Free The King of Thieves: by Michael Jecks Page B

intently to his tutor, the deplorable Richard of Bury. The fat fool!
    He was supposed to be a clever, intellectual fellow, but Despenser thought he was a fraud. He had a great collection of books,
     certainly, but Despenser reckoned there were too many for one man to read in a lifetime. He’d even said so to the Kingbefore now, but Edward was deaf to any comments against the bastard. As it was, Despenser watched him carefully. He didn’t
     trust anyone else to get too close to the King or his son.
    ‘So, what is the discussion concerning?’ he drawled as he walked to the King’s side and made an elaborate bow.
    Bishop Stapledon said tightly, ‘The King has reconsidered, and now he feels that it would be best if he were not to leave
     the country. Instead, another must go.’
    That, Despenser thought, must have hurt like a kick in the ballocks. Stapledon certainly looked as though he had been attacked
     most viciously. His face was as pale as a man who saw his house being burned before him. With his family still inside.
    ‘I am sure that the King knows the most sensible course,’ he said smoothly.
    ‘I dare say you are,’ Hethe replied.
    ‘I do not think I understand you, my Lord Bishop.’ Despenser’s eyes were glittering like ice.
    Hethe was not one of those who would respond with fear. The pious prickle believed in his divine protection or something.
     ‘I suggest that you are most assured that the King’s actions are correct when they suit
your aims
, Sir Hugh. And I believe that you have argued most persuasively against his journeying to Paris.’
    ‘You think that the King doesn’t know his own mind? I am surprised at you, my Lord.’
    ‘Do not presume to insult my intelligence, Sir Hugh,’ Hethe said with chilly resentment. ‘The King must go, whether you wish
     it or no.’
    ‘It is not
my
decision,’ Despenser shrugged, ‘and I think you should be cautious of suggesting otherwise—’
    ‘Enough!’ The King stood up from his seat and glared about him.
    He was still a magnificent-looking man. His eyes showed the nervousness that lay at the centre of his soul, and his face was
     drawn, but he still towered over the others in the room with him, and he inspired awe, no matter what the gathering. ‘I have
     decided! That should be enough for all of you. Now, on to other matters. What did you wish to say, Archbishop?’
    The room was quiet a moment as all those present mentally considered whether it was safe to argue further, but after a certain
     amount of glancing about at each other, the Archbishop broke the uncomfortable silence.
    ‘Kent is in a turmoil, my Lord. There are wandering bands of discontents and felons who slay with impunity. What may a man
     do? I have set about building a larger wall to encircle my own manor, but if these desperate men should attack, it would be
     useless.’
    ‘You want me to provide you with guards? Can you not afford your own? I do not presume to have a monopoly on defence,’ the
     King said sarcastically.
    ‘It is not only Kent, your Royal Highness. It’s the whole realm,’ another Bishop declared. ‘The country is falling into despair,
     and if there is no peace for your subjects, they may …’
    ‘Look to yourselves for your protection, as the King said,’ Despenser snapped. ‘You are all grown men, in Christ’s name! Not
     maids and churls. You have your own guards. Set them to their duties!’
    ‘If there is no peace in your realm, the land may erupt. Your people will not respect a King who cannot give them peace.’
    It was Walter Stapledon, Bishop of Exeter, who spoke, and Despenser gave him a long, threatening stare. ‘You and I have always
     been agreed on most matters, my Lord Bishop,’ he said. ‘I am surprised to hear you gainsaying me. Think carefully before you
     continue.’
    Stapledon was an old man, certainly, and the last couple of months, especially since he’d lost his job, had made him look
     his age. But there was still a