Free Dispensation of Death: (Knights Templar 23) by Michael Jecks Page A

shall have to console myself with the reflection that at least others may enjoy what I have worked to achieve.’
    He rode on, and his guards, three men-at-arms from his personal retinue, kicked their mounts into a canter to keep up with him.
    ‘What was all that about?’ Rob demanded as they hurried after the Bishop.
    ‘He is a man who is suddenly grown aware of his mortality,’ Baldwin said wonderingly. ‘I have never seen it before in him.’
    ‘He’s an old man,’ Simon said unsympathetically. ‘And right now I expect his piles are playing merry hell with him.’
    ‘You are a rough, untutored fellow,’ Baldwin said with a chuckle. ‘But you may well be right.’

Hall of the Bishop of Bath and Wells, Straunde, London
    It was almost dark when Bishop John of Drokensford heard the horses at his yard, and he sat a moment, his reed still in his hand.
    There were many who felt that same anxiety, he knew. The noise of horses could mean many things, but in these sad times, the common fear was that it might be the King’s men, or perhaps Despenser’s, come to grab someone and take him away. And since the visit of Earl Edmund the other day, he felt more than usually uneasy about the risk of such a visit.
    No one was safe. Even those who did not plot to curb the King’s powers were at risk, because Edward trusted no one. No one but Despenser, and he was a terror: he was scared of no man. And why should he be? He was rich beyond the dreams of most, with a host of men at his beck and call, with the ear of the King, and the ability to do whatsoever he desired. And this complete power had entirely corrupted him and others.
    There were boots on his steps now, and Bishop John leaned back in his chair with a fleeting increase in his heart’s pounding. It made him feel light-headed, as though he had partaken of a vast quantity of wine or ale, and then his mind told him to be calm. There were only a few pairs of boots. If Despenser had learned of the message he had sent to the Queen, he would have come with more men than this.
    ‘My Lord Bishop.’
    ‘My Lord Despenser,’ he said suavely. ‘How can I serve you?’
    Sir Hugh le Despenser looked about him with that reptilian coldness Drokensford recognised so well, and pulled off his gloves as three men behind him entered the room, gazing about them suspiciously. ‘I would welcome an opportunity to discuss some matters with you.’
    ‘Please take a seat,’ the Bishop said drily as Despenser sat. He set his reed aside, glancing down at his notes. His guest was not welcome. ‘I suppose you want to protect yourself against me?’ he said, indicating the men at the back of the hall.
    Despenser gave a half-grunt, half-smile. Turning, he told the men to wait outside. When they were gone, he said directly, ‘We are not friends.’
    ‘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