Michael Jecks - The Bishop Must Die

The walk to his chamber was atrocious. He bellowed at men for infractions of rules, muttered poisonously at Squire William for not having brought him a cup of wine while he was dismounting, and tried in every manner he could to prove to all just how miserable he felt.

Messages or no messages, haemorrhoids were truly the invention of Beelzebub, he thought as he cautiously knelt at the little portable altar in his chamber.

Two Thursdays before the Feast of the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary *

Portchester

Baldwin left the inn where he had taken a room and made his weary way down the cobbled street towards the place where the leaders of the force were no doubt bickering again.

Their master was a sly, weasel-like knight by the name of John Felton, who had been picked by the king himself, apparently. He had been making trouble since his arrival here in Portchester a couple of weeks ago. Less for Baldwin, it must be said, but more for the other men in the town, especially the two knights, Nicholas de Cryel and Robert de Kendale, both of whom were much more experienced in campaigning than him. However, Felton it was who had been given the king’s authority, and no one was going to gainsay him, which meant that while Baldwin and the other two had successfully prepared shipping, supplies and men, the whole enterprise began to fall apart as soon as Felton started to give his own orders.

Baldwin caught himself as his boot slithered on a mossy stone. This town was quickly growing to be a place of torment for him. The days were spent in wrangling, trying to persuade one side or another to compromise in the interests of the king and of the men whom they would lead to battle, and to the glorious rescue of the king’s son.

But Felton was not the sort of man to inspire confidence. He must have two clerks with him wherever he went, because he could neither read nor write, and in Baldwin’s opinion, his ability to even read a scene and make an accurate judgement was dubious at best. The man might have had the merit of a block-headed courage in the lists, but when it came to rational assessments of a battle, Baldwin would have been happier with his hound Wolf in charge. At least Wolf knew about attacking a flank to turn a sheep away from its planned route. That was more than Felton understood. To him, the only way to attack was a massive charge of chivalry. That kind of action might work well in Palestine against more lightly armoured men, but even then, in Baldwin’s experience, there was a need for lightly armoured troops to attack first, to roll up the skirmishing bowmen on their own little ponies. Charging was good for the mentality of a knight — it reinforced the view of the chivalry of the nation — and led often to appalling casualties among the men-at-arms on the opposing side.

But this was to be a short, aggressive chevauchée across unfamiliar country. There had been some reports from sailors who knew the coast, but there was no one who could provide accurate descriptions of the lands about Rouen. To launch an attack under these conditions made Baldwin enormously anxious.

Nodding to some men gathered at a corner, he continued down to the office. It was lodged in an inn near the seafront, and he must push past two chatting guards to reach the door. There was no salute, no challenge, none of the serious martial structure that he was used to from his days as a Knight Templar, and that too worried him.

In the Poor Fellow Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon , he had been the lowest of knights, but even then he had recognised the need for warriors to fight in unison, to know when to charge together, when to wheel, when to withdraw, when to press home an attack — and all depended upon discipline and training. The men here had neither. Most had been gathered straight from their fields by bailiffs and stewards who had little understanding themselves, or, more likely, were accepting the poor devils in return for payment from the intended victims, or taking them in response to a grudge against the men. There was one, Jack, whom Baldwin suspected had been gathered up with the rest purely because the boy’s mother had refused to accede to an official’s demands that she should service him. The lad was only fourteen or so, from the look of him.

Yes, the lack of discipline worried him. As did the inexperience of many of the men gathering here in the port. They were collected in dribs and drabs, four, or five, or six at a time. In the absence of enough housing for so many, most were resorting to sleeping in the streets. Already there had been some deaths because of fights in taverns and alehouses, boredom and strong drink weaving their usual magic amongst men with too many weapons near to hand.

The chamber he entered was a long, low room with wooden panels at the walls to try to keep the worst of the breezes away. A glorious fire roared in the hearth, as it had every day since Felton had first arrived, and in the bright light from it, Baldwin could see the men gathered about the table in the middle of the room. Clerks sat scribbling, while messengers hurried hither and thither, and an atmosphere of restrained impatience was lying about the room like a miasma.

Baldwin walked to the table. ‘Sir John, Sir Nicholas, Sir Robert,’ he said to each of the men, and the last two nodded and greeted him. Sir John Felton apparently felt that there was no need for him to welcome Baldwin, but instead continued to issue orders.

It was, as usual, a perplexing day, and Baldwin was glad when he was able to leave the room. It was the middle of the afternoon now, and he walked slowly down to the little building where Simon had his office.

Here, all was cheery and as unlike the military chamber as it could be. In Simon’s opinion, it was crucial that all his men believed that they were important — not only important to Simon, but to the work which they did — and the success of his approach was all too plain. The clerks and officers hurried about, but not in the same frenetic, illogical manner which was so evident around Sir John Felton. Here, men moved with a sensible coherence. There was the impression of an effective machine which was producing worthwhile results.

‘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.