“Why do you say that?” asked Peter Clifford, finishing his goblet of wine and holding it out for more.

“Thomas of Lancaster wants power. Last year, the King and he exchanged the kiss of peace after they agreed their treaty at Leake, but he only truly won a pardon for himself and his friends. Nothing more. When he went to the Parliament at York last October, he demanded the right to nominate those he considered suitable to the offices he felt to be the most important in the land, initially the Steward of the Household. Well, he was put off then, but he returned to his demands this year when the Parliament met again at York. He wanted the King to grant him Stewardship of the King’s Household.”

“Isn’t that sensible? He is the Steward of England, and it might make sense for both posts to be merged,” said Simon.

Stapledon smiled gently. “It might seem so, but no. If he was to win both, he would have complete control over the King. In effect, he would have authority over all the King’s advisers. That is too much power for one man.”

“In any case,” Baldwin said off-handedly, “it hardly seems very important now. The Bruce has taken Berwick and the King’s army is attacking. Petty politicking will not help anyone. There is a war to be fought, and the Scots need to be given a bloody nose.”

“I think you are wrong.” Stapledon chewed carefully at a morsel of meat, smiling good-naturedly at the implied snub. “Whatever happens in the north will not last. What will take place when it is over? We all know the King is in a weak position – the Treaty of Leake, which was supposed to have settled matters between him and Lancaster last year, was really a negotiation between Lancaster and other barons. The King had little to say in the affair! No, this issue must be resolved between others, Pembroke and Lancaster in the main.”

“Then there will be civil war again,” said Baldwin, and sighed heavily. He had not realized that he had spoken aloud, but the sudden hush made him realize his mistake. Looking up, he saw the Bishop peering at him with keen interest. Baldwin met the stare resolutely. He knew full well that his words could have offended, but he was not prepared to deny the truth of his view.

“You speak your mind, Sir Baldwin. Yet,” his voice was low as he picked at the fruits in the bowl before him, “yet I fear you could be right.”

“And what will you do if it comes to war again?” Baldwin pressed.

“I will ask God for guidance. And then fight for whoever seems to me to be best for England.”

The knight was about to reply when he heard a knife clatter on the table-top beside him. “My friends, please…” Margaret stood, pale in the flickering candlelight. “I feel weak, I think I must…”

Seeing her sway, Baldwin quickly took her arm, and supported her. Simon joined them, his face haggard. “I’ll take her to her room. She’s probably tired. Don’t worry, I’ll look after her.”

Baldwin watched as the bailiff assisted his wife from the room, Peter Clifford leading the way with a candle.

“Their misery is very great, isn’t it?” Stapledon said.

Sitting once more, the knight could not help saying, “To hear talk of war so soon after her son’s death may well have upset her.”

“Perhaps you are right to chide me,” the Bishop said, and then leaned forward, his voice harsher. “But look at me, Sir Baldwin. Do I look like an insensitive fool?”

The knight stared, and the Bishop’s tone became calmer as he spoke quietly but with great seriousness. “I know she is sad, and if I can do anything to ease her depression, I will. But I have other things to consider – such as whether this country of ours should be riven by disputes which must lead to war. Mark my words, Sir Baldwin, when the army comes south again from Scotland, there will be war, and when that happens, many more women will be bemoaning the loss of their children, their fathers, their lovers and husbands. It may take one year, it may take two, but war there must be if Lancaster’s power is to be curbed.”

“And who would you have in his place?” Baldwin asked pointedly.

“Pembroke is safer,” the Bishop said.

“Perhaps.”

“Another thing I must consider is the loyalty of the knights in the country. Maybe you could answer me this: where would a good knight like you stand if it did come to war?”

Baldwin saw Peter return, and was grateful, for it meant that this interrogation must soon be ended. He had been cornered, as he knew he must be, but his answer was ready. “With the man to whom he gave his oath – he could stand by no other, whether it be his lord or his King,” he said heavily, then poured wine and handed it to Peter. “How is she?”

“Resting,” The priest dropped onto his seat with a sigh. “She asked to be left alone.”

Stapledon looked as if he wanted to continue with the talk, but as he opened his mouth there was a rising chorus of noises from the street – cries and yells, a clattering of hooves, then a scream and more shouting.

Baldwin glanced enquiringly at Peter, who shrugged with evident mystification. Feeling gratitude for whatever might have caused the interruption, Baldwin excused himself, then stood and made for the door. Edgar immediately followed. Baldwin’s servant had been with him for many years, since the days when he had been a man-at-arms in the Order of the Knights Templar, and in all that time he had never lost his utter loyalty to his knight. If Baldwin were to get involved in a fight, Edgar would be there with him.

Two of Peter’s men were at the door before them, one grasping a cudgel, ready to protect the hall against any invasion by rioters, and Baldwin and his man had to push between them. Outside they found a scene of confusion.

In the dark street, men scurried to and fro with burning torches. Commands were bellowed, and men-at-arms stamped up and down, gesticulating threateningly when they felt their orders were not acted upon fast enough. A thin woman in dusty gray robes knelt at the roadside, cradling a screaming child, a boy of five or six who had been knocked down, while men on skittish horses jostled, iron-shod hooves ringing on the cobbles. More people poured from houses, many in degrees of undress, while the clamor rose. Horses whinnied, there was a thunder of slamming doors; urgent questions flew as people tried to discover the cause of the disturbance. The air was tainted with the sharp fumes of burning wood and pitch, and filled with the hoarse cries of confused and angry men.

The knight watched for a moment, then made his way over to a rotund figure leaning laconically against a wall. Baldwin recognized him in the glare from a passing torch: it was the butcher. “Hello, Adam, what’s all this about?”

“There’s been a robbery, I think. Someone at the inn’s had his chest stolen. All his plate and stuff’s gone.”

Baldwin groaned as the butcher shrugged unconcernedly, then gulped at a large pot of ale. This was turning out to be a worse evening than even he had anticipated. Seeing a man-at-arms approach, he gestured. “You! Who has been robbed?” The man gave him a sneering look, and from his expression was about to snarl an insolent response when he caught sight of the sword at Baldwin’s waist. “Well?”

“It’s my captain, Sir Hector de Gorsone. His chest of plate has been raided, and much of his silver has gone. The chest needed three men to carry it, it was so heavy, yet it’s all gone.”

“God’s teeth!” This was all Baldwin needed. First Simon’s child, then being roped into politics, and now a theft, with the hue raised to find the thief. He rubbed at his temple, then: “I am the Keeper of the King’s Peace here. I do not want anyone hurt without reason. Where is your master?”

“My captain’s over there.”

Following the finger, Baldwin saw the mercenary leader. He was standing under the new alestake, arms folded, glowering at his men. As Baldwin approached, Edgar warily trudging close behind, he could hear the man bawling: “I don’t care if he went to Scotland. I want him caught and brought back here! Just find him and fetch him to me.”