Michael Jecks - The Bishop Must Die

Baldwin turned back to his view of the sea ahead. At least there were no French forces before them, he thought. They might even be able to land without the risk of French warships ripping into them. If there was one type of war he hated more than any other, it was seaborne fighting. The ever-present risk of falling into the sea and drowning was the final straw.

There were over four thousand sailors in this Navy. All told, some one hundred and fifty ships were strung out in loose formation, carrying over sixteen hundred warriors, with victuals and horses as well as their fighting equipment. Sixteen hundred was a massive force to race down to Rouen, but there would have to be enough to maintain the bridgehead, while small parties would be needed to protect bridges and other vital points. Baldwin was content that there was no need for more men, but the idea of landing so many inexperienced fighters was causing him alarm again.

To distract himself, he found himself wondering again about the identity of Bishop Walter’s persecutor. Simon had packed his own belongings three days ago, and with luck would already be in the bishop’s home or at the Tower. Either way, Baldwin only prayed that Margaret and Perkin would be safe. He hated the city of London, for to his mind it was the centre of all the vileness in the realm. It was where Despenser’s power was strongest.

Who was this man who sought to terrify the bishop, who threatened him, flaunting his ability to pass through all the bishop’s guards at any opportunity, and who was apparently dedicated to killing him? Baldwin had no idea, but he was sure that there must be some obvious clues, if only they could be recognised. This was a murder in the planning. There should surely be as many clues of who was responsible for the planning as there would be after a murder had been committed.

But Baldwin could not concentrate on the bishop’s troubles. He opened his heart and prayed — for himself, for the bishop, for Simon — but most of all, he prayed for Jeanne and his children, and begged God to protect them from any invading forces that might arrive.

London

Margaret Puttock’s mouth fell wide with awe as she saw the bridge ahead. It was so bright, so beautiful, so … so huge !

It had not been difficult for her to persuade Simon to take them with him to London. It would not have been safe to leave her behind in Portchester. There had been too many cases reported to the town’s officers of rapes, and three murders of women in the town. The idea of leaving her and their son was anathema to Simon. He had to bring them too.

They rode onward, Perkin riding behind with Hugh and Rob on a cart, while Simon and Margaret trotted along on their horses, but as they approached the great entranceway, Simon fell back and rode alongside the cart, pointing out the details of the flags and the statues which sat in recesses at either side of the main gatehouse.

‘However did they build it?’ Margaret gasped at last. ‘It must be a thousand yards long, Simon. It looks as though it floats over the water!’

Her husband smiled. ‘It isn’t that much bigger than the bridge over the Exe,’ he said.

‘Maybe not, but the Exe Bridge only has one chapel on it. Look at this!’

It was astonishing that they had managed to cram so many houses and shops on the thing. The bridge itself was very broad, but the buildings meant that there was little space for a single wagon to pass under the arches from one end to the other. It was massive, and splendid, and Margaret felt her head swim as she peered up and about.

There were several defensive points: the Stone Gate at the southern end of the bridge, then the Draw-Bridge Gate a distance further on, while the size of the chapel of St Thomas was daunting in its own right.

The view of all the buildings was so extraordinary that she quite missed the sight of the Tower of London until they were already over the bridge, and she could peer along the line of the river towards the king’s castle.

This was different, though. Fortress to protect the city, it was, but it was also to be defended from the city, and was the king’s leading prison for traitors and his other enemies. There was something about it that made her shiver. ‘That is where we’re going?’ she asked.

‘It’s where the bishop is, yes,’ Simon said. He was easy enough in his saddle as they rode along past St Magnus the Martyr, then St Botolph, and then by Billingesgate, and as they went, the immensity of the king’s castle began to dawn on her. It was not merely a building or two hidden behind a wall like Oakhampton or Exeter, this was an immense area of land that was entirely enclosed. When she asked, Simon told her that it consisted of almost twenty acres. The great white keep inside was visible from all about the city, looming threateningly over the walls. Margaret could discern nothing that was kindly or protective about it. It was there to control the people of the city.

‘I don’t like it,’ she said quietly.

Simon glanced up, then across at her, grinning. ‘This? The tower’s just a building, Meg. Nothing scary about it.’

She nodded, but the impression of violence would not leave her. There was something about the high walls that seemed to scream to her, as though they were formed of the tortured souls of all those who had been incarcerated within.

The day was warm, but she shivered uncontrollably as they passed under the gatehouse.

Thursday before the Feast of the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary *

Near Honfleur, Normandy

The ships were safe, and the majority of the men had managed to let themselves down the ropes and ladders to the sea. For Baldwin, the scenes were reminiscent of so many from his youth. Ships towering overhead, rocking on their keels, while sailors scurried about, hauling on the ropes that made the screaming, angry horses rise high into the sky, only to be lowered gently to the ground where waiting ostlers could calm them. Massive bales of weaponry were deposited nearby, with squires and heralds running to rescue them from the water before they could get a soaking, and cooks and carters swearing as loud as any of the matelots when they discovered the damage done already to their meagre stocks by the ever-present rats in the holds, or more commonly by ‘thieving bastard sailors’ as Baldwin heard more than once.

Here the beach was good and sandy, and so far, only one disaster had occurred. A large cog with over a hundred men aboard and many good horses had struck something under the water, and sank almost instantly. The screams of the men was enough to send a stab of horror into every heart. Worse, Baldwin felt, was the terror of the horses, chained to their cradles deep in the ship as the water rose. They had no escape, no comprehension of what was happening, only a sudden realisation of their death. At least a man might grab a barrel or spar and float to another ship.

A hundred and fifty ships. It was a mighty force, and with sixteen hundred men, it was large enough to be effective, if only they could get moving.

‘I am cold!’ Paul de Cockington said. He was huddled nearby, arms wrapped about himself, shivering in his sodden robe.

‘You should get up and walk about,’ Baldwin said unsympathetically.

‘And you should be more polite to a man who is crucial to your mission,’ Paul retorted. ‘If you’re so clumsy with my well-being, you may just find yourself responsible for my death, and then you’ll regret your harshness when you return to England.’

‘I seriously doubt it,’ Baldwin said.

‘You need me! How else will you be able to talk to the duke and make sure he comes with you? I am your most important man in this whole force, and you forget that at your peril.’