Michael Jecks - The Bishop Must Die

‘Too many to count. The French just pounded straight into the line, and with the sea behind us, what could we do? I reckon we lost over a hundred. And then their navy came across us this morning. We’ve lost three more ships. We only just made it away ourselves, with the help of some pretty effective arrow-work from the men on the castles.’

He had recovered his jauntiness, Baldwin saw. It did not make his company more desirable. ‘Where are we now?’

‘We’ll be back to the Downs this morning. Then we can leave this old bucket of rotten wood and worms, and get back to solid ground again. And I for one will not regret it if I never see a ship again.’

He stood and peered down at Baldwin. ‘See you later, Sir Knight!’

Jack remained. ‘You’ll be all right, Sir Baldwin. You just had a knock on the head. A destrier rode past you, and I think his hoof whacked you on the skull. You fell like a log!’

‘And I owe you my life, Jack. I think that is a debt which will be hard to repay,’ Baldwin said.

‘I couldn’t leave you there. Paul helped nearly as much. He threatened the two sailors to get you lifted up to the ship.’

‘He did?’ Baldwin said with surprise. He would not have expected that. A spasm jerked his torso, and he felt the bile in his throat, searing him.

‘Sir, drink this,’ Jack said, holding up a cup of wine. While the ship rocked, Baldwin tried to drink, but much of the wine dribbled down his beard.

‘Thank you, Jack,’ he said, and closed his eyes.

He was asleep in an instant.

Tower of London

The chamber in the building where Lady Isabella Fitzwilliam was installed was pleasant and airy, but she would have preferred to be back home at her old manor. Not that it was possible, with that thief Bishop Walter having stolen it. He was a man so sunk in infamy, the devil himself would have rejected him.

To learn as soon as she arrived in London that Sir Peregrine would not allow her to stay outside in the city, but instead insisted for her protection that she take a room here in the fortress had at first been delightful — but then she realised the danger. She was determined to put in place the last stage of her plan, but to do so, she must have the help of her son.

The damned bishop’s presence had itself been a shock. She had had no warning that he might be coming here, and now he was installed only a short distance from her own chamber. The possibility of repaying her debt herself at any moment was now within her grasp, and yet the risk inherent in that was high. Were she to kill the bishop in full view of anyone else, she must inevitably be killed in her turn. A terrifying thought.

Still, were she to kill the man, it would mean that her boys would not do so. And she loved them both more than she loved herself. How could she not! To the one she had given life, and to the other she had given herself. They were both hers, and she was theirs.

Even now she found it hard to believe that it had been so simple a task, to install a man in the bishop’s palace and to distribute messages of death.

It was always the idea that he should suffer for a long period. At first when she had been considering the means of making his life so miserable that he would almost welcome death, she had thought that she would simply string it all out until he was entirely depressed and half-mad with fear. But it was her son who had persuaded her that there was no logic to treating him in such a manner. If he was to deliver her notes, he wanted to know that there was a set term for them. As he pointed out, she only had to think of the words, while he had to not only run the risk of delivering them, but must also plan to kill the man as well. And he must somehow prevent himself from smiting his father’s murderer every day.

He was so strong, so clever. She missed him so much. He had been going to come here to London, she was sure, but she had seen and heard nothing from him.

The whole idea had been his. He had such a fertile brain! Isabella wanted originally to just slash at the bishop’s throat when the chance offered itself, but it was he who had come up with the idea of making the bishop suffer for the same period as poor Henry had. Henry Fitzwilliam had been arrested and forced to languish in that hideous dungeon for thirty-nine weeks. They didn’t tell her exactly when he died. To think of it! So long a time, and all the while not knowing whether he might be released to freedom and prosperity once more, or led out to be hanged before a mob of baying churls. Poor, darling Henry, to have lain in that tiny, noisome, wet chamber all that time. It had been winter when he finally expired. She thought it was the cold which had done it, but it was hard to be sure. There were so many natural causes of death in gaol: the cold, starvation, fever, thirst — all could be listed as ‘natural death’ in the coroner’s court.

How long now? She had sent the first note at the beginning of the year, but it had reached the bishop on the second Monday before Candlemass. That meant it was already thirty-four weeks since the first note had arrived. She only had another five weeks to worry about. And then, ideally on the Wednesday, the anniversary of the delivery of the first note, she could kill him. Thus would poor Henry be avenged.

Henry would be proud of her, to see how she had planned this and managed to get matters to the stage where she could soon end the rule of the bishop. She only prayed that she would be able to strike the blow. Five weeks. It was not a very long time. She had only that long in order to plan his murder. And it would have to be a perfect murder. She did not want to die in the process of avenging her poor husbands.

It would be hard. She would have to try to penetrate his chamber while he was there more or less undefended. He had guards at all hours though, so that would be problematic. She might be able to poison him, but that was too hit-or-miss. Better to do it with a knife, as she had originally planned. But how? In the chamber would be best, but not while he was praying or at some other form of religious duty.

That was her greatest fear, that she could be consigning herself to hell for all time by killing a bishop, but the crimes of which he and other clerics were guilty were so clear and undeniable that the offence she might give would surely be lessened. His theft of her dower must itself be powerful in mitigation — if there were such a thing as mitigation in the eyes of God.

There had only ever been one other bishop murdered, of course. Saint Thomas Becket. He was one of those rare beings, a truly pious man, slain by the king of the time. His killers were punished, but in this case, removing a man who was so hated and feared throughout the realm, she must be looked upon with more favour.

She was considering this when she caught sight of Sir Peregrine and the man Simon Puttock. They were deep in conversation, and did not appear to notice her. It was good that she could approach them, listening intently.

Puttock was speaking: ‘In the meantime, we have to maintain the guards on the bishop’s chamber.’

‘Yes. For all it’s worth.’

‘Sir Peregrine, don’t you think we can protect him?’

‘I doubt whether the rogue who sent those notes has the faintest intention of fulfilling the prediction. Look, the man started sending the notes back in January, from what John tells me. They’ve been coming sporadically ever since. There were some in Exeter, and the churl who delivered them was discovered and disappeared. Then he tried his luck again at Canterbury. But to do it again here, in London? How could anyone think to press through the guards here at the Tower to kill him?’