Michael Jecks - The Bishop Must Die

‘Whatever I may write is none of your concern!’

‘Lady, everything became my concern when we first launched ourselves on this course of action.’

‘My letters are my own! You have no right to open them.’

‘Why? Would you return to your husband?’ he sneered, his face pale.

‘I may! Perhaps I would prefer to end this dreadful impasse!’

Mortimer took a step towards her, and now Paul could see the emotion in his face. It wrenched his features, as though the man was torn with desperation. ‘Woman, you do that, and I swear I’ll kill you myself with my dagger!’ he spat, his hand on the hilt.

There was an appalled silence for a moment. All Paul could hear was the raucous drumbeat of his heart and the whistle of la Zouche’s breath. There was a heightened awareness in that chamber, a sense that there might soon be an eruption of violence that would affect not only all the men in there, but all the millions in England too. Paul steadied himself, as though preparing to leap upon Mortimer, but his muscles felt as tense as a bowstring, and he found himself incapable of moving.

Instead it was the duke who spoke, ‘Sir Roger, my mother meant no insult. The strain of the last few days has affected us, that is all. Kindly remove your hand from your dagger.’

All the while, he walked forward. It was not some bold action, not a challenge, but more the gait of a man sauntering to the tavern to buy his friend a jug of ale.

Mortimer eventually nodded, and turned away. ‘I am sorry, my lady. This is indeed a difficult time for all of us. I think it just demonstrates that we must proceed as quickly as we may.’

‘Yes,’ the queen said. She sank back into her chair, blanched and discomfited after her outburst of passion. Then, even as he watched, Paul could see her face tighten, and she became the shrewd, calculating vixen he had seen before. She looked about her, smiling at Paul and her son, before catching sight of Mortimer — and suddenly she reminded Paul of a hungry snake eyeing a small creature. And then her smile became lethal.

Exeter

Sir Peregrine de Barnstaple left the castle with a light step, whistling tunelessly as he passed beneath the great gateway and strode down the cleared road to the High Street.

It was a good city, this. Rich on the trade which the ships brought each day, fed well by the numerous farms all about, and influential because of the powerful bishop who sat in the cathedral.

The streets demonstrated the city’s affluence. There was abundance in all. Rich carvings on the buildings, gilt, vivid colours everywhere. The people cared little for any sumptuary code. In the days of the old king, Edward I, there had been little interest in fashions and fripperies, but under Edward II, his son, merchants aspired to magnificence no less than bishops and earls. Women wore bright garments, while men of some stature strode about with their ridiculous, tight hosen and belly-hugging overgarments. It was enough to make a man like Sir Peregrine, who was of a more serious disposition than most, feel vaguely sad. There were so many important matters for people to consider, it seemed shameful that men preferred to preen in public like so many cockerels.

Leaving the main roadway, he made for St Peter’s Priory. Near this, he turned off down an alley, and soon he was at a door, upon which he knocked briskly.

‘Is your mistress in?’ he enquired of the servant girl, and soon he was inside.

Sir Peregrine had been to battle several times. He had killed four men in hot blood, each of them entirely justifiably, and was quietly confident in his prowess with sword and lance, and content to know that in war he did not flinch. He would hold his position as arrows rained about him, or as a fearsome lancepoint thundered towards him, gripped by a knight on a massive destrier.

So why did he feel this emptiness in his belly, and the cold sweat on his spine as he waited here to see Lady Isabella Fitzwilliam again?

It was always the same when he went to meet a lady for whom he had high regard. He would feel a similar trepidation, bordering on fear, convinced that he must surely make a fool of himself. Or that he was entirely wrong in his estimation of the lady’s feelings towards him. How might a man tell what a woman wanted? They were always so unreadable. A man would be easy. If he wished to be a friend, he would smile and speak warmly; if not a friend, he would be reserved; if an enemy, he would be rude and objectionable. Sir Peregrine had experienced all of these. But a woman … She was a mystery not so easily solved.

‘Sir Peregrine! How good of you to come and visit me again.’

‘It is my pleasure, Lady Isabella. I am very glad to see you once more. I hope I find you well?’

‘Very well,’ the lady said, and walked to a seat, waving graciously to him to sit as well. ‘I hope you are too?’

‘Certainly! Never better! Hah!’ Sir Peregrine felt his face freeze over as he reviewed in his mind what he had just said, and his eyes became glassy. ‘I …’

‘Perhaps you would like a little wine?’ she asked kindly.

‘I would be glad of some,’ he admitted.

She stood and went to the sideboard herself, motioning to her maidservant to leave them, and then pouring his wine herself.

It was a revelation to him. He had not been alone with a woman for many months indeed. And it was hardly in keeping with the proprieties of polite custom for a man and woman to be together in such proximity. And then he heard the distinct sound of a jug clattering on the side of a goblet.

Peering closely, he saw that Lady Isabella stood stiffly, trying to hold the jug to the goblet with an easy nonchalance, but the show was betrayed by her nervous shaking making them rattle. She threw him an anguished look.

He stood, and in a moment had crossed the room to her. Taking the jug from her trembling hands, he set it down, and then the two of them stood staring at each other for what he thought was an age. He wanted to take her in his arms, but there was always this damned reticence that sprang from his upbringing. A man should not grasp a woman, not until he was sure he possessed her heart. Instead he sighed, and half turned away.

‘It is difficult, Sir Peregrine, when you find that your feelings are the same as a maiden’s, and yet you have been married. I am no child. I’m a woman, and yet the trials of such a meeting are so troublesome.’

‘I know, my lady. Perhaps it would be better were I to leave you now.’

‘Do you wish to?’

‘In God’s name, no!’

‘Then please stay, Sir Peregrine.’

‘You wish it?’

‘More than anything. I am lonely, and I feel you are too. We could comfort each other.’

‘You believe it too?’ he breathed. His heart was pounding like a hammer in a forge.

‘Yes, I really do.’

Montreuil

So it was agreed, then. Richard de Folville nodded as the others broke up their meeting. It was clear enough that there was no longer safety for them all here in Montreuil, especially not for the duke. They would have to move away. And as the duke himself had pointed out, it would be far better for them all to head to the west, where there were more sympathisers who could aid them, rather than travel all the way to the south to the duke’s own lands.

It was the queen who had objected to his travelling to Guyenne. Although he was the Duke of Aquitaine, which incorporated the vast territories of the south, as she pointed out, ‘My son has never visited the area. He has no loyal followers there, but my husband has many. There are a lot of his friends in Guyenne who are there to fight for him. If you think that it is dangerous here, because a few men from his entourage could cross the Channel, how much more dangerous would it be for him in the lands which are even now in revolt?’