Michael Jecks - The Bishop Must Die

Simon nodded, but he had noticed the involuntary movement of her eyes towards their son’s chamber. ‘It does not suit me, I confess. I would rather be at home, or with Edith. But I have promised to help the bishop, and feel I have a responsibility. But that doesn’t mean you have to remain, Baldwin. You ought to go home to Jeanne.’

‘And I shall. But for now, the risk of bloodshed is all here. The queen may come here at any time, and the king is still locked up in the White Tower, so this is where the real danger lies. Jeanne will be safe. But our duty is to see to it that the bishop is safe, too.’

‘Then we are agreed,’ Simon said with a small sigh. ‘We will remain a little longer.’

Wednesday after the Feast of St Michael *

Tower of London

John de Padington was early to rise as usual. A man who would serve a bishop had to accommodate himself to the hours kept by his master — night as well as day. And early was the hour that the bishop tended to get up to visit his chaplain. He believed in the benefits of a clear mind.

It was all the same to John, for he counted time asleep as time wasted. There was work to be done, and he preferred to get on with it, rather than laze about like so many. And if there was time at the end of the day, he would enjoy the company of his friends and a jug of wine. That was the hour for rest and relaxation.

In the morning though, all was bustle for him because the whole day lay ahead of him, and he was sure that there would be plenty for him to do, as usual.

The morning looked pleasantly clear when he glanced through the window. Outside, the courtyard was bright, and if it were only a little less cluttered with men-at-arms, horses, racks of weapons, and the constant lines of men bringing goods into the fortress, he would have thought it a proud sight.

But now, with the ever-present threat of the queen’s men reaching London, he was less content than usual. He knew that the future was uncertain.

Still, he had experienced the ups and downs of his master’s career in the last years. From adviser to the king, to Lord High Treasurer, then returning to mere bishop, John had seen it all, and he had participated in Bishop Walter’s rise and fall. He didn’t care for the man’s position though, except in the way that it affected the bishop himself. John had no thought for himself. He was happy just to serve the man he thought to be one of the kindest, best men in the country.

He smiled to himself as he set the table ready for when the bishop returned to the chamber, and went out to fetch food and drink. These he prepared in the buttery himself. He would not have anyone else touch the bishop’s food, because there was too much risk of someone adding poison. Other meals would be taken elsewhere, such as the king’s own hall. John could not do much to ensure that the bishop’s food was safe there, but he would do all he could here in the man’s own chambers.

The walk from the buttery was only short, but with a full tray it was a cautious journey. There were projecting obstacles at every point, from the chests on the floor to the bishop’s own sword, which lay on top of another table near the entranceway.

Crossing the floor, he set out the meal ready for the bishop’s arrival, and stood back, eyeing it all with a slight frown. There was nothing missing he could see, so he carefully poured a little of the wine into a cup and drained it, smacking his lips appreciatively. Yes, a good wine!

His work done for the present, he left the room to visit the privy.

Thus he was not present when the hooded and cloaked figure slipped from the doorway to the table.

He had followed the other stevedores into the fortress, all carrying their loads of fish and meats ready for the garrison. Their barrels rumbled like thunder over the cobbles, hundreds of them rolling simultaneously, and the stevedore thought his head must explode with the row, but he gritted his teeth and ignored it as best he might.

Last night, he had tried to clear his mind and consider the best way to attack the bishop, but always aware that the day for him to die was not quite yet arrived. However, he could still come here today and learn all he could about the bishop’s movements.

He rolled the barrel along, one in a long line, looking about him as he went, and as he reached the Wakefield Tower, and had to roll it up the shallow incline to the green, he saw her.

She was walking briskly from a doorway just over to his right, and was forced to stop and wait for the line of men. Soon there was a gap and she darted through it to the opposite side.

For a moment, he nearly ran to her. Oh, the longing! It was such a powerful urge, he almost succumbed, no matter what the other stevedores would say, on seeing him behave like that. They would think he had lost his mind! No doubt they’d stare though, when Lady Isabella saw him and reciprocated …

If she would.

He suddenly recalled seeing her with that knight — the older man who had laughed and chatted with her so happily the other day. Perhaps she would be unwilling to acknowledge him. She wasn’t in need of him any more, not if she had found a new lover. Women weren’t as loyal as men, after all. If she had found a new home, she would be happy. That would be it.

Still, he stared at her fixedly, and as he made his way up the green to the larger storerooms at the northern wall, he almost changed his mind. She looked so small, so defenceless, he took pity on her. But in the process, he reminded himself what he was there to achieve: the death of the bishop. How would it be for her, if he showed himself to her in full view of all the men here, and later was caught for the execution of the bishop. Some of the responsibility for his action might then redound on her, to her great damage. No, he would leave her.

And then, just as he reached the door to the undercroft, he saw that man again — from his dress and bearing, surely a knight — who walked to her and spoke. The two of them looked so happy in each other’s company, that it was hard to keep himself in check. Because just seeing her with that knight made him realise that there was a new risk to him.

If she had fallen in love with the man, she might decide that there was an easy way to ingratiate herself with him. The bitch could decide to betray him.

Christ alive! It took all his self-control to keep his head down and not rush over the grass to stab her to death there and then, her and her lover.

In his chamber, the Bishop of Exeter entered, and called for John. ‘Dratted fellow. Never about when you need him,’ he muttered, and began to pull his gloves from his hands.

Still, he was relaxed this fine morning. There was no news yet of the queen, and he had seen the king on his way back from the chapel. Edward had been chatting to his second son, John of Eltham, only ten years old and already witnessing the worst which the kingdom could suffer. The bishop had paused for a few words. The king had been almost his old self, chatty and amiable. Only a day or two before, he had been inconsolable in his grief, convinced that he would be caught and forced to exile Despenser, but today he seemed to believe that the queen would not want to harm him.

‘Look at our boy here,’ he said, affectionately patting his son on the shoulder. ‘How could she hurt him or me?’

The two together, father and son, were as perfect a pair of males as could be imagined, with their long, flowing hair. The king kept his beard trimmed, but long, and the muscular set of his body was unaffected by his lifestyle. Meanwhile his boy was slender and elegant, with bright, intelligent eyes.

‘I am sure your queen would wish nothing of the sort,’ the bishop said.