‘Hold!’ he shouted. ‘I am come to speak with the duke!’
The second fellow was a swarthy man-at-arms with black hair and bright blue eyes. He had his sword held like a professional, his left hand at his groin, ready to pat away Baldwin’s. His sword was held low, the blade angled up from his hand, protecting most of his body. Baldwin was sure that he would be competent, but it was not the best defence; he held his own in the true Guardant, with his fist above his head, the blade dropping down and towards his enemy.
His main concern right now was the first man, who had massaged his wrist, and now looked ready to grab a stone and brain Baldwin. He would have to be held and prevented. This second man was-
A sparkle of the sun on steel and the blade leaped forward. Baldwin blocked it with his own, continuing to stab downwards at the man’s thigh, but he saw the danger and stepped back. Instantly Baldwin was a step nearer, his blade darting right in a feint, then left towards the man’s breast. The blue eyes narrowed as he slammed his fist across, then reversed his blade and slashed at Baldwin’s throat. Baldwin ducked, knocked his opponent’s sword up and away, and launched himself forwards and up, his blade coming to rest upon his Adam’s apple. ‘Yield!’ he snarled.
‘Stop! I order you as you are an Englishman!’
Baldwin kept his sword at the man’s throat, holding his gaze. ‘Drop the sword, friend.’
‘Hurt me, and you’ll answer to the Duke of Chester.’
‘You will answer to no one if you don’t drop your sword!’
There was a brief narrowing of his eyes again, as though he was assessing the true risk, and then his sword clattered on the ground.
Baldwin took it up and stepped away, glancing around to make sure that the first man through the door was not right behind him to hit him, and then turned to the duke and offered the two swords to him, bowing and kneeling. ‘Your Highness, I am sorry for this unseemly fracas.’
‘So, good Sir Baldwin! And how do I find you here? You aren’t with the men sent to kill me, are you?’
‘If I were, I would die fighting in your defence, my lord,’ Baldwin said, looking up and meeting the duke’s eyes. ‘I am here to try to persuade you to return to England, to your father, who dotes on you and misses you. He instructed me to tell you that your offences to him will be forgotten.’
‘My offences, eh?’
‘He said that you swore you would only pay homage to the French king and return immediately. Instead you have remained here for nigh a year.’
‘Yes, well, it was difficult.’
‘The life of a king’s son is always difficult.’
‘There are men who would see me dead.’
‘Who?’ Baldwin demanded.
About him now there were seven men, with the duke before him. His opponent with the blue eyes bowed, saying, ‘I found one of them out here only a short while ago. A man called Ranulf Pestel. He was a devoted follower of Despenser, and said he was here to kill the duke. I know him because he was the servant of the foul Belers. Do you know him?’
Baldwin looked at him. ‘I am Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, friend. And you are?’
‘I am Richard de Folville.’
‘Then, Master Richard, I know Squire Pestel, but I knew nothing of his loyalty to Despenser. If I had heard that he was loyal to that man and not the king, I would not have brought him with me. My lord, you know me. I guarded you all the way from the coast to Paris last year. I am no thief or liar. Nor murderer.’
‘I know that. I do trust you, Sir Baldwin. I am grateful that you came here. But I think I will stay with this honour guard.’
‘My lord, there is a force on its way here to find you and guard you. Sixteen hundred men under Sir John Felton. Will you not come with me so that we can protect you?’
‘Sweet Jesus!’ Folville said. ‘John Felton? My lord duke, we must leave immediately. Felton is another of Despenser’s retainers.’
‘Is this true, Sir Baldwin?’ the duke asked.
‘In all honesty, my lord, I do not know,’ Baldwin admitted. ‘But I can vouch for the men in the host. I was a Commissioner of Array for them, and they were picked for their strength and merit, not their allegiance to Despenser.’
‘No. I will not return with you. I trust you, Sir Baldwin, but two of my men here knew Pestel and say that he was devoted to Despenser. Now I learn that your leader is Despenser’s as well. Am I to trust you and your companions, when you did not know the provence of Pestel? No. I must remain here.’
Baldwin tried to plead, but the duke ignored him. He handed the swords to their owners, Folville taking his with a sly leer at Baldwin, as though considering running him through, but then he slammed it back into his scabbard, turned and left.
The second man weighed his sword in his hand as the other men left the yard. Another stood behind him, thumbs in his belt, watching Baldwin with caution.
‘Sir,’ Baldwin said. ‘I do not know your name.’
‘John Biset,’ said the man at the wall.
‘I have heard of you, Master Biset. I am a friend of the Bishop of Exeter.’
Both men eyed him warily on hearing that.
‘He thought you were trying to kill him.’
‘Hardly unreasonable. He sent two men to murder me, after all. I had to send him a token.’
‘Why are you here?’
‘In March I heard that Despenser or the bishop had sent more men to find me and kill me. Would you have stayed?’
Baldwin shook his head with a little grin. ‘What of you, sir?’ he said to the nearer.
‘I? I am Sir Roger Crok.’
Baldwin recalled the name, but it was a moment or two before he placed it. ‘You are? Then I am glad.’
Roger Crok eyed him with an amused air. ‘Really? You are easily pleased, Sir Baldwin.’
‘It is a long story. How did you two come to ride together?’
‘There are many Englishmen with grudges against Sir Hugh le Despenser who are living in France. And we tend to keep together. Is it surprising?’
Baldwin chuckled. ‘No. Sir Roger, guard him well. The duke is a good, honourable young man. We cannot afford to lose him.’
‘I will try!’ Crok grinned.
He bowed to Baldwin, slipped his sword in the scabbard and strode back into the hall. Biset backed away and into the darkness. A few moments later, Baldwin heard the loud thundering of hoofs on the roadway outside. They clattered away, up towards the cathedral, and then turned north and east. Away from Baldwin and his men; away from Felton and his.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Sunday, Vigil of the Feast of the Blessed Virgin Mary*
Near Honfleur
The smell was familiar to Baldwin from miles away. It was the stench of burning wood, burning wool, burning thatch. Over the roadway ahead, it rose like a column from hell. Yellowish, grey and repellent, it befouled the sky and the earth beneath.
Jack was anxious at the sight. ‘What is that?’
‘It isn’t proof that the French have attacked, not yet,’ Baldwin said. He was calculating furiously. ‘If the French had been told as soon as they saw us land, that was three days ago. It would have taken a fast rider at least a day to reach help with multiple changes of horse. From there, a day to scour the land for volunteers, and a day or two to ride back. No, better make it three minimum. Probably no possibility of a force to throw us into the sea before tomorrow at the earliest.’
‘I’m glad you’re so sure,’ Paul said sourly. ‘Personally, I wouldn’t have too much faith in your judgement, not after the last days. You sent Ranulf into that den of thieves and felons and got him killed, and now you’re guessing when the French could mobilise? I think they’re likely already there, and cutting us off from the others. We’ll never escape. We should have stayed with the duke, rather than come all the way back here.’