Michael Jecks - The Bishop Must Die

‘Baldwin, didn’t you hear that?’ Simon interrupted. ‘The man didn’t know of the latest note!’

‘Eh?’

‘He didn’t know there was a note last week! It wasn’t him who left it!’

Petit Walles

If he had come here years ago with his father, this was precisely the sort of area Roger Crok would have been forced to avoid.

Nasty, odorous, filthy, it was a place where the dregs of the city would accumulate, downriver from all the better places where the rich lived. The only folk who were here were those with nowhere better to go. It had but one merit: Richard de Folville would never think to look for him here.

Roger had installed his mount in a stable over near the London Bridge, where he hoped it would remain safe, and had spent some days listening to the gossip of the streets, visiting alehouses and taverns all over the city, going to church and observing the temper of the crowds, and soon he had come to understand that the only desire in London was that the king should go — and be replaced by his elder son.

Four days ago, after Folville and la Zouche had tried to kill him, he had intended to hurry about his task and leave, but then he had heard of the rumours that the king was to depart, and had thought it would be better to stay and make sure that the story was true. But then, when the entourage had walked out from the castle, he had seen something which made him stop dead in the street.

‘Mother,’ he breathed, hardly daring to believe it was true.

She stood in the gloom of the gateway, a tall, courteous man at her side, who must have been a knight from the look of his great war-belt and weighty sword, but Roger scarcely noticed it. All he could see was his mother, pale and slender, watching the men marching from the gate, and in a moment, she was gone again.

It could have been a dream. A wonderful dream sent to remind him that his mother lived and loved him still. But Isabella Crok had looked so fair, so healthy and so real, he had no doubts in his own mind that this was no vision, but his mother.

From that day, he had come here to the Petit Walles, just outside the Tower itself, to look and see whether he might catch a glimpse of her again. It was as good a place as any, he told himself, to learn what he could about the Tower. He was not derelict in his duties. But she did not reappear, and today, he told himself, he must leave and see if he might find the queen. Yet he wanted to know if she was safe. And to learn who the man had been at her side.

Tower

The two burst in on the bishop as he sat eating his luncheon, and William Walle almost dropped the ewer in which the bishop was washing his hands.

‘Bishop!’ Baldwin blurted. ‘My apologies for our unorthodox arrival, but we have news.’

‘You have questioned him already?’

‘We believe that he did not leave that note,’ Simon said.

‘But you found him. And it was he who left the other ones,’ William said.

‘Perhaps he did. But not this one,’ Baldwin said. ‘He had no idea about it, and no idea at all about there being two weeks to the attempt on your life. It was a complete surprise to him.’

‘That I was to be assassinated?’

‘No — that someone had sent you a note to tell you.’

‘I think that the man is trying to force us into letting him loose,’ the bishop said. His voice was not as steady as his words implied.

‘Bishop, this is no laughing matter,’ Baldwin said. ‘I believe there is an accomplice of his in the Tower. It could only be someone who is inside the Tower, and that means it must surely be someone from your household whom you brought with you.’

‘What?’ the bishop demanded. ‘How can you suggest such a thing!’

‘One man did get inside your household, Bishop. I think a second must have as well,’ Baldwin said. ‘They could have infiltrated your household together, perhaps, or-’

‘Sir Baldwin, this man in the gaol didn’t manage to “infiltrate the household”, as you put it. He was a clever man who pretended to be a member of the household. He would never have been able to come here with us, because his imposture would have soon become overly obvious. No, there can be no one in the household who would care to do such a thing. I am sure that my household is secure, the men all genuine in their care for me.’

‘He will not give us his name, he will not tell us what evil you are supposed to have done him,’ Baldwin said. ‘To us, that implies that he is protecting another.’

‘Who is he protecting? You tell me that, Sir Baldwin, and I will listen to you. But at present, all I hear is guesswork, and I have too much work to do. The city is collapsing into violence and ruin, and I am responsible. As it is, I am asked to join the Archbishop for a convocation at Lambeth in a week. I do not have time for all this!’

‘On Monday next?’ Simon asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Good. Because I would beg you, Bishop, please, to keep indoors and safe on the Wednesday of that week. Wednesday next, please don’t go anywhere.’

‘As the note said, eh?’ the bishop said. He gave a small smile. ‘Perhaps I can pretend to a headache on that day.’

‘Good. And in the meantime, I think Sir Peregrine should begin his investigation into that man who calls himself Paul as soon as possible,’ Simon finished. ‘I know Baldwin detests torture, and I hate it myself, but that man is keeping something back, and it could be something that saves your life, Bishop. If he knows anything, it would be best that we learn it ourselves. Urgently.’

It was not the command he wished to hear.

‘Yes, Bishop. Of course I will do all I may to learn more. I will have the man put to the peine fort et dure .’

‘I am sorry to hear it.’ The bishop winced.

He was not the only man sorry to have to contemplate such a vile practice, Sir Peregrine told himself as he went down the stairs to the green and crossed the grass to the gaol. There, he ordered the gaoler to fetch three men to help, and had them go with him down to the cells.

‘Come along,’ Sir Peregrine said. It was a dreadful task, but the sooner they had the fool on the floor, hopefully the sooner they could release him and give his information to the bishop.

The cell was in darkness, of course. Peregrine could just make out the figure standing oddly like a shadow in the farther corner of the cell. ‘You. Come here,’ he called, but the man didn’t respond.

Oh, to the devil with him! He was going to make it as hard as possible. ‘I don’t blame you,’ Sir Peregrine muttered to himself, and then, louder, ‘Open the door, gaoler.’

The steel door swung open on well-greased hinges, and Sir Peregrine marched in, walking to the figure, his steps slowing as he went. ‘Sweet Mother of Christ!’ he whispered.

His prisoner swung very slowly to face him, the eyes bulging in a head grown enormous, the features livid where the light from the lantern struck it.

‘Oh, oh God,’ he heard behind him.

‘Hey, you puke there, you got to clear it up yourself,’ the gaoler complained as the splashes of vomit struck the floor, but Sir Peregrine paid no attention.

He remained fixed to the spot, staring up at the body with the stretched neck as it slowly turned, dangling from the ceiling.

Second Wednesday after the Feast of St Michael *

Petit Walles

At last he saw her again. She was up there in the roadway that led down to the strange dog-leg entrance to the Tower, and Roger Crok felt his heart lift at the sight.

It was impossible to call out to her, for that would have brought him unwanted attention, but as she stepped out of the castle’s gate and joined the throng of people, he was already level with her, and when she strode on in that determined fashion he recognised so well, he had to hurry his own pace to keep up with her.