Michael Jecks - The Bishop Must Die

‘And I you.’

‘I have been very worried.’

‘You can see, I am much better.’

‘My father sends you his very best wishes, too, and bade me to ask when you will return to us with his grandson.’

Jeanne shot a look at the boy. His father’s ‘grandson’? This was Peter’s own boy they were discussing!

Edith looked away. ‘I will come as soon as you wish it, of course. I am yours to order.’

‘I don’t want you until you’re quite ready,’ he said, and there was a wretchedness to him that told Jeanne much. He didn’t want to be putting his wife through any more torment. He was too much in the shadow of his father, and it made him feel pathetic to live his life between his father and his wife.

‘I don’t think Edith can travel anywhere yet,’ Jeanne said firmly. ‘But Peter, you should come here as often as you wish. It would do you good to spend time with your son.’

‘I should like to do that,’ he said.

Monday, the Feast of St Michael *

Tower of London

The Tower became a different place when the king was in residence. In the last weeks it had conveyed a peaceful, almost village-like aspect which was only occasionally disturbed by the arrival of fresh supplies. Now it had been transformed into a martial camp. Fighting men were everywhere, striding urgently, shouting and responding, practising with weapons, and there was the occasional whiff of brimstone as a small yellow cloud wafted past, the smell of the foul black powder which was being manufactured in preparation for the expected attack.

It was a scene of lunatic busyness, and it made William Walle and Simon pull their hair out in desperation. With all these strangers about the Tower, it was impossible to see who should and who should not be about. No doubt most were entirely justified in being there, but Simon and William felt quite ragged at the end of each day. They were fortunate that they were able to enlist the aid of a much-recovered Baldwin, and Sir Peregrine was available to them as soon as the rest of the garrison arrived, although his mind was plainly on other matters, to judge from his dreamy expression.

From what Simon could deduce from the gossip he salvaged from John de Padington, who appeared to have a useful informant who was a servant to the king’s steward, matters had turned foul.

The force which Queen Isabella had brought with her was tiny — only some one and a half thousand men, which the king had initially derided, saying he would trample them all. Despenser did not laugh though. John’s source said he probably had better spies than the king. Sir Peregrine reckoned that Sir Hugh realised that if such a small force could land with impunity, it showed that there was no one who wanted to oppose them. The invaders were more popular than the king.

Although Edward had commanded that all his host should go to meet the queen and Mortimer, it proved immensely difficult to make this happen. Two days ago he had issued writs for men of arms and hobelars to march to defend the realm, but they failed to materialise. And it soon became apparent that those who did march towards the queen, did so in order to join with her forces. There was no opposition to her gentle meanderings over England.

Only yesterday, Simon had heard that fresh writs had been issued giving free pardons to all prisoners, criminals, outlaws and exiles, who would join Edward to protect the realm. And while the king put a price of a thousand pounds on Sir Roger Mortimer’s head, the queen retaliated by offering twice that for Despenser’s.

What Simon found most worrying was the mood of the city itself. When he went out, leaving Meg with Sir Peregrine, and taking Hugh and Rob with him, and walked among the people to escape the awful sense of enclosure that the Tower’s walls were starting to give him — as though he was already under siege within it — the demeanour of the Londoners was startling. Gone was any apparent respect for their king. In its place was a loud rebellion. Men and women would come to the gates and swear and curse, shaking their fists when they saw the anxious faces of the garrison peering over the walls. He even saw a street scavenger pick up a handful of horse dung and fling it at a guard near the entrance. What was most shocking was that the man didn’t retaliate, shout, or try to chase the scavenger, but instead scuttled back into the protection of the gateway itself.

‘Bailiff, I’ll be glad to be out of here,’ Hugh said with a grimness that was unusual even for him. ‘This city is grown too fiery for my taste.’

‘I think we’re safe enough,’ Simon said, but he was less convinced than he sounded.

‘What if a man like him sees us leave the fort and decides to attack us?’ Hugh grunted. ‘Wouldn’t stand a chance in ’mong this lot.’

‘If the worst came to the worst, at least the Tower has stocks to last for months,’ Simon said.

It was true. The Tower could last for a long time under siege. That must have been the king’s plan, Simon realised now. He wished he had known it at the time, because he would have been a lot happier to be out of London and hurrying back homewards if the stories were all correct and war was approaching.

They returned to the fortress when a thin drizzle started to fall; now, if anything, the mood amongst the populace had turned uglier, and Simon was growing alarmed.

‘I don’t know how we can get inside there,’ he said to Hugh, who nodded morosely.

There was too much shouting and cursing for anyone to think of barging past to the gates. One or two people had been prising up stones from the roadway and were hurling them at the gates, and the men at the walls now all wore steel caps and helmets with vizors. In this mood, a mob could all too easily turn against any foreigners, and Simon and Hugh, with their Devon accents, would likely be pulled to pieces. That was the reason why Simon pulled back from the street into a doorway, wondering if there was another way up into the Tower.

Climbing the wall was clearly impossible. The whole area was surrounded by a moat, and even if the three could swim across without being brained by the mob’s missiles, they would have to climb the steep ramps that led to the walls. And the walls were tall, and manned by guards with crossbows and bows. Either way, they didn’t stand a chance.

The solution was given to him a moment or two later. There was a hiss from the crowd, and Simon could feel their attention moving away from the gateway itself and being diverted to the river. Craning his neck, Simon saw a great barge with rows of oars moving gently in unison, a flag fluttering at the prow.

‘What’s happening?’ Hugh demanded.

‘The garrison,’ Simon said dully, ‘would seem to think that it’s too dangerous to use the main gates.’

Tower of London

Margaret Puttock was feeling anxious. She had been chatting to Sir Peregrine when a sergeant had hurried past and muttered something to the coroner, who had quickly stifled a curse, murmured a polite apology and left at a trot, bellowing for men to follow him.

The rest of the time had passed in a blur as panicked men ran by, weapons clattering and clanking. There was a large number of archers, and they all ran to the entranceway, to the walls overlooking the drawbridge and down south to the river’s walls. It looked to Margaret as though they were seeking to defend the areas where an attack could be launched. But then she heard the tramp of marching boots, and walked to the walls herself, Perkin at her side.

It was there that she found herself staring down into the royal barge as the king and Sir Hugh le Despenser clambered aboard, servants and guards with them. In the floor of the boat was a series of barrels, and she wondered about them for a moment, but then her attention returned to the people all about, especially as she heard Sir Peregrine bellowing again. Then he turned and seemed to catch sight of her, and his face broke into a smile of such happiness that at first Meg thought, with horror, that he might have fallen in love with her. But then she realised that he was looking at Lady Isabella Fitzwilliam, who waved to him, before stepping over to join Margaret.