The Bishop Must Die

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 hiss 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.’

‘What will you say?’

Simon pursed his lips and stared at all the ships. Hundreds of great cogs, all swaying to the movement of the waves. It reminded him of the journeys he had made by ship, and at the memory, his belly rose. Swallowing, he turned away. ‘I cannot go over there with the men. What do I know of fighting, other than hitting a man on the head with a fist? Swordplay and wielding lances or bills are not for me.’

‘I agree. Oh, you are a good swordsman, Simon, do not misunderstand me — but this will be a dangerous expedition, and I would not advise you to join the venture. Nay, rather you should take Margaret and Perkin back home, and wait there to see what happens.’

‘It is one thing to say that I should do so, but I would feel guilty, Baldwin,’ Simon said quietly.

‘Guilty? In God’s name, why?’ Baldwin asked.

‘Here are all these men, preparing to cross the sea and do their part to try to rescue the duke from his mother and Mortimer, and all I can do is skulk about here, or scurry off homewards like some whipped cur. What sort of man would that make me?’

‘A sensible father and husband, Simon. There is no glory in battle. Believe me, I used to think that there was, but I have seen enough blood and carnage to know better.’

‘But I could go to London. Meg has never seen London. She thought this place was impressive.’

Baldwin stopped and deliberately took in the scruffy little town, noting the cottages with the daub falling from the wattles, the thin, leaking thatched roofs, the air of dilapidation and neglect. ‘Bless her.’

‘Yes, well, I think so too. But if I take them to London, I could see them safely installed in the city, and serve my old friend the bishop — because, Baldwin, he has been a good friend to me for many years.’

‘I know, Simon. I have to say, it would be my own inclination to hurry back to Exeter, rather than towards London. If there is to be an invasion, it is likely to aim for London.’

‘But all reports say the French will land in Cornwall and make their way from there, which would mean Margaret and me being in the path of the French host.’

Baldwin nodded. He was thinking of his own dear wife. ‘But even if that were the case, you could ride away from them in Devon. You know the woods where you would be safe, you know how to survive on Dartmoor. You could take Margaret and Perkin there.’

‘Perhaps. But there is little enough to eat on Dartmoor, Baldwin. I don’t know. I feel torn. I would like to return home, but I really feel that the bishop needs my help. Our help.’

Baldwin gave a faint grin. ‘If I had any choice, I would already be back at Furnshill. It is the place where my heart longs to be. But I have a duty to be here and do all I may to protect the men I have ordered gathered up here.’

‘That is the thing,’ Simon said quietly. ‘I feel a sense of duty too, and it involves the bishop.’

Tuesday before the Feast of the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary^*

English Channel

‘I’m going to be sick!’ Paul de Cockington wailed.

‘Then put your head over the thwarts!’ Baldwin bellowed, resisting the urge to kick his backside as Paul leaned forward and vomited noisily over the side.

Baldwin had not expected to be here. He was not scared of battle — he had served in many, and was too experienced to feel that bone-shattering terror that the young must know at their first actions — but he had only one desire, when his efforts to raise a host for the king’s forces were done, and that was to return home, to make sure that his home was protected, that his wife was safe. It was heart-rending to be leaving the coast of England behind and heading for France and war. He knew that Jeanne would understand, because she was a mature woman and had been married to another knight before him, but that did not remove the strain from him. It hurt him like an infidelity, as though he was guilty of adultery again.

‘I don’t want to be here!’

Baldwin gazed longingly at the man’s buttocks, and his foot itched to kick. With luck, were he to plant a firm enough boot in Paul’s backside, the fellow might even fly into the sea. It was probably the most beneficial outcome possible, because Baldwin did not believe that their force could reach the duke. No, if he had to guess, the duke would leave Rouen within moments of the news of an invading force reaching his ears. The men who protected him had no desire to be captured and brought to England, because King Edward II would want revenge for their keeping his son from him. If one or two were to bring his son to the army and deliver him up, they might be able to anticipate rewards including pardons for any crimes they had committed, but such benefits lasted only a short time. The king was too unreliable. His favourites today tomorrow became his most despised enemies. Look at Roger Mortimer: once the king’s most honoured and trusted general, and now the man whose death warrant the king had signed.

No, if Baldwin were to wager, he would bet that the men guarding the duke would pack up and hasten away, hoping that the King of France would meet the English and defeat them.

‘Sir Baldwin, those men said we’ll all die.’

This was young Jack. Baldwin would hazard a guess that the lad’s mother was regretting her stout defence of her honour now.

‘Don’t you worry, Jack. You won’t be killed today.’

‘Were they right, though? Will we die when we land?’

‘Boy, it is in God’s hands,’ Baldwin said, placing his palm on the lad’s head and ruffling his greasy hair gently. ‘When we land, with God’s grace, we may find no one to welcome us, and we may complete our mission without difficulty.’

The boy nodded, as though satisfied with his reassurance, and went away to cower, shivering, in among the ropes at the edge of the deck.

Baldwin turned back to his view of the sea ahead. At least there were no French forces before them, he thought. They might even be able to land without the risk of French warships ripping into them. If there was one type of war he hated more than any other, it was seaborne fighting. The ever-present risk of falling into the sea and drowning was the final straw.

There were over four thousand sailors in this Navy. All told, some one hundred and fifty ships were strung out in loose formation, carrying over sixteen hundred warriors, with victuals and horses as well as their fighting equipment. Sixteen hundred was a massive force to race down to Rouen, but there would have to be enough to maintain the bridgehead, while small parties would be needed to protect bridges and other vital points. Baldwin was content that there was no need for more men, but the idea of landing so many inexperienced fighters was causing him alarm again.

To distract himself, he found himself wondering again about the identity of Bishop Walter’s persecutor. Simon had packed his own belongings three days ago, and with luck would already be in the bishop’s home or at the Tower. Either way, Baldwin only prayed that Margaret and Perkin would be safe. He hated the city of London, for to his mind it was the centre of all the vileness in the realm. It was where Despenser’s power was strongest.

Who was this man who sought to terrify the bishop, who threatened him, flaunting his ability to pass through all the bishop’s guards at any opportunity, and who was apparently dedicated to killing him? Baldwin had no idea, but he was sure that there must be some obvious clues, if only they could be recognised. This was a murder in the planning. There should surely be as many clues of who was responsible for the planning as there would be after a murder had been committed.

But Baldwin could not concentrate on the bishop’s troubles. He opened his heart and prayed — for himself, for the bishop, for Simon — but most of all, he prayed for Jeanne and his children, and begged God to protect them from any invading forces that might arrive.