‘Yes, curious, eh? It was the folks out there repeating the news they’d just heard. Something about a fleet.’
Simon swore. ‘The invasion fleet?’
‘I don’t know,’ Sir Peregrine said. He bellowed down to the men at the gate itself. ‘What news?’
‘The fleet has been sorely harmed,’ the keeper called up.
Simon and Sir Peregrine glanced at each other. Neither had any cause to wish the rule of King Edward II and his most precious friend, Despenser, might continue, and yet as Englishmen, they were not keen to see the realm overrun with foreign mercenaries. Simon was aware of a curious sense of mingled anti-climax and relief. ‘So that is that, then,’ he said.
‘So it seems,’ Sir Peregrine nodded. They were about to walk away, when some stray words came to the coroner’s ear. ‘What was that?’ he demanded, turning his head, the better to listen.
There was a man outside on the drawbridge. He had some messages which he had given to the porter, and now he was shouting and shrugging his shoulders, while others on the bridge itself were gesticulating and shouting too.
‘What is it, Porter?’ Sir Peregrine bellowed again.
‘The ships, sir. They weren’t the French ships,’ the porter called up to him, his face suddenly drained. ‘They were ours.’
English Channel
Baldwin came to with a feeling of filthiness all about his body. It was as though he had been thrown into a midden filled with sewage, and as he felt the light on his face and began to swim up from unconsciousness, he knew that he must cleanse himself. He was struggling to do so when he felt himself restrained.
To his surprise, he felt as weak as a newborn foal. His arms and legs were so feeble, he could not even think of fighting off his attacker, and it was shame that made him suddenly give a sob as he realised he was entirely at the mercy of whoever was here. And then he jerked his eyes open as he remembered the last moments as he fell under the bloody froth that was the seashore. He was in hell!
The first thing his eyes perceived was not a demon, but the boy called Jack, who stood over him with an anxious expression on his face. ‘Sir Baldwin? Are you all right, sir? I have some wine, if you’d like it.’
Baldwin took a gasp of air, and looked about him. He was in a wooden cot on the deck of a cog. About him were other men, some with hideous wounds, and there was a sobbing and a moaning all over the vessel. With slow care he lifted his hands to view. There was no blood left. Someone had washed his hands and body.
‘Aye. Couldn’t leave you looking like that, could we?’ Paul said from beyond Jack.
Baldwin said nothing. He was quite sure that if Paul had seen the opportunity, he would have strangled Baldwin while he was asleep.
‘What happened?’ he asked hoarsely.
Paul answered. ‘You were knocked down, and this young fool leaped off the side of the ship to pull you from the water. It half killed him, poor twit, but he dragged you to where there was a grappling hook hanging from a rope, and he managed to persuade two sailors to haul you aboard. You’re lucky. If you’d stayed down there, you’d have been mangled along with the rest.’
‘Ach!’ Baldwin felt waves of nausea wash through his entire body, and grimaced. ‘Did we lose many?’
‘Too many to count. The French just pounded straight into the line, and with the sea behind us, what could we do? I reckon we lost over a hundred. And then their navy came across us this morning. We’ve lost three more ships. We only just made it away ourselves, with the help of some pretty effective arrow-work from the men on the castles.’
He had recovered his jauntiness, Baldwin saw. It did not make his company more desirable. ‘Where are we now?’
‘We’ll be back to the Downs this morning. Then we can leave this old bucket of rotten wood and worms, and get back to solid ground again. And I for one will not regret it if I never see a ship again.’
He stood and peered down at Baldwin. ‘See you later, Sir Knight!’
Jack remained. ‘You’ll be all right, Sir Baldwin. You just had a knock on the head. A destrier rode past you, and I think his hoof whacked you on the skull. You fell like a log!’
‘And I owe you my life, Jack. I think that is a debt which will be hard to repay,’ Baldwin said.
‘I couldn’t leave you there. Paul helped nearly as much. He threatened the two sailors to get you lifted up to the ship.’
‘He did?’ Baldwin said with surprise. He would not have expected that. A spasm jerked his torso, and he felt the bile in his throat, searing him.
‘Sir, drink this,’ Jack said, holding up a cup of wine. While the ship rocked, Baldwin tried to drink, but much of the wine dribbled down his beard.
‘Thank you, Jack,’ he said, and closed his eyes.
He was asleep in an instant.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Tower of London
The chamber in the building where Lady Isabella Fitzwilliam was installed was pleasant and airy, but she would have preferred to be back home at her old manor. Not that it was possible, with that thief Bishop Walter having stolen it. He was a man so sunk in infamy, the devil himself would have rejected him.
To learn as soon as she arrived in London that Sir Peregrine would not allow her to stay outside in the city, but instead insisted for her protection that she take a room here in the fortress had at first been delightful – but then she realised the danger. She was determined to put in place the last stage of her plan, but to do so, she must have the help of her son.
The damned bishop’s presence had itself been a shock. She had had no warning that he might be coming here, and now he was installed only a short distance from her own chamber. The possibility of repaying her debt herself at any moment was now within her grasp, and yet the risk inherent in that was high. Were she to kill the bishop in full view of anyone else, she must inevitably be killed in her turn. A terrifying thought.
Still, were she to kill the man, it would mean that her boys would not do so. And she loved them both more than she loved herself. How could she not! To the one she had given life, and to the other she had given herself. They were both hers, and she was theirs.
Even now she found it hard to believe that it had been so simple a task, to install a man in the bishop’s palace and to distribute messages of death.
It was always the idea that he should suffer for a long period. At first when she had been considering the means of making his life so miserable that he would almost welcome death, she had thought that she would simply string it all out until he was entirely depressed and half-mad with fear. But it was her son who had persuaded her that there was no logic to treating him in such a manner. If he was to deliver her notes, he wanted to know that there was a set term for them. As he pointed out, she only had to think of the words, while he had to not only run the risk of delivering them, but must also plan to kill the man as well. And he must somehow prevent himself from smiting his father’s murderer every day.
He was so strong, so clever. She missed him so much. He had been going to come here to London, she was sure, but she had seen and heard nothing from him.
The whole idea had been his. He had such a fertile brain! Isabella wanted originally to just slash at the bishop’s throat when the chance offered itself, but it was he who had come up with the idea of making the bishop suffer for the same period as poor Henry had. Henry Fitzwilliam had been arrested and forced to languish in that hideous dungeon for thirty-nine weeks. They didn’t tell her exactly when he died. To think of it! So long a time, and all the while not knowing whether he might be released to freedom and prosperity once more, or led out to be hanged before a mob of baying churls. Poor, darling Henry, to have lain in that tiny, noisome, wet chamber all that time. It had been winter when he finally expired. She thought it was the cold which had done it, but it was hard to be sure. There were so many natural causes of death in gaol: the cold, starvation, fever, thirst – all could be listed as ‘natural death’ in the coroner’s court.
How l
ong now? She had sent the first note at the beginning of the year, but it had reached the bishop on the second Monday before Candlemass. That meant it was already thirty-four weeks since the first note had arrived. She only had another five weeks to worry about. And then, ideally on the Wednesday, the anniversary of the delivery of the first note, she could kill him. Thus would poor Henry be avenged.
Henry would be proud of her, to see how she had planned this and managed to get matters to the stage where she could soon end the rule of the bishop. She only prayed that she would be able to strike the blow. Five weeks. It was not a very long time. She had only that long in order to plan his murder. And it would have to be a perfect murder. She did not want to die in the process of avenging her poor husbands.
It would be hard. She would have to try to penetrate his chamber while he was there more or less undefended. He had guards at all hours though, so that would be problematic. She might be able to poison him, but that was too hit-or-miss. Better to do it with a knife, as she had originally planned. But how? In the chamber would be best, but not while he was praying or at some other form of religious duty.
That was her greatest fear, that she could be consigning herself to hell for all time by killing a bishop, but the crimes of which he and other clerics were guilty were so clear and undeniable that the offence she might give would surely be lessened. His theft of her dower must itself be powerful in mitigation – if there were such a thing as mitigation in the eyes of God.
There had only ever been one other bishop murdered, of course. Saint Thomas Becket. He was one of those rare beings, a truly pious man, slain by the king of the time. His killers were punished, but in this case, removing a man who was so hated and feared throughout the realm, she must be looked upon with more favour.
She was considering this when she caught sight of Sir Peregrine and the man Simon Puttock. They were deep in conversation, and did not appear to notice her. It was good that she could approach them, listening intently.
Puttock was speaking: ‘In the meantime, we have to maintain the guards on the bishop’s chamber.’
‘Yes. For all it’s worth.’
‘Sir Peregrine, don’t you think we can protect him?’
‘I doubt whether the rogue who sent those notes has the faintest intention of fulfilling the prediction. Look, the man started sending the notes back in January, from what John tells me. They’ve been coming sporadically ever since. There were some in Exeter, and the churl who delivered them was discovered and disappeared. Then he tried his luck again at Canterbury. But to do it again here, in London? How could anyone think to press through the guards here at the Tower to kill him?’
‘In Exeter it was a task made easy by the laxity of the guards involved. And the bishop himself, I suppose.’
‘Because neither thought to question the stranger in their midst. All assumed that because he was there, he should have been there.’
Simon nodded. ‘He could try the same strategy here.’
‘He could – but only if he wants to end up with more holes in him than a target on the archery field. Besides, I think the aim of the notes was clear.’
‘You do? And what was it, then?’
‘To scare the man. It was revenge for some misdeed, or perhaps the plot of a twisted mind. There are some who consider that torture is an entertainment.’
‘True enough. So what should we do?’
‘Maintain the guard, hope to catch this vile creature, and pray that he’s already gone away. Give it a matter of three or four weeks, and I’d think the danger would be past.’
‘To be replaced by the dangers we spoke of earlier.’ Simon’s tone was heavy.
‘Aye. Right enough. Invasion and war.’
‘If your lady were here and unprotected, she would have a terrible time.’
‘I would lay down my life for her, to protect her!’
Simon chuckled. ‘If you feel like that about the Lady Isabella, you should tell her.’
‘I could not tolerate her rejection.’
‘Sir Peregrine, think of it from her side. She will be fearful of invasion, just as all people are. But for her, she has no champion to defend her or her lands. In circumstances like these, you ought to strike while you may. Unless, of course, you are uncertain as to your feelings …’
‘I have no doubt about my feelings for her – and I believe she feels similarly towards me. She does not look on me with contempt, I think.’
‘Then tell her. You aren’t children, either of you. You ought to ask her what she feels, and if she could tolerate your company, perhaps a marriage would be possible.’
‘Aye, perhaps,’ the knight said doubtfully.
Isabella moved into shadows before they could see her listening. There was a little smile pulling at her mouth, and an unaccustomed warmth in her lower belly, a kind of tingling anticipation, and as soon as she noted it for herself, she sternly rebuked herself. She had known for quite some time that the good Sir Peregrine was fond of her. There was nothing new in this, nothing at all. And it couldn’t change anything. How could it, when her whole life’s course was set already? No. It mattered not at all. And yet there was a thrill in her blood that no amount of reason could dispel.
Exeter
Peter watched her covertly from the table as his wife stood up, hesitated, and then moved slowly over the floor.
If he’d had to guess, he’d have said she was at least thirty. She looked ancient, the way she moved. Nothing seemed to stir her from this torpor.
At first he’d listened to his father, when the old man said that a woman was like a dog or a walnut tree – all needed to be birched every so often. But his father didn’t believe it himself – Peter knew that. The old twit wouldn’t dream of lifting a hand to Peter’s mother. And nor Peter would hurt Edith.
It would be like kicking a baby, the state she was in. She didn’t need a slap to waken her; she needed something else, but Peter wasn’t sure what.
That day, he decided, he would take her into the city. See if something at the market could tempt her out of her black humour.
They walked out just before the usual time for dinner, and went around the stalls, but there was nothing which took her fancy. In desperation, he took her to the haberdashers’ counters, hoping to tease her appreciation of pretty things, but even that failed. She walked with her head bent to the ground, her gaze fixed to the paths.
‘Edith?’
Peter heard the woman’s voice and recognised it immediately. This was the friend of Edith’s father, the woman married to Sir Baldwin.
He stiffened his back, and turned to look at her. She was a striking woman, with red-gold hair under her coif, and wore a heavy green tunic with a bodice that bore astonishingly detailed embroidery, but most of all she wore a sad, anxious expression as she looked at Edith.
Peter’s father had told him to avoid his father-in-law and his friends, because consorting with them could put his life at risk again. The best route was to tell this woman to go away and leave them alone. It would be best if he was rude to her. She should see that Edith did not want to talk to her. His wife was flinching and averting her head even now, as though she expected him to beat her for even looking at the woman.
He opened his mouth to tell her to go away, and a sob burst from him. ‘Lady, please, if you can help her, please, as you love God, please …’
Friday after the Feast of the Blessed Virgin Mary*
Billingesgate
An unpleasant fog had rolled along the Thames that morning, and this was enough to make the men unloading the boats curse as they struggled to manhandle their heavy wicker baskets full of fish along the narrow gangplanks.
It was hard work, and the men here would not tolerate a slacker, so he must heft the basket for the man in front, then bend while the man behind lifted his basket to him. There was a leather strap that went over his forehead, while the basket lay on his back, and when it was in place, he joined the line with the other me
n, emptied his load in the market, then went straight back to the boats.
The first few days, his hands had been rubbed raw. His back ached, his head was sore, his neck a mass of knotted muscles. How others managed a life so harsh, he could not know. As a lay brother in the cathedral, his hands had been almost as protected as before, when he had been a rector at St Alban’s. There, all he need do was occasionally sweep the floor, and keep his tools in place. His plots in the fields had been serviced by others who felt such work was beneath the man who was guarding their souls, and his hands had never roughened.
Not so here. Now his hands were growing steadily stronger, his back was bent with labour, but there was muscle in it. He felt more virile, more powerful than ever before. This was the last period before he would destroy that evil tyrant, Bishop Walter II.
His father, Henry Fitzwilliam, had been such a kindly soul. Even though his mother had died giving birth to him, yet his father had always been kind to him, and even when he chose to take a career in the Church, his father had not argued, but supported him. The fact that it meant there would be no heir, no continuing dynasty, had not altered his affection for his only son.
When the woman appeared, and he realised that his father was seriously considering marriage again, it had struck him like a poleaxe. As a young man of fourteen, he had considered the idea to be an insult to his mother. But then, when Lady Isabella had shown her courage and loyalty after his father’s arrest, his attitude had changed. He realised why his father had decided to marry her. She deserved his respect and love, and the respect and love of her stepson, too.
Ranulf Fitzwilliam was a man who had built his life on faith and loyalty. At first it was to his dear father, then to his Church, but more recently, he had put the notion that the Church was entirely good to one side since he had seen for himself how power could be abused. Now, he put his faith and loyalty in his stepmother.
At the end of the day, he pulled off the leather cap with the long tail that protected his back, and walked with the others to the little alehouse at the river’s side, where all would invest some pennies in a quart or two of ale, and there they would swap jokes, mutter against the bailiff who demanded ever faster work, or just sit and talk as the pain of the day gradually receded. Not him, though. No, he just stood at the riverside and stared along the muddy banks towards the Tower that loomed up above all the small shops and houses between. That was where, so he had heard, the bishop was living. The latter hadn’t gone to his huge house out towards the Palace of Westminster on Thorney Island, but instead was hiding here in the king’s own fortress. It showed how brave he was feeling.
The Bishop Must Die: (Knights Templar 28) Page 34