It was after that shameful destruction that Baldwin had come here, to the quiet West Country of England, to hide himself from the politicians and ecclesiastics who were so antagonistic to the Order he had adored.
But although he had tried to escape, there was more danger now.
Hearing steps, he turned and nodded. ‘Edgar.’
‘Sir Baldwin, Despot has a strain in his right front – I think it is his fetlock.’
‘Again?’
Edgar said nothing. He was taller than Baldwin, and his face always held a slight grin as though he was secretly amused by a jest which others could not appreciate. Women found his suave sophistication utterly enthralling. Men were more often wary, and rightly so. As a fighter he was quite ruthless, and as swift and lethal as a thunderbolt.
‘That beast is proving to be expensive. He’s only just recovered from the strain.’
‘He appears to be an unfortunate fellow,’ Edgar agreed.
Baldwin grunted, wiping at the blade of his sword with the corner of his tunic to remove some smudges. ‘Perhaps it is time he was retired. I will need a new rounsey if I cannot have faith in him.’
‘I shall begin to search for a new one, then.’
‘Yes – no. Find two. But it will wait until I next visit Exeter. You can join me then and look for some decent brutes.’
Edgar said nothing, but Baldwin could feel his eyes upon him. He looked up. ‘Yes, Edgar?’
‘Are you preparing for war?’
‘We have to be ready. The king appears convinced that it may come to that.’
‘You think that the queen will return with an army?’
Baldwin sighed. ‘I just do not know. She is an honourable woman, I would stake my soul on that. But she has been terribly mistreated. What might she not do?’
‘We should look to the defence of the house,’ Edgar said.
‘If it comes to war, I shall be asked to help,’ Baldwin said. ‘And if that does happen, I may have to leave home for some time.’
‘I shall be with you.’
‘I would prefer you to stay here.’
Edgar shook his head. ‘When you fought before, I was always at your side, Sir Baldwin. I should be there again if you are to ride to battle.’
‘I cannot ride to war knowing that Jeanne and the children are left here alone and in danger,’ Baldwin said firmly. ‘I am sorry, old friend. But you must remain here to protect the manor and all within it.’
‘It may not come to it.’
Baldwin smiled without humour. ‘The king thinks it will. From all I have heard recently, Edward is planning to defend the realm against both the queen and the French. There is a fear that there will be an invasion, possibly two.’
‘But they will be seeking the king, surely?’ Edgar said.
Baldwin nodded, unconvinced. ‘It is possible, yes. But I have this concern: you know as well as I do, that the queen’s lands were mainly here in Devon and Cornwall. Perhaps there are enough men here who have sympathy for her.’
‘Sympathy for a woman who leaves her husband?’
‘Don’t presume to judge her,’ Baldwin said. ‘She has suffered enough. First her husband chose to spend his time with Despenser, then he broke up her household, arrested any Frenchmen in her service, sequestrated all her properties, confiscated all her money and income and left her with a pittance – and then even took away her children and gave them into the protection of Despenser’s wife. A chivalrous man might consider that she had reason enough to wish to stay away from her husband.’
‘Perhaps. However, I think there are more men in the realm who would flock to her simply because they hate the Despenser than because they admire or sympathise with her.’
‘True enough!’ Baldwin chuckled, but then he grew serious again. ‘Yet I fear that there could be warriors marching through these fields before long, Edgar. Perhaps before spring. It has happened before.’
‘So, I should find two good rounseys,’ Edgar said.
Baldwin nodded and watched as the other man strode back to the house.
Baldwin had known many knights in the Order whom he could call ‘friend’. There was something about a life of dedication, an existence based entirely on service to others, which had forged between the Templars an enduring bond; those who still lived were comrades who had served together in countless battles, and the obscene betrayal of their companions only strengthened it. All through those dark days, Edgar had remained at his side, and whenever there had been a risk of a fight, Baldwin had always been glad of Edgar’s strong, calm presence nearby. If it were to come to it, Baldwin would feel strange riding to war without his sergeant. It would leave him with an odd sense of loneliness.
It made him think of Simon. His friend for more than a decade, Simon had been terribly offended late the previous year when Baldwin had been told to throw down his weapons by a felon. It was impossible for Baldwin to do so. If he had, matters could have ended in disaster. So he had kept a firm grip on his weapon, and the issue had been resolved. But Simon had feared for his daughter. And since that day, the two men had not spoken.
Baldwin thrust the sword back into its scabbard. It had been hard to tell Edgar he must remain. But it was harder to know that even Simon Puttock would not be at his side.
He felt truly alone.
Chapter Five
Exeter Cathedral Gaol
Paul de Cockington woke shivering.
There was a thin stream of light, which penetrated from the tiny slit of a window high overhead, and barely illuminated this side of the cell.
It was outrageous! How the bishop had the gall to bring him here, he didn’t know. The man clearly didn’t understand whom he was dealing with. He seemed to think Paul was only some feeble arse who’d submit to his will. Well, he wasn’t. Paul de Cockington was the son of a knight and the brother to the sheriff, damn the bishop’s eyes, and no de Cockington had ever accepted treatment of this kind.
He had a palliasse of linen with a rough straw filling, which was revolting. He was used to a good mattress on his beds, not a roll like this, spread out on the floor. His meal last night, if it could be so termed, was a shameful mess that he wouldn’t have served his dog, and with only one blanket, he had spent much of the night huddled in a ball, trying to keep himself moderately warm. It was a disgrace that a man of his position should be held in such discomfort.
When the door opened, he was pleased to know that he would soon be able to express his feelings in some detail to whomsoever had placed him in this foul little pit. It must be a mistake. No bishop would treat a de Cockington in this heavy-handed manner; it was some pathetic minion who had—
‘Get up!’ the man rasped from the doorway, and Paul jerked his head in disbelief.
He was a short fellow, but broad. That he was strong was self-evident, but Paul knew he was only a lowly lay brother at best. ‘Are you talking to me?’
‘No – the rat. Get up!’ the man said, with a grin. He apparently felt that this was the height of inventive humour.
‘What is your name?’ Paul asked.
‘Gaoler. Now, shift yourself.’
‘I asked what your name—’
The man grimaced, and entered the room. Without speaking, he took Paul’s left wrist, and dragged the rector towards the door.
‘Hey, leave go of my hand, you churl! Who do you think you are, eh? Get off me, you fool.’
‘Who do I think I am? I’m a man from town, and friend to Alured de Gydie. You know – the man whose wife you stole and raped. The one you tried to rob! We take that sort of thing seriously down here, Rector – if you are a rector. You won’t need a title when you’re sitting in that gaol day after day, will you?’
‘You turd, let me go!’ Paul spat. He scrabbled with his spare hand to try to turn and get to his feet, but the gaoler had lugged him across the cell and out to the passageway before he had an opportunity. Then, springing to his feet, he tried to wrest his arm back, but the gaoler ha
d his forearm in a grip as strong as a smith’s. ‘You’ll pay for this!’ he blustered.
‘I daresay,’ the gaoler said without emotion.
Paul de Cockington suddenly found that they were in the open air, and it was some surprise to note that they weren’t heading to the Bishop’s palace. Instead, the gaoler manhandled him past the great west door of the cathedral, and on, out to the Bickleigh Gate.
‘You aren’t taking me to the bishop,’ he declared.
‘Well noticed, Rector. With attention to detail like that, you’ll go far. Perhaps as far as the city gaol.’
‘You can sneer at me, man. When my brother the sheriff learns how you’ve treated me, you’ll learn to regret it.’
‘Go on, then. Go and find your brother,’ the gaoler said, and released him. He carried on, marching east, past St Martin’s, and never once looking back.
Paul looked about him uneasily. He didn’t want anybody coming and discovering him. The streets were busy enough for him to be moderately safe, but there was always danger, if he were to be discovered by Gydie or one of his friends or servants. Better by far to get up to the castle.
His brother James would be able to protect him there.
Bishop’s Palace, Exeter
Pulling up the collar of his tunic and drawing his cloak tighter about him, John de Padington opened the door and made his way to the bakery at the side of the cathedral. It was his usual morning task, to walk the short distance to fetch bread for his master’s breakfast. Bishop Walter II was never particularly fussy about his food, especially his first meal of the day. Something plain, but filling, was all he asked. Cold meat, a little bread, some cheese and wine was enough.
Other men were much more demanding, asking for strongly flavoured dishes with sauces, and sweetmeats afterwards, but the bishop had a strong constitution even now in his six-and-sixtieth year, and John was sure that a large part of that was due to his punishing schedule of work and his tendency to avoid the richer foods, as much as it was his dislike of too much strong drink. He would generally only drink two pints of wine in a day, along with perhaps a quart of ale at lunch.
John de Padington had been steward to the bishop for more years now than he cared to remember. They had grown old together, both of them grey now, and although they had had their arguments in the past (which master and servant never found cause for dispute over the years?), John felt he knew his master as well as, or better than, anyone else did.
All the canons and priests were terrified of their powerful lord. Stapledon had been so long at the very centre of English political life, ruling the Treasury with a rod of red-hot iron, that many feared a word spoken out of turn could lead to their being taken away by officers of the King – or, worse, men under the orders of Sir Hugh le Despenser. Those taken by his men tended to disappear for ever.
The cemetery area was a mess, John thought, as he crossed in front of the cloisters on his way to the north tower where the bakery lay. Horses wandered about the grass, dogs bickered and snapped, and men were playing camp-ball near the west door, desultorily kicking their pig’s bladder about to the risk of all who walked past. John would have remonstrated, but two of the men looked over-aggressive, and John was not one to provoke a fight when such an action could be avoided.
Children played chase amongst the hillocks of newly dug earth. One earned a roar from beneath the soil: a wheeled barrow stood near a hole in the ground, from which the fosser’s head protruded, and he bellowed at the boys until they ran away. The fosser then returned to his digging, occasionally flinging a skull or other bones into a small pile ready for moving to the charnel chapel.
There was an appalling amount of rubbish here in the Close. The fish market that prevailed near the Broad Gate was not open today, but the debris from the previous market remained. The area reeked of old fish, from the piles of fish heads and guts, a sight that was not improved by the cats prowling around, all searching for a tidbit or the chance to spring upon a rat as it gorged itself.
Nor was the mess all the fault of the secular. Much was the responsibility of the cathedral itself, as the rebuilding works continued. Rubble lay about, with old timbers poking out amid the masonry. While stoneworkers chipped and hammered, there was as much noise from the carpenters with their hammers and saws, and over all, the bellowing of the master mason and his staff, all demanding greater efforts from the host of workers who scurried about at the foot of the building site like so many ants.
It was a shame, John reckoned, that the place was in such a state of chaos. He would have liked to have seen it as it was or as it would become, but just now the larch scaffolding was still all about the nave. The quire had been rebuilt already, but now the walls of the old nave had been razed and were gradually beginning to re-form. However, it would be many years before the cathedral was completed. Neither he nor Bishop Walter would ever see it finished – that would be another thirty years or more.
The bakery was popular at this time of day. Carpenters, masons, priests, servants of all types, congregated at the door, some waiting patiently in line while others fretted, especially the novices and annuellars who stood lowest in the priestly orders. John himself was able to ignore the queues and march to the front, nodding to the chief baker and taking the two paindemaigne loaves of the highest quality that were waiting for the bishop.
William Walle was there too, and greeted John. ‘Good morning, steward.’
‘Not that it’ll remain that way for long,’ John said, nodding westwards towards darkening clouds.
‘Aye, well, there’s always a storm brewing somewhere,’ William said easily.
The squire was a tall, gangling young man, and the steward was as fond of him as he could be. Walle was a generous-hearted fellow, kindly and polite to all in the cathedral, even though he was the bishop’s nephew and need not strain himself. There were some who were born into positions of authority, John knew, who would instantly take on the mantle of arrogance and rudeness; others would treat all as equals. William fell into this second category.
‘There appear to be more storms than usual this year,’ John said as they returned to the palace. He did not need to explain. A grim mood lay over the entire country. The king’s dispute with his wife was known to all, and a French-funded invasion was cause for terror.
‘Aye, well, I believe that the summer could be good and warm, and the harvest better than we’ve seen for many years past,’ William said. ‘You know, good steward, that there is no reason to fear men. If God has decided that we need to be punished, He will allow the French to come. There is nothing we may do, except try to repel them. But no matter what happens, a good harvest will fill our bellies, and that is a thing greatly to be desired.’
‘You say this thing is in God’s hands, but that thing is to be desired, Master William – yet both are in His gift. Neither one more than the other.’
‘True. So let us not worry about them, but instead plan for the worst and hope for the best, eh? I refuse to be alarmed while the weather is holding, and while I have my health and happiness.’
John shook his head at the sight of the squire’s grin. ‘I think it is proof of youthful ignorance that you mistake for optimism. There is nothing to be too cheerful about. Let us wait and see whether matters improve, whether the queen returns willingly to her husband, whether she brings their son with her, whether the French do agree that she should come home to her adopted land, and—’
‘And whether the rain doth fall for all the year and our nation starve once more! Come, steward, you have been eating too much melancholy food. You need the sparkle of some fresh cider in your belly to cheer yourself.’
John chuckled. It was impossible not to like young William. He was always brimful of happiness, and although an older man might bemoan the dire circumstances in which men found themselves, yet it was good to talk to William. He had that sunny disposition that tended to drive away the grim reality of the present.
‘I eat well enough
,’ he responded, glancing at his taller companion. ‘I have all the rich, happy food I can manage. It’s the benefit of being your uncle’s steward. I get to finish the dishes he leaves – and he has a small appetite!’
‘That is good. I would hate to think that you were suffering from hunger,’ William teased.
‘Aye.’
They had passed by the building works and were approaching the cloisters. As they drew near, William stopped suddenly, and said, ‘Steward, you know my uncle as well as any man alive. You haven’t seen him showing alarm recently, have you?’
‘No. Should I have?’
William shook his head quickly, but then grimaced. ‘You see, I saw him reading a note that upset him last night.’
‘That’s not unnatural. Your uncle has many communications from all over the diocese and the rest of the kingdom – and some are bound to be of a serious nature. He is an important man, you know that.’
‘Yes – and yet he has never concealed anything from me before.’
John glanced at him with surprise. ‘He wouldn’t, would he, because he knows he can trust you, squire. You are of his blood, as well as having his confidence from your service to him.’
‘That is true, and yet as soon as he saw me, he snatched the parchment away before I might see it, as though he was guilty or ashamed.’
‘You are sure you did not mistake his action?’
‘No. He deliberately hid it from me. I am certain there is something wrong. But do you keep an eye on him for me, steward, in case there is something that alarms him. I would help him if I may.’
Exeter Cathedral
There was no more galling experience than to be frightened by an unseen enemy, the bishop told himself bitterly. And he was frightened.
He had always known that he would be unpopular with some. Bishops were wielders of enormous power, and as such were always feared, and therefore hated. A man who had power of life and death over another did not enjoy his respect. All too often, he was the subject of loathing, because such power could seem too arbitrary to the peasant who saw a friend hanged. Bishop Walter II had tried to prevent abuses of power, but it was not always possible. And on occasion, he had been forced to use his own power – for the greater glory of the Church, not for himself.
The Bishop Must Die: (Knights Templar 28) Page 5
