Michael Jecks - The Bishop Must Die

‘Of course,’ Lady Isabella said, and watched as Sir Peregrine ran back the way they had come.

‘So will you live with him in Exeter?’ Baldwin asked.

‘I suppose so. I had not thought of it,’ she replied.

‘No?’

She heard the question in his voice, and turned to face him. ‘Sir Baldwin, there is so much danger in the realm just now, I have scarcely had a moment to consider where we may live. I am sure that Sir Peregrine’s house will be adequate for us. There! And now, I must be off, too. Please excuse me.’

Baldwin and Simon bowed, and then watched as she hurried away from them.

‘That woman,’ Baldwin said, ‘is not entirely happy about something.’

Once safe in her chamber, Lady Isabella Fitzwilliam remained leaning against the doorway, her heart racing like a horse at full gallop. It was enough to make her feel quite sick, and she had to sink to the floor, holding her head in her hands.

To have seen poor Ranulf, her stepson, captured like that … the sight of his face, distraught, staring over at her, as though pleading with her to rescue him, had torn at her heart, but she could only hope that he understood that she was here to finish the job they had begun. Poor Ranulf! The one time he had attempted something important, the poor fellow had been captured.

It was all her fault. She it was who had instilled in the boy a desire for revenge at any cost. She had been so enraged to learn that her dower was gone that she had reinforced his own fury and feelings of inadequacy, using them to make him persecute Stapledon. And now Ranulf was in gaol — a gaol from which he might never be released.

The bishop’s murder was now her own responsibility. There was so much to be feared now. In a matter of days, the whole nation could be on fire, with war and death stalking the realm. Many would die. Boys and men, women and their children.

One more death would be nothing. The bishop deserved his end.

But she was scared. So scared. Tears were springing to her eyes even as she covered her face in her hands. She had never killed before, but now she must murder the bishop.

But first she would go and see Ranulf, if she possibly could.

Thursday after the Feast of St Michael *

St Alban’s Inn, Bradstrete, London

In the cold morning air before the fires were lit, Roger Crok walked to the door and peered out into the narrow street. It was filled with busy workers and traders moving up to the Austin Friars or down to the shops near the Cornhulle. The noises deafened, the smells assailed the nostrils … in different ways, London assaulted all the senses. It was both alarming and wonderfully stimulating. Brash and saucy as a whore from the Bishop of Winchester’s brothels on the south of the river, but still elegant and attractive in more cultured ways.

Not that he was worried about tarts or culture just now. The danger that he and the other two ran by their presence here in the city was enough to occupy him.

He was not scared of the risks. It was stupid, he knew, but he was not worried by the thought that he could be captured and killed. Rather, he was excited by the whole experience of being here and having the chance to do something that might help the queen to bring down the king.

There was no doubt in his mind that that was her ambition: to have the king removed from the throne, and to rule in his place until her son could take over. Roger knew that she would succeed. He had a chivalric belief in that beautiful young woman’s abilities.

Folville was close to him. He could feel the man’s presence now, after living with him for so many months, and it was not a pleasant sensation.

‘I need to talk to you,’ Folville said.

As he followed Folville back into the bedchamber they had shared last night with five other men they had never met, Roger Crok reflected that he had never seen Richard de Folville smile properly. The man’s mouth moved, but not his eyes. An old fellow had once told him that a man who smiled with his mouth alone was not a human being, he was a snake.

Well, Roger Crok needed no warning about trusting this fellow. He was not a friend. He walked into the bedchamber, thinking this, and saying, ‘Well?’

As he did so, he felt the danger behind him, and threw himself sideways.

He would never know what feral awareness told him to avoid that blow, but as he tumbled onto a mattress, he heard the blade scythe through the air and slash the palliasse nearest. It was Ralph la Zouche, of course. Richard and he must have decided to rob him. He should have known the fools would try something like that. Grabbing at the palliasse, a thick one stuffed with straw, Roger launched himself at Ralph. He managed to thrust the bedding into Ralph’s face, and the man swore as the straws pierced his skin, making him drop his sword to protect his eyes. Roger kicked viciously at his knee, and felt his boot connect, before scrambling for the door.

There was a crunch, and he glanced up to see Richard’s sword firmly embedded in the frame.

Until that moment, he had only been trying to escape. But the sight of that steel so near to his head made him suddenly lose all reason. While Richard put both hands to the hilt to withdraw the sword, Roger turned about and aimed a fist at Richard’s head. He was no fool, and ducked, but that only meant that Roger’s left hand met his nose with a satisfying crunch. Richard flew backwards, with a fountain of blood from his nose spraying upwards and covering the palliasses with a fine red drizzle.

Ralph la Zouche was on his right, and Roger Crok bent, kicking sideways with his boot. The edge of his sole caught the knight’s chin and lifted his head as it slid into his Adam’s apple. With a choking cough and wheeze, Ralph fell again, scrabbling for his throat in his agony, but already Roger had drawn his own sword and was holding it ruthlessly pointing at Richard’s breast. Richard was kneeling by the rough wall, holding his hand to his nose, staring disbelievingly at the blood cupped there.

‘Why?’ Roger asked.

‘What is it to you? Just kill me and be done!’

‘I don’t intend to kill you quickly, fool. I will have you done slowly, at the gallows. You can dance to the tune of the hangman, you can. They have special trees for murderers here in London.’

‘Then kill me slowly, Roger Crok. You send me to the justices though, and I’ll see you dance at my side,’ he sneered. ‘You think you can make use of the law here? I’ll-’

Roger brought his fist round in a sharp blow that knocked Richard de Folville off his knees as the sword’s pommel hit him above the ear. Richard fell, snoring on to the floor, while Roger quickly went to his pack. He rolled up his few belongings in his blanket, picked up his satchel, and glanced about him before leaving.

He would finish his mission here, and then hurry to find the queen.

Tower of London

Ranulf lay on his back on the floor of the gloomy chamber. The rushes beneath him were ancient and already befouled, and she could not imagine how her stepson could sleep on that. She stared down at him from her place behind the bars. He was like a stevedore, with rough hosen, a plain chemise and leather cap, with a long trailing cape to cover his back. It was wrapped about him now, in a vain attempt to keep the cold at bay.

‘Ranulf!’ she whispered.

The gaoler, an ancient warrior with a belly like a barrel and a second chin that wobbled alarmingly, sucked at his teeth and gave a wheezing chuckle. ‘You want to speak louder than that, my Lady.’ He lifted his lamp and bawled, ‘Hoi!’

Her stepson jerked awake, instantly alert like a cat.