Michael Jecks - The Bishop Must Die

The second thought was that he needed to be sick, and he noisily gave into the urge.

He was in a large room — a hall, he realised. There was a roaring fire in the hearth, and when he cautiously looked around, he found himself meeting the gaze of a woman. She eyed him with a confident look, before calling out, ‘Simon, he is awake!’

The man who walked in was the ruddy-faced one from the trio he had seen before. ‘Where am I?’ Roger asked weakly.

‘In the Tower of London, and you can thank God you aren’t in the gaol. There was a man killed himself in there only a few days ago, and we don’t want you to do the same thing. A lady here pleaded on your behalf most fetchingly.’

‘What do you want with me?’ Roger said, gingerly feeling the lump on his head. It was larger than a goose’s egg.

‘The truth. We have been told that you are a traitor, that you were in Normandy with the Earl of Chester. Two men caught you and passed you to the guards at the gate. Is it true?’

‘A pretty thought. So you wish me to tell you so that you can execute me on the king’s behalf for treachery?’

‘No. There will be bloodshed enough when the queen’s mercenaries meet the king’s host,’ Simon sighed. ‘However, I have to know, do you have any ill intention towards the Bishop of Exeter?’

‘I hold him in no great esteem. He saw fit to have me thrown into gaol, and to have my mother dispossessed.’

‘Who is your mother?’

‘Lady Isabella Crok.’

Simon’s head rose, and slowly a frown began to wash over his face. ‘Isabella? Your father — did he die a while ago?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Your mother — she lost her first husband, didn’t she? And remarried, so now she is called Isabella Fitzwilliam, isn’t she?’

Too late Roger saw that he had allowed his befuddled state to endanger his mother. ‘No, my mother is-’

‘I didn’t realise!’ Simon groaned. ‘It was she who put the note into the bishop’s room, Meg. It had nothing to do with that poor fellow who died. No wonder she pleaded for your life!’

‘Which poor fellow?’ Roger asked.

Simon gave a brief description of the stevedore, and saw the misery that washed into Roger’s eyes.

‘That sounds like Ranulf — my stepbrother. He was a good fellow, but headstrong. I am not surprised he killed himself, to try to save our family from any more shame.’

‘Or to conceal his identity so that you or his mother could kill the bishop where he had failed?’ Simon demanded.

‘I should have found that enormously difficult. Until recently I was in Normandy. And your companion Sir Baldwin can confirm it,’ Roger said. ‘He saw me there in the summer. I have had no opportunity to plot any murder. And nor has my mother. She is innocent.’

‘I shall leave that to other people to decide,’ Simon said.

He rubbed at his temples. This was a terrible situation. If it was true that this fellow was indeed Isabella’s son, it would be difficult to conceal the fact. ‘Meg, could you send Hugh to fetch Sir Baldwin, and in the meantime, pour me a little wine, my love? My head throbs like a sapling attacked by a woodpecker!’

It took little time for Baldwin to join him, but to Simon’s surprise, Sir Peregrine was with him.

‘I thought it best that Sir Peregrine join us, Simon,’ Baldwin said. ‘This matter is too much for us alone.’

‘Is it true?’ Sir Peregrine asked. ‘Is she guilty?’

Simon pulled a face. ‘I have heard no one say it. This fellow is her son from her first marriage, but she was widowed.’

‘My father fell from his horse,’ Roger added helpfully.

‘Later she remarried, this time to a man called Henry Fitzwilliam. And he, like she, already had a son, named Ranulf Fitzwilliam. I am afraid you have met him, Sir Peregrine. He was the lad who hanged himself.’

‘That was her stepson?’ Sir Peregrine breathed. ‘Christ’s cods! I should have realised. One day I saw her coming out from the gaol, but it did not occur to me that she was there out of anything other than simple curiosity. So many women like to see felons. It gives them a little frisson of excitement. I thought no more of it. I must be a-’

‘Good and honourable man who is loath to see the worst in people,’ Baldwin said firmly. ‘Now, Sir Peregrine, do you love the woman?’

‘I had promised to wed her.’

‘Then do so. And do so quickly. Take her away from here, so that she cannot try to kill the bishop, and then, with luck, the whole matter will blow over.’

‘And what if she desires to kill him later?’ Sir Peregrine rasped.

‘Sir, my mother could not kill a chicken. The idea of her stabbing a bishop is preposterous!’ Roger said. ‘I say this in all truth: she may have wished to avenge my stepfather, but she would not be able to put it into action. She has not the heart of a murderer.’

‘I hope you are right,’ Baldwin said. ‘But how can you assure us?’

‘I don’t know. All I can tell you is my own firm belief, sir.’

‘True enough. That itself is an honourable response, Sir Roger.’

‘There is one other thing though. My mother’s dispute is based upon the opportunistic theft of her dower. The bishop had her second husband gaoled for treachery, and poor Henry died in gaol, just like his son here. But afterwards, he took our inheritance, alleging that I was also a contrariant like Henry, and that my father was too. That is the sheerest nonsense. I was not, and neither was my father. But if you could help my mother to regain what she feels is hers, you will give her more reason to forgive than to try to avenge what has been done to her.’ He winced as another shot of pain stabbed his head.

Sir Peregrine abruptly turned about, as though he was going to leave the room.

Baldwin felt a tearing pain in his breast at the thought of what must be going through Sir Peregrine’s mind. He had fallen in love with women, but each time the focus of his affection had died — one of them in childbirth. This time, he had thought he was at last destined to be happy, only to suspect now that his woman was determined to kill Bishop Walter. It was unbearable to consider that all she had said, all she had done to this date, could have been intended purely as a means of getting herself close to the bishop to kill him. It was easy to imagine that Sir Peregrine was running through every meeting he had enjoyed with her, every conversation, to filter out the little snippets that indicated her desire to murder, rather than to enjoy his companionship. Sir Peregrine’s face showed that he was enduring the most exquisite self-torture.

Baldwin took a deep breath. ‘I think, Sir Peregrine, that this is a matter that we can keep to ourselves within this room.’

‘You think I should trust her?’ Sir Peregrine’s voice was strangled. ‘You think I could leave her to continue with this vile plan?’

‘Her son declares that he thinks her incapable. Do you think she could kill? In truth?’ Baldwin pressed him.

‘How could I say? All she has ever said to me may be false, even that she … that she feels an affection for me. How can I tell?’

‘You may have your doubts, Sir Peregrine,’ Baldwin said, ‘but the fact is, she has so far done nothing of which you could convict her. Writing a note? Pah! What of it? She has not drawn steel in his presence, has she?’

‘Because the date which she predicted for the Bishop’s death has not yet arrived.’

The date. Baldwin had forgotten that. ‘The notes threatening the Bishop all gave him a short time to live, but the last gave him until one week from today. Why would that date have any significance?’

‘I have no idea,’ Roger Crok said, shaking his head and wincing as the pain shafted through his skull. ‘Ach! It’s close to the anniversary of my father’s death.’