There was a sudden choking sensation in her throat, and she felt her eyes burning. Like a physician watching a patient, she noted her symptoms, and knew that she was on the verge of bursting into tears yet again, but with an exercise of extreme effort, she managed to keep them at bay. It would be so humiliating, to lose control here in the street. Better to blink the tears away, take a deep breath and continue on the journey home.
At least there her child was waiting for her.
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ her husband persisted.
She didn’t reply.
First Saturday after the Feast of Mary Magdalen*
Portchester
It had been a long and weary walk here. At last, he had been able to catch a ride with an old tranter, in exchange for help with the grooming of the man’s ancient nag. The old fellow was pleased to be able to share a cup of beans and a half-gallon of ale, which the man called Paul of Taunton was equally happy to supply.
Not that he could call himself that any more. There were likely to be men with serious expressions and sharpened swords who would want to speak with him about the grief he had caused the bishop. No matter. If he could, he would have them capture him – but only after he had actually ended the bishop’s life.
But the bishop wasn’t here, he had learned. His quarry had evaded him, and after he had come so far. Bishop Walter had paused here, apparently, but was already journeying farther eastward, to meet with the king. Well, so be it. The bastard would probably feel safer in a city with the king close to hand. All those guards ensuring the monarch’s protection, all those men ready and waiting to repel any attacker. There must be so many now, with the new terrors of invasion. Here in Portchester, there were rumours galore about fresh troubles with France.
The king had ordered that all Frenchmen should be arrested throughout the kingdom – and now there were stories of French warriors sweeping back into Guyenne. The French king was determined to take back the whole of the Aquitaine, and there was no reason to doubt the rumours. In response, King Edward was amassing a host to defend the coast against French attack.
But Paul of Taunton had other things to concern him. First and foremost, he had to think of a new name. Perhaps he should take an easy one: his own. Ranulf was a good name. It had served many men well.
Now he would take it back for himself.
Simon Puttock woke with a feeling that all was quite well in his world. There was no urgency to his rising today, for he knew that his men were perfectly capable of pursuing the utterly pointless task of hunting for documents in amongst the bales of cloth and wool being exported, or searching diligently for secret compartments in barrels. Such pursuits were of no interest to Simon. He was looking forward to seeking out his friend Baldwin.
He had received the note yesterday, which told of the knight’s arrival in the town, and he was keen to see his old companion, feeling in desperate need of a friendly face.
Baldwin was breakfasting on two boiled eggs and a thick hunk of bread when Simon arrived at his inn with Margaret.
‘Simon! Margaret! I am so happy to see you both once more,’ Baldwin said, his face breaking into a smile.
‘It is good to see you, Sir Baldwin,’ Margaret said, smiling warmly in return. ‘I hope you are well. How are Jeanne and the children? Do they thrive? Clearly, Jeanne’s needlework has not declined – that is a magnificent tunic.’
‘Thank you, although I confess I don’t know why she bothered, when my old one was perfectly comfortable,’ Baldwin grumbled. Then, recollecting himself, he told Meg, ‘The children are growing apace. I am astonished at how quickly Richalda is shooting up. Jeanne is fine, I thank you, and little Baldwin is the recipient of more chastisement than even his father was accustomed to, for which I am glad. I would hate to think that I could have been the worst behaved of my family! But what of you?’
‘I am relegated to looking after the children at all hours,’ Margaret said, casting a sly look at Simon.
‘Don’t listen to her,’ Simon said smilingly. ‘She has found all the best stalls in the market, she’s an expert at haggling with the poor devils here, and she enjoys making their lives difficult beyond compare, while I am left to worry and harry the poor traders of the town.’ He took a large leathern tankard of ale, and drank thankfully. ‘It is hardly the easiest post, but it is made infinitely more difficult by the fact that we know we are missing things.’
‘There are messages, then?’
‘Oh, yes. Have no doubt of that,’ Simon said. ‘There are messages of all sorts flying back and forth, I am sure. But a parchment note can be rolled up into a tiny tube, wrapped in oilskins, and concealed anywhere in a ship. Where am I to search? Should I make an example of a ship, and pull it apart, nail by nail, strake by strake? And then, if I find nothing, should I broach every barrel in case there is a false bottom to it? Or perhaps I should cut open every bale of goods? Slice the tunics and chemises of the sailors and even the ship-master’s hat? Pull the man’s sea-chest apart, in case there is a hollowed plank? And if I fail with this first supposed spy, should I then turn to the next ship? And the one after that? It is ridiculous, like looking for a specific stem in the midst of a hayrick. It is there, and we are all fairly certain of that, but more likely it will be found in the port of London, or on a ship in Dover. Those ports have more shipping, and they happen to have access to more secrets than this place. Why, in God’s good name, the king should have asked me to come here, I do not know!’
‘Well, at least you and I can wander the streets companionably,’ Baldwin said.
‘Is there any news of our daughter?’ Margaret said suddenly. ‘It has been a long time since we heard from her.’
‘There is news, but I do not think that it will be overly welcome, Margaret. The sad fact is, Jeanne saw Edith in Exeter,’ Baldwin said. ‘I was not with her at the time, but Edgar was, and Jeanne called to Edith when Edgar was in full view. Peter was with her, and recognised the beau of his maidservant, and since he is no fool, was perfectly able to make up the links in the chain that connected his maid to my servant. I am sorry. There has been no message since then.’
Margaret nodded, but her head had fallen to her breast. ‘I see.’
‘However, my wife had the sense to take a simple measure that I wish I had considered myself. She told the neighbour of your daughter about the problem with communicating with her, and as a result, I can tell you that your first grandchild is now almost three months old, thriving, and apparently, his bellows can be heard a full half-mile from Edith’s house over the racket of the market!’
‘Oh, thank you,’ Margaret said, but although she smiled at Baldwin, there was a great sadness in her eyes. She so desperately wanted to see her grandchild, to pick him up and hold him. It was so distressing that she was not permitted to see him, nor even her own daughter – a torment that tore at her soul every day.
‘What else have you heard?’ Simon said more quietly.
Baldwin glanced about him at the other men in the chamber. ‘I am here as Commissioner of Array to gather men for the defence of this part of the coast, but I came here at the insistence of Bishop Walter. He has been receiving anonymous letters,’ and he outlined the matter of the mysterious parchment notes.
Simon whistled slowly. ‘Poor Walter. That must have been terrifying. And these messages were all left in his private rooms?’
‘Until a matter of weeks ago, yes.’
‘But if the man is gone,’ Margaret said, ‘then the matter may well be closed.’
‘Let us hope so, yes,’ Baldwin said. ‘But I can only think that a man who was that persistent will not give up so easily.’
First Tuesday after the Feast of Mary Magdalen*
Portchester
As the ship gradually moved towards the coast, the men rushing up the ratlines and furling the sails, Paul could only stand clutching a rope at the front and praying. Dear God in heaven, but the journey was surely one of the very worst a man h
ad ever been forced to endure! The water was a maddened, boiling creature, determined to destroy all those who dared to cross over it. Drowning was not the worst fate of a sailor, he decided – it was just the end to suffering.
Here, staring out at the harbour, Paul was, for the first time in several days, keen to reach the English shore.
He hadn’t been so at first, knowing that as soon as he arrived, he would have to ensure that his mission was appreciated, and that he must not be passed over instantly to the bishop’s men. But this port was not in Devon or Cornwall, so the bishop’s writ was far less strong here. It wasn’t as safe as London, true, but this was the first and only ship he had found, and a man as desperate as he was could not afford to pick and choose.
At least this ship was larger. When he first fled England, he had ended up on one of those cogs that sailed its way up the beach at high tide, and then waited for the sea to withdraw, so that the vessel could be unloaded at leisure in the period while they waited for the sea to return. Once empty, it was lighter, and the returning tide would easily take it back out to sea.
This was infinitely more safe and secure. It was better to sit safely on the ship, and wait until the little lighters arrived to empty her. Paul would be able to go ashore with one of them. That would be good, he thought.
And it was at that very moment that he felt the first prickle of danger – and turned to see two sailors, both wearing broad smiles, and both gripping unsheathed swords perilously close to his belly.
Portchester
Simon and Baldwin were both glad of the interruption when the man arrived and told them that there was a fellow who had been captured on a ship, and was being held in the little gaol.
This, when Baldwin saw it, was no better than a privy. Tiny, noisome, and damp, it was the kind of chamber which would enthusiastically remove the life from even the most courageous and healthy prisoner. And the man inside gave no indication that he was either.
‘What have they put me in here for?’ he ranted. ‘I told them I had urgent news for the Keeper of the Port, but none of them listened to me! Who are you two, anyway?’
Simon leaned against the wall beside the grille that was the only aperture in the gaol’s walls. ‘You can talk to me. I am the Keeper here. What have you been up to? The sailors said they thought you were a spy.’
‘I am no such thing! I am brother to Sir James de Cockington in Exeter. You sound like a Devon man, so you will know his name. I am no spy, I have come from France with urgent news for the king, and if you would not wish to see yourself punished, you would do well to release me, fellow.’
‘You could be the sheriff’s brother, it’s true,’ Baldwin said. ‘He too is arrogant enough to think that the best way to get what he wants is to insult men who only seek to help him. What were you doing in France?’
‘I was with the young Duke of Aquitaine. I have been with him for some while now, and I can help him to be captured or rescued,’ Paul said slyly.
Baldwin and Simon exchanged a shocked glance.
‘So, if you two know what is good for you, you will help me out of this cell and get me some food. I am starved!’
Exeter
It was so hard to get up in the mornings, Edith found. Although the baby needed feeding and changing, there was this awful lethargy that she couldn’t shake off. Any value which she had put upon herself was meaningless now. She was nothing more than a milch cow for her son. A walking dairy.
Every so often she would remember a little scene from when she had been a young girl, living with her parents. Generally they were happy, those fleeting memories, of running through a sun-drenched pasture filled with flying dandelion seeds; walking with her father over the moors near home, of a candle-lit feast with her parents and Hugh looking on appreciatively … so many little snippets of recollection that made up her life so far. But since her marriage and child’s birth: nothing.
There were times when she could easily have taken up her son and dashed his brains against the wall, and more when she could have run a dagger into her own heart. The despair she felt made her want to cry at all hours.
Nobody could understand her – she knew that. They didn’t see the awful existence that was hers. She was useless – useless – and so stupid. Hoping to win over the heart of Peter had been a vain dream. He couldn’t love her, any more than anyone could. There was a mirror in her chamber, but she had removed it so that she wouldn’t have to look at her own face any more. It was become repugnant.
‘Edith? Are you all right?’ her husband called quietly.
He had entered so silently, she had not heard him. She stood still, as though discovered in some heinous crime, holding their son in her arms and staring at him.
‘My love, you look so tragic!’ he said with a catch in his voice.
‘I am fine,’ she said mechanically. It was the correct answer, she knew.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Portchester
Simon eyed the man who gnawed on the lamb-shank before him. He glanced occasionally at Baldwin, but his friend sat with his eyes lidded, as though he was giving the man only half his mind, while concentrating on other matters. Of course, Simon knew that it was a show. Baldwin was capable of fierce intensity when he studied a man like this.
And the man was worth the effort.
Simon and Baldwin had been to France themselves, and Simon knew all the problems of long-distance travelling – not only the exhaustion, but the misery of a ship in poor weather, the emptiness of the belly after hours of throwing up, the natural desire for the journey to end. And late last year, he and Baldwin had been forced to fly from France in peril, so they believed, of their lives, since their friend Bishop Walter had been threatened with death while there. Now, as Baldwin had mentioned once or twice, the actual threat of death from men while they were on an official embassy from England, was probably less than they had perceived at the time. Still, Simon could all too easily remember the petrifying terror of their flight.
This fellow, so he said, had experienced the same. It was quite possible.
‘Well? You will have to answer us now,’ he said, his sense of urgency overwhelming him as the man reached across and lifted the jug. He seemed about to raise the whole thing to his lips, but Simon’s scandalised expression made him reconsider, and he poured some into a little green-glazed pot.
‘I would like to, masters. But perhaps I should wait until the king’s own sheriff has arrived. This is very important information.’
Baldwin stirred, but said nothing. His head fell to his breast, and he appeared to study the table’s surface near him. It was left to Simon to speak with a touch of asperity in his voice. ‘I am the Keeper of this Port, and as such I have authority. If you have any news for us, I suggest you tell us quickly. You wouldn’t want your information to become out of date, would you? Your value would reduce accordingly.’
‘You think I care about such things?’ Paul said loftily. ‘I know my place, and the importance of my information, Keeper, so there is no point you trying to get what you can out of me.’
‘What is that supposed to mean?’ Simon demanded, and he felt the blood rush to his face as the fellow gave him a calculating look.
‘Keeper, I am no fool. I know how the world works. You intend to take the news I bring and get credit for it, don’t you? It won’t be the first time it’s happened, and it won’t be the last. Well, this time I intend to gain full reward for all the risks I have taken. I’ll not give it all up to the first officer who pays me one lamb shank and a cup of wine! Hah! Only a fool would do that.’
Simon sprang to his feet and would have grasped the man by the throat across the table for his insolence, but Baldwin held up a hand to stop him. ‘Let me speak with him a moment, Simon,’ he murmured.
Paul had shoved his stool back until it was at the wall behind him, and now he curled his lip disdainfully as he contemplated Simon. ‘That’s right, man. You sit down again. Your friend here doesn’t
need a mastiff to bate me.’
‘No,’ Baldwin agreed. ‘I am sure I don’t. Now, you told us that you were the brother of Sir James de Cockington, I believe. I know of the brother of that man. I heard about him while I was in the company of the Bishop of Exeter. But you know the bishop, don’t you, rector? He is the man who seeks you here in England.’
‘You cannot send me back to him! I have business with the king!’
‘You will answer our questions now, fully, and in the most detailed manner possible. Afterwards, we shall consider what would be best to do with you.’
Paul licked lips which had suddenly parched. It was tempting to try to bluff his way with these two stern-faced bastards, but … he wasn’t sure that they would fall for his stories. And if he tried to feed them a diet of invention, he was quite sure that they would be the cause of his undoing. They looked the sort of men who knew their own value; they wouldn’t simply throw him to the bishop and forget him, they would make sure that any news he had was taken to the highest level possible. And he meanwhile would languish in a gaol very like the one he had just experienced. That was not to be borne.
‘Very well.’
‘How do you know about the duke?’ Simon asked.
‘I was in Paris earlier this year, and fell into his company. His last tutor was sent away, and I was taken to teach him. The queen interviewed me herself,’ he added with pride.
‘Did you stay in Paris, then?’
‘No, of course not. There was much to see in other places, so we went to Montreuil, and would still be there, I suspect, but for an unfortunate incident.’
‘What?’
‘One morning we were out riding, and I saw some men coming towards us,’ Paul said, embellishing shamelessly. ‘It was due to my warning that the assault was beaten off, but it was clear after that, that it wasn’t safe for the duke to remain so close to the coast, so near to England. He was advised,’ and here his tone left no doubt as to the perspicacious adviser’s identity, ‘and he accepted the advice: to leave Montreuil and ride to safer places, remaining in each town only a couple of nights, not more, so that those who might seek to catch or hurt him would never be able to keep up with him.’
The Bishop Must Die: (Knights Templar 28) Page 26