The Bishop Must Die: (Knights Templar 28)

by Michael Jecks

  ‘Yes,’ Simon said. He looked across at Margaret, who had sat quietly listening. ‘Meg, what do you think?’

  ‘I will stay if you wish to. My place is with you,’ she said.

  Simon nodded, but he had noticed the involuntary movement of her eyes towards their son’s chamber. ‘It does not suit me, I confess. I would rather be at home, or with Edith. But I have promised to help the bishop, and feel I have a responsibility. But that doesn’t mean you have to remain, Baldwin. You ought to go home to Jeanne.’

  ‘And I shall. But for now, the risk of bloodshed is all here. The queen may come here at any time, and the king is still locked up in the White Tower, so this is where the real danger lies. Jeanne will be safe. But our duty is to see to it that the bishop is safe, too.’

  ‘Then we are agreed,’ Simon said with a small sigh. ‘We will remain a little longer.’

  Wednesday after the Feast of St Michael*

  Tower of London

  John de Padington was early to rise as usual. A man who would serve a bishop had to accommodate himself to the hours kept by his master – night as well as day. And early was the hour that the bishop tended to get up to visit his chaplain. He believed in the benefits of a clear mind.

  It was all the same to John, for he counted time asleep as time wasted. There was work to be done, and he preferred to get on with it, rather than laze about like so many. And if there was time at the end of the day, he would enjoy the company of his friends and a jug of wine. That was the hour for rest and relaxation.

  In the morning though, all was bustle for him because the whole day lay ahead of him, and he was sure that there would be plenty for him to do, as usual.

  The morning looked pleasantly clear when he glanced through the window. Outside, the courtyard was bright, and if it were only a little less cluttered with men-at-arms, horses, racks of weapons, and the constant lines of men bringing goods into the fortress, he would have thought it a proud sight.

  But now, with the ever-present threat of the queen’s men reaching London, he was less content than usual. He knew that the future was uncertain.

  Still, he had experienced the ups and downs of his master’s career in the last years. From adviser to the king, to Lord High Treasurer, then returning to mere bishop, John had seen it all, and he had participated in Bishop Walter’s rise and fall. He didn’t care for the man’s position though, except in the way that it affected the bishop himself. John had no thought for himself. He was happy just to serve the man he thought to be one of the kindest, best men in the country.

  He smiled to himself as he set the table ready for when the bishop returned to the chamber, and went out to fetch food and drink. These he prepared in the buttery himself. He would not have anyone else touch the bishop’s food, because there was too much risk of someone adding poison. Other meals would be taken elsewhere, such as the king’s own hall. John could not do much to ensure that the bishop’s food was safe there, but he would do all he could here in the man’s own chambers.

  The walk from the buttery was only short, but with a full tray it was a cautious journey. There were projecting obstacles at every point, from the chests on the floor to the bishop’s own sword, which lay on top of another table near the entranceway.

  Crossing the floor, he set out the meal ready for the bishop’s arrival, and stood back, eyeing it all with a slight frown. There was nothing missing he could see, so he carefully poured a little of the wine into a cup and drained it, smacking his lips appreciatively. Yes, a good wine!

  His work done for the present, he left the room to visit the privy.

  Thus he was not present when the hooded and cloaked figure slipped from the doorway to the table.

  He had followed the other stevedores into the fortress, all carrying their loads of fish and meats ready for the garrison. Their barrels rumbled like thunder over the cobbles, hundreds of them rolling simultaneously, and the stevedore thought his head must explode with the row, but he gritted his teeth and ignored it as best he might.

  Last night, he had tried to clear his mind and consider the best way to attack the bishop, but always aware that the day for him to die was not quite yet arrived. However, he could still come here today and learn all he could about the bishop’s movements.

  He rolled the barrel along, one in a long line, looking about him as he went, and as he reached the Wakefield Tower, and had to roll it up the shallow incline to the green, he saw her.

  She was walking briskly from a doorway just over to his right, and was forced to stop and wait for the line of men. Soon there was a gap and she darted through it to the opposite side.

  For a moment, he nearly ran to her. Oh, the longing! It was such a powerful urge, he almost succumbed, no matter what the other stevedores would say, on seeing him behave like that. They would think he had lost his mind! No doubt they’d stare though, when Lady Isabella saw him and reciprocated …

  If she would.

  He suddenly recalled seeing her with that knight – the older man who had laughed and chatted with her so happily the other day. Perhaps she would be unwilling to acknowledge him. She wasn’t in need of him any more, not if she had found a new lover. Women weren’t as loyal as men, after all. If she had found a new home, she would be happy. That would be it.

  Still, he stared at her fixedly, and as he made his way up the green to the larger storerooms at the northern wall, he almost changed his mind. She looked so small, so defenceless, he took pity on her. But in the process, he reminded himself what he was there to achieve: the death of the bishop. How would it be for her, if he showed himself to her in full view of all the men here, and later was caught for the execution of the bishop. Some of the responsibility for his action might then redound on her, to her great damage. No, he would leave her.

  And then, just as he reached the door to the undercroft, he saw that man again – from his dress and bearing, surely a knight – who walked to her and spoke. The two of them looked so happy in each other’s company, that it was hard to keep himself in check. Because just seeing her with that knight made him realise that there was a new risk to him.

  If she had fallen in love with the man, she might decide that there was an easy way to ingratiate herself with him. The bitch could decide to betray him.

  Christ alive! It took all his self-control to keep his head down and not rush over the grass to stab her to death there and then, her and her lover.

  Chapter Forty

  In his chamber, the Bishop of Exeter entered, and called for John. ‘Dratted fellow. Never about when you need him,’ he muttered, and began to pull his gloves from his hands.

  Still, he was relaxed this fine morning. There was no news yet of the queen, and he had seen the king on his way back from the chapel. Edward had been chatting to his second son, John of Eltham, only ten years old and already witnessing the worst which the kingdom could suffer. The bishop had paused for a few words. The king had been almost his old self, chatty and amiable. Only a day or two before, he had been inconsolable in his grief, convinced that he would be caught and forced to exile Despenser, but today he seemed to believe that the queen would not want to harm him.

  ‘Look at our boy here,’ he said, affectionately patting his son on the shoulder. ‘How could she hurt him or me?’

  The two together, father and son, were as perfect a pair of males as could be imagined, with their long, flowing hair. The king kept his beard trimmed, but long, and the muscular set of his body was unaffected by his lifestyle. Meanwhile his boy was slender and elegant, with bright, intelligent eyes.

  ‘I am sure your queen would wish nothing of the sort,’ the bishop said.

  ‘Ha! You hear that, John? Now, Bishop, you must know that our attempt to read the papal bull yesterday went awry. The damned crowd had some pedant in amongst them, who demanded to know when the bull was dated. Not that it matters a whit! What if it was written some days ago – weeks ago, or years? Eh? It’s still correct, after all. If the pope m
ade the invasion of our realm illegal some years ago, nothing has changed. Maybe we should have the bull read again, so that the crowds can understand its full force. I am sure Archbishop Reynolds would not mind doing that.’

  ‘I fear he may well mind, sire,’ the bishop said apologetically. ‘He was pelted with rotten fruit as though he was in the pillory, and the guards could do nothing to protect him. They were attacked too. If you wish your bull to be read, you will need to look for another man. No!’ he added hurriedly, holding up his hands. ‘Were I to go out just now, they would pull my head from my body.’

  ‘We are sure that they are not so filled with hate as you believe,’ the king said, but to the bishop’s relief the idea was chased out by another. ‘When the queen arrives, we must have her greeted properly.’

  ‘Your Majesty?’

  ‘She is my wife, Bishop. We will not have her mistreated. She has been wayward, but we would have her position respected – and that of our oldest son. They must be welcomed when they arrive.’

  ‘Your Highness,’ Bishop Walter said. He considered the queen, imagining her arrival, the way that she would point to Despenser, to Edward himself, and order their arrest. Perhaps she would prefer to have Despenser strung up immediately though, and not bother to see him wait for trial. And what would she do to her husband, the king?

  The king was in full flow now. ‘She will arrive, perhaps within the week. Naturally we shall have to ensure that all is ready.’

  ‘Your Highness, Mortimer is with her.’

  ‘He is a traitor, and he will die. But my wife will be pleased to return and discover that we forgive her. And our son, of course. We could not see Edward punished. We doubt that it was his fault – I expect he was persuaded by Mortimer to behave so recklessly.’

  The bishop had left him soon after, and it was this conversation which had so unsettled him on his way up to his chamber. The king was deluding himself into the rosy vision of his wife arriving, apologising, giving up her lover, and Edward welcoming her back into his fold. He would probably think he could ask Sir Hugh le Despenser to arrange a party to celebrate.

  It was insane! The queen loathed Despenser and wanted his head, just as she probably hated Bishop Walter. Certainly he had seen no residual affection for her husband when the bishop had travelled to France to request that she return. The response had been unequivocal: non!

  As usual, his food was set out in an orderly manner, and he finished removing his gloves and set them to one side before closing his eyes and offering up a prayer of thanks for his food, before picking up his loaf of bread and breaking it.

  Lifting the loaf made something move, and as he glanced down and saw it, the bishop leaped back, as though a giant spider had sprung forth. The goblet of wine was overturned, while the loaf fell to the floor even as he cried out.

  And in the draught of his movement, the little parchment note skittered across the table as if it was impelled by its own malign influence.

  It was obvious that the bishop was still suffering from the shock when Baldwin and Simon walked into the chamber.

  William Walle was already there, his sword in his hand, standing near the door, while John de Padington stood a short distance in front of the bishop.

  Baldwin looked down at the squire’s sword with an eyebrow raised, and William shamefacedly lowered it.

  ‘I am sorry, Sir Baldwin. I didn’t know who it was. After this …’

  ‘What exactly has happened?’ Baldwin asked the bishop.

  ‘I walked in to break my fast, and found a fresh note lying under my loaf,’ the bishop said.

  ‘Who put the loaf there?’ Baldwin asked.

  ‘I did, sir,’ John de Padington said. ‘But it was not there when I put the loaf down. Someone must have entered the room after I left, and stuck the note beneath.’

  ‘How long was the loaf there?’ Simon asked, walking to the window and staring down into the green.

  ‘Not long,’ John said. ‘I set out his breakfast, and only left the room for a few moments, and while I was gone I heard the bishop’s cry, so I ran back …’

  He saw the expression on Baldwin’s face, and suddenly his nerve failed. ‘No, Sir Baldwin, please, do not look at me in that way! I would have done nothing to hurt my master! It was nothing to do with me, I wouldn’t have—’

  ‘I don’t suspect you, man! I am just considering.’

  ‘Baldwin, over here,’ Simon said urgently. ‘William, you too. Look, that stevedore down there, the one with the reddish chemise and black hosen. See him?’

  ‘Sweet Mother of Christ!’ William Walle blurted out. ‘It’s him – the man who called himself Paul of Taunton!’

  He could see her still, the bitch! Flaunting herself with her new lover, making herself appealing to the old goat like some seventeen-year-old bawd teasing a randy patron. He would put an end to her playing. There were dark corners even here in the Tower, and he could reach her no matter where she ran.

  The undercroft was a cold place, like death itself. As he and the others rolled their barrels and hefted their heavy sacks of grain and flour into the areas pointed out by the officials, he found his mind turning more and more to revenge. It was so sweet a thought!

  But the supreme ambition was to kill the bishop. Yes, first he must kill Stapledon, and then, later, he could decide what to do with the bitch Isabella. So long as she didn’t betray him beforehand.

  The barrel was in place. He gave it a practised roll with a twist, and it ended upright. With a leg either side, he hugged it, and forced it the last few feet, curling it in arcs over the stone floor. When it was in place he stood straight, feeling the muscles in his back slowly easing, and trailed out to the door with the others. They had to wait there, in the gloom by the entrance, for the trail of barrels and men carrying sacks to decline, so that at last they could leave the place.

  Blinking in the sunlight again, he glanced about, searching for her. She was still there with the knight, as though there was no shame in associating with another man of the king, and by implication, a friend of Stapledon and Despenser. The men who had killed …

  There was a shout, and like all the others, he turned to see what was the cause. To his astonishment, he saw three men running at him. Two must have been knights, and the third was a powerful-looking man with a grim expression.

  For a moment he wondered what they were doing, and he automatically looked over his shoulder to see who was sought, but then, before he could work it out logically, his legs had already overhauled his brain, and he was pounding away from them.

  They were gaining on him fast. He ran to the left, almost collided with a wall, then was off again, down the hill towards the entranceway to the green.

  There were shouts, and suddenly he was the target of every man out there in the green. There were three stevedores in front of him, one with long, spreading arms like a gorilla and a leer that showed he would enjoy bringing him down, but he wouldn’t surrender that easily. Turning, he pelted breathlessly back up the hill again. There was a ladder up in front, and he ran at it at full tilt, catching hold and swarming up it almost without breaking his pace.

  Above him, he saw a guard hurrying across the inner walkway of the wall, and behind him, two men were following. He only had one way to escape.

  Reaching the top, he stood catching his breath, staring down at the men following him. There were rocks nearby, stored up here to hurl at attackers, and it would have been so satisfying to knock them loose with one or two, but the guards on the walls were close, too close, and one was fumbling with a crossbow. He had no time.

  He stared about him a moment, and in that instant, he felt a sharp delight, as though this was the culmination of his life. He sprang up onto the battlements, with the men clambering up the ladder behind him, and then, as the guards on the walkway came close, he turned to leap into the moat, hoping to swim for the far bank.

  But there was no moat. He had not realised that here the castle had a second
set of walls, and to reach the moat, there was a stretch of grassy plain, and then a second curtain wall. The grassed gap between the two was an appalling drop away from him, presently filled with cattle and sheep, and as he stared down, a cow peered up at him ruminatively, chewing, as he felt the first of the fists grab his shoulder.

  He was hauled back from that terrible drop, and when he tried to grip the wall to hold himself up, he was punched in the face, until his grip failed and he dropped back on to the walkway. A boot slammed into his flank, and he rolled over, pushing himself up again, but he was hit again, on the back of his head, and this time he felt his body grow enormously heavy, as though all his limbs had been filled with lead. There was a feeling of nausea rising to his throat, and he felt as though he was falling. In his mind, he saw the cow again, staring at him with that meditative expression as he tumbled down and down, until he landed softly on the grass, and knew no more.

  The bishop heard their boots on the stairs, and he turned in his seat to stare at the door as it opened. ‘Well?’

  ‘My lord bishop,’ William Walle said, and then his face broke into a broad smile. ‘We have him!’

  ‘Oh, thank God,’ the bishop murmured, and he felt the relief wash through him. ‘I feel a little dizzy,’ he said, eyes wide.

  It had been so alarming, when the first note had appeared. The second had made him angry, but the subsequent ones made him grow more and more concerned. Then again, there was the appearance of the preserved head. It had remained in his mind, proof of his own fragility, the ease of the assassin. His morale was quite eroded when that last message arrived at Canterbury, and this latest had shocked him more than he could properly express. There had been such a lengthy gap between them, and he had also felt the security of being here, at the heart of the king’s authority in the country. It was as though the writ of the king overwhelmed any evil which could be aimed at him. The assassin’s knife could not hurt him while he remained inside the Tower.