Michael Jecks - The Bishop Must Die

Reaching the top, he stood catching his breath, staring down at the men following him. There were rocks nearby, stored up here to hurl at attackers, and it would have been so satisfying to knock them loose with one or two, but the guards on the walls were close, too close, and one was fumbling with a crossbow. He had no time.

He stared about him a moment, and in that instant, he felt a sharp delight, as though this was the culmination of his life. He sprang up onto the battlements, with the men clambering up the ladder behind him, and then, as the guards on the walkway came close, he turned to leap into the moat, hoping to swim for the far bank.

But there was no moat. He had not realised that here the castle had a second set of walls, and to reach the moat, there was a stretch of grassy plain, and then a second curtain wall. The grassed gap between the two was an appalling drop away from him, presently filled with cattle and sheep, and as he stared down, a cow peered up at him ruminatively, chewing, as he felt the first of the fists grab his shoulder.

He was hauled back from that terrible drop, and when he tried to grip the wall to hold himself up, he was punched in the face, until his grip failed and he dropped back on to the walkway. A boot slammed into his flank, and he rolled over, pushing himself up again, but he was hit again, on the back of his head, and this time he felt his body grow enormously heavy, as though all his limbs had been filled with lead. There was a feeling of nausea rising to his throat, and he felt as though he was falling. In his mind, he saw the cow again, staring at him with that meditative expression as he tumbled down and down, until he landed softly on the grass, and knew no more.

The bishop heard their boots on the stairs, and he turned in his seat to stare at the door as it opened. ‘Well?’

‘My lord bishop,’ William Walle said, and then his face broke into a broad smile. ‘We have him!’

‘Oh, thank God,’ the bishop murmured, and he felt the relief wash through him. ‘I feel a little dizzy,’ he said, eyes wide.

It had been so alarming, when the first note had appeared. The second had made him angry, but the subsequent ones made him grow more and more concerned. Then again, there was the appearance of the preserved head. It had remained in his mind, proof of his own fragility, the ease of the assassin. His morale was quite eroded when that last message arrived at Canterbury, and this latest had shocked him more than he could properly express. There had been such a lengthy gap between them, and he had also felt the security of being here, at the heart of the king’s authority in the country. It was as though the writ of the king overwhelmed any evil which could be aimed at him. The assassin’s knife could not hurt him while he remained inside the Tower.

‘Sir Baldwin, Squire William, Bailiff Simon — I owe you a debt which I doubt may be repaid. You have saved my life, and probably a more shaky thing — my sanity!’

‘I am glad if we have succeeded in doing so,’ Baldwin said. ‘The culprit is presently languishing in your gaol, my lord bishop.’

‘Has he explained himself? Has he told you why he wished to put me to this appalling test? He nearly drove me mad, after all.’

‘He is not yet capable of answering our questions,’ Baldwin said. ‘He will be unable for some while, Bishop. He is quite mazed. However, I am sure that we will soon be able to get some answers for you.’

‘Good. Very good.’

‘Tell me though, Bishop — what did he write that alarmed you so much?’ Baldwin asked.

Walter Stapledon picked up the parchment and passed it to him. ‘He gives me the day of my death.’

Baldwin glanced at the small, crabbed writing. ‘ Only another fourteen days to your death . Well, he is hardly poetic in his style,’ he noted.

‘Assassins are not noted for their style,’ Bishop Walter said. ‘I am glad you will have time to discuss his writings with him at leisure. I am sure it will be rewarding for you. And now, gentlemen all, if you do not mind, I have much work to get on with.’

He sighed happily as they left him. He had a pile of documents to read and check, and his clerks would shortly bring in more, but for all that, he had a feeling of ease and comfort such as he had not known these ten months past. It was wonderful that he could sit back without fear of another note.

Nor worry that he was about to be killed.

In the yard once more, Baldwin looked about him and breathed in deeply. ‘So, Simon, I think that finally pays your duty to the bishop in full. You have no more to do here.’

Simon nodded. ‘Meg will be pleased, and so will Hugh, after all his moaning and whining.’

‘A curious matter,’ Baldwin commented, as they marched across the grass. The stevedores had all gone now, but the grass was muddied and flattened where they had passed with their barrels and carts.

Simon gazed morosely at the ruts. ‘Do you think that the Tower will be forced into a siege?’

‘If the queen is in earnest, and the fact that she has come this far seems to suggest that she is, then, yes. I would expect so. What else may she do?’

‘What does she actually want?’ Simon wondered. ‘Does she mean to kill the king and take the throne for herself?’

Baldwin sighed. ‘I wish I knew. She is certainly intending that Despenser will be destroyed.’

There was a call, and both turned to see Sir Peregrine and Lady Isabella approaching. ‘Sir Baldwin, Bailiff,’ the knight said. ‘Who was the man you captured? We saw you arrest him, but we wondered who it might be.’

‘He was known as Paul of Taunton when he was in Exeter,’ Baldwin said, ‘but I doubt that is his real name. He was determined to kill the bishop — but for what reason we cannot tell.’

‘Why would he want that?’ Sir Peregrine asked with surprise.

‘So many have disputes with the rich and powerful, it’s a miracle more aren’t murdered every day of the week,’ Baldwin said lightly.

‘But you are sure he was trying to kill the bishop?’ Lady Isabella pressed. ‘Why him?’

‘Lady,’ Simon explained, ‘this man Paul was known in Exeter, and it was discovered that he dropped threatening, anonymous notes into the palace for Bishop Walter to find. Today there was another message left for the bishop — and the man was seen.’

‘Seen leaving the message?’ she asked.

‘No. Seen here,’ Simon said with a faint frown. ‘He was here to upset the bishop again, clearly.’

She nodded.

Sir Peregrine was smiling, nonetheless. ‘We have news, my friends, which I cannot keep from you any longer. Lady Isabella here has consented to become my wife.’

‘That is wonderful news,’ Baldwin said, and bowed to the lady. ‘I give you my most heartfelt congratulations, Sir Peregrine.’

‘I am glad of it, Sir Baldwin,’ the knight replied happily.

Simon bowed in his turn. ‘My lady, you have a good man there.’

‘I know,’ she said, but Simon noted that her manner was a little distracted. Strange, he thought, but it was hardly to be wondered at. She was worried about the situation in the city, no doubt.

‘So the bishop is safe now,’ Sir Peregrine said, as they all walked together towards Simon’s rooms.

‘Yes. I think it must be a huge relief to him,’ Baldwin said. ‘After all, the matter has been dragging on now for months.’

‘Really?’

‘Since he was in Exeter, yes. This madman followed him from Exeter to Portchester, to Canterbury, and now here, I presume. What his motivation could be, I do not know.’

A sudden blast of trumpets made Sir Peregrine groan to himself. ‘Another drunken guard at the gate, I suppose. There appear to be too many who can gain access to the wine stores. Excuse me, Sir Baldwin, Bailiff. My dear, I shall see you later, I trust.’