The Bishop Must Die: (Knights Templar 28)

by Michael Jecks

  The bishop peered at his dean. His poor sight was a sore irritation at times like these when he wanted to see the dean’s expression more clearly.

  Eyes narrowed, he growled: ‘Don’t try to fob me off, Alfred. We know each other too well for that. Now tell me the truth: have you heard about the rector?’

  Seeing the look on his bishop’s face, the dean decided to give up the stammering speech which he used as a device of concealment. Candour was safer when Stapledon was in this mood. ‘My lord bishop, if you mean the rector of St Simon’s …’

  ‘Who else could I mean? Tell me, pray. I should like to know which other rector is so foul in the sight of God. What?’

  This last was addressed to an anxious servant who had sidled up to him. ‘I thought you might like a little wine, my lord bishop?’

  ‘Put it down and get out!’ While the man set the tray on the sideboard and hurriedly scuttled out again, Bishop Walter took a deep breath. ‘Tell me what actually happened. So far as you can, anyway. If you can remember anything now,’ he added snidely.

  ‘Um, it would seem, my lord bishop, that this fellow was enamoured of a young lady in his congregation. Events took their natural course.’

  ‘No, no, Dean! It is not natural for a rector to take a woman at all, let alone a married one! Was she willing?’

  ‘I fear that the rector’s lust was entirely his own. The poor lady in question was not a – ah – willing participant.’

  ‘And he also tried to extort money from her husband?’

  ‘Distressingly, I believe that to be the case.’

  ‘So this fellow captured the woman, raped her, and then demanded money from her husband to have her returned. And he took the money and kept the woman. Yes?’

  ‘I fear so.’

  ‘What sort of man is this rector? A cretin who does not understand the foul nature of his crimes? A fool so ill educated that he cannot appreciate the correct behaviour appropriate to his cloth? He should be taken at once. I wish him here.’

  ‘Yes. But there are difficulties.’

  ‘Enlighten me.’

  ‘Rector Paul is the youngest son of Sir Walter de Cockington.’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘His brother is Sir James. The sheriff.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘It could make for tetchy relations in the city, were we to have him brought here.’

  ‘You think we should allow him to continue in this manner?’

  ‘No, my lord bishop. But I do think that for us to bring him here to your court may well be problematic.’

  ‘Dean, do you condone his behaviour?’

  Dean Alfred gave his bishop a long, contemplative stare. ‘Not even remotely, my lord bishop. No. I personally would be more than content to throw the piece of shit to the dogs. He is foolish, arrogant to a fault, and seems to delight in shaming the Church.’

  ‘Then why do you hesitate? Remove him from his post without delay.’

  ‘His brother is a companion to Sir Hugh le Despenser, so I have heard,’ the dean murmured.

  ‘That I can believe,’ the bishop grunted, and strode to his chair, dropping on to it heavily. ‘The Despenser has friends all over the realm. Men who would take what they wish from anyone, and never pay their debts. Murderers and thieves take the protection of a lord’s livery, and are secure. No man dares take the law against another who is protected by Despenser, the king’s own friend!’

  The bishop knew Sir Hugh le Despenser only too well. Once, Sir Hugh had been an insignificant young knight, but then, after the barons of the realm had won a dispute with the king, suddenly he was hurled into the centre of national politics. Installed in the king’s household as chamberlain, he was set to monitor the king’s expenditure – as a spy. Before long, he had become King Edward’s most trusted friend and adviser. The bishop had grown to know him when Despenser had seemed to be working to the benefit of all. Now his true colours were on display for all to see. Except the king.

  Many suggested that this was because the two were lovers. The Despenser was married to the king’s own niece, Eleanor, and his father elevated to the earldom of Winchester, while he greedily took every opportunity to enrich himself at the expense of others. No one could speak to the king without first paying Sir Hugh; no suit would be presented, were Sir Hugh not rewarded. In all the realm nothing could happen, unless Sir Hugh le Despenser was in favour. He was the most powerful man, save only the king.

  And any who upset him would suffer dire consequences.

  ‘It would be dangerous to try to harm a man with such connections,’ the dean said quietly.

  ‘The man who has lost his wife – is he important?’ the bishop asked after a moment.

  ‘No. His name is Alured de Gydie. A man of no significance.’

  ‘So he has no power to fetch his woman back?’

  ‘None whatsoever. He is a cooper – a man of some skill, I understand – but not rich.’

  ‘And his woman – she is still held by the rector?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The bishop drummed his hands on his table. ‘The Despenser is a rich and dangerous opponent.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  ‘So we should act swiftly. Bring the rector here. If the ransom is lost, it will go evil with that fellow! I will not have priests in my diocese acting in such a high-handed manner, and I do not care who his friends are. If the sheriff wishes to complain, he can come and speak with me. I shall have some choice words for him if he tries to protect a brother who is so steeped in wrongdoing that he thinks he may steal a man’s wife and defile her. In Christ’s name, I will not tolerate such behaviour! Go and fetch him to my gaol, Dean.’

  ‘With pleasure, my lord bishop.’

  ‘And Dean?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Do not forget, my friend, I know Despenser very well. He is crafty and dangerous – but so am I!’

  Chapter Four

  Exeter

  He had to visit it, just so that he could say later that he had seen the place. And now, sitting in the tavern, Roger Crok wondered why it had seemed so important to come here and try to bring home to the bishop how his offences had hurt so many. The man was incapable of human emotions. He had proved that already.

  Bishop Walter II was a massively powerful man. He was second only to Despenser and the king in wealth and prestige. Somehow, walking to the cathedral and seeing it in that half-reconstructed state, had brought home to Roger Crok just how great this bishop truly was. It made his rage against the man seem pointless; someone with such authority was impregnable in his palace. The man was there trying to rebuild the great church in this city, responsible for vast sums of money, commanding hundreds of men for his own protection – he was surely far beyond Roger Crok’s feeble attempts to hurt him.

  Still, he must try. The bishop had been the cause of so much harm in recent years, to all in the country. It was not only Roger himself and his mother Isabella who had suffered. No, his stepfather was as much a victim as any other, even if it had not been the bishop who had seen to his death, because the bishop had maltreated Henry Fitzwilliam’s widow and stolen her lands from her. That made him utterly contemptible. To rob a widow was the act of a felon, a paltry draw-latch; he was a man of no honour.

  But it was more than that to Roger. Now that his mother had seen her little manors stolen from her, entirely to satisfy this intolerable bishop’s greed, and at the same time Roger himself had been declared outlaw, it was not enough that the bishop should be fought in courts. He ought to have the depth of his crimes brought home to him. And that was why Roger was here, to make sure that the bishop was tormented in the same manner as his mother.

  Roger called for another pot of cider and drank deeply. The drink flowed into his blood like liquid fire, and soon his fingers had recovered their feeling, his face felt hot from the great fire in the hearth in the middle of the room, and his temper became more sanguine.

  The bishop might do some little good
here in Exeter, but that meant nothing. It was Roger Crok’s task to make him suffer, and in God’s name, in God’s good time, he would see Walter Stapledon endure the torments of the devil, if he could.

  Bishop’s Palace, Exeter

  Once he was alone again, the bishop left his hall and walked to his private chapel. His chaplain was not present – he did not have need of the fellow today – and the bishop knelt alone in that quiet chamber, his eyes fixed on the crucifix.

  It was the best way to think, here, abased before God. Here he could empty his mind and concentrate on the problems to hand. And remind himself who he really was.

  There had been a time when he had not thought himself capable of rising in the Church. When he was younger, he had assumed that his brothers, Robert, Richard and Thomas, would be the successful ones, and he, Walter, would remain as a minor chaplain, perhaps a vicar, if he grew fortunate.

  That was why, when he had been young, he had spent so much time looking at others and seeing how he might help them, even if sometimes his motives were called into question. In later years, others complained about him, especially Londoners, because they blamed him for the Eyre of five years ago, when he had been the man behind the court held to investigate all the rights and privileges of the city. However, that was not his doing. Yes, he was the figurehead, the Lord High Treasurer, when the king demanded his inquest, but it was not his choice.

  There were many who loathed him. In God’s name, so many! He had made enemies wherever he went, something that sometimes made him regret ever taking a leading position in the realm. But someone had to, and he was sure that at least he would be able to do some good.

  Some might dispute that, no doubt. They would think that his sole aim had been to make money for himself, but they didn’t realise that he took nothing. He was a frugal man, with little need for fripperies. He liked some comforts, it was true, and he had great need of his spectacles, but beyond that, he was not cocooned in gold, swaddled in silver, or laden with tin. Those who criticised were all too keen to suggest that a bishop lived in luxury all his life. Well! They should try covering a diocese like his, and getting around it in order to view all the priests and make sure that they were complying with their duties. They would soon give up any notion of luxurious living.

  Yes, he had enemies, but they were for the most part irrational. London’s mob was one thing, but the others who felt that he had unfairly deprived them of property or chattels had no idea what he was struggling with every day: debt. Massive, incomprehensible debt that would crush a man less determined. He had to grab all the treasure he could, just to maintain the steady flow into the cathedral’s coffers and keep the building works going. For what use would his cathedral be, without the final efforts? The stonemasons wouldn’t remain here without their money. The carpenters, joiners, plumbers, ropemakers and tilers, all would leave in an instant if they couldn’t see their pay or their beer turning up.

  That was his biggest fear. The great church had been adequate two hundred years or more ago, but it had to develop to cope with the growing population of the city. So some fifty years ago, a farsighted bishop had taken the decision to raze and rebuild it, in sections. First to go was the Norman eastern end and, while the building works continued, the canons moved into the middle of the church. Only recently had that part of the church been completed, and now the new choir stalls and bishop’s throne had been installed in the new quire, before the workmen turned their efforts to the western part of the building.

  But demolishing a building was almost as expensive as purchasing the new stones, the timbers, the poles for the scaffolding – it was all hideously costly, and there was a constant need for more funds. Bishop Walter would not go down in history as the bishop who failed the diocese. He wanted to be known as one of the patrons of the church, and had already chosen the spot where his body would lie when he had died, a position prominently located in the quire behind the high altar. That would be suitable enough for him, the man who had increased the money given by the bishop to the church almost six-fold.

  What would he be remembered for? he wondered. Perhaps for his gifts to the church. Better that he be remembered for that than for his time as Treasurer. His efforts to improve the education of so many would be a good legacy, but how many would recall that effort after his death? That was the sort of thing that the individuals would remember, not the majority. The majority, he sighed, would only remember his taking their money, and would naturally assume that he had taken it for his own purse, not seeing the new cathedral as it rose about them. But that was the way of men and there was little he could do about it.

  Ach! There was no reason for him to brood. He was like an old hen, squatting here alone in his chapel. There was work to be done, and he should carry on with it.

  He rose stiffly to his feet, massaging his left leg where the knee joint appeared to be growing ever more reluctant to unbend, and after making his obeisance, walked from the chapel and back into his room. His steward was not in the room, so Bishop Walter hobbled to the sideboard and poured himself a large goblet of strong red wine. Smacking his lips appreciatively, he collapsed in his comfortable little chair, and grunted with satisfaction.

  It was then that he saw how the pile of documents was disordered. There was a lump in one corner, and it made him frown. Setting his goblet down, he reached across. Moving the parchments, he found himself staring at a little purse. A plain, cream-coloured purse, made of some soft skin, and with a curious dark stain that marred the outer edge. He took it up. It was extraordinarily light, and clearly held no money. Intrigued, he pulled the drawstring open and peeped inside. There was a small scrap of parchment, and he felt his eyebrows rise when he saw that there was writing on it.

  He took it out and read it, then felt his scalp crawl, and the flesh of his skull tighten, as he absorbed the vile message.

  Tuesday, morrow of the Feast of St Sebastian*

  Furnshill

  Sir Baldwin de Furnshill stalked from his house and stood a moment, snuffing the early morning air.

  It was his daily custom to walk to the pasture and practise with his sword. The idea of training, constantly improving his skills, was ingrained from his days in the Holy Land, where he had joined the Poor Fellow Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon – the Knights Templar.

  Now approaching his middle fifties, there were few men of his age who could compare with him in speed or strength. Other, younger men might be able to dispute with him, but he was confident that his wiliness would protect him in a fight against a more powerful opponent. He had fought often enough. There were wounds all over his body, from knives, from swords, and from crossbow bolts – and he had survived all. The most obvious was the scar at his cheek, which ran down to the thin beard that followed the line of his jaw. It was peppered with grey now, but his hair was gradually fading entirely. It was only a few years ago that he had found the first white strays, and now the whole of his scalp looked like a snowed hillside. There was dark beneath, but white overlaid all.

  Of course, he was not remotely vain, but it was still a slight shock to realise that he was growing old. He didn’t feel it.

  His house was quiet still, this early, a thin smoke rising from the fire. Inside, he knew, his wife would be preparing food with their maidservant, while a second helped his children out of their beds. Edgar, his servant for so many years, would be outside with a groom, feeding and petting the horses. It was, Baldwin considered, an idyllic scene. One worth keeping, one worth protecting. And that was why he must practise. To make sure that it remained like that: safe and serene in this world of passion and blood. This world which appeared to be falling apart so quickly.

  That thought was enough to give him the resolve he needed. He stood, his sword in the outside guard, his right fist punched out, the sword’s blade angled upwards to protect his body, high enough so that he could peer beneath it at his imaginary opponent, and then he moved.

  Feet fixed firmly at fir
st, he swung down, chopping at his enemy’s weapon, then lifting his sword to block the responding attack, swooping it low to hack at legs, thrusting hard, retreating and lifting the weapon to knock a stabbing blade to one side. He shifted his feet, all the while moving his sword incessantly, blocking, guarding, stabbing and hacking, making use of the main guards: the dexter; the sinister, with the right arm passing across his body to protect it, while his sword was angled up over his line of sight; the unicorn guard, in which he gripped the hilt before his groin, arm outstretched, so that the sword’s point was at his eye level; and the hanging guard, the one he believed was the only true guard, his arm outstretched, his sword’s hilt held high, while the sword’s tip pointed towards the enemy, angled so that he could sweep it across to the right, chop to the left, or perform any number of manoeuvres.

  Daily practice was a part of him. If the weather was too inclement, he would resort to standing in his barn, but for the most part he would come here, feeling the blood singing in his veins as he thrust and slashed. And every so often a scene would intrude upon his mind. A picture of bloody faces, of corpses lying in the rubble, of his friends writhing as they tried to hold their shattered bodies together.

  Those memories had been returning more often recently. There was a terrible trepidation in him, a growing conviction that his family, his manor – even the whole shire – was threatened. The scenes in his mind were from years ago, from the last days of Acre, when that wonderful Christian city had been overrun and razed by the crazed hordes of the Mameluke King. The latter had succeeded in destroying a tower on the wall, and poured in through the breach. Baldwin himself was injured and was pulled away by the Templars, installed on one of their ships, and taken to safety as the city fell. It was gratitude at having his life saved that had made him join the Order.

  That was many years ago now – thirty-five, all told. Since then, his Order had been arrested, tortured, their wealth stolen, and the Knights Templar disbanded. All because the King of France and the pope had wanted to take that money for themselves.