Michael Jecks - The Bishop Must Die

No matter. He would destroy the man. He would kill Bishop Walter II after thirty-nine weeks from the first note being delivered, just as Bishop Walter had ensured his father’s death after thirty-nine weeks in gaol. Now all he had to do was plan how.

Furnshill, Devon

Jeanne felt her heart lift at the sight of Edith that morning. It was as though the girl had been renewed. The ravages of the last weeks were still evident on her face, but her eyes were brighter, and Jeanne hoped that she was over the worst. The colour was returned to her face, and already her skin seemed less thin and old.

‘Did you sleep well?’ Jeanne asked.

‘Do you need to ask?’

Jeanne felt her spirits rise. Her own wetnurse, Edgar’s wife, had taken to little Henry as soon as they arrived here, and had enthusiastically fussed about the child like a mother hen. Almost as soon as the baby was taken from her, young Edith had fallen asleep, and she had slept from just before suppertime straight through to lunchtime today.

When she had seen Edith in Exeter, it was clear that the girl’s strength was used up, and her mental resources were fading quickly, rent with the emotion of being forced to cleave to her husband’s family and ignore her own, just at the time she needed her mother most. Divorcing her from her own mother and father just as she had a child to cope with was the cruellest act Jeanne had heard of. She could imagine how Edith had felt though, for her first marriage had become an oddly loveless affair, and she had been incredibly depressed until her first husband had died. Then, finding Baldwin and a fresh love, she had learned to be happy again.

Well, it was not too late for Edith to do the same.

‘Edith, would you like to come and walk with me?’

‘Yes. In a little while. Not yet.’

She sat with her hands in her lap, looking so much the child still that Jeanne marvelled that she could be married. ‘You have much to consider.’

‘I do not know that I shall ever see my husband again,’ she said with sadness.

‘I am sure you will.’

‘You don’t know his father. He can be very harsh. You see, he blames my father for the way Peter was arrested last year.’

‘He shall have to realise that it was not your fault, nor Simon’s. Simon was being persecuted, and Despenser sought to hurt him through you and Peter.’

‘Knowing the cause will not make my father-in-law any more sympathetic. He wishes to guard his son from the same thing happening again. As do I.’

‘You should not worry about such things, Edith. You are here to recover. Your husband agreed that you could come here with your child to recuperate. He didn’t say you were to be evicted from his house, did he?’

‘No, but-’

‘There is no “but”. You are here to be fed and allowed to sleep, and that is all. Now, are you ready for a walk?’

‘Yes, I suppose so. I just wish Peter were here.’

‘I am sure he will come soon enough,’ Jeanne said.

Thursday before the Feast Day of the Archangel Michael *

Tower of London

There were not many people about when Simon walked in the castle’s yard that morning. It was a cold morning, a real harbinger of the winter to come, he thought, and he glanced about him wistfully at the idea of the frost on the moors back in Devon. It was a time of great beauty on Dartmoor, when the weather began to change. He was never unaware of the magnificence of the scenery when he was out on the top of a tor, with the wind blowing in his face, a thin layer of ice crunching underfoot.

Here there was none of that. The whole of the city seemed to remain warmer, and there was little frost even on an evening like last night, when the sky was perfectly clear. It was unsettling, abnormal. If only he could return to Devon.

He had walked round the yard six times by his count when the gates were finally opened and the first folk began to enter with their loads. This was the thing about the fortress which Simon found most astonishing. There were so many people living within the walls that there was a neverending line of men and carts, bringing ale for the guards, wine for the wealthier guests, bread, meats, vegetables, eggs, milk — all the various foodstuffs so necessary to a man. And now, with the threat of invasion and siege, there were ever more provisions being brought here. As the fellows walked in, some carrying large baskets in their hands, while stevedores trudged along with their own baskets on their backs, none of them showed any interest in the castle or the people inside it. Why should they? They were mere mules, human transporters who were more convenient and cheaper than their four-legged counterparts.

There was one man who appeared to be gazing about him with rather more interest than all the others, He was dark haired, and had a slightly different look about him. Simon was wondering about him when he heard a sudden shout from the gate.

‘Baldwin! Old friend, how are you?’ he greeted him as he hurried down the slope towards the gate.

‘I have been better,’ Baldwin sighed. He had a young boy with him, who stared about him at the magnificent buildings with mouth agape. Baldwin touched a finger to his brow. ‘For this once, you may offer me a cup of wine, and I will not decline in favour of water or juice.’

‘Come with me!’ Simon exclaimed, and in a few minutes they were in Simon’s chamber, with Margaret sitting before them, and Hugh bustling about, swearing and cajoling Rob to, ‘Get off your arse and fetch some wine for the knight and ale for the lad, you prickle!’ while Baldwin’s companion squatted silently on the floor.

‘So, Baldwin,’ Margaret said, when he was at last nursing a cup. ‘Tell us what you have been doing. It is weeks since we last saw you.’

Baldwin said heavily, ‘We have been through a hard time, Meg. My young friend here saved my life, may God bless him!’

‘What happened?’ Margaret pressed him.

Baldwin told them of his journey to France, their adventures there, and then his near-drowning at Honfleur. ‘It was this fellow who had me dragged from the water,’ he said, patting Jack’s head. ‘After that, we sailed back to England, and when we arrived we were told to make our way to Yarmouth, for the French were expected at any time. So on we went, and in that first night, a sudden squall hit us, and we lost fifteen of our ships! Five hundred men drowned. A terrible night. I am only glad that I slept through most of it. I was insensible for the whole journey, and for two more nights on board the ship. Since then I have been forced to rest often. Luckily, my head appears to be mending, and at last I can ride and walk without too much strain.’

‘Is there any sign of the queen?’ Margaret asked, her voice hushed.

‘There is no sign of anything,’ Baldwin said with a sigh. ‘I would almost prefer that she arrived with a vast force behind her, than this intolerable waiting. It is hard to be sitting here, unsure what the morning may bring.’

‘Well, I am glad at least that you are back safe,’ Simon said.

‘I am at least back,’ Baldwin said with a grin. ‘But without a weapon. My sword was lost on the beach. Tomorrow, I must find a good armourer.’

‘We can walk there together,’ Simon said. ‘Perhaps you would like to find a place to rest for now, though? You look exhausted.’

‘I know, and yet it’s still early. But I had to come here at the first opportunity to make sure that you and Bishop Walter were safe still — and Margaret too, of course,’ he added with a smile.

‘We are fine, Baldwin. Why did you not come last night?’ Margaret asked.