Michael Jecks - The Bishop Must Die

She wasn’t alone, of course. Since the disappearance of the king, the city had grown slightly less restive about the Tower, but it was still a very dangerous place, especially for a woman to walk alone. She had three men with her, a man who was tall and strong, although running to a paunch, who had a ruddy complexion like a committed cider drinker, then the tall knight he had seen with her in the gateway. The third was another man, one with a thin black beard that followed the line of his jaw, and he was sure that he had met this fellow before. Roger had to rack his brains to think where it was, and then he recognised him. It was the man he had spoken with in France.

He had no idea who these men were, and approached them with caution, eavesdropping on their conversation.

His mother spoke little. This was a talk about matters above her station, but it was clear that the others were happy to talk with her at their side.

‘He will have to come along here,’ the bearded one was saying.

‘Baldwin, I would not want him to ride along that road there.’

Baldwin shook his head. ‘No, Sir Peregrine. This would be best. The houses are not so closely compacted.’

‘It should suffice. What do you think, Simon?’

‘I am sure that it would be fine for him. Where will he cross? At the bridge?’

‘He won’t swim,’ said Sir Peregrine.

‘I wondered whether it would be safer for him to take a boat across. At the bridge there are places a man could be pulled from his horse, or pushed out into the river.’

Roger Crok listened with some bafflement, wondering whom they discussed, but all the while his attention was fixed on his mother. She looked tired. Very tired. He wished only to speak with her for a short while, but the question was, how. And then he wondered if he could see her and make her realise. Hurrying on, he overtook the group, hoping that Sir Baldwin would not recognise him from Normandy. Once ahead of them, he stopped, and cast a careful eye behind him, meeting the gaze of Isabella.

She gasped, and for a moment he was torn between standing still and rushing back to her, fearful that she might faint. But his mother was made of strong stuff, and as soon as she caught her breath, she mustered her resources.

‘Gentlemen, I feel rather weak. I had little food for my breakfast. You will kindly go on without me. I shall walk back to the castle from here.’

‘Let me walk you back,’ Sir Peregrine said at once.

Although she protested, he was most insistent, accompanying her back to the gates, and waiting until she was in the gateway, at which point she insisted that he return to the others.

Unknown to him, he was watched the whole time by Roger Crok.

They had both been walking for much of the morning when Ralph la Zouche suddenly stopped, grabbed Richard’s arm, and pointed. ‘That’s the puppy! Look at the little shite, like butter wouldn’t melt.’

Following his pointing finger, Richard gaped and nodded.

There, up ahead, Roger Crok was standing near the entrance to the Tower with a tall, elegant woman. She was earnestly speaking with him, and Crok was nodding enthusiastically, but then he shook his head in rapid alarm, and took her arm. Clearly she had suggested something that was little to his liking, and now she tried to take her arm away.

‘Come with me,’ Richard said.

Ralph was nothing loath, and the two walked quickly onwards, concealing themselves as best they could among the other folk walking about the streets.

They were in luck. The dispute between the two had caught the attention of one of the guards at the Tower, and he wandered towards the couple, even as the lad grabbed the lady’s arm. She pulled away, and turned to placate the guards, letting them know that there was nothing for them to be alarmed about — she was only talking with the man, but then she stepped away from him, and appeared to be wishing him a tearful farewell.

Roger Crok stood at the bottom of the path with his head bent as the woman walked away. She did not turn once to look at him.

He did not notice his two pursuers until Richard whispered, ‘Hello, Master Crok,’ and clubbed him above the ear with a large stone he had picked up from the road.

Simon was used to investigating deaths, but not to anticipating them. This walk, from the Tower to the bridge, was taxing his intellect, he thought.

‘I agree with Baldwin. Why not merely take a boat across the water, and be done? It will be safer than this long walk or ride.’

‘You think so? The way matters are just now, I think the chances are that he would be seen, and men could ride to meet him at the other side,’ Sir Peregrine said. ‘It would be a terrible thing, were he to cross the river only to be killed within distance of the Archbishop’s palace.’

‘All this effort for a meeting of bishops,’ Simon said.

Baldwin shook his head. ‘It’s not a mere meeting, Simon. It is to be hoped that this convocation may think of a means of averting bloodshed. That is what we must hope. The bishops of Winchester, Worcester, and Rochester and Bishop Walter, are all to join up there. With fortune they will hit on a scheme to avoid war.’

Sir Peregrine smiled sadly. ‘They may try, but I can see no opportunity of avoiding it. I think we will have war.’

They had reached the bridge, and Simon stood a while, gazing about him glumly. ‘Look at all these buildings. A man with a rock or two could drop them on the bishop’s head as he passed here, and that would be that. Best make sure he wears his armour before leaving the Tower.’

Baldwin noted the buildings on the bridge. ‘It is not only the buildings here, either. There are those buildings on the bridge, all giving excellent vantages to drop weapons on him. And if someone were to lift the drawbridge, it would be possible to hold him in one place and there to finish him off. I really dislike this idea.’

‘I don’t disagree, gentlemen,’ Sir Peregrine said, as they retracted their steps, ‘but he is determined to go. What would you have me do, lock him up like that other poor fellow?’

‘He wasn’t a poor fellow, he was trying to kill the bishop,’ Simon said. ‘He may not have left that last note, but I am sure he did the others.’

‘A shame that he took his own life though,’ Baldwin said.

Peregrine nodded. ‘I blame myself. I should have seen that he could do that once I began to mention torture. I ought to have had him searched for straps and belts.’

The man called Paul had been able to kill himself by the simple expedient of taking his hood and cape, hooking the hood on a nail in the roof, then wrapping the trailing cloak about his throat. It made a firm noose. A bucket to stand on, which he kicked away, and his plan was complete.

‘At least it means there is one assassin fewer for us to worry about,’ Baldwin said.

They marched on, past suspicious citizens who glowered and spat as they passed, for the most part eyeing the buildings towering overhead, apart from Simon, who kept his attention on the faces of the people all around. He was not happy to be here, and would be so much happier were he at home. This city was not his natural habitat.

It was a relief to see the gates to the Tower again, down by the river, and his pace quickened.

Baldwin, however, slowed at the sight of two men kicking at a body lying between them. Two guards from the gate ran to the men. ‘What is happening here?’ one asked.

‘This man is a traitor. His name is Crok, and he was in France until recently. He’s a spy!’

The Tower

Waking was painful. His immediate thought was that Folville had stabbed him with a dagger in his head, because the pain was far too awful for it to have been a mere punch from a fist.