The Bishop Must Die: (Knights Templar 28)

by Michael Jecks

  In a few minutes, the men were all outside, Baldwin armed with a spare sword Sir Peregrine had brought for him, and then the coroner marched them across the green towards the drawbridge.

  ‘Where do you want to take us?’ Simon asked.

  ‘We are to walk to the cathedral. There is to be an announcement at St Paul’s Cross,’ the knight said, and although he was perfectly polite, he spent the time looking about them, eyeing the walls of the fortress, glancing at the keep, up at the towers, and over to the river.

  ‘Sir Peregrine? What is it that troubles you so?’ Baldwin said.

  ‘Is it that obvious?’

  ‘You have the look of a man about to ascend the steps to the executioner’s block,’ Baldwin chided him mildly.

  ‘I think you should ask this fellow, rather than me,’ Sir Peregrine said.

  At the first gate they found William Walle waiting. His face lit up as soon as he saw the three approaching, and he stepped forward. ‘I am so glad you’re coming too. I was really worried when it was only me.’

  ‘What is happening?’ Baldwin asked, and Simon could see that he was becoming alarmed. ‘What are all these for?’ He jerked a thumb at the men behind them. There were about twenty of them, all men-at-arms with mail and some plate, and all carrying polearms. ‘They look like the garrison’s men, but they aren’t in the king’s tabards. What is going on, William?’

  ‘I thought that Sir Peregrine would have told you,’ Walle said. ‘No matter. There is to be a reading at St Paul’s Cross.’

  He explained as they marched off. The king had issued a papal bull of excommunication to be read at the cathedral. It stated that invaders of England would become excommunicate and forfeit their souls.

  ‘That should settle the mood of the kingdom,’ Walle said, and rubbed his gloved hands gleefully. ‘You wait and see how the mob reacts to that!’

  The mob had already begun to disperse as they trooped on to the bridge itself, then made their way up to La Tourstrate, and then along to Candelwryhttestrate, and from there to the cathedral.

  This was fully deserving of its reputation for magnificence and beauty, Simon reckoned. A glorious, soaring building, set atop the Ludgate Hill, the first and most prominent hill in the city itself, it showed God’s glory in all its splendour. However, the place had sour memories for him, because last year he had been here with Baldwin when the Bishop of Exeter was almost attacked by a small mob. At the time Simon and Baldwin had thought that it could be another manifestation of Despenser’s ill-will, but it was as likely to be a mere mischance. The London populace were ever forward and troublesome.

  Today at least they appeared less determined to disrupt. There was quite a crowd of men and women at the ancient folk moot.

  It was a roughly shaped area of grassy land bounded to the south by the north-eastern wall of the cathedral, and to the north by the charnel chapel, and hemmed in by the massive belfry to the east. Simon and Baldwin went with the squire and Sir Peregrine to stand near the cathedral’s wall, where they should have a good view of events.

  They did not have long to wait. First, a number of men arrived, and from the fumes of alcohol, Simon could tell that they had been to the alehouses and taverns that sat along the roads. More, rougher-looking men appeared, some of them carters and hucksters, others the meanest of scavengers and tanners. They brought the smell of their business with them, and Simon was considering moving when he was grateful to see a party of apprentices turn up, younger, fitter and cleaner men all round.

  Next to arrive were the bishops, five all told. They walked to the Cross, resplendent in their robes and mitres, their right hands aloft as they muttered prayers and made the sign of the cross towards the waiting audience. The Bishops of London and of Winchester, the Abbots of Waltham and Westminster, and behind them came Archbishop Reynolds, with a number of censer-swinging priests on either side; a thickset fellow with brawny arms and a threatening demeanour carried the cross on a tall pole. The way he stared at the public all around left Simon in no doubt that the fellow was keen to protect his cross, and Simon was sure he had been picked for his truculent attitude. Any man trying to steal it from him would receive a buffet about the head that would make him swiftly regret his inclination.

  It was also plain that the archbishop anticipated some form of trouble. He irritably waved on the guards who followed his party, and the men reluctantly interposed themselves between the public and the religious, their polearms held upright, but all ready to bring them down and use them. That much Simon could see in their anxious faces and their alertness.

  The archbishop began talking, but Simon scarcely heard a word. He was watching the men listening all around. Soon, a young priest darted forward holding a book, and stood as a living lectern as the archbishop peered at the writing. It was a fairly interminable reading, all in Latin, and there was a priest who bawled a translation. But to Simon’s surprise, when the archbishop finished and his servant folded the book once more, disappearing as quickly as he had appeared, a bystander suddenly shouted out, ‘When was that written, Archbishop?’

  ‘What?’ the archbishop said, and his uncertainty was instantly communicated.

  ‘What’s the date on the bull?’

  ‘It is in force. The pope issued the bull to prevent wars in our land. Why, do you want to see war here?’

  ‘That’s not about this, is it? It’s a bull about the Scottish, not the righteous queen of our country,’ a man said loudly, and Simon, peering about, was surprised to see that it was an apprentice who spoke so rudely. He hadn’t expected a youth studying his profession to be so insulting to an archbishop. Youngsters had so little respect nowadays …

  ‘When was it dated?’

  The cry was taken up, and now the scavengers were pressing forwards. There was a shout, and the guards before the priests lowered their staffs, but too late. The crowd was so close already that the staffs would only fall on heads and shoulders, and none of the men was willing to do that and begin the bloodshed. In preference, they all crossed their weapons and tried to keep the crowd back.

  First it was an apple. A brown, rotten apple curled through the air, and landed a short distance behind the guards, some of the flesh spattering Reynolds’s robes. He stared at the muck with distaste, then glared at the crowds. But before he could say anything, the apprentices started to throw old fruit and some bread, anything they had about them. Others were collecting small stones and aiming them at the guards. They rattled on their helmets, and one cried out, his hand going to his eye.

  The bishops and abbots abruptly turned around and hurried across the grass to the door to the cathedral.

  Simon watched as the guards also beat a quick retreat. Stones continued to fall, some larger ones crashing into the cross itself, or slamming into the walls of the cathedral, but none, by a miracle, hit any of the glass windows.

  There was a slithering sound that he recognised, and when Simon turned, he saw that Baldwin had drawn his sword. Like a statue carved from moorstone, Baldwin stared at the apprentices, his sword-point resting on his boot’s toe, his hand resting on the hilt.

  Before Simon could ask why he had taken his sword out, he saw a couple of the apprentices glance around. One had a stone in his hand, which he hefted, a sneer curling his lip. Then he saw Baldwin, and Baldwin shook his head, slowly and deliberately, but with menace. The two looked away.

  While he watched them, Simon caught sight of William Walle’s face. He registered only horror. ‘How could they do that?’ he kept repeating, over and over again, as though it was a prayer that could eradicate the memory of that hideous scene.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Tower of London

  The Bishop of Exeter stormed back to the chamber in the Tower feeling a rage so all-enveloping, he was astonished he did not at once burst into flames.

  ‘That damned fool!’ he snarled, and kicked his door shut.

  John de Padington eyed his master and gauged his mood; he ha
d known him to get frustrated like this before. Bishop Walter was a clever man who was forced to work in conditions that not only taxed his mind, but then forced him to choose politics to explain his thoughts. Working to a worthwhile goal, only to see the achievable ambitions obstructed by others with more shallow desires for the kingdom, was hard to swallow.

  ‘Bishop, I have some lobster for your lunch, and here is a very fine wine which you will enjoy.’

  ‘Oh, I will, will I?’

  ‘Undoubtedly. And if you sit now, and do not upset your humours any more than strictly necessary, it will aid your digestion too.’

  The bishop eyed him, and then gave a small chuckle. ‘Very well, John. You are right enough. Let me sit. Ah! That is better. Now, wine, you said? Good.’ He took a long pull from the goblet and grunted his approval.

  There was a knock at the door. ‘If it’s someone from that incompetent bastard Despenser, send him away before I wring his neck!’

  John opened the door to find William Walle, Simon and Baldwin outside. He stood back to let them all inside.

  ‘Dear God in Heaven, you lot look as though you’ve seen the queen’s host sailing up the Thames,’ he said, only half in jest.

  Simon nodded towards the squire, and William took a deep breath, before explaining what they had, in fact, seen at St Paul’s Cross.

  The bishop turned his face away. ‘I told them it wouldn’t work. I explained to the king and Despenser, but they wouldn’t listen. They said I was an old fool who didn’t understand how to sway the common man’s mind. If there was a threat from the pope, that would bring the city folk around, they said – what – after so many years of Despenser’s despoiling of the country? Almost all the peasants hate him; all the nobles do. If only Despenser could be sent away, many of the people would, I believe, rally to the king. But the king won’t send him to exile or death, and therein lies the tragedy of our times.’

  ‘What will the king do?’ Baldwin asked.

  ‘God knows. Two days ago he was in tears, beating his breast with despair because of the money.’

  ‘What money?’ Simon asked, confused.

  ‘He sent money to Richard Perrers, Sheriff of Essex and Hertfordshire, to pay for a contingent of men to repel the queen. Perrers sent the money back, and has joined the queen. All are joining her. Despenser’s bile and greed has sown the bitterest harvest any king could reap.’

  Baldwin sighed. ‘What of you, Bishop?’

  ‘Me? I shall remain here while the king wishes for my advice,’ Bishop Walter said with determination. He stood and stretched. ‘Damn the soul of Mortimer! If it were not for him, even the excesses of Despenser could have been restrained, and in time he could have been removed from authority, but now, the only possible outcome is the destruction of the realm in years of war. And the king will suffer for it. Poor man! Poor man! He doesn’t deserve this.’

  He didn’t. The bishop had been privileged to work with the king often in the last years, and he had always found him to be honourable, if temperamental. He also had a good brain, was thrifty, and understood organisation and administration. It was this one weakness of his – his affection for the fool Despenser – that had thrown his rule into turmoil.

  Bishop Walter suddenly noticed that the others were standing and watching him. ‘Well?’

  ‘What do you want of us?’ Simon said simply.

  The bishop smiled. ‘Simon, if you wish to leave me and go back to Devon, I will quite understand. This fight will be unpleasant. You are released from service to me, if that is your wish. You too, Sir Baldwin. You ought to return home at the very least. There is nothing for you to do here. The fellow who left me those vicious notes has gone. Perhaps he was knocked on the head by someone here in London, or maybe he has not managed to reach the city. In any case, there is more to worry about than him now.’

  Simon nodded slowly. ‘Perhaps. And perhaps he is very close even now, Bishop. I think I will have to remain here a little longer, just in case.’

  In his mind’s eye he saw again that face under the leather cap and cape of the stevedore. The fierce face of hatred.

  Bishop’s Gate, London

  Richard de Folville, Roger Crok and Ralph la Zouche had ridden hard this day, all the way from Halstead, which was where they had stayed, the night of the Feast of St Michael. And now, today they had come down here to London, to bring messages and to view the lands for the queen.

  So far, their journey had been quiet enough. The money Queen Isabella had given them had eased their paths no end. But she was comfortable with money just now. Wherever she went with her men, the townsfolk arrived and plied them with coin, because everyone wanted an end to the misery of the last years. So many remembered her as the kind, generous lady who had sympathised with the trials and sufferings of the common people, and they fell on their knees to her, treating her like a saint. And she, clad in black widow’s weeds, acted her part: she was quiet and appreciative, grateful for their words of kindness and, as Richard Folville felt certain, entirely consumed with the lust for revenge on her husband and all his friends.

  Folville could understand that lust all too well. It was natural, to wish to destroy all those who thwarted a man, and this queen was ruthless as fire, beautiful as a spring day, and dangerous as a viper. He would trust her no further than he could throw her.

  At Bury St Edmunds she had discovered and taken the treasure left there by one of the king’s justices, and distributed it among the mercenaries in her train. They were keen to remain with her, because so far they had not needed to fight, and were being regularly and richly rewarded for their marching. It was a merry band of men who accompanied the queen.

  But she needed men to tell her what was happening in the land’s most important city. They must ride to London and report to her. And she had chosen Crok, Folville, and la Zouche because they had shown their courage while protecting her son in Normandy. She said that she wanted to reward them by giving them the task of highest honour.

  Riding under the Bishop’s Gate, Folville glanced about at the others. Highest honour, his arse! The bitch didn’t trust them to remain too close to her precious boy, that was more like it. Well, if she felt safer with a bunch of Hainault mercenaries instead of three Englishmen, that was her mistake. For his part, Folville knew that he had to look at the job in hand with great care. There was a possibility that he might be able to increase his profit. If it appeared certain that the king would win, and that the invasion was doomed, he would be able to give some information to show Edward that he was acting for him. There were stories that men were being offered pardons if they would serve their monarch now. He could do that – turn his coat and become a loyal subject to the king again. Perhaps help in the capture of Mortimer, or catch the king’s son for him. That would be worth a goodly payment. After all, while many flocked to the queen, most among them had more than an eye on the boy at her side, Edward, Duke of Aquitaine, Earl of Chester, and the next King of England. Take away the boy, and many would begin to wonder whether they were right to place all their faith in the invasion.

  Ralph was a possible ally in such an undertaking, but Folville still did not trust Crok. The latter didn’t seem as driven by hunger for possessions as the others, nor was he so determined. Rather, he appeared happy to float along, waiting to see what would happen. The only time he got angry was when someone mentioned the Bishop of Exeter or Despenser, then he grew bitter and quiet.

  Ralph la Zouche was the opposite. At the mention of Bishop Walter, he would immediately fly into a rage, blaming the bishop for his present dreadful position, and especially the death of his brother. So far as he was concerned, his exile was Stapledon’s fault, and the bishop would have to pay for that – sometime soon.

  Yes, if he could, Richard Folville would have to dispose of Crok, and then he would be able to use la Zouche – either to improve their position with the queen, or to leave her and go to the king.

  It would all depend upon the next hou
rs here in London.

  Tower of London

  Simon and Baldwin were quiet as they walked across the Tower green to Simon’s chambers, and once they were inside, and Margaret had kissed Simon and gone to fetch them wine, Simon asked his wife to sit with them a while. Hugh had heard them arrive, and he now stood at the door with his staff in his hands. Rob and Jack appeared to have formed a loose alliance, and sat listening in the corner near the fire.

  ‘Do you sleep with your staff now?’ Baldwin chided Hugh.

  ‘Reckon I do. ’Tis better than dying in my sleep,’ Hugh said.

  Baldwin nodded with some sadness. It was terrible to think that men could fear attack even here in the middle of the king’s most impregnable fortress. ‘Well, Simon?’

  ‘I do not think I can leave here yet,’ Simon said. ‘There is one man I have seen who looks suspicious, and if something were to happen to the bishop now, I would be mortified.’

  ‘Who is this man?’

  Simon explained about the stevedore. To his relief, Baldwin did not treat his words with amusement.

  ‘You are right to be concerned. A man could get work at the quayside with ease, and no one would think to check his name or details. Do you know who he may be?’

  ‘I have no idea. I did wonder whether he might be that priest whom the bishop spoke of – the one who invaded his chamber.’

  ‘Perhaps. But that name was almost certainly invention. We shall have to try to find him by some other means.’

  ‘My fear is that the fellow might get into the castle and stay here.’

  ‘It is hardly likely. There are too many within for a man like him to be able to walk about the castle without being seen.’

  ‘Baldwin, he was walking about the cathedral – no, worse, he was in the Bishop’s Palace – for weeks before he was discovered to be guilty of leaving those notes.’

  ‘Yes, you are right,’ Baldwin acknowledged. ‘Perhaps we should delay any departure. But I prefer to think that such dangers are limited. While the bishop remains here inside the fortress, it will be harder for a man to reach him. We must bend our efforts to make sure he remains here.’