‘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.’
Simon nodded. ‘Very well. But Sir Peregrine must keep her close by him all day next Wednesday. If she does try to make an attempt on Bishop Walter’s life, I will have no choice but to seek her out, and kill her.’
Roger Crok smiled. ‘Gentlemen, I am deeply honoured that you are being so generous to my mother. Especially after you managed to break my head in so magnificent a manner.’
‘That was not us,’ Simon said. ‘The guards at the gate said that there were two men who crept up on you and presented you to them.’
Roger’s ease fled in an instant. ‘Damn them! Folville and la Zouche!’
Chapter Forty-Four
Second Monday after the Feast of St Michael*
Tower of London
Simon and Baldwin saw to their own horses as the bishop’s guard prepared themselves.
It was a raw morning. The wind was howling up the Thames, promising snow and ice before too long, and hoar frost limed the grass even here in the Tower’s yard.
Tugging on the cinch strap, Baldwin looked at his stallion’s eye. Waiting a moment, he jabbed his thumb up into the mount’s belly, and yanked on the leather again, tightening it two more notches. ‘Old devil,’ he muttered as he threaded the leather strap through its restrainer. ‘Why do I have to do that every day?’
Simon was already in the saddle as Baldwin finished, checking the straps of the reins and harness. ‘I hope we’ve done the right thing, Baldwin.’
‘I am sure that we have,’ he said with assurance. He set a foot in the stirrup and swung himself up, gazing down speculatively. It felt secure enough. ‘I think we have saved Sir Peregrine from making a terrible error, while also protecting a woman who is in every way a wonderful mate for him.’
‘What of the son?’
Baldwin shrugged. ‘I would think that he could be released soon.’
‘Hugh will be glad,’ Simon said. He had set Hugh and Rob to guard their prisoner, and although Roger Crok was probably peevish at being held against his will, Hugh had made his own feelings abundantly clear on the matter. He wanted to be out of the hall and off to the tavern at the corner of the castle’s yard, not stuck in here with Crok.
After some discussion, Simon and Baldwin had agreed that Sir Peregrine would escort Isabella, Roger Crok’s mother, back to Devon, and that Roger himself would be held, on the promise of his not attempting to escape, at Simon’s residence. There seemed little need to worry about his attempting to run away, for with the lump swelling his head, he was incapable of fast riding or making off on his feet, and clearly incapable of attempting an attack on the bishop. He could barely rise without the colour draining from his face. The blow that had knocked him down at the castle’s entrance was a cruel one.
With both Isabella Fitzwilliam and Roger out of the way, Simon and Baldwin were feeling a great deal more comfortable. The threat from Isabella and the two men had been effectively eradicated, and there were no other sons of hers to fear.
However, it was one thing to remove a threat, and another to remove all threats.
‘I don’t like this,’ Simon muttered again.
Baldwin grunted. They were riding with the guard to take the bishop to the Archbishop’s Palace at Lambeth, where there was to be a great convocation of bishops, with the intention of discussing how to bring about peace and some semblance of stability once more. The madness and mob-rule had to stop.
‘The city is close to riot,’ Simon said.
The mood of the populace was clear enough as they rode out over the moat and left the Tower behind. Simon was uncomfortable in a steel breastplate and armour over his legs and thighs. It pinched at his flanks, and compressed his paunch, but he was glad that Baldwin had prevailed upon him to wear something. All around was quiet with the false peace of a summer’s day before a storm. The men and women who could be seen were all glowering and disrespectful as the men trotted past Bishopesgate and up towards the great bridge. The bishop himself was clad all in steel — he had needed no encouragement to dress himself in protective clothing.
There were fires in the road at three places. The people had behaved as Londoners always would, building great mounds of rubbish and setting them alight. There were a few children warming themselves at the second of them, but at the others there was no crowd, which was itself a relief. Simon was beginning to hope that they might make their way to the London Bridge without injury, just as the first attack was launched.
A man bellowed, ‘For the queen!’ and hurled a lump of rock at them. It whirled past Simon’s face and hit the man-at-arms on his left, the fellow giving a loud curse that was audible over the ringing sound of rock on steel, and then there was a general hissing of steel as all the men in the guard drew their weapons. In the brief silence afterwards, Simon heard the bishop’s voice telling a clerk to find out who had been hit. He would be given a penance later for his blasphemy.
That rock was the signal for all hell to break loose. A scrambling mass of men threw themselves at the guard from the alleys, shouting and swearing, faces distorted with rage and hatred and fear, hands gripping bills and daggers and long knives, butchers in their leather aprons wielding cleavers, a mason with a great hammer, and a smith with a gleaming blade that looked as though it was fresh from the forge.
Simon found his horse rearing, and was hard pressed merely to keep his seat, but he bellowed, kicked, spurred and cajoled until the beast came under some sort of control, and by then he was in the middle of the press. Men tried to stab him, and he realised with a shock of horror that they meant to drag him from his horse and kill him. He had to swing his sword about, flailing ineffectually, just to clear a path. Others weren’t so fortunate: he saw one guard hauled from his horse, to disappear beneath a mass of bodies — and then there was a scream and a gout of blood, and a cheer of animal success.
‘Baldwin! Baldwin!’ he shouted, and saw his old friend at last.
He was calm, to all appearances, and fitted to his saddle as firmly as a blade welded to a hilt. The horse was an extension of the knight, swivelling and kicking and biting, while Baldwin used his sword only when necessary. He caught sight of Simon and, recognising his friend’s alarm, immediately glanced over his shoulder to see that the bishop was safe. Then he moved towards Simon.