‘Did they not realise that no one was to be allowed in?’ Simon asked.
‘Oh, they knew, yes. But the king is here in the town, and when they knew the bishop was visiting the king, they didn’t bother to protect this chamber, reasoning that he was being guarded by proximity to the king. The fools did not think about a man entering the chamber here.’
In a flash, Simon and William had the same idea. One man had been up here for some while, and could have installed a dangerous device to hurt or kill the bishop. They exchanged a look, and some innate understanding of the dread word assassin was communicated.
But although the two searched the room assiduously, looking behind tapestries, inside the chest, behind the cupboards and even beneath the bed, there was clearly no instrument nor agent of death.
‘That is a relief,’ William said, ‘but it still proves that it is too dangerous for you here. Exeter is no better, because the fellow managed to hide himself there before. Perhaps he has a relative or friend who lives there? The best thing to do would be to go on in the king’s company. You would be safer in London, in the Tower. There are too many men-at-arms and guards there, for this Paul to ever gain access. You should be safe there.’
‘I refuse to skulk,’ the bishop said.
‘Oh well, if you prefer to walk about as a living target for any disgruntled assassin with a bow, Uncle,’ William said sweetly, ‘you go ahead. You won’t have to do so for long, I’m sure.’
The bishop glowered at him, but did not argue. There was no disputing his logic.
Simon looked from one to the other. ‘Is that decided, then? My lord bishop, you will go on to London?’
‘So it would seem. But for how long? Oh, this is ridiculous!’
‘Not for too long,’ William said. ‘Only until we catch this fellow and put an end to these threats.’
‘And meanwhile I should go to my bed,’ Simon said. ‘I must return to Portchester, for my wife will wonder what has happened to me, else.’
‘Simon, I would be glad of your aid,’ the bishop began.
‘My lord, I have been away from my wife too much already in the last months. She needs my companionship, and I hers. I am sorry, but I must go home as soon as I may.’
‘The country is teetering on the brink of disaster,’ the bishop said. ‘I know that you will wish to be with your wife, Simon, but I would greatly appreciate your help, and your strong right arm, in my entourage.’
‘I have to return to my wife,’ Simon stated doggedly. ‘I am sorry, my lord bishop, but my family must be first. There is no one else to protect them.’
‘I am sorry to hear it. But of course you’re quite right,’ the bishop said. He sighed and asked William to fetch John to serve wine, before addressing Simon again. ‘And now to the audience with the king. He says that he would like Paul de Cockington to return to Portchester, and there to deliver messages to the Commissioners of Array, to Sir John Felton, and to the shipmasters gathered there. I shall recommend you take him back with you.’
‘There were not many ships when I was there,’ Simon said with a faint frown.
‘You will find that altered when you return, I think. The king has ordered all the ships in the area to converge on Portchester. There will be some hundred and fifty or more, if he is right. And the Commissioners of Array will be collecting many more men. You already know the reason for the force being gathered. The king is determined to send men to find his son, to rescue him, and return him safe to England.’
Vigil of the Feast of the Pausatio of the Blessed Virgin Mary*
Tower of London
In the grassy space near the stables, where the horses were often allowed to browse, there was an old fallen trunk that had not yet been cut up into logs, and here Isabella found herself on many mornings, enjoying the sun.
Lady Isabella Fitzwilliam had been so glad to reach the city, because although it had been a delightful journey with the knight, Sir Peregrine’s kindness and generosity had made her feel stabs of guilt. This man did not deserve to be treated as a mere tool, a crowbar designed to pry open a gap and let her in to hurt her enemy. He deserved much better. With luck, he would find a good woman before long who would be able to give him the love he craved.
For herself, there was no love left. She had squandered her love on both husbands: squandered because neither lived long enough. They had been so young when they died that even now she was hardly ancient. Her flesh may have lost its youthful colour and softness, but for a woman of two-and-forty, she was well preserved. Even so, a man would ever look to a young filly, not a stable old nag, and she knew that she would never remarry.
But Sir Peregrine was a most attractive fellow, as well as being good and kind, loving and loyal. She could feel quite warm towards him, if she was not so set upon her course already.
Exeter
Edith set Henry on the bed while she bent to retrieve the clothes she had dropped.
There was a thump, and then a moment later, a shrill squeal of pain. Spinning around, she saw that little Henry had fallen from the bed and landed on the floor. Already, a great red wound was colouring his brow, not bloody, but a bruise beneath his precious skin. She could not move at first, her feet rooted to the boards where she stood, and then she went to him in a hideous daze, picking him up and rocking him, kissing his head, her eyes wide with horror.
She was not even a good mother. She was worthless.
Two Tuesdays before the Feast of the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin*
Tower of London
It was fortunate that Peter had managed to provide her with a son, Isabella thought, and a son of whom she could be proud, because without Peter, her life would have been empty indeed.
Roger had been such a good boy, and now he remained loyal to his oaths, she was sure. He was so like his father. And then of course there was Henry’s son, too. Although Ranulf had been more reluctant to become involved, when he saw what had happened to his father, and to Roger his half-brother, he had come to hate with a virulence and determination which equalled her own.
She wandered about the inner courtyard, idly watching the way that the clouds of smoke from all the fires in the city ambled past in a procession of fumes. It was enormously thrilling to see all this, and to know that she was living in the largest city in the kingdom. Perhaps it was the largest in Christendom?
A cloud formed before her eyes high overhead, and she gaped in wonder. It seemed to her that she was watching a ship under full sail, buffeted by the waves and the wind, thrown about. She blinked, and it was gone. In its place was a face, bearded and smiling, and for an instant she was sure that it was her dead husband Henry, who winked at her as though to say he approved of her plans.
It was enough to bring a serenity to her that eased the almost perpetual frown on her face. The idea that he approved was glorious. She would do all in her power to continue. It would have been good to confide in someone, but that was impossible. Even poor Sir Peregrine …
Why had she immediately thought of him? After seeing her late husband’s face in the clouds, it felt almost adulterous. She had never been a traitor, not to either husband, not to her family, to her peasants, her king. She had been betrayed by the scheming bishop, and by others in her time, but she herself had remained loyal.
Her reverie was shattered by the rude blaring of trumpets, and she turned with a start, half expecting to see the king himself arrive. Picking up her skirts, she hurried over the grass to the parapet, and here she paused to look down into the entranceway.