The Bishop Must Die: (Knights Templar 28)

by Michael Jecks

‘What will you say?’

  Simon pursed his lips and stared at all the ships. Hundreds of great cogs, all swaying to the movement of the waves. It reminded him of the journeys he had made by ship, and at the memory, his belly rose. Swallowing, he turned away. ‘I cannot go over there with the men. What do I know of fighting, other than hitting a man on the head with a fist? Swordplay and wielding lances or bills are not for me.’

  ‘I agree. Oh, you are a good swordsman, Simon, do not misunderstand me – but this will be a dangerous expedition, and I would not advise you to join the venture. Nay, rather you should take Margaret and Perkin back home, and wait there to see what happens.’

  ‘It is one thing to say that I should do so, but I would feel guilty, Baldwin,’ Simon said quietly.

  ‘Guilty? In God’s name, why?’ Baldwin asked.

  ‘Here are all these men, preparing to cross the sea and do their part to try to rescue the duke from his mother and Mortimer, and all I can do is skulk about here, or scurry off homewards like some whipped cur. What sort of man would that make me?’

  ‘A sensible father and husband, Simon. There is no glory in battle. Believe me, I used to think that there was, but I have seen enough blood and carnage to know better.’

  ‘But I could go to London. Meg has never seen London. She thought this place was impressive.’

  Baldwin stopped and deliberately took in the scruffy little town, noting the cottages with the daub falling from the wattles, the thin, leaking thatched roofs, the air of dilapidation and neglect. ‘Bless her.’

  ‘Yes, well, I think so too. But if I take them to London, I could see them safely installed in the city, and serve my old friend the bishop – because, Baldwin, he has been a good friend to me for many years.’

  ‘I know, Simon. I have to say, it would be my own inclination to hurry back to Exeter, rather than towards London. If there is to be an invasion, it is likely to aim for London.’

  ‘But all reports say the French will land in Cornwall and make their way from there, which would mean Margaret and me being in the path of the French host.’

  Baldwin nodded. He was thinking of his own dear wife. ‘But even if that were the case, you could ride away from them in Devon. You know the woods where you would be safe, you know how to survive on Dartmoor. You could take Margaret and Perkin there.’

  ‘Perhaps. But there is little enough to eat on Dartmoor, Baldwin. I don’t know. I feel torn. I would like to return home, but I really feel that the bishop needs my help. Our help.’

  Baldwin gave a faint grin. ‘If I had any choice, I would already be back at Furnshill. It is the place where my heart longs to be. But I have a duty to be here and do all I may to protect the men I have ordered gathered up here.’

  ‘That is the thing,’ Simon said quietly. ‘I feel a sense of duty too, and it involves the bishop.’

  Tuesday before the Feast of the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary*

  English Channel

  ‘I’m going to be sick!’ Paul de Cockington wailed.

  ‘Then put your head over the thwarts!’ Baldwin bellowed, resisting the urge to kick his backside as Paul leaned forward and vomited noisily over the side.

  Baldwin had not expected to be here. He was not scared of battle – he had served in many, and was too experienced to feel that bone-shattering terror that the young must know at their first actions – but he had only one desire, when his efforts to raise a host for the king’s forces were done, and that was to return home, to make sure that his home was protected, that his wife was safe. It was heart-rending to be leaving the coast of England behind and heading for France and war. He knew that Jeanne would understand, because she was a mature woman and had been married to another knight before him, but that did not remove the strain from him. It hurt him like an infidelity, as though he was guilty of adultery again.

  ‘I don’t want to be here!’

  Baldwin gazed longingly at the man’s buttocks, and his foot itched to kick. With luck, were he to plant a firm enough boot in Paul’s backside, the fellow might even fly into the sea. It was probably the most beneficial outcome possible, because Baldwin did not believe that their force could reach the duke. No, if he had to guess, the duke would leave Rouen within moments of the news of an invading force reaching his ears. The men who protected him had no desire to be captured and brought to England, because King Edward II would want revenge for their keeping his son from him. If one or two were to bring his son to the army and deliver him up, they might be able to anticipate rewards including pardons for any crimes they had committed, but such benefits lasted only a short time. The king was too unreliable. His favourites today tomorrow became his most despised enemies. Look at Roger Mortimer: once the king’s most honoured and trusted general, and now the man whose death warrant the king had signed.

  No, if Baldwin were to wager, he would bet that the men guarding the duke would pack up and hasten away, hoping that the King of France would meet the English and defeat them.

  ‘Sir Baldwin, those men said we’ll all die.’

  This was young Jack. Baldwin would hazard a guess that the lad’s mother was regretting her stout defence of her honour now.

  ‘Don’t you worry, Jack. You won’t be killed today.’

  ‘Were they right, though? Will we die when we land?’

  ‘Boy, it is in God’s hands,’ Baldwin said, placing his palm on the lad’s head and ruffling his greasy hair gently. ‘When we land, with God’s grace, we may find no one to welcome us, and we may complete our mission without difficulty.’

  The boy nodded, as though satisfied with his reassurance, and went away to cower, shivering, in among the ropes at the edge of the deck.

  Baldwin turned back to his view of the sea ahead. At least there were no French forces before them, he thought. They might even be able to land without the risk of French warships ripping into them. If there was one type of war he hated more than any other, it was seaborne fighting. The ever-present risk of falling into the sea and drowning was the final straw.

  There were over four thousand sailors in this Navy. All told, some one hundred and fifty ships were strung out in loose formation, carrying over sixteen hundred warriors, with victuals and horses as well as their fighting equipment. Sixteen hundred was a massive force to race down to Rouen, but there would have to be enough to maintain the bridgehead, while small parties would be needed to protect bridges and other vital points. Baldwin was content that there was no need for more men, but the idea of landing so many inexperienced fighters was causing him alarm again.

  To distract himself, he found himself wondering again about the identity of Bishop Walter’s persecutor. Simon had packed his own belongings three days ago, and with luck would already be in the bishop’s home or at the Tower. Either way, Baldwin only prayed that Margaret and Perkin would be safe. He hated the city of London, for to his mind it was the centre of all the vileness in the realm. It was where Despenser’s power was strongest.

  Who was this man who sought to terrify the bishop, who threatened him, flaunting his ability to pass through all the bishop’s guards at any opportunity, and who was apparently dedicated to killing him? Baldwin had no idea, but he was sure that there must be some obvious clues, if only they could be recognised. This was a murder in the planning. There should surely be as many clues of who was responsible for the planning as there would be after a murder had been committed.

  But Baldwin could not concentrate on the bishop’s troubles. He opened his heart and prayed – for himself, for the bishop, for Simon – but most of all, he prayed for Jeanne and his children, and begged God to protect them from any invading forces that might arrive.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  London

  Margaret Puttock’s mouth fell wide with awe as she saw the bridge ahead. It was so bright, so beautiful, so … so huge!

  It had not been difficult for her to persuade Simon to take them with him to London. It would not have been safe to leav
e her behind in Portchester. There had been too many cases reported to the town’s officers of rapes, and three murders of women in the town. The idea of leaving her and their son was anathema to Simon. He had to bring them too.

  They rode onward, Perkin riding behind with Hugh and Rob on a cart, while Simon and Margaret trotted along on their horses, but as they approached the great entranceway, Simon fell back and rode alongside the cart, pointing out the details of the flags and the statues which sat in recesses at either side of the main gatehouse.

  ‘However did they build it?’ Margaret gasped at last. ‘It must be a thousand yards long, Simon. It looks as though it floats over the water!’

  Her husband smiled. ‘It isn’t that much bigger than the bridge over the Exe,’ he said.

  ‘Maybe not, but the Exe Bridge only has one chapel on it. Look at this!’

  It was astonishing that they had managed to cram so many houses and shops on the thing. The bridge itself was very broad, but the buildings meant that there was little space for a single wagon to pass under the arches from one end to the other. It was massive, and splendid, and Margaret felt her head swim as she peered up and about.

  There were several defensive points: the Stone Gate at the southern end of the bridge, then the Draw-Bridge Gate a distance further on, while the size of the chapel of St Thomas was daunting in its own right.

  The view of all the buildings was so extraordinary that she quite missed the sight of the Tower of London until they were already over the bridge, and she could peer along the line of the river towards the king’s castle.

  This was different, though. Fortress to protect the city, it was, but it was also to be defended from the city, and was the king’s leading prison for traitors and his other enemies. There was something about it that made her shiver. ‘That is where we’re going?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s where the bishop is, yes,’ Simon said. He was easy enough in his saddle as they rode along past St Magnus the Martyr, then St Botolph, and then by Billingesgate, and as they went, the immensity of the king’s castle began to dawn on her. It was not merely a building or two hidden behind a wall like Oakhampton or Exeter, this was an immense area of land that was entirely enclosed. When she asked, Simon told her that it consisted of almost twenty acres. The great white keep inside was visible from all about the city, looming threateningly over the walls. Margaret could discern nothing that was kindly or protective about it. It was there to control the people of the city.

  ‘I don’t like it,’ she said quietly.

  Simon glanced up, then across at her, grinning. ‘This? The tower’s just a building, Meg. Nothing scary about it.’

  She nodded, but the impression of violence would not leave her. There was something about the high walls that seemed to scream to her, as though they were formed of the tortured souls of all those who had been incarcerated within.

  The day was warm, but she shivered uncontrollably as they passed under the gatehouse.

  Thursday before the Feast of the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary*

  Near Honfleur, Normandy

  The ships were safe, and the majority of the men had managed to let themselves down the ropes and ladders to the sea. For Baldwin, the scenes were reminiscent of so many from his youth. Ships towering overhead, rocking on their keels, while sailors scurried about, hauling on the ropes that made the screaming, angry horses rise high into the sky, only to be lowered gently to the ground where waiting ostlers could calm them. Massive bales of weaponry were deposited nearby, with squires and heralds running to rescue them from the water before they could get a soaking, and cooks and carters swearing as loud as any of the matelots when they discovered the damage done already to their meagre stocks by the ever-present rats in the holds, or more commonly by ‘thieving bastard sailors’ as Baldwin heard more than once.

  Here the beach was good and sandy, and so far, only one disaster had occurred. A large cog with over a hundred men aboard and many good horses had struck something under the water, and sank almost instantly. The screams of the men was enough to send a stab of horror into every heart. Worse, Baldwin felt, was the terror of the horses, chained to their cradles deep in the ship as the water rose. They had no escape, no comprehension of what was happening, only a sudden realisation of their death. At least a man might grab a barrel or spar and float to another ship.

  A hundred and fifty ships. It was a mighty force, and with sixteen hundred men, it was large enough to be effective, if only they could get moving.

  ‘I am cold!’ Paul de Cockington said. He was huddled nearby, arms wrapped about himself, shivering in his sodden robe.

  ‘You should get up and walk about,’ Baldwin said unsympathetically.

  ‘And you should be more polite to a man who is crucial to your mission,’ Paul retorted. ‘If you’re so clumsy with my well-being, you may just find yourself responsible for my death, and then you’ll regret your harshness when you return to England.’

  ‘I seriously doubt it,’ Baldwin said.

  ‘You need me! How else will you be able to talk to the duke and make sure he comes with you? I am your most important man in this whole force, and you forget that at your peril.’

  Baldwin turned on him. ‘You have moaned, complained and whined all the way from Portchester, cretin! Now you think you are vital to our success? I regret to tell you that you are wrong. I know the duke personally – I was his guard when he came over here last year, and I know his mind probably better than you. You are here in order to gain yourself a pardon for your appalling crimes in Exeter, so it would be better that you put your mind to how best to survive this journey, rather than making me, your protector, wish to throw you into the sea to drown.’

  ‘You wouldn’t do that,’ Paul said uncertainly.

  Baldwin looked away. No, he wouldn’t. But just now he had enough fears of his own to contend with rather than listening to the petty bleating of this rector.

  The worst thing was, the amount of time it was taking to get the ships emptied. From his own experience, he knew that the best way to launch a raid like this was to get men and horses onto the beach as quickly as possible, and then maintain a strong ring of defence while the rest of the cargo was brought down. But there had been no plan to arrange this. Instead the ships were mingled in an untidy muddle. Some landing first had carried only horses, while the majority of the men were still on board. Baldwin’s own horse had been delivered to him, but many of the other knights were still unmounted, and would remain so for a long while. There were plenty of archers here on the beach – but their arrows were stored on a different ship. Baldwin was worried that at any moment a force could arrive from Honfleur that would smash through them and repel the rest of the ships.

  As if in answer to his black thoughts, there was a sudden scream, and then shouting, from up on the dunes further inland. Baldwin turned to see a quartet of men in armour charging six men at a picket. There was nothing the poor devils could do to protect themselves: the great destriers charged, the men with their lances couched, and in short order three of the English were spitted, arms and legs waving in mid-air while the lances rose up, their points smothered in gore, the momentum of the charge carrying the screaming English up high, and over, to be deposited in crumpled heaps behind the chargers.

  Baldwin winced. This was a sign of the dangers inherent in landing like this. He could feel his scalp crawl as the Frenchmen wheeled. Two rode back to finish off the pickets, while two sat idly watching the disembarkation, chatting with their visors open as they took in the scene. After deliberation, they wheeled about and trotted away, rejoining their companions. There were no English left alive at that picket.

  There was no sign of Felton, no sign of the other commanders. Baldwin looked down at Paul de Cockington. ‘Perhaps you should not joke about dying, rector. It is perfectly likely that you will be proved correct.’

  Tower of London

  ‘Get the wine. You expect our master to serve himself?’ Hugh
snarled, and cuffed Rob around the ear.

  Simon smiled to see how Hugh had taken to training Rob. It appeared to serve little purpose so far, because Rob had shown Hugh scant respect, but Simon hoped that the lazy, good-for-nothing boy would one day turn into a half-decent servant. In order to do so, he would need regular beatings, if his behaviour so far was any gauge.

  They were in a small parlour in a house set into the inner wall of the fortress. It was pleasant enough, and there was plenty of firewood for the cool evenings, but Meg was deeply unhappy, he could see, and that worried him.

  It was strange how women would fall into these moods. She was generally a calm wife, amiable and efficient, and sensible in the way that she dealt with things. For her to suddenly become like this, as though there was something in the Tower here that she should fear, was very odd. In any case, she would have to grow accustomed to the place, because now that they had arrived, they could hardly desert the bishop.

  Not that it would be easy to track down the felon who had deposited all these messages.

  The latest was the most curt. You must die! had been scrawled on a scrap and sealed with some wax. It had not been delivered straight to the bishop’s books or onto his table, but had got to him by more mundane methods. A guard had been accosted by a man dressed in a thick fustian robe, his head hooded, who had paid him half a penny to give the little roll to the bishop. There was no explanation, and the guard had not expected one. But he delivered the note, only to be thrown against the wall by an enraged William Walle, who demanded to know where it had come from. He had wanted to have the guard gaoled as a suspect, but the bishop himself had dissuaded him. The idea that the fellow might be allied to the writer was ridiculous. He was a Londoner, who had been based at the Tower for years. He had not been in Exeter or Canterbury. And in any case, the bishop pointed out reasonably, the guilty man had been seen by him in Canterbury. They knew what he looked like.