‘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 had 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.