The Bishop Must Die: (Knights Templar 28)

by Michael Jecks

‘I can quite understand.’

  She doubted that. This knight banneret was a powerful man. He had the right to call on a number of knights and command them in battle, he was a king’s official in his capacity as coroner, and she knew he had the ear of powerful men like Sir Hugh de Courtenay, the baron of Devon. And yet Sir Peregrine had never had to endure the sort of fight into which she had thrown herself so wholeheartedly. He had no means of appreciating the dangerous waters on which she floated. At any time a sudden squall could overwhelm her and sink her entirely. The bishop might grow irritable and seek to have her removed. She was under no illusions about her security in this dangerous land of England. Here she was nothing more than a poor nonentity. She had no one to fight for her. If she wanted her lands back, she must take them back. But being a woman, she could not take them by force. Guile and the law were her tools.

  ‘You look sad, madam,’ Sir Peregrine said.

  ‘I miss my husbands. And my son.’

  ‘I understand,’ he repeated.

  This time, she rounded on him, stung by his presumption. ‘You understand? And how do you think you can understand, when I have lost so much? You, a noble knight, full of pride and authority. I have lost two husbands and my boy … No, you can have no idea how I feel!’

  ‘I never managed to marry. I was in love three times, but each time …’ Sir Peregrine’s voice grew quieter, until he was whispering. ‘They died. My last love, I had hoped to marry, but she too … And she left me her children, whom I love. I miss them when I am away from home for too long. This feels like a very long absence. It is more than four weeks since I last spoke with them. So you see, I do understand. I have lost my loves, and now my children too.’

  ‘Why are you here, then? Why do you not return to them, to make sure that they are all right and that you have not lost their affection?’

  ‘I need have no concern on that. If they hold any affection for me, I am fortunate – if they do not, well, no matter. I do what I can for them in memory of their mother. It is enough.’

  ‘Why do you not go to them?’

  ‘Duty. And a feeling that my place is here, at Tiverton, for now. I am an experienced man. I know that the next months will be difficult, and the idea that I should hide myself away and try to avoid the great matters which are set to threaten our little realm, that would feel like cowardice. When all is said and done, deeds and honour mean everything. To behave with integrity, that is what counts. And a knight who runs off to spend more time with his family, no matter how beloved they may be, he would be a poor fellow. I cannot do that.’

  He spoke quietly but with passion, and in the stillness she had to catch a sob at the sight of this decent, kind man gazing out over the valley with such sad longing.

  Furnshill

  Baldwin broke his fast, and afterwards he sat in his hall and listened to three disputes between villeins on his lands. None was serious, nor did they require the wisdom of Solomon to resolve, but they were the kind of little bickerings that could fester for a while and then rise up and cause real trouble.

  So Baldwin listened carefully to the men as they recounted their tales of petty insults and mindless foolishness, before settling their arguments in the best manner he could, trying always to balance his justice with the need for the King’s Peace to be upheld.

  He could not help but wonder whether such problems would rank so highly in a few weeks. Were the country to be invaded by the queen with, as had been alleged, a French force to support her, would these same stolid peasants stand in line side-by-side, or would they turn against each other, remembering a slight given months or years before? He had the strong impression that these men of his would throw aside any ill-will, but it was hard to be sure of anything in these uncertain times.

  ‘You have fought, haven’t you?’ he asked one of the older men as he dismissed the last of the claims and the rest of the petitioners filed from his hall.

  Saul of Cadbury squinted up at him. He was not so old as Baldwin, but his body had been shaped by his work. He had the bent back which labour in the fields had given him, while his hands were large and powerful. Fortunately, the expression in his eyes was always amiable. Baldwin had only ever seen him angry once, and that was when a small bull had butted him into a wall. Saul had bellowed, ‘Ye auld bugger!’ and punched the beast so hard that it retreated, blinking. It was only later that Saul realised the bull had broken his rib.

  ‘I’ve had my share. I took my billhook up to the muster when the old king wanted men for Wales.’

  ‘What of the men now, Saul? What’s the mood among the villeins?’ Baldwin asked. He beckoned Edgar and passed Saul a large mazer filled with wine.

  Saul was pensive a moment. ‘They’ll fight for you, I reckon. If a man tried to overrun our lands, they’d all fight at your side, Sir Baldwin.’

  ‘You know the rumours.’

  ‘We all do,’ Saul said, his weather-beaten face cracking into a smile. ‘The queen was a good lady, but we follow you.’

  Baldwin watched him leave a few moments later with a frown of concern.

  ‘Sir? Do you want more wine?’ Edgar said.

  ‘No, no. I’ve had enough,’ Baldwin said. He was not so abstemious as once he had been, but he had more work to do. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Saul is right. The people will fight for their lord, and that is you. Although I would be happier were I at your side.’

  ‘Petronilla wouldn’t, though. And nor would I. I only wish Simon was …’

  Edgar looked at him. ‘You could try to see him.’

  ‘I don’t think so. He doesn’t want to speak with me.’

  ‘Sir Baldwin, you don’t know that.’

  ‘I hurt his feelings badly. I think I was right, but that will have little impact on him. If he had forgiven me, I would have heard from him by now. The fact that we’ve seen nothing of Simon, Meg nor Hugh is significant. And I do not know – perhaps I couldn’t forgive him if he had endangered my Richalda’s life. Even if afterwards he was proved to be correct, how would I respond? Maybe it is better that we do not meet again for a while.’

  ‘You have so many friends you can afford to lose your best?’ Edgar said pointedly, and left.

  Baldwin was about to call after him, but then subsided back into his chair.

  He knew all about losing friends; so many had died over the years – in Acre, in skirmishes against Moslems in Spain, and then in the terror of the inquisition against the Templars. If ever a man should have grown experienced to loss, it was Baldwin.

  Yet in recent times he had been more fortunate. He had been able to settle here, in the little manor in Furnshill, and marry his lovely Jeanne who had given him Richalda and little Baldwin. In his professional life he had been fortunate, too, being granted the post of Keeper of the King’s Peace, and regularly serving as a Justice of Gaol Delivery too. He was busy, and he should have felt fulfilled.

  But he could not. Even now, he remembered the worries that had assailed him during the night.

  Pictures of death and anguish seared his mind.

  Chapter Seven

  Wednesday before Candlemas*

  Exeter

  The bishop rose from his chair as Sir Baldwin walked into the room. ‘Please, Sir Baldwin, take your ease here near the fire. It is hardly inclement for the time of year, but I confess that as I grow older, the chill sits less happily on my bones. This year seems dreadfully cold.’

  Baldwin smiled and took the proffered seat. ‘I admit that the fire looks most welcoming,’ he said.

  The bishop motioned to John de Padington, who brought a large goblet and ladled mulled cider into it, passing it to Baldwin before moving away.

  Baldwin took it, blowing on the surface. ‘That smells divine.’

  ‘Then let us hope that such refreshment will be available to us in the afterlife,’ the bishop said with a thin smile.

  Baldwin had ridden to Exeter to meet with the sheriff, a man whom he cordially despised, a
nd had broken his journey homewards to see his old friend the bishop, but now he looked at the older man with a measuring intensity.

  ‘I have heard it said,’ Bishop Walter said, ‘that you, Sir Baldwin, can perceive a man’s thoughts by studying him. Your eyes are the most feared tools of justice available in the whole of Devon, my friend. Why do you observe me so closely?’

  ‘My lord bishop, I meant no insult to you,’ Baldwin said with an easy grin. ‘You look anxious though, and I wondered whether you have received ill news.’

  ‘Ill enough. A rector of mine has misbehaved, but I have had him held in the gaol, so that should resolve that.’

  ‘Would that be the brother of the sheriff? That odious little prickle, Paul de Cockington?’

  ‘Rarely has a man had a more suitable name. You have heard of him, of his offences? Yes – well, the purblind fool can stay in my gaol for a while, until I decide what sort of punishment to exact. Although I confess that other matters seem more pressing just now.’

  The bishop closed his eyes a moment, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. Then he stood and walked over to the table. Selecting a parchment, he peered down at it, then, with a mutter of frustration, picked up his spectacles and opened them out at the hinge. The two lenses separated, and he held them over his nose as he traced the words on the page. Nodding, he brought the sheet to Baldwin and gave it to him. ‘Look at that.’

  The knight had been taught to read and write when he was a youth, but the writing on this sheet was difficult to decipher. He held it up, so that the light from the window caught it more fully, and narrowed his eyes to read. ‘From the king, then. And it’s an order …’

  ‘Yes. To stop all communications leaving the country. All letters which could be of use to the queen are to be sought, discovered, and their source traced.’

  Baldwin frowned at the sheet. ‘But how could any man search all the goods leaving Exeter? Let alone Topsham, Exmouth, Dartmouth … Dear heaven, does the king propose to search all the bales of wool leaving the country? All the barrels being loaded at London? There are not the men in the land to do such a job. He would need half the peasants just to search.’

  ‘It is impossible, yes,’ the bishop sighed. He rubbed his nose again. ‘But the instructions are clear enough. We must have men installed in all the ports or earn the king’s disfavour.’

  ‘Are you thinking of Simon?’ Baldwin said.

  ‘Who else?’ the Bishop asked rhetorically. ‘This is a warning to me because I am an adviser to the king – but when the warrants are signed and arrive here in the hands of the sheriff, I will have to find the best men for the job.’

  ‘Simon has suffered enough in the king’s service. Try to leave him from this, if you can, my lord.’

  Stapledon eyed him, and then nodded. ‘Very well. Unless I am specifically asked about him, I will not mention him at all.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Baldwin nodded. ‘This writing – it is not like those of other commissions and warrants I have seen. The writing is exceedingly poor.’

  ‘More and more are arriving by the week. I fear that the king’s clerks are strained to write out so many in so short a space of time. And when they have time, the writing is little better. Mayhap it is concern.’

  Baldwin looked at him sharply. It was plain enough that the bishop meant that the men of the king’s household were fearful. ‘You think an invasion could come soon?’

  ‘I have heard men say that there is a fleet off Normandy. It could sail in less than a month. I do not say that I believe it – I have no corroboration – but it shows the thinking in London. And just because there are no ships in Normandy doesn’t mean that a fleet is not to be gathered.’

  Baldwin felt his heart chill. This was worse than he had feared. In all the time he had known the bishop, he had never seen him so downcast. Even the last year when they had escorted the young Duke of Aquitaine, Edward, the king’s heir, to visit his mother, and death threats had been issued against the bishop, even then Stapledon had remained suave and calm. Now there was a distraction to his manner, as though the threat of invasion was a constant weight on his mind.

  ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ Baldwin asked.

  ‘There is only one thing we can all do,’ Bishop Walter said, ‘and that is prepare for war. Do you return home and see to your men, sir. You may have need of armed force before long. When the array is commanded, I am sure that the king will ask Sir Hugh de Courtenay to take charge with me of this part of the country, and I will wish to delegate the task to you, so that I myself can ride to the side of the king. It is where I should be,’ he added quietly.

  He could not meet Baldwin’s eyes.

  Church of the Holy Trinity, Teigh

  Richard de Folville winced as he clambered upright. Kneeling to pray was painful since that bastard’s whelp had come to visit. Ranulf Pestel, he called himself. Well Richard called him Rancid Pestilence. The shit! Richard’s leg was sore, his chin ached where he had been knocked down, his belly was still bruised, and his back hurt where Ranulf’s men had kicked him as he lay on the ground, angry that there was no evidence of his guilt.

  ‘Little brother, you look as though you’re worn out after a long night’s swyving a bishop’s slattern.’

  Richard nearly jumped out of his skin. Turning, he saw his brother Eustace. ‘What are you doing here, you fool!’ he hissed. ‘Don’t you realise that half the country is looking for you? The men from Kirby Bellers have been here already. They half-kicked me to death, and if they find you, what will happen then?’

  ‘Calm yourself, little brother. You worry too much. If God wanted us to be caught, He’d have sent us to hell the day we killed Belers. That bastard deserved to die, and God Himself knows it.’

  ‘He may do, but Ranulf Pestel doesn’t.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘A man-at-arms who served Belers. He was here two days after, and he threatened me, trying to find out where you were.’

  ‘And you didn’t tell him?’

  Richard looked at his brother with exasperation. ‘I didn’t know,’ he said, walking with a hobble to the door. Peering out, he could see Eustace’s horse, a few yards away, and two more men on horseback. ‘What will you do?’

  ‘Oh, I shall keep quiet, and when it’s safer I—’

  ‘Don’t you understand yet? It’s not just a local squabble! Belers was a king’s official – a baron of the Treasury! His men, and Despenser’s, are all after us now. There is nowhere to go in the king’s realm. Brother, you will be found and killed!’

  ‘And if that happens, so be it. Richard, you are the man who is supposed to be telling me of the wonderful life to come. What is the matter with you?’

  ‘The matter with me is that you should run away. Go abroad, perhaps. To France, or Flanders. There are many nobles who would be happy to have your sword at their side. Don’t stay here and get killed. It would be shameful.’

  ‘It would be more shameful to run and hide,’ his brother growled.

  ‘Better to live than die,’ Richard said. ‘Find a ship to take you over the water. You can make a new life.’

  ‘You are most keen to dispose of me, brother,’ Eustace said.

  ‘You haven’t seen these men. They have no respect for God’s House; they will kill even a priest for fun.’

  ‘They were harsh with you, then?’

  ‘Very. Look at this.’ Richard lifted the hem of his robe.

  The bruises stood out lividly against his pale flesh, and suddenly Eustace’s face altered. ‘They did this to you? What were their names?’

  ‘I only know the leader – Ranulf Pestel. A big man, strong and cruel. I thought that he was going to kill me when he started, but they only knocked me down and kicked me a few times. It could have been much worse.’

  ‘I will find him. And when I do, I’ll castrate the son of a whore for hurting you, little brother.’

  ‘Eustace! No! Look, he hurt me, yes – but it was only because h
e was frustrated in his search for you and the others. If you kill him too, you will have the full might of the king’s men on your backside. You will never be able to escape them. Just leave me and fly the country. Please.’

  ‘You know who Pestel is, don’t you?’ Eustace said grimly. ‘He’s the king’s man, all right – one of those who lives and breathes his service to his master. If he’s on my path, I had best kill him before he finds me.’

  ‘How do you know him?’

  ‘He was in the king’s household at the same time as me. This makes it all more troublesome.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘If he is showing an interest, then who else is involved? It could be the king, but who else would want Belers avenged?’

  His tone was thoughtful as he and Richard left the church and walked towards the rector’s modest home. Richard glanced at him. ‘Is there anyone? His widow? A relative?’

  ‘Or perhaps his colleague …’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Sir Walter Stapledon. The present Treasurer wouldn’t want to think that the sort of man who could kill Belers might still be walking abroad, would he?’

  ‘No. It cannot be him.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘The bishop is not here. He must be in Exeter, or in London. Pestel was not sent here at short notice from either city – he was here already, arrived at the church too soon after we killed Belers. No, it can’t be the bishop.’

  ‘Perhaps you’re right. But I know this, little brother: the man Stapledon is a danger to all. He will steal our money and say it’s fair taxation; he’ll hold an Eyre and say that we don’t have this or that right; he’d sell our souls if he saw profit in it.’

  ‘That may all be true, but it makes no difference. You must go. There is nothing more for you here, Eustace.’

  They had reached his house, and now Richard entered and brought his brother a skin of wine. ‘Take this – but leave now. Don’t delay, and don’t come here again, in Christ’s name! There is only death for you here. Run abroad.’