Michael Jecks: The Death Ship of Dartmouth

It was. Baldwin gave him a long, steady look. ‘I suppose not. No, it was sensible, if we are to go and visit my lord Bishop. Do you know whether it is a matter of business or simply for conversation that he wishes to see me?’

‘It is not a matter of pleasure, I fear.’

Baldwin nodded and grunted, marching to the inner ward.

Exeter’s castle was important as the administrative centre of the city, still, but from up here, gazing about him, Baldwin could see that the defences were falling into decay. The towers had been roofless for forty years or more, and the dereliction was becoming noticeable. Three of the towers had begun to collapse a few years ago, and now were little better than shells. If the city was held under siege again, as it had been so often before, the place could not withstand a single strike from a modern trebuchet.

It was a sobering thought. He swung up onto his horse, contemplating the walls and small piles of rubble from collapsed masonry. Two hundred years before, this had been strong enough to hold out for months when King Stephen besieged it. Now it wouldn’t last five minutes. Even the immense ditch and curtain wall were useless, the one filled, the other crumbling. And no one would do anything about it. It was that which made him most bitter. This was an important castle, deserving of a little money to bring it up to standard, but no one would pay. It was so short-sighted, especially in these difficult times.

Putting it from his mind, he clapped spurs to his mount’s flanks and clattered over the old drawbridge.

It was not far to the bishop’s manor. The two men left by the east gate, then took the Heavitree road south-east, passing by the gallows on the way. Baldwin averted his eyes from the bodies hanging there.

By the time they had reached the new bridge to Clyst St Mary, Baldwin was looking forward to refreshment. It was only a few minutes’ ride to the bishop’s little manor, and soon they were rattling the boards of the drawbridge that spanned the small moat. Ahead was the hall itself, while left was the chapel. Baldwin had only been here a few times, but he knew it well enough. The stables were on the right, and he dropped from his horse, giving orders to the cleric to have the beast rubbed down carefully before he was fed, and strode off to the entrance to the hall.

‘Sir Baldwin, I am glad to see you.’

The bishop was a tall man, slim in build, and with a face that Baldwin privately felt had seen too much deviousness. Bishop Walter had spent too many years involved in the politics at the heart of the realm, supporting those who had sought originally to curb the King’s worst excesses, first by imposing rules on him, a course of action that was doomed to failure as soon as the King felt himself powerful enough to break with those who tried to enforce the rules; and more recently as the King’s ally. He had been responsible for the realm’s finances as the Lord High Treasurer, and even now Baldwin knew he was a trusted confidant.

That, Baldwin found difficult to comprehend. To be an ally of Edward’s was to be an ally of the Despensers, father and son, both called Hugh, and Baldwin could not forgive any man who sought to aid them. Little better than licensed thieves, they were felons who could extort, steal, arrest, torture and murder anyone without fear of restraint. Yet the younger was the King’s closest friend and — so it was rumoured — his lover.

In all the years Baldwin had known him, he had held the bishop in the highest respect. He was an old-fashioned cleric, perhaps, but Baldwin had thought him honourable and compassionate. There was nothing in his dealings with the man that had led him to alter his opinions. Yet now the good bishop was supporting the King and the Despensers.

‘My lord Bishop, I am glad to see you looking so well,’ Baldwin said.

Stapledon held out his hand for Baldwin to kiss his ring. ‘Don’t be sarcastic with me, old friend. I’m sixty-three years old now and — by God! — I feel every one of them. Wine! ’

Baldwin smiled casually, and was surprised when the bishop did not reciprocate. His face was pale and unsettled. He wouldn’t meet Baldwin’s eye directly, and that was most unlike him. It persuaded Baldwin not to speak openly about any political affair. As matters stood, any who spoke against the Despensers were likely to find their homes raided, their wives raped and tortured, children slain, and all that they prized ruined. He would not put his wife and children at risk even at the cost of alienating an old friend like Stapledon.

‘I am tired, Baldwin. Trying to keep the peace between the King and his wife Isabella is like trying to mould water. You can make it take shape, but as soon as you remove your hand, all falls away! The latest plan on Despenser’s side is to make all the barons and lords swear an oath to him, saying they’ll live or die with him …’ Stapledon grew silent as the door opened and his old bottler entered with a tray on which were set out jugs and goblets. The bishop waved his hand and the man left after putting the tray on the table.

‘What would you do?’ Baldwin asked.

Stapledon eyed him, then picked up a parchment and peered at it short-sightedly. With a grimace, he reached into his robe and took out his spectacles, which he opened and held to his eyes. ‘I would have peace in the kingdom — first and foremost between that unhappy pair, the King and his Queen. The old King should have realised when he made them marry that sealing a pact with France was sure to lead to sadness. How could any man expect his son to find happiness with a Frenchwoman? We know what happened to her sisters-in-law. That was enough to kill her father.’

‘You speak of the affair of the silk purses? Yes, as I recall, she was the instrument of their downfall,’ Baldwin noted.

‘True enough,’ Stapledon agreed heavily. ‘I have seen her accounts, and she took ten torch-bearers with her to the French king to tell him that night. I think she was shocked by the result, though. All her sisters-in-law imprisoned, one dying so soon afterwards. And the men — to be killed like that …’

‘I have heard some of the story,’ Baldwin said, ‘but it was during a period when I was exercised with other matters. Perhaps you know more?’

Stapledon took a gloomy sip of his wine. ‘It was in 1313. I was with her and the King. Isabella had travelled to France with her husband to try to heal the rift that had opened between the two kings. You remember all that? Edward was passing over gifts to Piers Gaveston, his … friend.’

Baldwin smiled at his diplomatic pause. Rumours of the King’s affection for the man had been heard by the meanest peasants. To hint at such an affair could cost a man more than money, though, and there was never any way to tell whether a servant could be listening. Baldwin could not help glancing at the door as he motioned to the bishop to continue.

‘At the time, the French king was concerned because Queen Isabella had not received any lands as dower, her finances were dependent upon King Edward, and she actually had to stay with him the whole time, without the money to create her own household. It was ridiculous. Anyway, her father showed his displeasure in no uncertain terms, and began to intrigue behind our king’s back. He hinted that Gaveston was an enemy of France and himself, and to say that any man who supported Gaveston was likewise an enemy.’

Baldwin gave a low whistle. ‘I had not heard that.’

‘It is why Gaveston’s death was such a relief to so many of us,’ Stapledon admitted. He poured wine for himself, holding up the jug for Baldwin, but the latter declined. ‘When Gaveston was slain, it healed much of the rift between Edward and the French. Then, of course, Edward, the king’s son was born. So in May 1313 we went to Paris.