The horse rose, legs flailing, and then crashed down, his rider beneath him. Baldwin could not approach the beast, for in its terror and pain it was thrashing about like a wild thing, but he needed a weapon. The man beside him was dead, floating in the waves, the lance badly damaged, and Baldwin fell to the water beside him, fumbling for his sword. The fellow must have dropped it here … Yes! He stood, in time to see the French first line wheel and ride away, ready to re-form.
There was a mass of bodies in the water. Baldwin glanced
down, and saw three men in front of him, bobbing gently in a sea of blood. It made his head spin, and he gripped his sword with the resolution of desperation. ‘Hold the line, men! Hold up! Hold up!’ he bellowed. And then the French came again, rattling and ringing with the weight of their armour, the horses magnificent in their bright caparisons, the men stern and determined inside their steel shells. It made Baldwin feel undressed without his armour, but it was all packed. All he might do was pray that he was that little bit faster on his feet without it.
The man riding towards him was young, his face was unmarked by wrinkles, his eyes clear and bright like a child’s – but he wielded his lance like a man many years older. Its tip lowered as Baldwin crouched, and then it was thrusting towards him like a crossbow bolt. Baldwin saw how the man aimed it, and he waited until the last moment, and then threw himself to the side of the horse, aiming his sword at the beast’s fetlock as it came closer. There was a jarring in his arms, and then an explosion of blood that burst about him like a fountain, and he was dying, drowning in other men’s blood, salt and revolting in his mouth and nose, and he tried to reach up to the sky to free himself from this hideous bath, but his hands touched only sand, and then a face, and he tried to jerk himself from it, and found he was free, in the open air again.
Wiping the water and blood from his face, he looked about him, gasping and coughing. His opponent was nearby, on his feet, fighting with two Englishmen, and Baldwin tried to walk to them, but his knees wouldn’t support his weight, and suddenly a crashing thud smote his head, and he fell back, arms outspread, and felt the black evil water filling his nose again, and saw with eyes that stung, that the sea was over his face, and that he was falling down, deeper and deeper into the waters. Falling all the way down to hell.
Wednesday after the Feast of the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary
*
There was a hushed expectancy in the city from the first week of September, which was noticeable even to Hugh and Rob. They were both very quiet and watchful, Simon noted.
Margaret was struck with it too, and a few times Simon caught her looking at the pair of them from the corner of her eye. It was a great shame, because he had wanted her to relax and enjoy her time here in London.
Margaret had been a farmer’s daughter when Simon met her, and he had hoped that she would find her stay here in the capital to be interesting. There was certainly much that was new for her, and much that would astonish, but to his sorrow, she wanted nothing to do with the city. ‘There is something about this place,’ she said, looking about her at the Tower itself. ‘I feel so uncomfortable here. I hate it.’
‘It’s only a castle, Meg,’ he said, trying to comfort her. ‘It’s a citadel to protect London.’
‘No, Simon. It’s here to scare London. It’s here to threaten. Can’t you feel it?’ She shivered. ‘It’s like a monster in the middle of the city,’ she said. ‘And nothing good can come of us being here.’
‘For so long as the bishop is safe because we watch over him, that is itself good,’ Simon said.
‘How long must we remain? Until we capture this man? What if he is not here, Simon?’ she asked with quiet desperation.
‘I have to remain for as long as it may take,’ he told her.
It was while they were walking hand-in-hand, neither speaking, that they heard the voices outside, obviously spreading some important news. Simon felt his heart lurch, convinced that there was some kind of attack forming. He told Margaret to hurry
to their children, and command Hugh to take up his staff, and then ran as fast as he could to the main gate.
‘Ah, Simon. I thought you would be along shortly,’ Sir Peregrine said.
‘I heard the noise,’ Simon said.
‘Yes, curious, eh? It was the folks out there repeating the news they’d just heard. Something about a fleet.’
Simon swore. ‘The invasion fleet?’
‘I don’t know,’ Sir Peregrine said. He bellowed down to the men at the gate itself. ‘What news?’
‘The fleet has been sorely harmed,’ the keeper called up.
Simon and Sir Peregrine glanced at each other. Neither had any cause to wish the rule of King Edward II and his most precious friend, Despenser, might continue, and yet as Englishmen, they were not keen to see the realm overrun with foreign mercenaries. Simon was aware of a curious sense of mingled anti-climax and relief. ‘So that is that, then,’ he said.
‘So it seems,’ Sir Peregrine nodded. They were about to walk away, when some stray words came to the coroner’s ear. ‘What was that?’ he demanded, turning his head, the better to listen.
There was a man outside on the drawbridge. He had some messages which he had given to the porter, and now he was shouting and shrugging his shoulders, while others on the bridge itself were gesticulating and shouting too.
‘What is it, Porter?’ Sir Peregrine bellowed again.
‘The ships, sir. They weren’t the French ships,’ the porter called up to him, his face suddenly drained. ‘They were ours.’
Baldwin came to with a feeling of filthiness all about his body. It was as though he had been thrown into a midden filled with sewage, and as he felt the light on his face and began to swim up from unconsciousness, he knew that he must cleanse himself. He was struggling to do so when he felt himself restrained.
To his surprise, he felt as weak as a newborn foal. His arms and legs were so feeble, he could not even think of fighting off
his attacker, and it was shame that made him suddenly give a sob as he realised he was entirely at the mercy of whoever was here. And then he jerked his eyes open as he remembered the last moments as he fell under the bloody froth that was the seashore. He was in hell!
The first thing his eyes perceived was not a demon, but the boy called Jack, who stood over him with an anxious expression on his face. ‘Sir Baldwin? Are you all right, sir? I have some wine, if you’d like it.’
Baldwin took a gasp of air, and looked about him. He was in a wooden cot on the deck of a cog. About him were other men, some with hideous wounds, and there was a sobbing and a moaning all over the vessel. With slow care he lifted his hands to view. There was no blood left. Someone had washed his hands and body.
‘Aye. Couldn’t leave you looking like that, could we?’ Paul said from beyond Jack.
Baldwin said nothing. He was quite sure that if Paul had seen the opportunity, he would have strangled Baldwin while he was asleep.
‘What happened?’ he asked hoarsely.
Paul answered. ‘You were knocked down, and this young fool leaped off the side of the ship to pull you from the water. It half killed him, poor twit, but he dragged you to where there was a grappling hook hanging from a rope, and he managed to persuade two sailors to haul you aboard. You’re lucky. If you’d stayed down there, you’d have been mangled along with the rest.’
‘Ach!’ Baldwin felt waves of nausea wash through his entire body, and grimaced. ‘Did we lose many?’
‘Too many to count. The French just pounded straight into the line, and with the sea behind us, what could we do? I reckon we lost over a hundred. And then their navy came across us this morning. We’ve lost three more ships. We only just made it away ourselves, with the help of some pretty effective arrow-work from the men on the castles.’
He had recovered his jauntiness, Baldwin saw. It did not make
his company more desirable. ‘Where are we now?’
‘We’ll be back to the Downs this morning. Then we can leave this old bucket of rotten wood and worms, and get back to solid ground again. And I for one will not regret it if I never see a ship again.’
He stood and peered down at Baldwin. ‘See you later, Sir Knight!’
Jack remained. ‘You’ll be all right, Sir Baldwin. You just had a knock on the head. A destrier rode past you, and I think his hoof whacked you on the skull. You fell like a log!’
‘And I owe you my life, Jack. I think that is a debt which will be hard to repay,’ Baldwin said.
‘I couldn’t leave you there. Paul helped nearly as much. He threatened the two sailors to get you lifted up to the ship.’
‘He did?’ Baldwin said with surprise. He would not have expected that. A spasm jerked his torso, and he felt the bile in his throat, searing him.
‘Sir, drink this,’ Jack said, holding up a cup of wine. While the ship rocked, Baldwin tried to drink, but much of the wine dribbled down his beard.
‘Thank you, Jack,’ he said, and closed his eyes.
He was asleep in an instant.
The chamber in the building where Lady Isabella Fitzwilliam was installed was pleasant and airy, but she would have preferred to be back home at her old manor. Not that it was possible, with that thief Bishop Walter having stolen it. He was a man so sunk in infamy, the devil himself would have rejected him.
To learn as soon as she arrived in London that Sir Peregrine would not allow her to stay outside in the city, but instead insisted for her protection that she take a room here in the fortress had at first been delightful – but then she realised the danger. She was determined to put in place the last stage of her plan, but to do so, she must have the help of her son.
The damned bishop’s presence had itself been a shock. She had had no warning that he might be coming here, and now he was installed only a short distance from her own chamber. The possibility of repaying her debt herself at any moment was now within her grasp, and yet the risk inherent in that was high. Were she to kill the bishop in full view of anyone else, she must inevitably be killed in her turn. A terrifying thought.
Still, were she to kill the man, it would mean that her boys would not do so. And she loved them both more than she loved herself. How could she not! To the one she had given life, and to the other she had given herself. They were both hers, and she was theirs.
Even now she found it hard to believe that it had been so simple a task, to install a man in the bishop’s palace and to distribute messages of death.
It was always the idea that he should suffer for a long period.
At first when she had been considering the means of making his life so miserable that he would almost welcome death, she had thought that she would simply string it all out until he was entirely depressed and half-mad with fear. But it was her son who had persuaded her that there was no logic to treating him in such a manner. If he was to deliver her notes, he wanted to know that there was a set term for them. As he pointed out, she only had to think of the words, while he had to not only run the risk of delivering them, but must also plan to kill the man as well. And he must somehow prevent himself from smiting his father’s murderer every day.
He was so strong, so clever. She missed him so much. He had been going to come here to London, she was sure, but she had seen and heard nothing from him.
The whole idea had been his. He had such a fertile brain! Isabella wanted originally to just slash at the bishop’s throat when the chance offered itself, but it was he who had come up with the idea of making the bishop suffer for the same period as poor Henry had. Henry Fitzwilliam had been arrested and forced to languish in that hideous dungeon for thirty-nine weeks. They didn’t tell her exactly when he died. To think of it! So long a time, and all the while not knowing whether he might be released to freedom and prosperity once more, or led out to be hanged before a mob of baying churls. Poor, darling Henry, to have lain in that tiny, noisome, wet chamber all that time. It had been winter when he finally expired. She thought it was the cold which had done it, but it was hard to be sure. There were so many natural causes of death in gaol: the cold, starvation, fever, thirst – all could be listed as ‘natural death’ in the coroner’s court.
How long now? She had sent the first note at the beginning of the year, but it had reached the bishop on the second Monday before Candlemass. That meant it was already thirty-four weeks since the first note had arrived. She only had another five weeks to worry about. And then, ideally on the Wednesday, the anniversary of the delivery of the first note, she could kill him. Thus would poor Henry be avenged.
Henry would be proud of her, to see how she had planned this and managed to get matters to the stage where she could soon end the rule of the bishop. She only prayed that she would be able to strike the blow. Five weeks. It was not a very long time. She had only that long in order to plan his murder. And it would have to be a perfect murder. She did not want to die in the process of avenging her poor husbands.
It would be hard. She would have to try to penetrate his chamber while he was there more or less undefended. He had guards at all hours though, so that would be problematic. She might be able to poison him, but that was too hit-or-miss. Better to do it with a knife, as she had originally planned. But how? In the chamber would be best, but not while he was praying or at some other form of religious duty.
That was her greatest fear, that she could be consigning herself to hell for all time by killing a bishop, but the crimes of which he and other clerics were guilty were so clear and undeniable that the offence she might give would surely be lessened. His theft of her dower must itself be powerful in mitigation – if there were such a thing as mitigation in the eyes of God.
There had only ever been one other bishop murdered, of course. Saint Thomas Becket. He was one of those rare beings, a truly pious man, slain by the king of the time. His killers were punished, but in this case, removing a man who was so hated and feared throughout the realm, she must be looked upon with more favour.