The Bishop Must Die (52 page)

‘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!’

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.

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.’

It was not the command he wished to hear.

‘Yes, Bishop. Of course I will do all I may to learn more. I will have the man put to the
peine fort et dure
.’

‘I am sorry to hear it.’ The bishop winced.

He was not the only man sorry to have to contemplate such a vile practice, Sir Peregrine told himself as he went down the stairs to the green and crossed the grass to the gaol. There, he ordered the gaoler to fetch three men to help, and had them go with him down to the cells.

‘Come along,’ Sir Peregrine said. It was a dreadful task, but the sooner they had the fool on the floor, hopefully the sooner they could release him and give his information to the bishop.

The cell was in darkness, of course. Peregrine could just make out the figure standing oddly like a shadow in the farther corner of the cell. ‘You. Come here,’ he called, but the man didn’t respond.

Oh, to the devil with him! He was going to make it as hard as possible. ‘I don’t blame you,’ Sir Peregrine muttered to himself, and then, louder, ‘Open the door, gaoler.’

The steel door swung open on well-greased hinges, and Sir Peregrine marched in, walking to the figure, his steps slowing as he went. ‘Sweet Mother of Christ!’ he whispered.

His prisoner swung very slowly to face him, the eyes bulging in a head grown enormous, the features livid where the light from the lantern struck it.

‘Oh, oh God,’ he heard behind him.

‘Hey, you puke there, you got to clear it up yourself,’ the
gaoler complained as the splashes of vomit struck the floor, but Sir Peregrine paid no attention.

He remained fixed to the spot, staring up at the body with the stretched neck as it slowly turned, dangling from the ceiling.

Second Wednesday after the Feast of St Michael
^*

At last he saw her again. She was up there in the roadway that led down to the strange dog-leg entrance to the Tower, and Roger Crok felt his heart lift at the sight.

It was impossible to call out to her, for that would have brought him unwanted attention, but as she stepped out of the castle’s gate and joined the throng of people, he was already level with her, and when she strode on in that determined fashion he recognised so well, he had to hurry his own pace to keep up with her.

She wasn’t alone, of course. Since the disappearance of the king, the city had grown slightly less restive about the Tower, but it was still a very dangerous place, especially for a woman to walk alone. She had three men with her, a man who was tall and strong, although running to a paunch, who had a ruddy complexion like a committed cider drinker, then the tall knight he had seen with her in the gateway. The third was another man, one with a thin black beard that followed the line of his jaw, and he was sure that he had met this fellow before. Roger had to rack his brains to think where it was, and then he recognised him. It was the man he had spoken with in France.

He had no idea who these men were, and approached them with caution, eavesdropping on their conversation.

His mother spoke little. This was a talk about matters above her station, but it was clear that the others were happy to talk with her at their side.

‘He will have to come along here,’ the bearded one was saying.

‘Baldwin, I would not want him to ride along that road there.’

Baldwin shook his head. ‘No, Sir Peregrine. This would be best. The houses are not so closely compacted.’

‘It should suffice. What do you think, Simon?’

‘I am sure that it would be fine for him. Where will he cross? At the bridge?’

‘He won’t swim,’ said Sir Peregrine.

‘I wondered whether it would be safer for him to take a boat across. At the bridge there are places a man could be pulled from his horse, or pushed out into the river.’

Roger Crok listened with some bafflement, wondering whom they discussed, but all the while his attention was fixed on his mother. She looked tired. Very tired. He wished only to speak with her for a short while, but the question was, how. And then he wondered if he could see her and make her realise. Hurrying on, he overtook the group, hoping that Sir Baldwin would not recognise him from Normandy. Once ahead of them, he stopped, and cast a careful eye behind him, meeting the gaze of Isabella.

She gasped, and for a moment he was torn between standing still and rushing back to her, fearful that she might faint. But his mother was made of strong stuff, and as soon as she caught her breath, she mustered her resources.

‘Gentlemen, I feel rather weak. I had little food for my breakfast. You will kindly go on without me. I shall walk back to the castle from here.’

‘Let me walk you back,’ Sir Peregrine said at once.

Although she protested, he was most insistent, accompanying her back to the gates, and waiting until she was in the gateway, at which point she insisted that he return to the others.

Unknown to him, he was watched the whole time by Roger Crok.

They had both been walking for much of the morning when Ralph la Zouche suddenly stopped, grabbed Richard’s arm, and
pointed. ‘That’s the puppy! Look at the little shite, like butter wouldn’t melt.’

Following his pointing finger, Richard gaped and nodded.

There, up ahead, Roger Crok was standing near the entrance to the Tower with a tall, elegant woman. She was earnestly speaking with him, and Crok was nodding enthusiastically, but then he shook his head in rapid alarm, and took her arm. Clearly she had suggested something that was little to his liking, and now she tried to take her arm away.

‘Come with me,’ Richard said.

Ralph was nothing loath, and the two walked quickly onwards, concealing themselves as best they could among the other folk walking about the streets.