‘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
*
‘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.
Margaret Puttock’s mouth fell wide with awe as she saw the bridge ahead. It was so bright, so beautiful, so … so
huge
!
It had not been difficult for her to persuade Simon to take them with him to London. It would not have been safe to leave her behind in Portchester. There had been too many cases reported to the town’s officers of rapes, and three murders of women in the town. The idea of leaving her and their son was anathema to Simon. He had to bring them too.
They rode onward, Perkin riding behind with Hugh and Rob on a cart, while Simon and Margaret trotted along on their horses, but as they approached the great entranceway, Simon fell back and rode alongside the cart, pointing out the details of the flags and the statues which sat in recesses at either side of the main gatehouse.
‘However did they build it?’ Margaret gasped at last. ‘It must be a thousand yards long, Simon. It looks as though it floats over the water!’
Her husband smiled. ‘It isn’t that much bigger than the bridge over the Exe,’ he said.
‘Maybe not, but the Exe Bridge only has one chapel on it. Look at this!’
It was astonishing that they had managed to cram so many houses and shops on the thing. The bridge itself was very broad, but the buildings meant that there was little space for a single wagon to pass under the arches from one end to the other. It was massive, and splendid, and Margaret felt her head swim as she peered up and about.
There were several defensive points: the Stone Gate at the southern end of the bridge, then the Draw-Bridge Gate a distance further on, while the size of the chapel of St Thomas was daunting in its own right.
The view of all the buildings was so extraordinary that she quite missed the sight of the Tower of London until they were already over the bridge, and she could peer along the line of the river towards the king’s castle.
This was different, though. Fortress to protect the city, it was, but it was also to be defended from the city, and was the king’s leading prison for traitors and his other enemies. There was something about it that made her shiver. ‘That is where we’re going?’ she asked.
‘It’s where the bishop is, yes,’ Simon said. He was easy enough in his saddle as they rode along past St Magnus the Martyr, then St Botolph, and then by Billingesgate, and as they went, the immensity of the king’s castle began to dawn on her. It was not merely a building or two hidden behind a wall like Oakhampton or Exeter, this was an immense area of land that was entirely enclosed. When she asked, Simon told her that it consisted of almost twenty acres. The great white keep inside was visible from all about the city, looming threateningly over the walls. Margaret could discern nothing that was kindly or protective about it. It was there to control the people of the city.