Eustace gave a lopsided grin. ‘Aye, you were ever the bold one, Richard, weren’t you? Maybe I will, at that. There’s nothing here for a man with balls. The country’s falling apart. Perhaps France would be better. My thanks for the wine.’
‘Godspeed, brother,’ Richard said, and stood at his door to watch the older man stride out to his horse and mount.
Then, with his companions, he waved once, wheeled, and rode off.
Richard was sad to see him go, but glad at the same time. His brother was a potential embarrassment, after all. But then, he thought he caught sight of some smoke. Peering in that direction, he saw a rising cloud of dust. And it approached at speed, before moving off around the vill and hurtling off in pursuit of Eustace.
He couldn’t see the faces of the men in that posse, but the rider in front, he saw, was a large man. Like Pestel.
Exeter
It was late afternoon when Baldwin finally walked from the bishop’s palace and into the bustling High Street.
He had left Edgar at the market seeking two horses, and had hopes that his servant would have had some luck, but trying to make his way there was sorely trying in this crush. He had to push past many men and women, scowling ferociously all the while, until at last, when he was close to Carfoix, he was ready to bawl at anyone who came too close, let alone shoved him. And it was here that he saw Edith, Simon’s daughter.
She was an easy woman to spot, even in a crowd like this. Tall, slim, fair, she was as beautiful as her mother Meg, but with the freshness of youth about her. Many men stopped to ogle her as she passed, and Baldwin grinned to himself.
‘My lady!’ he called. ‘Mistress Edith? It’s me, Baldwin.’
There was a young man with her. Not her husband, but an ill-favoured servant with a mean look about him. He glared at Baldwin and raised his staff threateningly as though preparing for a fight.
Edith put her hand out to him. ‘Sir Baldwin is a friend,’ she said quickly.
Baldwin was confident that, if the youth had tried to harm him, he would soon have learned the error of his ways. ‘Sorry, friend,’ Baldwin said. ‘I know this lady well.’
‘My master said—’
‘Your lady is now telling you not to be so foolish,’ Baldwin said mildly.
‘How do I know who you are?’
Baldwin’s smile became a little fixed. ‘Friend, I am the Keeper of the King’s Peace. If you do not wish to find yourself in gaol, you will now be silent while your mistress and I talk. Edith, you are looking radiant.’
‘Thank you, Sir Baldwin. I am very well.’
‘And your husband?’
‘Oh, Peter is well enough. He is recovered, although—’
‘Look, I don’t—’ The servant stepped forward, as though to push between Baldwin and Edith.
Baldwin said nothing, but as the fellow shoved his staff ahead of him, the knight grasped it in his left hand, yanked it forward, pulling the man off balance, and gripped his throat with his right. ‘Do not interrupt me again,’ he said, then pushed the man away.
The servant withdrew, rubbing at his throat, leaving the staff in Baldwin’s hands.
‘I am glad to hear that,’ Baldwin continued. Edith’s husband had recently been arrested on false charges, probably so that the sheriff could try to extort money from his father. Corruption was rife in the kingdom at present. The poor boy, who was only in his early twenties, was utterly broken by the experience. Gaol was a bad enough place for those who knew that they deserved incarceration, but for a man who was entirely innocent, the experience could be devastating, especially when the victim had no idea what his crime was, nor who was accusing him. In cases like his, where the case itself was a fiction, there was not even the certainty of hiring a pleader to fight on a man’s behalf. All was dependent on the cynicism and greed of the man sitting on the judge’s seat.
‘At least we did manage to rescue him from that,’ Baldwin said. He glanced over at her. ‘How are you?’
‘I …’ She licked her lips and gave a short shake of her head. ‘I am well. But would you please pass on a message from me to Father? Just tell him that I love him very much. And Mother. And I miss them … I miss them very much …’
‘Edith, are you all right?’ Baldwin asked. To his horror, she began to weep quietly, the tears streaming. He put out a hand to her, but she gently removed it.
‘No, sir. Please, just tell them I love them. And now I must go. I am sorry, sir.’
The servant with her was chewing at his lip, his head darting forward and back as he tried to gauge Edith’s mood, anxious that he might be failing in his task of protection, but fearful of upsetting a knight wearing a sword.
Baldwin said slowly, ‘Edith, if you truly do not want to confide in me, that is your prerogative and I will understand, but please believe me when I say that if there is something which is upsetting you, I can help. Let me know if you wish for my aid.’
She made no comment, but simply nodded, and then, with her head bowed, she continued on her way.
The servant was about to scurry after her when Baldwin grabbed his arm, and the man squeaked as he was drawn round to face the knight.
‘You will watch over her like the most faithful hound in the world. You will not allow anyone to harm her, understand? And if you learn that someone is hurting her, you will defend her. Because if you do not,’ and Baldwin leaned closer now, ‘I will come to you and your worst nightmares will not prepare you for my wrath, little man!’
The fellow nodded quickly, eyes wide like a terrified child, and then set off after Edith.
‘Boy!’ Baldwin called. He held out the staff to him. Shamefacedly, the servant returned, snatched the staff, and made off after his mistress at a canter.
‘That is a most distressed lady, or I am a Moor,’ Baldwin muttered, and set off to find Edgar.
Chapter Eight
Bishop’s Palace
William Walle was in the yard when he saw the cart being pulled by a wandering horse straight towards the ditch beside the Canon’s Street. With a short cry for help, he sprang over the hillocks of old graves, past two quarrelling workmen, and managed to catch the animal’s bridle just as it was about to step into the mingled water and effluent.
The owner started to remonstrate with him, as though William had been attempting to steal the beast, but a short discussion with one of the Close’s beadles soon had the man apologising and offering a contribution for the rebuilding works. There were advantages to being the nephew of the bishop, William thought, especially here on church lands where the law of the city held no force.
‘Squire William! May I speak with you?’
William smiled on hearing John de Padington. ‘Of course, steward. How may I serve you?’
‘Squire, it is about our conversation – when you spoke of a message, and how anxious you were for your uncle?’
William instantly recalled their discussion. ‘Aha! So there is something – I knew it.’
‘It is a commonplace that men will always leap to assumptions,’ John said severely.
‘You are quite right, of course. I am a typical fellow, in that I will rashly form judgements based on careful observation,’ William nodded with mock sincerity.
‘You’re a young fellow, certainly,’ John said sourly. ‘And like most young fellows, you are also mostly wrong.’
‘Have a care, old man! You speak to a squire.’
‘Aye. And were the man any other squire, I would have many a care, sure not for long!’
William laughed aloud at that. ‘All right then, if I cannot scare you with the power of my position, then you may as well tell me what you can.’
Smiling in his turn, the steward leaned nearer to prevent others from listening. ‘I overheard him talking with a friend of his.’
‘Sir Baldwin, was it?’
‘If you’re going to be so clever and guess at my tale, you may tell me what I learned.’
‘No, no. It would be disc
ourteous to an old man. You carry on. But please, be swift. At your age a man is likely to forget so quickly.’
‘I can remember my lessons from when I was not yet ten years old, I’ll have you know!’
‘But I wager you have trouble recalling your lunch last Wednesday? Eh?’
‘Enough of this!’ John said, for he couldn’t. ‘Do you want to know or not?’
William made a gracious bow and grinned. ‘If you please.’
‘The king has written to the bishop and told him that all produce from the country must be checked to see that there are no messages hidden within from the queen, nor messages to her that could give her succour. I think that the letter you saw was that instruction from King Edward.’
‘You think he would hide that from me?’ William said doubtfully.
‘Well, it is a secret of great importance. He would not wish it to be bruited about.’
‘And you think my uncle would fear that of me?’ William said mildly.
John said nothing for a moment. William was a genial man, but suggesting that he might be considered untrustworthy was exceedingly insulting. ‘Squire, do you know me well? Yes. And I know you. I have known you these past ten years or more, and I have seen you grow from a young man into the squire you now are. If you ask, is there any secret I would think I must withhold from you, I will state on the Bible that there is none. Further, I know that the bishop your uncle would trust you with his life. I know these things as plainly as I know that I stand here in the Cathedral Close. But there are times in a man’s life, even in your uncle’s, when things begin to get on top of him. I think that the whole affair of the queen’s betrayal, and the king’s evident displeasure with your uncle, have left him confused and upset.’
‘The king’s displeasure? But the king and Uncle Walter are good companions. I have seen them.’
‘No longer. Don’t forget that the king agonises over his son’s welfare, which he had entrusted to your uncle. Bishop Walter took the king’s son to France and was instructed to bring him home again – with the queen. In the event, your uncle left France in great haste, and left both queen and son behind. Now the bishop knows that he is not favoured. He has made his oath with the king, and would honour it: he is no coward, but even the bravest man can find himself confused when events conspire to baffle his best intentions.’
‘What do you mean? What does Uncle want to do?’
‘I think he wishes to return to the king to advise him. But while the king is so angry with him, he cannot. Instead he remains here, receiving messages instructing him to search every bale of cloth, every barrel of tar, to make certain that there is no secret correspondence.’
‘And you think he was ashamed of the instruction?’
‘No. I merely think he knows not how best to ingratiate himself into the king’s company. All the while he sits here restlessly, wanting to help and not knowing how to, the king can listen only to those others in his household whose motives are not so honourable. And it makes the bishop fretful and concerned for the king and for the realm.’
‘I see.’
‘And so, William, you and I must use our best efforts to ensure that your uncle is given every opportunity to rest from his affairs. We must protect him from these dark moods of melancholy that must afflict him.’
‘I will do all I may to try to help him, then,’ William said, and gave a little grunt of relief. ‘You know, for the last week or so, I have been growing more and more alarmed. In my eyes, Uncle Walter has become ever more pale and weary-looking. It is a comfort to think that it is only the strain of these additional responsibilities.’
West Sandford
Simon stood outside his house and watched as his son ran about the pasture, trying to chase the last of the hens back to their little coop. There was a great deal of whooping and waving of arms, but the little lad, only approaching four years, was blithely unaware of his failure to bring the birds in. Simon chuckled to himself as his boy hurtled over the grass, stumbling and falling over and over, giggling gleefully as he did so, quickly collecting himself and chasing after the poultry again, only to tumble again.
‘He’ll muss up his tunic,’ came a glum voice.
‘Hugh, there are times when a lad has to be able to play,’ Simon said.
‘I know that. Used to play myself.’
Simon looked across at his servant. Hugh wore his customary expression of deep bitterness. ‘You don’t look as though you remember it,’ he said.
‘When I was growing up at Drewsteignton, I played.’
Simon grinned to himself. Hugh had been a shepherd for much of his youth, up on the steep hills about Drewsteignton, a quiet vill in the east of Dartmoor. It was an area Simon loved. The hills rose high, and a man could see across the broad Teign Valley from the heights, a good place to live, if exhausting to cross.
But Hugh had not been fortunate in recent years. He had been graced with a lovely woman who had agreed to give herself to him as wife some years before, and he had gone to live on a little plot of land towards Iddesleigh, but she had died with her son in a house fire. Afterwards Hugh had returned to Simon’s service full-time. His face wore the scars of that loss even now. Simon too knew what it was to lose a loved one. He had lost his first son, also named Peter, to a foul malady – and that memory would never leave him. There was always that awareness, that little niggling fear, that this boy too might one day be taken away.
As his sister now had been.
He felt his face harden at the thought. His lovely child. It was one thing to give up a child to her lover when she decided to become married, but quite another to have her taken away like this.
‘Still, it’s not as good as playing merrils in a tavern,’ Hugh muttered, hitching up the hempen rope which he had bound about his waist as a belt. He hawked and spat, before lurching off in the direction of the house again.
‘Come on, Perkin,’ Simon called. Peter was always ‘Perkin’ to him now.
The little boy heard, but deliberately ignored him. He continued running about with the chickens. And then a great dog appeared. It ambled over towards him with its head on one side, and for a short moment Simon was shocked, for it was massive, and his thoughts of the last minutes made him see only the brute’s size and the potential danger it posed to Perkin. But then it lowered its enormous head and shook, before trotting to Perkin and nudging him, rubbing his head all over the boy, and Simon recognised it.
When Simon looked over to the east, along the road that led here from Sandford, he saw Baldwin sitting on his horse, his arm resting on his saddle’s bow, smiling a little nervously, as though fearing to be rejected.
Bishop’s Palace, Exeter
The last of the accounts dealt with, Bishop Walter leaned back in his seat and motioned to the bottler as the clerks packed up their inkhorns and reeds and bowed their way from his presence.
There were times when being a prelate involved such profound disappointment that he wished he could give it up. He was sure that his father, William, had never had such doubts. He and Mabel, Walter’s mother, lived quiet, unassuming lives near Cookbury, in the Hundred of Black Torrington, where they achieved much, but remained unimportant and obscure. Not for them the glories of fame, of knighthood or mercantile success. William Stapledon was comfortably off, with enough income to bring up their seven children, four sons and three daughters, without straining his resources. And he lived to see those children achieve some influence.
Richard, the next eldest in the family, was already a noted knight. He had been returned as knight of the shire in parliaments from York to Westminster, and had worked with Walter to create the magnificent Stapledon Hall at Oxford University. Robert and Thomas had both gone into the Church and had good livings from their positions, while the daughters, Douce, Joan and Mabel, were all fortunate to marry well.
Yes. William Stapledon had deserved his long life and peaceful death. Walter only wished he might have the same good fortune.
&
nbsp; There was a knock at his door, and John de Padington, his nephew, peered around. ‘Your clerks said you wanted to speak with me?’
‘Yes. Can you go and see the gaoler and fetch to me the rector he is holding? It is time I spoke with the God-cursed idiot about his kidnap and rape. He should be pliant enough by now, but ask the gaoler to walk here with you.’
When the steward had gone, Walter looked down at his hands and sighed. Yes, he had done his best all through his life. No one could deny that he was one of the most hardworking diocesans Exeter had ever seen; in truth, he was notable amongst bishops throughout the realm. It was likely that no other bishop in Devon and Cornwall had managed to visit all the parishes, meet with all the priests, nuns and monks, and assess each and every one in such a large diocese.
He had not been satisfied with merely visiting, either. Only too aware of the huge benefits which had accrued to him as a result of his own education, and because he had seen too many rural priests who were more or less incapable of their duties, too old, too deaf, too steeped in wine, to be able to provide properly for the cure of the souls in their parishes, he was dedicated to improving the quality of all the men of the cloth in his diocese. For that he sedulously studied all the young boys he met in houses up and down his area. Those who showed a precocious intelligence, he would discuss with their parents, and the ones who appeared most promising, he would bring back to Exeter or Ashburton, where he had created a small school, and see them properly educated. With luck, some of them would later make their way up to Oxford, to study at the college he had founded.
In the cathedral, he would be remembered as a patron. He had provided much of the money to ensure that the works continued to the glory of God, even if he would never himself see the finished result. That was a certainty – at the present rate of progress, it could not be completed until halfway through the century at the earliest. Although Walter II was already five-and-sixty, but felt as young as a man in his fortieth year, he knew that it was too much to hope that God would allow him to remain here for another four-and-twenty years. If He did, Walter would no doubt be a drooling, feeble-minded cretin like poor Father Joshua, who could do little more than swallow now when a spoon was held to his mouth.
The Bishop Must Die: (Knights Templar 28) Page 8