The Bishop Must Die (51 page)

‘So you will not form a host to protect me?’ the king said with a mild smile and nod. Then he threw down his knife and stood, hands leaning on the table before him. ‘And
you expect me to accept this?
You think I should agree to such limits on my
authority as to allow your menfolk to return to the city in the same day as they leave? Pray, how long will they deign to fight for me, then, if I march them to meet with my queen?’

‘Sire, we only relay the news, I fear. It is not our decision alone.’

‘You would see me hobbled? You would see me bound, so that I may not defend my realm? I swear, friend, I shall exact a terrible price on this city of yours when I have won back my kingdom! Be gone! Go! And know that you have today earned the hatred of your king!’

As the shouting continued, Sir Peregrine remained in the background. Looking at the messenger, he saw perspiration standing out on his brow. The king was sitting again, and now he stabbed a fresh piece of meat with his knife, and beckoned the fellow forward. Stumbling and nervous, the messenger began to speak.

Sir Peregrine had expected the usual form of message, perhaps words about the movements of the queen’s mercenaries, a report of farms burned, or tales of nuns raped – the normal concomitants of war. But the messenger’s gasped words sent a shock of ice into his marrow.

‘Sire, Henry of Lancaster is marching to support the queen. He brings many men with him.’

The king sat for a long time with his knife held before him, his jaws moving rhythmically. To Sir Peregrine it looked as though the man had just been given his death sentence.

‘You are sure that Henry does not march to support us?’

The messenger shook his head, and then fell to his knees. ‘Forgive me, Your Highness! I would bring any other news than this if I could.’

King Edward II stood. ‘We are not hungry,’ he said quietly to no one in particular. Then he glanced at the messenger. ‘Stand up, boy. This isn’t your fault. It’s the fault of those who hate me. By God’s grace, they will be punished for their efforts against me. Yes, in God’s name! This Henry of Lancaster shall pay, as will the
fine
burgesses of London. I shall not allow them to do this!’

As he spoke, his voice took on a new authority, and he slammed a fist into his cupped hand. ‘Sir Hugh. You will have the household readied. Steward? Have all packed. We leave as soon as we may. We shall ride westwards, to the loyal lands of the West Country. If these rebels and malcontents think that they can come here and capture me, they are mistaken, and when I catch Henry of
bloody
Lancaster, he will wish he had never been born! I will make such an example of him, as will terrify any who attempt to overthrow their monarch. I will have him flayed alive for this! Now, leave me! All of you.’

Sir Peregrine hurried from the room, backing uncertainly from the chamber and marching down the stairs in a sombre mood, while others rushed past him to pass on the commands that would give life to the king’s orders.

Outside now, he gazed about him. Looking up to the right, he could see the door that led to the gaol, and he felt a shiver of pure revulsion slither down his back at the thought of what he must do in there.

And then his face broke into a smile as he saw his Isabella walking out of the chamber, closing the door behind her.

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
^*

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.

‘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?’