Michael Jecks - The Bishop Must Die

‘Ha! You hear that, John? Now, Bishop, you must know that our attempt to read the papal bull yesterday went awry. The damned crowd had some pedant in amongst them, who demanded to know when the bull was dated. Not that it matters a whit! What if it was written some days ago — weeks ago, or years? Eh? It’s still correct, after all. If the pope made the invasion of our realm illegal some years ago, nothing has changed. Maybe we should have the bull read again, so that the crowds can understand its full force. I am sure Archbishop Reynolds would not mind doing that.’

‘I fear he may well mind, sire,’ the bishop said apologetically. ‘He was pelted with rotten fruit as though he was in the pillory, and the guards could do nothing to protect him. They were attacked too. If you wish your bull to be read, you will need to look for another man. No!’ he added hurriedly, holding up his hands. ‘Were I to go out just now, they would pull my head from my body.’

‘We are sure that they are not so filled with hate as you believe,’ the king said, but to the bishop’s relief the idea was chased out by another. ‘When the queen arrives, we must have her greeted properly.’

‘Your Majesty?’

‘She is my wife, Bishop. We will not have her mistreated. She has been wayward, but we would have her position respected — and that of our oldest son. They must be welcomed when they arrive.’

‘Your Highness,’ Bishop Walter said. He considered the queen, imagining her arrival, the way that she would point to Despenser, to Edward himself, and order their arrest. Perhaps she would prefer to have Despenser strung up immediately though, and not bother to see him wait for trial. And what would she do to her husband, the king?

The king was in full flow now. ‘She will arrive, perhaps within the week. Naturally we shall have to ensure that all is ready.’

‘Your Highness, Mortimer is with her.’

‘He is a traitor, and he will die. But my wife will be pleased to return and discover that we forgive her. And our son, of course. We could not see Edward punished. We doubt that it was his fault — I expect he was persuaded by Mortimer to behave so recklessly.’

The bishop had left him soon after, and it was this conversation which had so unsettled him on his way up to his chamber. The king was deluding himself into the rosy vision of his wife arriving, apologising, giving up her lover, and Edward welcoming her back into his fold. He would probably think he could ask Sir Hugh le Despenser to arrange a party to celebrate.

It was insane! The queen loathed Despenser and wanted his head, just as she probably hated Bishop Walter. Certainly he had seen no residual affection for her husband when the bishop had travelled to France to request that she return. The response had been unequivocal: non!

As usual, his food was set out in an orderly manner, and he finished removing his gloves and set them to one side before closing his eyes and offering up a prayer of thanks for his food, before picking up his loaf of bread and breaking it.

Lifting the loaf made something move, and as he glanced down and saw it, the bishop leaped back, as though a giant spider had sprung forth. The goblet of wine was overturned, while the loaf fell to the floor even as he cried out.

And in the draught of his movement, the little parchment note skittered across the table as if it was impelled by its own malign influence.

It was obvious that the bishop was still suffering from the shock when Baldwin and Simon walked into the chamber.

William Walle was already there, his sword in his hand, standing near the door, while John de Padington stood a short distance in front of the bishop.

Baldwin looked down at the squire’s sword with an eyebrow raised, and William shamefacedly lowered it.

‘I am sorry, Sir Baldwin. I didn’t know who it was. After this …’

‘What exactly has happened?’ Baldwin asked the bishop.

‘I walked in to break my fast, and found a fresh note lying under my loaf,’ the bishop said.

‘Who put the loaf there?’ Baldwin asked.

‘I did, sir,’ John de Padington said. ‘But it was not there when I put the loaf down. Someone must have entered the room after I left, and stuck the note beneath.’

‘How long was the loaf there?’ Simon asked, walking to the window and staring down into the green.

‘Not long,’ John said. ‘I set out his breakfast, and only left the room for a few moments, and while I was gone I heard the bishop’s cry, so I ran back …’

He saw the expression on Baldwin’s face, and suddenly his nerve failed. ‘No, Sir Baldwin, please, do not look at me in that way! I would have done nothing to hurt my master! It was nothing to do with me, I wouldn’t have-’

‘I don’t suspect you, man! I am just considering.’

‘Baldwin, over here,’ Simon said urgently. ‘William, you too. Look, that stevedore down there, the one with the reddish chemise and black hosen. See him?’

‘Sweet Mother of Christ!’ William Walle blurted out. ‘It’s him — the man who called himself Paul of Taunton!’

He could see her still, the bitch! Flaunting herself with her new lover, making herself appealing to the old goat like some seventeen-year-old bawd teasing a randy patron. He would put an end to her playing. There were dark corners even here in the Tower, and he could reach her no matter where she ran.

The undercroft was a cold place, like death itself. As he and the others rolled their barrels and hefted their heavy sacks of grain and flour into the areas pointed out by the officials, he found his mind turning more and more to revenge. It was so sweet a thought!

But the supreme ambition was to kill the bishop. Yes, first he must kill Stapledon, and then, later, he could decide what to do with the bitch Isabella. So long as she didn’t betray him beforehand.

The barrel was in place. He gave it a practised roll with a twist, and it ended upright. With a leg either side, he hugged it, and forced it the last few feet, curling it in arcs over the stone floor. When it was in place he stood straight, feeling the muscles in his back slowly easing, and trailed out to the door with the others. They had to wait there, in the gloom by the entrance, for the trail of barrels and men carrying sacks to decline, so that at last they could leave the place.

Blinking in the sunlight again, he glanced about, searching for her. She was still there with the knight, as though there was no shame in associating with another man of the king, and by implication, a friend of Stapledon and Despenser. The men who had killed …

There was a shout, and like all the others, he turned to see what was the cause. To his astonishment, he saw three men running at him. Two must have been knights, and the third was a powerful-looking man with a grim expression.

For a moment he wondered what they were doing, and he automatically looked over his shoulder to see who was sought, but then, before he could work it out logically, his legs had already overhauled his brain, and he was pounding away from them.

They were gaining on him fast. He ran to the left, almost collided with a wall, then was off again, down the hill towards the entranceway to the green.

There were shouts, and suddenly he was the target of every man out there in the green. There were three stevedores in front of him, one with long, spreading arms like a gorilla and a leer that showed he would enjoy bringing him down, but he wouldn’t surrender that easily. Turning, he pelted breathlessly back up the hill again. There was a ladder up in front, and he ran at it at full tilt, catching hold and swarming up it almost without breaking his pace.

Above him, he saw a guard hurrying across the inner walkway of the wall, and behind him, two men were following. He only had one way to escape.