Michael Jecks - The Bishop Must Die

‘Oh, we arrived so late, I could not hurry to the Tower’s gate, so instead we found a lodging near the Aldersgate. It was adequate, but I confess that the snoring of the other guests in my room was somewhat distracting, which is why I woke so early. Being without a sword is a disadvantage when one wishes to assault a snorer. In preference I packed and came here at first light.’

‘Well, you are most welcome,’ Margaret said. ‘In fact, why don’t you stretch out on one of our benches and take a little more rest now?’

Baldwin yawned and rubbed his head again. ‘If you do not mind, Meg, I would be glad to accept your offer. What with lack of sleep and this damnable head of mine still aching like a lancethrust, a rest would be very welcome.’

He had seen the man standing like a bailiff, thumbs hooked into his belt, a suspicious eye passing over all the men walking in with their loads, and it was a relief when he saw the man bellow at a friend and hurry away to see him.

The fort was huge. He hadn’t quite expected it to open up in front of him in the way that it did. The entrance was at a lower level, so that those gaining access from the gate must run the gauntlet of a sunken road, while defenders could rain weapons and blows down on them from above. It left him feeling endangered, but then he saw how the path turned, and he climbed some stairs up to a wide grassed plain. Here he paused while he took in his surroundings before following the man in front to the undercrofts. There were, a series of them, and their loads of fish were for the special kitchen, he was told. He was directed with his companion down a small alley between two houses, and at the far end he found himself staring at a kitchen. A cook, when summoned, looked at the fish dispassionately, before nodding, and showing the two where to set their loads. Once divested of them, the two waited patiently, hoping for a sup of ale to quench their thirst, but the cook had already decided that he had better things to do, and had retreated to a stool from which he could watch and supervise the others.

Still thirsty, the two made their way out and retraced their steps — and it was there, almost at the cobbled way that led to the gate, that he saw her. His stepmother. And he scowled to see that she was walking and chatting flirtatiously to a tall knight. His blood boiled.

She was betraying his father, her husband.

And him .

Tower of London

Simon would always thereafter remember this day in two parts. The first was the joy of seeing Baldwin again, and knowing that his old friend was safe — a fact which seemed to herald better times. A little of Simon’s fear and concern was eased at the sound of the knight’s gentle snoring from his hall. But the second was when the dread news was finally brought to London.

Leaving Baldwin asleep on the bench, he went outside to check on the guards about Bishop Stapledon. There was trouble among some few of them, who were arguing about remaining in the Tower so long. The doom-mongers among the garrison were working their hardest to make sure that their fears were shared. Simon had recently had two of them arrested when they threatened to leave the Tower without permission. Their fate could be decided when the Keeper of the Tower chose to see them. From what Simon had seen of the two, he would probably be happy to leave them to stew for a while.

Simon heard shouting and swearing from the Wakefield Tower, and hurried towards the source of the noise with a frown. He was beginning to feel like a servant of the king in his duties here, rather than a dutiful official of the Bishop of Exeter, and he reached the Tower ready to curse any fool who was making a noise for no reason. He opened his mouth to bellow, and then snapped it shut quickly and copied all the others who thronged the street as he saw the flag, and dropped to his knee.

Clad all in armour, the king rode past on a huge black destrier that pranced rather than trotted, his heralds behind him, while Despenser rode a horse’s length behind them, a fixed glower on his face. King Edward looked like a man who had the full weight of the realm on his shoulders. It was an astonishing sight, because although Simon had met with him a number of times, and had seen him at royal events when he was clothed in his full regalia, he had never seen the king looking so grim before. He rode stiffly, like a man in a daze, and his features were blank; he wore the expression of a man who, Simon thought, was terrified to let his feelings show.

Like the king, Despenser wore his armour, but his expression seemed to be wavering between rage and terror. Simon could remember the last time he had seen Despenser, and then he had noticed that the knight’s fingernails were bitten so far that two were bleeding. Now the man looked close to collapse, as though he knew that all those years of inveigling his way into the king’s trust and affection, all those years of deceit and plotting … all could shortly be thrown away. It was written in his pale, lined face. The man had aged ten years or more since their last meeting.

Simon could not regret it. He had a detestation for the man. Despenser had personally damaged him, doing all in his power to weaken Simon’s family, to harm his wife, his daughter, and Simon himself. To see him scared and fearful felt like a kind of justice.

Next to him, William Walle hawked and spat as he joined the rest of the crowd in rising after the royal entourage had passed by. ‘Well, that confirms it.’

‘What?’ Simon asked.

‘The king has come here from Westminster. He must be feeling the anxiety of the city, I think. The place is alive with rumours,’ William said. ‘And I don’t know about you, my friend, but I am sickened by this constant waiting. I’d prefer to have a real, honest-to-God invasion rather than this. Endless preparation makes me mazed.’

Simon smiled at his words, but thought nothing of them. It was an hour later that he heard that a messenger had come from Suffolk.

Queen Isabella had landed with her mercenaries.

Furnshill

Edith had put on some flesh in the last week, Jeanne noted approvingly. She looked a great deal better for it, and now the haunted expression had left her too. The bruises under her eyes, the unhealthful pallor of her features, had been replaced with a fresh, maidenly rosiness that suited her like bloom on an apple.

Jeanne was very pleased with her efforts, but it was on this day that all appeared to take a turn for the worse.

The rider could be heard a half-mile away in the still afternoon air, and Edith heard it at the same time as Jeanne. These were not usual times, and Jeanne had a knight’s appreciation of dangers, so she called Edgar, who went with a staff and stood at the doorway, while Jeanne herself took up a dagger. There were too many tales of women raped in their houses, their husbands murdered, and the houses fired when the outlaws had made their play. Jeanne and Edgar were competent to protect themselves from most gangs.

‘One rider,’ Edgar reported.

Jeanne went to the door and peered out. It was Peter, Edith’s husband. When he had dismounted, she went to greet him. ‘You are most welcome. Please come inside with me. Can I serve you some wine or ale?’

‘Lady Jeanne, how is my wife?’

She sought to put his mind at ease at once. ‘She is much recovered. Her sadness and weakness is much reduced. But come! You will see her for yourself.’

Edith shot to her feet as soon as Peter walked in, but Jeanne was sorry to see that the two did not rush into each other’s arms, but stood at a distance like warring armies standing off.

‘Edith, I am pleased to see you are looking so well,’ Peter began.