It was fascinating to see how the knight worked. He was calm, thoughtful, more intelligent than the usual knights whom Thomas had met, and yet there was that firm edge to his character, a honed quality that could cut a man when he least expected it. Thomas had never met a man quite like this knight before. His presence was invaluable, though. Redcliffe would not have managed to get this close to Bristol without his help, that much was quite clear from the way that the wandering men-at-arms had suspiciously pushed swords and lances in their direction as soon as they had been discovered.
The last ones had been the worst. There was a particularly unpleasant churl with one eye and a perpetual leer who had slowly drawn a long dagger and walked menacingly to Thomas as though to cut out his heart. It was only Sir Baldwin’s rapid intervention that had stopped the man, and then his Sergeant had heard the noise and come to see what was wrong. Again, the knight’s position had saved them all.
To think that a warrior so devoted to the King could have saved him… Thomas sighed to himself at the thought. There was a time when he would have done all in his power to protect his King without considering his own position. He had been entirely loyal, a true devoted servant.
Not any more. Such commitment was worth little today. Thomas would have served until death. He had sold horses to the King for less profit than he could have won, and his delicate work taking messages to the Christian Kings of Aragon and Portugal had been singularly unprofitable too. He’d done it to help his King. And now that he was ruined, had Edward helped him? No. Worse still, he had not even deigned to see him. Thomas had been turned away from the gate at the Tower like some beggar demanding alms! The shame had been appalling. He had told dear Roisea that soon they would be saved, without explaining how exactly, and the shock of realising that his King would leave him to starve, and her too, had shaken the wind right out of his sails. His future stretched before him, an endless barren life without possibility of recovery.
And then he had seen what he might do. A letter, a short ride north, and he had his response. It was all he needed.
Yes, it was fortunate that Thomas had managed to persuade Sir Baldwin to join him in this journey. Without him, Thomas would have been stopped and searched, and the thought of what could have happened then was enough to chill him to the marrow. No one with messages like the one concealed at his belt would be permitted to live. And if Sir Baldwin had learned of it, he would himself have denounced Thomas. Or run him through.
Which was why Thomas was so glad the scrap remained concealed. He wouldn’t want to have to kill the knight.
Bristol
It was still afternoon as Baldwin and Thomas Redcliffe rode down towards the city and clattered over the stone-flagged way to the bridge.
Baldwin himself was glad of the sight of the city. ‘Good porter, I am Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, lately come from London.’
‘Aye, good, Sir Baldwin. We’ll have need of all the men we can find, I dare say, before long,’ the man said, standing aside for the three to ride in.
‘What did he mean by that?’ Jack asked.
‘I expect everyone is on tenterhooks about the Queen and her host,’ Baldwin explained. ‘The whole of her force must be riding to us now.’
‘At least the castle and this city look strong enough,’ Redcliffe said.
‘Yes. But the strength of a city like this lies less in its walls, and more in the people who are there to protect it,’ Baldwin said. ‘Will they wish to support the King and Despenser, or will they feel, like the London mob, that they should join to overthrow the Despenser?’
‘They will remember their loyalty, I am sure,’ Redcliffe said sanctimoniously.
‘Are you?’ Baldwin said.
They took an eastern road which Baldwin was told was named Wine Street, and a short way along here, Redcliffe took them to a little tavern, where he declared the wine to be the best in the city. He wished to reward his saviours, he said, and when they had drunk their fill, he would take them to his own home outside the city walls.
Baldwin was nothing loth. They left their mounts in a stable-yard, where hostlers hurried to groom and feed them, while the three went for a welcome drink.
‘Thomas, how are you?’ was bellowed from the bar at the far end of the room as they entered, and a large bear of a man, with a thick, bushy beard and arms muscled like a string of small ale barrels, came out and strode towards them, wiping his hands on an apron of linen.
‘I am well, God shield you, Matt. And you?’
‘I’m as fine as a summer’s day, Master Thomas. Wine?’
‘Aye, a flagon for me and my friends.’
‘You know this tavern well, then,’ Baldwin said.
‘I come here most days, yes. But there are not as many men here as usual,’ Redcliffe commented, glancing about him. ‘Where are they all?’
Matthew was returning with a stack of four large mazers in one beefy hand, and a quart flagon in the other. ‘They’ve all gone to talk about things, master. You heard who is coming here today?’
‘No, we’ve only just arrived.’
‘The Earl of Winchester. He’s come to take charge of the castle, but they say he’s got control of all the King’s men from Hampshire to Cornwall. Every able man who is held true to his oath to the King is to muster.’
‘So,’ Baldwin breathed, ‘Hugh le Despenser, Earl of Winchester, has come, has he? He was said to be a wily old warrior, but I don’t know that he would best Roger Mortimer. After all, Mortimer was the King’s most successful General until Despenser’s son alienated him and persuaded the King to sign his death warrant.’
The Despenser family had been long-standing rivals of the Mortimers. The Earl of Winchester’s son was the same Hugh who was now the King’s favourite and chief companion, and it was his grandsire, the Earl’s father, who had been slain on the battlefield at Evesham by Roger Mortimer’s grandfather. Since inveigling his way into the King’s affections, Sir Hugh had managed to see his father elevated to the earldom which he himself coveted so greatly.
Baldwin mused on this. ‘I have met the Earl. I believe him to be honourable.’ He was at least, as he reminded himself, far less avaricious and self-serving than his deplorable son.
Matthew the landlord leaned down and beckoned Baldwin and Redcliffe closer. Speaking quietly, he said, ‘He’ll need all his skills and authority to hold the city. It matters bugger all what he’s named. It’s said that the Earl of Lancaster has declared for the Queen, and marches to her aid with all his retainers.’
Thomas Redcliffe shrugged. ‘Even a man so powerful as he would not on his own swing the affair. If the King stands firm on a battlefield, he can win. Remember the battles on the Marches. All the rebels declared that they would fight Despenser, but not the King. Not many would dare to stand against the man whom God Himself has anointed. When the King showed his own banner, the rebels were forced to submit. They wouldn’t willingly break their vows to him. He might manage the same again.’
‘The King won’t be here,’ Matthew said. ‘Word is that he’ll leave the land. He won’t wait here to be caught, you mark my words.’
‘What?’ Redcliffe scoffed. ‘You think the King would desert his own kingdom? And where would he go? Would he sail to France, where the King hates him for refusing to pay homage for the French territories he holds, and hates him even more for the way he has treated his sister, Queen Isabella? No, he couldn’t dare sail there. Where else would he be welcomed?’
Baldwin sucked his teeth. ‘Ireland, I would guess. He has allies there, and the land is pacified. Where better for him?’
Redcliffe frowned a moment. ‘But if he were to do that, surely he would lose the kingdom.’