The Bishop Must Die: (Knights Templar 28)

by Michael Jecks

  When Simon reached the bishop’s chambers, which were on the second floor in the tower itself, he found William and John outside, talking in low voices.

  ‘Squire, steward, how is he this morning?’ Simon asked.

  ‘He appears well enough,’ William said, ‘but he is not easy in his mind. I would almost say that he has surrendered himself to fate. He looks like a man who has decided he is to die.’

  Simon glanced at John, who merely nodded. ‘Well, I’d best speak with him.’

  He knocked and walked inside as soon as the bishop responded.

  It was the room of an invalid. Bishop Walter was wrapped warmly in a thick robe with fur at the collar and cuffs, and to Simon it made him look as though he was swamped. His face was pale and drawn, and there was a feverish look in his eyes. Yet his smile of welcome was as genuine as ever. ‘Ah, Simon. I am glad to see you.’

  ‘I have been here two days, and still can make no sense of this business,’ Simon said.

  ‘I don’t expect you can, my old friend. Much though I wish it were not true, I fear that no one can protect me. This evil appears to follow me, no matter where I go. I am beginning to think there is something supernatural in it, for I cannot see how a man might enter my private chambers to deposit these messages without some form of help. Perhaps my actions in the last years have brought this divine judgment upon me.’

  ‘Bishop, you have been a strong man who has done all he might to serve the Crown and the Church. God is not displeased with you. This is being done by a man who has a grudge,’ Simon said.

  ‘You think so?’ the bishop said gently.

  ‘No – I know so. There is no one who has served God with more devotion. You are under threat from a man, that is all. And a man is not infallible. He may be dangerous, in truth, but he is vulnerable, too. All we need do is find him and capture him.’

  ‘That is all?’ The bishop smiled.

  ‘Yes. But for that I do need to have help. William Walle knew him, did he not?’

  ‘Yes. He and John would be able to recognise him.’

  ‘Good, that will help me. I spent all yesterday trying to consider the best means of drawing him out, but I have to conclude that the best approach will be to let him come here.’

  ‘Use me as bait, then?’

  ‘Yes. And either I will be with you, or William will. I want you to have a man at your side at all times.’

  ‘What of my other guards?’

  ‘I will be asking that your guard be doubled as well. And I will need William to view all those who come to guard you so that we can ensure that the man is not among them.’

  ‘Very well,’ the bishop said. He glanced pensively out through the window. ‘Have you heard the people in the city when they talk about me?’

  ‘You must not listen to the mob,’ Simon said firmly.

  ‘But I have to. It is impossible to miss their jibes and insults,’ the bishop said. He spoke as a man who was exhausted, shaking his head and looking down into his lap. ‘It is not one man, you see, Simon. The whole of the city seems to hate me. I can feel it like poison seeping through the walls here: the whole population of London wishes me dead. If I could, I would wish I had never come here.’

  ‘To London?’

  ‘Yes. I believe I will die here. This killer, this Paul of Taunton, will kill me here. I am sure of it.’

  Near Honfleur

  Sir John Felton had excelled himself. As soon as the first ships had delivered their cargoes, he began to wonder whether to continue with the mission. Dithering, he demanded guarantees that the whole force might be deposited safely, else he must recall them and re-embark. It was only the determined arguing of Sir Nicholas de Cryel and Sir Robert de Kendale that made him agree to continue, and even then the two stood near as though to threaten him should he change his mind again.

  Baldwin waited, fretting, while the ships lay idle, convinced that at any time he would see a force arrive to repel their little attack. Paul de Cockington, after witnessing the slaughter on the dunes, had grown mercifully silent, and Baldwin had managed to find the young lad, Jack, safe and sound. If he could, he would have brought the officer who had selected Jack, in preference to the boy himself. As it was, he had found him a pony so that he could remain at Baldwin’s side.

  By noon, it was clear that it would take the rest of the day and much of the next, to disgorge their men and matériel.

  ‘Let me take men ahead,’ Baldwin pleaded to Felton. ‘I can provide a mobile defence in case the French come to attack again.’

  Felton demurred. ‘We need all the men we can at the bridgehead. What would you manage on your own? There is safety in numbers.’

  Baldwin had caught a sympathetic look from Sir Nicholas, then he left them in disgust. Felton was going to turn the whole venture into a disaster, and many men could be killed as a result.

  He was striding away, kicking at the sand in his fury, thinking of Jeanne and of how she might hear of his death, when he heard his name called. He stopped to find Sir Nicholas hurrying to catch up with him.

  ‘Sir Baldwin, I would have a word with you.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Could you ride on along the river, and see if you can reach Rouen? I will arrange for a separate covering force here while you do that. We need intelligence about the town and where the duke is before we can decide how best to catch him.’

  ‘It is a matter of catching, you think?’

  ‘What do you think? If the duke wanted to leave France, he could do so. I do not believe him to be held against his will. He’s obeying his mother, damn the French whore! No, we’ll have to take him by force, I think.’

  ‘What of Felton?’

  Sir Nicholas frowned. ‘Leave him to me.’

  ‘But he will deprecate my efforts,’ Baldwin said.

  ‘Sir John Felton is a retainer to Sir Hugh le Despenser. And I don’t think Sir Hugh is particularly bothered about the duke’s safety.’

  Baldwin nodded. ‘I will see to it that the duke is safe, Sir Nicholas. If I can reach him and bring him back, I will do so.’

  ‘Good.’

  Thus it was that Sir Baldwin de Furnshill set off that afternoon with a force of thirty men-at-arms, one boy mounted on a pony, and a rector, to find the heir to the crown of England.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Tower of London

  When he heard someone calling him, Simon was at first surprised then confused. It was the voice of a man he knew all too well, but this was not his natural environment.

  ‘Simon! It is inordinately good to see you. And Sir Baldwin with you?’

  ‘Sir Peregrine! In God’s name, I hadn’t expected to find you here,’ Simon said.

  ‘Ah, but like a rotten apple I have a habit of appearing when you least expect me. You select the apple, you clean it, you open your mouth and sink your teeth inside, and as you chew, you see the half of the worm in the rotten hole in the middle, eh? That’s how you look on me!’

  ‘Not at all, Sir Peregrine,’ Simon chuckled. ‘It is always good to see you. And I hope I find you well this fine day?’

  ‘I am better than well. I am in the peak of fitness, and I feel delighted to be here in the city again.’

  ‘You do?’ Simon was surprised. ‘I thought you detested this place, calling it a cesspit and midden. You used to say that London was a reflection of the people who ruled, and you usually had a word or two to put in about Sir Hugh le Despenser.’

  ‘Yes, but I have had a most fortunate experience since then. I have discovered a lady …’

  ‘And this poor, misfortunate lady is the focus of your adoration?’

  ‘I am afraid so.’

  ‘She surely cannot like you?’

  ‘Ah, well, on occasion she does. When we journeyed here, my friend, she appeared to lose some affection for me, but when we arrived, I insisted that she come to the Tower as my guest, and gradually I have felt her warm to me. I hope … Perhaps given time, I may, um �
��’

  Simon smiled and patted his shoulder. ‘In that case, Sir Peregrine, may I buy you a pint of wine? If you are as fortunate as you clearly think, I can only wish you all the good luck in the world. The love of a good woman is a marvellous thing.’

  ‘I think I am lucky. She has been struck with misfortune herself. She has been widowed twice, while I have lost my own loves, as you know. Perhaps we shall find comfort with each other.’

  ‘I most certainly hope so,’ Simon said, as he led the way to the bar. ‘And what other news do you have?’

  ‘Little that is good,’ Sir Peregrine sighed. He waved to the bottler and ordered wine for them both, then continued, ‘There are plenty of tales of a fleet forming across the Channel. Over a hundred ships, they say, and a great force of men to fill them.’

  ‘Will the queen travel with them? Mortimer surely will be aboard to lead the attack, but will she?’ Simon wondered.

  ‘Mortimer is a strong man. He wouldn’t leave behind his best bargaining counter. No, he will have her with him, as a figurehead and quencher of opposition. Few would dare to raise a hand against the mother of the next king. Nor the wife of the present one,’ he added as an afterthought. ‘Queen Isabella covers all those who may ally themselves with the king. She protects Mortimer from all.’

  ‘What of the people when she lands, though? I have been Keeper of the Port, both at Dartmouth and at Portchester, so I know how many men a ship will carry. Even a hundred and fifty ships would only give them some one and a half thousand men, tightly packed. That cannot be enough to roll over the opposition.’

  ‘You may be surprised at the opposition,’ Sir Peregrine said sagely. ‘You know how hated Despenser is in the country. How many will seriously raise a hand to defend him?’

  ‘I suppose that’s true,’ Simon said doubtfully. It was an unpleasant thought, that only a tiny number would bother to try to defend the king, and yet he would not himself. Not because he had a lack of respect for his king, but because he had an overriding detestation for the Despenser. ‘Is there any news from the south coast?’

  ‘South? No news of any attacks, so far as I know,’ Sir Peregrine said. ‘It all appears to be concentrating about Hainault.’

  ‘So, anyway,’ Simon said. ‘Tell me about your woman … ?’

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

  London

  Simon had managed to find the extra men he felt were needed, and had viewed them all with William’s help. He had insisted upon questioning all of them at length, before telling them why they were needed. The process had taken much of the previous afternoon and evening. By the time he returned to his own chamber, Margaret, Perkin and Rob were already asleep, and he had sat up in front of his fire with a large cup of wine which Hugh had brought for him.

  ‘How’s the brat?’ Simon had asked, nodding towards Rob.

  ‘Argumentative little prickle,’ was the gloomy response. ‘He’ll not make a servant while he’s got a hole in his arse.’

  ‘The only time I have seen him obey anyone was when Sir Richard de Welles met him.’

  Hugh grunted. He was quiet a moment, then, ‘I think the devil himself would obey if Sir Richard stood over him.’

  ‘True enough,’ Simon had chuckled.

  The memory of Hugh’s glum expression made him grin again now, as he walked about the yard outside the bishop’s rooms. There was little enough to make him grin else. The men were all in their allotted places, and the bishop was safe indoors, but in the name of Christ, all it meant was that Simon was the gaoler of the bishop.

  At lunchtime, he decided that he would have to get outside the castle to stretch his legs. He had a fancy for some fish, and thought he might surprise Margaret with it, so he arranged for William to take over for a little while, and walked out.

  At different times in the last year he had come to London with Baldwin. It was big, rumbustious, garish, in a way that was thrilling and worrying at the same time. He had always felt moderately safe, but not today. He had only walked a few paces before he felt the mood of the city. He should have noticed it when he arrived with Meg, but somehow he hadn’t – probably because they had travelled so far that day, and his thoughts were totally focused on reaching a warm fire and a bowl of food.

  But here, on the streets, he couldn’t miss it.

  The lanes and roadways were thronging with people. It was the sort of city where a man could become lost in an instant. Men, women, horses, dogs – the press was so thick, Simon often had to shoulder his way through. Tranters and sellers of all types bellowed their wares, and Simon was almost knocked to the ground by a horse which came from behind him as he gaped at a collection of pies in one shopfront. As it was, the thing scraped an iron-shod hoof down the side of his leg, and he had to bite back a curse as he fell. Still, it could have been much worse.

  ‘Arrogant arsehole!’ one man roared, and bent to help Simon. ‘Master? Are you all right? It’s the pig-swyvers like that one who cause all the trouble here in the city. How can decent fellows live when morons like that ride about like fools and threaten to break your leg for you?’

  Simon thanked him and stood. All around, there were others who had seen the incident, and Simon saw a man hawk and spit in the direction of the man on the horse, while a woman clenched her fist and shrieked imprecations after him. Simon glanced about him and was shocked by the angry mood of the crowd.

  It was the same wherever he went. The whole city appeared to be on edge. Many blamed the king for all their woes, while more still spoke of Despenser. As for Bishop Walter, he was disparaged loudly and with venom. One man, who was quickly hushed, roared that the sooner the king’s friends were dead, the happier the realm would be. There were many who harboured that sentiment, Simon included.

  He hurried to the market at Billingesgate, bought some good white fish, then set off back to the Tower, listening intently to the conversations on all sides. His concern grew at every step.

  This was a city preparing to overthrow its king.

  Near Rouen, Normandy

  Following a poor night’s rest, Baldwin had his riders ready a little after dawn. For the most part they were young fellows with no experience of war. Three were squires, who had at least trained, but the rest were peasants who happened to be able to ride. So be it.

  ‘Come, Jack,’ he said to the boy, and helped him to his pony. ‘Now, don’t forget, if there is to be a fight, you must hold back with the packhorses. Don’t try to join us – you’ll be trampled in an instant. Better that you stay back with our goods so that we can know our food is safe.’

  He had insisted on bringing supplies with them. It was conventional for a force like his to live from the land on a chevauchée, but Baldwin knew it would turn the locals against them, were they to rob a farm. Better by far to slip through unnoticed, ride quickly down to Rouen, take the duke if possible, and hurry back.

  It was good country down here, too. The little farms looked prosperous, their fields good and green. The harvest was in, and Baldwin often saw the families about their work in the fields, looking after their animals or working on buildings, preparing them for winter. One little boy waved happily from his pasture where he was supposed to be watching a small flock of sheep. It was a perfect pastoral picture.

  They were following the river. A poor track wound about the northern bank, and although it was occasionally muddy and foul, it was better than trying to cut their way through the pastures and hedges that lay beyond. Baldwin urged them all to ever greater efforts, trying to preserve the strength of their mounts, but maintaining a steady pace as far as was possible.

  He had guessed that their route would be at least fifty miles, but with the bends in the river, he was sure that they were going much further. Still, when they reached the late afternoon, off in the distance they could see a great yellowish haze, and he knew that this was their first view of the city.

  Baldwin called Paul de Cockington forward.r />
  ‘That, I think, is Rouen. We need to get to it tomorrow and find the duke. Tell me, what sort of lodging does he usually seek?’

  ‘A lowly inn – so long as the food is good and they have plenty of wine,’ Paul said sulkily. ‘Why, did you expect him to lie in a brothel?’

  Baldwin spoke kindly. ‘If I hear you speak to me in such a manner again, rector, I will break your head and leave you here in the roadway as a message to all arrogant fools who think they can bandy words with a knight. Do you understand me?’ And he smiled with a sweetness that was almost angelic.

  The rector gulped, and it was clear that he found Baldwin’s smile more terrifying than his earlier bellows. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. Then tell me: what sort of inn has he gone to in the past? Expensive, large – those with, as you point out, women? Does he go to the centre of the town or prefer the quieter outskirts? Does he invariably stay within the city walls, does he visit priories, or does he have no set tastes?’

  ‘I do not know … But hold! There was mention of an inn near the cathedral itself. Sir Richard de Folville spoke of it. It was very close, only a few buildings to the west, I think he said.’

  ‘Then we may hope to be fortunate,’ Baldwin said. He sighed. ‘Right, we will encamp here, and tomorrow I shall ride into the town with you, Paul. So we should all try to rest as best we may. The coming day will be one of danger for all of us.’

  London

  Simon had returned with his prize of good fish and asked Hugh to cook it for them all. It was quite delicious when Hugh presented it with a salad of mixed leaves and some good quality bread with which to soak up the juices.

  For Simon, however, the evening had lost all lustre. His experiences in the street had heightened his sense of danger, and in the afternoon, when he wandered about the yard outside the bishop’s hall, he spent much of his time looking about him as though expecting at any moment to see the populace clambering over the walls of the Tower to steal the crown and jewels, and slaughter all who lived inside.