The Bishop Must Die

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Thursday before the Feast Day of the Archangel Michael^*

Tower of London

There were not many people about when Simon walked in the castle’s yard that morning. It was a cold morning, a real harbinger of the winter to come, he thought, and he glanced about him wistfully at the idea of the frost on the moors back in Devon. It was a time of great beauty on Dartmoor, when the weather began to change. He was never unaware of the magnificence of the scenery when he was out on the top of a tor, with the wind blowing in his face, a thin layer of ice crunching underfoot.

Here there was none of that. The whole of the city seemed to remain warmer, and there was little frost even on an evening like last night, when the sky was perfectly clear. It was unsettling, abnormal. If only he could return to Devon.

He had walked round the yard six times by his count when the gates were finally opened and the first folk began to enter with their loads. This was the thing about the fortress which Simon found most astonishing. There were so many people living within the walls that there was a neverending line of men and carts, bringing ale for the guards, wine for the wealthier guests, bread, meats, vegetables, eggs, milk — all the various foodstuffs so necessary to a man. And now, with the threat of invasion and siege, there were ever more provisions being brought here. As the fellows walked in, some carrying large baskets in their hands, while stevedores trudged along with their own baskets on their backs, none of them showed any interest in the castle or the people inside it. Why should they? They were mere mules, human transporters who were more convenient and cheaper than their four-legged counterparts.

There was one man who appeared to be gazing about him with rather more interest than all the others, He was dark haired, and had a slightly different look about him. Simon was wondering about him when he heard a sudden shout from the gate.

‘Baldwin! Old friend, how are you?’ he greeted him as he hurried down the slope towards the gate.

‘I have been better,’ Baldwin sighed. He had a young boy with him, who stared about him at the magnificent buildings with mouth agape. Baldwin touched a finger to his brow. ‘For this once, you may offer me a cup of wine, and I will not decline in favour of water or juice.’

‘Come with me!’ Simon exclaimed, and in a few minutes they were in Simon’s chamber, with Margaret sitting before them, and Hugh bustling about, swearing and cajoling Rob to, ‘Get off your arse and fetch some wine for the knight and ale for the lad, you prickle!’ while Baldwin’s companion squatted silently on the floor.

‘So, Baldwin,’ Margaret said, when he was at last nursing a cup. ‘Tell us what you have been doing. It is weeks since we last saw you.’

Baldwin said heavily, ‘We have been through a hard time, Meg. My young friend here saved my life, may God bless him!’

‘What happened?’ Margaret pressed him.

Baldwin told them of his journey to France, their adventures there, and then his near-drowning at Honfleur. ‘It was this fellow who had me dragged from the water,’ he said, patting Jack’s head. ‘After that, we sailed back to England, and when we arrived we were told to make our way to Yarmouth, for the French were expected at any time. So on we went, and in that first night, a sudden squall hit us, and we lost fifteen of our ships! Five hundred men drowned. A terrible night. I am only glad that I slept through most of it. I was insensible for the whole journey, and for two more nights on board the ship. Since then I have been forced to rest often. Luckily, my head appears to be mending, and at last I can ride and walk without too much strain.’

‘Is there any sign of the queen?’ Margaret asked, her voice hushed.

‘There is no sign of anything,’ Baldwin said with a sigh. ‘I would almost prefer that she arrived with a vast force behind her, than this intolerable waiting. It is hard to be sitting here, unsure what the morning may bring.’

‘Well, I am glad at least that you are back safe,’ Simon said.

‘I am at least back,’ Baldwin said with a grin. ‘But without a weapon. My sword was lost on the beach. Tomorrow, I must find a good armourer.’

‘We can walk there together,’ Simon said. ‘Perhaps you would like to find a place to rest for now, though? You look exhausted.’

‘I know, and yet it’s still early. But I had to come here at the first opportunity to make sure that you and Bishop Walter were safe still — and Margaret too, of course,’ he added with a smile.

‘We are fine, Baldwin. Why did you not come last night?’ Margaret asked.

‘Oh, we arrived so late, I could not hurry to the Tower’s gate, so instead we found a lodging near the Aldersgate. It was adequate, but I confess that the snoring of the other guests in my room was somewhat distracting, which is why I woke so early. Being without a sword is a disadvantage when one wishes to assault a snorer. In preference I packed and came here at first light.’

‘Well, you are most welcome,’ Margaret said. ‘In fact, why don’t you stretch out on one of our benches and take a little more rest now?’

Baldwin yawned and rubbed his head again. ‘If you do not mind, Meg, I would be glad to accept your offer. What with lack of sleep and this damnable head of mine still aching like a lancethrust, a rest would be very welcome.’

He had seen the man standing like a bailiff, thumbs hooked into his belt, a suspicious eye passing over all the men walking in with their loads, and it was a relief when he saw the man bellow at a friend and hurry away to see him.

The fort was huge. He hadn’t quite expected it to open up in front of him in the way that it did. The entrance was at a lower level, so that those gaining access from the gate must run the gauntlet of a sunken road, while defenders could rain weapons and blows down on them from above. It left him feeling endangered, but then he saw how the path turned, and he climbed some stairs up to a wide grassed plain. Here he paused while he took in his surroundings before following the man in front to the undercrofts. There were, a series of them, and their loads of fish were for the special kitchen, he was told. He was directed with his companion down a small alley between two houses, and at the far end he found himself staring at a kitchen. A cook, when summoned, looked at the fish dispassionately, before nodding, and showing the two where to set their loads. Once divested of them, the two waited patiently, hoping for a sup of ale to quench their thirst, but the cook had already decided that he had better things to do, and had retreated to a stool from which he could watch and supervise the others.

Still thirsty, the two made their way out and retraced their steps — and it was there, almost at the cobbled way that led to the gate, that he saw her. His stepmother. And he scowled to see that she was walking and chatting flirtatiously to a tall knight. His blood boiled.

She was betraying his father, her husband.

And him.

Tower of London

Simon would always thereafter remember this day in two parts. The first was the joy of seeing Baldwin again, and knowing that his old friend was safe — a fact which seemed to herald better times. A little of Simon’s fear and concern was eased at the sound of the knight’s gentle snoring from his hall. But the second was when the dread news was finally brought to London.

Leaving Baldwin asleep on the bench, he went outside to check on the guards about Bishop Stapledon. There was trouble among some few of them, who were arguing about remaining in the Tower so long. The doom-mongers among the garrison were working their hardest to make sure that their fears were shared. Simon had recently had two of them arrested when they threatened to leave the Tower without permission. Their fate could be decided when the Keeper of the Tower chose to see them. From what Simon had seen of the two, he would probably be happy to leave them to stew for a while.

Simon heard shouting and swearing from the Wakefield Tower, and hurried towards the source of the noise with a frown. He was beginning to feel like a servant of the king in his duties here, rather than a dutiful official of the Bishop of Exeter, and he reached the Tower ready to curse any fool who was making a noise for no reason. He opened his mouth to bellow, and then snapped it shut quickly and copied all the others who thronged the street as he saw the flag, and dropped to his knee.

Clad all in armour, the king rode past on a huge black destrier that pranced rather than trotted, his heralds behind him, while Despenser rode a horse’s length behind them, a fixed glower on his face. King Edward looked like a man who had the full weight of the realm on his shoulders. It was an astonishing sight, because although Simon had met with him a number of times, and had seen him at royal events when he was clothed in his full regalia, he had never seen the king looking so grim before. He rode stiffly, like a man in a daze, and his features were blank; he wore the expression of a man who, Simon thought, was terrified to let his feelings show.

Like the king, Despenser wore his armour, but his expression seemed to be wavering between rage and terror. Simon could remember the last time he had seen Despenser, and then he had noticed that the knight’s fingernails were bitten so far that two were bleeding. Now the man looked close to collapse, as though he knew that all those years of inveigling his way into the king’s trust and affection, all those years of deceit and plotting … all could shortly be thrown away. It was written in his pale, lined face. The man had aged ten years or more since their last meeting.

Simon could not regret it. He had a detestation for the man. Despenser had personally damaged him, doing all in his power to weaken Simon’s family, to harm his wife, his daughter, and Simon himself. To see him scared and fearful felt like a kind of justice.

Next to him, William Walle hawked and spat as he joined the rest of the crowd in rising after the royal entourage had passed by. ‘Well, that confirms it.’

‘What?’ Simon asked.

‘The king has come here from Westminster. He must be feeling the anxiety of the city, I think. The place is alive with rumours,’ William said. ‘And I don’t know about you, my friend, but I am sickened by this constant waiting. I’d prefer to have a real, honest-to-God invasion rather than this. Endless preparation makes me mazed.’

Simon smiled at his words, but thought nothing of them. It was an hour later that he heard that a messenger had come from Suffolk.

Queen Isabella had landed with her mercenaries.

Furnshill

Edith had put on some flesh in the last week, Jeanne noted approvingly. She looked a great deal better for it, and now the haunted expression had left her too. The bruises under her eyes, the unhealthful pallor of her features, had been replaced with a fresh, maidenly rosiness that suited her like bloom on an apple.

Jeanne was very pleased with her efforts, but it was on this day that all appeared to take a turn for the worse.

The rider could be heard a half-mile away in the still afternoon air, and Edith heard it at the same time as Jeanne. These were not usual times, and Jeanne had a knight’s appreciation of dangers, so she called Edgar, who went with a staff and stood at the doorway, while Jeanne herself took up a dagger. There were too many tales of women raped in their houses, their husbands murdered, and the houses fired when the outlaws had made their play. Jeanne and Edgar were competent to protect themselves from most gangs.

‘One rider,’ Edgar reported.

Jeanne went to the door and peered out. It was Peter, Edith’s husband. When he had dismounted, she went to greet him. ‘You are most welcome. Please come inside with me. Can I serve you some wine or ale?’

‘Lady Jeanne, how is my wife?’

She sought to put his mind at ease at once. ‘She is much recovered. Her sadness and weakness is much reduced. But come! You will see her for yourself.’

Edith shot to her feet as soon as Peter walked in, but Jeanne was sorry to see that the two did not rush into each other’s arms, but stood at a distance like warring armies standing off.

‘Edith, I am pleased to see you are looking so well,’ Peter began.

‘And I you.’

‘I have been very worried.’

‘You can see, I am much better.’

‘My father sends you his very best wishes, too, and bade me to ask when you will return to us with his grandson.’

Jeanne shot a look at the boy. His father’s ‘grandson’? This was Peter’s own boy they were discussing!

Edith looked away. ‘I will come as soon as you wish it, of course. I am yours to order.’

‘I don’t want you until you’re quite ready,’ he said, and there was a wretchedness to him that told Jeanne much. He didn’t want to be putting his wife through any more torment. He was too much in the shadow of his father, and it made him feel pathetic to live his life between his father and his wife.

‘I don’t think Edith can travel anywhere yet,’ Jeanne said firmly. ‘But Peter, you should come here as often as you wish. It would do you good to spend time with your son.’

‘I should like to do that,’ he said.

Monday, the Feast of St Michael^*

Tower of London

The Tower became a different place when the king was in residence. In the last weeks it had conveyed a peaceful, almost village-like aspect which was only occasionally disturbed by the arrival of fresh supplies. Now it had been transformed into a martial camp. Fighting men were everywhere, striding urgently, shouting and responding, practising with weapons, and there was the occasional whiff of brimstone as a small yellow cloud wafted past, the smell of the foul black powder which was being manufactured in preparation for the expected attack.

It was a scene of lunatic busyness, and it made William Walle and Simon pull their hair out in desperation. With all these strangers about the Tower, it was impossible to see who should and who should not be about. No doubt most were entirely justified in being there, but Simon and William felt quite ragged at the end of each day. They were fortunate that they were able to enlist the aid of a much-recovered Baldwin, and Sir Peregrine was available to them as soon as the rest of the garrison arrived, although his mind was plainly on other matters, to judge from his dreamy expression.

From what Simon could deduce from the gossip he salvaged from John de Padington, who appeared to have a useful informant who was a servant to the king’s steward, matters had turned foul.

The force which Queen Isabella had brought with her was tiny — only some one and a half thousand men, which the king had initially derided, saying he would trample them all. Despenser did not laugh though. John’s source said he probably had better spies than the king. Sir Peregrine reckoned that Sir Hugh realised that if such a small force could land with impunity, it showed that there was no one who wanted to oppose them. The invaders were more popular than the king.

Although Edward had commanded that all his host should go to meet the queen and Mortimer, it proved immensely difficult to make this happen. Two days ago he had issued writs for men of arms and hobelars to march to defend the realm, but they failed to materialise. And it soon became apparent that those who did march towards the queen, did so in order to join with her forces. There was no opposition to her gentle meanderings over England.

Only yesterday, Simon had heard that fresh writs had been issued giving free pardons to all prisoners, criminals, outlaws and exiles, who would join Edward to protect the realm. And while the king put a price of a thousand pounds on Sir Roger Mortimer’s head, the queen retaliated by offering twice that for Despenser’s.

What Simon found most worrying was the mood of the city itself. When he went out, leaving Meg with Sir Peregrine, and taking Hugh and Rob with him, and walked among the people to escape the awful sense of enclosure that the Tower’s walls were starting to give him — as though he was already under siege within it — the demeanour of the Londoners was startling. Gone was any apparent respect for their king. In its place was a loud rebellion. Men and women would come to the gates and swear and curse, shaking their fists when they saw the anxious faces of the garrison peering over the walls. He even saw a street scavenger pick up a handful of horse dung and fling it at a guard near the entrance. What was most shocking was that the man didn’t retaliate, shout, or try to chase the scavenger, but instead scuttled back into the protection of the gateway itself.

‘Bailiff, I’ll be glad to be out of here,’ Hugh said with a grimness that was unusual even for him. ‘This city is grown too fiery for my taste.’

‘I think we’re safe enough,’ Simon said, but he was less convinced than he sounded.

‘What if a man like him sees us leave the fort and decides to attack us?’ Hugh grunted. ‘Wouldn’t stand a chance in ’mong this lot.’

‘If the worst came to the worst, at least the Tower has stocks to last for months,’ Simon said.

It was true. The Tower could last for a long time under siege. That must have been the king’s plan, Simon realised now. He wished he had known it at the time, because he would have been a lot happier to be out of London and hurrying back homewards if the stories were all correct and war was approaching.

They returned to the fortress when a thin drizzle started to fall; now, if anything, the mood amongst the populace had turned uglier, and Simon was growing alarmed.

‘I don’t know how we can get inside there,’ he said to Hugh, who nodded morosely.

There was too much shouting and cursing for anyone to think of barging past to the gates. One or two people had been prising up stones from the roadway and were hurling them at the gates, and the men at the walls now all wore steel caps and helmets with vizors. In this mood, a mob could all too easily turn against any foreigners, and Simon and Hugh, with their Devon accents, would likely be pulled to pieces. That was the reason why Simon pulled back from the street into a doorway, wondering if there was another way up into the Tower.

Climbing the wall was clearly impossible. The whole area was surrounded by a moat, and even if the three could swim across without being brained by the mob’s missiles, they would have to climb the steep ramps that led to the walls. And the walls were tall, and manned by guards with crossbows and bows. Either way, they didn’t stand a chance.

The solution was given to him a moment or two later. There was a hiss from the crowd, and Simon could feel their attention moving away from the gateway itself and being diverted to the river. Craning his neck, Simon saw a great barge with rows of oars moving gently in unison, a flag fluttering at the prow.

‘What’s happening?’ Hugh demanded.

‘The garrison,’ Simon said dully, ‘would seem to think that it’s too dangerous to use the main gates.’