The Death Ship of Dartmouth: (Knights Templar 21) Page 7

  ‘Let us go for a walk,’ the bishop said, standing abruptly. ‘We can eat a little later, if you do not object?’

  Casting an eye over the men eating at their trestle tables, many with their gaze upon him and the bishop, Baldwin nodded. The bishop signalled to a cleric at the corner of the room, and a fur-trimmed cloak was brought for him, together with a soft felt hat. While the weather was so clement, Baldwin refused the offer of another cloak and hat.

  ‘This matter is very important,’ the bishop said as they crossed the court, ‘and I did not wish to speak more of it in front of all my household.’

  ‘Does it involve the King or the Queen?’ Baldwin asked outright.

  ‘Gracious God! What on earth made you ask that?’ the bishop said, stopping dead in his tracks.

  ‘Bishop, I am not a fool. If you are about to tell me that the Queen has taken a lover and given him a silken purse, I must refuse to help you,’ Baldwin said lightly.

  The bishop attempted a laugh. ‘The idea!’

  ‘I am serious, though. I would be disinclined to help if it means I grow involved in politics,’ Baldwin said as they marched over the drawbridge and stood staring at the distant smoke and haze of Exeter. ‘I have a wife and daughter to consider.’

  ‘I can understand that,’ Stapledon said heavily. ‘My concern is that if you don’t, the land could again be engaged in war.’

  ‘What on earth makes you say that?’

  ‘You have to understand the problems,’ Stapledon sighed. ‘Very well … It is all because of Lord Hugh Despenser. Hugh and the King are very close, you understand. It makes the Queen feel left out. There are messages between Edward and the French court every few days, and they are growing less diplomatic each time.’ He began to walk again, his head down. ‘Despenser has no love of the French. You remember when he was exiled?’

  ‘Yes. It was when the Lords Marcher took Despenser’s castles and marched on London. They forced the King to exile him and his father.’

  ‘Yes. Young Despenser took a ship and began to attack any who sailed in the Channel; he captured the cargoes and killed the crews.’

  ‘There was a Genoese ship, I think?’ Baldwin recalled vaguely.

  ‘Despenser attacked it in the Channel, yes. He slew the entire crew, and then stole the ship and cargo – five thousand gold pounds. And in all that time, the French would not allow him to use their ports. Ever since then, he has hated them – perhaps all the more so because they have allowed his enemy, Lord Mortimer, to take sanctuary there. Mortimer is still there, of course, somewhere. That has coloured the King’s attitude to the French as well. So all the while, Queen Isabella is growing more and more alienated from her husband. If she loved him once, it must be terribly hard for her to continue to feel any affection for him now. He looks on her as his enemy, as a spy in his own home. How could a woman of intelligence and spirit accept that for any time? I’ve heard rumours that the King might even take away her lands again, and force her to depend upon his charity. Is it any wonder that she seeks protection from another?’

  ‘And who might that be?’

  Stapledon hesitated. ‘Her brother Charles is the King of France, and he is a great warrior. He has not been beaten in many years. We can make no dent in his great hosts. When he wishes, he overruns Edward’s lands in France and steals them from us.’

  ‘Again – what do you want me to do?’

  ‘In court I have grown to know the Queen well. She has some friends whom she trusts above all others. One of them is a good, noble lady, a woman with an estimable husband. She is honourable …’

  ‘Yes, yes, yes, she is good and honourable,’ Baldwin said a trifle testily.

  ‘I am sorry. This whole affair has thrown me into a turmoil. Well, this lady has done nothing to put herself into bad odour, but a knight fell in love with her. He thought she would be an easy conquest, I fear, and when she resisted him, he used force to violate her. And now he has left our Queen’s household to flee the land.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘It would be marvellous news if he had left the country. I know that the Queen was distressed to hear that one of her countrymen – you see, to make matters worse, he was one of her kinsmen – could behave in such a way with a lady in her household. She would be glad to know that this wretch had fled.’

  ‘Could there be any doubt? Except I see in your eyes that there is more, Bishop, is there not? Why do you not merely capture this Frenchman and hold him?’

  Stapledon winced and looked away again. Baldwin could see his attention was concentrated on the great fish pond that lay a matter of a hundred yards away. There was a thin mist lying over the water and wraithlike tendrils spread from it to the grass. ‘I have heard conversations …’

  ‘Whose conversations? Come, Bishop! If you wish me to do your bidding, at the least you could ensure that I am fully aware of the problems and dangers!’

  Stapledon cast him a dark look. ‘It was young Despenser. He was discussing the Queen’s finances with the King when I walked past the room. She no longer exercises patronage, Baldwin, and she lives away from the King at all times.’

  ‘Why?’ Baldwin wondered.

  ‘This is entirely for your ears, you understand?’ Stapledon hissed. He held Baldwin’s eyes until the knight nodded. ‘Very well, then. The King is displeased with her because although all the nobles have been asked to swear an oath to Hugh Despenser, to “live and die” with him, she has refused to make the same commitment. Hugh Despenser is convinced that she intends to harm him. Now he has suggested that since her brother, the King of France, has raised the question of Gascony again …’

  ‘What question? He has taken it back and made a truce with us.’ Baldwin’s tone was carefully neutral. Last year, at St Sardos in the Agenais, part of King Edward II’s territory, the French had begun to build a fortified town. Edward’s Gascon subjects had attacked, killing a French sergeant, and Edward had prevaricated over sending those guilty into the French king’s territory for punishment. As a result the French took Gascony and declared the territory forfeit. Edward responded by sending a host to retake his lands.

  But his captain was Edmund, Earl of Kent. He upset the Gascons by extorting money from them, and then took and raped a girl he desired. He lost a battle against the French and agreed a ludicrous truce that left the French holding most of the Duchy.

  All because a French sergeant was killed.

  ‘King Charles is demanding that our king should go to him in Paris and do homage for the Dukedom.’ The bishop looked mournful.

  ‘There should be no difficulty, surely? The French king would promise safe passage.’

  Bishop Stapledon glanced at him. ‘Perhaps he would. And would he then apologise if Mortimer appeared in council with him? Mortimer escaped from the Tower and fled to France, so they say. It would humiliate the King if he arrived there to find his enemy waiting. Or would he murmur his gravest commiserations after a vassal of Thomas of Lancaster had sprung forward and stabbed our King to death, or poisoned him? You know the French – they are a wily, cunning people. Anything that would make our King suffer shame or pain would be to them only a cause for celebration. And the French king has already written to say that in his realm, Despenser will be as welcome as Mortimer in this. He insults the King’s favoured adviser!’

  Baldwin said nothing. His own views on Despenser were too virulent for expression.

  ‘So this man must leave the country – safely. Then I can tell the Queen that her lady-in-waiting is safe from the Frenchman’s depredations, and we do not antagonise the French king further. I would like you to find him if you can, and let me know where he is.’

  ‘I see,’ Baldwin said.

  Stapledon sighed. ‘He passed through Exeter two days ago. I had a man follow him, and he has sent to me to say that the fellow is now in Dartmouth. Since then, nothing. My man has disappeared.’

  The Bishop stared at the ground for a long while, and then in a quiet voice
he said, ‘Baldwin, my friend, I would consider it a great favour if you would do this for me. The lad who followed him was my brother Richard’s son. If some evil has befallen him, I do not know how I shall tell my brother. There is no one else I can send on this very private mission.’

  There was a long pause. Baldwin had always done all in his power to avoid becoming embroiled in the murky world of politics, but he was reminded that this kind bishop had been a good friend to him over the years – and it was not truly a political matter. What Stapledon really desired was to find his nephew, not the Frenchman.

  ‘Sir Baldwin,’ the bishop went on, ‘if he is harmed, my brother will be heartbroken. Bernard is his pride and his life.’

  ‘I shall go, naturally, my lord,’ Baldwin said. ‘Though I do not know that there can be a happy conclusion to the business. If I learn that this Frenchman has harmed your nephew, I reserve the right to track him down and execute justice. It is my duty, Frenchman or no.’

  ‘You are an excellent man, Sir Baldwin. A man of honour!’

  ‘I do not know that,’ Baldwin without a smile. ‘The Queen’s lady – she is recovered?’

  ‘I do not know whether she will. It was a violent attack. But we should do nothing about it – that is vital! The man must escape so we don’t further exacerbate the problems over Gascony. And the rape itself must remain secret. It would bring terrible shame to the Queen and her King, were it thought that one of her household could rape an Englishwoman and escape. Imagine how the realm would respond to that!’

  Baldwin shook his head. Both as a father and as a loving husband, he felt he would prefer to destroy this Frenchman for his actions, no matter what the consequences.

  ‘Perhaps you should become an advisor to the King,’ the bishop went on. ‘You should go to Parliament.’

  Baldwin shuddered. ‘I hope I shall always do my duty, but God forbid that I should be forced to such a pass! I shall seek the Frenchman for you, and I shall be happy to learn where your nephew is. Tell me, what does this Bernard look like?’

  That morning, Simon had woken with a feeling that all was not well. He lay back in his bed and rubbed his eyes blearily. From the open window came the fresh smell of damp soil, and he was sure that it had rained overnight. He listened to the rattle and bump of carts, and hoofs clattering on the cobbled street, and above all, the steady thrumming of ropes in the wind. It was a sound that was all-pervasive here, with so many ships lying in the haven, and Simon was almost accustomed to it now.

  The sun was still low in the sky, so at least he had not overslept. Scratching at a bite under his armpit, he wondered vaguely what it could be that seemed so strange to him. It was only when he gazed about and saw there was no smoke, that he realised his fire was not yet lighted, and he growled angrily.

  Without a doubt, he was the unluckiest man in the world, to have been plagued with such a pathetic, god-forsaken churl as young Rob.

  When he had first arrived, he had known that he must take on a servant, and it had seemed a good idea to get a fellow who was young and quick to learn. Rob he had found by the simple expedient of asking the woman next door if she knew of anyone. She had been happy to recommend the son of her own maid, and soon Rob arrived.

  Scruffy the boy was certainly, but also sharp-eyed with a weaselly face, like a small ferret forever seeking the next rabbit. He was clad in a simple tunic, a leather jerkin and cowl, and bare-footed like so many who lived near the ships. Boots cost money, and when the sailors disdained such wastefulness, many of their children had to learn to do without too.

  Simon had never heard of a husband to his neighbour’s maid, and he suspected that Rob was one of those lads who was born as a result of a ship coming to the haven for a brief stay. They said that many sailors had women in every port – the truth was, many had children too.

  Rob was about as conscientious as any lad would be. He was lazy, slow to rise in the morning, always hungry and feeding himself from Simon’s larder, and invariably not near when he was needed. Like now. He was still in his bed with his mother, no doubt. Simon was tempted to march in there right now and tell the good-for-nothing fool that he was no longer needed, but that would entail searching for another brat. God’s ballocks, he didn’t need that!

  Rising from his bed, Simon padded about the room. He poured water from a bucket into a bowl and rinsed his face as best he could, cleaning under his armpits and round his neck. His chin was badly stubbled – he’d have to go to the barber again. It was an annoyance, having to shave every couple of days to keep looking presentable. Still, every man had that problem. He dried himself on his shirt, then pulled it over his head. His tunic went over that, and he sat back on his bed to pull on his hosen, first his left leg, binding the laces that held it up, then the right. A cote-hardie over the top, and he was ready for the day. The fire was stone cold, and he kicked at the ashes of the night before with a brief anger before storming out.

  In the street, he took a deep breath. There was a mist in the air, and its cool freshness reached down into his breast and set a tingle deep in his lungs. It made him feel like a reborn man and, smiling, he turned to his neighbour’s door and banged on it briskly. He recognised this door from halfway down the road, the hinges squeaked so badly. Why they didn’t put some grease on the hinges, he didn’t know. Today was no different.

  ‘When Rob’s awake, could you tell him that if he’s this late again, he’ll be without a master?’ he said with a cold politeness to Rob’s mother, and marched down to the pie shop with a spring in his step. A large jug of morning ale and a pie, and the morning would surely start to improve.

  It was only as he sank his face into a foaming beaker of ale that the conversation of the day before returned to him, and his eyes became more introspective.

  The last thing Dartmouth needed was a new squabble with an old enemy.

  Why should the Lyme men have attacked that ship? Surely it was more likely French pirates?

  Or a local ship with a gripe against Pyckard and his men? he wondered. Merchants were always bickering among themselves. Perhaps he should speak to Pyckard, just out of interest. See what he had to say about it.

  Chapter Seven

  Alred woke at almost the same time as Simon, but his head was so full of loose pieces of iron that they rattled with every movement. He opened an eye experimentally, then snapped it shut in a hurry. There was nothing worth looking at that way, and if he attempted to turn over, he ran the risk of his head falling off.

  God’s teeth, but his head hurt. There was nothing quite so bad as a head like this first thing in the morning, he told himself. Then he reflected he was a liar as the gripes from his belly kicked in. Urgh! He knew he should have eaten something before going and drinking so much. He said it to himself every damned time. It wasn’t too much to remember, was it? Except by the time he realised it was a problem, he’d always just woken up with a belly that felt like this … He hurried to his feet, hitched up his belt, gave a pained hiccup and fled outside to the open air.

  Odd how fresh air makes a man feel better most mornings when he’s been taking a little too much. It was that way now. He had felt ready to throw up in there, but now, with the smell of the sea in his nostrils … Yes, he was much better already. No need to be— Oh God!

  After he had wiped his mouth and the first rough clenching of his belly muscles had subsided, he leaned with one arm on the doorframe, puffing out his cheeks. ‘I’m too old for this shite,’ he gasped.

  ‘What’s wrong, Dad?’

  ‘Law, I’m not your father, so don’t be so bleeding disrespectful.’

  ‘What’s the matter then, Al?’

  ‘Cheeky b— Just don’t ask. All I can say is, when you get to my age, if you get to my age, take things easier. There’s no point killing yourself every other night.’

  ‘You hung over again?’

  ‘There are times I really hate you, Law. You know that?’

  ‘You are my master still,’ Law s
aid. ‘Suppose you could try to thrash me? It might make you feel better.’

  Alred snarled, ‘If you’re going to talk rubbish, boy, go and fetch me a morning whet. Sweet Christ, but my mouth tastes like a rat crawled in and used it as a privy!’

  ‘You’re sure you can cope with more ale?’

  ‘Piss off!’ And as the lad laughed and went on his way, Alred said to Bill, ‘I really hate that kid sometimes!’

  Bill was still sprawled on his blanket. He sat up now and yawned. ‘Law acting the fool again?’ he asked as he scratched and then stretched luxuriously.

  ‘You can have no idea.’

  ‘He’s your apprentice, Al. You ought to teach him respect.’

  ‘Oh, go swyve a mule,’ Alred said weakly. ‘You wouldn’t say that if you were in this body.’

  ‘Haha! That’s why I feel safe to take the piss today.’

  Alred wandered to a large log and sat down, belching and releasing a gust of foul-smelling wind.

  ‘Ach, don’t fart as well,’ Bill complained. ‘It’s bad enough in here already.’

  ‘I know. Next time I’ll demand a better storeroom.’

  ‘It’s got straw, so it’s warm enough, I suppose. What we really need is a nice cuddly woman in here to keep us busy, though.’

  ‘You can get one of them in any of the taverns in Lower Street, I daresay,’ Alred said absently. He burped again, and shivered. Why did he feel as though there was an icy chill in the place? Yet he was sweating like a hog in sunshine. There was no sense to it, but he got like it every time he drank too much.

  ‘I don’t think we can afford any of them!’ Bill said, sinking back on his makeshift bed.

  Leaving him there, Alred went to the door again and peered out. The street here had a good view over the haven most mornings, although today it was obscured by a low mist that lay over all the water. It was a curious sight, a white, rolling smoke that poured in up the river from the sea. Projecting from the nothingness beneath was a forest of mastheads. It was very odd.