Michael Jecks - The Bishop Must Die

‘Please, gaoler, leave us a while,’ she said, slipping a few coins into his hand. ‘There’s no need to mention this to anyone. I just want to see what makes a man behave in the way he did.’

‘Oh yes, my lady,’ he said with a leer.

She tried to smile, hating him for his foulness, and as soon as he was gone, leaving his horn lantern behind, she went to the metal bars. ‘How are you, Ranulf? You poor dear, to be in here.’

He looked at her warily. ‘I saw you. Yesterday, I saw you with that man. Who is he?’

‘Sir Peregrine? He is a good man, but he’s not our concern.’

‘You looked very friendly.’

‘Ranulf, I have to remain here. I was planning on killing the bishop myself, but to get close enough to him, that is difficult. Bishops do not entertain women in their chambers.’

‘Unlike knights?’ he said with a sneer.

‘You think me a whore because I am trying to avenge your father?’ she said with bitter reproof.

‘It’s hard to think anything good in here.’

‘Remember that I am out here trying to finish the task,’ she said.

‘I will remember. I hope you do, Mother.’

She dropped her head. It had not occurred to her that he would be so bitter towards her.

‘Mother,’ he said again.

She could hear the softness in his tone, and she was instantly taken back to the time when they had been friends. When they first met, he had been suspicious of her as any bereaved child would be, to learn that his father had decided to take a new wife. A replacement mother. But they had grown to like each other, and when she had been so distressed by the death of his father, he had demonstrated this same gentleness. It was impossible for her to ignore it.

‘Yes?’ she said, and approached the bars again.

‘Look at me,’ he said, and letting the leather cloak fall away, he stood and walked to the bars himself so that she could see him.

There was a blackening bruise at his left eye, and his jaw was caked with blood. His neck was scratched and bleeding, his shoulder looked as though it was dislocated, he was holding it so tenderly, and his left leg was obviously hurting, from the way that he avoided putting his weight on it.

‘This is what they have done to me, Mother. They killed my father, they stole my inheritance, and now they’ve done this to me. I’ve lived like an animal these last months, working like a slave, doing anything that would bring me nearer to the bishop so I could avenge my father. And all this will come to nothing, unless you steel yourself and kill him in my place. Can you do that, Mother? Can you ?’

Isabella nodded twice, emphatically. ‘I will do it, my dear Ranulf. For you and for your father.’

Sir Peregrine left the king in the Tower, eating a good meat meal, and walked outside into the clean London air with a sense of disgust.

The king had ordered him to learn all he might from the man who had been leaving messages for the bishop, and had authorised him to use whatever means he thought necessary. In other words, torture .

Sir Peregrine had no doubt in his own mind that a man would give any answer the torturer wanted, would implicate anyone, denounce any faith, in order to make the pain stop. However, the fact that a man gave answers did not mean he would give the truth, and Sir Peregrine was quite sure that someone, who had lost fingers and toes, who had watched as his nails were ripped from their beds, who felt the scouring heat of the branding irons, or the crushing agony of breaking bones, would hardly know what the truth was any more.

He stared down at the door that led to the gaol with a feeling of depression that his own task was reduced to this: that he must create agony for another in order to satisfy the king. King Edward had a justifiable interest, after all. The bishop was his guest.

There was a shout and a cry from the gate. From here he could see nothing, but he called to a guard up on the wall, ‘What is the commotion about?’

‘A messenger, sir.’

‘Any smoke from the east or north?’ Peregrine enquired.

‘No, sir.’

‘Good.’ So there would be no sudden arrival of a force ranting and ravaging all over Essex, seeking to burn the king from his Tower. ‘Tell them to send him through,’ he instructed.

The man had ridden hard, from what Sir Peregrine could see. He was pale, breathless, a skinny, black-haired man dressed in the king’s blue parti-coloured clothing to denote his importance, but just now he didn’t look very important. He looked scared.

Sir Peregrine studied him briefly, and then jerked his head. ‘Come with me, lad.’

They turned and the knight marched him back to the chamber. Soon they were with the king, who yet sat at his meat. Sir Hugh le Despenser was behind the king’s chair, and he stared at Sir Peregrine with a strange wildness in his eyes. The man was falling apart, the coroner surmised. Good. The sooner the bastard was dead, the better for all concerned.

‘Wait!’ the king said. He did the messenger the honour of glancing at him, but then sat with his meat skewered on a knife, waiting impatiently, staring at a trio who stood before him.

They were all rich men. Their robes were fur trimmed and lined, and the hats on their heads were similarly gorgeously fashioned. Sir Peregrine thought he recognised one, a large-bodied man in his fifties, with clear blue eyes and a grey beard, but startlingly black eyebrows. He glanced at Sir Peregrine as they entered, and Sir Peregrine was sure that he had seen him at the Guildhall in the last week.

The king pointed at him now. ‘What do you say? Repeat it, my friend, so that I can fully understand.’

‘Your Royal Highness, the City of London is most keen to support you. We support the king, the queen and the Earl of Chester, your son. Naturally we will fight to protect you, as you ask. However, the men of the city beg that they do not have to travel far to fight. We will do so, so long as we can leave after sunrise, and return before sunset on the day of battle.’

‘So you will not form a host to protect me?’ the king said with a mild smile and nod. Then he threw down his knife and stood, hands leaning on the table before him. ‘And you expect me to accept this? You think I should agree to such limits on my authority as to allow your menfolk to return to the city in the same day as they leave? Pray, how long will they deign to fight for me, then, if I march them to meet with my queen?’

‘Sire, we only relay the news, I fear. It is not our decision alone.’

‘You would see me hobbled? You would see me bound, so that I may not defend my realm? I swear, friend, I shall exact a terrible price on this city of yours when I have won back my kingdom! Be gone! Go! And know that you have today earned the hatred of your king!’

As the shouting continued, Sir Peregrine remained in the background. Looking at the messenger, he saw perspiration standing out on his brow. The king was sitting again, and now he stabbed a fresh piece of meat with his knife, and beckoned the fellow forward. Stumbling and nervous, the messenger began to speak.

Sir Peregrine had expected the usual form of message, perhaps words about the movements of the queen’s mercenaries, a report of farms burned, or tales of nuns raped — the normal concomitants of war. But the messenger’s gasped words sent a shock of ice into his marrow.

‘Sire, Henry of Lancaster is marching to support the queen. He brings many men with him.’

The king sat for a long time with his knife held before him, his jaws moving rhythmically. To Sir Peregrine it looked as though the man had just been given his death sentence.

‘You are sure that Henry does not march to support us?’