The Medieval Murderers - House of Shadows

Lawrence looked back. ‘She had everything to live for. I cannot believe that.’

‘You knew her?’

Lawrence looked at him steadily. He knew Hob well. Quietly, he said, ‘I saw her married. I was witness to it. It was a match of love. Which is why it was not declared: they did not wish for her father to grow angry and harm them.’

‘It was a concealed marriage?’

‘They gave their vows in front of me and two witnesses. It was a legal match.’

Hob puffed out his cheeks. ‘This will be a…’

But before he could say more, there was a harsh bellow from a man nearer the river.

‘There’s another body here!’

Morrow of the Feast of St George the Martyr [4] ,

Bishop Stapledon’s Hall, Temple

There was a roiling in Sir Baldwin’s belly when he first saw the bishop’s London home – not because of the house itself but because just south and east of it, like a giant peering over a smaller man’s shoulder, he could see his order’s chief preceptory in England. It made him want to bow and pray for his comrades who had once inhabited the place. As it was, he was glad of the thin rain that fell so steadily. It persuaded him to keep his head down, so he caught only fleeting glimpses.

‘That’s a huge place,’ Simon said, seeing where his eyes were gazing.

‘A good size,’ Baldwin agreed, but then realized his friend was looking at Bishop Stapledon’s home.

Marching up to the gatehouse, Simon told the porter who they were and asked for the bishop. Seeing how Baldwin’s eyes remained fixed on the building between them and the river, the man said: ‘It’s the old Templar estate.’ He spat into the street. ‘God damn the evil bastards.’

Simon knew Baldwin’s background and hurriedly led him away. The knight’s jaw was working, and he had a sour look on his face, like a man who had bitten into a sloe.

‘He knows nothing,’ Simon said.

‘No.’

It was a flat statement, but it was clear that Sir Baldwin found no comfort in the knowledge. The sight of the preceptory was enough to bring back to his mind all the injustice of his friends’ deaths. Baldwin was aware that many people here and abroad knew that the Templars were innocent of the obscene crimes of which they had been accused, but that scarcely helped in the face of such blind contempt. It made him aware of a quick loathing for the man. He could have swept out his sword and taken the fool’s head off without a second thought.

‘Come, Baldwin.’

‘Yes. I am all right. He is just a cretin. He has no understanding of the truth.’

‘No,’ Simon agreed soothingly. He could never confess it to Baldwin, but he found it hard to believe Baldwin’s often-repeated assertions of his order’s innocence. There was no smoke without a spark, was his view.

The bishop’s main hall was an imposing chamber. On all the walls were pictures of saints, while in one corner stood a small row of bookshelves. Richly decorated books stood there, while on the opposite wall were more shelves, this time displaying a series of the bishop’s best plate. Pewter and silver shone in the light from the enormous window in the south wall, and tiny motes danced as the two entered, ushered in by an obsequious clerk.

Bishop Stapledon, Walter II of Exeter, was sitting on a leather-covered stool at the far end of the room where the light was best. He was reading a parchment, spectacles held near his nose as he peered down, and when he looked up there was a peevish look about him, as though he had been reading disagreeable news.

Even as he stood and smiled in welcome, Baldwin found himself trying to remember when the bishop had last seemed truly happy. It was a long time ago – perhaps before he had been given the post of Lord High Treasurer to the king. So much had happened since, with the depredations of the appalling Despensers.

No man was safe from the intolerable greed of Sir Hugh Le Despenser. Once, it was said, he had confessed that he cared for nothing so long as he became rich. That he had achieved. Since he had launched his acquisitive campaign, he had become the richest man in the kingdom, save only for the king himself. In this cruel environment even the widows of men killed in the king’s service were deprived of lands and money. One woman, Madam Baret, had been tortured with such irrational ferocity that she had been driven mad, all in order that Despenser could steal her property. Stapledon had once been a moderating influence, but now he could surely see that he had achieved little.

‘Sir Baldwin, I am glad to see you again. And you, bailiff. I hope your journey was not too arduous?’

‘It was almost relaxing,’ Baldwin said shortly. He did not want to be here. If he were to look over his shoulder through the great window, he knew he would see the preceptory again. It was a constant reminder of hideous injustice. He could almost hear again the burning pyres as the Templars were roasted to death.

‘I wish my own had been,’ the bishop said heavily.

‘Your journey?’ Simon enquired.

‘The news at every stage,’ Stapledon said. He shook his head, glancing down at the papers again, then set them on the table. ‘We are still so near to war with France…the queen has gone to Paris to deal with her brother, but no one can say how successful she may be.’

‘Which is why you asked me to come here to London as a member of the Parliament,’ Baldwin stated.

‘Yes.’ The bishop grunted to himself, then looked up through the window. ‘You know what has happened to that site?’

Simon quickly interrupted. ‘That was the Templars’, wasn’t it? The porter told us just now.’

‘Yes, it was. And it was to have been handed to the Hospitallers,’ the bishop agreed. He dropped his gaze to his lap and fiddled with a loose strand of wool. ‘But now the king has given it all over to Hugh Le Despenser. He will enjoy it, I am sure.’

Baldwin did not need to listen carefully to hear the bitterness in the bishop’s voice. He would have liked to have believed that its cause was the blatant nature of the theft of a religious order’s property and not merely jealousy that it had not come to him. ‘Despenser is most fortunate,’ he observed.

Stapledon shot him a look. ‘Perhaps. But now he has asked me to help him . Yesterday the daughter of one of his servants was found dead. Out on the marshes between the Rosary and Bermondsey Priory.’

‘The coroner has been informed?’

‘A coroner will be there today, I believe.’

‘Then surely there is little I can do to help.’

‘You are here as a Member of Parliament, Sir Baldwin, but I would be grateful if you could help enquire into the matter. My Lord Despenser has requested an enquiry, and as an unbiased witness I would ask you to go and see what you may learn.’

Henry Capun hurled his drinking horn across the room. It struck the wall and shattered, throwing shards of green pottery in every direction. Two servants ducked, expecting his intolerable burden of rage to be expended on them, but as soon as it erupted it was gone, and all he knew was the return of that terrible emptiness.

She had been his little princess. He could still recall her birth. At the time he’d wanted a lad, of course. What man didn’t? He was a knight banneret, a man of standing, and a boy child was worth more in his world. A boy could be trained to be a warrior; he could earn a father some rewards for being brought up in a good warrior’s household. He might win new allies, hopefully gain a wealthy wife, and should always be a delight to his old father. A daughter? Nothing but a damned drain on a man’s resources.

He had gone to see her soon after the midwives allowed him into his wife’s chamber. God, he could remember that time. He had been slightly drunk. Well, fairly gone, truth be known. He’d not meant to do it, but when he got in there he’d looked at her, and when he heard he had a daughter he’d shouted with anger. His moods were always quick when he was that bit younger.