Michael Jecks - The Bishop Must Die

‘In Exeter it was a task made easy by the laxity of the guards involved. And the bishop himself, I suppose.’

‘Because neither thought to question the stranger in their midst. All assumed that because he was there, he should have been there.’

Simon nodded. ‘He could try the same strategy here.’

‘He could — but only if he wants to end up with more holes in him than a target on the archery field. Besides, I think the aim of the notes was clear.’

‘You do? And what was it, then?’

‘To scare the man. It was revenge for some misdeed, or perhaps the plot of a twisted mind. There are some who consider that torture is an entertainment.’

‘True enough. So what should we do?’

‘Maintain the guard, hope to catch this vile creature, and pray that he’s already gone away. Give it a matter of three or four weeks, and I’d think the danger would be past.’

‘To be replaced by the dangers we spoke of earlier.’ Simon’s tone was heavy.

‘Aye. Right enough. Invasion and war.’

‘If your lady were here and unprotected, she would have a terrible time.’

‘I would lay down my life for her, to protect her!’

Simon chuckled. ‘If you feel like that about the Lady Isabella, you should tell her.’

‘I could not tolerate her rejection.’

‘Sir Peregrine, think of it from her side. She will be fearful of invasion, just as all people are. But for her, she has no champion to defend her or her lands. In circumstances like these, you ought to strike while you may. Unless, of course, you are uncertain as to your feelings …’

‘I have no doubt about my feelings for her — and I believe she feels similarly towards me. She does not look on me with contempt, I think.’

‘Then tell her. You aren’t children, either of you. You ought to ask her what she feels, and if she could tolerate your company, perhaps a marriage would be possible.’

‘Aye, perhaps,’ the knight said doubtfully.

Isabella moved into shadows before they could see her listening. There was a little smile pulling at her mouth, and an unaccustomed warmth in her lower belly, a kind of tingling anticipation, and as soon as she noted it for herself, she sternly rebuked herself. She had known for quite some time that the good Sir Peregrine was fond of her. There was nothing new in this, nothing at all. And it couldn’t change anything. How could it, when her whole life’s course was set already? No. It mattered not at all. And yet there was a thrill in her blood that no amount of reason could dispel.

Exeter

Peter watched her covertly from the table as his wife stood up, hesitated, and then moved slowly over the floor.

If he’d had to guess, he’d have said she was at least thirty. She looked ancient, the way she moved. Nothing seemed to stir her from this torpor.

At first he’d listened to his father, when the old man said that a woman was like a dog or a walnut tree — all needed to be birched every so often. But his father didn’t believe it himself — Peter knew that. The old twit wouldn’t dream of lifting a hand to Peter’s mother. And nor Peter would hurt Edith.

It would be like kicking a baby, the state she was in. She didn’t need a slap to waken her; she needed something else, but Peter wasn’t sure what.

That day, he decided, he would take her into the city. See if something at the market could tempt her out of her black humour.

They walked out just before the usual time for dinner, and went around the stalls, but there was nothing which took her fancy. In desperation, he took her to the haberdashers’ counters, hoping to tease her appreciation of pretty things, but even that failed. She walked with her head bent to the ground, her gaze fixed to the paths.

‘Edith?’

Peter heard the woman’s voice and recognised it immediately. This was the friend of Edith’s father, the woman married to Sir Baldwin.

He stiffened his back, and turned to look at her. She was a striking woman, with red-gold hair under her coif, and wore a heavy green tunic with a bodice that bore astonishingly detailed embroidery, but most of all she wore a sad, anxious expression as she looked at Edith.

Peter’s father had told him to avoid his father-in-law and his friends, because consorting with them could put his life at risk again. The best route was to tell this woman to go away and leave them alone. It would be best if he was rude to her. She should see that Edith did not want to talk to her. His wife was flinching and averting her head even now, as though she expected him to beat her for even looking at the woman.

He opened his mouth to tell her to go away, and a sob burst from him. ‘Lady, please, if you can help her, please, as you love God, please …’

Friday after the Feast of the Blessed Virgin Mary *

Billingesgate

An unpleasant fog had rolled along the Thames that morning, and this was enough to make the men unloading the boats curse as they struggled to manhandle their heavy wicker baskets full of fish along the narrow gangplanks.

It was hard work, and the men here would not tolerate a slacker, so he must heft the basket for the man in front, then bend while the man behind lifted his basket to him. There was a leather strap that went over his forehead, while the basket lay on his back, and when it was in place, he joined the line with the other men, emptied his load in the market, then went straight back to the boats.

The first few days, his hands had been rubbed raw. His back ached, his head was sore, his neck a mass of knotted muscles. How others managed a life so harsh, he could not know. As a lay brother in the cathedral, his hands had been almost as protected as before, when he had been a rector at St Alban’s. There, all he need do was occasionally sweep the floor, and keep his tools in place. His plots in the fields had been serviced by others who felt such work was beneath the man who was guarding their souls, and his hands had never roughened.

Not so here. Now his hands were growing steadily stronger, his back was bent with labour, but there was muscle in it. He felt more virile, more powerful than ever before. This was the last period before he would destroy that evil tyrant, Bishop Walter II.

His father, Henry Fitzwilliam, had been such a kindly soul. Even though his mother had died giving birth to him, yet his father had always been kind to him, and even when he chose to take a career in the Church, his father had not argued, but supported him. The fact that it meant there would be no heir, no continuing dynasty, had not altered his affection for his only son.

When the woman appeared, and he realised that his father was seriously considering marriage again, it had struck him like a poleaxe. As a young man of fourteen, he had considered the idea to be an insult to his mother. But then, when Lady Isabella had shown her courage and loyalty after his father’s arrest, his attitude had changed. He realised why his father had decided to marry her. She deserved his respect and love, and the respect and love of her stepson, too.

Ranulf Fitzwilliam was a man who had built his life on faith and loyalty. At first it was to his dear father, then to his Church, but more recently, he had put the notion that the Church was entirely good to one side since he had seen for himself how power could be abused. Now, he put his faith and loyalty in his stepmother.

At the end of the day, he pulled off the leather cap with the long tail that protected his back, and walked with the others to the little alehouse at the river’s side, where all would invest some pennies in a quart or two of ale, and there they would swap jokes, mutter against the bailiff who demanded ever faster work, or just sit and talk as the pain of the day gradually receded. Not him, though. No, he just stood at the riverside and stared along the muddy banks towards the Tower that loomed up above all the small shops and houses between. That was where, so he had heard, the bishop was living. The latter hadn’t gone to his huge house out towards the Palace of Westminster on Thorney Island, but instead was hiding here in the king’s own fortress. It showed how brave he was feeling.