The Bishop Must Die

Chapter Thirty-Six

Tower of London

The chamber in the building where Lady Isabella Fitzwilliam was installed was pleasant and airy, but she would have preferred to be back home at her old manor. Not that it was possible, with that thief Bishop Walter having stolen it. He was a man so sunk in infamy, the devil himself would have rejected him.

To learn as soon as she arrived in London that Sir Peregrine would not allow her to stay outside in the city, but instead insisted for her protection that she take a room here in the fortress had at first been delightful — but then she realised the danger. She was determined to put in place the last stage of her plan, but to do so, she must have the help of her son.

The damned bishop’s presence had itself been a shock. She had had no warning that he might be coming here, and now he was installed only a short distance from her own chamber. The possibility of repaying her debt herself at any moment was now within her grasp, and yet the risk inherent in that was high. Were she to kill the bishop in full view of anyone else, she must inevitably be killed in her turn. A terrifying thought.

Still, were she to kill the man, it would mean that her boys would not do so. And she loved them both more than she loved herself. How could she not! To the one she had given life, and to the other she had given herself. They were both hers, and she was theirs.

Even now she found it hard to believe that it had been so simple a task, to install a man in the bishop’s palace and to distribute messages of death.

It was always the idea that he should suffer for a long period. At first when she had been considering the means of making his life so miserable that he would almost welcome death, she had thought that she would simply string it all out until he was entirely depressed and half-mad with fear. But it was her son who had persuaded her that there was no logic to treating him in such a manner. If he was to deliver her notes, he wanted to know that there was a set term for them. As he pointed out, she only had to think of the words, while he had to not only run the risk of delivering them, but must also plan to kill the man as well. And he must somehow prevent himself from smiting his father’s murderer every day.

He was so strong, so clever. She missed him so much. He had been going to come here to London, she was sure, but she had seen and heard nothing from him.

The whole idea had been his. He had such a fertile brain! Isabella wanted originally to just slash at the bishop’s throat when the chance offered itself, but it was he who had come up with the idea of making the bishop suffer for the same period as poor Henry had. Henry Fitzwilliam had been arrested and forced to languish in that hideous dungeon for thirty-nine weeks. They didn’t tell her exactly when he died. To think of it! So long a time, and all the while not knowing whether he might be released to freedom and prosperity once more, or led out to be hanged before a mob of baying churls. Poor, darling Henry, to have lain in that tiny, noisome, wet chamber all that time. It had been winter when he finally expired. She thought it was the cold which had done it, but it was hard to be sure. There were so many natural causes of death in gaol: the cold, starvation, fever, thirst — all could be listed as ‘natural death’ in the coroner’s court.

How long now? She had sent the first note at the beginning of the year, but it had reached the bishop on the second Monday before Candlemass. That meant it was already thirty-four weeks since the first note had arrived. She only had another five weeks to worry about. And then, ideally on the Wednesday, the anniversary of the delivery of the first note, she could kill him. Thus would poor Henry be avenged.

Henry would be proud of her, to see how she had planned this and managed to get matters to the stage where she could soon end the rule of the bishop. She only prayed that she would be able to strike the blow. Five weeks. It was not a very long time. She had only that long in order to plan his murder. And it would have to be a perfect murder. She did not want to die in the process of avenging her poor husbands.

It would be hard. She would have to try to penetrate his chamber while he was there more or less undefended. He had guards at all hours though, so that would be problematic. She might be able to poison him, but that was too hit-or-miss. Better to do it with a knife, as she had originally planned. But how? In the chamber would be best, but not while he was praying or at some other form of religious duty.

That was her greatest fear, that she could be consigning herself to hell for all time by killing a bishop, but the crimes of which he and other clerics were guilty were so clear and undeniable that the offence she might give would surely be lessened. His theft of her dower must itself be powerful in mitigation — if there were such a thing as mitigation in the eyes of God.

There had only ever been one other bishop murdered, of course. Saint Thomas Becket. He was one of those rare beings, a truly pious man, slain by the king of the time. His killers were punished, but in this case, removing a man who was so hated and feared throughout the realm, she must be looked upon with more favour.

She was considering this when she caught sight of Sir Peregrine and the man Simon Puttock. They were deep in conversation, and did not appear to notice her. It was good that she could approach them, listening intently.

Puttock was speaking: ‘In the meantime, we have to maintain the guards on the bishop’s chamber.’

‘Yes. For all it’s worth.’

‘Sir Peregrine, don’t you think we can protect him?’

‘I doubt whether the rogue who sent those notes has the faintest intention of fulfilling the prediction. Look, the man started sending the notes back in January, from what John tells me. They’ve been coming sporadically ever since. There were some in Exeter, and the churl who delivered them was discovered and disappeared. Then he tried his luck again at Canterbury. But to do it again here, in London? How could anyone think to press through the guards here at the Tower to kill him?’

‘In Exeter it was a task made easy by the laxity of the guards involved. And the bishop himself, I suppose.’

‘Because neither thought to question the stranger in their midst. All assumed that because he was there, he should have been there.’

Simon nodded. ‘He could try the same strategy here.’

‘He could — but only if he wants to end up with more holes in him than a target on the archery field. Besides, I think the aim of the notes was clear.’

‘You do? And what was it, then?’

‘To scare the man. It was revenge for some misdeed, or perhaps the plot of a twisted mind. There are some who consider that torture is an entertainment.’

‘True enough. So what should we do?’

‘Maintain the guard, hope to catch this vile creature, and pray that he’s already gone away. Give it a matter of three or four weeks, and I’d think the danger would be past.’

‘To be replaced by the dangers we spoke of earlier.’ Simon’s tone was heavy.

‘Aye. Right enough. Invasion and war.’

‘If your lady were here and unprotected, she would have a terrible time.’

‘I would lay down my life for her, to protect her!’

Simon chuckled. ‘If you feel like that about the Lady Isabella, you should tell her.’

‘I could not tolerate her rejection.’

‘Sir Peregrine, think of it from her side. She will be fearful of invasion, just as all people are. But for her, she has no champion to defend her or her lands. In circumstances like these, you ought to strike while you may. Unless, of course, you are uncertain as to your feelings …’

‘I have no doubt about my feelings for her — and I believe she feels similarly towards me. She does not look on me with contempt, I think.’

‘Then tell her. You aren’t children, either of you. You ought to ask her what she feels, and if she could tolerate your company, perhaps a marriage would be possible.’

‘Aye, perhaps,’ the knight said doubtfully.

Isabella moved into shadows before they could see her listening. There was a little smile pulling at her mouth, and an unaccustomed warmth in her lower belly, a kind of tingling anticipation, and as soon as she noted it for herself, she sternly rebuked herself. She had known for quite some time that the good Sir Peregrine was fond of her. There was nothing new in this, nothing at all. And it couldn’t change anything. How could it, when her whole life’s course was set already? No. It mattered not at all. And yet there was a thrill in her blood that no amount of reason could dispel.

Exeter

Peter watched her covertly from the table as his wife stood up, hesitated, and then moved slowly over the floor.

If he’d had to guess, he’d have said she was at least thirty. She looked ancient, the way she moved. Nothing seemed to stir her from this torpor.

At first he’d listened to his father, when the old man said that a woman was like a dog or a walnut tree — all needed to be birched every so often. But his father didn’t believe it himself — Peter knew that. The old twit wouldn’t dream of lifting a hand to Peter’s mother. And nor Peter would hurt Edith.

It would be like kicking a baby, the state she was in. She didn’t need a slap to waken her; she needed something else, but Peter wasn’t sure what.

That day, he decided, he would take her into the city. See if something at the market could tempt her out of her black humour.

They walked out just before the usual time for dinner, and went around the stalls, but there was nothing which took her fancy. In desperation, he took her to the haberdashers’ counters, hoping to tease her appreciation of pretty things, but even that failed. She walked with her head bent to the ground, her gaze fixed to the paths.

‘Edith?’

Peter heard the woman’s voice and recognised it immediately. This was the friend of Edith’s father, the woman married to Sir Baldwin.

He stiffened his back, and turned to look at her. She was a striking woman, with red-gold hair under her coif, and wore a heavy green tunic with a bodice that bore astonishingly detailed embroidery, but most of all she wore a sad, anxious expression as she looked at Edith.

Peter’s father had told him to avoid his father-in-law and his friends, because consorting with them could put his life at risk again. The best route was to tell this woman to go away and leave them alone. It would be best if he was rude to her. She should see that Edith did not want to talk to her. His wife was flinching and averting her head even now, as though she expected him to beat her for even looking at the woman.

He opened his mouth to tell her to go away, and a sob burst from him. ‘Lady, please, if you can help her, please, as you love God, please …’

Friday after the Feast of the Blessed Virgin Mary^*

Billingesgate

An unpleasant fog had rolled along the Thames that morning, and this was enough to make the men unloading the boats curse as they struggled to manhandle their heavy wicker baskets full of fish along the narrow gangplanks.

It was hard work, and the men here would not tolerate a slacker, so he must heft the basket for the man in front, then bend while the man behind lifted his basket to him. There was a leather strap that went over his forehead, while the basket lay on his back, and when it was in place, he joined the line with the other men, emptied his load in the market, then went straight back to the boats.

The first few days, his hands had been rubbed raw. His back ached, his head was sore, his neck a mass of knotted muscles. How others managed a life so harsh, he could not know. As a lay brother in the cathedral, his hands had been almost as protected as before, when he had been a rector at St Alban’s. There, all he need do was occasionally sweep the floor, and keep his tools in place. His plots in the fields had been serviced by others who felt such work was beneath the man who was guarding their souls, and his hands had never roughened.

Not so here. Now his hands were growing steadily stronger, his back was bent with labour, but there was muscle in it. He felt more virile, more powerful than ever before. This was the last period before he would destroy that evil tyrant, Bishop Walter II.

His father, Henry Fitzwilliam, had been such a kindly soul. Even though his mother had died giving birth to him, yet his father had always been kind to him, and even when he chose to take a career in the Church, his father had not argued, but supported him. The fact that it meant there would be no heir, no continuing dynasty, had not altered his affection for his only son.

When the woman appeared, and he realised that his father was seriously considering marriage again, it had struck him like a poleaxe. As a young man of fourteen, he had considered the idea to be an insult to his mother. But then, when Lady Isabella had shown her courage and loyalty after his father’s arrest, his attitude had changed. He realised why his father had decided to marry her. She deserved his respect and love, and the respect and love of her stepson, too.

Ranulf Fitzwilliam was a man who had built his life on faith and loyalty. At first it was to his dear father, then to his Church, but more recently, he had put the notion that the Church was entirely good to one side since he had seen for himself how power could be abused. Now, he put his faith and loyalty in his stepmother.

At the end of the day, he pulled off the leather cap with the long tail that protected his back, and walked with the others to the little alehouse at the river’s side, where all would invest some pennies in a quart or two of ale, and there they would swap jokes, mutter against the bailiff who demanded ever faster work, or just sit and talk as the pain of the day gradually receded. Not him, though. No, he just stood at the riverside and stared along the muddy banks towards the Tower that loomed up above all the small shops and houses between. That was where, so he had heard, the bishop was living. The latter hadn’t gone to his huge house out towards the Palace of Westminster on Thorney Island, but instead was hiding here in the king’s own fortress. It showed how brave he was feeling.

No matter. He would destroy the man. He would kill Bishop Walter II after thirty-nine weeks from the first note being delivered, just as Bishop Walter had ensured his father’s death after thirty-nine weeks in gaol. Now all he had to do was plan how.

Furnshill, Devon

Jeanne felt her heart lift at the sight of Edith that morning. It was as though the girl had been renewed. The ravages of the last weeks were still evident on her face, but her eyes were brighter, and Jeanne hoped that she was over the worst. The colour was returned to her face, and already her skin seemed less thin and old.

‘Did you sleep well?’ Jeanne asked.

‘Do you need to ask?’

Jeanne felt her spirits rise. Her own wetnurse, Edgar’s wife, had taken to little Henry as soon as they arrived here, and had enthusiastically fussed about the child like a mother hen. Almost as soon as the baby was taken from her, young Edith had fallen asleep, and she had slept from just before suppertime straight through to lunchtime today.

When she had seen Edith in Exeter, it was clear that the girl’s strength was used up, and her mental resources were fading quickly, rent with the emotion of being forced to cleave to her husband’s family and ignore her own, just at the time she needed her mother most. Divorcing her from her own mother and father just as she had a child to cope with was the cruellest act Jeanne had heard of. She could imagine how Edith had felt though, for her first marriage had become an oddly loveless affair, and she had been incredibly depressed until her first husband had died. Then, finding Baldwin and a fresh love, she had learned to be happy again.

Well, it was not too late for Edith to do the same.

‘Edith, would you like to come and walk with me?’

‘Yes. In a little while. Not yet.’

She sat with her hands in her lap, looking so much the child still that Jeanne marvelled that she could be married. ‘You have much to consider.’

‘I do not know that I shall ever see my husband again,’ she said with sadness.

‘I am sure you will.’

‘You don’t know his father. He can be very harsh. You see, he blames my father for the way Peter was arrested last year.’

‘He shall have to realise that it was not your fault, nor Simon’s. Simon was being persecuted, and Despenser sought to hurt him through you and Peter.’

‘Knowing the cause will not make my father-in-law any more sympathetic. He wishes to guard his son from the same thing happening again. As do I.’

‘You should not worry about such things, Edith. You are here to recover. Your husband agreed that you could come here with your child to recuperate. He didn’t say you were to be evicted from his house, did he?’

‘No, but-’

‘There is no “but”. You are here to be fed and allowed to sleep, and that is all. Now, are you ready for a walk?’

‘Yes, I suppose so. I just wish Peter were here.’

‘I am sure he will come soon enough,’ Jeanne said.