The King of Thieves: by Michael Jecks Page B

the house, near his row of storerooms. The urine would be used later, fermented, to clean clothes, and any
     excess would be thrown on to the compost heaps. There was nothing allowed to go to waste on his estate.
    As he hitched up his hosen once more, letting loose his tunic to cover himself more decently, he heard another horse.
    Peering up the road, he saw a mount riding at a steady pace, a young man with fair hair wild in the wind on its back. The
     man appeared to take stock of the area, staring at Baldwin’s house, and then aimed for it, over Baldwin’s small field.
    Baldwin felt the lack of his sword at that moment, but he was close to his door, and the risk was limited at this time of
     day. Besides, he had fought and trained for more years than he cared to remember, and he felt sure that he could beat a young
     fellow such as this one.
    ‘The road to Bickleigh goes up there,’ he said as the horse drew up some few yards away. No one would ride right up to a man
     unless he wished to alarm them. This fellow was polite enough. Perhaps one-and-twenty, he looked as though he had ridden several
     miles already.
    ‘Sir Baldwin de Furnshill? I have come from my Lord Walter, Bishop of Exeter.’
    Thursday before the Feast of Mary Magdalen
*
    Furnshill, Devon
    ‘I am glad indeed that you were able to give me a bed for the night,’ the Bishop said.
    ‘My Lord Bishop, it is always a delight to have you visit us,’ Baldwin’s wife said. She bent to refill his jug, and Baldwin
     saw how the sun, streaming in from the large, unglazed window, lighted her hair with red sparks.
    Bishop Stapledon had arrived as darkness fell. He had, he explained, been travelling from a small vill in the diocese, but
     they had been delayed in leaving, and it was clear that they could not reach Exeter that night. It was easy to accommodate
     the Bishop. He took a bed in Baldwin’s solar, in the second bedchamber, while his servants slept in the hall with Baldwin’s
     own. Baldwin’s men had to be persuaded to share their benches, and some men were forced to huddle on the floor near the fire,
     but with blankets and cloaks spread liberally, most were comfortable enough. It was as good as the cots in the Bishop’s palace,
     Baldwin considered. He had tried them before, and knew how uncomfortable they could be.
    ‘When you have broken your fast, you will be setting off for Exeter?’ Jeanne asked.
    ‘I suppose so,’ the Bishop said. His voice was heavy, and now that Baldwin studied him, he was struck by how the last weeks
     had affected the man. It was only a short while since Baldwin had last seen him, but those weeks had been very unkind to him.
     Bishop Walter’s face was pale, as though he had been sleeping badly for an extended period, and his blue eyes were peering
     with an effort that was not merely his dreadful eyesight, but was also a proof of tiredness. He lookeddown to see Wolf resting his head on the Bishop’s lap.
    Jeanne saw too, and made a move to remove the hound, but the Bishop shook his head. He appeared to take comfort from Wolf’s
     weight on his thigh. He stroked the huge skull.
    ‘Bishop, I hope you will forgive my observing that you appear quite worn,’ Baldwin said.
    ‘My dear friend, you do not need perfect eyesight to tell that. And after all, I am sixty-four this year. It is not surprising
     that with all the responsibilities I have held, that I should be a little weary.’
    He sipped wine, while Baldwin watched him closely. ‘Is this because of your responsibilities to the Treasury?’
    ‘Aha! No, that is at least one responsibility of which I have divested myself. There is no more I can do with that, in God’s
     name!’
    The Bishop’s eyes gleamed with an uncharacteristic anger as he spoke, and Baldwin was surprised. ‘You are no longer the King’s
     Treasurer?’
    ‘He decided that he no longer required my assistance. Again!’
    Baldwin could not conceal the small smile. Only a few years before,