The bishop glowered at him, but did not argue. There was no disputing his logic.
Simon looked from one to the other. ‘Is that decided, then? My lord bishop, you will go on to London?’
‘So it would seem. But for how long? Oh, this is ridiculous!’
‘Not for too long,’ William said. ‘Only until we catch this fellow and put an end to these threats.’
‘And meanwhile I should go to my bed,’ Simon said. ‘I must return to Portchester, for my wife will wonder what has happened to me, else.’
‘Simon, I would be glad of your aid,’ the bishop began.
‘My lord, I have been away from my wife too much already in the last months. She needs my companionship, and I hers. I am sorry, but I must go home as soon as I may.’
‘The country is teetering on the brink of disaster,’ the bishop said. ‘I know that you will wish to be with your wife, Simon, but I would greatly appreciate your help, and your strong right arm, in my entourage.’
‘I have to return to my wife,’ Simon stated doggedly. ‘I am sorry, my lord bishop, but my family must be first. There is no one else to protect them.’
‘I am sorry to hear it. But of course you’re quite right,’ the bishop said. He sighed and asked William to fetch John to serve wine, before addressing Simon again. ‘And now to the audience with the king. He says that he would like Paul de Cockington to return to Portchester, and there to deliver messages to the Commissioners of Array, to Sir John Felton, and to the shipmasters gathered there. I shall recommend you take him back with you.’
‘There were not many ships when I was there,’ Simon said with a faint frown.
‘You will find that altered when you return, I think. The king has ordered all the ships in the area to converge on Portchester. There will be some hundred and fifty or more, if he is right. And the Commissioners of Array will be collecting many more men. You already know the reason for the force being gathered. The king is determined to send men to find his son, to rescue him, and return him safe to England.’
Vigil of the Feast of the Pausatio of the Blessed Virgin Mary*
Tower of London
In the grassy space near the stables, where the horses were often allowed to browse, there was an old fallen trunk that had not yet been cut up into logs, and here Isabella found herself on many mornings, enjoying the sun.
Lady Isabella Fitzwilliam had been so glad to reach the city, because although it had been a delightful journey with the knight, Sir Peregrine’s kindness and generosity had made her feel stabs of guilt. This man did not deserve to be treated as a mere tool, a crowbar designed to pry open a gap and let her in to hurt her enemy. He deserved much better. With luck, he would find a good woman before long who would be able to give him the love he craved.
For herself, there was no love left. She had squandered her love on both husbands: squandered because neither lived long enough. They had been so young when they died that even now she was hardly ancient. Her flesh may have lost its youthful colour and softness, but for a woman of two-and-forty, she was well preserved. Even so, a man would ever look to a young filly, not a stable old nag, and she knew that she would never remarry.
But Sir Peregrine was a most attractive fellow, as well as being good and kind, loving and loyal. She could feel quite warm towards him, if she was not so set upon her course already.
Exeter
Edith set Henry on the bed while she bent to retrieve the clothes she had dropped.
There was a thump, and then a moment later, a shrill squeal of pain. Spinning around, she saw that little Henry had fallen from the bed and landed on the floor. Already, a great red wound was colouring his brow, not bloody, but a bruise beneath his precious skin. She could not move at first, her feet rooted to the boards where she stood, and then she went to him in a hideous daze, picking him up and rocking him, kissing his head, her eyes wide with horror.
She was not even a good mother. She was worthless.
Two Tuesdays before the Feast of the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin*
Tower of London
It was fortunate that Peter had managed to provide her with a son, Isabella thought, and a son of whom she could be proud, because without Peter, her life would have been empty indeed.
Roger had been such a good boy, and now he remained loyal to his oaths, she was sure. He was so like his father. And then of course there was Henry’s son, too. Although Ranulf had been more reluctant to become involved, when he saw what had happened to his father, and to Roger his half-brother, he had come to hate with a virulence and determination which equalled her own.
She wandered about the inner courtyard, idly watching the way that the clouds of smoke from all the fires in the city ambled past in a procession of fumes. It was enormously thrilling to see all this, and to know that she was living in the largest city in the kingdom. Perhaps it was the largest in Christendom?
A cloud formed before her eyes high overhead, and she gaped in wonder. It seemed to her that she was watching a ship under full sail, buffeted by the waves and the wind, thrown about. She blinked, and it was gone. In its place was a face, bearded and smiling, and for an instant she was sure that it was her dead husband Henry, who winked at her as though to say he approved of her plans.
It was enough to bring a serenity to her that eased the almost perpetual frown on her face. The idea that he approved was glorious. She would do all in her power to continue. It would have been good to confide in someone, but that was impossible. Even poor Sir Peregrine …
Why had she immediately thought of him? After seeing her late husband’s face in the clouds, it felt almost adulterous. She had never been a traitor, not to either husband, not to her family, to her peasants, her king. She had been betrayed by the scheming bishop, and by others in her time, but she herself had remained loyal.
Her reverie was shattered by the rude blaring of trumpets, and she turned with a start, half expecting to see the king himself arrive. Picking up her skirts, she hurried over the grass to the parapet, and here she paused to look down into the entranceway.
And saw his lordship, the Bishop of Exeter, trotting in.
Bishop Walter snapped when John of Padington asked him again if he felt all right. ‘Of course I do!’ he snarled, and did not wait to see the impact of his black mood on his poor steward.
His temper would not be soothed until he was off this damned horse and sitting on a soft cushion before a roaring fire. The weather was pleasantly cool, the journey today had not been too stressful, yet the riding about of the last weeks had gradually worn away at him. While he had been in Exeter, then Canterbury, the death threats had been first irritating, and then terrifying. The fact that someone had been able to get into his most secret quarters had been almost enough to make him think of supernatural enemies. After all, it was only a little while ago that Sir Hugh le Despenser had been threatened by a sorcerer and necromancer, who had tried to murder him with the use of little waxen models into which lead pins were to be stuck; Sir Hugh had been forced to write to the Pope for special protection.
However, it was not the fear of demons which made him shout at his servants and insult his squire. It was the hideous pain he was suffering.
‘Bishop, would you like me to see to your wine and a fire?’ John de Padington asked, unperturbed by his flare of rage.
‘Yes, prepare my damned room, and be swift! I see no reason why I should be forced to wait here for an age while incompetents blather at me! Are you mazed, man? Get to it!’
John was back in an instant. He had sent on harbingers before each stage of their journey, and the men had reached the Tower earlier in the day, commanding that the bishop’s fire be ready, his wine warmed, a change of clothes which they had brought with them should be laid out ready, and that his office materials should be prepared so that he and his clerks could begin work as soon as they arrived – once he had been able to give a prayer of thanks to celebrate his safe arrival.
‘Good!�
�� the bishop muttered, wincing in agony as he swung his leg over the horse’s back. His sword clanged against his thigh, and he slowly and carefully eased himself down. He felt a little unbalanced wearing his sword again, but a man had a duty to protect himself, and with the trouble flaring up all over the realm, he could not afford to leave his weapon behind. Still, its additional weight on his hip did not help.
The walk to his chamber was atrocious. He bellowed at men for infractions of rules, muttered poisonously at Squire William for not having brought him a cup of wine while he was dismounting, and tried in every manner he could to prove to all just how miserable he felt.
Messages or no messages, haemorrhoids were truly the invention of Beelzebub, he thought as he cautiously knelt at the little portable altar in his chamber.
Chapter Thirty-One
Two Thursdays before the Feast of the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary*
Portchester
Baldwin left the inn where he had taken a room and made his weary way down the cobbled street towards the place where the leaders of the force were no doubt bickering again.
Their master was a sly, weasel-like knight by the name of John Felton, who had been picked by the king himself, apparently. He had been making trouble since his arrival here in Portchester a couple of weeks ago. Less for Baldwin, it must be said, but more for the other men in the town, especially the two knights, Nicholas de Cryel and Robert de Kendale, both of whom were much more experienced in campaigning than him. However, Felton it was who had been given the king’s authority, and no one was going to gainsay him, which meant that while Baldwin and the other two had successfully prepared shipping, supplies and men, the whole enterprise began to fall apart as soon as Felton started to give his own orders.
Baldwin caught himself as his boot slithered on a mossy stone. This town was quickly growing to be a place of torment for him. The days were spent in wrangling, trying to persuade one side or another to compromise in the interests of the king and of the men whom they would lead to battle, and to the glorious rescue of the king’s son.
But Felton was not the sort of man to inspire confidence. He must have two clerks with him wherever he went, because he could neither read nor write, and in Baldwin’s opinion, his ability to even read a scene and make an accurate judgement was dubious at best. The man might have had the merit of a block-headed courage in the lists, but when it came to rational assessments of a battle, Baldwin would have been happier with his hound Wolf in charge. At least Wolf knew about attacking a flank to turn a sheep away from its planned route. That was more than Felton understood. To him, the only way to attack was a massive charge of chivalry. That kind of action might work well in Palestine against more lightly armoured men, but even then, in Baldwin’s experience, there was a need for lightly armoured troops to attack first, to roll up the skirmishing bowmen on their own little ponies. Charging was good for the mentality of a knight – it reinforced the view of the chivalry of the nation – and led often to appalling casualties among the men-at-arms on the opposing side.
But this was to be a short, aggressive chevauchée across unfamiliar country. There had been some reports from sailors who knew the coast, but there was no one who could provide accurate descriptions of the lands about Rouen. To launch an attack under these conditions made Baldwin enormously anxious.
Nodding to some men gathered at a corner, he continued down to the office. It was lodged in an inn near the seafront, and he must push past two chatting guards to reach the door. There was no salute, no challenge, none of the serious martial structure that he was used to from his days as a Knight Templar, and that too worried him.
In the Poor Fellow Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon, he had been the lowest of knights, but even then he had recognised the need for warriors to fight in unison, to know when to charge together, when to wheel, when to withdraw, when to press home an attack – and all depended upon discipline and training. The men here had neither. Most had been gathered straight from their fields by bailiffs and stewards who had little understanding themselves, or, more likely, were accepting the poor devils in return for payment from the intended victims, or taking them in response to a grudge against the men. There was one, Jack, whom Baldwin suspected had been gathered up with the rest purely because the boy’s mother had refused to accede to an official’s demands that she should service him. The lad was only fourteen or so, from the look of him.
Yes, the lack of discipline worried him. As did the inexperience of many of the men gathering here in the port. They were collected in dribs and drabs, four, or five, or six at a time. In the absence of enough housing for so many, most were resorting to sleeping in the streets. Already there had been some deaths because of fights in taverns and alehouses, boredom and strong drink weaving their usual magic amongst men with too many weapons near to hand.
The chamber he entered was a long, low room with wooden panels at the walls to try to keep the worst of the breezes away. A glorious fire roared in the hearth, as it had every day since Felton had first arrived, and in the bright light from it, Baldwin could see the men gathered about the table in the middle of the room. Clerks sat scribbling, while messengers hurried hither and thither, and an atmosphere of restrained impatience was lying about the room like a miasma.
Baldwin walked to the table. ‘Sir John, Sir Nicholas, Sir Robert,’ he said to each of the men, and the last two nodded and greeted him. Sir John Felton apparently felt that there was no need for him to welcome Baldwin, but instead continued to issue orders.
It was, as usual, a perplexing day, and Baldwin was glad when he was able to leave the room. It was the middle of the afternoon now, and he walked slowly down to the little building where Simon had his office.
Here, all was cheery and as unlike the military chamber as it could be. In Simon’s opinion, it was crucial that all his men believed that they were important – not only important to Simon, but to the work which they did – and the success of his approach was all too plain. The clerks and officers hurried about, but not in the same frenetic, illogical manner which was so evident around Sir John Felton. Here, men moved with a sensible coherence. There was the impression of an effective machine which was producing worthwhile results.
‘Baldwin, enter, please!’ Simon called. ‘Look at this! It makes my heart heavy to see that we’re collecting so much useful evidence of spying.’
He held out two thick parchments. They were cheap scrolls, badly cured and containing such poor writing that they were all but illegible. Baldwin had to hold them up to the candle to read the scrawl.
‘It is a message from a woman to her son in France?’ he guessed.
‘Unless it is an enormously clever cipher which we cannot break – yes. It’s Madame de Villefort, who was until quite recently a decent widow who lived over at Fareham. But now that the new orders have been issued, she has been taken into custody and can no longer commit this heinous crime of communicating with her son,’ Simon said, and tossed the scrolls back onto the growing pile on his table. ‘Baldwin, this job is cruel, it is pointless, and it is a waste of time. I could be at home, seeing to the harvest, instead of this. I would be as much use to the king as sitting here.’
‘More. You would be helping to produce food.’
‘I didn’t say I would actually help gather the harvest,’ Simon chuckled, but then his face grew serious. ‘Let’s walk, old friend. I need your advice.’
They went out and turned east, from where they could gaze out over the massed ranks of cogs waiting in the harbour. There was that curious atmosphere, which Baldwin had never quite grown to like, but which to him was the very essence of a port anywhere in the world: a mixture of the sound of thrumming hempen ropes in the wind, the squeak and rattle of rusty metal, and creaking of sodden timbers, while all about there was the smell of the sea, that sharp tang that caught in the nostrils, and the odours of tar and resin.
Behind them in the town, the common noise was the roar and his
s of the bellows, the rattle and clang of hammers on steel; here, the noises were all muted as though in respect to the waves themselves.
‘Is Paul bearing his position with grace?’ Simon asked.
‘No,’ Baldwin said. ‘He is deeply unhappy to be told that he will return with the men, but so be it. He does not have to enjoy his tasks, merely obey them. What of you?’
‘I am well enough. This job is ludicrous though. I cannot check every barrel, and now, with the ships preparing for the assault, there is no shipping from here anyway. There are no barrels or bales being loaded up: all that kind of work has moved from here, so my tasks are utterly irrelevant.’
‘That scroll could have contained a cipher,’ Baldwin pointed out mildly.
‘There is as much chance of that as me having a tattoo of the shipping on my arse,’ Simon said. ‘And I am not doing that just to help some French invasion.’
‘You would find it a painful experience,’ Baldwin laughed.
‘I have received news from William Walle though,’ Simon said, reaching into the purse at his belt.
Baldwin took the note and opened it. Then: ‘Oh no! Another message?’
‘The bishop has been in London for some weeks now. He left Canterbury a while after me. A week ago, so this says. Now he has received another message threatening his death.’
‘He has many men to guard him there,’ Baldwin said.
‘Yes, but I feel that this is a dangerous time for him. Don’t you?’
Baldwin took a breath and nodded. ‘I think it is a dangerous time for all of us, Simon. I wish I could go to him and try to find this fellow. He is causing the bishop a considerable amount of concern, isn’t he?’
‘Bishop Walter has asked me to join him – to go to London with him.’
The Bishop Must Die: (Knights Templar 28) Page 29
