The Bishop Must Die

Chapter Thirty-Two

London

Margaret Puttock’s mouth fell wide with awe as she saw the bridge ahead. It was so bright, so beautiful, so … so huge!

It had not been difficult for her to persuade Simon to take them with him to London. It would not have been safe to leave her behind in Portchester. There had been too many cases reported to the town’s officers of rapes, and three murders of women in the town. The idea of leaving her and their son was anathema to Simon. He had to bring them too.

They rode onward, Perkin riding behind with Hugh and Rob on a cart, while Simon and Margaret trotted along on their horses, but as they approached the great entranceway, Simon fell back and rode alongside the cart, pointing out the details of the flags and the statues which sat in recesses at either side of the main gatehouse.

‘However did they build it?’ Margaret gasped at last. ‘It must be a thousand yards long, Simon. It looks as though it floats over the water!’

Her husband smiled. ‘It isn’t that much bigger than the bridge over the Exe,’ he said.

‘Maybe not, but the Exe Bridge only has one chapel on it. Look at this!’

It was astonishing that they had managed to cram so many houses and shops on the thing. The bridge itself was very broad, but the buildings meant that there was little space for a single wagon to pass under the arches from one end to the other. It was massive, and splendid, and Margaret felt her head swim as she peered up and about.

There were several defensive points: the Stone Gate at the southern end of the bridge, then the Draw-Bridge Gate a distance further on, while the size of the chapel of St Thomas was daunting in its own right.

The view of all the buildings was so extraordinary that she quite missed the sight of the Tower of London until they were already over the bridge, and she could peer along the line of the river towards the king’s castle.

This was different, though. Fortress to protect the city, it was, but it was also to be defended from the city, and was the king’s leading prison for traitors and his other enemies. There was something about it that made her shiver. ‘That is where we’re going?’ she asked.

‘It’s where the bishop is, yes,’ Simon said. He was easy enough in his saddle as they rode along past St Magnus the Martyr, then St Botolph, and then by Billingesgate, and as they went, the immensity of the king’s castle began to dawn on her. It was not merely a building or two hidden behind a wall like Oakhampton or Exeter, this was an immense area of land that was entirely enclosed. When she asked, Simon told her that it consisted of almost twenty acres. The great white keep inside was visible from all about the city, looming threateningly over the walls. Margaret could discern nothing that was kindly or protective about it. It was there to control the people of the city.

‘I don’t like it,’ she said quietly.

Simon glanced up, then across at her, grinning. ‘This? The tower’s just a building, Meg. Nothing scary about it.’

She nodded, but the impression of violence would not leave her. There was something about the high walls that seemed to scream to her, as though they were formed of the tortured souls of all those who had been incarcerated within.

The day was warm, but she shivered uncontrollably as they passed under the gatehouse.

Thursday before the Feast of the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary^*

Near Honfleur, Normandy

The ships were safe, and the majority of the men had managed to let themselves down the ropes and ladders to the sea. For Baldwin, the scenes were reminiscent of so many from his youth. Ships towering overhead, rocking on their keels, while sailors scurried about, hauling on the ropes that made the screaming, angry horses rise high into the sky, only to be lowered gently to the ground where waiting ostlers could calm them. Massive bales of weaponry were deposited nearby, with squires and heralds running to rescue them from the water before they could get a soaking, and cooks and carters swearing as loud as any of the matelots when they discovered the damage done already to their meagre stocks by the ever-present rats in the holds, or more commonly by ‘thieving bastard sailors’ as Baldwin heard more than once.

Here the beach was good and sandy, and so far, only one disaster had occurred. A large cog with over a hundred men aboard and many good horses had struck something under the water, and sank almost instantly. The screams of the men was enough to send a stab of horror into every heart. Worse, Baldwin felt, was the terror of the horses, chained to their cradles deep in the ship as the water rose. They had no escape, no comprehension of what was happening, only a sudden realisation of their death. At least a man might grab a barrel or spar and float to another ship.

A hundred and fifty ships. It was a mighty force, and with sixteen hundred men, it was large enough to be effective, if only they could get moving.

‘I am cold!’ Paul de Cockington said. He was huddled nearby, arms wrapped about himself, shivering in his sodden robe.

‘You should get up and walk about,’ Baldwin said unsympathetically.

‘And you should be more polite to a man who is crucial to your mission,’ Paul retorted. ‘If you’re so clumsy with my well-being, you may just find yourself responsible for my death, and then you’ll regret your harshness when you return to England.’

‘I seriously doubt it,’ Baldwin said.

‘You need me! How else will you be able to talk to the duke and make sure he comes with you? I am your most important man in this whole force, and you forget that at your peril.’

Baldwin turned on him. ‘You have moaned, complained and whined all the way from Portchester, cretin! Now you think you are vital to our success? I regret to tell you that you are wrong. I know the duke personally — I was his guard when he came over here last year, and I know his mind probably better than you. You are here in order to gain yourself a pardon for your appalling crimes in Exeter, so it would be better that you put your mind to how best to survive this journey, rather than making me, your protector, wish to throw you into the sea to drown.’

‘You wouldn’t do that,’ Paul said uncertainly.

Baldwin looked away. No, he wouldn’t. But just now he had enough fears of his own to contend with rather than listening to the petty bleating of this rector.

The worst thing was, the amount of time it was taking to get the ships emptied. From his own experience, he knew that the best way to launch a raid like this was to get men and horses onto the beach as quickly as possible, and then maintain a strong ring of defence while the rest of the cargo was brought down. But there had been no plan to arrange this. Instead the ships were mingled in an untidy muddle. Some landing first had carried only horses, while the majority of the men were still on board. Baldwin’s own horse had been delivered to him, but many of the other knights were still unmounted, and would remain so for a long while. There were plenty of archers here on the beach — but their arrows were stored on a different ship. Baldwin was worried that at any moment a force could arrive from Honfleur that would smash through them and repel the rest of the ships.

As if in answer to his black thoughts, there was a sudden scream, and then shouting, from up on the dunes further inland. Baldwin turned to see a quartet of men in armour charging six men at a picket. There was nothing the poor devils could do to protect themselves: the great destriers charged, the men with their lances couched, and in short order three of the English were spitted, arms and legs waving in mid-air while the lances rose up, their points smothered in gore, the momentum of the charge carrying the screaming English up high, and over, to be deposited in crumpled heaps behind the chargers.

Baldwin winced. This was a sign of the dangers inherent in landing like this. He could feel his scalp crawl as the Frenchmen wheeled. Two rode back to finish off the pickets, while two sat idly watching the disembarkation, chatting with their visors open as they took in the scene. After deliberation, they wheeled about and trotted away, rejoining their companions. There were no English left alive at that picket.

There was no sign of Felton, no sign of the other commanders. Baldwin looked down at Paul de Cockington. ‘Perhaps you should not joke about dying, rector. It is perfectly likely that you will be proved correct.’

Tower of London

‘Get the wine. You expect our master to serve himself?’ Hugh snarled, and cuffed Rob around the ear.

Simon smiled to see how Hugh had taken to training Rob. It appeared to serve little purpose so far, because Rob had shown Hugh scant respect, but Simon hoped that the lazy, good-for-nothing boy would one day turn into a half-decent servant. In order to do so, he would need regular beatings, if his behaviour so far was any gauge.

They were in a small parlour in a house set into the inner wall of the fortress. It was pleasant enough, and there was plenty of firewood for the cool evenings, but Meg was deeply unhappy, he could see, and that worried him.

It was strange how women would fall into these moods. She was generally a calm wife, amiable and efficient, and sensible in the way that she dealt with things. For her to suddenly become like this, as though there was something in the Tower here that she should fear, was very odd. In any case, she would have to grow accustomed to the place, because now that they had arrived, they could hardly desert the bishop.

Not that it would be easy to track down the felon who had deposited all these messages.

The latest was the most curt. You must die! had been scrawled on a scrap and sealed with some wax. It had not been delivered straight to the bishop’s books or onto his table, but had got to him by more mundane methods. A guard had been accosted by a man dressed in a thick fustian robe, his head hooded, who had paid him half a penny to give the little roll to the bishop. There was no explanation, and the guard had not expected one. But he delivered the note, only to be thrown against the wall by an enraged William Walle, who demanded to know where it had come from. He had wanted to have the guard gaoled as a suspect, but the bishop himself had dissuaded him. The idea that the fellow might be allied to the writer was ridiculous. He was a Londoner, who had been based at the Tower for years. He had not been in Exeter or Canterbury. And in any case, the bishop pointed out reasonably, the guilty man had been seen by him in Canterbury. They knew what he looked like.

When Simon reached the bishop’s chambers, which were on the second floor in the tower itself, he found William and John outside, talking in low voices.

‘Squire, steward, how is he this morning?’ Simon asked.

‘He appears well enough,’ William said, ‘but he is not easy in his mind. I would almost say that he has surrendered himself to fate. He looks like a man who has decided he is to die.’

Simon glanced at John, who merely nodded. ‘Well, I’d best speak with him.’

He knocked and walked inside as soon as the bishop responded.

It was the room of an invalid. Bishop Walter was wrapped warmly in a thick robe with fur at the collar and cuffs, and to Simon it made him look as though he was swamped. His face was pale and drawn, and there was a feverish look in his eyes. Yet his smile of welcome was as genuine as ever. ‘Ah, Simon. I am glad to see you.’

‘I have been here two days, and still can make no sense of this business,’ Simon said.

‘I don’t expect you can, my old friend. Much though I wish it were not true, I fear that no one can protect me. This evil appears to follow me, no matter where I go. I am beginning to think there is something supernatural in it, for I cannot see how a man might enter my private chambers to deposit these messages without some form of help. Perhaps my actions in the last years have brought this divine judgment upon me.’

‘Bishop, you have been a strong man who has done all he might to serve the Crown and the Church. God is not displeased with you. This is being done by a man who has a grudge,’ Simon said.

‘You think so?’ the bishop said gently.

‘No — I know so. There is no one who has served God with more devotion. You are under threat from a man, that is all. And a man is not infallible. He may be dangerous, in truth, but he is vulnerable, too. All we need do is find him and capture him.’

‘That is all?’ The bishop smiled.

‘Yes. But for that I do need to have help. William Walle knew him, did he not?’

‘Yes. He and John would be able to recognise him.’

‘Good, that will help me. I spent all yesterday trying to consider the best means of drawing him out, but I have to conclude that the best approach will be to let him come here.’

‘Use me as bait, then?’

‘Yes. And either I will be with you, or William will. I want you to have a man at your side at all times.’

‘What of my other guards?’

‘I will be asking that your guard be doubled as well. And I will need William to view all those who come to guard you so that we can ensure that the man is not among them.’

‘Very well,’ the bishop said. He glanced pensively out through the window. ‘Have you heard the people in the city when they talk about me?’

‘You must not listen to the mob,’ Simon said firmly.

‘But I have to. It is impossible to miss their jibes and insults,’ the bishop said. He spoke as a man who was exhausted, shaking his head and looking down into his lap. ‘It is not one man, you see, Simon. The whole of the city seems to hate me. I can feel it like poison seeping through the walls here: the whole population of London wishes me dead. If I could, I would wish I had never come here.’

‘To London?’

‘Yes. I believe I will die here. This killer, this Paul of Taunton, will kill me here. I am sure of it.’

Near Honfleur

Sir John Felton had excelled himself. As soon as the first ships had delivered their cargoes, he began to wonder whether to continue with the mission. Dithering, he demanded guarantees that the whole force might be deposited safely, else he must recall them and re-embark. It was only the determined arguing of Sir Nicholas de Cryel and Sir Robert de Kendale that made him agree to continue, and even then the two stood near as though to threaten him should he change his mind again.

Baldwin waited, fretting, while the ships lay idle, convinced that at any time he would see a force arrive to repel their little attack. Paul de Cockington, after witnessing the slaughter on the dunes, had grown mercifully silent, and Baldwin had managed to find the young lad, Jack, safe and sound. If he could, he would have brought the officer who had selected Jack, in preference to the boy himself. As it was, he had found him a pony so that he could remain at Baldwin’s side.

By noon, it was clear that it would take the rest of the day and much of the next, to disgorge their men and matériel.

‘Let me take men ahead,’ Baldwin pleaded to Felton. ‘I can provide a mobile defence in case the French come to attack again.’

Felton demurred. ‘We need all the men we can at the bridgehead. What would you manage on your own? There is safety in numbers.’

Baldwin had caught a sympathetic look from Sir Nicholas, then he left them in disgust. Felton was going to turn the whole venture into a disaster, and many men could be killed as a result.

He was striding away, kicking at the sand in his fury, thinking of Jeanne and of how she might hear of his death, when he heard his name called. He stopped to find Sir Nicholas hurrying to catch up with him.

‘Sir Baldwin, I would have a word with you.’

‘Yes?’

‘Could you ride on along the river, and see if you can reach Rouen? I will arrange for a separate covering force here while you do that. We need intelligence about the town and where the duke is before we can decide how best to catch him.’

‘It is a matter of catching, you think?’

‘What do you think? If the duke wanted to leave France, he could do so. I do not believe him to be held against his will. He’s obeying his mother, damn the French whore! No, we’ll have to take him by force, I think.’

‘What of Felton?’

Sir Nicholas frowned. ‘Leave him to me.’

‘But he will deprecate my efforts,’ Baldwin said.

‘Sir John Felton is a retainer to Sir Hugh le Despenser. And I don’t think Sir Hugh is particularly bothered about the duke’s safety.’

Baldwin nodded. ‘I will see to it that the duke is safe, Sir Nicholas. If I can reach him and bring him back, I will do so.’

‘Good.’

Thus it was that Sir Baldwin de Furnshill set off that afternoon with a force of thirty men-at-arms, one boy mounted on a pony, and a rector, to find the heir to the crown of England.