Michael Jecks - The Bishop Must Die

The horse rose, legs flailing, and then crashed down, his rider beneath him. Baldwin could not approach the beast, for in its terror and pain it was thrashing about like a wild thing, but he needed a weapon. The man beside him was dead, floating in the waves, the lance badly damaged, and Baldwin fell to the water beside him, fumbling for his sword. The fellow must have dropped it here … Yes! He stood, in time to see the French first line wheel and ride away, ready to re-form.

There was a mass of bodies in the water. Baldwin glanced down, and saw three men in front of him, bobbing gently in a sea of blood. It made his head spin, and he gripped his sword with the resolution of desperation. ‘Hold the line, men! Hold up! Hold up!’ he bellowed. And then the French came again, rattling and ringing with the weight of their armour, the horses magnificent in their bright caparisons, the men stern and determined inside their steel shells. It made Baldwin feel undressed without his armour, but it was all packed. All he might do was pray that he was that little bit faster on his feet without it.

The man riding towards him was young, his face was unmarked by wrinkles, his eyes clear and bright like a child’s — but he wielded his lance like a man many years older. Its tip lowered as Baldwin crouched, and then it was thrusting towards him like a crossbow bolt. Baldwin saw how the man aimed it, and he waited until the last moment, and then threw himself to the side of the horse, aiming his sword at the beast’s fetlock as it came closer. There was a jarring in his arms, and then an explosion of blood that burst about him like a fountain, and he was dying, drowning in other men’s blood, salt and revolting in his mouth and nose, and he tried to reach up to the sky to free himself from this hideous bath, but his hands touched only sand, and then a face, and he tried to jerk himself from it, and found he was free, in the open air again.

Wiping the water and blood from his face, he looked about him, gasping and coughing. His opponent was nearby, on his feet, fighting with two Englishmen, and Baldwin tried to walk to them, but his knees wouldn’t support his weight, and suddenly a crashing thud smote his head, and he fell back, arms outspread, and felt the black evil water filling his nose again, and saw with eyes that stung, that the sea was over his face, and that he was falling down, deeper and deeper into the waters. Falling all the way down to hell.

Wednesday after the Feast of the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary *

Tower of London

There was a hushed expectancy in the city from the first week of September, which was noticeable even to Hugh and Rob. They were both very quiet and watchful, Simon noted.

Margaret was struck with it too, and a few times Simon caught her looking at the pair of them from the corner of her eye. It was a great shame, because he had wanted her to relax and enjoy her time here in London.

Margaret had been a farmer’s daughter when Simon met her, and he had hoped that she would find her stay here in the capital to be interesting. There was certainly much that was new for her, and much that would astonish, but to his sorrow, she wanted nothing to do with the city. ‘There is something about this place,’ she said, looking about her at the Tower itself. ‘I feel so uncomfortable here. I hate it.’

‘It’s only a castle, Meg,’ he said, trying to comfort her. ‘It’s a citadel to protect London.’

‘No, Simon. It’s here to scare London. It’s here to threaten. Can’t you feel it?’ She shivered. ‘It’s like a monster in the middle of the city,’ she said. ‘And nothing good can come of us being here.’

‘For so long as the bishop is safe because we watch over him, that is itself good,’ Simon said.

‘How long must we remain? Until we capture this man? What if he is not here, Simon?’ she asked with quiet desperation.

‘I have to remain for as long as it may take,’ he told her.

It was while they were walking hand-in-hand, neither speaking, that they heard the voices outside, obviously spreading some important news. Simon felt his heart lurch, convinced that there was some kind of attack forming. He told Margaret to hurry to their children, and command Hugh to take up his staff, and then ran as fast as he could to the main gate.

‘Ah, Simon. I thought you would be along shortly,’ Sir Peregrine said.

‘I heard the noise,’ Simon said.

‘Yes, curious, eh? It was the folks out there repeating the news they’d just heard. Something about a fleet.’

Simon swore. ‘The invasion fleet?’

‘I don’t know,’ Sir Peregrine said. He bellowed down to the men at the gate itself. ‘What news?’

‘The fleet has been sorely harmed,’ the keeper called up.

Simon and Sir Peregrine glanced at each other. Neither had any cause to wish the rule of King Edward II and his most precious friend, Despenser, might continue, and yet as Englishmen, they were not keen to see the realm overrun with foreign mercenaries. Simon was aware of a curious sense of mingled anti-climax and relief. ‘So that is that, then,’ he said.

‘So it seems,’ Sir Peregrine nodded. They were about to walk away, when some stray words came to the coroner’s ear. ‘What was that?’ he demanded, turning his head, the better to listen.

There was a man outside on the drawbridge. He had some messages which he had given to the porter, and now he was shouting and shrugging his shoulders, while others on the bridge itself were gesticulating and shouting too.

‘What is it, Porter?’ Sir Peregrine bellowed again.

‘The ships, sir. They weren’t the French ships,’ the porter called up to him, his face suddenly drained. ‘They were ours.’

English Channel

Baldwin came to with a feeling of filthiness all about his body. It was as though he had been thrown into a midden filled with sewage, and as he felt the light on his face and began to swim up from unconsciousness, he knew that he must cleanse himself. He was struggling to do so when he felt himself restrained.

To his surprise, he felt as weak as a newborn foal. His arms and legs were so feeble, he could not even think of fighting off his attacker, and it was shame that made him suddenly give a sob as he realised he was entirely at the mercy of whoever was here. And then he jerked his eyes open as he remembered the last moments as he fell under the bloody froth that was the seashore. He was in hell!

The first thing his eyes perceived was not a demon, but the boy called Jack, who stood over him with an anxious expression on his face. ‘Sir Baldwin? Are you all right, sir? I have some wine, if you’d like it.’

Baldwin took a gasp of air, and looked about him. He was in a wooden cot on the deck of a cog. About him were other men, some with hideous wounds, and there was a sobbing and a moaning all over the vessel. With slow care he lifted his hands to view. There was no blood left. Someone had washed his hands and body.

‘Aye. Couldn’t leave you looking like that, could we?’ Paul said from beyond Jack.

Baldwin said nothing. He was quite sure that if Paul had seen the opportunity, he would have strangled Baldwin while he was asleep.

‘What happened?’ he asked hoarsely.

Paul answered. ‘You were knocked down, and this young fool leaped off the side of the ship to pull you from the water. It half killed him, poor twit, but he dragged you to where there was a grappling hook hanging from a rope, and he managed to persuade two sailors to haul you aboard. You’re lucky. If you’d stayed down there, you’d have been mangled along with the rest.’

‘Ach!’ Baldwin felt waves of nausea wash through his entire body, and grimaced. ‘Did we lose many?’