‘Yes, my love,’ Edith said automatically.
Much of her life seemed to pass by automatically now. It was all a haze, ever since that terrible day last year when her father-in-law had told her that either she must renounce her own father and agree not to communicate with him or see him ever again, or she must accept that she was no longer welcome in her husband’s home, and must leave him to go back to her parents. To have told her that, when she was only married a matter of months, when she was feeling the new life growing in her womb, was the height of cruelty. She could scarcely believe her ears, let alone understand the utter irreversibility of her decision, once taken.
Before, she might have gone home to her parents, and then there could have been a reconciliation with her husband at some time in the future, when he had remembered his deep affection for her. Her absence might have brought him back to her. It must have done! But she had left it too long, and now it was quite impossible for her to change her mind, for although she would like to return to her real home, as she now thought of it, to do so would involve leaving behind her most precious possession: her baby son Henry.
‘You’re quiet. Do you feel unwell again?’ Peter asked.
She was able to respond with a calm enough smile, but she did indeed feel unwell. There was a queasiness in her belly that wouldn’t go away. She had thought to cure it with a letting of her blood, but it only left her with a pain in her forearm and a strange lassitude.
In the past she had never known such a tiredness. It was like a woman she once saw who was ill with some affliction that made her take to her bed and by degrees, she died. Just faded away and died. And that was how Edith felt now. On some days, the feeling of complete despair, coupled with the exhaustion that came from rising in the night to see to her child, was wearing her away. It felt as though there was no life left which was her own — all was given to her husband and her child. And the loss of her parents meant that she could not even call on her mother to come and help. Her mother-in-law was a good woman, but it was not the same, relying on someone whom she did not know so well.
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.