Nasty, odorous, filthy, it was a place where the dregs of the city would accumulate, downriver from all the better places where the rich lived. The only folk who were here were those with nowhere better to go. It had but one merit: Richard de Folville would never think to look for him here.
Roger had installed his mount in a stable over near the London Bridge, where he hoped it would remain safe, and had spent some days listening to the gossip of the streets, visiting alehouses and taverns all over the city, going to church and observing the temper of the crowds, and soon he had come to understand that the only desire in London was that the king should go – and be replaced by his elder son.
Four days ago, after Folville and la Zouche had tried to kill him, he had intended to hurry about his task and leave, but then he had heard of the rumours that the king was to depart, and had thought it would be better to stay and make sure that the story was true. But then, when the entourage had walked out from the castle, he had seen something which made him stop dead in the street.
‘Mother,’ he breathed, hardly daring to believe it was true.
She stood in the gloom of the gateway, a tall, courteous man at her side, who must have been a knight from the look of his great war-belt and weighty sword, but Roger scarcely noticed it. All he could see was his mother, pale and slender, watching the men marching from the gate, and in a moment, she was gone again.
It could have been a dream. A wonderful dream sent to remind him that his mother lived and loved him still. But Isabella Crok had looked so fair, so healthy and so real, he had no doubts in his own mind that this was no vision, but his mother.
From that day, he had come here to the Petit Walles, just outside the Tower itself, to look and see whether he might catch a glimpse of her again. It was as good a place as any, he told himself, to learn what he could about the Tower. He was not derelict in his duties. But she did not reappear, and today, he told himself, he must leave and see if he might find the queen. Yet he wanted to know if she was safe. And to learn who the man had been at her side.
Tower
The two burst in on the bishop as he sat eating his luncheon, and William Walle almost dropped the ewer in which the bishop was washing his hands.
‘Bishop!’ Baldwin blurted. ‘My apologies for our unorthodox arrival, but we have news.’
‘You have questioned him already?’
‘We believe that he did not leave that note,’ Simon said.
‘But you found him. And it was he who left the other ones,’ William said.
‘Perhaps he did. But not this one,’ Baldwin said. ‘He had no idea about it, and no idea at all about there being two weeks to the attempt on your life. It was a complete surprise to him.’
‘That I was to be assassinated?’
‘No – that someone had sent you a note to tell you.’
‘I think that the man is trying to force us into letting him loose,’ the bishop said. His voice was not as steady as his words implied.
‘Bishop, this is no laughing matter,’ Baldwin said. ‘I believe there is an accomplice of his in the Tower. It could only be someone who is inside the Tower, and that means it must surely be someone from your household whom you brought with you.’
‘What?’ the bishop demanded. ‘How can you suggest such a thing!’
‘One man did get inside your household, Bishop. I think a second must have as well,’ Baldwin said. ‘They could have infiltrated your household together, perhaps, or—’
‘Sir Baldwin, this man in the gaol didn’t manage to “infiltrate the household”, as you put it. He was a clever man who pretended to be a member of the household. He would never have been able to come here with us, because his imposture would have soon become overly obvious. No, there can be no one in the household who would care to do such a thing. I am sure that my household is secure, the men all genuine in their care for me.’
‘He will not give us his name, he will not tell us what evil you are supposed to have done him,’ Baldwin said. ‘To us, that implies that he is protecting another.’
‘Who is he protecting? You tell me that, Sir Baldwin, and I will listen to you. But at present, all I hear is guesswork, and I have too much work to do. The city is collapsing into violence and ruin, and I am responsible. As it is, I am asked to join the Archbishop for a convocation at Lambeth in a week. I do not have time for all this!’
‘On Monday next?’ Simon asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Because I would beg you, Bishop, please, to keep indoors and safe on the Wednesday of that week. Wednesday next, please don’t go anywhere.’
‘As the note said, eh?’ the bishop said. He gave a small smile. ‘Perhaps I can pretend to a headache on that day.’
‘Good. And in the meantime, I think Sir Peregrine should begin his investigation into that man who calls himself Paul as soon as possible,’ Simon finished. ‘I know Baldwin detests torture, and I hate it myself, but that man is keeping something back, and it could be something that saves your life, Bishop. If he knows anything, it would be best that we learn it ourselves. Urgently.’
Chapter Forty-Three
It was not the command he wished to hear.
‘Yes, Bishop. Of course I will do all I may to learn more. I will have the man put to the peine fort et dure.’
‘I am sorry to hear it.’ The bishop winced.
He was not the only man sorry to have to contemplate such a vile practice, Sir Peregrine told himself as he went down the stairs to the green and crossed the grass to the gaol. There, he ordered the gaoler to fetch three men to help, and had them go with him down to the cells.
‘Come along,’ Sir Peregrine said. It was a dreadful task, but the sooner they had the fool on the floor, hopefully the sooner they could release him and give his information to the bishop.
The cell was in darkness, of course. Peregrine could just make out the figure standing oddly like a shadow in the farther corner of the cell. ‘You. Come here,’ he called, but the man didn’t respond.
Oh, to the devil with him! He was going to make it as hard as possible. ‘I don’t blame you,’ Sir Peregrine muttered to himself, and then, louder, ‘Open the door, gaoler.’
The steel door swung open on well-greased hinges, and Sir Peregrine marched in, walking to the figure, his steps slowing as he went. ‘Sweet Mother of Christ!’ he whispered.
His prisoner swung very slowly to face him, the eyes bulging in a head grown enormous, the features livid where the light from the lantern struck it.
‘Oh, oh God,’ he heard behind him.
‘Hey, you puke there, you got to clear it up yourself,’ the gaoler complained as the splashes of vomit struck the floor, but Sir Peregrine paid no attention.
He remained fixed to the spot, staring up at the body with the stretched neck as it slowly turned, dangling from the ceiling.
Second Wednesday after the Feast of St Michael*
Petit Walles
At last he saw her again. She was up there in the roadway that led down to the strange dog-leg entrance to the Tower, and Roger Crok felt his heart lift at the sight.
It was impossible to call out to her, for that would have brought him unwanted attention, but as she stepped out of the castle’s gate and joined the throng of people, he was already level with her, and when she strode on in that determined fashion he recognised so well, he had to hurry his own pace to keep up with her.
She wasn’t alone, of course. Since the disappearance of the king, the city had grown slightly less restive about the Tower, but it was still a very dangerous place, especially for a woman to walk alone. She had three men with her, a man who was tall and strong, although running to a paunch, who had a ruddy complexion like a committed cider drinker, then the tall knight he had seen with her in the gateway. The third was another man, one with a thin black beard that followed the line of his jaw, and he was sure that he had met this fellow before. Roger had to rack his brains to think where it was, and then he recogn
ised him. It was the man he had spoken with in France.
He had no idea who these men were, and approached them with caution, eavesdropping on their conversation.
His mother spoke little. This was a talk about matters above her station, but it was clear that the others were happy to talk with her at their side.
‘He will have to come along here,’ the bearded one was saying.
‘Baldwin, I would not want him to ride along that road there.’
Baldwin shook his head. ‘No, Sir Peregrine. This would be best. The houses are not so closely compacted.’
‘It should suffice. What do you think, Simon?’
‘I am sure that it would be fine for him. Where will he cross? At the bridge?’
‘He won’t swim,’ said Sir Peregrine.
‘I wondered whether it would be safer for him to take a boat across. At the bridge there are places a man could be pulled from his horse, or pushed out into the river.’
Roger Crok listened with some bafflement, wondering whom they discussed, but all the while his attention was fixed on his mother. She looked tired. Very tired. He wished only to speak with her for a short while, but the question was, how. And then he wondered if he could see her and make her realise. Hurrying on, he overtook the group, hoping that Sir Baldwin would not recognise him from Normandy. Once ahead of them, he stopped, and cast a careful eye behind him, meeting the gaze of Isabella.
She gasped, and for a moment he was torn between standing still and rushing back to her, fearful that she might faint. But his mother was made of strong stuff, and as soon as she caught her breath, she mustered her resources.
‘Gentlemen, I feel rather weak. I had little food for my breakfast. You will kindly go on without me. I shall walk back to the castle from here.’
‘Let me walk you back,’ Sir Peregrine said at once.
Although she protested, he was most insistent, accompanying her back to the gates, and waiting until she was in the gateway, at which point she insisted that he return to the others.
Unknown to him, he was watched the whole time by Roger Crok.
They had both been walking for much of the morning when Ralph la Zouche suddenly stopped, grabbed Richard’s arm, and pointed. ‘That’s the puppy! Look at the little shite, like butter wouldn’t melt.’
Following his pointing finger, Richard gaped and nodded.
There, up ahead, Roger Crok was standing near the entrance to the Tower with a tall, elegant woman. She was earnestly speaking with him, and Crok was nodding enthusiastically, but then he shook his head in rapid alarm, and took her arm. Clearly she had suggested something that was little to his liking, and now she tried to take her arm away.
‘Come with me,’ Richard said.
Ralph was nothing loath, and the two walked quickly onwards, concealing themselves as best they could among the other folk walking about the streets.
They were in luck. The dispute between the two had caught the attention of one of the guards at the Tower, and he wandered towards the couple, even as the lad grabbed the lady’s arm. She pulled away, and turned to placate the guards, letting them know that there was nothing for them to be alarmed about – she was only talking with the man, but then she stepped away from him, and appeared to be wishing him a tearful farewell.
Roger Crok stood at the bottom of the path with his head bent as the woman walked away. She did not turn once to look at him.
He did not notice his two pursuers until Richard whispered, ‘Hello, Master Crok,’ and clubbed him above the ear with a large stone he had picked up from the road.
Simon was used to investigating deaths, but not to anticipating them. This walk, from the Tower to the bridge, was taxing his intellect, he thought.
‘I agree with Baldwin. Why not merely take a boat across the water, and be done? It will be safer than this long walk or ride.’
‘You think so? The way matters are just now, I think the chances are that he would be seen, and men could ride to meet him at the other side,’ Sir Peregrine said. ‘It would be a terrible thing, were he to cross the river only to be killed within distance of the Archbishop’s palace.’
‘All this effort for a meeting of bishops,’ Simon said.
Baldwin shook his head. ‘It’s not a mere meeting, Simon. It is to be hoped that this convocation may think of a means of averting bloodshed. That is what we must hope. The bishops of Winchester, Worcester, and Rochester and Bishop Walter, are all to join up there. With fortune they will hit on a scheme to avoid war.’
Sir Peregrine smiled sadly. ‘They may try, but I can see no opportunity of avoiding it. I think we will have war.’
They had reached the bridge, and Simon stood a while, gazing about him glumly. ‘Look at all these buildings. A man with a rock or two could drop them on the bishop’s head as he passed here, and that would be that. Best make sure he wears his armour before leaving the Tower.’
Baldwin noted the buildings on the bridge. ‘It is not only the buildings here, either. There are those buildings on the bridge, all giving excellent vantages to drop weapons on him. And if someone were to lift the drawbridge, it would be possible to hold him in one place and there to finish him off. I really dislike this idea.’
‘I don’t disagree, gentlemen,’ Sir Peregrine said, as they retracted their steps, ‘but he is determined to go. What would you have me do, lock him up like that other poor fellow?’
‘He wasn’t a poor fellow, he was trying to kill the bishop,’ Simon said. ‘He may not have left that last note, but I am sure he did the others.’
‘A shame that he took his own life though,’ Baldwin said.
Peregrine nodded. ‘I blame myself. I should have seen that he could do that once I began to mention torture. I ought to have had him searched for straps and belts.’
The man called Paul had been able to kill himself by the simple expedient of taking his hood and cape, hooking the hood on a nail in the roof, then wrapping the trailing cloak about his throat. It made a firm noose. A bucket to stand on, which he kicked away, and his plan was complete.
‘At least it means there is one assassin fewer for us to worry about,’ Baldwin said.
They marched on, past suspicious citizens who glowered and spat as they passed, for the most part eyeing the buildings towering overhead, apart from Simon, who kept his attention on the faces of the people all around. He was not happy to be here, and would be so much happier were he at home. This city was not his natural habitat.
It was a relief to see the gates to the Tower again, down by the river, and his pace quickened.
Baldwin, however, slowed at the sight of two men kicking at a body lying between them. Two guards from the gate ran to the men. ‘What is happening here?’ one asked.
‘This man is a traitor. His name is Crok, and he was in France until recently. He’s a spy!’
The Tower
Waking was painful. His immediate thought was that Folville had stabbed him with a dagger in his head, because the pain was far too awful for it to have been a mere punch from a fist.
The second thought was that he needed to be sick, and he noisily gave into the urge.
He was in a large room – a hall, he realised. There was a roaring fire in the hearth, and when he cautiously looked around, he found himself meeting the gaze of a woman. She eyed him with a confident look, before calling out, ‘Simon, he is awake!’
The man who walked in was the ruddy-faced one from the trio he had seen before. ‘Where am I?’ Roger asked weakly.
‘In the Tower of London, and you can thank God you aren’t in the gaol. There was a man killed himself in there only a few days ago, and we don’t want you to do the same thing. A lady here pleaded on your behalf most fetchingly.’
‘What do you want with me?’ Roger said, gingerly feeling the lump on his head. It was larger than a goose’s egg.
‘The truth. We have been told that you are a traitor, that you were in Normandy with the Earl of Chester. Two men caught
you and passed you to the guards at the gate. Is it true?’
‘A pretty thought. So you wish me to tell you so that you can execute me on the king’s behalf for treachery?’
‘No. There will be bloodshed enough when the queen’s mercenaries meet the king’s host,’ Simon sighed. ‘However, I have to know, do you have any ill intention towards the Bishop of Exeter?’
‘I hold him in no great esteem. He saw fit to have me thrown into gaol, and to have my mother dispossessed.’
‘Who is your mother?’
‘Lady Isabella Crok.’
Simon’s head rose, and slowly a frown began to wash over his face. ‘Isabella? Your father – did he die a while ago?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Your mother – she lost her first husband, didn’t she? And remarried, so now she is called Isabella Fitzwilliam, isn’t she?’
Too late Roger saw that he had allowed his befuddled state to endanger his mother. ‘No, my mother is—’
‘I didn’t realise!’ Simon groaned. ‘It was she who put the note into the bishop’s room, Meg. It had nothing to do with that poor fellow who died. No wonder she pleaded for your life!’
‘Which poor fellow?’ Roger asked.
Simon gave a brief description of the stevedore, and saw the misery that washed into Roger’s eyes.
‘That sounds like Ranulf – my stepbrother. He was a good fellow, but headstrong. I am not surprised he killed himself, to try to save our family from any more shame.’
‘Or to conceal his identity so that you or his mother could kill the bishop where he had failed?’ Simon demanded.
‘I should have found that enormously difficult. Until recently I was in Normandy. And your companion Sir Baldwin can confirm it,’ Roger said. ‘He saw me there in the summer. I have had no opportunity to plot any murder. And nor has my mother. She is innocent.’
‘I shall leave that to other people to decide,’ Simon said.
The Bishop Must Die: (Knights Templar 28) Page 41