The Bishop Must Die: (Knights Templar 28)

by Michael Jecks

  ‘Sir Baldwin, Squire William, Bailiff Simon – I owe you a debt which I doubt may be repaid. You have saved my life, and probably a more shaky thing – my sanity!’

  ‘I am glad if we have succeeded in doing so,’ Baldwin said. ‘The culprit is presently languishing in your gaol, my lord bishop.’

  ‘Has he explained himself? Has he told you why he wished to put me to this appalling test? He nearly drove me mad, after all.’

  ‘He is not yet capable of answering our questions,’ Baldwin said. ‘He will be unable for some while, Bishop. He is quite mazed. However, I am sure that we will soon be able to get some answers for you.’

  ‘Good. Very good.’

  ‘Tell me though, Bishop – what did he write that alarmed you so much?’ Baldwin asked.

  Walter Stapledon picked up the parchment and passed it to him. ‘He gives me the day of my death.’

  Baldwin glanced at the small, crabbed writing. ‘Only another fourteen days to your death. Well, he is hardly poetic in his style,’ he noted.

  ‘Assassins are not noted for their style,’ Bishop Walter said. ‘I am glad you will have time to discuss his writings with him at leisure. I am sure it will be rewarding for you. And now, gentlemen all, if you do not mind, I have much work to get on with.’

  He sighed happily as they left him. He had a pile of documents to read and check, and his clerks would shortly bring in more, but for all that, he had a feeling of ease and comfort such as he had not known these ten months past. It was wonderful that he could sit back without fear of another note.

  Nor worry that he was about to be killed.

  In the yard once more, Baldwin looked about him and breathed in deeply. ‘So, Simon, I think that finally pays your duty to the bishop in full. You have no more to do here.’

  Simon nodded. ‘Meg will be pleased, and so will Hugh, after all his moaning and whining.’

  ‘A curious matter,’ Baldwin commented, as they marched across the grass. The stevedores had all gone now, but the grass was muddied and flattened where they had passed with their barrels and carts.

  Simon gazed morosely at the ruts. ‘Do you think that the Tower will be forced into a siege?’

  ‘If the queen is in earnest, and the fact that she has come this far seems to suggest that she is, then, yes. I would expect so. What else may she do?’

  ‘What does she actually want?’ Simon wondered. ‘Does she mean to kill the king and take the throne for herself?’

  Baldwin sighed. ‘I wish I knew. She is certainly intending that Despenser will be destroyed.’

  There was a call, and both turned to see Sir Peregrine and Lady Isabella approaching. ‘Sir Baldwin, Bailiff,’ the knight said. ‘Who was the man you captured? We saw you arrest him, but we wondered who it might be.’

  ‘He was known as Paul of Taunton when he was in Exeter,’ Baldwin said, ‘but I doubt that is his real name. He was determined to kill the bishop – but for what reason we cannot tell.’

  ‘Why would he want that?’ Sir Peregrine asked with surprise.

  ‘So many have disputes with the rich and powerful, it’s a miracle more aren’t murdered every day of the week,’ Baldwin said lightly.

  ‘But you are sure he was trying to kill the bishop?’ Lady Isabella pressed. ‘Why him?’

  ‘Lady,’ Simon explained, ‘this man Paul was known in Exeter, and it was discovered that he dropped threatening, anonymous notes into the palace for Bishop Walter to find. Today there was another message left for the bishop – and the man was seen.’

  ‘Seen leaving the message?’ she asked.

  ‘No. Seen here,’ Simon said with a faint frown. ‘He was here to upset the bishop again, clearly.’

  She nodded.

  Sir Peregrine was smiling, nonetheless. ‘We have news, my friends, which I cannot keep from you any longer. Lady Isabella here has consented to become my wife.’

  ‘That is wonderful news,’ Baldwin said, and bowed to the lady. ‘I give you my most heartfelt congratulations, Sir Peregrine.’

  ‘I am glad of it, Sir Baldwin,’ the knight replied happily.

  Simon bowed in his turn. ‘My lady, you have a good man there.’

  ‘I know,’ she said, but Simon noted that her manner was a little distracted. Strange, he thought, but it was hardly to be wondered at. She was worried about the situation in the city, no doubt.

  ‘So the bishop is safe now,’ Sir Peregrine said, as they all walked together towards Simon’s rooms.

  ‘Yes. I think it must be a huge relief to him,’ Baldwin said. ‘After all, the matter has been dragging on now for months.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Since he was in Exeter, yes. This madman followed him from Exeter to Portchester, to Canterbury, and now here, I presume. What his motivation could be, I do not know.’

  A sudden blast of trumpets made Sir Peregrine groan to himself. ‘Another drunken guard at the gate, I suppose. There appear to be too many who can gain access to the wine stores. Excuse me, Sir Baldwin, Bailiff. My dear, I shall see you later, I trust.’

  ‘Of course,’ Lady Isabella said, and watched as Sir Peregrine ran back the way they had come.

  ‘So will you live with him in Exeter?’ Baldwin asked.

  ‘I suppose so. I had not thought of it,’ she replied.

  ‘No?’

  She heard the question in his voice, and turned to face him. ‘Sir Baldwin, there is so much danger in the realm just now, I have scarcely had a moment to consider where we may live. I am sure that Sir Peregrine’s house will be adequate for us. There! And now, I must be off, too. Please excuse me.’

  Baldwin and Simon bowed, and then watched as she hurried away from them.

  ‘That woman,’ Baldwin said, ‘is not entirely happy about something.’

  Chapter Forty-One

  Once safe in her chamber, Lady Isabella Fitzwilliam remained leaning against the doorway, her heart racing like a horse at full gallop. It was enough to make her feel quite sick, and she had to sink to the floor, holding her head in her hands.

  To have seen poor Ranulf, her stepson, captured like that … the sight of his face, distraught, staring over at her, as though pleading with her to rescue him, had torn at her heart, but she could only hope that he understood that she was here to finish the job they had begun. Poor Ranulf! The one time he had attempted something important, the poor fellow had been captured.

  It was all her fault. She it was who had instilled in the boy a desire for revenge at any cost. She had been so enraged to learn that her dower was gone that she had reinforced his own fury and feelings of inadequacy, using them to make him persecute Stapledon. And now Ranulf was in gaol – a gaol from which he might never be released.

  The bishop’s murder was now her own responsibility. There was so much to be feared now. In a matter of days, the whole nation could be on fire, with war and death stalking the realm. Many would die. Boys and men, women and their children.

  One more death would be nothing. The bishop deserved his end.

  But she was scared. So scared. Tears were springing to her eyes even as she covered her face in her hands. She had never killed before, but now she must murder the bishop.

  But first she would go and see Ranulf, if she possibly could.

  Thursday after the Feast of St Michael*

  St Alban’s Inn, Bradstrete, London

  In the cold morning air before the fires were lit, Roger Crok walked to the door and peered out into the narrow street. It was filled with busy workers and traders moving up to the Austin Friars or down to the shops near the Cornhulle. The noises deafened, the smells assailed the nostrils … in different ways, London assaulted all the senses. It was both alarming and wonderfully stimulating. Brash and saucy as a whore from the Bishop of Winchester’s brothels on the south of the river, but still elegant and attractive in more cultured ways.

  Not that he was worried about tarts or culture just now. The danger that he and the other two ran by their
presence here in the city was enough to occupy him.

  He was not scared of the risks. It was stupid, he knew, but he was not worried by the thought that he could be captured and killed. Rather, he was excited by the whole experience of being here and having the chance to do something that might help the queen to bring down the king.

  There was no doubt in his mind that that was her ambition: to have the king removed from the throne, and to rule in his place until her son could take over. Roger knew that she would succeed. He had a chivalric belief in that beautiful young woman’s abilities.

  Folville was close to him. He could feel the man’s presence now, after living with him for so many months, and it was not a pleasant sensation.

  ‘I need to talk to you,’ Folville said.

  As he followed Folville back into the bedchamber they had shared last night with five other men they had never met, Roger Crok reflected that he had never seen Richard de Folville smile properly. The man’s mouth moved, but not his eyes. An old fellow had once told him that a man who smiled with his mouth alone was not a human being, he was a snake.

  Well, Roger Crok needed no warning about trusting this fellow. He was not a friend. He walked into the bedchamber, thinking this, and saying, ‘Well?’

  As he did so, he felt the danger behind him, and threw himself sideways.

  He would never know what feral awareness told him to avoid that blow, but as he tumbled onto a mattress, he heard the blade scythe through the air and slash the palliasse nearest. It was Ralph la Zouche, of course. Richard and he must have decided to rob him. He should have known the fools would try something like that. Grabbing at the palliasse, a thick one stuffed with straw, Roger launched himself at Ralph. He managed to thrust the bedding into Ralph’s face, and the man swore as the straws pierced his skin, making him drop his sword to protect his eyes. Roger kicked viciously at his knee, and felt his boot connect, before scrambling for the door.

  There was a crunch, and he glanced up to see Richard’s sword firmly embedded in the frame.

  Until that moment, he had only been trying to escape. But the sight of that steel so near to his head made him suddenly lose all reason. While Richard put both hands to the hilt to withdraw the sword, Roger turned about and aimed a fist at Richard’s head. He was no fool, and ducked, but that only meant that Roger’s left hand met his nose with a satisfying crunch. Richard flew backwards, with a fountain of blood from his nose spraying upwards and covering the palliasses with a fine red drizzle.

  Ralph la Zouche was on his right, and Roger Crok bent, kicking sideways with his boot. The edge of his sole caught the knight’s chin and lifted his head as it slid into his Adam’s apple. With a choking cough and wheeze, Ralph fell again, scrabbling for his throat in his agony, but already Roger had drawn his own sword and was holding it ruthlessly pointing at Richard’s breast. Richard was kneeling by the rough wall, holding his hand to his nose, staring disbelievingly at the blood cupped there.

  ‘Why?’ Roger asked.

  ‘What is it to you? Just kill me and be done!’

  ‘I don’t intend to kill you quickly, fool. I will have you done slowly, at the gallows. You can dance to the tune of the hangman, you can. They have special trees for murderers here in London.’

  ‘Then kill me slowly, Roger Crok. You send me to the justices though, and I’ll see you dance at my side,’ he sneered. ‘You think you can make use of the law here? I’ll—’

  Roger brought his fist round in a sharp blow that knocked Richard de Folville off his knees as the sword’s pommel hit him above the ear. Richard fell, snoring on to the floor, while Roger quickly went to his pack. He rolled up his few belongings in his blanket, picked up his satchel, and glanced about him before leaving.

  He would finish his mission here, and then hurry to find the queen.

  Tower of London

  Ranulf lay on his back on the floor of the gloomy chamber. The rushes beneath him were ancient and already befouled, and she could not imagine how her stepson could sleep on that. She stared down at him from her place behind the bars. He was like a stevedore, with rough hosen, a plain chemise and leather cap, with a long trailing cape to cover his back. It was wrapped about him now, in a vain attempt to keep the cold at bay.

  ‘Ranulf!’ she whispered.

  The gaoler, an ancient warrior with a belly like a barrel and a second chin that wobbled alarmingly, sucked at his teeth and gave a wheezing chuckle. ‘You want to speak louder than that, my Lady.’ He lifted his lamp and bawled, ‘Hoi!’

  Her stepson jerked awake, instantly alert like a cat.

  ‘Please, gaoler, leave us a while,’ she said, slipping a few coins into his hand. ‘There’s no need to mention this to anyone. I just want to see what makes a man behave in the way he did.’

  ‘Oh yes, my lady,’ he said with a leer.

  She tried to smile, hating him for his foulness, and as soon as he was gone, leaving his horn lantern behind, she went to the metal bars. ‘How are you, Ranulf? You poor dear, to be in here.’

  He looked at her warily. ‘I saw you. Yesterday, I saw you with that man. Who is he?’

  ‘Sir Peregrine? He is a good man, but he’s not our concern.’

  ‘You looked very friendly.’

  ‘Ranulf, I have to remain here. I was planning on killing the bishop myself, but to get close enough to him, that is difficult. Bishops do not entertain women in their chambers.’

  ‘Unlike knights?’ he said with a sneer.

  ‘You think me a whore because I am trying to avenge your father?’ she said with bitter reproof.

  ‘It’s hard to think anything good in here.’

  ‘Remember that I am out here trying to finish the task,’ she said.

  ‘I will remember. I hope you do, Mother.’

  She dropped her head. It had not occurred to her that he would be so bitter towards her.

  ‘Mother,’ he said again.

  She could hear the softness in his tone, and she was instantly taken back to the time when they had been friends. When they first met, he had been suspicious of her as any bereaved child would be, to learn that his father had decided to take a new wife. A replacement mother. But they had grown to like each other, and when she had been so distressed by the death of his father, he had demonstrated this same gentleness. It was impossible for her to ignore it.

  ‘Yes?’ she said, and approached the bars again.

  ‘Look at me,’ he said, and letting the leather cloak fall away, he stood and walked to the bars himself so that she could see him.

  There was a blackening bruise at his left eye, and his jaw was caked with blood. His neck was scratched and bleeding, his shoulder looked as though it was dislocated, he was holding it so tenderly, and his left leg was obviously hurting, from the way that he avoided putting his weight on it.

  ‘This is what they have done to me, Mother. They killed my father, they stole my inheritance, and now they’ve done this to me. I’ve lived like an animal these last months, working like a slave, doing anything that would bring me nearer to the bishop so I could avenge my father. And all this will come to nothing, unless you steel yourself and kill him in my place. Can you do that, Mother? Can you?’

  Isabella nodded twice, emphatically. ‘I will do it, my dear Ranulf. For you and for your father.’

  Sir Peregrine left the king in the Tower, eating a good meat meal, and walked outside into the clean London air with a sense of disgust.

  The king had ordered him to learn all he might from the man who had been leaving messages for the bishop, and had authorised him to use whatever means he thought necessary. In other words, torture.

  Sir Peregrine had no doubt in his own mind that a man would give any answer the torturer wanted, would implicate anyone, denounce any faith, in order to make the pain stop. However, the fact that a man gave answers did not mean he would give the truth, and Sir Peregrine was quite sure that someone, who had lost fingers and toes, who had watched as his nails were ripp
ed from their beds, who felt the scouring heat of the branding irons, or the crushing agony of breaking bones, would hardly know what the truth was any more.

  He stared down at the door that led to the gaol with a feeling of depression that his own task was reduced to this: that he must create agony for another in order to satisfy the king. King Edward had a justifiable interest, after all. The bishop was his guest.

  There was a shout and a cry from the gate. From here he could see nothing, but he called to a guard up on the wall, ‘What is the commotion about?’

  ‘A messenger, sir.’

  ‘Any smoke from the east or north?’ Peregrine enquired.

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Good.’ So there would be no sudden arrival of a force ranting and ravaging all over Essex, seeking to burn the king from his Tower. ‘Tell them to send him through,’ he instructed.

  The man had ridden hard, from what Sir Peregrine could see. He was pale, breathless, a skinny, black-haired man dressed in the king’s blue parti-coloured clothing to denote his importance, but just now he didn’t look very important. He looked scared.

  Sir Peregrine studied him briefly, and then jerked his head. ‘Come with me, lad.’

  They turned and the knight marched him back to the chamber. Soon they were with the king, who yet sat at his meat. Sir Hugh le Despenser was behind the king’s chair, and he stared at Sir Peregrine with a strange wildness in his eyes. The man was falling apart, the coroner surmised. Good. The sooner the bastard was dead, the better for all concerned.

  ‘Wait!’ the king said. He did the messenger the honour of glancing at him, but then sat with his meat skewered on a knife, waiting impatiently, staring at a trio who stood before him.

  They were all rich men. Their robes were fur trimmed and lined, and the hats on their heads were similarly gorgeously fashioned. Sir Peregrine thought he recognised one, a large-bodied man in his fifties, with clear blue eyes and a grey beard, but startlingly black eyebrows. He glanced at Sir Peregrine as they entered, and Sir Peregrine was sure that he had seen him at the Guildhall in the last week.