The priest clapped his heels to his mount and thundered away even as Richard did the same, and Richard’s mount reared, neighing with excitement. It was good to feel the thrill of battle about to commence, and Richard felt the now-familiar tingling in his spine and cods at the thought of an engagement. God alone knew who they were, but he would see to it that he took as many of them as possible before any man managed to kill him.
In front, there was a bellow, and he saw Sir Ivo drag his sword free from the scabbard, whirl it about his head, and charge. His brother was a moment or two behind him, and then he set off at the gallop as well, while the pasty-faced, smiling one, Crok, whipped out his own weapon, and suddenly shrieked like a banshee, clapped spurs to his mount and galloped as though all the demons of hell were after him, straight at the men.
Richard and the priest stayed nearer to the duke, watching. The duke twice tried to ride on too, but Richard had a firm grip on the duke’s reins. He would not allow his ticket to pardon and freedom risk his life.
The first impact was a clatter of metal, with the stern clash of steel blades. Noises assailed Richard’s ears. Horses neighing so
highly in their excitement and rage that they sounded like women screaming. Crok’s beast reared and brought a hoof down on the head of another, and his victim was felled like a rabbit shot from a sling. The rider tried to kick himself free from the stirrups, but the beast’s collapse trapped his leg underneath, and the man could only stare in horror as Crok’s sword thrust down, twice, and there was a short spurt of blood from the man’s eye as he died.
Ivo was after the two leaders, and he crouched in his saddle, sword arm high, laughing and roaring like a drunken matelot, as he crashed into the two, his beast holding his head high, thundering into the first horse with the solid mass of horse and rider concentrated in his broad chest, slamming the other two into each other. There was a slashing blow from Ivo’s arm, and a great gout of blood flew into the air, drenching Ivo in an instant. The first rider fell, the second roared defiance, and hacked at Ivo, but his blade rang as it met Ivo’s, and then there was a sparkle as Ivo’s blade caught the sun, whirling in a semi-circle, and the other man’s head dropped forwards, held to his neck by the thinnest of slivers of flesh. Ivo’s sword had ripped through bone and flesh.
The second party was with them now, and Richard looked about for a safer position, but there was no time to escape. Instead, he drew his sword, and prepared himself. He just wished he had taken more interest in the weapons-handling instruction when he had been younger.
His companion was less uncertain. With a shriek, sounding for all the world like a demented woman, the duke lifted his own sword, and pointing it at the men approaching them, he suddenly jerked his reins from Richard’s hand, and was off, pounding towards the men alone.
Richard gritted his teeth and followed. At his side he saw the priest, Paul, his eyes wide in horror, clinging to his horse for dear life. He had no sword, not even a dagger that Richard could see, the fool. But he could no more turn away than fly. His horse was trained to fight, not run away, and it was charging with the others whether his rider wished it or no.
Then Richard’s focus became more concentrated. There was no time for others. They must see to their own safety. A great crash knocked his horse sideways, there was a hideous crack at his thigh, and he thought it might have broken; a horse had ridden into him. No sword near his head yet. He stabbed at the horse itself, and was rewarded with a thick spray of blood. It neighed defiance, and reared, but even as it did so, its eyes rolled, and it tumbled to the ground.
A second man, this time passing beside Richard, as though to attack the duke from behind. Richard clapped spurs, and as he lurched forward, his blade slid in under the man’s shoulder blade. There was a scream of hideous anguish, and the man fell, rolling over and over in his agony.
The third man was aiming at his head even as he glanced about. Instinct made him lift his sword to knock it aside, but lack of practice made his blade miss his mark and take the man’s wrist and hand off. The stump shot a jet of blood, and suddenly Richard was soaked in warm stickiness, and he would have pressed home his attack, but the man leaped from his horse and grabbed for his hand as though to try to replace it.
Richard left him. The duke was his concern, and just now the young man was being pressed by another man-at-arms. Richard rode on, and knocked the man aside, seeing the duke’s sword slice through the fellow’s throat as he fell.
And that was it. The battle was over. All the men who had sought to attack them were dead or fleeing. And none of the duke’s men were harmed, Richard saw. Ivo and his brother Ralph were trotting back, holding each other’s hands, and Richard felt nothing, only a vague disquiet, as he saw Ivo’s head fall to his breast, and then the man’s great body slowly topple from his horse, showing a great gash in his flank that pulsed as the blood oozed.
When the stern-faced Keeper walked from the room, leaving the bishop sitting pale and stunned by Sir Baldwin’s summary, William nodded to John to stay with his uncle, and marched quickly after the knight.
‘Sir Baldwin, please. Sir Knight – a moment?’
‘Yes, squire?’
William jerked a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the bishop’s chamber. ‘You meant what you said in there?’
‘I would not have said it else.’
‘I didn’t mean to insult you, Sir Baldwin. Please, do not grow angry with me. I only seek to protect my uncle.’
‘You are fond of him?’
William smiled, and joined Baldwin, the two walking side-by-side out into the sunshine of the bishop’s garden, then beyond to the small orchard. ‘I love him greatly. He has been enormously kind to me. When I was young, it was Bishop Walter who looked after me and saw to my education. Later, when I was confused, and thought that I might seek a career in the Church like him, it was he who sat down with me and questioned my interests, my motives, and persuaded me to look hard, deep into my heart. And I found that there, although it was harder to admit it to myself when I was young, I preferred the companionship of a woman than that of many sex-starved and desperate men! I would never have made a good churchman. He was quite right. But the bishop has given me help all through my life, he has given me money, and his example has shown me the best routes to take always.’
‘You speak as a man who has much to thank his uncle for.’
‘I think you too have had cause to appreciate his kindness and generosity?’
The knight threw him a sharp look, which the squire found hard to fathom. It was as though Sir Baldwin was torn between anxiety and a swift anger. ‘Why? What has he said to you?’
They were at the hedge that bounded the orchard now, and Squire William spoke carefully. ‘Sir Baldwin, my uncle has told me only two things about you: that he has always found you entirely honourable and fair, a true seeker after justice in your dealings with felons and outlaws. That, he says, makes you a rare man among the king’s law officers. He has also told me that you were once a pilgrim, and that your journeys to the Holy Land must have coloured your every thought for the long years since.’
‘I see,’ Baldwin said quietly. He stared out eastwards. Far away there was the ridge of the Blackdown Hills, standing grey-blue in the distance.
To William, he looked like a man rent by conflicting emotions. The scar that stretched from his eyebrow almost to his chin shone in the sunlight, and the little wrinkles at the corners of his eyes were less prominent. Instead, it was the tracks of sadness and bitterness that stood out, the deep gashes at his brow and at either side of his mouth. His was a face that had seen much anguish, and he had suffered greatly.
‘Sir Baldwin, I am sorry. You are distressed. I will leave you.’
‘No, Squire William. No, my friend. I was merely reflecting that when a man has given a confidence to another, it is ever his fear that his trust was misplaced. I am sorry that I have given you cause to be upset as well. I should have trusted your uncle and his discretion.’
Squire William was surprised to find his hand grasped by the knight, and then Baldwin’s dark, intense eyes were turned to him, as he said, ‘You are a good man. You will need courage though, in the days ahead, unless I am much mistaken.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You heard us discuss the men who could wish your uncle’s
death? That is all they are: the most obvious suspects. Your uncle has lived a long life, and he has made many enemies, my friend. Key among them is the queen herself. She will return to the kingdom before long, and there will be great battles fought as men protect the country from her and her invaders. Many will die, I fear.’
His eyes turned east again, and Squire William saw the haunting fear that had invaded his eyes. ‘Sir Baldwin, I am sure that the king will be able to defend his realm.’
‘Yes, but at what cost? There have been wars before in our poor little country, but at least they were fought by us in defence of our lands and privileges. This war is not to be so honourable, Squire. This is a battle between a husband and wife, and such battles are ever more vicious and brutal. No one will likely win. I fear for us all.’
‘One or the other must win!’
Baldwin turned to him, and now the anxiety was gone, to be replaced by a shrewd calculation. ‘You think so? What if the men who come over with the queen are all French and owe their allegiance solely to the French king? What if, when they have defeated our king, they refuse to honour a past arrangement, and instead decide to take the realm for the French? A man would not have to be terribly cynical to see a dreadful disaster unfolding.’
‘That would not bode well, not for England, nor for my uncle.’
‘You are correct there. Your uncle is detested by the French.’
‘I feel it is a mutual antagonism,’ Squire William said with a small grin.
‘You may well be right,’ Baldwin grinned back.
‘But in the meantime, Sir Baldwin, would you not help us? We need to learn what we may about the men who seek the bishop’s death.’
‘You want me to, but I cannot. My wife is here, and I must remain with her. I could not leave her alone to face an invasion. In the last year I have travelled widely to help the king, to help your uncle, and to protect the Duke of Chester. I cannot in
conscience leave my lady again. Now is the time for a man to remain at home and guard his property.’
‘I understand. But there is no invasion yet. There are no ships at our ports bringing men and matériel. While the nation is still moderately peaceful, would you not help to protect your friend?’
‘You cannot understand. I have a wife and children who need me.’
‘Do you not think that you could spend just a little more time with us? It may be nothing, anyway. There may be no one there. These threats might be from another man altogether, for all we know.’
Baldwin held his gaze for a long while, staring silently at him. ‘I will do anything I can to help the good bishop, but I have a higher loyalty. My wife, my family, are more important to me even than your uncle.’
‘I understand.’ William sighed and made to move away, but Baldwin’s next words made him stop.
‘There is one other thing,’ the knight said pensively. ‘These notes were all delivered to the bishop’s chamber in Exeter. That would seem to show that the person who delivered them knew when the room would be empty. And more than that, no one was seen on his way to or from the place. Surely that must mean that the fellow is someone from inside your entourage – a servant, say, or an embittered priest. An annuellar maybe? There are so many inside the cathedral.’
‘You are pulling my leg!’ William said with a smile. ‘You cannot mean that one of the bishop’s own servants would do a thing like this!’
‘It is as likely to be a man from within the Church as without. After all, how many men outside the Church have access to writing tools and parchment?’
Second Thursday before the Feast of St Paul and St John
*
It was a chastened duke who rode back with them the previous day. There had been no glory in the way that the men had beaten off the enemy. Only a stern, fixed duty.
Of course, for Paul it was very different.
The others had joked and laughed about the affair, calling it the ‘Battle of the Beach’, proud of the way that they had managed to protect their heir. Ralph la Zouche was the only one who betrayed his emotions, weeping over the body of his younger brother. The duke had stopped and gone to him, offering him some comfort, but Sir Ralph was beyond that. In the way he wept, Paul wondered whether he was mourning his brother, or expressing his own selfish grief at being alone. Not that Paul would be likely to mention it. Any such comment could lead to a sudden explosion of rage, and Paul had no intention of being on the receiving end of Sir Ralph’s sword.
Duke Edward himself did not brag or laugh aloud. Instead he maintained a silent reserve as he rode.
It was easy to see what he was thinking, Paul reckoned. Clearly the lad, still so young, had been shocked and terrified by the battle. There were many men who would have been alarmed, Paul included, to see such a force. Well, Paul would make no bones about it. He had been scared. The mere thought of those men pounding towards him had been enough to turn his bowels to water, and if the battle had lasted a moment longer, he might have had an unfortunate and embarrassing proof of his fear to explain to the others. Still, he had survived without anyone noticing, he thought.
But for a youngster like this one, it must have been truly petrifying. He was only thirteen years old, and for him to see such
an ambush, to know that men were prepared to assault each other in such a manner, that was surely appalling.
Later, in the castle once more, Paul had tried to go to him, to ensure that he was settled in his mind, but he received a curt rejection. The boy had his mother with him that evening, and perhaps it was better that she was there on hand to soothe the fellow. It was a woman’s task, after all.