The Bishop Must Die: (Knights Templar 28)

by Michael Jecks

  He rubbed at his temples. This was a terrible situation. If it was true that this fellow was indeed Isabella’s son, it would be difficult to conceal the fact. ‘Meg, could you send Hugh to fetch Sir Baldwin, and in the meantime, pour me a little wine, my love? My head throbs like a sapling attacked by a woodpecker!’

  It took little time for Baldwin to join him, but to Simon’s surprise, Sir Peregrine was with him.

  ‘I thought it best that Sir Peregrine join us, Simon,’ Baldwin said. ‘This matter is too much for us alone.’

  ‘Is it true?’ Sir Peregrine asked. ‘Is she guilty?’

  Simon pulled a face. ‘I have heard no one say it. This fellow is her son from her first marriage, but she was widowed.’

  ‘My father fell from his horse,’ Roger added helpfully.

  ‘Later she remarried, this time to a man called Henry Fitzwilliam. And he, like she, already had a son, named Ranulf Fitzwilliam. I am afraid you have met him, Sir Peregrine. He was the lad who hanged himself.’

  ‘That was her stepson?’ Sir Peregrine breathed. ‘Christ’s cods! I should have realised. One day I saw her coming out from the gaol, but it did not occur to me that she was there out of anything other than simple curiosity. So many women like to see felons. It gives them a little frisson of excitement. I thought no more of it. I must be a—’

  ‘Good and honourable man who is loath to see the worst in people,’ Baldwin said firmly. ‘Now, Sir Peregrine, do you love the woman?’

  ‘I had promised to wed her.’

  ‘Then do so. And do so quickly. Take her away from here, so that she cannot try to kill the bishop, and then, with luck, the whole matter will blow over.’

  ‘And what if she desires to kill him later?’ Sir Peregrine rasped.

  ‘Sir, my mother could not kill a chicken. The idea of her stabbing a bishop is preposterous!’ Roger said. ‘I say this in all truth: she may have wished to avenge my stepfather, but she would not be able to put it into action. She has not the heart of a murderer.’

  ‘I hope you are right,’ Baldwin said. ‘But how can you assure us?’

  ‘I don’t know. All I can tell you is my own firm belief, sir.’

  ‘True enough. That itself is an honourable response, Sir Roger.’

  ‘There is one other thing though. My mother’s dispute is based upon the opportunistic theft of her dower. The bishop had her second husband gaoled for treachery, and poor Henry died in gaol, just like his son here. But afterwards, he took our inheritance, alleging that I was also a contrariant like Henry, and that my father was too. That is the sheerest nonsense. I was not, and neither was my father. But if you could help my mother to regain what she feels is hers, you will give her more reason to forgive than to try to avenge what has been done to her.’ He winced as another shot of pain stabbed his head.

  Sir Peregrine abruptly turned about, as though he was going to leave the room.

  Baldwin felt a tearing pain in his breast at the thought of what must be going through Sir Peregrine’s mind. He had fallen in love with women, but each time the focus of his affection had died – one of them in childbirth. This time, he had thought he was at last destined to be happy, only to suspect now that his woman was determined to kill Bishop Walter. It was unbearable to consider that all she had said, all she had done to this date, could have been intended purely as a means of getting herself close to the bishop to kill him. It was easy to imagine that Sir Peregrine was running through every meeting he had enjoyed with her, every conversation, to filter out the little snippets that indicated her desire to murder, rather than to enjoy his companionship. Sir Peregrine’s face showed that he was enduring the most exquisite self-torture.

  Baldwin took a deep breath. ‘I think, Sir Peregrine, that this is a matter that we can keep to ourselves within this room.’

  ‘You think I should trust her?’ Sir Peregrine’s voice was strangled. ‘You think I could leave her to continue with this vile plan?’

  ‘Her son declares that he thinks her incapable. Do you think she could kill? In truth?’ Baldwin pressed him.

  ‘How could I say? All she has ever said to me may be false, even that she … that she feels an affection for me. How can I tell?’

  ‘You may have your doubts, Sir Peregrine,’ Baldwin said, ‘but the fact is, she has so far done nothing of which you could convict her. Writing a note? Pah! What of it? She has not drawn steel in his presence, has she?’

  ‘Because the date which she predicted for the Bishop’s death has not yet arrived.’

  The date. Baldwin had forgotten that. ‘The notes threatening the Bishop all gave him a short time to live, but the last gave him until one week from today. Why would that date have any significance?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ Roger Crok said, shaking his head and wincing as the pain shafted through his skull. ‘Ach! It’s close to the anniversary of my father’s death.’

  ‘The first note was sometime ago,’ Simon mused. ‘Why should she leave so long between the first message and the actual threatened death?’

  ‘How long?’

  Baldwin glanced at Simon. ‘When was it? Before Candlemas?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Forty weeks or more, then.’

  Roger frowned as he considered. ‘That long? I would have thought that … It is a coincidence, surely. My stepfather was held in gaol for thirty-nine weeks before he succumbed to the vile conditions in which he was held. Could that be it?’

  Sir Peregrine said, ‘I can ask the woman.’

  Baldwin took his arm and pressed it. ‘Sir Peregrine. This may be the last opportunity you have to be happy, old friend. Do not throw it away lightly.’

  ‘Lightly? You think I will do anything in a burst of lightheartedness?’

  ‘No, nor should you. Sir Peregrine, the woman has suffered enough. You, perhaps, can bring her to commonsense. Take her away from here for a few weeks. Take her home, possibly. Marry her, leave here, and you will, with fortune, win yourself a good, loving and kind woman. For if you remove her from this area, the bishop will be safe from her anyway. And later, perhaps this son of hers can bring her to reason with your help. Marry her, take her away, and have an enjoyable life, Sir Peregrine.’

  ‘You think I can trust her?’ Sir Peregrine repeated.

  ‘I think so. Especially if you swear to win back her lands for her. Tell her that, and you will find her appreciative, I am sure.’

  ‘A woman who could plot to kill a bishop …’

  ‘Many have made dreams in the dark of the night,’ Baldwin said, ‘and her plotting so far is only a wild dream. If you marry her, you will save her from her living nightmare. Marry her, and you will give her a new reason to want to live.’

  ‘I don’t know …’

  Baldwin ignored him, looking instead at Margaret and Simon. ‘Do we all agree?’

  Simon looked away. He had no desire to see a pleasant woman like Isabella executed for attempting murder, but to leave her free was also against his policy of adherence to the law.

  Baldwin prompted him. ‘Simon, if you have an objection, you must raise it now. Do you think she would go through with such a scheme on her own?’

  ‘It is hard to imagine.’

  ‘So, if she is kept away from the bishop, that will help matters. If she also sees a means of recovering what she has lost as well, that will no doubt comfort her too. I think this makes sense.’

  Simon nodded. ‘Very well. But Sir Peregrine must keep her close by him all day next Wednesday. If she does try to make an attempt on Bishop Walter’s life, I will have no choice but to seek her out, and kill her.’

  Roger Crok smiled. ‘Gentlemen, I am deeply honoured that you are being so generous to my mother. Especially after you managed to break my head in so magnificent a manner.’

  ‘That was not us,’ Simon said. ‘The guards at the gate said that there were two men who crept up on you and presented you to them.’

  Roger’s ease fled in an instant
. ‘Damn them! Folville and la Zouche!’

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Second Monday after the Feast of St Michael*

  Tower of London

  Simon and Baldwin saw to their own horses as the bishop’s guard prepared themselves.

  It was a raw morning. The wind was howling up the Thames, promising snow and ice before too long, and hoar frost limed the grass even here in the Tower’s yard.

  Tugging on the cinch strap, Baldwin looked at his stallion’s eye. Waiting a moment, he jabbed his thumb up into the mount’s belly, and yanked on the leather again, tightening it two more notches. ‘Old devil,’ he muttered as he threaded the leather strap through its restrainer. ‘Why do I have to do that every day?’

  Simon was already in the saddle as Baldwin finished, checking the straps of the reins and harness. ‘I hope we’ve done the right thing, Baldwin.’

  ‘I am sure that we have,’ he said with assurance. He set a foot in the stirrup and swung himself up, gazing down speculatively. It felt secure enough. ‘I think we have saved Sir Peregrine from making a terrible error, while also protecting a woman who is in every way a wonderful mate for him.’

  ‘What of the son?’

  Baldwin shrugged. ‘I would think that he could be released soon.’

  ‘Hugh will be glad,’ Simon said. He had set Hugh and Rob to guard their prisoner, and although Roger Crok was probably peevish at being held against his will, Hugh had made his own feelings abundantly clear on the matter. He wanted to be out of the hall and off to the tavern at the corner of the castle’s yard, not stuck in here with Crok.

  After some discussion, Simon and Baldwin had agreed that Sir Peregrine would escort Isabella, Roger Crok’s mother, back to Devon, and that Roger himself would be held, on the promise of his not attempting to escape, at Simon’s residence. There seemed little need to worry about his attempting to run away, for with the lump swelling his head, he was incapable of fast riding or making off on his feet, and clearly incapable of attempting an attack on the bishop. He could barely rise without the colour draining from his face. The blow that had knocked him down at the castle’s entrance was a cruel one.

  With both Isabella Fitzwilliam and Roger out of the way, Simon and Baldwin were feeling a great deal more comfortable. The threat from Isabella and the two men had been effectively eradicated, and there were no other sons of hers to fear.

  However, it was one thing to remove a threat, and another to remove all threats.

  ‘I don’t like this,’ Simon muttered again.

  Baldwin grunted. They were riding with the guard to take the bishop to the Archbishop’s Palace at Lambeth, where there was to be a great convocation of bishops, with the intention of discussing how to bring about peace and some semblance of stability once more. The madness and mob-rule had to stop.

  ‘The city is close to riot,’ Simon said.

  The mood of the populace was clear enough as they rode out over the moat and left the Tower behind. Simon was uncomfortable in a steel breastplate and armour over his legs and thighs. It pinched at his flanks, and compressed his paunch, but he was glad that Baldwin had prevailed upon him to wear something. All around was quiet with the false peace of a summer’s day before a storm. The men and women who could be seen were all glowering and disrespectful as the men trotted past Bishopesgate and up towards the great bridge. The bishop himself was clad all in steel – he had needed no encouragement to dress himself in protective clothing.

  There were fires in the road at three places. The people had behaved as Londoners always would, building great mounds of rubbish and setting them alight. There were a few children warming themselves at the second of them, but at the others there was no crowd, which was itself a relief. Simon was beginning to hope that they might make their way to the London Bridge without injury, just as the first attack was launched.

  A man bellowed, ‘For the queen!’ and hurled a lump of rock at them. It whirled past Simon’s face and hit the man-at-arms on his left, the fellow giving a loud curse that was audible over the ringing sound of rock on steel, and then there was a general hissing of steel as all the men in the guard drew their weapons. In the brief silence afterwards, Simon heard the bishop’s voice telling a clerk to find out who had been hit. He would be given a penance later for his blasphemy.

  That rock was the signal for all hell to break loose. A scrambling mass of men threw themselves at the guard from the alleys, shouting and swearing, faces distorted with rage and hatred and fear, hands gripping bills and daggers and long knives, butchers in their leather aprons wielding cleavers, a mason with a great hammer, and a smith with a gleaming blade that looked as though it was fresh from the forge.

  Simon found his horse rearing, and was hard pressed merely to keep his seat, but he bellowed, kicked, spurred and cajoled until the beast came under some sort of control, and by then he was in the middle of the press. Men tried to stab him, and he realised with a shock of horror that they meant to drag him from his horse and kill him. He had to swing his sword about, flailing ineffectually, just to clear a path. Others weren’t so fortunate: he saw one guard hauled from his horse, to disappear beneath a mass of bodies – and then there was a scream and a gout of blood, and a cheer of animal success.

  ‘Baldwin! Baldwin!’ he shouted, and saw his old friend at last.

  He was calm, to all appearances, and fitted to his saddle as firmly as a blade welded to a hilt. The horse was an extension of the knight, swivelling and kicking and biting, while Baldwin used his sword only when necessary. He caught sight of Simon and, recognising his friend’s alarm, immediately glanced over his shoulder to see that the bishop was safe. Then he moved towards Simon.

  There were three men between them. The butcher, a footpad with a thick cudgel, and a man who looked as though he might have been a priest, with thick hair about his skull, but a scant layer over his pate.

  He was first to be pushed from Baldwin’s way, even as the butcher swung his cleaver at Simon. He tried to knock the blow aside, but the massive two-handed cleaver came down upon his thigh and although it did not penetrate the metal, Simon could feel the steel buckle under the blow. He swore, and then felt the horse shiver. The blade had sprung from his armour and glanced off into the horse’s back, and now the beast was shocked into movement, bucking and rearing to escape this hell. At least his wild hoofs made the attackers fall back, and soon Simon felt Baldwin at his side.

  Simon was terrified that this great brute might suddenly collapse and die. He had seen it before with horses which were given even apparently small injuries: they could suddenly take fright at the pain and collapse. The thought of falling here, with so many men who would be pleased to cut his throat for him, was terrifying.

  Fortunately, Baldwin’s presence seemed to steady the beast for a moment, just as the bishop and the other men sprang forward and on, past their attackers. Simon set his head after them and clapped his spurs to the beast’s flanks. The animal hesitated only a moment, and then was off, with Simon clinging on and urging it to greater speed. On and on they went, fast as the wind, until they had reached the bridge itself, and there they scarcely slowed their pace, but took the corner at a canter, and then rode on through the crowds lining the bridge without taking any care of the people thronging the place.

  Lambeth Palace

  They reached the great palace of the archbishop a short time later.

  Simon rode in under the great gates with his heart still thudding painfully in his breast like the thunder of pounding hoofs. He dropped to the ground thankfully, his hand over his chest, but the metal plate would give him no comfort. It felt as though his heart must explode with the shock.

  ‘Simon? Are you all right?’ Baldwin asked solicitously.

  ‘I think so. I don’t have any wounds,’ Simon said, and immediately felt the urge to weep. It was infuriating. He had survived an unannounced attack, and had every right to feel proud and glad to escape uninjured, and instead he felt an overwhelming
lassitude and confusion.

  ‘You need a cup of strong wine,’ Baldwin said. ‘Come with me, old friend.’

  ‘Wait,’ Simon said, and checked his horse. The glancing blow from the cleaver had by good fortune only nicked the animal, most of the energy being dissipated in the leather of the saddle, but there was a small scratch, and Simon asked a nearby ostler to put some tar on it to stop it growing infected.

  Baldwin led Simon into a large undercroft near the gateway, in which a number of other men were gathered and talking in low, anxious voices. Some were guards who had come here today, but others were plainly travellers, servants and messengers. All turned to peer at them as they walked inside and crossed the flagged floor to the bar.

  ‘Not the most cheerful welcome,’ Baldwin noted.

  Simon could not disagree. They took their jug of wine and cups out into the great yard and sat on a tree trunk waiting to be sawn into planks, sipping their wine.

  ‘Why did they attack us like that?’ Simon said after a while. He could feel the warmth of the wine making its way along his bones and muscles, soothing and relaxing them.

  ‘The Londoners don’t like bishops any more,’ was Baldwin’s assessment. ‘They hate Walter in particular, and with the queen on her way, they reckon that it is time to assert their rights again.’

  ‘So it’s just that they wanted to kill Walter?’ Simon said.

  William Walle was in the yard and he joined them, taking Simon’s cup and draining it. ‘A fairly exciting morning, gentlemen. Who would have thought that the London mob could exert itself to attack a bishop so effectively?’

  ‘Baldwin is sure that the good bishop was the target of their especial hatred,’ Simon said. ‘I find it hard to believe, though.’

  ‘Why?’ asked William. ‘Because you and I know him for what he truly is, a decent, generous, good man? But think of all the hordes in London who only see him as the man who was, until recently, in charge of all the taxes. It has been said often enough that no one loves a taxman. Even his own mother, I believe,’ he added with a grin.