The Bishop Must Die: (Knights Templar 28)

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The Bishop Must Die: (Knights Templar 28) Page 15

by Michael Jecks


  But for a cleric, such concerns were less pressing. Paul had a comfortable post in rooms near the cathedral, and he happily sauntered about in the sun. One of the clerks with whom he had travelled to Paris was a man in the pay of the Earl of Winchester, the father to Sir Hugh le Despenser, and Paul was able to help with some of his duties, for he spoke fluent French, having come from a good noble family. So for the last weeks, Paul had enjoyed his temporary exile.

  There would one day be a reckoning, he was aware of that. He would have to return to England to learn what the Church intended to do with him, for there was no doubt that the Bishop of Exeter would refuse to return him to his post. Rather, he would wish to put him back in the bishopric’s gaol from which he had escaped.

  That was not an outcome which appealed to him. The next time he was incarcerated, it would be a great deal more difficult to escape, no matter how much his brother bribed the guards and gaolers.

  Paul lounged on a wall near the cathedral, overlooking the Seine and enjoying the sights in the sun. It was a glorious day, and he was debating whether to go to the little pie shop up near the Louvre which had become to him a delightful bolt-hole, or to walk over to the tavern near the eastern gate, when he caught sight of two women strolling along the road. Both, he sighed, were worth a second look. Adorable, the shorter one. Petite, with olive skin and luscious dark hair, she was his favourite. Light and bouncy, with a pair of breasts that would be enough to suffocate the man who shoved his face between them, and a backside that would grace a small pony, she was quite delectable, especially with her cheeky grin.

  The other was a little taller, stronger, and fairer. She had grey eyes that held that challenging, ‘Damn you’ expression he so mistrusted. Women, he found, were better when they were smaller. Then the enthusiastic could be supported, while the recalcitrant could be forced. Larger women could prove to be too much of a handful, in his experience.

  ‘I wouldn’t, if I were you.’

  The voice was that of a man immediately behind him, and he turned, startled, to find himself being studied by a shortish fellow with very clear blue eyes. He was only perhaps three- or four-and-twenty, and from the look of his fit, muscular frame and slim waist, he was used to fighting. And from the look of the creases at the corners of his eyes, he was also used to laughing.

  ‘Wouldn’t what?’ Paul asked.

  ‘Try to entice those ladies.’ He winked and turned to watch the women walking away along the street, and nodded shortly beyond them. ‘See those two?’

  Paul gave a fleeting frown. His eyesight was not very good, but he could discern something. ‘Is it two men?’

  ‘Aye, friend. And I think we should be leaving this place.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, those two look to me like the sort of churls who’d quite like to investigate what your bowels would look like, looped over a fence. You’re English, they’re French, and even though you only eyed two Frenchwomen and didn’t make a move, I think they’d take you apart for the fun of destroying an Englishman.’

  Oakhampton Castle, Devon

  The entrance to the great castle of the de Courtenay family, guarding the main road into Cornwall from the valleys of Devon, was imposing.

  Originally the castle had been a simple motte and bailey construction, Baldwin guessed as he trotted down the roadway. From here he could see the keep on its enormous mound. Many serfs would have been employed to manufacture that, because originally it had been a long ridge of rock; the first Normans had forced the local population to hack and dig at it, heaving heavy baskets of rock and soil away and tipping them on top of the mound, bringing its height up above the original ridge and making it still more imposing. No doubt much of the rock dug away would also have been used in constructing the early walls. No matter. The main fact was, by the end of it all, and thanks to the efforts of the poor townspeople, there was a huge fissure dug from the rock so that the castle keep stood isolated on a separate mound. And that was when the real building could begin.

  The keep was a tall tower, square sided, and secure by virtue of the steep hill on which it stood. Below was the main hall and all the supporting buildings, enclosed within their high wall. Smoke was drifting into the air from the cooking fires and the forges, and the sound of hammering crashed into Baldwin’s ears as smiths went about their business making arrowheads, knife and sword blades, chains, steel balls for maces, and armour. The full paraphernalia of offence and defence. All a man could wish for, were he to desire to kill without dying.

  At the bottom, facing the road, was the long corridor of the bastion, which curved up to the main gate.

  ‘De Courtenay has a strong fortress here,’ Peter Ovedale commented.

  Baldwin shot a glance at him. ‘Yes. This is a good position for a man who wishes to guard the approaches to the town.’

  ‘It is better than that. It’s an excellent place from which to guard against attackers from Cornwall and thus to defend the realm,’ Ovedale said.

  Baldwin grimaced. ‘Perhaps. Unless the attackers sweep around it and continue on their path.’

  ‘When these mercenaries arrive, sir, they will not wish to leave a solid little post like this,’ Ovedale said sententiously, then sniffed.

  Baldwin grunted. The insufferable knight had been speaking like this for all the time he had known him, and he was heartily bored with it. Ovedale appeared to have decided he was competent to assess the defensive capabilities of any town or castle while they were involved in the commission of array, and had assumed responsibility for judging and reporting on them all. In his mind, it was clear that the queen with her mercenaries from France would land in Cornwall and sweep their way up this road, not stopping until they were met by the levies of Devon, at which point they would be annihilated.

  ‘You must concede, Sir Baldwin, that such mercenaries will not appreciate the full strength of the English and Cornish peasantry until they meet them.’

  ‘That, I believe, is quite correct,’ Baldwin said quietly. He had fought at Acre, when he was a raw, untested warrior who had thought that with God on his side, he must inevitably win. He had learned early on that a warrior who was practised would be more likely to survive a battle on his feet, and he knew that most mercenaries had already been tested in battle, and to line against them the poor, foolish, or even strong and intelligent of the countryside, was to give them a perfect series of targets for their weapons.

  Swords and lances, spears and axes, all would crush opposition when the latter was comprised largely of peasants who had little understanding of combat, nor of the sheer hideous ferocity of war. A few would consider themselves fighters, and they might be keen to join the fray, thinking that their ability with fists or a dagger, after a night’s drinking scrumpy until fear was utterly eradicated, would have shaped them for modern warfare, but Baldwin knew otherwise. When the artillery hurled shot at them from trebuchets, or the foul, modern metal tubes belched fire and smoke, a man’s heart would quail; when hordes of screaming iron-clad men hurtled towards them, all gleaming with silver steel, rattling like a thousand cauldrons filled with bolts and nails, then the peasants would find their courage leaching away like blood soaking into the soil. War was not a sport for the faint-hearted.

  ‘Yes, we will show the queen that she cannot simply ride some small boat over here and expect a welcome with open arms! Hah!’

  ‘Come, let us halt here and rest,’ Baldwin said. Grimacing, he dismounted. Today’s journey from Cornwall had been long, and he was desperate for a chair and, unusually for him, a large goblet of wine. Although, with his thirst, perhaps a quart of ale would be a better choice.

  The steward met them at the gate and bellowed for ostlers. Soon they were ensconced on a broad bench, backs against the wall, while the steward told them of the number of men in the town and about the castle. For the array here, the king could depend upon almost a hundred.

  As commissioners, Baldwin and Ovedale had simple instructions. To find
the strongest men in each hundred, arm them and put the more competent into armour, and then group them in their twenties, called vintaines, which were the basic unit of the king’s host. The vintaines were lumped together into centaines, hundreds, and ten of these formed a millaine. Thus was the king’s force composed, with each man knowing his vintaine, his centaine and millaine. Orders could be sent from the commander to the groups without difficulty, and each unit should be able to operate, in theory, to ensure success.

  But not, of course, when the individual components were unready.

  The steward here was a cheery-looking fellow named Sir Giles de Sens, who smiled a great deal. He had a large paunch, a round face, and the high colouring that spoke of his enjoyment of drinking and good food.

  ‘How are matters in Cornwall?’ he asked as soon as the two men had drunk enough to take the edge from their thirst.

  Food was being prepared as they waited, and Baldwin’s mouth watered at the smells emanating from the kitchen a short distance away. ‘Not so bad as I feared,’ he admitted. ‘The men appear fit and ready. However, there is a great deal of loyalty to the queen there. She was popular among the miners.’

  ‘But they will do their duty to God and their king!’ Ovedale stated. ‘They love their king, and will obey him.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Baldwin said.

  ‘You doubt their loyalty to the king?’ Ovedale asked, shocked. ‘I doubt no one. Nor do I trust them when they have not yet seen the size of the force that opposes them.’

  ‘If,’ Sir Giles said, ‘you are correct, Sir Baldwin, pray, what do you think of their devotion to their king, or to, say, my lord Despenser?’

  Baldwin shot him a look. The man looked easy and relaxed, but that was no guide. He had just asked a dangerous question, because it related directly to Sir Hugh le Despenser, and Baldwin was sure that Ovedale was a firm supporter of Sir Hugh. ‘I think it is as strong as any man’s in the land,’ he said at last.

  ‘Even so?’ the steward said, and now he grinned, and Baldwin saw his eyes flit over towards Ovedale. So this man was fully aware of Ovedale’s position then, and was testing Baldwin. His eyes were shrewder than Baldwin had first thought.

  It was much later that he sought out Baldwin. Ovedale had already gone to find a suitable bed for the night, and Baldwin was enjoying the peace without him. He was staring up at the stars, admiring them as they twinkled in the clear sky, watching occasional gossamer-thin clouds drifting past in the deep, dark blueness, when he heard the steps.

  ‘I am sorry to have asked in front of that fool, Sir Baldwin,’ he said.

  ‘Asked what?’ Baldwin murmured.

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry. Down here, we know where our loyalties lie. We serve Sir Hugh de Courtenay, and that makes our task all the easier.’

  ‘I am sure that he would make it very easy,’ Baldwin said tersely. ‘He, like any other knight, must support the king.’

  ‘The king, yes. Not his favourite, though. There is almost no one in the land who has any warmth of feeling towards Despenser.’

  Baldwin shook his head sadly. ‘Goodnight, friend.’

  ‘No, please, Sir Baldwin. Wait a moment or two more. I have been asked to speak with you by Sir Hugh de Courtenay himself. He wishes to know whether you will support …’

  ‘I have given you my answer,’ Baldwin said. ‘I can give no other.’

  ‘Oh. Well, that is a shame, Sir Baldwin. There are strange things happening all over the realm, and you will soon find that taking this kind of attitude isn’t very sensible.’

  ‘Are you threatening me?’

  Sir Giles smiled with an appearance of regret. ‘Oh, I don’t seek to threaten, Sir Baldwin. No. All I want to do is to help you to make your own choice. You cannot want to support Despenser, after all. No man would wish to see that knuckle-headed dollypoddle stay in a position of authority. He is a danger to the realm, to the king himself, because he foments trouble all the while. Do you deny this?’

  ‘I deny nothing,’ Baldwin said heavily. ‘But I have given my oath.’

  ‘There is no shame, Sir Baldwin, in serving the kingdom. You could say that you were seeing to the interests of the crown itself, in the authority itself, rather than the man.’

  Baldwin turned to him. ‘You seek to twist words? I am not a man of law, I am a simple rural knight, and I have no need for such dissembling. You mean to ask me to deny my oath to the king. I shall not. I like the queen, and I would do all in my power to protect her – if it was in my power – but I have made an oath before God, and I will not break that.’

  ‘Then I am sad, my friend,’ Sir Giles said. ‘Truly sad. For I fear that all such oaths will be thrown into the pot soon, and only those who seek the good of the people of this land of ours will be honoured.’

  ‘So be it. But I will stay true to my word.’

  ‘You will defend those whom the king orders you to?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So perhaps we shall one day meet on a field of battle, with you protecting Despenser, eh, Sir Baldwin?’

  Baldwin said nothing. He turned his face to the stars once more, and Sir Giles waited a few moments, and then strolled away.

  There was nothing more to be said. When the queen at last invaded, they would instantly become enemies.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Louvre, Paris

  Paul de Cockington gazed about him with wonder at the sight of the soaring walls of the great fortress at the western end of the city. He had seen them often enough, of course, for no one could miss the fortress from anywhere in the city. It loomed over all, as much a symbol of dominance and control as it was of protection, but he had not come so near to its huge white walls before, and from here, they were stunning.

  ‘Who are you?’ he asked his new friend.

  ‘My name is Roger Crok. I am a squire.’

  ‘But not in the service of the king,’ Paul said shrewdly. No man here in France was in the English king’s service.

  Crok’s face hardened. ‘I was once a loyal squire. My father was a contrary old man, and he died some years ago. When my mother remarried, she tied herself to a gentleman who was opposed to Despenser. So Despenser took his revenge and had my stepfather arrested. He died in prison. Not content with that, Despenser and Bishop Stapledon stole my mother’s dower, and finally sought to capture and execute me. That is how Despenser and the bishop operate, after all. They capture men, allege treachery, and then conspire to steal their victims’ lands and treasure. I preferred not to wait for that day. I took to the sea as soon as I realised my danger.’

  He smiled still, but there was an edge to his voice that told Paul not to push him further. Not that he had a desire to. Paul could recognise a dangerous man when he met one. Still, he was a dangerous man himself. There was no need to be scared of a fellow like this. Not when his brother was sheriff of Exeter.

  It was humiliating to be stuck here in this strange land, without friends. The clerk with whom he was lodged had no interest in him whatsoever.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Crok asked.

  It was Paul’s turn to smile. ‘I was accused of a crime and forced to leave the kingdom. I would prefer to return, but have been told it would be better were I to stay away for now.’

  ‘Likely true enough,’ Crok said. ‘Did you do it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The crime you were accused of.’

  Paul felt his face begin to redden. ‘I would hardly …’

  ‘So you did, then,’ Crok noted. He eyed Paul speculatively, in a way that increased the latter’s wariness.

  ‘It is undoubtedly a matter of some embarrassment, which is why I’m here,’ Paul said stiffly. ‘But I’m not bereft of friends even now. Just because I’ve made one mistake means nothing. I am a friend to the Earl of Winchester, for example, and to—’

  ‘Then I would be silent if I were you,’ Crok said, and now his tone was markedly different. ‘Do you have no understanding about your posi
tion here? In Christ’s name, man, you are in Paris amidst all the king’s enemies – his wife among them! And you boast about being friendly with Sir Hugh le Despenser’s father? He would be pleased, I doubt me not, were he to learn that you were here, so that you might spy for him on the camp. You are not a spy, are you?’

  The suddenness of his question threw the befuddled Paul off balance. ‘Spy? Me? I wouldn’t—’

  ‘No, you don’t have the look of a spy. That would imply dissembling, and you don’t seem very good at that, do you? Still, I would watch your tongue when in the company of Englishmen. There are many here who would happily execute a friend of Despenser’s.’

  ‘I … I had not thought …’

  ‘Plainly. Here, you are safe from the French. In this castle you are protected by the King of France himself. But that won’t serve to help you if you tell all inside that you are a friend of the Despenser. Even the French King detests the man.’

  Third Wednesday before the Feast of St John and St Paul*

  Louvre, Paris

  He had thought that the blessed realm of France was one of continual sunshine and delight, but this was the second day on which Paul de Cockington had awoken to find that the skies were black with filthy clouds that were determined, apparently, to wash all evidence of the castle from the city. The rain fell in torrents, until a man standing at one side of the great courtyard at the Louvre might find it impossible to see the wall opposite. Paul had never seen such appalling weather.

  In England, he had heard France spoken of as the epitome of style, culture and elegance. Well, as far as Paul was concerned, the people ate mostly peasant food, even here in the castle, and the French knights and squires he had met appeared to lack even a modicum of politeness and civility.

  It was not as if he had offended anybody. After his little chat with Crok, he had been enormously careful to whom he spoke, and what he said. There was no point in taking risks. If it were not for the men he had seen with Crok that day, he would have returned to his little chamber … But that would mean going back to the companionship of that tedious clerk, and in fairness to the staff of the Louvre, it was probably better here than there.

 

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