Simon nodded. ‘I see.’
‘There’s nothing to worry about here.’
That conversation had been an age ago. Sleepless, Simon had sat thinking in his chamber for so long that he could hear the guards wandering down to the buttery for a warming ale before returning to their duties.
Feeling restless, Simon rose and walked outside. It was a clear night, with the stars showing like a sprinkle of diamond-dust on a dark silken sheet. Quite beautiful. And although the moon was not full, it was bright enough to show him all the court after a few moments to acclimatise his eyes.
He walked to the door that led up to the bishop’s chambers and tested it. With relief he found it would not yield when he pushed, and he returned to his own chamber feeling reassured.
But even as he pulled off his clothes and settled into the bed beside Margaret, he could not get to sleep. No matter what William said, Simon was convinced that the threat of invasion was real, and the risk of an uprising here in the capital, equally real. England felt like a tinder box. And Simon thought he could hear the flint being struck all about him.
Saturday before the Feast of the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary
*
Baldwin had the men roused and ready and mounted before the sun had fully shown herself. He was not going to be found napping if he could help it. He was hoping that such a small force would excite little comment. They had ridden fast enough, with luck, to avoid news of the English invasion having reached this far. There were no warning beacons lit on the higher hills that he had seen, such as would have been fired over in England if the French had attacked. No, with luck they would be able to reach the city, enter it, and make their way to the duke without being challenged.
Of the squires who were with his force, there was one whom he trusted more than the others. This man, who was called Ranulf Pestel, was plainly a good, strong fighter. Baldwin would take him into the city, along with Jack and Paul, while the others would remain hidden outside. There was no point in taking too many men. Better that the rest should stay concealed, and if Baldwin and Paul could persuade the duke to join them, all well and good.
Their journey was not eased by the antics of Paul, who wavered between bravado and cowering terror at the ordeal ahead. ‘Why didn’t you leave me with the others?’ he tried one last time as they approached the gate to the city.
‘You are needed, rector. But if I hear any more whinings, you will return to England without a pardon, and I will personally deliver you to the Bishop of Exeter for him to do with you as he will,’ Baldwin said. ‘Now, shut up – because I do not wish for this boy to be made into a coward like you.’
‘You have no idea how hard this is—’ Paul began, but before Baldwin could reach over and grab him, he saw a sudden movement from Ranulf. He had a small switch in his hand, and Paul gave a yelp. He put a hand to his ear, and it came away with blood on it. ‘You cut me, you bastard!’ he cried in a voice that was a mongrel sound, mingling rage and panic.
‘I’ll use steel next time. Now
shut up
,’ was the laconic reply.
Baldwin smiled to himself. He disliked having to use punishments, but then again he had a very low opinion of Paul de Cockington, and if a whip over his head could make him less of a threat to their mission, he was content.
The city of Rouen was one of those happy places in which the citizens had little fear of guests. Indeed, they seemed to welcome them, and Baldwin reflected that with the Feast of the Blessed Virgin Mary only two days away, the inhabitants were well used to the sight of pilgrims and other visitors. It was ideal for their purposes.
‘Where is this inn?’ he asked Paul.
‘How should I know?’ The man shrugged. ‘All I heard was, it was close to the abbey.’
‘Then we must try each one in turn,’ Baldwin said, and led the way along the narrow streets towards the great church that lay at the centre of the town.
It took them much of the morning to learn precisely nothing. There was no sign of the duke, and Paul swore that there was no one he recognised anywhere from the duke’s entourage.
‘What about this one?’ Baldwin demanded as the four stood just inside the doorway of a little inn.
‘There must be other rooms in this place,’ Ranulf said. ‘Wait, Sir Baldwin, and I’ll see if I can find them somewhere else.’
‘Very well. We shall wait here.’
Richard de Folville had been glad to arrive here in Rouen because the constant wanderings were beginning to wear him down. Travel was all very well, but he was used to the comfort of a good bed, and the fact that they must all keep riding to remain safe struck him as nonsensical. There was little chance that they would be the target of an attack now, surely.
Here in the city, he felt the strain of the last months beginning to slough away. They had been here for three days of peace and relaxation, and while he had not managed to liberate any additional money from the duke, he thought that he might be able to before long. The boy had let slip that he was running low on funds, and it was possible that he might need to go to a bank. His mother had funds which had been advanced, and the duke was sure that he would soon be able to acquire some.
Life was so easy for a fellow like him. Born the son of a king, he would never know hardship or the struggle that most people had to endure. It made Richard intensely, furiously jealous. He wanted a little of that good fortune. If it wasn’t for Despenser advancing his own friends over the heads of those more deserving, like the Folvilles, Richard would still be in his little church at Teigh, with his brother still ensuring that his annual stipend was good, praying and keeping the peasants happy. That was where he ought to be now, and it was only the likes of Despenser who had forced him out of his own country. The king, Despenser, the Bishop of Exeter – they were all cut from the same cloth. They took, and could declare it legal purely because they had power.
Well, Richard would tolerate it no longer. He and his family deserved better. They would take what they wanted.
Perhaps he was better served to remain with the duke. The boy did at least look after them all well. He was no penny-pincher, that was true.
Richard de Folville had been out to the privy at the end of the little garden, and he straightened his hosen and chemise as he strolled back. Pulling his hat onto his head – a broad-brimmed
felt hat which he had bought on the first day here in Rouen as a defence against the hot sun – he suddenly saw a man peering out from a ground-floor window.
It made his blood freeze like ice. Curious sensation. Here he was, a man who had killed before, and yet his overriding sense was of fear at the sight of this man, this symbol of power and terror.
He swaggered onwards, without looking again at the man. What was his name?
Pestel
, that was it. Squire Ranulf, he had said, and he had mentioned that he was a loyal servant of Belers. That must be why he was here: he had somehow learned that Richard had been involved in the murder of his master, and wanted revenge. He’d said as much. If he heard that there was a cleric involved … But Richard wasn’t dressed as a rector now. He was a well-dressed Frenchman.
With that thought, he had a plan.
It was gloomy in the hall where Baldwin and the others waited, so as he left it and walked into the garden, Squire Ranulf was blinded for a moment. It was enough for him to see that there was only a single man there, wandering about idly among the herbs and flowers.
He spotted a long, low building though, and thought it would be an ideal hiding-place for the duke. Stepping forward, he peeped in through a window.
It was dark inside there too, but then he gradually began to make out voices – and one, he felt sure, was English. These were no Frenchmen, he could tell.
He drew back, a grin on his face. It had to be the duke and his entourage. Sir Baldwin would be able to come and persuade the fellow to return with them, he was sure. And then a man punched him in the back, and he gave a cry of surprise. Turning, he saw a man – the Frenchman – behind him, a knife in his hand. And suddenly Ranulf knew that he had been stabbed. It was not fatal though – he was sure of that. He grabbed for his own knife, but before he could draw it, the man was on him again. This time, the
fellow took Ranulf’s hand and gripped it, while the knife was thrust under his armpit, a solid blow that Ranulf felt through the whole of his breast.
There was a flowing sensation, and a weakness in his arms. He could only feel a great bruise at his side, no pain, and he was sure that he had been lucky, that the blow had missed all his organs, and he still made to yank his own knife free, but his assailant had his hand grasped too firmly, and try as he might, he couldn’t release it.
‘French git,’ he gasped.
‘Me – French? Oho, squire, if you can’t remember a face, you shouldn’t make such rash threats. I am Richard de Folville. You said you’d come back and hunt me, didn’t you? I think I beat you to it!’
Ranulf stared. The name of Folville was known to him well enough. They were outlaws, murderers … but he couldn’t hold on to his thoughts. There was a strange exhaustion washing over him, and he could no longer support his own weight. He had to drop to one knee. Ranulf slipped down, and then he toppled to his side, and he continued to stare at Folville fixedly as the life ebbed out of him.
A man’s eyes would hold the last sight he saw, so Folville had heard. He didn’t want some clever official peering into Ranulf Pestel’s eyes and seeing himself gazing back. No. So he took his knife and made sure that no one would be able to read anything in Ranulf’s eyes ever again.
Ralph la Zouche heard the scuffle outside, and by the time the door was opened, his sword was already out, but then he saw it was the Folville man dragging a body into the chamber. He stood, panting.
‘My lord duke, this man was in there asking about you. I think there are friends of his nearby. We have to escape.’
The duke gaped from Folville to the body. ‘Who is he?’
‘A retainer of one of Despenser’s men. I have killed him. I knew him before – his name was Squire Ranulf Pestel.’
The duke looked at Ralph. ‘Have
you
heard of him?’
‘The name is familiar, yes. He was one of Belers men, I think. If Richard de Folville has killed him, he has done us a service,’ Ralph said, ‘but you should have brought him in here alive so we all could have questioned him.’ He turned to the duke. ‘My lord, I think Richard is right – there will be others. I recommend that we mount and leave immediately.’
‘But I wanted to see the grave of King Richard on the Holy Mother’s Feast Day,’ the duke objected.
‘You can return another time. For now, I advise that we should ride straight to Hainault.’
‘Very well,’ the young man sighed. ‘Have the horses prepared. We shall ride as soon as they are ready.’
Baldwin was becoming concerned at the length of time Ranulf was taking. ‘If he doesn’t hurry, we’ll not have time to look into any other inns,’ he muttered. He waited a little longer, and then gave a swift curse. ‘Paul, you stay here with Jack, and I shall go to see if I can find him. We cannot stand here all day.’
So saying, he walked out of the small hall and into the garden. At that moment, the sound of shouting and commands reached his ears, coming from an outbuilding.
Quickly crossing the yard, he reached the door to the building, and pushed it wide.
‘Another!’
He heard the shout and instantly threw himself sideways in case an arrow came hurtling towards him. There was none, but he could hear booted feet approaching, and then a sword appeared. Baldwin grasped the wrist and wrenched. The man let go of his sword as his arm was jerked towards Baldwin, across his body, and Baldwin picked it up in a flash. A second man came out, and now Baldwin knew he must have come to the correct place.
‘Hold!’ he shouted. ‘I am come to speak with the duke!’
The second fellow was a swarthy man-at-arms with black hair and bright blue eyes. He had his sword held like a professional, his left hand at his groin, ready to pat away Baldwin’s. His sword
was held low, the blade angled up from his hand, protecting most of his body. Baldwin was sure that he would be competent, but it was not the best defence; he held his own in the
true Guardant
, with his fist above his head, the blade dropping down and towards his enemy.
His main concern right now was the first man, who had massaged his wrist, and now looked ready to grab a stone and brain Baldwin. He would have to be held and prevented. This second man was—
A sparkle of the sun on steel and the blade leaped forward. Baldwin blocked it with his own, continuing to stab downwards at the man’s thigh, but he saw the danger and stepped back. Instantly Baldwin was a step nearer, his blade darting right in a feint, then left towards the man’s breast. The blue eyes narrowed as he slammed his fist across, then reversed his blade and slashed at Baldwin’s throat. Baldwin ducked, knocked his opponent’s sword up and away, and launched himself forwards and up, his blade coming to rest upon his Adam’s apple. ‘Yield!’ he snarled.
‘Stop! I order you as you are an Englishman!’
Baldwin kept his sword at the man’s throat, holding his gaze. ‘Drop the sword, friend.’
‘Hurt me, and you’ll answer to the Duke of Chester.’
‘
You
will answer to no one if you don’t drop your sword!’
There was a brief narrowing of his eyes again, as though he was assessing the true risk, and then his sword clattered on the ground.
Baldwin took it up and stepped away, glancing around to make sure that the first man through the door was not right behind him to hit him, and then turned to the duke and offered the two swords to him, bowing and kneeling. ‘Your Highness, I am sorry for this unseemly fracas.’
‘So, good Sir Baldwin! And how do I find you here? You aren’t with the men sent to kill me, are you?’
‘If I were, I would die fighting in your defence, my lord,’ Baldwin said, looking up and meeting the duke’s eyes. ‘I am here to try to persuade you to return to England, to your father, who
dotes on you and misses you. He instructed me to tell you that your offences to him will be forgotten.’