Michael Jecks - The Bishop Must Die

Baldwin turned on him. ‘You have moaned, complained and whined all the way from Portchester, cretin! Now you think you are vital to our success? I regret to tell you that you are wrong. I know the duke personally — I was his guard when he came over here last year, and I know his mind probably better than you. You are here in order to gain yourself a pardon for your appalling crimes in Exeter, so it would be better that you put your mind to how best to survive this journey, rather than making me, your protector, wish to throw you into the sea to drown.’

‘You wouldn’t do that,’ Paul said uncertainly.

Baldwin looked away. No, he wouldn’t. But just now he had enough fears of his own to contend with rather than listening to the petty bleating of this rector.

The worst thing was, the amount of time it was taking to get the ships emptied. From his own experience, he knew that the best way to launch a raid like this was to get men and horses onto the beach as quickly as possible, and then maintain a strong ring of defence while the rest of the cargo was brought down. But there had been no plan to arrange this. Instead the ships were mingled in an untidy muddle. Some landing first had carried only horses, while the majority of the men were still on board. Baldwin’s own horse had been delivered to him, but many of the other knights were still unmounted, and would remain so for a long while. There were plenty of archers here on the beach — but their arrows were stored on a different ship. Baldwin was worried that at any moment a force could arrive from Honfleur that would smash through them and repel the rest of the ships.

As if in answer to his black thoughts, there was a sudden scream, and then shouting, from up on the dunes further inland. Baldwin turned to see a quartet of men in armour charging six men at a picket. There was nothing the poor devils could do to protect themselves: the great destriers charged, the men with their lances couched, and in short order three of the English were spitted, arms and legs waving in mid-air while the lances rose up, their points smothered in gore, the momentum of the charge carrying the screaming English up high, and over, to be deposited in crumpled heaps behind the chargers.

Baldwin winced. This was a sign of the dangers inherent in landing like this. He could feel his scalp crawl as the Frenchmen wheeled. Two rode back to finish off the pickets, while two sat idly watching the disembarkation, chatting with their visors open as they took in the scene. After deliberation, they wheeled about and trotted away, rejoining their companions. There were no English left alive at that picket.

There was no sign of Felton, no sign of the other commanders. Baldwin looked down at Paul de Cockington. ‘Perhaps you should not joke about dying, rector. It is perfectly likely that you will be proved correct.’

Tower of London

‘Get the wine. You expect our master to serve himself?’ Hugh snarled, and cuffed Rob around the ear.

Simon smiled to see how Hugh had taken to training Rob. It appeared to serve little purpose so far, because Rob had shown Hugh scant respect, but Simon hoped that the lazy, good-for-nothing boy would one day turn into a half-decent servant. In order to do so, he would need regular beatings, if his behaviour so far was any gauge.

They were in a small parlour in a house set into the inner wall of the fortress. It was pleasant enough, and there was plenty of firewood for the cool evenings, but Meg was deeply unhappy, he could see, and that worried him.

It was strange how women would fall into these moods. She was generally a calm wife, amiable and efficient, and sensible in the way that she dealt with things. For her to suddenly become like this, as though there was something in the Tower here that she should fear, was very odd. In any case, she would have to grow accustomed to the place, because now that they had arrived, they could hardly desert the bishop.

Not that it would be easy to track down the felon who had deposited all these messages.

The latest was the most curt. You must die! had been scrawled on a scrap and sealed with some wax. It had not been delivered straight to the bishop’s books or onto his table, but had got to him by more mundane methods. A guard had been accosted by a man dressed in a thick fustian robe, his head hooded, who had paid him half a penny to give the little roll to the bishop. There was no explanation, and the guard had not expected one. But he delivered the note, only to be thrown against the wall by an enraged William Walle, who demanded to know where it had come from. He had wanted to have the guard gaoled as a suspect, but the bishop himself had dissuaded him. The idea that the fellow might be allied to the writer was ridiculous. He was a Londoner, who had been based at the Tower for years. He had not been in Exeter or Canterbury. And in any case, the bishop pointed out reasonably, the guilty man had been seen by him in Canterbury. They knew what he looked like.

When Simon reached the bishop’s chambers, which were on the second floor in the tower itself, he found William and John outside, talking in low voices.

‘Squire, steward, how is he this morning?’ Simon asked.

‘He appears well enough,’ William said, ‘but he is not easy in his mind. I would almost say that he has surrendered himself to fate. He looks like a man who has decided he is to die.’

Simon glanced at John, who merely nodded. ‘Well, I’d best speak with him.’

He knocked and walked inside as soon as the bishop responded.

It was the room of an invalid. Bishop Walter was wrapped warmly in a thick robe with fur at the collar and cuffs, and to Simon it made him look as though he was swamped. His face was pale and drawn, and there was a feverish look in his eyes. Yet his smile of welcome was as genuine as ever. ‘Ah, Simon. I am glad to see you.’

‘I have been here two days, and still can make no sense of this business,’ Simon said.

‘I don’t expect you can, my old friend. Much though I wish it were not true, I fear that no one can protect me. This evil appears to follow me, no matter where I go. I am beginning to think there is something supernatural in it, for I cannot see how a man might enter my private chambers to deposit these messages without some form of help. Perhaps my actions in the last years have brought this divine judgment upon me.’

‘Bishop, you have been a strong man who has done all he might to serve the Crown and the Church. God is not displeased with you. This is being done by a man who has a grudge,’ Simon said.

‘You think so?’ the bishop said gently.

‘No — I know so. There is no one who has served God with more devotion. You are under threat from a man, that is all. And a man is not infallible. He may be dangerous, in truth, but he is vulnerable, too. All we need do is find him and capture him.’

‘That is all?’ The bishop smiled.

‘Yes. But for that I do need to have help. William Walle knew him, did he not?’

‘Yes. He and John would be able to recognise him.’

‘Good, that will help me. I spent all yesterday trying to consider the best means of drawing him out, but I have to conclude that the best approach will be to let him come here.’

‘Use me as bait, then?’

‘Yes. And either I will be with you, or William will. I want you to have a man at your side at all times.’

‘What of my other guards?’

‘I will be asking that your guard be doubled as well. And I will need William to view all those who come to guard you so that we can ensure that the man is not among them.’

‘Very well,’ the bishop said. He glanced pensively out through the window. ‘Have you heard the people in the city when they talk about me?’