The Bishop Must Die (53 page)

They were in luck. The dispute between the two had caught the attention of one of the guards at the Tower, and he wandered towards the couple, even as the lad grabbed the lady’s arm. She pulled away, and turned to placate the guards, letting them know that there was nothing for them to be alarmed about – she was only talking with the man, but then she stepped away from him, and appeared to be wishing him a tearful farewell.

Roger Crok stood at the bottom of the path with his head bent as the woman walked away. She did not turn once to look at him.

He did not notice his two pursuers until Richard whispered, ‘Hello, Master Crok,’ and clubbed him above the ear with a large stone he had picked up from the road.

Simon was used to investigating deaths, but not to anticipating them. This walk, from the Tower to the bridge, was taxing his intellect, he thought.

‘I agree with Baldwin. Why not merely take a boat across the water, and be done? It will be safer than this long walk or ride.’

‘You think so? The way matters are just now, I think the chances are that he would be seen, and men could ride to meet him at the other side,’ Sir Peregrine said. ‘It would be a terrible thing, were he to cross the river only to be killed within distance of the Archbishop’s palace.’

‘All this effort for a meeting of bishops,’ Simon said.

Baldwin shook his head. ‘It’s not a mere meeting, Simon. It is to be hoped that this convocation may think of a means of averting bloodshed. That is what we must hope. The bishops of Winchester, Worcester, and Rochester and Bishop Walter, are all to join up there. With fortune they will hit on a scheme to avoid war.’

Sir Peregrine smiled sadly. ‘They may try, but I can see no opportunity of avoiding it. I think we will have war.’

They had reached the bridge, and Simon stood a while, gazing about him glumly. ‘Look at all these buildings. A man with a rock or two could drop them on the bishop’s head as he passed here, and that would be that. Best make sure he wears his armour before leaving the Tower.’

Baldwin noted the buildings on the bridge. ‘It is not only the buildings here, either. There are those buildings on the bridge, all giving excellent vantages to drop weapons on him. And if someone were to lift the drawbridge, it would be possible to hold him in one place and there to finish him off. I really dislike this idea.’

‘I don’t disagree, gentlemen,’ Sir Peregrine said, as they retracted their steps, ‘but he is determined to go. What would you have me do, lock him up like that other poor fellow?’

‘He wasn’t a poor fellow, he was trying to kill the bishop,’ Simon said. ‘He may not have left that last note, but I am sure he did the others.’

‘A shame that he took his own life though,’ Baldwin said.

Peregrine nodded. ‘I blame myself. I should have seen that he could do that once I began to mention torture. I ought to have had him searched for straps and belts.’

The man called Paul had been able to kill himself by the simple expedient of taking his hood and cape, hooking the hood on a nail in the roof, then wrapping the trailing cloak about his throat. It made a firm noose. A bucket to stand on, which he kicked away, and his plan was complete.

‘At least it means there is one assassin fewer for us to worry about,’ Baldwin said.

They marched on, past suspicious citizens who glowered and spat as they passed, for the most part eyeing the buildings towering overhead, apart from Simon, who kept his attention on the faces of the people all around. He was not happy to be here, and would be so much happier were he at home. This city was not his natural habitat.

It was a relief to see the gates to the Tower again, down by the river, and his pace quickened.

Baldwin, however, slowed at the sight of two men kicking at a body lying between them. Two guards from the gate ran to the men. ‘What is happening here?’ one asked.

‘This man is a traitor. His name is Crok, and he was in France until recently. He’s a spy!’

Waking was painful. His immediate thought was that Folville had stabbed him with a dagger in his head, because the pain was far too awful for it to have been a mere punch from a fist.

The second thought was that he needed to be sick, and he noisily gave into the urge.

He was in a large room – a hall, he realised. There was a roaring fire in the hearth, and when he cautiously looked around, he found himself meeting the gaze of a woman. She eyed him with a confident look, before calling out, ‘Simon, he is awake!’

The man who walked in was the ruddy-faced one from the trio he had seen before. ‘Where am I?’ Roger asked weakly.

‘In the Tower of London, and you can thank God you aren’t in the gaol. There was a man killed himself in there only a few days ago, and we don’t want you to do the same thing. A lady here pleaded on your behalf most fetchingly.’

‘What do you want with me?’ Roger said, gingerly feeling the lump on his head. It was larger than a goose’s egg.

‘The truth. We have been told that you are a traitor, that you were in Normandy with the Earl of Chester. Two men caught you and passed you to the guards at the gate. Is it true?’

‘A pretty thought. So you wish me to tell you so that you can execute me on the king’s behalf for treachery?’

‘No. There will be bloodshed enough when the queen’s mercenaries meet the king’s host,’ Simon sighed. ‘However, I have to know, do you have any ill intention towards the Bishop of Exeter?’

‘I hold him in no great esteem. He saw fit to have me thrown into gaol, and to have my mother dispossessed.’

‘Who is your mother?’

‘Lady Isabella Crok.’

Simon’s head rose, and slowly a frown began to wash over his face. ‘Isabella? Your father – did he die a while ago?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Your mother – she lost her first husband, didn’t she? And remarried, so now she is called Isabella Fitzwilliam, isn’t she?’

Too late Roger saw that he had allowed his befuddled state to endanger his mother. ‘No, my mother is—’

‘I didn’t realise!’ Simon groaned. ‘It was
she
who put the note into the bishop’s room, Meg. It had nothing to do with that poor fellow who died. No wonder she pleaded for your life!’

‘Which poor fellow?’ Roger asked.

Simon gave a brief description of the stevedore, and saw the misery that washed into Roger’s eyes.

‘That sounds like Ranulf – my stepbrother. He was a good fellow, but headstrong. I am not surprised he killed himself, to try to save our family from any more shame.’

‘Or to conceal his identity so that you or his mother could kill the bishop where he had failed?’ Simon demanded.

‘I should have found that enormously difficult. Until recently I was in Normandy. And your companion Sir Baldwin can confirm it,’ Roger said. ‘He saw me there in the summer. I have had no opportunity to plot any murder. And nor has my mother. She is innocent.’

‘I shall leave that to other people to decide,’ Simon said.

He rubbed at his temples. This was a terrible situation. If it was true that this fellow was indeed Isabella’s son, it would be
difficult to conceal the fact. ‘Meg, could you send Hugh to fetch Sir Baldwin, and in the meantime, pour me a little wine, my love? My head throbs like a sapling attacked by a woodpecker!’

It took little time for Baldwin to join him, but to Simon’s surprise, Sir Peregrine was with him.

‘I thought it best that Sir Peregrine join us, Simon,’ Baldwin said. ‘This matter is too much for us alone.’

‘Is it true?’ Sir Peregrine asked. ‘Is she guilty?’

Simon pulled a face. ‘I have heard no one say it. This fellow is her son from her first marriage, but she was widowed.’

‘My father fell from his horse,’ Roger added helpfully.

‘Later she remarried, this time to a man called Henry Fitzwilliam. And he, like she, already had a son, named Ranulf Fitzwilliam. I am afraid you have met him, Sir Peregrine. He was the lad who hanged himself.’

‘That was her stepson?’ Sir Peregrine breathed. ‘Christ’s cods! I should have realised. One day I saw her coming out from the gaol, but it did not occur to me that she was there out of anything other than simple curiosity. So many women like to see felons. It gives them a little frisson of excitement. I thought no more of it. I must be a—’

‘Good and honourable man who is loath to see the worst in people,’ Baldwin said firmly. ‘Now, Sir Peregrine, do you love the woman?’

‘I had promised to wed her.’

‘Then do so. And do so quickly. Take her away from here, so that she cannot try to kill the bishop, and then, with luck, the whole matter will blow over.’

‘And what if she desires to kill him later?’ Sir Peregrine rasped.

‘Sir, my mother could not kill a chicken. The idea of her stabbing a bishop is preposterous!’ Roger said. ‘I say this in all truth: she may have wished to avenge my stepfather, but she would not be able to put it into action. She has not the heart of a murderer.’

‘I hope you are right,’ Baldwin said. ‘But how can you assure us?’

‘I don’t know. All I can tell you is my own firm belief, sir.’

‘True enough. That itself is an honourable response, Sir Roger.’

‘There is one other thing though. My mother’s dispute is based upon the opportunistic theft of her dower. The bishop had her second husband gaoled for treachery, and poor Henry died in gaol, just like his son here. But afterwards, he took our inheritance, alleging that I was also a contrariant like Henry, and that my father was too. That is the sheerest nonsense. I was not, and neither was my father. But if you could help my mother to regain what she feels is hers, you will give her more reason to forgive than to try to avenge what has been done to her.’ He winced as another shot of pain stabbed his head.

Sir Peregrine abruptly turned about, as though he was going to leave the room.

Baldwin felt a tearing pain in his breast at the thought of what must be going through Sir Peregrine’s mind. He had fallen in love with women, but each time the focus of his affection had died – one of them in childbirth. This time, he had thought he was at last destined to be happy, only to suspect now that his woman was determined to kill Bishop Walter. It was unbearable to consider that all she had said, all she had done to this date, could have been intended purely as a means of getting herself close to the bishop to kill him. It was easy to imagine that Sir Peregrine was running through every meeting he had enjoyed with her, every conversation, to filter out the little snippets that indicated her desire to murder, rather than to enjoy his companionship. Sir Peregrine’s face showed that he was enduring the most exquisite self-torture.

Baldwin took a deep breath. ‘I think, Sir Peregrine, that this is a matter that we can keep to ourselves within this room.’

‘You think I should trust her?’ Sir Peregrine’s voice was strangled. ‘You think I could leave her to continue with this vile plan?’

‘Her son declares that he thinks her incapable. Do you think she could kill? In truth?’ Baldwin pressed him.

‘How could I say? All she has ever said to me may be false, even that she … that she feels an affection for me. How can I tell?’

‘You may have your doubts, Sir Peregrine,’ Baldwin said, ‘but the fact is, she has so far done nothing of which you could convict her. Writing a note? Pah! What of it? She has
not
drawn steel in his presence, has she?’

‘Because the date which she predicted for the Bishop’s death has not yet arrived.’

The date. Baldwin had forgotten that. ‘The notes threatening the Bishop all gave him a short time to live, but the last gave him until one week from today. Why would that date have any significance?’

‘I have no idea,’ Roger Crok said, shaking his head and wincing as the pain shafted through his skull. ‘Ach! It’s close to the anniversary of my father’s death.’

‘The first note was sometime ago,’ Simon mused. ‘Why should she leave so long between the first message and the actual threatened death?’

‘How long?’

Baldwin glanced at Simon. ‘When was it? Before Candlemas?’

‘I think so.’

‘Forty weeks or more, then.’

Roger frowned as he considered. ‘That long? I would have thought that … It is a coincidence, surely. My stepfather was held in gaol for thirty-nine weeks before he succumbed to the vile conditions in which he was held. Could that be it?’

Sir Peregrine said, ‘I can ask the woman.’

Baldwin took his arm and pressed it. ‘Sir Peregrine. This may be the last opportunity you have to be happy, old friend. Do not throw it away lightly.’

‘Lightly? You think I will do anything in a burst of lightheartedness?’

‘No, nor should you. Sir Peregrine, the woman has suffered enough. You, perhaps, can bring her to commonsense. Take her
away from here for a few weeks. Take her home, possibly. Marry her, leave here, and you will, with fortune, win yourself a good, loving and kind woman. For if you remove her from this area, the bishop will be safe from her anyway. And later, perhaps this son of hers can bring her to reason with your help. Marry her, take her away, and have an enjoyable life, Sir Peregrine.’

‘You think I can trust her?’ Sir Peregrine repeated.

‘I think so. Especially if you swear to win back her lands for her. Tell her that, and you will find her appreciative, I am sure.’

‘A woman who could plot to kill a bishop …’

‘Many have made dreams in the dark of the night,’ Baldwin said, ‘and her plotting so far is only a wild dream. If you marry her, you will save her from her living nightmare. Marry her, and you will give her a new reason to want to live.’

‘I don’t know …’

Baldwin ignored him, looking instead at Margaret and Simon. ‘Do we all agree?’

Simon looked away. He had no desire to see a pleasant woman like Isabella executed for attempting murder, but to leave her free was also against his policy of adherence to the law.

Baldwin prompted him. ‘Simon, if you have an objection, you must raise it now. Do you think she would go through with such a scheme on her own?’

‘It is hard to imagine.’

‘So, if she is kept away from the bishop, that will help matters. If she also sees a means of recovering what she has lost as well, that will no doubt comfort her too. I think this makes sense.’