The Bishop Must Die

Chapter Forty-Two

Cornhulle, London

The roads were noisy as Richard de Folville pushed through, swearing and cursing as jostling traders made his head jerk and give him more pain. There was nowhere as frustrating as a city like this when seeking a single man. There were too many people.

When he got to the Walbrokstrate, the large thoroughfare that led south following the route of the river that divided the city in two, he continued along it, musing.

That prickle Crok! He had guessed somehow what Richard was up to. There was no malice in wanting him dead, it was purely that Crok was one of those men who would not act to betray someone, no matter what the logic, and Folville had grown to feel that the king was strong. The man would be a fool to sit here in London unless he knew he had the means to defend himself. So for Folville there was only one sensible path: he intended to go to the king and give news of the queen’s movements. He could tell a good tale about how he had desired to serve his king and had come with the queen purely in order to betray her. And then he would be rewarded.

But Crok, that son of a whore, would never agree to such an action. No, he was far too fine to consider betraying her. He would stand on principle, as he might put it, and refuse. That was why Richard and Ralph had decided they must kill him. It was sheer commonsense.

His nose hurt. God, so did his head where Crok had hit him. It had felt like a hammer blow. He still felt queasy at the thought of it.

They’d discussed the bastard when they both came to. There wasn’t much they could do though. Sir Ralph had reckoned that they might as well get on with their plan and go to the Tower, but Richard was less keen on hurrying there with their faces in this state. He preferred to wait until his nose had stopped bleeding and he could wash the scabs from his upper lips, while Sir Ralph needed to rest. He was there now, back at the inn, sleeping. But Richard felt restless. He needed air, and longed for an opportunity to strike back at Crok.

He had visited the stables to see their mounts, but Crok’s was gone. No surprise there. He would be off to the queen like a scalded cat. The coward! If it had been Folville, both his enemies would lie rolled in palliasses at the inn already, and he would be on his way. War was coming, and no one would pay attention to a couple of extra bodies. But Crok didn’t have such ruthlessness. That was why he would have been no good.

Still, he would be able to deal with Crok when they had been to the king and told him all he needed to know. Then Folville could see to it that Crok was sought out, arrested, and killed. That would be a sweet revenge!

There was a great roaring sound, as of thousands of throats cheering, and it reached Folville even through his fog of rage. Idly, he followed the sound, down all the way to the next roadway, and found himself in a massive crowd of people.

‘What is happening?’ he demanded of his neighbour, a sandy-haired old peasant with breath that stank of ale.

‘The king! The king’s leaving!’

Monday after the Feast of St Michael^*

Peter and Paul Tavern, Paternoster Row, London

He had not experienced so many disappointments in such a short time in his life. Richard de Folville could barely speak without swearing and cursing Crok’s soul, because in his mind, all the misfortunes which had piled up upon them in recent days had become one with the hatred of Crok. It was Crok who was responsible in some manner.

Folville had grown so desperate, he had prayed to God for help in finding Crok so that he might kill the bastard, but so far his search had proved fruitless. There was one thing of which he was certain, and that was that he would not go to the Tower to present himself now. There, so he had heard, was the source of much of his present grief — Bishop Walter of Exeter. The bishop had been commissioned, since the king’s departure, as warden and keeper of London together with the mayor. Meanwhile the king’s second son, John of Eltham, was to remain here in London, at the Tower.

What a ridiculous mess! In God’s name, all he wanted was to be able to get away from this cursed city and make his way to the queen, because any idea of running to the king was long gone now. That had dissipated like mist in the sun when he saw the small party riding with the king to Acton four days ago. The number of men with him was pathetic, and although they carried silver with them, in a number of carts, from all the rumours, the people of London were glad to see the back of them all. There would be no honour guard from the city, and the idea of gathering a force to form a host in the king’s name was ludicrous. Folville reckoned there was a scant hundred men in the entire city who would follow the king.

Yesterday he had tried to get away. He had an idea that it would grow more difficult to escape by the day, and he had gone to the stables to have his horse released, but the stableman had demanded three times the stabling owed! Three times! The bastard would have had his head cut off, but when Richard went for his sword, he found himself staring at three bows in the hands of the man’s ostlers. He had taken his horse, and would have ridden off, but the gatekeepers wouldn’t let him out. They were suspicious of all men who were not of the city, in case of spies, and he found himself under risk of arrest, if he was to try to escape. It was intolerable!

He still blamed Crok for the fact that he was here. If he’d had his way, he would have gone to the king quickly, given his news, and then disappeared with his reward. Now he couldn’t even ride to the queen without running the risk of an arrow in his back as he left the city.

Draining his cup of wine, he walked out into the fresh air. Rain had fallen steadily through the night, and the roads were sodden. As soon as he set off up the street, he stepped in a puddle that proved deeper than he had expected. His boot slipped in halfway up his shin, and he cursed viciously as he brought his foot out, shaking it to release some of the water.

There was a man at an alley’s corner who found his predicament amusing. Loud laughter echoed along the street, and others joined in to see this foreigner in such misery. There was nothing he might do with so many about, so Richard de Folville swallowed his pride and marched southwards. Before he had gone many yards, he heard the patter of feet behind him, and felt mud hit his back. Turning, he saw three ragamuffins pelt away, while more people showed their appreciation.

He left there in a ferocious rage, walking along an alley to get out of the way of Londoners, and after a short distance, found himself confronted by a small beggar-boy holding out his hands for money. Richard put his hand towards his purse, but in preference he yanked out his dagger and plunged it into the boy’s breast, shoving his other hand over his mouth, watching as the life flared, burned, and was snuffed out in the lad’s eyes. There was no sound. Richard picked up the body, and threw it in among some rubbish.

There was no one to see him. No one would care. The whole city was a festering sore, filled with maggots that sought to eat each other. No one could miss one brat.

Tower of London

‘Sir Baldwin, I am glad to see you,’ the Bishop of Exeter declared brusquely. ‘Do you have a moment for me?’

They were in the green outside the Tower itself, and Simon had been walking with Baldwin, discussing the king’s departure. ‘Of course, my lord.’

‘Sir Baldwin, you are to leave soon?’

‘Yes. With the king gone, there seems little point in my remaining,’ Baldwin said. ‘I must return to my wife. She will be alarmed at the rumours of war.’

‘But of course. And Simon?’

‘I am at your disposal, Bishop. I would dearly like to return home, but the thought of riding west in the train of the king’s host appeals not one whit. Especially not with my wife. It is too dangerous for a journey of that length. The realm is too disturbed.’

‘I am glad to hear it, if only for purely selfish reasons,’ the Bishop said. ‘Now I have these new responsibilities in London, I would be glad of a man’s help who was independent. I think that you would be a great source of comfort to the king and the queen, were you to agree to remain here in the Tower for a little, to help guard their son.’

‘John?’ Simon said. ‘I would have thought he was as safe as a lad could be, here in the Tower.’

‘Perhaps he is, but I would prefer to think that there was a man I knew here to see to his protection.’

‘Well, I have no objection,’ Simon said. ‘The way home, as I said, is too dangerous.’

‘Good. That, then, is decided. It is one less thing for me to worry about.’

‘You should be careful in the city,’ Baldwin noted. ‘There are many who have taken a dislike to bishops just now.’

‘Ha! I have been unpopular in London for the last five years,’ the bishop said. ‘I am only glad that now, at least, the most dangerous man is in the gaol.’

‘He is to be tortured, I believe,’ Baldwin said stiffly. He detested the very idea of its use.

‘The king ordered it,’ Bishop Walter said. ‘But if you could persuade him to divulge any details without its use, I would personally be most glad. The man will be executed for trying to kill me, but there is no need to exact any more punishment than that, surely.’

‘Has his torture not begun already?’ Simon asked. ‘I thought he was to be tested days ago.’

‘Sir Peregrine has been too busy with me,’ the bishop said. ‘He has been involved in the disposition of the forces about the Tower, and is, I think, reluctant to interview the prisoner. Not many approve of torture.’

He shot a look at Baldwin. He knew of the knight’s past as a Knight Templar, and Baldwin’s view of the use of torture.

Later, Baldwin and Simon met with Sir Peregrine.

‘Sir Peregrine, I hope you do not object to my raising the matter, but the torture of the lad in the gaol — are you to continue with that?’ Baldwin asked.

‘I am so commanded by the king.’

‘You do so only with reservations?’

‘I despise the very concept. If a man’s guilty, let him be put on trial and, if guilty, hanged.’

‘Then, would you object to my speaking with him?’ Baldwin said. ‘I would prefer to save him the pain of torture.’

‘By all means.’

It took a short time to arrange, and then Simon and Baldwin were taken into the little gaol under the Tower.

Simon looked at the man in the gloom with interest. He had already lost the healthful appearance he had possessed as a stevedore, and now his eyes glittered with what looked like a feverish passion.

The fellow rose and walked to the bars of his cell, where he looked them both over, from their boots to their faces. ‘You’re the two who caught me.’

‘We are,’ Baldwin said. ‘And now I hope we can save you from additional pain. You know you are to be put to the torture?’

‘It’s part of the torture, this waiting, isn’t it? I’ve been expecting it for the last three days. Is it to start now?’

‘Only if you wish it. What is your name?’

‘Why?’

‘We have heard it is Paul, but we know that’s not true. You don’t come from Taunton, do you?’

‘I come from not far away. What is it to you?’

‘I am Sir Baldwin de Furnshill. This is my companion, Bailiff Simon Puttock. What is your name?’

‘You can call me Paul.’

Baldwin gave a fleeting frown. Such reluctance to give a true name was rare, in his experience. ‘You know that you will not escape here? There is little hope for you, I regret. Whatever you fear about giving away your name truly is not worth worrying about, my fellow. Why not merely tell us?’

‘Call me Paul.’

Baldwin nodded. ‘In that case, Paul, tell me, why did you intend to kill the bishop?’

‘Me?’

‘You left him notes at different places. We know all this, man! Come, tell us why you wished him ill.’

‘He is a thief, no better than a cutpurse. He colludes with Despenser to rob the innocent, no matter what their status. You can serve him if you wish, but he deserves death for his felonies!’

‘You think yourself robbed by him, then?’

‘I think he robs us all,’ Ranulf said.

‘Did he take your land? Money? What?’

‘Leave me alone!’

‘You will die here, but unless you help us now, you will die having endured great pain. There is no need for that,’ Baldwin said infuriatedly.

‘You think a man should be scared of death? That false bishop should be, after his crimes!’

Baldwin studied him very closely now. He always felt that a man’s words could be measured, and sometimes it was more what a man did not say than what he did that mattered. ‘You refuse to say where you come from, you refuse to say who you are, you refuse to do anything to explain your hatred of the bishop … Even though you have been sitting in this cell for days now, knowing that the result must be torture. What would motivate a man to keep so silent?’

‘You may invent all the reasons you wish, Sir Knight.’

‘The only reason I can imagine is that there is someone else who could continue to carry out your deed,’ Baldwin said, watching him intently. ‘Ah yes, that is it, isn’t it?’

‘I am saying nothing!’ Ranulf said, but now Baldwin could see the sheen of sweat on his forehead.

Simon looked over at Baldwin. ‘The date on the notes, Baldwin. The last note said fourteen days from last Wednesday. If he has an accomplice, and they intend to stick to the same plan, the Bishop will die on the Wednesday of next week.’

‘What note?’ Ranulf began, and then realised his error.

‘Yes,’ Baldwin said thoughtfully. ‘Fellow, whoever you are, I am afraid that if you thought your accomplice would be able to succeed where you have failed, you are now mistaken. Whoever it is, they will fail just as you did.’

‘Baldwin, didn’t you hear that?’ Simon interrupted. ‘The man didn’t know of the latest note!’

‘Eh?’

‘He didn’t know there was a note last week! It wasn’t him who left it!’

Petit Walles

If he had come here years ago with his father, this was precisely the sort of area Roger Crok would have been forced to avoid.

Nasty, odorous, filthy, it was a place where the dregs of the city would accumulate, downriver from all the better places where the rich lived. The only folk who were here were those with nowhere better to go. It had but one merit: Richard de Folville would never think to look for him here.

Roger had installed his mount in a stable over near the London Bridge, where he hoped it would remain safe, and had spent some days listening to the gossip of the streets, visiting alehouses and taverns all over the city, going to church and observing the temper of the crowds, and soon he had come to understand that the only desire in London was that the king should go — and be replaced by his elder son.

Four days ago, after Folville and la Zouche had tried to kill him, he had intended to hurry about his task and leave, but then he had heard of the rumours that the king was to depart, and had thought it would be better to stay and make sure that the story was true. But then, when the entourage had walked out from the castle, he had seen something which made him stop dead in the street.

‘Mother,’ he breathed, hardly daring to believe it was true.

She stood in the gloom of the gateway, a tall, courteous man at her side, who must have been a knight from the look of his great war-belt and weighty sword, but Roger scarcely noticed it. All he could see was his mother, pale and slender, watching the men marching from the gate, and in a moment, she was gone again.

It could have been a dream. A wonderful dream sent to remind him that his mother lived and loved him still. But Isabella Crok had looked so fair, so healthy and so real, he had no doubts in his own mind that this was no vision, but his mother.

From that day, he had come here to the Petit Walles, just outside the Tower itself, to look and see whether he might catch a glimpse of her again. It was as good a place as any, he told himself, to learn what he could about the Tower. He was not derelict in his duties. But she did not reappear, and today, he told himself, he must leave and see if he might find the queen. Yet he wanted to know if she was safe. And to learn who the man had been at her side.

Tower

The two burst in on the bishop as he sat eating his luncheon, and William Walle almost dropped the ewer in which the bishop was washing his hands.

‘Bishop!’ Baldwin blurted. ‘My apologies for our unorthodox arrival, but we have news.’

‘You have questioned him already?’

‘We believe that he did not leave that note,’ Simon said.

‘But you found him. And it was he who left the other ones,’ William said.

‘Perhaps he did. But not this one,’ Baldwin said. ‘He had no idea about it, and no idea at all about there being two weeks to the attempt on your life. It was a complete surprise to him.’

‘That I was to be assassinated?’

‘No — that someone had sent you a note to tell you.’

‘I think that the man is trying to force us into letting him loose,’ the bishop said. His voice was not as steady as his words implied.

‘Bishop, this is no laughing matter,’ Baldwin said. ‘I believe there is an accomplice of his in the Tower. It could only be someone who is inside the Tower, and that means it must surely be someone from your household whom you brought with you.’

‘What?’ the bishop demanded. ‘How can you suggest such a thing!’

‘One man did get inside your household, Bishop. I think a second must have as well,’ Baldwin said. ‘They could have infiltrated your household together, perhaps, or-’

‘Sir Baldwin, this man in the gaol didn’t manage to “infiltrate the household”, as you put it. He was a clever man who pretended to be a member of the household. He would never have been able to come here with us, because his imposture would have soon become overly obvious. No, there can be no one in the household who would care to do such a thing. I am sure that my household is secure, the men all genuine in their care for me.’

‘He will not give us his name, he will not tell us what evil you are supposed to have done him,’ Baldwin said. ‘To us, that implies that he is protecting another.’

‘Who is he protecting? You tell me that, Sir Baldwin, and I will listen to you. But at present, all I hear is guesswork, and I have too much work to do. The city is collapsing into violence and ruin, and I am responsible. As it is, I am asked to join the Archbishop for a convocation at Lambeth in a week. I do not have time for all this!’

‘On Monday next?’ Simon asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Good. Because I would beg you, Bishop, please, to keep indoors and safe on the Wednesday of that week. Wednesday next, please don’t go anywhere.’

‘As the note said, eh?’ the bishop said. He gave a small smile. ‘Perhaps I can pretend to a headache on that day.’

‘Good. And in the meantime, I think Sir Peregrine should begin his investigation into that man who calls himself Paul as soon as possible,’ Simon finished. ‘I know Baldwin detests torture, and I hate it myself, but that man is keeping something back, and it could be something that saves your life, Bishop. If he knows anything, it would be best that we learn it ourselves. Urgently.’