or the founding of Stapledon College at Oxford; nor were they to do with the grammar school the Bishop was bent on creating. They were affairs of state.
This letter was from his friend John Sandale, the Bishop of Winchester and, more recently, the King’s Treasurer as well. John had written to tell him of the appalling state of the Exchequer’s records. There was no classification of records-most were not even dated. The staff were being smothered by their work, and had little, if any, guidance as to what they were expected to achieve.
Standing, Stapledon stretched and went to the screens. He stopped a passing servant and asked for wine, then returned to his desk. Soon the jug and a large goblet arrived, and he sipped sparingly.
The trouble was, the King was weak and ineffectual. He could be too easily swayed by any man with a persuasive turn of phrase-or a man who was too pretty, he admitted, sourly staring into his drink. That was one piece of information the country would be happier not to know. In general his friendships were passed off as being the natural desire of a young man to meet with others of his own age, but there was no way to hide his more flagrant affairs from closer members of his household, and, reading between the lines of Sandale’s letter, Stapledon knew that the King had set his hopes on yet another man. How the Queen could tolerate such behavior, he had no idea.
If the King was not careful, he might lose his crown-and his head. It would not be easy to force some of his more strident critics, especially those who also enjoyed positions of power, to restrain their public condemnation of him. No, it was beyond the Bishop how the poor Queen could bear to be near him, and if she were to lose her reserve, the King’s fate would soon be sealed.
Hearing the stamp of approaching feet, he looked up. Soon the door was thrown open and Baldwin and the others walked in. Smiling his welcome, Stapledon put his letters aside, folded, to be free from prying eyes, then froze at the sight of the expression on Baldwin’s face.
“Hugh,” the knight said, and gestured curtly. “I’m sure the lad would like to see the garden. And might enjoy playing with Edith-uhn, after he’s had a wash, perhaps. Oh, and give him some food. See to it that he’s comfortable.”
Stapledon watched as the servant took the boy out, then turned enquiringly to the knight. Baldwin sat on a bench at his table, and explained who the boy was, then told of his fears for the lad’s safety since the screaming fit in the town.
“And there is more,” Baldwin went on. “Two of the mercenaries have run away.”
Roger sat open-mouthed while Baldwin told of his discussion with the captain until he could not help bursting out, “They must have been the men I saw last night!”
“What? Where?” Baldwin frowned.
“Two men on horses, with a pack animal on a long line. I saw them just before I heard the commotion in the alley, and it put them from my mind.”
“Where were they heading?” Baldwin asked keenly, suppressing his excitement, and when Roger told him, he gave a groan of delight. “Then I was right! They are going toward Exeter. Bishop, could you send a messenger to alert your men at the cathedral? Have them check on all the silversmiths and find out if they’ve had a large amount of plate offered to them? Much, if not all, will be foreign, I would imagine. It must be easy to tell.”
“I can try,” the Bishop said, “but are you sure? They might simply have gone that way as far as the first village, then turned north. There’s nothing to suggest that they would definitely have gone to Exeter.”
“No, but I’m sure they will have done, nonetheless. They have no local knowledge, and would expect their captain to be after them at the earliest opportunity. Where else could they go, other than to the nearest city where at least they could try to hide themselves in the crowd, and where there would be many ships and other roads to take? These men, from what I saw of them, have a certain cunning, but I doubt whether they’d be able to think up a more detailed plan.”
“But they might have been planning this for months.”
“Possibly, but I doubt it. Sir Hector and his men have been up north. They were trying to get themselves recruited by the army. John Smithson comes from near St. Albans, while Henry the Hurdle is from Surrey, near London. The mercenaries passed nearby both places, once while they were going northward, to offer their services to the King. If they were going to steal all this stuff, surely they’d have done it near one of their homes? Then they’d know people to sell it to, people who could hide them until the fuss died down and their captain had gone. No, the robbery was perpetrated here because of something about this place. I just wish I knew what it was.”
“Roger-could you fetch me Stephen, please. And tell the groom to prepare his mare. He will be leaving as soon as possible.” The Bishop turned to Baldwin. “Now, would you like a little wine?”
“No, thank you, my lord. I must see that child and make sure he is all right, and I want to see Simon too.”
“I suppose I should return to my work as well,” the Bishop muttered, throwing the papers a look of repugnance so virulent that Baldwin laughed.
“It is our duty to work, my lord.”
“Yes. Strangely, though, I sometimes wonder what made the Good Lord decide to inflict papers on us. We must have done something appalling to have deserved such a punishment.”
Simon was not in his bed. Leaving his chamber, it was only when he reached the garden that Baldwin could find him.
Immediately outside the house, on a terrace, Peter had created a pleasing display of medicinal and culinary herbs. Below it, beyond a group of massive oaks and elms, was a large meadow, and in here Baldwin saw Margaret playing with Edith. Judith’s son was nearby, sitting on a bench with Simon, while Hugh hovered, scowling distrustfully at the world at large.
To Baldwin’s relief, apart from a certain pallor, Simon looked fine. While the knight had been at the inn, Peter Clifford had asked one of the canons who was well practiced with medicines to come and see Simon, and he had impressed the priest with a professional display, holding up a number of fingers before Simon and asking him to confirm how many, inspecting the wound itself and smearing egg-white over it to cleanse it, and making sure Simon’s tongue had not gone black. Peter had no idea what this last could possibly show, but he was prepared to take the word of a trained man when he was told that Simon was fit, though he might be prone to headaches for a while to come.
Baldwin took a seat next to his friend. “How are you?”
“Grim.” Simon winced. “And this weather doesn’t help.”
Baldwin nodded. The damp heat smothered everything like a blanket, and he was already sweating profusely after the cool of the hall. “How is your head?”
“I feel as if I’ve spent the whole of last night drinking with Sir Hector’s men, matching each of them pint for pint individually, before being used as a football. And every time I speak, someone hits me again, from the feel of it.”
“It will improve.” Baldwin smiled. He had little sympathy with small knocks. Now he was sure Simon was to recover fully, he saw no need for excessive compassion. Men had suffered from worse, and would continue to do so.
“I am grateful for your sympathy,” Simon said ironically. “Margaret told me about last night. Thanks for coming and fetching me. So! What happened this morning?”
Baldwin told him, beginning with Hugh finding the boy and then recounting his interview with the captain. “And Roger saw them riding off, so we know where to search.”
“It shouldn’t take long,” Simon said speculatively. “There aren’t all that many silversmiths in Exeter.”
“No. We should have an answer-or a pair of prisoners-tomorrow evening.”
“With any luck, we can put them straight behind bars.”
“But what are we to make of the other instance? The boy clearly identified the captain, albeit unintentionally.”
“The two in Exeter must have stolen the silver.”
“ Probably stole-not must have stolen. After all, it could still have been Cole who took the plate, and they saw where he hid it.”
“True, in which case either Cole or those two also murdered Sarra.”
“Yes…”
“Baldwin, you’ve gone into one of your ruminations. You’re staring out over the meadow and frowning, and
