And saw his lordship, the Bishop of Exeter, trotting in.
Bishop Walter snapped when John of Padington asked him again if he felt all right. ‘Of course I do!’ he snarled, and did not wait to see the impact of his black mood on his poor steward.
His temper would not be soothed until he was off this damned horse and sitting on a soft cushion before a roaring fire. The weather was pleasantly cool, the journey today had not been too stressful, yet the riding about of the last weeks had gradually worn away at him. While he had been in Exeter, then Canterbury, the death threats had been first irritating, and then terrifying. The fact that someone had been able to get into his most secret quarters had been almost enough to make him think of supernatural enemies. After all, it was only a little while ago that Sir Hugh le Despenser had been threatened by a sorcerer and necromancer, who had tried to murder him with the use of little waxen models into which lead pins were to be stuck; Sir Hugh had been forced to write to the Pope for special protection.
However, it was not the fear of demons which made him shout at his servants and insult his squire. It was the hideous pain he was suffering.
‘Bishop, would you like me to see to your wine and a fire?’ John de Padington asked, unperturbed by his flare of rage.
‘Yes, prepare my damned room, and be swift! I see no reason why I should be forced to wait here for an age while incompetents blather at me! Are you mazed, man? Get to it!’
John was back in an instant. He had sent on harbingers before each stage of their journey, and the men had reached the Tower earlier in the day, commanding that the bishop’s fire be ready, his wine warmed, a change of clothes which they had brought with them should be laid out ready, and that his office materials should be prepared so that he and his clerks could begin work as soon as they arrived — once he had been able to give a prayer of thanks to celebrate his safe arrival.
‘Good!’ the bishop muttered, wincing in agony as he swung his leg over the horse’s back. His sword clanged against his thigh, and he slowly and carefully eased himself down. He felt a little unbalanced wearing his sword again, but a man had a duty to protect himself, and with the trouble flaring up all over the realm, he could not afford to leave his weapon behind. Still, its additional weight on his hip did not help.
The walk to his chamber was atrocious. He bellowed at men for infractions of rules, muttered poisonously at Squire William for not having brought him a cup of wine while he was dismounting, and tried in every manner he could to prove to all just how miserable he felt.
Messages or no messages, haemorrhoids were truly the invention of Beelzebub, he thought as he cautiously knelt at the little portable altar in his chamber.
Chapter Thirty-One
Two Thursdays before the Feast of the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary*
Portchester
Baldwin left the inn where he had taken a room and made his weary way down the cobbled street towards the place where the leaders of the force were no doubt bickering again.
Their master was a sly, weasel-like knight by the name of John Felton, who had been picked by the king himself, apparently. He had been making trouble since his arrival here in Portchester a couple of weeks ago. Less for Baldwin, it must be said, but more for the other men in the town, especially the two knights, Nicholas de Cryel and Robert de Kendale, both of whom were much more experienced in campaigning than him. However, Felton it was who had been given the king’s authority, and no one was going to gainsay him, which meant that while Baldwin and the other two had successfully prepared shipping, supplies and men, the whole enterprise began to fall apart as soon as Felton started to give his own orders.
Baldwin caught himself as his boot slithered on a mossy stone. This town was quickly growing to be a place of torment for him. The days were spent in wrangling, trying to persuade one side or another to compromise in the interests of the king and of the men whom they would lead to battle, and to the glorious rescue of the king’s son.
But Felton was not the sort of man to inspire confidence. He must have two clerks with him wherever he went, because he could neither read nor write, and in Baldwin’s opinion, his ability to even read a scene and make an accurate judgement was dubious at best. The man might have had the merit of a block-headed courage in the lists, but when it came to rational assessments of a battle, Baldwin would have been happier with his hound Wolf in charge. At least Wolf knew about attacking a flank to turn a sheep away from its planned route. That was more than Felton understood. To him, the only way to attack was a massive charge of chivalry. That kind of action might work well in Palestine against more lightly armoured men, but even then, in Baldwin’s experience, there was a need for lightly armoured troops to attack first, to roll up the skirmishing bowmen on their own little ponies. Charging was good for the mentality of a knight — it reinforced the view of the chivalry of the nation — and led often to appalling casualties among the men-at-arms on the opposing side.
But this was to be a short, aggressive chevauchée across unfamiliar country. There had been some reports from sailors who knew the coast, but there was no one who could provide accurate descriptions of the lands about Rouen. To launch an attack under these conditions made Baldwin enormously anxious.
Nodding to some men gathered at a corner, he continued down to the office. It was lodged in an inn near the seafront, and he must push past two chatting guards to reach the door. There was no salute, no challenge, none of the serious martial structure that he was used to from his days as a Knight Templar, and that too worried him.
In the Poor Fellow Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon, he had been the lowest of knights, but even then he had recognised the need for warriors to fight in unison, to know when to charge together, when to wheel, when to withdraw, when to press home an attack — and all depended upon discipline and training. The men here had neither. Most had been gathered straight from their fields by bailiffs and stewards who had little understanding themselves, or, more likely, were accepting the poor devils in return for payment from the intended victims, or taking them in response to a grudge against the men. There was one, Jack, whom Baldwin suspected had been gathered up with the rest purely because the boy’s mother had refused to accede to an official’s demands that she should service him. The lad was only fourteen or so, from the look of him.
Yes, the lack of discipline worried him. As did the inexperience of many of the men gathering here in the port. They were collected in dribs and drabs, four, or five, or six at a time. In the absence of enough housing for so many, most were resorting to sleeping in the streets. Already there had been some deaths because of fights in taverns and alehouses, boredom and strong drink weaving their usual magic amongst men with too many weapons near to hand.
The chamber he entered was a long, low room with wooden panels at the walls to try to keep the worst of the breezes away. A glorious fire roared in the hearth, as it had every day since Felton had first arrived, and in the bright light from it, Baldwin could see the men gathered about the table in the middle of the room. Clerks sat scribbling, while messengers hurried hither and thither, and an atmosphere of restrained impatience was lying about the room like a miasma.
Baldwin walked to the table. ‘Sir John, Sir Nicholas, Sir Robert,’ he said to each of the men, and the last two nodded and greeted him. Sir John Felton apparently felt that there was no need for him to welcome Baldwin, but instead continued to issue orders.
It was, as usual, a perplexing day, and Baldwin was glad when he was able to leave the room. It was the middle of the afternoon now, and he walked slowly down to the little building where Simon had his office.