‘I hope I will be,’ Simon said. The two clenched their hands together, both reluctant to be the first to let go the grip. ‘Will you ride straight for home?’
‘I will, but only to ensure that Jeanne is safe. Then I ride to the king.’
‘You will be riding into danger, Baldwin,’ Simon said. ‘Why not remain at home?’
Baldwin looked away to the west. His sharp features were touched by a sadness bordering on despair that Simon had not seen for many years. ‘Because I owe service to my king,’ he said bitterly. ‘Even though I detest the king’s friends, who have brought him to this pass, still I owe him all the help I may give him.’
‘I will not. I will ride home, and pray that I find the farm still whole, and that my daughter is safe. I hope for nothing more.’
‘Well, when you go, ride fast, as Weston said. Do not delay, Simon. Ride like the wind!’
Simon watched his friend mount his horse with a strange feeling of desolation. Then he watched Baldwin waiting for Jack to mount his little pony, and then the two of them rode along the drawbridge, their horses’ hoofs echoing. At the far barbican, where the new entrance took a dog-leg to the north, Baldwin paused and waved once, his teeth flashing in the sun, before diving under the outer gateway. Then he was gone.
‘So that is that,’ Margaret said.
Simon nodded. ‘I think we should prepare too.’
‘Hugh has almost everything ready. He and Rob are with the horses, I think.’
‘Good,’ Simon said.
Walking with her to the stables, he found himself reflecting on the last year. So much danger, the constant threat of invasion, and now all had come to pass. And Bishop Walter was dead – murdered here, in this cruel city. And for all Simon and the others’ efforts, when it had counted, the bishop was not guarded with enough men. The notes and the leather purse had, in fact, succeeded. By distracting Simon from the real risk of the mob, they had helped kill the bishop, on the very day foretold.
‘Wait one moment,’ he said as they passed the Tower, and he walked into the bishop’s rooms.
Little had changed. With Walle and John de Padington dead, no one had seen fit to enter and clear away his belongings.
It lay on the table. Simon went and took it up, pulling the drawstring loose and peering inside at the notes. The sight made a small shiver of revulsion run through him, and he tugged it shut again.
The tavern was one of the best in the town, Paul de Cockington had been told, and as soon as he entered, he could tell it was true.
He was exhausted. The sailing to Normandy and back had been terrifying, what with his fear of the water, and his more pronounced horror of blades. He had been convinced that he would be killed when they got to Rouen, and it was surely only the miracle of the murder of that man Pestel that had saved them all. Neither the duke nor Sir Baldwin wanted to be found near the corpse. A murder victim was always difficult to explain.
After they landed at last, it had been touch and go as to whether he would be snatched away by some eager knight who sought more men. It had taken a very swift visit to a barber to ensure that his hair was cropped into a tonsure again so that he might walk away, and he had taken flight as soon as he could.
There was still danger, of course. He might have been discovered by the queen’s army. He had heard about that as soon as they landed. But once again, he had been fortunate. He had found a little abbey, and the abbot had been generous and kindly, and very hospitable. There, in the seclusion of the cloister, he had been sure of his safety, and for the first time since leaving Exeter, he felt truly at peace.
Still, yesterday he had decided he should try his luck again. He had his little chapel, after all, and it looked ever more appealing as the days passed. Never again would he put himself in such danger, he swore. No, he wouldn’t look at a woman like that de Gydie again, gorgeous though she was, with her slim little hips and enormous … But no. From now on, he was a celibate.
In the tavern, he sat at a bench with some others, who looked at him with suspicion, but moved along to give him space. He would rest here today, he decided, and continue on his way
tomorrow. With fortune, he would make it to Exeter in only a week or so.
The serving wench came and took his order, and he could not help but appraise her backside as she swayed with the athletic precision of a dancer between the benches and stools set all about. Dark hair, and that air of willingness that always took his fancy. Not that it would ever again, of course.
She was back soon with a large earthenware jug of wine. She passed him a cup, then bent to pour. And in that moment, Paul once again had a vision of heaven, as her tunic fell open and he could see the delicious breasts within.
He was gaping. As she stood upright again, he snapped his mouth shut and gave her a smile. She returned it – with a small wink, he thought, as though she was showing she knew what he had seen, and he was welcome to it …
Perhaps there was no need to hurry to Exeter, after all, he considered, watching her taut body as she walked away again.
Jeanne heard the hoofs and went to fetch her dagger. Edgar marched to the door, reporting, ‘One rider – it’s him again.’
She set the dagger back on its hook on the wall and wiped her hands on her apron. It was good that Peter had been coming here so often. There was a hope in her breast that he and Edith would be able to mend the fracture and live together again, although she was not sure that she herself would be willing to live with her own father-in-law, had he been so inconsiderate to her. Still, it was Edith’s choice, not her own.
‘Master Peter, you are most welcome,’ she said, greeting him warmly.
‘Lady Jeanne, I am very glad to be here,’ he said, his eyes going to the room behind her. ‘How is my wife?’
‘She is well,’ Jeanne said, and felt satisfaction that he had at least asked after Edith rather than his own son.
‘I would like to speak with her, if I may.’
‘I will fetch her,’ Jeanne said. Edith was out in the little garden
Jeanne had created, and it took only a few moments to bring her back inside.
‘Please, Lady Jeanne, don’t go,’ Peter said. ‘You should hear this too, because you have been so kind to us all.’
‘Very well.’
‘Edith, I am here to ask you to have me back again,’ Peter said. ‘I know that the last months have been very difficult for you, and I promise I will do everything I can to make things easier in future. Will you have me again?’
Edith looked at Jeanne, but Jeanne could not interfere in the affairs of another married couple. This had to be Edith’s own decision.
‘Peter, I would like to live with you again, but I cannot give up my parents and their friends. Where would I be now, without the kindness and generosity of Lady Jeanne here?’
‘I agree. And I will not force you to do that.’
‘I will agree, then. But it is hard for me to live with your parents.’
‘Then it is fortunate that I don’t ask that!’
‘You don’t … ?’
‘We shall return to our own house. I cannot live under my father’s rules either, and need my own household. Will you return with me to the old house?’
‘Very happily!’ Edith said, and now she did run into his arms as Jeanne dabbed at her eyes and sniffed, and left them alone.
As they passed over the London Bridge, riding down into Surrey, Simon halted at the city drawbridge. He took out the purse and weighed it in his hand, and then hurled it as far as he could downstream, watching it as it bobbed on the water, and then disappeared out of sight.
It felt as though he had cast out a demon.
This has been a sad book to write. It’s very difficult to lose characters of whom I have become fond, and Bishop Walter II of Exeter is certainly one of those.
I have used him extensively in my books from a very early stage, and feel as though I have grown to know him quite well over the years. He was a strange mix of the medieval educated man: intelligent, noted for his diligent efforts in the Treasury, determined to improve the quality of his preachers and priests, an enthusiastic supporter of education, proud guardian of the cathedral at Exeter who strove tirelessly to see the rebuilding works pushed on, and … sadly, also avaricious to an appalling degree, vindictive (see how he treated the queen), opportunistic – and violent, as he showed in the matter of the body of Sir Henry Ralegh (see Little & Easterling,
The Franciscans and Dominicans of Exeter
, 1927, pages 40–43).
Sir Henry died while at a confrater with the Dominicans in Exeter, and expressed a desire to be buried in their priory. Accordingly, the Dominicans arranged his burial in 1301, but this infringed on the monopoly on burials owned by the cathedral, so Stapledon and another canon, John de Uphaven (later to become sub-Dean of the cathedral), went to the friars to enforce their rights. Later the friars alleged that the canons had committed acts of violence while taking the body on its bier. ‘He led a lawless rabble to attack the Dominican Convent … breaking into the cloister and church, wounding some of the brethren, and, after doing damage in the holy place, carried off goods to the value of £20’ (
A History of the Diocese of Exeter
by Reverend RJE Boggis, Exeter, 1922).
Once the profits of the burial had been acquired by the
cathedral (burials involved gifts to the church and significant profits), the canons brought the body back. The friars refused to let it in, and the canons left Sir Henry’s remains at their gate, ‘whereof the said corps lay so longe unburyed that it stanke and the Canons dryven to bury the same yn St Peter’s churche’.
But the bishop I will remember is the man who created the school at Ashburton and the college at Oxford (then known as Stapledon College, now called Exeter College), who was probably one of the most diligent bishops Devon and Cornwall have seen, who tramped all over the counties reviewing the quality of his priests, monitoring the canons and monks, noting with shock the disgraceful state of the nunneries in his lands, and doing all he might to improve them.
This book has been compiled with a view to exploring the appalling state of the realm at this time of huge national disturbance, and for that reason I have taken diabolical liberties with many men and women who lived in this period. However, the cases I have given against the bishop were all genuine – and Isabella Crok’s life was as unfortunate as depicted, with two husbands dying and her son Roger being forced to flee.
The Rector of Teigh, Richard de Folville, is no invention. He was as disgraceful as I have indicated, being involved in several killings and many robberies. He and his brothers tended to kidnap and steal, often offering their victims the choice between handing over everything or fighting. They linked up with the Coterel family, another thieving band of nobles who, in their day, were notorious. Regularly outlawed, they kept winning pardons on the basis of helping the king in his wars with the Scots and Lancastrians.
Richard de Folville finally ended his criminal career in late 1340, or maybe early 1341, when he was bottled up in his church in Rutland, and after killing one pursuer and wounding several more, was dragged out and beheaded by Baldwin’s equivalent, Sir Robert de Colville, Keeper of the King’s Peace.
I have tried to get the history right in this story, because I think
that invention is pointless when it comes to actual events which are as exciting as these. However, the record can be difficult.
Just as some books ago I discovered that no one seemed to know when the French King Charles IV actually married (and by that I don’t mean there was confusion over the day or month, but over both – and the year as well), in the research for this novel I learned that although historians have traipsed all over this period, there is still dispute about the ships which King Edward II sent to Normandy, why he sent them, what happened when they returned – and so on.
The general facts are as I’ve portrayed them, with a small English fleet sailing to Normandy. I have speculated about a meeting with the Duke of Aquitaine, as proposed by Natalie Fryde in
The Tyranny and Fall of King Edward II 1321–1326
(Cambridge University Press, 1979; now available online), because it fits in with the history – but who knows? As Fryde says in her book, there was a specific pardon given to Sir John Felton ‘for hostilely entering the land of Normandy and committing depredations and burnings when we were in those parts’, which is intriguing, but I can find no other reference to it.
I have been accused by critics (I keep reminding myself of Sibelius’s words: ‘No statue has ever been put up to a critic’) of using too much modern language, especially modern idiom in my books. Well, yes. I do. I use metaphors which are accurate for the period, I make sure I avoid words which are too twenty-first century, but I have no doubt the critic involved was anxious when she read of a ‘posse’ or of swearing involving comments about genitalia or offal – but these are all authentic.
It is a ridiculous argument to get into. If I were to be authentic to the language spoken in Exeter at the time, it would not even be pure Middle-English, which is hard enough to understand, but would also have a fair mix of Norman-French, Celtic, Saxon, plenty of Latin and a dollop of Arabic.
Then again, if I were to be ruthlessly authentic, I would also have to throw away my computer, and write the novels entirely
by hand. Without a fountain pen. And then it would have to be reproduced by copyists, not printed by a publisher.
Somehow, I do not think that such activities would increase my sales.
And so, I will continue to use the correct terms and the correct language, and then modernise them – or, if you prefer,
translate
them – for a modern audience. Which is, after all, my job!
I have used many different books to make sense of this period. To all the authors and historians whose works I have vilely pillaged, I offer my grateful thanks. As usual, any errors are entirely mine.