The Bishop Must Die

Chapter Forty

In his chamber, the Bishop of Exeter entered, and called for John. ‘Dratted fellow. Never about when you need him,’ he muttered, and began to pull his gloves from his hands.

Still, he was relaxed this fine morning. There was no news yet of the queen, and he had seen the king on his way back from the chapel. Edward had been chatting to his second son, John of Eltham, only ten years old and already witnessing the worst which the kingdom could suffer. The bishop had paused for a few words. The king had been almost his old self, chatty and amiable. Only a day or two before, he had been inconsolable in his grief, convinced that he would be caught and forced to exile Despenser, but today he seemed to believe that the queen would not want to harm him.

‘Look at our boy here,’ he said, affectionately patting his son on the shoulder. ‘How could she hurt him or me?’

The two together, father and son, were as perfect a pair of males as could be imagined, with their long, flowing hair. The king kept his beard trimmed, but long, and the muscular set of his body was unaffected by his lifestyle. Meanwhile his boy was slender and elegant, with bright, intelligent eyes.

‘I am sure your queen would wish nothing of the sort,’ the bishop said.

‘Ha! You hear that, John? Now, Bishop, you must know that our attempt to read the papal bull yesterday went awry. The damned crowd had some pedant in amongst them, who demanded to know when the bull was dated. Not that it matters a whit! What if it was written some days ago — weeks ago, or years? Eh? It’s still correct, after all. If the pope made the invasion of our realm illegal some years ago, nothing has changed. Maybe we should have the bull read again, so that the crowds can understand its full force. I am sure Archbishop Reynolds would not mind doing that.’

‘I fear he may well mind, sire,’ the bishop said apologetically. ‘He was pelted with rotten fruit as though he was in the pillory, and the guards could do nothing to protect him. They were attacked too. If you wish your bull to be read, you will need to look for another man. No!’ he added hurriedly, holding up his hands. ‘Were I to go out just now, they would pull my head from my body.’

‘We are sure that they are not so filled with hate as you believe,’ the king said, but to the bishop’s relief the idea was chased out by another. ‘When the queen arrives, we must have her greeted properly.’

‘Your Majesty?’

‘She is my wife, Bishop. We will not have her mistreated. She has been wayward, but we would have her position respected — and that of our oldest son. They must be welcomed when they arrive.’

‘Your Highness,’ Bishop Walter said. He considered the queen, imagining her arrival, the way that she would point to Despenser, to Edward himself, and order their arrest. Perhaps she would prefer to have Despenser strung up immediately though, and not bother to see him wait for trial. And what would she do to her husband, the king?

The king was in full flow now. ‘She will arrive, perhaps within the week. Naturally we shall have to ensure that all is ready.’

‘Your Highness, Mortimer is with her.’

‘He is a traitor, and he will die. But my wife will be pleased to return and discover that we forgive her. And our son, of course. We could not see Edward punished. We doubt that it was his fault — I expect he was persuaded by Mortimer to behave so recklessly.’

The bishop had left him soon after, and it was this conversation which had so unsettled him on his way up to his chamber. The king was deluding himself into the rosy vision of his wife arriving, apologising, giving up her lover, and Edward welcoming her back into his fold. He would probably think he could ask Sir Hugh le Despenser to arrange a party to celebrate.

It was insane! The queen loathed Despenser and wanted his head, just as she probably hated Bishop Walter. Certainly he had seen no residual affection for her husband when the bishop had travelled to France to request that she return. The response had been unequivocal: non!

As usual, his food was set out in an orderly manner, and he finished removing his gloves and set them to one side before closing his eyes and offering up a prayer of thanks for his food, before picking up his loaf of bread and breaking it.

Lifting the loaf made something move, and as he glanced down and saw it, the bishop leaped back, as though a giant spider had sprung forth. The goblet of wine was overturned, while the loaf fell to the floor even as he cried out.

And in the draught of his movement, the little parchment note skittered across the table as if it was impelled by its own malign influence.

It was obvious that the bishop was still suffering from the shock when Baldwin and Simon walked into the chamber.

William Walle was already there, his sword in his hand, standing near the door, while John de Padington stood a short distance in front of the bishop.

Baldwin looked down at the squire’s sword with an eyebrow raised, and William shamefacedly lowered it.

‘I am sorry, Sir Baldwin. I didn’t know who it was. After this …’

‘What exactly has happened?’ Baldwin asked the bishop.

‘I walked in to break my fast, and found a fresh note lying under my loaf,’ the bishop said.

‘Who put the loaf there?’ Baldwin asked.

‘I did, sir,’ John de Padington said. ‘But it was not there when I put the loaf down. Someone must have entered the room after I left, and stuck the note beneath.’

‘How long was the loaf there?’ Simon asked, walking to the window and staring down into the green.

‘Not long,’ John said. ‘I set out his breakfast, and only left the room for a few moments, and while I was gone I heard the bishop’s cry, so I ran back …’

He saw the expression on Baldwin’s face, and suddenly his nerve failed. ‘No, Sir Baldwin, please, do not look at me in that way! I would have done nothing to hurt my master! It was nothing to do with me, I wouldn’t have-’

‘I don’t suspect you, man! I am just considering.’

‘Baldwin, over here,’ Simon said urgently. ‘William, you too. Look, that stevedore down there, the one with the reddish chemise and black hosen. See him?’

‘Sweet Mother of Christ!’ William Walle blurted out. ‘It’s him — the man who called himself Paul of Taunton!’

He could see her still, the bitch! Flaunting herself with her new lover, making herself appealing to the old goat like some seventeen-year-old bawd teasing a randy patron. He would put an end to her playing. There were dark corners even here in the Tower, and he could reach her no matter where she ran.

The undercroft was a cold place, like death itself. As he and the others rolled their barrels and hefted their heavy sacks of grain and flour into the areas pointed out by the officials, he found his mind turning more and more to revenge. It was so sweet a thought!

But the supreme ambition was to kill the bishop. Yes, first he must kill Stapledon, and then, later, he could decide what to do with the bitch Isabella. So long as she didn’t betray him beforehand.

The barrel was in place. He gave it a practised roll with a twist, and it ended upright. With a leg either side, he hugged it, and forced it the last few feet, curling it in arcs over the stone floor. When it was in place he stood straight, feeling the muscles in his back slowly easing, and trailed out to the door with the others. They had to wait there, in the gloom by the entrance, for the trail of barrels and men carrying sacks to decline, so that at last they could leave the place.

Blinking in the sunlight again, he glanced about, searching for her. She was still there with the knight, as though there was no shame in associating with another man of the king, and by implication, a friend of Stapledon and Despenser. The men who had killed …

There was a shout, and like all the others, he turned to see what was the cause. To his astonishment, he saw three men running at him. Two must have been knights, and the third was a powerful-looking man with a grim expression.

For a moment he wondered what they were doing, and he automatically looked over his shoulder to see who was sought, but then, before he could work it out logically, his legs had already overhauled his brain, and he was pounding away from them.

They were gaining on him fast. He ran to the left, almost collided with a wall, then was off again, down the hill towards the entranceway to the green.

There were shouts, and suddenly he was the target of every man out there in the green. There were three stevedores in front of him, one with long, spreading arms like a gorilla and a leer that showed he would enjoy bringing him down, but he wouldn’t surrender that easily. Turning, he pelted breathlessly back up the hill again. There was a ladder up in front, and he ran at it at full tilt, catching hold and swarming up it almost without breaking his pace.

Above him, he saw a guard hurrying across the inner walkway of the wall, and behind him, two men were following. He only had one way to escape.

Reaching the top, he stood catching his breath, staring down at the men following him. There were rocks nearby, stored up here to hurl at attackers, and it would have been so satisfying to knock them loose with one or two, but the guards on the walls were close, too close, and one was fumbling with a crossbow. He had no time.

He stared about him a moment, and in that instant, he felt a sharp delight, as though this was the culmination of his life. He sprang up onto the battlements, with the men clambering up the ladder behind him, and then, as the guards on the walkway came close, he turned to leap into the moat, hoping to swim for the far bank.

But there was no moat. He had not realised that here the castle had a second set of walls, and to reach the moat, there was a stretch of grassy plain, and then a second curtain wall. The grassed gap between the two was an appalling drop away from him, presently filled with cattle and sheep, and as he stared down, a cow peered up at him ruminatively, chewing, as he felt the first of the fists grab his shoulder.

He was hauled back from that terrible drop, and when he tried to grip the wall to hold himself up, he was punched in the face, until his grip failed and he dropped back on to the walkway. A boot slammed into his flank, and he rolled over, pushing himself up again, but he was hit again, on the back of his head, and this time he felt his body grow enormously heavy, as though all his limbs had been filled with lead. There was a feeling of nausea rising to his throat, and he felt as though he was falling. In his mind, he saw the cow again, staring at him with that meditative expression as he tumbled down and down, until he landed softly on the grass, and knew no more.

The bishop heard their boots on the stairs, and he turned in his seat to stare at the door as it opened. ‘Well?’

‘My lord bishop,’ William Walle said, and then his face broke into a broad smile. ‘We have him!’

‘Oh, thank God,’ the bishop murmured, and he felt the relief wash through him. ‘I feel a little dizzy,’ he said, eyes wide.

It had been so alarming, when the first note had appeared. The second had made him angry, but the subsequent ones made him grow more and more concerned. Then again, there was the appearance of the preserved head. It had remained in his mind, proof of his own fragility, the ease of the assassin. His morale was quite eroded when that last message arrived at Canterbury, and this latest had shocked him more than he could properly express. There had been such a lengthy gap between them, and he had also felt the security of being here, at the heart of the king’s authority in the country. It was as though the writ of the king overwhelmed any evil which could be aimed at him. The assassin’s knife could not hurt him while he remained inside the Tower.

‘Sir Baldwin, Squire William, Bailiff Simon — I owe you a debt which I doubt may be repaid. You have saved my life, and probably a more shaky thing — my sanity!’

‘I am glad if we have succeeded in doing so,’ Baldwin said. ‘The culprit is presently languishing in your gaol, my lord bishop.’

‘Has he explained himself? Has he told you why he wished to put me to this appalling test? He nearly drove me mad, after all.’

‘He is not yet capable of answering our questions,’ Baldwin said. ‘He will be unable for some while, Bishop. He is quite mazed. However, I am sure that we will soon be able to get some answers for you.’

‘Good. Very good.’

‘Tell me though, Bishop — what did he write that alarmed you so much?’ Baldwin asked.

Walter Stapledon picked up the parchment and passed it to him. ‘He gives me the day of my death.’

Baldwin glanced at the small, crabbed writing. ‘Only another fourteen days to your death. Well, he is hardly poetic in his style,’ he noted.

‘Assassins are not noted for their style,’ Bishop Walter said. ‘I am glad you will have time to discuss his writings with him at leisure. I am sure it will be rewarding for you. And now, gentlemen all, if you do not mind, I have much work to get on with.’

He sighed happily as they left him. He had a pile of documents to read and check, and his clerks would shortly bring in more, but for all that, he had a feeling of ease and comfort such as he had not known these ten months past. It was wonderful that he could sit back without fear of another note.

Nor worry that he was about to be killed.

In the yard once more, Baldwin looked about him and breathed in deeply. ‘So, Simon, I think that finally pays your duty to the bishop in full. You have no more to do here.’

Simon nodded. ‘Meg will be pleased, and so will Hugh, after all his moaning and whining.’

‘A curious matter,’ Baldwin commented, as they marched across the grass. The stevedores had all gone now, but the grass was muddied and flattened where they had passed with their barrels and carts.

Simon gazed morosely at the ruts. ‘Do you think that the Tower will be forced into a siege?’

‘If the queen is in earnest, and the fact that she has come this far seems to suggest that she is, then, yes. I would expect so. What else may she do?’

‘What does she actually want?’ Simon wondered. ‘Does she mean to kill the king and take the throne for herself?’

Baldwin sighed. ‘I wish I knew. She is certainly intending that Despenser will be destroyed.’

There was a call, and both turned to see Sir Peregrine and Lady Isabella approaching. ‘Sir Baldwin, Bailiff,’ the knight said. ‘Who was the man you captured? We saw you arrest him, but we wondered who it might be.’

‘He was known as Paul of Taunton when he was in Exeter,’ Baldwin said, ‘but I doubt that is his real name. He was determined to kill the bishop — but for what reason we cannot tell.’

‘Why would he want that?’ Sir Peregrine asked with surprise.

‘So many have disputes with the rich and powerful, it’s a miracle more aren’t murdered every day of the week,’ Baldwin said lightly.

‘But you are sure he was trying to kill the bishop?’ Lady Isabella pressed. ‘Why him?’

‘Lady,’ Simon explained, ‘this man Paul was known in Exeter, and it was discovered that he dropped threatening, anonymous notes into the palace for Bishop Walter to find. Today there was another message left for the bishop — and the man was seen.’

‘Seen leaving the message?’ she asked.

‘No. Seen here,’ Simon said with a faint frown. ‘He was here to upset the bishop again, clearly.’

She nodded.

Sir Peregrine was smiling, nonetheless. ‘We have news, my friends, which I cannot keep from you any longer. Lady Isabella here has consented to become my wife.’

‘That is wonderful news,’ Baldwin said, and bowed to the lady. ‘I give you my most heartfelt congratulations, Sir Peregrine.’

‘I am glad of it, Sir Baldwin,’ the knight replied happily.

Simon bowed in his turn. ‘My lady, you have a good man there.’

‘I know,’ she said, but Simon noted that her manner was a little distracted. Strange, he thought, but it was hardly to be wondered at. She was worried about the situation in the city, no doubt.

‘So the bishop is safe now,’ Sir Peregrine said, as they all walked together towards Simon’s rooms.

‘Yes. I think it must be a huge relief to him,’ Baldwin said. ‘After all, the matter has been dragging on now for months.’

‘Really?’

‘Since he was in Exeter, yes. This madman followed him from Exeter to Portchester, to Canterbury, and now here, I presume. What his motivation could be, I do not know.’

A sudden blast of trumpets made Sir Peregrine groan to himself. ‘Another drunken guard at the gate, I suppose. There appear to be too many who can gain access to the wine stores. Excuse me, Sir Baldwin, Bailiff. My dear, I shall see you later, I trust.’

‘Of course,’ Lady Isabella said, and watched as Sir Peregrine ran back the way they had come.

‘So will you live with him in Exeter?’ Baldwin asked.

‘I suppose so. I had not thought of it,’ she replied.

‘No?’

She heard the question in his voice, and turned to face him. ‘Sir Baldwin, there is so much danger in the realm just now, I have scarcely had a moment to consider where we may live. I am sure that Sir Peregrine’s house will be adequate for us. There! And now, I must be off, too. Please excuse me.’

Baldwin and Simon bowed, and then watched as she hurried away from them.

‘That woman,’ Baldwin said, ‘is not entirely happy about something.’