Michael Jecks - The King of Thieves

Furnshill, Devon

There were more men passing that day, but nothing on the same scale as the men-at-arms, and Baldwin breathed a sigh of relief as he walked out later in the afternoon and lifted his tunic to relieve himself into the small barrel that sat over to the western wall of the house, near his row of storerooms. The urine would be used later, fermented, to clean clothes, and any excess would be thrown on to the compost heaps. There was nothing allowed to go to waste on his estate.

As he hitched up his hosen once more, letting loose his tunic to cover himself more decently, he heard another horse.

Peering up the road, he saw a mount riding at a steady pace, a young man with fair hair wild in the wind on its back. The man appeared to take stock of the area, staring at Baldwin’s house, and then aimed for it, over Baldwin’s small field.

Baldwin felt the lack of his sword at that moment, but he was close to his door, and the risk was limited at this time of day. Besides, he had fought and trained for more years than he cared to remember, and he felt sure that he could beat a young fellow such as this one.

‘The road to Bickleigh goes up there,’ he said as the horse drew up some few yards away. No one would ride right up to a man unless he wished to alarm them. This fellow was polite enough. Perhaps one-and-twenty, he looked as though he had ridden several miles already.

‘Sir Baldwin de Furnshill? I have come from my Lord Walter, Bishop of Exeter.’

Thursday before the Feast of Mary Magdalen *

Furnshill, Devon

‘I am glad indeed that you were able to give me a bed for the night,’ the Bishop said.

‘My Lord Bishop, it is always a delight to have you visit us,’ Baldwin’s wife said. She bent to refill his jug, and Baldwin saw how the sun, streaming in from the large, unglazed window, lighted her hair with red sparks.

Bishop Stapledon had arrived as darkness fell. He had, he explained, been travelling from a small vill in the diocese, but they had been delayed in leaving, and it was clear that they could not reach Exeter that night. It was easy to accommodate the Bishop. He took a bed in Baldwin’s solar, in the second bedchamber, while his servants slept in the hall with Baldwin’s own. Baldwin’s men had to be persuaded to share their benches, and some men were forced to huddle on the floor near the fire, but with blankets and cloaks spread liberally, most were comfortable enough. It was as good as the cots in the Bishop’s palace, Baldwin considered. He had tried them before, and knew how uncomfortable they could be.

‘When you have broken your fast, you will be setting off for Exeter?’ Jeanne asked.

‘I suppose so,’ the Bishop said. His voice was heavy, and now that Baldwin studied him, he was struck by how the last weeks had affected the man. It was only a short while since Baldwin had last seen him, but those weeks had been very unkind to him. Bishop Walter’s face was pale, as though he had been sleeping badly for an extended period, and his blue eyes were peering with an effort that was not merely his dreadful eyesight, but was also a proof of tiredness. He looked down to see Wolf resting his head on the Bishop’s lap.

Jeanne saw too, and made a move to remove the hound, but the Bishop shook his head. He appeared to take comfort from Wolf’s weight on his thigh. He stroked the huge skull.

‘Bishop, I hope you will forgive my observing that you appear quite worn,’ Baldwin said.

‘My dear friend, you do not need perfect eyesight to tell that. And after all, I am sixty-four this year. It is not surprising that with all the responsibilities I have held, that I should be a little weary.’

He sipped wine, while Baldwin watched him closely. ‘Is this because of your responsibilities to the Treasury?’

‘Aha! No, that is at least one responsibility of which I have divested myself. There is no more I can do with that, in God’s name!’

The Bishop’s eyes gleamed with an uncharacteristic anger as he spoke, and Baldwin was surprised. ‘You are no longer the King’s Treasurer?’

‘He decided that he no longer required my assistance. Again!’

Baldwin could not conceal the small smile. Only a few years before, the King had removed the Bishop from his role as Lord High Treasurer, but within a short space, he found he had to reinstate him. Bishop Walter’s skill at administration and record-keeping was beyond comparison. ‘Why so?’

‘The King trusts no one. He is parsimonious, it is true, but his niggardly penny-pinching will lead us into trouble before long. Last year he split the realm into two, for administrative purposes, north and south. But then, although he has created much more work, more administration, more effort, he refuses to allow the hire of more men to do it! Ach! I will have nothing more to do with the Exchequer. And then, he also wants to take more money from the Church, too. All ecclesiastical debts are to be called in. It was too much. So two weeks ago yesterday, I ceased to be Lord High Treasurer.’

‘It must have been a most trying period for you,’ Baldwin said.

‘Not so trying as continuing with a task I could not possibly achieve,’ the Bishop said sharply. ‘But that isn’t why I am as you see me. Have you heard of the violence growing in our land?’

‘We have heard some rumours,’ Baldwin said, glancing at his wife as he did so. He could see that she was unsettled by the conversation. She stood quietly, but her eyes told of her anxiety.

‘I heard last afternoon that another King’s official has been attacked. The keeper of rebel castles in the Welsh March has been most brutally beaten and blinded. And he is not the only one. There are attacks in Yorkshire, in the south near London, down towards the coast — there is nowhere safe where the law resides.’

‘Surely the land is not so unsettled that you need fear such things?’ Jeanne asked quietly.

‘My dear, I fear it is worse than you could appreciate,’ the Bishop said with absent-minded condescension.

Jeanne could see that he had not intended to patronise her, but his words rankled nonetheless.

‘How could it be worse? Are there many similar cases?’ Baldwin frowned. ‘I have heard nothing of any such attacks here in Devon.’

‘Let me put it like this: the King is now moving his prisoners from one castle to another.’ Bishop Walter had fixed Baldwin with a steely, unwavering stare as he spoke.

‘What does that mean?’ Jeanne asked.

Baldwin knew precisely what he meant. ‘If the King was confident that the castle garrisons could hold the prisoners securely, he would leave them in one place. If he’s moving them about the country, it means he is worried that large forces could be brought to lay siege to any one of the castles, if people grow certain of who is being held there. If he’s moving them around, it means he is trying to confuse any potential rebels, not giving them the certainty of which prisoner will be in which castle at any time.’

‘It makes excellent sense, Lady Jeanne. However, it is also a proof of his weakness in the face of the men ranged against him.’

‘But he is the King,’ Jeanne objected. ‘Surely few would dare to set their faces against him — especially since he destroyed the Lords Marcher and their forces.’

Baldwin nodded, his eyes fixed upon the Bishop. The King had not enjoyed a successful career as a warrior. The Scots had beaten him severely, not once, but many times. During the last war the Scottish had almost captured the Queen. It was only a miracle that saw her escape — and then it was so close that two of her ladies-in-waiting had died. Only once had he displayed a martial skill suitable for the son of Edward I: at Boroughbridge. There he had defeated the combined strength of the Lords Marcher.