Authors: Martin Archer
Tags: #Historical Fiction
“Oh, how interesting, Nuncio. I didn’t know any of that, of course. Cornwall is so poor and distant that we never get the news. Just tin mines and poor fishermen, you know. The realm owns the tin so there are no revenues for the Earl, of course; that’s why William has to look to the sea and ships, isn’t it?”
But he does his best with what little God has granted his lands.”
Might as well put a plug in for low taxes while I have a chance, particularly if John is to be the heir.
“It’s no secret, not even from Richard, that Lord William supports John and intends to keep doing so even though his purse is so slim. Prefers him to Richard, doesn’t he? Probably something to do with Richard’s behavior on his crusade.”
Like killing the people who surrender to him because he promises to free them.
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It is getting to evening as we reach the outskirts of London. In any event, I take a bug filled room at an inn outside the city wall for us to sleep in, my men and I that is - the ostlers will sleep in their carts so the carts and horses don’t get stolen. The sun is out and the wind is blowing towards the city so there is no fog and smoke out here. It’s hard to explain but everyone’s spirits, both ours and the people in the lanes, seem to be lifted by the good weather.
We leave early the next morning to travel the old Roman road from the city walls to Windsor. The road is full of ruts and busy with traffic coming and going in both directions and every hour or so we reach a small village or manor.
Peter and my guards travel with their bows and swords close at hand, and rightly so because of the outlaw bands that infest the roads, but it’s a generally peaceful scene and their swords are sheathed and their bows unstrung. I’m wearing my bishop’s gown and miter so I smile and wave my cross cheerfully about as travelers approach us from the front or we pass them.
Makes everyone feel better, doesn’t it?
Many of the people on the road appear to be serfs and slaves walking or pulling carts piled high with grass they’re bringing in to feed their lords’ livestock over the coming winter. They pull off the road for us as they must and, somewhat similarly, every hour or so we ourselves have to pull over or slow down for gentry in a cart or carriage. I wave my cross at them too.
I’m tired. I didn’t sleep a wink because I made a mistake and gave the landlord a coin to hire a girl for the men to share. The resulting talking and all the noise they made kept me up most of the night. I should have told them to use her in the street.
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Windsor Castle is impressive in the distance and it’s almost certain the king is here with his court. It seems likely; at least, because I can see his great flag on the castle keep.
Richard may be here but I’m still not sure if the Nuncio is here with him. So before we drive on up to the castle gate I decide to stop at Saint Peters, the local parish church of Windsor Village and inquire.
I’m not going near the place if the Nuncio is not here. I’m wary because I’m not sure if Richard knows I’m Thomas’ brother or if he knows we supported John and didn’t help ransom him - and I surely don’t want to find out if he’s upset about it. He’s a killer you know - even when he gives his word he can’t be trusted to keep it unless you are a fellow king and sometimes not even then.
The church’s priest is at home in his parsonage next to the church. He greets me suspiciously when I knock on the door to call him out. Father George is obviously not at all impressed by the fact I’m a bishop but he does kiss my ring and tell me that he thinks the Nuncio is in the castle with the court. He’d seen him riding in the king’s entourage when it came past the church three or four days ago.
The Priest’s arrogance and Saint Peter’s being such a fine parish with a good parsonage means the priest is probably someone special. He’s undoubtedly either a royal bastard or the younger son of a noble family. Or it could be he’s wary because he thinks I’m going to try to cadge a meal or a place to sleep off him – and probably it’s both since he undoubtedly gets a lot of requests for food and shelter from bishops and priests when they visit the castle.
But the priest’s eyes certainly light up and he quickly reaches for the coin I offer if he and his comely young housekeeper will feed me and my men and let us sleep on the church’s dirt floor tonight. Then it’s off to the castle gate I go with four of my guards in one of the horse carts.
The Pope may order us priests to be celibate but the Pope’s not the only hypocrite in the church if the housekeeper’s baby bump means anything. And who am I to throw stones, eh?
Getting into the castle to see the Nuncio takes some doing even though I’m though I wearing the robes and miter of a bishop and have an entourage of guards. An officious sergeant with the king’s coat of arms on his tunic eyes me skeptically and demands to know what I want.
“I’m the Bishop of Cornwall and I’m here to see the Papal Nuncio.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“Of course not, I just arrived in London yesterday. Just tell him I’m here and let him decide for himself. God will bless you – and so will I if you hurry.”
My offer of a blessing to the sergeant and a bit of the necessary - few coins to sweeten him - soon has one of his men scurrying off. I take the opportunity to walk a few steps away from the gate and relieve myself of the bad fish I’d eaten last night at the inn.
My God that smells; salted cod I think it was.
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Almost an hour passes and I sitting with my back against the castle’s stone wall dozing, upwind of last night’s fish, when the Papal Nuncio walks up. I jump up to kiss his ring and his welcome is effusive and brotherly - as well it should be given the size of the purse he’d received “for the Holy Father and your expenses” last year when the Archdiocese of Devon and Cornwall was unexpectedly split and I accepted the awesome responsibilities of heading up the newly reestablished Archdiocese of Cornwall.
“My this is ambitious and unique,” is the Nuncio’s only comment as he nods his head after he reads the parchment through and then reads it again. “It will certainly be very difficult to convince the Holy Father to agree to this.”
I can do it but it will cost you a lot of coins.
“Of course it will be difficult, Your Eminence, but there is no doubt that God desires such a special order of part-time priests and the church will benefit from the tithes of the Christians the order serves. So it is something that must be done; and, of course, there will be great expenses associated with its establishment which will have to be covered.”
What will it cost me?
“It will be quite expensive of course. But will you be able to pay now that King Richard has just recognized a claim to the Earldom of Cornwall put forth by Sir Harold Cornell of Derbyshire who claims to be the cousin and heir of the late Lord Baldwin of Restormel Castle.”
Say what?
“What was that you said?”
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The Nuncio listens intently as I try to explain the significance for the King and the Pope’s treasury if William and his men are forced to leave Restormel Castle and William decides to return to Cyprus: For the king it will mean the end of William’s payments to the crown which are larger than the Derby earl can possibly pay. Why will the new earl pay less? Because Cornwall’s revenues are so small for its earl whereas William can sometimes supplement the taxes he pays with the coins he earns in the Holy Land carrying refugees and pilgrims.
And I feel terrible – perhaps if I had gotten here a couple of days ago this might not have happened.
But that’s not all, I explain to the rapt Nuncio - who obviously sees the size and availability of the purses he might receive from William “to send to the Pope” sailing away to Cyprus before his very eyes.
“In addition to reducing his revenues King Richard will lose William’s war galleys which can protect his men and himself as they travel back and forth to France. Additionally, of course, Richard’s people will also lose the protection from pirates that his ships and coastal villages now receive as a result of William’s reputation as a pirate taker and the fact that the Pope has decreed that pirates are not good Christians.”
That’s all ox shite about the Pope, of course, but it sounds true so maybe it is.
“Yes,” said the Nuncio thoughtfully, “and forcing Lord William out of Cornwall will also distress the Templars who have given him arms in exchange for carrying Templars to and from England and France. It will also greatly distress the Pope whose new order of seagoing priests will be greatly weakened and receive fewer tithes to send to the Pope. Yes indeed, many distressing things will happen if Lord William loses his training and ship building lands in Cornwall.”
The Nuncio is obviously distressed at the thought of the Cyprus nuncio getting his hands on those tithes instead of himself. Good. Maybe he really will try to help us.
“It is,” I tell the Nuncio as he nods his head in sorrowful agreement, “a goddamn fucking financial disaster for the two of us.”
“Don’t despair yet, Bishop Thomas,” is his optimistic response. “I may be able to do something with this information if I can get to the King or Longchamp.”
I shake my head in resignation and hand him the parchment I have prepared for the Pope to sign - and tell the Nuncio that William has set aside fifty bezant gold coins for the expenses of getting the Pope to sign the parchment creating the new religious order.
Under the circumstances, I add with what I hope is an encouraging smile on my face, I’m sure there will be another fifty gold bezants if the King does something so that William can continue in Cornwall as the Earl. Then I ostentatiously pick up my purse and hurry back to the church to eat and get some sleep on its dirt floor.
It’s already starting to get dark when my guards and I get back to the church. We’ll leave for London at first light in the morning – I’ve got to hurry back to Cornwall to warn William that we are almost certainly about to have a war on our hands.
It looks like we may need the services of the assassins after all; if they can even find Derbyshire, that is.
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I’d no more than wrapped myself in my cloak and laid myself on the church’s dirt floor to sleep than I hear voices and noise outside. Then there is a pounding on the church door. One of my men stands up and removes the timber bar on the door and it immediately is pulled open.
Three men push their way in – and in the darkness the first man in promptly steps on one of my men and trips and falls on top of some others. All around me my men are jumping to their feet and I can hear their curses and the sound of blades coming out of scabbards.
“Whoa. Whoa. Peace. Peace. We’re King’s Men and we’ve come in peace. Is the Bishop of Cornwall here? The King sent us to fetch him if he is available.”
A minute later and I am trying not to stumble as I walk along the dark road towards the castle in the moonlight. There is a King’s man on either side of me “to guide you, Bishop, only to guide you” and a somewhat hesitant and uncertain Peter and my other men trailing along behind carrying their bows and swords.
Well, if they’ve come to kill me this is where they’ll do it.
A loud challenge rings out from the castle gate as we approach. It is promptly answered by the man “guiding” my left arm; apparently he answers correctly since the gate opens to admit us. Us being the king’s men and me; my men are not admitted.
“Don’t leave; wait here,” I shout to Peter over my shoulder to my guards as I enter. Then the king’s men and I follow a shadowy figure holding a candle lantern across the bailey and up some steps and into the keep itself.
Our feet seem to clatter loudly against the stone floor as we move along a dark corridor and then turn into a small room. Almost instantly I’m confused and totally lose track of where I am.
“Wait here,” I’m told by the lantern carrier. He leaves me standing alone as he and my escorts clatter away. Its pitch black and I can’t see a thing.
Well at least they didn’t shut the door and it isn’t a dungeon. I must admit I’m anxious; well actually more than that – I’m quite scared, that’s what I am.
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I stand unmoving for what seems like ages. All I can hear is the periodic scampering and scurrying sound of mice and rats, and once in a while, faint voices in the distance. Finally I hear the murmur of men’s voices and the sound of feet coming along the passage way; and then I see the flickering lights of several candle lamps coming towards me.
A man leading the procession enters the room and holds his candle lantern high - and behind him comes King Richard, Richard’s Lord Chancellor, William Longchamp, and the Papal Nuncio.
I know it’s Richard because I’ve seen him numerous times during the battles for Cyprus and Acre and elsewhere. He, of course, wouldn’t know me from Adam. I instantly drop to my knees in the flickering light even though as a bishop I only need to bow.
Better safe than sorry; that’s for sure.