The Bishop Must Die

Chapter Thirty-Five

Sunday, Vigil of the Feast of the Blessed Virgin Mary^*

Near Honfleur

The smell was familiar to Baldwin from miles away. It was the stench of burning wood, burning wool, burning thatch. Over the roadway ahead, it rose like a column from hell. Yellowish, grey and repellent, it befouled the sky and the earth beneath.

Jack was anxious at the sight. ‘What is that?’

‘It isn’t proof that the French have attacked, not yet,’ Baldwin said. He was calculating furiously. ‘If the French had been told as soon as they saw us land, that was three days ago. It would have taken a fast rider at least a day to reach help with multiple changes of horse. From there, a day to scour the land for volunteers, and a day or two to ride back. No, better make it three minimum. Probably no possibility of a force to throw us into the sea before tomorrow at the earliest.’

‘I’m glad you’re so sure,’ Paul said sourly. ‘Personally, I wouldn’t have too much faith in your judgement, not after the last days. You sent Ranulf into that den of thieves and felons and got him killed, and now you’re guessing when the French could mobilise? I think they’re likely already there, and cutting us off from the others. We’ll never escape. We should have stayed with the duke, rather than come all the way back here.’

‘Shut up, fool!’ Baldwin snapped. ‘You argue from pessimism. I am arguing from knowledge. I may not know exactly how many men the French may be able to gather from about here, but it is quite certain that there are not enough peasants to put into the field against so many warriors and sailors.’

He spoke sharply from the anxiety that tore at him. They had been forced to ride pell-mell from the inn where the duke had stayed, leaving Ranulf behind under some old horse blankets, and Baldwin hoped only to escape immediate capture. As soon as he returned to the men waiting outside the city, he was moderately comfortable that they would be safe from arrest for murder, but now there was the mad ride back from Rouen to reunite with the others.

His mood was not helped by the reflection that the duke may have been quite right to suspect the leader of the expedition. Who was Sir John Felton, after all? Baldwin had never met him, nor heard of him before. There were not so many knights in England that one would not have heard of another. In total there were only some two thousand all told, so the idea that a man should be unknown suggested that he might only recently have been elevated to the knighthood. And if it was true that he was an ally of Despenser, that put the whole mission into a completely different light.

But they would soon learn the truth. For now, Baldwin could only feel his anger beginning to rise, along with a deepening sense of alarm. So far, they had not found any people on the roadway, and that in itself was ominous. Usually he would expect the local peasants to pack all they could, and make off into the woods to escape the men riding hither and thither. If there were none, it could mean that all had escaped, or more likely that they were dead.

His worst fears were soon realised.

Jack saw them first. A small group lying in the ditch beside the road, a man and woman, and children. There was a baby with her head crushed, as though knocked against a tree, while the woman had plainly been raped. The men had not bothered to cover her body afterwards. Nearby the man lay slumped with blood black and thick running from his throat.

‘Ride on, Jack,’ Baldwin said urgently, but the boy sat still, gaping at the sight. Baldwin had to take his arm, and bring him back to the present. ‘Ride on, boy. There’s nothing we can do for them,’ he said, and the party rode on again. Baldwin could hear one of his men weeping, and another two were forced to dismount and run to the hedge to throw up.

Baldwin himself had seen similar hideous scenes when he was much younger, when he had fought in the last days at Acre, and the sight of the dead had not held any horror for him since. However, they were apt to instil a boiling rage in him. To think that Englishmen could do such things was appalling. He had expected it of the Moors in the Holy Land, because that was a religious crusade against the heathens. Except he had soon learned that the religious beliefs of the Moors were not so different from those of the Christians who were invading. And he had also learned that the Christians could be more barbaric than the Moors. Yes, he had seen such horrors before, and all too often they were committed by the English.

The land about here was showing the violence of war. As they approached the coast, all the little farms and hamlets which he had scarcely noticed in the peace of three days ago, were burning or burned. The smoke rose, and there was a fine snowy shower at one point as the ash from one farm began to fall about them. Baldwin rode on in silence now, thinking of different times, thinking of the men he had known, the villages they had attacked and burned. And he could not help but compare these little vills with his own manor. How swiftly would his home at Furnshill go up in flames! How quickly would it be destroyed, with his wife and children inside!

It was not a thought to be borne. And it tore at him as he rode. In his mind’s eye he could see Furnshill with the flames roaring from the roof and windows, hear the screams of the animals, see his wife’s body, perhaps, lying in a ditch, just as that poor woman had been.

They did not see Felton when they approached the shore. A couple of drunk sailors were roaring and singing in the roadway, arms about each other’s shoulders, and as Baldwin rode nearer, one of them fumbled for his heavy sword, but seemed incapable of drawing it, which led to gales of laughter from the pair of them. A gust of wind brought the stench of death to Baldwin’s nostrils, and he saw some bodies dangling from a tree’s branch in the next field. Three young peasants. All male.

These people had been happy three days ago. He had ridden past them in their fields, and they were merely contented farmers who had brought in their harvests. And now, because of a foolish escapade trying to bring home the king’s son, they had all been killed. He looked down at Jack, who was still staring stupidly at the swinging bodies, and wondered what had happened to the little lad who had been watching his sheep when they rode to Rouen.

The reflection spurred his anger, and he rode through the two laughing sailors to the beach itself, searching for someone in control.

It was fortunate that the first man he met was a grim-faced Nicholas de Cryel. Before Baldwin could speak, Sir Nicholas hurried to him. ‘Thank God you have returned safely, Sir Baldwin. Matters here are going from bad to worse. Felton is a fool — he should never have been given command. He’s set the sailors and men loose to pillage and kill everything. What the hell he’s up to, is anybody’s guess, but so far as I’m concerned, I am heartily sick of the whole affair. I believe we have one more day of safety, and then the French will fall on us like wolves. After all the wilful violence done to the local folk, they will be within their rights to slaughter us out of hand.’

‘Where is Felton?’

‘On his ship,’ Sir Nicholas said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. ‘Drunk, I daresay. He spends most of his days with a bottle near to hand now.’

‘Then we shall give the order to re-embark. The duke refused to come with us, so our cause here is lost,’ Baldwin said.

‘So all this was for nothing,’ Sir Nicholas said, gazing about him with his lip curled. ‘If I had the authority, I would get Felton out here now and string him up from the highest tree in the area.’

The weather began to change later in the afternoon, and the lengthy process of getting all the men and horses back on board was made more hazardous by heavy rain. The decking grew slippery, and the sailors brought buckets of sand to hurl over the timbers to make it safe underfoot. With sailors hauling on their ropes, some ships were slowly drawn further away from the shore while others approached. It was no easy task, for the ships which were nearest the shore had to take care not to overload themselves, in case they remained beached as the tide came in. Those which were out to sea must run in, and stay in the shallows while men clambered up the ladders and ropes, and the horses were led into the waters, complaining bitterly. One lashing out in fright managed to hit a man’s skull, and it burst open like a bladder filled with water. Baldwin saw the fellow’s eyes roll up into his head, and he slid under the water without a word, the only sign to show that he had been there, the crimson flower of blood that bloomed under the water.

It was madness. The sailors were all disgruntled and most more than half-drunk. The warriors were all angry at being called back when they were sure that there were more easy pickings to be had. Most had managed to steal a barrel or two of cider or ale, while some had found a store of coin, so Baldwin had heard. When he asked about it, there were only two men who had the cache, and he wondered if there had been more, but these two had killed the others. It was more than possible. Law and order had collapsed here by the sea.

Then the French arrived.

The first warning was a shriek so high and appalling it could have come from a soul in torment. Baldwin was at the side of the ship supervising his mount as it was lifted high in a sling, ready to be installed in the hold with the other horses. Turning, he saw the glitter of swords and lances, and realised their danger. ‘’Ware! Knights!’ he cried, and began to run back up the shore to the further pickets. Jack began to run with him, but he curtly ordered the boy back to the ships. This was no place for a lad of his age.

With his sword drawn, he stood in the shallows, pointing to the different ships. He bellowed for Sir Nicholas to arrange bowmen at the front castles of the cogs, and prayed that they weren’t so drunk that they would kill him and the last of the men. Then he crossed himself quickly, uttered a short prayer, and waited, his sword gripped in both hands.

The first shock of the French was witheringly powerful. Their horses pounded on down the slope, their lances couched, and in an instant forty men were stabbed with the heavy ash poles. The man right next to Baldwin suddenly gave a hiccup and gurgle as the lance punctured his jack just above his belly, and he was thrust back, hacking with all his might at the timber skewering him, his eyes wide with terror, like a horse in a fire. Baldwin would have helped him, but already another man-at-arms was riding towards him, and he saw the lance aiming for his face. He crouched low, spun and beat at the lance with his sword, knocking it past his shoulder, and continued the spin, his sword now whirling with him, to slash into the horse’s shoulder. There was a spray of blood, and then a jarring shock in his arm as the blade caught the animal’s shoulderbone and stuck. Baldwin had to release his bright, peacock-blue sword before his arm was snatched away, and saw the horse rearing in agony, the blade projecting, while a long flap of skin waved, splattering blood in all directions.

The horse rose, legs flailing, and then crashed down, his rider beneath him. Baldwin could not approach the beast, for in its terror and pain it was thrashing about like a wild thing, but he needed a weapon. The man beside him was dead, floating in the waves, the lance badly damaged, and Baldwin fell to the water beside him, fumbling for his sword. The fellow must have dropped it here … Yes! He stood, in time to see the French first line wheel and ride away, ready to re-form.

There was a mass of bodies in the water. Baldwin glanced down, and saw three men in front of him, bobbing gently in a sea of blood. It made his head spin, and he gripped his sword with the resolution of desperation. ‘Hold the line, men! Hold up! Hold up!’ he bellowed. And then the French came again, rattling and ringing with the weight of their armour, the horses magnificent in their bright caparisons, the men stern and determined inside their steel shells. It made Baldwin feel undressed without his armour, but it was all packed. All he might do was pray that he was that little bit faster on his feet without it.

The man riding towards him was young, his face was unmarked by wrinkles, his eyes clear and bright like a child’s — but he wielded his lance like a man many years older. Its tip lowered as Baldwin crouched, and then it was thrusting towards him like a crossbow bolt. Baldwin saw how the man aimed it, and he waited until the last moment, and then threw himself to the side of the horse, aiming his sword at the beast’s fetlock as it came closer. There was a jarring in his arms, and then an explosion of blood that burst about him like a fountain, and he was dying, drowning in other men’s blood, salt and revolting in his mouth and nose, and he tried to reach up to the sky to free himself from this hideous bath, but his hands touched only sand, and then a face, and he tried to jerk himself from it, and found he was free, in the open air again.

Wiping the water and blood from his face, he looked about him, gasping and coughing. His opponent was nearby, on his feet, fighting with two Englishmen, and Baldwin tried to walk to them, but his knees wouldn’t support his weight, and suddenly a crashing thud smote his head, and he fell back, arms outspread, and felt the black evil water filling his nose again, and saw with eyes that stung, that the sea was over his face, and that he was falling down, deeper and deeper into the waters. Falling all the way down to hell.

Wednesday after the Feast of the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary^*

Tower of London

There was a hushed expectancy in the city from the first week of September, which was noticeable even to Hugh and Rob. They were both very quiet and watchful, Simon noted.

Margaret was struck with it too, and a few times Simon caught her looking at the pair of them from the corner of her eye. It was a great shame, because he had wanted her to relax and enjoy her time here in London.

Margaret had been a farmer’s daughter when Simon met her, and he had hoped that she would find her stay here in the capital to be interesting. There was certainly much that was new for her, and much that would astonish, but to his sorrow, she wanted nothing to do with the city. ‘There is something about this place,’ she said, looking about her at the Tower itself. ‘I feel so uncomfortable here. I hate it.’

‘It’s only a castle, Meg,’ he said, trying to comfort her. ‘It’s a citadel to protect London.’

‘No, Simon. It’s here to scare London. It’s here to threaten. Can’t you feel it?’ She shivered. ‘It’s like a monster in the middle of the city,’ she said. ‘And nothing good can come of us being here.’

‘For so long as the bishop is safe because we watch over him, that is itself good,’ Simon said.

‘How long must we remain? Until we capture this man? What if he is not here, Simon?’ she asked with quiet desperation.

‘I have to remain for as long as it may take,’ he told her.

It was while they were walking hand-in-hand, neither speaking, that they heard the voices outside, obviously spreading some important news. Simon felt his heart lurch, convinced that there was some kind of attack forming. He told Margaret to hurry to their children, and command Hugh to take up his staff, and then ran as fast as he could to the main gate.

‘Ah, Simon. I thought you would be along shortly,’ Sir Peregrine said.

‘I heard the noise,’ Simon said.

‘Yes, curious, eh? It was the folks out there repeating the news they’d just heard. Something about a fleet.’

Simon swore. ‘The invasion fleet?’

‘I don’t know,’ Sir Peregrine said. He bellowed down to the men at the gate itself. ‘What news?’

‘The fleet has been sorely harmed,’ the keeper called up.

Simon and Sir Peregrine glanced at each other. Neither had any cause to wish the rule of King Edward II and his most precious friend, Despenser, might continue, and yet as Englishmen, they were not keen to see the realm overrun with foreign mercenaries. Simon was aware of a curious sense of mingled anti-climax and relief. ‘So that is that, then,’ he said.

‘So it seems,’ Sir Peregrine nodded. They were about to walk away, when some stray words came to the coroner’s ear. ‘What was that?’ he demanded, turning his head, the better to listen.

There was a man outside on the drawbridge. He had some messages which he had given to the porter, and now he was shouting and shrugging his shoulders, while others on the bridge itself were gesticulating and shouting too.

‘What is it, Porter?’ Sir Peregrine bellowed again.

‘The ships, sir. They weren’t the French ships,’ the porter called up to him, his face suddenly drained. ‘They were ours.’

English Channel

Baldwin came to with a feeling of filthiness all about his body. It was as though he had been thrown into a midden filled with sewage, and as he felt the light on his face and began to swim up from unconsciousness, he knew that he must cleanse himself. He was struggling to do so when he felt himself restrained.

To his surprise, he felt as weak as a newborn foal. His arms and legs were so feeble, he could not even think of fighting off his attacker, and it was shame that made him suddenly give a sob as he realised he was entirely at the mercy of whoever was here. And then he jerked his eyes open as he remembered the last moments as he fell under the bloody froth that was the seashore. He was in hell!

The first thing his eyes perceived was not a demon, but the boy called Jack, who stood over him with an anxious expression on his face. ‘Sir Baldwin? Are you all right, sir? I have some wine, if you’d like it.’

Baldwin took a gasp of air, and looked about him. He was in a wooden cot on the deck of a cog. About him were other men, some with hideous wounds, and there was a sobbing and a moaning all over the vessel. With slow care he lifted his hands to view. There was no blood left. Someone had washed his hands and body.

‘Aye. Couldn’t leave you looking like that, could we?’ Paul said from beyond Jack.

Baldwin said nothing. He was quite sure that if Paul had seen the opportunity, he would have strangled Baldwin while he was asleep.

‘What happened?’ he asked hoarsely.

Paul answered. ‘You were knocked down, and this young fool leaped off the side of the ship to pull you from the water. It half killed him, poor twit, but he dragged you to where there was a grappling hook hanging from a rope, and he managed to persuade two sailors to haul you aboard. You’re lucky. If you’d stayed down there, you’d have been mangled along with the rest.’

‘Ach!’ Baldwin felt waves of nausea wash through his entire body, and grimaced. ‘Did we lose many?’

‘Too many to count. The French just pounded straight into the line, and with the sea behind us, what could we do? I reckon we lost over a hundred. And then their navy came across us this morning. We’ve lost three more ships. We only just made it away ourselves, with the help of some pretty effective arrow-work from the men on the castles.’

He had recovered his jauntiness, Baldwin saw. It did not make his company more desirable. ‘Where are we now?’

‘We’ll be back to the Downs this morning. Then we can leave this old bucket of rotten wood and worms, and get back to solid ground again. And I for one will not regret it if I never see a ship again.’

He stood and peered down at Baldwin. ‘See you later, Sir Knight!’

Jack remained. ‘You’ll be all right, Sir Baldwin. You just had a knock on the head. A destrier rode past you, and I think his hoof whacked you on the skull. You fell like a log!’

‘And I owe you my life, Jack. I think that is a debt which will be hard to repay,’ Baldwin said.

‘I couldn’t leave you there. Paul helped nearly as much. He threatened the two sailors to get you lifted up to the ship.’

‘He did?’ Baldwin said with surprise. He would not have expected that. A spasm jerked his torso, and he felt the bile in his throat, searing him.

‘Sir, drink this,’ Jack said, holding up a cup of wine. While the ship rocked, Baldwin tried to drink, but much of the wine dribbled down his beard.

‘Thank you, Jack,’ he said, and closed his eyes.

He was asleep in an instant.