The Bishop Must Die: (Knights Templar 28)

by Michael Jecks

  The bishop was still in the chapter meeting, William assumed. He would often go to discuss matters with the dean and chapter when he was here in Exeter, and William set about preparing the room for the bishop’s return.

  Although the fire was smouldering nicely, there was still a coolness in the air, so he brought a blanket to the chair, making the cushions soft by thumping them, and resetting them. He ensured that the wine jug was full – naturally John had seen to that already – and brought inks and parchments to the table nearby. Bishop Walter’s spectacles he set close to hand, along with the bishop’s constant companion – a book of the thoughts of St Thomas Aquinas. When the bishop was troubled, he knew that this book would always soothe him.

  It was while he was reaching across the table for a spare group of parchments, that William saw the small leather wallet.

  Pale cream in colour, it was made of a good quality goatskin, from the feel of it. Or perhaps pigskin, like a good glove. Either way, it had suffered. The leather was stained on one side, and roughened, as though it had been left to soak up filth from the road. It was not the sort of object which the bishop would usually keep. And this was on his table, as though he felt the need to keep it close at hand.

  William was handling it without conscious thought. He was no breaker of confidences, nor was he by nature nosy; he merely happened upon the thing, and had a mind enquiring enough to open it without consideration.

  Inside was a small piece of parchment, rolled tightly. He withdrew it, and recognised it from the other evening. This was the piece he had told John of. He opened it.

  ‘William, why did you do that?’ Bishop Walter sighed as he caught sight of his squire. ‘Did you read it all?’

  William turned to him, his face blanched with horror. ‘Uncle, why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you tell anyone?’

  Rockbourne, Hampshire

  John Biset’s anger kept him going until he was back in his yard dropping from his horse. It was almost as though his mind only caught up with the action when he was home. A man was dead, but he deserved his end. ‘Christ! Destroy all those who would murder by the wayside, all those who rob, who thieve, who kill, those who sleep by day and walk by night!’ he prayed, and was assailed by a sudden feebleness.

  It began in his knees, and moved up to his hips, his belly and his heart, making him feel as though he might sag and fall like a sack of turnips. He grabbed at a wall, and was forced to take some deep breaths, but then all was washed away by the anger that coursed through his body. That any man might dare to attack him was appalling, but to try to do it so close to his home – that was an insult as well. He only wished he had caught the other man too.

  There were three of his servants in the yard, an ostler and two men from the vill who were to have been helping in his fields as a part of their annual service owed to him, and at the sight of them, he wondered whether it would be possible to capture his assailant. ‘Hob, take those two men with you and go out towards Tidpit. There is a man around there somewhere who tried to waylay me this morning.’

  He gave them a rough description of the man, with some idea of where he was heading, before sending them on their way. With fortune, they might find him, and that might mean that they could learn who had sent him.

  Meanwhile he had the parchment, he told himself. He would take that to the priest. Old Peter would know what it meant.

  Chapter Eleven

  West Sandford

  The rest of the morning seemed to go well. Simon, Margaret could see, was actually relaxed in Baldwin’s presence. It was marvellous, the way that he occasionally laughed, and he appeared much more at ease with her, too.

  When he and Baldwin had returned from the terrible affairs over west, towards Oakhampton, just before St Martin in Winter, it had distressed her to see them. Edith brought them, and she was as alarmed to see her father in such an evil mood with his old friend, and although she and Margaret had done all they might in the evening, when Baldwin left the following morning, it was obvious that the two men were as far apart as ever. The wounds inflicted upon their relationship were as deadly as the weapons they held sheathed at their hips.

  Oh, but it was good to see the two together again. She sat at the table, Simon at her side, Baldwin opposite, and while they ate, and Baldwin grumbled at his dog, Wolf, who kept resting his head on the table and gazing longingly at the food, Margaret could not help but smile to see the fondness in Baldwin’s face and the returning easiness that was so evident in Simon’s.

  It was a little while later that Perkin joined them, sitting down and enthusiastically demanding ever more tidbits, until his trencher contained a large mound of food. As soon as he arrived, the dog plainly gave up, and padded from the room.

  ‘Eat that, and you’ll burst,’ Baldwin said as Perkin filled his trencher.

  ‘I won’t burst. It’s easy,’ Perkin said with such enthusiasm that Simon put a hand over his mouth.

  ‘Quiet, Perkin. No need for all that noise.’

  Ignoring his father, Perkin leaned forward to Baldwin. ‘You know, I’ve got a knight.’

  Baldwin glanced at Simon, who shook his head. ‘Carved. Hugh has shown himself wonderfully competent with a knife and a block of wood.’

  Margaret shot him a look. Usually when her husband made that comment, he followed it up with the observation that since Hugh’s head was made of wood, it was hardly surprising that he had an affinity for the stuff. But she was sure that it upset Hugh to hear it repeated so often and had taken to asking Simon not to say such things in Hugh’s presence. Simon had tried to laugh it off, when she first raised it, but she had pointedly told him that if he wished to take over the management of the household, he could do so. Hugh was mostly her servant in the home, and she wouldn’t have him repeatedly offended.

  There was no need to say anything this time. Simon returned her look with an expression of such innocence that she wanted to laugh again.

  It was hard, very hard, to be aware of such happiness while their daughter was still in Exeter and not permitted to contact them. Margaret was suddenly reminded of her daughter’s face, her smile, and was struck with a feeling of indescribable loss. It was much the same as that dreadful period when she had lost her little Peterkin, her first son. That death had sent her into despair for months. She had even considered that most appalling crime of all, self-murder.

  She was brought back to the present by Baldwin’s quiet voice, saying, ‘Margaret, I will arrange for her to contact you. Do not fear.’

  ‘But I don’t see how. Her father-in-law will be sure to notice any kind of visit. If he doesn’t, then Peter will, and he is such a dutiful son that he will not lie to his own father.’

  That was true. Peter was a good man, but he was very young. Young and a little naïve. If he recognised a visitor, he might well feel that it would be better for him to let his father know. ‘He would recognise Hugh, after all. He came to our house often enough.’

  ‘Of course he knows Hugh. No one who has once enjoyed the pleasure of his sunny demeanour could forget him,’ Baldwin said, popping a piece of apple into his mouth with a satisfied smile.

  ‘You can look smug if you wish, Baldwin, but I don’t see how you have helped us,’ Margaret said.

  Baldwin’s grin broadened. ‘It is simple, my dear. I looked at Hugh last night, and it struck me instantly.’

  He was about to continue, when there was a loud bellow from the pantry, a clattering of pans and pots – and suddenly Hugh returned, his head lowered on his shoulders, his face as black as a moorland thunderstorm.

  ‘Master, that dog’s eaten the lunch.’

  Simon gazed at him blankly. ‘What?’

  ‘The knight’s brute got in at the food. Lucky I’ve got more ready. Won’t be as good, though.’

  Behind him, Margaret saw the great dog sidle in through the door, still licking his lips. Approaching Hugh, he showed the whites of his eyes as he watched the servant declaiming about the damage do
ne, before slinking to Baldwin’s side and shoving his head under his master’s hand. Automatically Baldwin began to stroke the dog, his hand falling down Wolf’s neck.

  ‘All I can say is, let me know when you’re bringing hounds into the house again, and next time I’ll stand guard.’ With that, Hugh scowled at Wolf again, who winced slightly, and then stomped from the room, muttering all the while about, ‘Hounds and beasts coming in and eating my best pieces of …’

  ‘So,’ Margaret said sweetly, ‘you don’t think our Hugh would be quite right for a task like this?’

  Baldwin gave her one of those slow smiles of his. He could be entirely charming when he wanted to be, she thought.

  ‘Meg, your Edith has a maidservant. And I have a manservant who could charm the birds from the trees if he put his mind to it. Yes, I am sure that I will be able to get a message to Edith for you.’

  With those words, spoken with that utter conviction, Margaret felt that now her life was about to return to an even balance.

  She looked over at Simon, and saw the raw gratitude in his face, too, and was about to express her thanks, when she saw Perkin lean over and cuddle Wolf. The sight made her smile. Until, ‘Baldwin, your dog!’

  And Baldwin rapped Wolf sharply on the head as the beast hurriedly bolted the mouthful of Perkin’s food he had grabbed.

  Rockbourne

  When Hob and the men returned before the middle of the day, John Biset didn’t really expect much. It had been optimistic after all, to hope to find the felon in the tan cloak. ‘No success?’ he demanded.

  ‘Well, Sir John, I’m not sure.’ Hob followed John into the manor and stood scratching his head a moment. ‘We had an idea that the man was running west of north, from what you said, so we went up there a little ways. When we came to the stream, there was mud, and marks all over of a man running. So we wondered where he might be off to, and when I thought about it, the only place seemed to be Coombe Bissett.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘Yes. So we went there and asked about, and one boy said he’d seen some strangers in the chapel there. Said they’d been leaving there in the mornings and coming back at night for the last few days, but today only one ran up, and soon after ran out again, and they haven’t seen him since. He was wearing the same clothes you described though.’

  ‘Coombe Bissett, eh? He’s a good man, Walter de Coombe. He wouldn’t have anything to do with this. Who was this priest who harbours felons?’

  ‘Some new lad. He’s only recently got his feet under the table there. Before that he was a student still, I’ve heard. Quiet boy, keeps himself to himself.’

  ‘I see. You have done well, Hob. Thank you,’ said John, and gave his man a few pennies to share out for his trouble.

  It was an intriguing conundrum though, and he was determined to seek the truth in the matter. He pulled his hood over his head, and marched off along the lane to the chapel, which stood a little south and east.

  The chaplain here was a man a great deal older than John. Old Peter was an ancient man of nearly seventy summers, and intensely loyal to the family which had installed him here. ‘Sir John,’ he smiled on seeing the manor’s lord as he entered the church. ‘How can I serve you?’

  Old Peter took the little parchment from John while he listened to the news of the attack. ‘That is bad, master. Bad indeed, to be set upon by men in full daylight. They must be terrible felons. You’ve called the coroner to report it?’

  ‘I have sent one of the stable-boys. What of this though?’

  ‘Well, it’s a note telling someone to go, to Coombe Bissett. It says, Find the chaplain there and show him this note. Tell him I have ordered that you be allowed to rest in his home until you wish to leave. And it’s signed. Here. It says Exeter.’

  ‘So it means the Bishop of Exeter sent those two here,’ John said, outwardly calm.

  ‘Well, Sir John, all it says is, he was offering hospitality to people. No mention of attempting to rob a man.’

  ‘I don’t think they meant to rob me,’ John said. ‘No, they were here to kill me. That’s why they left the chapel early each morning, returning late. Apart from today, because I discerned their plan and thwarted it.’

  Old Peter eyed him for a few moments, and then shook his head, passing the parchment back to him. ‘This means nothing. The bishop may have been asked by someone else to see to lodging for them. He may have sent the men here on his own business, and they chose to steal from people on their own initiative.’

  ‘I disagree. I think this means that Bishop Walter of Exeter intended to kill me,’ John said calmly.

  He left a short while later, leaving Old Peter kneeling before his little altar, praying that John was wrong. But John knew he wasn’t. No, this was further proof that the bishop was prepared to use any means to remove him and win the manor.

  That bastard! The action of Bishop Walter of Exeter was so disgraceful that it quite took his breath away. He would have his revenge on that scheming murderer, if it was the last thing he did in this life. How dare he, a man of God, behave in so feral a manner! He was a disgrace to his cloth.

  And yet he was still a powerful man. Perhaps the third most powerful in the whole realm, after only the king and Despenser. His servants were dedicated to his protection, and all were armed.

  No matter, John decided, as he climbed the stairs to his hall. He paused at the top, staring out over the landscape.

  This was his land. He would not give it up, and if the bishop tried to remove him, he would fight for it.

  If necessary, somehow he would kill the bishop himself.

  Bishop’s Palace, Exeter

  ‘So you asked him?’ the steward enquired.

  William had lost that amiable expression for which he was so well noted. ‘This was so grave a shock to me – yes, I did.’

  John de Padington looked him up and down with a considering expression. ‘I have been called astute in my time, and one is credited with such honours by dint of hard effort and the occasional recourse to strong wines. You look like a man who is in sore need of a potent drink to refresh your mind and your heart.’

  He left the little chamber for a few minutes, and William walked to the stool beside the fire, listening to the sounds of crockery clattering. Soon the steward returned, a large jug in one hand, while in the other he carried two of his most prized possessions, a pair of green-glazed drinking horns, which he set on the floor beside him, and carefully poured from the jug.

  ‘What is that?’ William asked.

  ‘A good wine from the bishop’s own stores. He opened this a few weeks ago at a feast, and I took the remainder of the barrel. It would have soured if I’d left it,’ he added defensively.

  ‘This,’ William said, sniffing appreciatively, ‘would have been wasted as vinegar. Your health!’

  After both had taken a large swallow, he continued.

  ‘I held this parchment up to him, and he just shook his head, wouldn’t even look at it. You know how he is. Usually he would scold me for looking at one of his documents; he would rant and roar and put the fear of God into any man whom he thought had been so presumptuous. But when I confronted him with this thing, he just looked abashed. It was as though he had been scared of it, and being shown it again redoubled his fears. He walked from me, keeping his back to me, and said nothing for a long time. I kept asking him, “Why didn’t you tell me? Tell any of us?” and all he would say was, “What good would that do?⁢€™

  ‘So what exactly did the parchment say?’ John asked. He had pulled up a small bench, and now he sat on it near the fire, opposite the squire, listening intently. ‘You told me it was threatening?’

  ‘It said You, who think yourself above the law, you, who have destroyed so much with your avarice and abuse, your reckoning is at hand. Prepare to die.’

  ‘What do you think that meant?’

  ‘Obviously that he has been guilty of offending someone. Perhaps a man he stole from?’

  Bot
h of them were quite well aware of the source of the bishop’s wealth. Bishop Walter II was not a violent nor a cruel man by nature, and yet all knew that he had tied his ambition to the king, and the possibilities for enriching himself had been, and still were, legion.

  ‘I know that the folk of London hate him,’ William added. ‘He was the instigator of the Grand Eyre of five years ago.’

  ‘Many detest him for that,’ John agreed shortly.

  It was true. Londoners were growing more and more confident in their importance during the fourteenth year of King Edward II’s reign, and it was this, as well as the dire conditions of the king’s finances, which led to the Grand Eyre, the public inquisition into all rights, customs, taxes and liberties within the city. To the administrative mind, it was a means of ensuring that those monies due to the crown were actually accumulated; in the opinion of the over-taxed and burdened population of London it was an unbearable trial, designed to ensure that all those who could not prove quickly with legal documents that they were entitled to their money would be forced to give it up to the king. Bishop Walter was the Lord High Treasurer, so it was he who had instigated this investigation, and thus it was he who was most loathed out of all the king’s advisers. In London he was looked upon as a thief who had stolen the bread from the mouths of all inhabitants.

  ‘What did he say?’ John asked more quietly.

  ‘You know him.’ William restlessly stretched a leg, and sat staring at the flames while he chewed his lower lip. ‘He said at first that he was not going to be made fearful by some anonymous threats; that the person who wrote that message was clearly lunatic, and not someone to be feared.’

  ‘And yet he has allowed himself to become fretful because of it,’ John noted.

  ‘Aye. He denies it, but it’s the truth. We both know that. He did declare that he had no idea who on earth could have sent it.’

  ‘Where did he find it?’

  ‘On his table. Someone had come in and put it there.’