The Bishop Must Die (48 page)

Richard de Folville, Roger Crok and Ralph la Zouche had ridden hard this day, all the way from Halstead, which was where they had stayed, the night of the Feast of St Michael. And now, today they had come down here to London, to bring messages and to view the lands for the queen.

So far, their journey had been quiet enough. The money Queen Isabella had given them had eased their paths no end. But she was comfortable with money just now. Wherever she went with her men, the townsfolk arrived and plied them with coin, because everyone wanted an end to the misery of the last years. So many remembered her as the kind, generous lady who had sympathised with the trials and sufferings of the common people, and they fell on their knees to her, treating her like a saint. And she, clad in black widow’s weeds, acted her part: she was quiet and appreciative, grateful for their words of kindness and, as Richard Folville
felt certain, entirely consumed with the lust for revenge on her husband and all his friends.

Folville could understand that lust all too well. It was natural, to wish to destroy all those who thwarted a man, and this queen was ruthless as fire, beautiful as a spring day, and dangerous as a viper. He would trust her no further than he could throw her.

At Bury St Edmunds she had discovered and taken the treasure left there by one of the king’s justices, and distributed it among the mercenaries in her train. They were keen to remain with her, because so far they had not needed to fight, and were being regularly and richly rewarded for their marching. It was a merry band of men who accompanied the queen.

But she needed men to tell her what was happening in the land’s most important city. They must ride to London and report to her. And she had chosen Crok, Folville, and la Zouche because they had shown their courage while protecting her son in Normandy. She said that she wanted to reward them by giving them the task of highest honour.

Riding under the Bishop’s Gate, Folville glanced about at the others.
Highest honour
, his arse! The bitch didn’t trust them to remain too close to her precious boy, that was more like it. Well, if she felt safer with a bunch of Hainault mercenaries instead of three Englishmen, that was her mistake. For his part, Folville knew that he had to look at the job in hand with great care. There was a possibility that he might be able to increase his profit. If it appeared certain that the king would win, and that the invasion was doomed, he would be able to give some information to show Edward that he was acting for him. There were stories that men were being offered pardons if they would serve their monarch now. He could do that – turn his coat and become a loyal subject to the king again. Perhaps help in the capture of Mortimer, or catch the king’s son for him. That would be worth a goodly payment. After all, while many flocked to the queen, most among them had more than an eye on the boy at her side, Edward, Duke of Aquitaine, Earl of Chester, and the next King of England. Take away the boy, and many would begin to wonder whether they
were right to place all their faith in the invasion.

Ralph was a possible ally in such an undertaking, but Folville still did not trust Crok. The latter didn’t seem as driven by hunger for possessions as the others, nor was he so determined. Rather, he appeared happy to float along, waiting to see what would happen. The only time he got angry was when someone mentioned the Bishop of Exeter or Despenser, then he grew bitter and quiet.

Ralph la Zouche was the opposite. At the mention of Bishop Walter, he would immediately fly into a rage, blaming the bishop for his present dreadful position, and especially the death of his brother. So far as he was concerned, his exile was Stapledon’s fault, and the bishop would have to pay for that – sometime soon.

Yes, if he could, Richard Folville would have to dispose of Crok, and then he would be able to use la Zouche – either to improve their position with the queen, or to leave her and go to the king.

It would all depend upon the next hours here in London.

Simon and Baldwin were quiet as they walked across the Tower green to Simon’s chambers, and once they were inside, and Margaret had kissed Simon and gone to fetch them wine, Simon asked his wife to sit with them a while. Hugh had heard them arrive, and he now stood at the door with his staff in his hands. Rob and Jack appeared to have formed a loose alliance, and sat listening in the corner near the fire.

‘Do you sleep with your staff now?’ Baldwin chided Hugh.

‘Reckon I do. ’Tis better than dying in my sleep,’ Hugh said.

Baldwin nodded with some sadness. It was terrible to think that men could fear attack even here in the middle of the king’s most impregnable fortress. ‘Well, Simon?’

‘I do not think I can leave here yet,’ Simon said. ‘There is one man I have seen who looks suspicious, and if something were to happen to the bishop now, I would be mortified.’

‘Who is this man?’

Simon explained about the stevedore. To his relief, Baldwin did not treat his words with amusement.

‘You are right to be concerned. A man could get work at the quayside with ease, and no one would think to check his name or details. Do you know who he may be?’

‘I have no idea. I did wonder whether he might be that priest whom the bishop spoke of – the one who invaded his chamber.’

‘Perhaps. But that name was almost certainly invention. We shall have to try to find him by some other means.’

‘My fear is that the fellow might get into the castle and stay here.’

‘It is hardly likely. There are too many within for a man like him to be able to walk about the castle without being seen.’

‘Baldwin, he was walking about the cathedral – no, worse, he was in the Bishop’s Palace – for weeks before he was discovered to be guilty of leaving those notes.’

‘Yes, you are right,’ Baldwin acknowledged. ‘Perhaps we should delay any departure. But I prefer to think that such dangers are limited. While the bishop remains here inside the fortress, it will be harder for a man to reach him. We must bend our efforts to make sure he remains here.’

‘Yes,’ Simon said. He looked across at Margaret, who had sat quietly listening. ‘Meg, what do you think?’

‘I will stay if you wish to. My place is with you,’ she said.

Simon nodded, but he had noticed the involuntary movement of her eyes towards their son’s chamber. ‘It does not suit me, I confess. I would rather be at home, or with Edith. But I have promised to help the bishop, and feel I have a responsibility. But that doesn’t mean you have to remain, Baldwin. You ought to go home to Jeanne.’

‘And I shall. But for now, the risk of bloodshed is all here. The queen may come here at any time, and the king is still locked up in the White Tower, so this is where the real danger lies. Jeanne will be safe. But our duty is to see to it that the bishop is safe, too.’

‘Then we are agreed,’ Simon said with a small sigh. ‘We will remain a little longer.’

Wednesday after the Feast of St Michael
^*

John de Padington was early to rise as usual. A man who would serve a bishop had to accommodate himself to the hours kept by his master – night as well as day. And early was the hour that the bishop tended to get up to visit his chaplain. He believed in the benefits of a clear mind.

It was all the same to John, for he counted time asleep as time wasted. There was work to be done, and he preferred to get on with it, rather than laze about like so many. And if there was time at the end of the day, he would enjoy the company of his friends and a jug of wine. That was the hour for rest and relaxation.

In the morning though, all was bustle for him because the whole day lay ahead of him, and he was sure that there would be plenty for him to do, as usual.

The morning looked pleasantly clear when he glanced through the window. Outside, the courtyard was bright, and if it were only a little less cluttered with men-at-arms, horses, racks of weapons, and the constant lines of men bringing goods into the fortress, he would have thought it a proud sight.

But now, with the ever-present threat of the queen’s men reaching London, he was less content than usual. He knew that the future was uncertain.

Still, he had experienced the ups and downs of his master’s career in the last years. From adviser to the king, to Lord High Treasurer, then returning to mere bishop, John had seen it all, and he had participated in Bishop Walter’s rise and fall. He didn’t care for the man’s position though, except in the way that it affected the bishop himself. John had no thought for himself. He was happy just to serve the man he thought to be one of the kindest, best men in the country.

He smiled to himself as he set the table ready for when the
bishop returned to the chamber, and went out to fetch food and drink. These he prepared in the buttery himself. He would not have anyone else touch the bishop’s food, because there was too much risk of someone adding poison. Other meals would be taken elsewhere, such as the king’s own hall. John could not do much to ensure that the bishop’s food was safe there, but he would do all he could here in the man’s own chambers.

The walk from the buttery was only short, but with a full tray it was a cautious journey. There were projecting obstacles at every point, from the chests on the floor to the bishop’s own sword, which lay on top of another table near the entranceway.

Crossing the floor, he set out the meal ready for the bishop’s arrival, and stood back, eyeing it all with a slight frown. There was nothing missing he could see, so he carefully poured a little of the wine into a cup and drained it, smacking his lips appreciatively. Yes, a good wine!

His work done for the present, he left the room to visit the privy.

Thus he was not present when the hooded and cloaked figure slipped from the doorway to the table.

He had followed the other stevedores into the fortress, all carrying their loads of fish and meats ready for the garrison. Their barrels rumbled like thunder over the cobbles, hundreds of them rolling simultaneously, and the stevedore thought his head must explode with the row, but he gritted his teeth and ignored it as best he might.

Last night, he had tried to clear his mind and consider the best way to attack the bishop, but always aware that the day for him to die was not quite yet arrived. However, he could still come here today and learn all he could about the bishop’s movements.

He rolled the barrel along, one in a long line, looking about him as he went, and as he reached the Wakefield Tower, and had to roll it up the shallow incline to the green, he saw her.

She was walking briskly from a doorway just over to his right, and was forced to stop and wait for the line of men. Soon there
was a gap and she darted through it to the opposite side.

For a moment, he nearly ran to her. Oh, the longing! It was such a powerful urge, he almost succumbed, no matter what the other stevedores would say, on seeing him behave like that. They would think he had lost his mind! No doubt they’d stare though, when Lady Isabella saw him and reciprocated …

If she would.

He suddenly recalled seeing her with that knight – the older man who had laughed and chatted with her so happily the other day. Perhaps she would be unwilling to acknowledge him. She wasn’t in need of him any more, not if she had found a new lover. Women weren’t as loyal as men, after all. If she had found a new home, she would be happy. That would be it.

Still, he stared at her fixedly, and as he made his way up the green to the larger storerooms at the northern wall, he almost changed his mind. She looked so small, so defenceless, he took pity on her. But in the process, he reminded himself what he was there to achieve: the death of the bishop. How would it be for her, if he showed himself to her in full view of all the men here, and later was caught for the execution of the bishop. Some of the responsibility for his action might then redound on her, to her great damage. No, he would leave her.

And then, just as he reached the door to the undercroft, he saw that man again – from his dress and bearing, surely a knight – who walked to her and spoke. The two of them looked so happy in each other’s company, that it was hard to keep himself in check. Because just seeing her with that knight made him realise that there was a new risk to him.

If she had fallen in love with the man, she might decide that there was an easy way to ingratiate herself with him. The bitch could decide to betray him.

Christ alive! It took all his self-control to keep his head down and not rush over the grass to stab her to death there and then, her and her lover.

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.’