Michael Jecks - The Bishop Must Die

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 *

English Channel

‘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.