Michael Jecks - The Death Ship of Dartmouth

It was some days later that Baldwin reached Exeter. He sat on his horse for a long while on the hill overlooking the city, trying to make up his mind whether he should continue as he had planned or ride straight home. Home, where Jeanne his wife would be waiting.

He sighed and kicked his horse into a slow amble down the hill to the bridge.

The Cathedral Close was abustle as usual, with several pack ponies and horses feeding on the last of the grass in the cemetery, and children playing among the tombstones and the tall elms that stood between the cemetery and the streets of the Close. Already drifts of leaves were piling up. He rode over the little bridge that spanned the open ditch, little better than a sewer, that ran from the canons’ houses to the city walls and out to the shitebrook.

Piles of filth and rubble lay all around, and the Cathedral itself was still being rebuilt at this, the eastern end. Several bonfires were burning waste from the canons’ houses and the building works.

In the past, Baldwin had enjoyed the sight and sounds of all the raucous liveliness about the town — builders shouting and singing, merchants at the fish-market over by Broad Gate calling their wares, while animals wandered about, dropping their dung in the cemetery — but today, from his new perspective, it looked as though this Cathedral was less a place of worship and praise, more a hellish imitation.

‘Sir Baldwin.’ The steward at the door to the Bishop’s Palace smiled in recognition as soon as the knight appeared in the roadway. ‘My lord Bishop is holding a Chapter meeting, but he will not be long, I am sure. Will you wait here while I fetch you some food and drink? You look as though you have travelled far today.’

‘I would be most grateful, yes,’ Baldwin said, dropping tiredly from his horse and pulling off his gloves. Here in the bishop’s grounds he had no concerns for the way that his horse would be looked after, and he watched a groom take the rounsey away to be brushed and fed without a second thought, then entered the Palace behind the steward.

In the hall there was one other man — a messenger in the livery of Lord Despenser. He glanced over at Baldwin and bowed respectfully, to which Baldwin responded with a courteous but not fulsome bow of his own, and the steward left them alone while he fetched Baldwin his refreshments.

‘Sir Baldwin!’ Bishop Walter strode into the hall with a broad smile. He glanced at the messenger as he held out his hand to Baldwin, and the knight bent to kiss the Episcopal ring quickly, but not before he had caught sight of the bishop’s short frown.

‘My lord Bishop,’ the messenger said. ‘I have an urgent communication for you. Lord Despenser has persuaded the King to accept your advice. Can you please take these and deal with them?’ He held out a handful of warrants.

Bishop Stapledon took them, staring at the seals and pursing his lips. Setting them on his table, he dismissed the man, and turned his attention on Baldwin.

‘A successful journey to Dartmouth, I hope? Tell me, how is Simon?’

‘Bishop, why did you send me there?’ Baldwin asked.

‘I told you. We wanted to make sure that the Frenchman left the country, and that Her Majesty could not be harmed by rumours of his actions becoming known.’

‘And yet Despenser’s man was sent to catch the same Frenchman and bring him back?’

‘I cannot speak for him, naturally,’ Stapledon said. ‘What is this, Baldwin? Are you discontent?’

‘I am not discontent, no. I am angry to have been your tool without the courtesy of an explanation. You wanted the Frenchman found and captured, didn’t you? You sent me after him because you felt sure he would go there, not because your nephew was near the town.’

‘Now, Baldwin!’ Bishop Stapledon said warningly.

‘No! You knew about Pierre’s sister being married to a merchant there. You knew when he set off to the coast that he’d go straight there. Where else would a man like him go, if not to his sister’s house? He could be sure of aid there. And you wanted him caught and brought back to show how degenerate the Frenchmen are who guard the Queen.’

‘Nonsense! I would care for no such thing,’ the bishop declared.

‘It struck me as curious that Sir Andrew arrived so soon after me. I suppose you thought that I would be able to point to the Frenchman and so save him a search of the town that might cause fights and antagonism. I can imagine that Sir Andrew would have been ruthlessly ferocious in looking for a man — and that you would prefer to have a quieter, calmer investigation. Yet you always intended to have Pierre found and caught. Because it would help you to alienate Queen Isabella from the King.’

Bishop Stapledon was still at the table on which the warrants lay. He put out a finger to touch one. ‘Do you know what these contain? If I had to guess, they have orders for me to take over the main resources at the Queen’s command in Cornwall, so that they cannot be used to fund her any more. The mines could be at threat of invasion from the French, and she is French herself.’

‘She is your Queen!’

‘She could be negotiating with her brother, Baldwin. She is not loyal.’

‘How dare you!’

‘Baldwin, calm yourself. I know her better than you! You did not see her when she went to her father and told him of the affair of the silken purses. A woman who could break her father’s heart, telling him that his sons were all — all — cuckolds, who could see her sisters-in-law ruined, imprisoned … such a one is too self-absorbed to worry about her husband and the realm.’

‘That is preposterous! You say that she is wicked because she brought judgement on those who broke the law? That is reason to trust her.’

‘No. She could be treacherous to her sisters-in-law, and she could be again to her husband. It is a risk we cannot take. For that reason the King is to take away her dower. She will have a reduced annual budget which he will control through his friends, and all Frenchmen in her household will be removed.’

‘She is to be imprisoned?’ Baldwin asked, appalled.

‘No, not imprisoned. Just held for the safety of the Realm, and perhaps for her own. These are hard times, Baldwin.’

‘Very!’ Baldwin said, picking up his gloves and beginning to tug them on.

‘You are leaving? Will you not remain a little longer? We have much to talk about.’

‘No, I do not think we do, Walter. My lord Bishop, you are right to say that there is much danger today. And you have thrown me into the midst of it.’

‘Sir Baldwin, I do what I do for the good of the Realm. I am sorry if you think I deceived you, but I assure you, I never had any such intention.’

Baldwin faced him, and bowed. ‘I will take my leave, my lord.’

‘There is one last point. I suggested that you should be put forward to the next Parliament. I feel sure that you will be chosen.’

Baldwin screwed up his brow. ‘But there is no call for Parliament yet, is there? The last was earlier this year.’

‘But when the summons comes, your name will be selected. It will be good for you, Sir Baldwin. And you and I can travel to the Parliament together.’

Baldwin nodded, took his leave, and went out to find his horse. The beast had been well cared for, and he had him resaddled and prepared. Mounted, he sat gazing about him at the mayhem all around.

It seemed to him that this rowdy place was like the kingdom. Noisy, messy, in many ways unmanageable: but when those who ran it bickered for power, all in this Close would be forced to choose sides, and then many must die.

He was profoundly sad as he rode out and along the road towards the great bridge. It was a sadness he could not dismiss no matter how hard he tried. He only hoped that his name would not grow too renowned. To be well known would mean being courted by the wealthy and powerful, and no matter to whom he gave his loyalty, the other would be his enemy.