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’senmity 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
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’senmity 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
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