Michael Jecks - The Bishop Must Die

‘That is good,’ Baldwin said. He was thoughtful for a moment, and then asked, ‘Do you know anything about a family called Biset? A man called John Biset?’

‘I have heard of him, I think. Why?’

Baldwin shook his head. ‘Something I was wondering about. Probably nothing. So, you will stay for some food? Would you accept a bed for the night?’

‘I would like to, but no, I should ride on. I left only late this morning,’ Sir Peregrine said, ‘delayed by business. But I hope to hurry to Exeter. There is a lady there whom I would meet again.’

‘A lady?’ Baldwin asked, glancing at his wife with a faint smile. There was something endearing about Sir Peregrine’s attempts to find himself a wife.

‘Yes, the Lady Isabella, who was sadly widowed for the second time a few years ago.’

Jeanne, who was always keen for news of Sir Peregrine’s romantic progress, leaned forward. ‘Tell us about her — I do not know this lady.’

‘She is named Isabella Fitzwilliam. Her last husband was Henry, but he was captured by the king’s men and executed for treachery. Since then, she has been living in penury.’

Baldwin shook his head sadly. ‘There are so many who have lost their livelihoods. It is terrible.’

‘Yes. To think that an honourable lady like her … Well, as you say, Sir Baldwin, the last few years have seen so much injustice and cruelty, it is hard to know what to say to someone who has suffered so much.’

‘But you hope to be able to comfort her?’ Jeanne prompted.

‘I cannot hope … I would like to … But it is impossible to even dream of such things. The poor lady has lost two husbands already. I cannot imagine that she would be keen to experience such a loss again,’ Sir Peregrine said, his eyes a little downcast.

It was no more than the truth. Hard though it was to accept, Sir Peregrine was almost resigned to the fact that his life would end without a wife. He would die a bachelor.

In the past, that had been a source of extreme sadness. He had wanted to have the stability of a wife at his side, to have children whom he might teach and leave to carry on his family name. Given time, perhaps he would have seen a son of his become famous, even see him knighted in his own right. That would have been a wonder to him!

But no, it had never happened, and now, much though he desired a woman’s companionship, he would have to learn to be satisfied with the friendship of others.

‘You would like her for your wife?’ Jeanne said definitely.

‘Well, of course I would, my lady, but if I were truthful, I would have to say that my own position is scarcely sound. There are many men who are better placed than me to provide for a lady such as her.’

‘What is she like?’ Jeanne asked.

‘Well, she is no child,’ Sir Peregrine said with an embarrassed shrug. ‘Oh, I do not mean that she is old, Lady Jeanne!’

‘What, not as old as me?’ Jeanne asked sweetly.

‘You torment me now,’ the knight said distractedly. ‘I can say nothing without your twisting my words.’

‘I shall be silent, then,’ Jeanne smiled.

‘She is a little shorter than you, Lady Jeanne, and a little older, I would guess. But for all that, she has a radiant smile. Her eyes are as green as a holly-leaf, and her hair is the auburn colour of a conker. And even though she has suffered so much, she smiles and laughs a great deal.’

‘With you?’ Jeanne said.

‘She and I have laughed much.’

‘Then she will welcome your suit, Sir Peregrine. A man who makes his woman laugh is a rarity. If you make her do that, you will be able to ask her to do anything. I advise you to press your suit.’

Two Fridays before the Feast of St John and St Paul *

Montreuil

It was a very unhappy Paul de Cockington who left the chamber that morning.

The suddenness of Wednesday’s attack had appalled the queen and Mortimer. The lack of warning was one aspect, but the appreciation of their danger here in France had been rammed home too. Up until the fight, they had enjoyed a fond belief that they were safe under the protection of the French king. Even the long hand of Despenser would find it hard to reach them here, so they had thought.

‘I had heard all his spies here were captured,’ had been Mortimer’s terse comment. ‘The bastard’s got more, and the French will do nothing to catch them, even though they know that Despenser is their lord’s enemy.’

The duke had said little as Mortimer strode up and down the little chamber, occasionally throwing suspicious looks at the men gathered about. More often than not, to Paul’s disquiet, the man’s eyes were on him.

Ralph la Zouche was still desperate for vengeance. ‘Is there no one can tell us who planned the attack? The devils should be forced to pay for my brother’s death!’

‘I have asked my brother,’ Queen Isabella said coldly. ‘He has searched for these men and for those who instructed them to attack his nephew, but so far there is nothing. He will continue until news is forthcoming.’

‘He is too slow!’ la Zouche cried, in a voice that was almost a howl. ‘They slew my brother! I want revenge!’

‘The man responsible is in England,’ Mortimer said. ‘He’s the one you should seek. There’s no one else who would have tried such a deed.’

‘My poor son,’ Queen Isabella muttered, and her maid put her hand on the queen’s shoulder. The queen put her own little hand over her maid’s as she stared at the young duke.

Mortimer turned to him. ‘Did you feel your life was in danger, my lord? It is one thing to consider that King Edward might have sought to kill your guard, and quite another to think that he could attempt your life.’

‘What else would a man think?’ Duke Edward demanded hotly. ‘Those men were sent for me. I have no doubt about that whatever.’

‘But perhaps they were not trying to kill? Perhaps they only wished to capture and take you away? Your father is desperate to have you back, I expect,’ Mortimer said, with a sidelong glance at the queen.

‘He would do this?’ she said, eyes wide with shock. ‘I had assumed this was the Despenser, but you think my husband could seek to take my son by force?’

‘He’d argue you held him here by force,’ Mortimer said drily. ‘He knows I stay willingly,’ the duke said. ‘He has written to me and I have replied.’

‘I know,’ Mortimer said.

There was a pause on hearing that. Paul was unsurprised, because this man Mortimer would never have allowed the duke to maintain correspondence with his father — who was determined to see Mortimer dead, and who had in fact signed his death warrant — without being able to read it.

The young duke was shocked, and his mouth gaped for a moment before he caught himself and shut it again. This new proof of Mortimer’s distrust of her son was enough to make the queen rise, eyes blazing with rage.

‘You say you have read his letters, Sir Roger? You have opened his letters, and those addressed to him?’

‘Of course. You think that we can afford to take risks? What if your husband had sought to use coercion to force your son to leave us? Could you have borne the loss of your son, lady? What if he had disappeared in the night, fled to the coast, and taken an English boat home? Your husband would have had all the money, then. He could wager anything and win. And us? We would have lost a prospective husband, we would have lost a defensive shield, and a figurehead for your army. We would have lost all. I’m not prepared to risk that.’

‘You read his messages — does that mean you read mine as well?’

‘I have had no need to. What would you write to your husband?’