Westminster Abbey stood slightly to the right
of the other towers and walls, and between the riders and the palace there was a straggle of buildings. Some were low houses
for lawyers and clerks, others taller and more prestigious properties for the merchants and traders who came here to ply their
trade. Inns and shops catered for their needs, and all about there was a hubbub. Peasants and tradespeople shouting and hawking
created a confusion in Simon’s mind. He would be glad to be out of the city and on his way homewards once more.

‘Did you see the bishop’s face?’ Sir Richard asked, leaning towards Simon as he spoke.

Simon nodded. ‘He is very concerned just now.’

‘Aye. But why should he be so outside St Paul’s?’

Simon gave a thin smile. ‘You’re talking about that? I’d forgotten he was upset there as well, but it’s no surprise. Earlier
this year I was here with him, Baldwin too, and he invited us to join him to celebrate the Feast of the Purification of the
Blessed Virgin Mary. We went to the cathedral itself, and just outside it a mob gathered, threatening to kill him. Apparently
the Londoners hate him because he once had to investigate all the rights and customs of the city of London.’

Sir Richard turned slowly and gazed at the bishop. ‘Then why, in the name of all that’s holy, does the man want to come here?
I’d stay down in Devon, in a pleasant land where the people all like me.’

‘That, I think, is a question you could ask of any man who seeks power over others,’ Simon said.

‘Hmm. Fortunate then that you and I don’t need any nonsense like that, eh?’ said Sir Richard affably. ‘No, just a good quart
of strong wine, a little haunch of beef or venison, and a warm woman to snuggle up to on a winter’s night. Aye, a man doesn’t
need much for comfort.’

They jogged on until they reached Thieving Lane, where they made their way through the gate and into the palace’s yard.