felt a pang as he gazed down towards Devon and his home. If only he had gone straight to his wife instead of stopping and then agreeing to help Redcliffe… But then it was foolish to think that way. He had made a decision which had seemed logical and right at the time.
‘Sir Baldwin,’ Jack said quietly.
Baldwin glanced at the boy. He was standing with his hands tightly gripping his own mount’s reins, and wore an anxious expression.
Seeing the knight nod, Jack blurted out, ‘I think I must be a coward, Sir Baldwin!’
‘Why is that, lad?’ Baldwin asked kindly.
‘When those men rode at us, I wanted to hide! I didn’t want to be killed, and I ran.’
‘Jack, that is natural. You are a brave boy, I know – you saved my life in France, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, but that was different. There wasn’t time to think. Here, I didn’t even want to protect the lady, but hid out with the baggage instead.’
‘Well, you aren’t a trained fighter, boy. It’s not surprising.’
‘But all of the rest of you went to protect the place.’
‘We are older, and we have been taught our arms.’
‘I had wanted to fight for the King. I wanted to take a sword and help defend him, but now…’ There were tears of shame in his eyes.
‘It is no bad thing to want to help defend your King,’ Baldwin said, ‘but it is a better thing by far to hate war. And I have seen enough men die to know that there is nothing good about it.’ In his mind’s eye he saw the fellow from Winchester, his stump of an arm waving as he screamed his horror at the realisation that he would never be able to use the arm again; his shock blinding him to the fact that Baldwin’s sword was about to remove his head.
The boy gulped.
‘Do you think I could learn to be brave?’
‘Of course. Later, perhaps you will learn your weapons, and then you can decide whether to fight or not.’ Baldwin gave him a kindly pat on the back, and the lad was comforted.
The knight’s thoughts went to Thomas Redcliffe. The merchant did not have the training or skill to fight against men who had both. He must have been an easy target for the bearded man’s dagger.
Baldwin wondered fleetingly if there had been more to Redcliffe than he had realised. Perhaps he had been carrying a message, and the bearded man had found it. Baldwin should have searched his body too.
It was curious to think that Redcliffe was dead. The men with him were all experienced, from Sir Ralph to Alexander and Pagan: they should have protected the man and his wife without difficulty. The idea of Jack throwing himself into the fray was ridiculous. He was much better suited to the delivery of messages – like Redcliffe, Baldwin thought to himself, remembering the purse.
When he had reached the ship, he had given the purse to Redcliffe’s wife, Roisea, as the money inside was surely hers. However, he had not checked inside beforehand, and he wondered now whether he should have done. There could have been a message inside that would have explained why one of the men with Sir Ralph could have killed him, rather than one of their attackers. It had happened when Sir Baldwin had ridden off to help Pagan, so he had no proof that one of the bearded man’s gang was responsible. He had not been overly concerned at that moment, though. Uppermost in his mind had been the idea of warm, dry clothing.
When he had an opportunity, he would ask Roisea, he decided. She might be able to cast some light on the matter. In the meantime, he would be forced to keep a close eye on the men.
Sir Ralph was walking up the bank from the ship. When they were all mounted, he gave Baldwin the signal, and they set off at a sharp pace heading westwards, to Cardiff and, they hoped, the King.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The castle was filled with urgent activity. The men inside began to rush about, making for the armoury as the alarm rang out, then hurrying back to the walls with polearms and helmets. One lad was tall and lanky, and his over-large helmet rattled and moved as he walked; normally, his mates would have poked fun at him, but not today.
Simon fiddled with his sword in its scabbard, pulling it loose and checking how easily it came free. It was a nervous reaction to the knowledge that there would soon, surely, be a fight. But the tension came from not knowing when, or what form it would take. Whether there would be a sudden assault or a gradual build-up of violence, he didn’t know and couldn’t guess, but he felt afraid.
It was less fear for himself and how he might acquit himself in battle, more that he was fearful for his wife and child. There was a terrible irony in his decision to bring them here inside the castle, since it was now the cause of their danger.
‘They have given up the keys of the city,’ Sir Charles said.
The men-at-arms from the Queen’s forces were striding arrogantly about the city from all the gates already. Some Captains were already standing little more than a bowshot from the castle’s walls, pointing out likely places of attack, while others brought up huge shields of timber covered with leather, and crossbowmen scurried nearer. Soon, from these safer vantage-points, quarrels would be fired at all the guards on the battlements, and there was little the garrison could do to defend themselves, other than keep their heads down.
Sir Charles turned to Simon as he was drawing his sword again. ‘I am sorry, Bailiff. I had not expected the city to give up and throw open the gates with such indecent haste.’
‘It’s not your fault,’ Simon said.
‘It is, though. I should have considered how the city was likely to behave. Why should they risk themselves for the King, when Edward has already fled? Why would anyone try to hold true to him?’
Simon shot a look at him. It was the first time he had heard the knight talking in such a cowed manner; it was most unlike him. ‘We should try to ensure that as few people as possible are hurt,’ he responded.
‘You are not a friend to Despenser, are you?’
‘Not to Sir Hugh, no. But his father, the Earl, is not the same kind of man. I hold no grudge against him,’ Simon said truthfully.
‘Well, one thing is certain sure,’ the knight sighed, peering down over the battlements. ‘If we hold this castle against the men out there, it will not endear us to the Queen or Mortimer.’
‘No. What will happen to us, when they break in?’ Simon said.
‘I don’t want to think about that,’ Sir Charles said.
Saul the Fosser felt as though he was carrying a dangerous secret with him as he made his way down the street back towards his own home. He didn’t know any smiths, and the thought of enlisting the help of a man he did not know was alarming. The fellow might just take the rubies and keep them. After all, Saul could hardly run to a law officer and complain. There was no one who could mediate for him if the things were stolen.
The fosser hobbled along with a face like a slapped arse as he considered the position he was in. His dreams of wealth were gone, his hopes for a sudden financial windfall evaporated. ‘Might just as well have left the damn thing in the soil,’ he muttered spitefully. But returning it to the grave was the last thing on his mind.
The broker had suggested one smith who was more reliable than most – a man called David, who lived nearer St Mary le Port, and Saul found that his feet were bending their way in that direction almost of their own volition. The road broadened out here, and the smithy was soon located: a man only had to follow the sound of ringing steel.
David Smith was slim and wiry, with hands callused and grey from the coals he worked with. His face was dark, but his eyes were as bright as a shrew’s. ‘I don’t do horses,’ he declared as soon as Saul appeared.
‘I don’t have a horse.’
‘Didn’t think so,’ was the response, and Saul stood a moment, frowning, trying to work out whether he had
