Michael Jecks - Dispensation of Death

‘No.’

‘However, the realm needs all magnates to pull together and discuss what is best for the country and the Crown. Just now, unanimity is crucial in the face of the threat from France.’

‘Yes. I can agree with that.’

Despenser sat back and considered the Bishop for a while. At last he said, ‘The French King demands that King Edward should go to France to pay homage for the lands he holds as vassal to the King.’

‘Yes. We all know that.’

‘I need hardly say to you how dangerous that could be.’

‘You suggest that the French may seek to injure our King?’ Drokensford asked with feigned surprise. That was a subject for open conjecture amongst the Bishops, and he was convinced it must be also for the secular barons.

There was no humour in Despenser’s face, as there was none in the Bishop’s. Both knew how serious affairs were between the English and French.

‘They have already taken the majority of the King’s lands over there, after creating a pretext. That fool, Kent, lost our King his inheritance.’

‘I understood that he received no help from here when he should have been able to count upon it,’ Drokensford said mildly.

‘There were problems with sending and receiving messages, it is true, but he should have acted on his own initiative.’

‘I thought he did.’

‘Perhaps. If so, his best was not good enough. His initiative may well have cost us Guyenne.’

‘So we are agreed, then,’ the Bishop said. ‘At all costs this rift between the two Crowns must be healed.’

‘Exactly. We cannot afford to see relations damaged further.’

‘So we must send more ambassadors.’

Despenser leaned forward. ‘Who, though? You know what they have offered. They want us to send them either the King to make his peace with Charles, or to send his son to make homage. But either could be enormously dangerous. We cannot afford to put them into the hands of this French King.’

‘He would give safe conduct, surely?’

‘What would that be worth? In God’s name, Bishop, how much would you trust that Frenchman? He has Roger Mortimer of Wigmore still in his household, so they say. The worst traitor who ever threatened an English King, and the French give him a home!’

‘Perhaps you think you should go yourself?’

Despenser looked at him coolly. ‘There is no love between me and the French King. If I were to go, I should be slain, and the cause of peace would not be helped.’

‘Then who?’

‘There is one: the Queen herself.’

Drokensford peered at him. The temptation to gape was almost overwhelming, but he refrained. ‘I had thought that you and she did not agree on many matters?’

‘To be blunt, I do not like the woman, but she is the sister to the French King, and we must use any lever we may. She could, perhaps, exert some beneficial influence on her brother and save the realm from losing a vast territory.’

‘It would surely be a grave humiliation for you?’

‘Perhaps, a little. But better that, than a war or the simple loss of so much of our Lord the King’s lands. It must be immensely worrying for him to have this matter drag on so.’

‘So what do you ask of me?’

‘Two things: that you let your friends know that I would seek to let Queen Isabella go to Paris and negotiate with her brother; and that you support me in parliament when it comes to a debate on the matter. Could you do that?’

‘I shall have to consider, but … yes, I am sure I can support you in this.’

‘Good! Good. That is what I hoped to hear.’

He stood, bowed, and strode from the room.

Picking up his reed again, Drokensford sat for a long while, staring at the door with a mild frown on his face.

‘So, my Queen, I hope this shall prove satisfactory for you. I wonder what you intend next, eh, my Lord Despenser?’ he said aloud, quietly, and then he glanced down at his hand. It was trembling like a drunkard’s after missing his morning whet, and as he watched, a gobbet of ink fell from the tip and smudged the parchment beneath. ‘Christ save me from that spawn of the devil,’ he muttered, and crossed himself.

Salisbury

Roger Martival, Bishop of Salisbury, could have been a brother to Walter Stapledon of Exeter. Both had the same slight stoop, the same slender frames, and the same intensity of intellect. The key difference between them was in age — where Stapledon was some sixty years old, Martival was only some five-and-thirty, in Simon’s estimation.

Still, he proved to be a cheerful host, and within a short time of arriving, the whole cavalcade was within the Cathedral’s close, the horses being groomed by a small army of ostlers, the guards taken to a small tavern near the main gatehouse together with Rob, while Baldwin, Simon and the Bishop were escorted to the Bishop’s palace for a meal with their host.

‘Only fish, I fear, my friends, but I hope that your appetites may be tempted by the skill of my cook.’

It was after their meal that the two Bishops chatted for a while, and then Baldwin and Simon were given to understand that there were matters of some delicacy which the two must discuss. Nothing loath, the two friends left them to their deliberations and went to their chamber to sleep.

Later, much later, Simon found himself woken. He lay in the pale light of the sickle moon, wondering what it was that had stirred him. There was no sound of rats about the floor, nor in the ceiling overhead. When he glanced across, he could see Baldwin lying on the bed beside him, chest rising gently with his breath, and that sight itself was almost enough to send him back to sleep. If a warrior who had been forced to live on his wits for much of his adult life had not been jerked awake, whatever the noise was, it was probably natural and of no concern.

Only then did he hear the voices.

‘They are doing untold damage to us all!’

‘So who would you have in their place?’ Two voices, both raised in anger. The first the Bishop of Salisbury, the second Simon’s friend Walter of Exeter. He had no wish to eavesdrop on them both, but when they shouted at each other, it was impossible not to hear every word.

Simon could hear Stapledon’s voice, dropped to a murmur now, but insistent. Then there was a moment’s quiet, before Roger Martival burst out: ‘She has had her children taken from her, do you call that rational? … I know, but you say she might force her own children to be traitors to their father? Her husband? … Bishop, do not insult my intelligence! I may be younger than you, but my mind is perfectly able to function. This is not a marital dispute, it is systematic persecution of the lady. She’s had her income taken from her, her properties confiscated, her lands — even her household has been dispersed and all the Frenchmen arrested … Annul the marriage? Could they do that? For expediency ? In God’s name, I deny it! Support this? I should rather support a goat as my chaplain!’

There were more soothing noises then, and the voices calmed, to the extent that Simon could make out little more. He frowned over what he had heard, but it made no sense to him. Ecclesiastical courts occasionally had to consider difficult cases of marriage breakdowns, when the only possible solution appeared to be a divorce, he knew, and he wondered briefly whether they were talking about a couple in the Bishop of Salisbury’s See, but then he shrugged to himself. It was nothing to do with him.

He rolled over, and would have gone straight to sleep, had he not caught sight of Baldwin.

The knight was still breathing silently like a man asleep, but now as Simon looked, he saw that Baldwin’s eyes were wide, and frowning with deep contemplation, as though he was struck with a new and terrible thought.