The Bishop Must Die: (Knights Templar 28)

by Michael Jecks

  ‘Who?’

  ‘How can we find out? It was so long ago now, and my uncle didn’t bother to question anyone. He didn’t want people to think he was fearful of such threats, I think. His mind appears to have been set on other things at that time. He said that he didn’t readily understand the import of the message.’

  ‘So someone has said that they will see that he gets his reckoning,’ John repeated, nodding pensively to himself. ‘Well, you and I will have to be most vigilant. We will have to be at his side to protect him at all times.’

  ‘When we’re out here in the city, you mean.’

  John turned his gaze on William. ‘No, Squire William. I mean at all times. Whoever had that message delivered here knew how to get to the bishop, and also knew how to make him feel anxious. Anyone who is familiar with this city will know where the bishop lives, and what his habits are. It is not like the days when he was Lord High Treasurer and would disappear for weeks at a time. He was more or less safe in those days, for no one would be able to tell exactly where he might be at any time. And no one would ever try to attack the bishop in the king’s palace. He would suffer the most hideous death the king could devise! No, my master is in more danger here than he has been for many a long year. We must stay with him. He must never be alone.’

  ‘He will refuse to allow us to do that,’ William said gloomily.

  John looked at him. ‘My dear squire, when you have been a servant as long as I have, you soon learn how to achieve what you want, no matter what the wishes of the master. He will not refuse me!’

  Chapter Twelve

  Exeter Cathedral

  It was disquieting in the extreme, to consider that the sheriff could have freed his brother from the bishop’s gaol.

  ‘Call him here to answer to me immediately! He cannot escape my fury with a blithe statement that he knows not where his brother is,’ Bishop Walter said with cold rage after reading the sheriff’s reply.

  Alone again, he clenched his fists. There had been a time, when he was considerably younger, when he would not have taken such an insult without immediate retaliation.

  Some while later there came a knock, and the bishop fitted a cold stern gaze to his face. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Bishop. I am so glad to see you,’ the sheriff said, entering with a show of respect, bowing low, walking to the bishop’s side, kneeling and kissing the episcopal ring. ‘How may I serve you?’

  ‘You can tell me where your brother is.’

  ‘You installed him in your gaol, I had heard.’ James de Cockington assumed a mildly enquiring expression.

  ‘Which is why you saw fit to bribe my gaoler and have him released. Your brother will not escape my vengeance, you realise? I will have him hunted down and brought back here, and held until I deem his crime has been paid for. Until he has submitted to my judgement, he will remain outcast.’

  ‘Bishop, I am not concerned with that. For now, I need to speak about other matters. The king has sent to demand that the counties all begin to plan for defence. It would appear that his wife the queen is definitely preparing to attack the realm, and as you can imagine, that will leave me with much to do. I should be glad for some advice.’

  ‘There was a time when a fellow like you would have quaked to think of the divine retribution that would be brought upon his head for flagrantly flouting the law,’ Bishop Walter said with a glower as he tried to discern the man’s expression.

  ‘Bishop, I shall be entirely candid,’ the sheriff said. He hesitated, but then spoke a little more quietly. ‘When I heard you had arrested my brother, I was shocked. He is not some peasant who can be held, after all. He was my father’s son. And I confess, I thought that the fact that my own brother could be restrained might well damage my standing in the city. It was not just that Paul is weak and would not suffer imprisonment well, but the fact of the damage that your actions might do to me, to my office, and thus to the government of the whole shire.’

  ‘What damage is this?’ Bishop Walter scoffed.

  ‘Simply this: the shire is no more nor less stable than the rest of the kingdom. We must have strong leadership at this time. And who will be able to give it? The king, through the system of sheriffs. We receive our orders, and we execute them. No matter what the command is, we enforce it. If the king demands that I seek out all the Frenchmen in the city, I will do so. I am his representative here in Devon. And if he desires me to raise a force to obstruct an invader’s might, I must do so.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Yes. But if I am looked upon as someone with little authority, a man who can see his own brother captured and held in a prison, a man who is associated with gaoled criminals, some of the peasants may begin to believe that I am in fact no more to be trusted than a felon myself. They may consider that my own commands, legally issued in the king’s name, can be easily ignored. They may come to believe that they can ignore me, ignore the king, ignore the dire circumstances in which we find ourselves.’

  ‘This is twaddle, sheriff! The people here need a strong hand to guide them, it is true, but that does not mean that they would look down upon you, were your brother to be held here. No, it would more likely make them look up to you as a man of honour. Instead, you have set yourself apart from them. You have made it look as though you consider the law matters nothing when it is pointing at you or your family. You have brought your shrievalty into disrepute, and it will remain a shameful mark on your reputation for all time.’

  ‘You think it is all imagined, then? I have orders here. We must provide officers to the ports to test all goods coming into the country or leaving, to see whether there are any messages secreted amidst them. That is how serious the king considers the peril to be, which faces the realm. But you know better than him, I suppose. I would have asked you to provide some potential names for these duties. I believe a bailiff of Dartmoor once was the Keeper of the Port of Dartmouth under Abbot Champeaux? He is the sort of man we need. Well, if you can think of any others, I would be grateful.’

  He stood, rudely forbearing from bowing to the bishop again, but at the door he paused.

  ‘Bishop, I do not condone what my younger brother did to that poor woman. But I believe I did the right thing in removing him. I believe it was better for all concerned. Please, do me the honour of trusting me when I say this.’

  The door closed firmly behind him, leaving the bishop feeling angry, but also anxious. He sighed and offered a short prayer for Simon’s protection. ‘Dear God, Sir Baldwin was right. Simon has lost so much in the last year – don’t make me have to send him to the coast now!’

  West Sandford

  It was late in the morning by the time they had finished their discussions, and the mood of both men, Margaret could see, was greatly improved. Indeed, she could hardly have believed that such a transformation was possible, had she not seen it for herself.

  The genuine affection which she saw in Baldwin’s eyes was enough to convince her that their old companion had never lost his friendship for them. How the two men could have grown so estranged was astonishing to her, for she had known them always to be so close. Yet it was true that the previous year, only three short months ago, the two men had fallen out, and Simon in particular had seemed entirely unwilling to forget the cause of their dispute. And it was not to be wondered at, for she knew that her husband was so entirely devoted to their daughter that he would kill to protect her; and because he was convinced that Baldwin’s actions had placed Edith’s life at risk, he felt he might never trust the knight again.

  But with the fact of Edith’s near-gaoling by her father-in-law, and because she was prevented from contacting her parents, Simon’s antipathy to Baldwin was leavened by his urgent need for a friend in this troubling time. And Baldwin’s arrival with a message from Edith, as well as his proposal for maintaining a communication with her, had been enough to return Simon to his earlier state of comradeship with his old friend.

  Watching Baldwin ride away at about
noon, she gently linked her arm with her husband’s. ‘It is good to see you so happy again, my love.’

  ‘Happy? Aye, well, it is encouraging to know that he has ideas for keeping in contact with our maid. If ever a man could wheedle his way into a wench’s affections, it was Edgar. The fellow has the luck of a devil when it comes to enticing women.’

  ‘It doesn’t work for every woman he meets,’ Margaret said with a chuckle.

  ‘No, well, you already have the best man in the world,’ Simon said.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘So now all we need do is wait to hear from him … and from Edith, of course.’

  ‘I will pray that we do so soon,’ Margaret said quietly.

  ‘And I too,’ Simon said, his eyes fixed on the horizon. The hills about here meant that Baldwin was already out of sight, but Simon stood staring out after him as though still watching his friend disappear from view.

  ‘He is a good friend, Simon, isn’t he?’ Margaret said.

  ‘Hmm? Baldwin? Oh, yes. The best you could hope to meet. I just pray that he will be successful.’

  ‘And what if he is? We shall still not be able to speak with her,’ Margaret said. ‘Even to see her would be known to her husband and father-in-law.’

  ‘But we may at least learn that she is well, and she can be reassured to know that we still love her,’ Simon said. ‘And perhaps we can arrange to see her in Exeter, away from her house.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Margaret said. ‘I am only glad that we are here again, husband.’

  He grunted, but she could see that he appreciated her comments. For his own part, she knew, he missed the moors and his old job of bailiff to the Stannaries. His had been one of the most important jobs on the moors: keeping the peace between the tenants and tin-miners. Miners were all working on the king’s lands, and were responsible only to him, so that they could maximise their harvest of metal, which enriched him as well. But their extensive rights meant that there were frequent clashes with other landowners in the area, so Simon was forever riding over the moors and breaking up fights, attaching men to come to his next court, or trying to discover the names of the bodies which were occasionally discovered, murdered, in the wastes.

  Some years ago, the far-sighted Abbot Robert had invested one hundred pounds in the farm of tin on the moors. Thus Simon had reported to him, and some few years ago, as a reward for his hard efforts, the abbot had given him a new job: that of Keeper of his Port of Dartmouth. It should have been a wonderful promotion, and that was indeed what the abbot had intended, but for Margaret it was a dreadful disappointment. Simon had been taken away from her and installed for weeks at a time in the sea port, while it was impossible for her to follow him.

  Since that kindly old man’s death, Simon and Margaret’s lives had grown still more unsettled. The abbacy itself had become the source of dispute and bickering.

  While the monks elected Brother Roger Busse, another monk, John de Courtenay, desired the position for himself. He started a bitter legal case to demonstrate that Busse was not a fit man. The wrangling had grown fierce, with both candidates making ever more wild accusations, and in that terrible environment, Simon had found his own position grown intolerable. With both men vying for power, no one in authority was safe. They both attempted to persuade Simon to use what influence he had in support of them, while threatening him with dire consequences should he fail so to do.

  In this atmosphere of distrust and deception, Simon had been persecuted by Despenser too, until he lost even his home in Lydford, and he and Margaret had been forced to return here to West Sandford.

  She knew it was a sore disappointment to her husband, and she greatly regretted that – but she was content to be here now. The idea that she might be forced to cope with the loss of their daughter while her husband was sent off on business for the abbot, or while he wandered the moors in pursuit of felons or thrust himself between warring parties of miners and moorland tenants, was too awful. She wouldn’t be able to manage on her own.

  Friday before Candlemas*

  Langtoft, Lincolnshire

  It was not a place he had ever been to before. A small town set amidst the flat lands, there was nothing here to interest him – but all around was absolute emptiness, and that was what Richard de Folville wished for now.

  So he had rolled himself in a blanket under the stars, cursing his misfortune and his enemies, and praying for his safe arrival in France.

  If only he knew where his brothers were. Their companionship was the thing he craved. He was a fool to have sent Eustace away like that. Rather than riding off to see John and tell him, he would have been better advised to remain with his brothers and ride with them.

  He wished he knew which way they had taken. Eustace had mentioned that he would go to France, which probably meant heading south. That would have been direct, but Richard was convinced that with the posse being hard on his brothers’ heels, they would be best served by escaping England as quickly as possible. So this morning, after a miserable night in the open, he had lit a fire while he hunched down nearby, considering his route.

  There was no choice really, he thought. He had heard that Bishop’s Llyn* was near to the sea, and it was surely the second or third most important port in the country, so it was ideal. He had first thought of London, but it was that little bit further, and with the king’s administration being based there, much more dangerous. Even though London was a massive city, to this renegade, it felt no better than walking into a trap.

  The way to Bishop’s Llyn was some fifty miles or more, and he reckoned he must have ridden at least thirty yesterday. It hadn’t been easy. The going was hard, with plenty of wet, muddy roads – always a danger to a man who didn’t know where the potholes were.

  It was dark before he had reached this place, but he had steeled himself and continued. If someone was to stop him, he would declare that he was riding on urgent business for the Bishop of Norwich. It wouldn’t persuade a posse, but it might just save him from arrest for riding about suspiciously. Any stranger making a journey at dark was a source of deepest suspicion, even a man with a tonsure.

  The fire was good and heartening. There was something about the sight of flames and the warmth they gave off that soothed a man’s heart. It was not the mere heat itself, he was sure, but something about the colours and sparks that dazzled the intellect.

  He had some water in a pot, which he had set over the flames, and now he chewed some stale bread while he waited for the water to boil. In his pack there were some leaves which he could steep – old, dried mint from last year. He could almost taste the hot drink already, and he hunched over the fire, watching the pot avidly. So avidly that he didn’t hear the horse until it was almost at his side.

  ‘So, a priest, and all alone out here, eh?’

  Chapter Thirteen

  West Sandford

  Simon was up and about early that morning. The idea that there could be an intervention by Baldwin had given him such a sense of hopefulness that it was hard to stay in bed. Unusually for him, he was awake before dawn, and rather than run the risk of disturbing his wife, he rose and went to his hall.

  The fire was cold and dead, and he set about making it afresh. Leaving the ashes to form a base, he went and fetched a bundle of twigs from his woodstore. Each year as the men laid the hedge and trimmed old twigs, they were collected and tied into faggots like this. He had a little piece of charred cloth and wisps of birch bark which he collected together, and then began to strike a spark from a flint with the back of his knife.

  As he worked, his mind wandered. The scrape, scrape, scrape was comforting in some curious way, and he found that he could consider the recent events dispassionately.

  His first thoughts were of absolute gratitude to Baldwin. There was no one else who would have been able to think of a speedy solution to his problems with such apparent ease and then leave to put it in force.

  Baldwin was a good friend; Simon knew that. Oh, in the d
eepest misery of the last month or two, when he had thought Baldwin to have betrayed him, he had been unsure, as though the one incident could have altered Baldwin’s personality – or perhaps showed it in its true colours. Margaret would not believe it, and she had grown quite angry with Simon on occasion as he muttered futilely about Baldwin’s bad faith, his preparedness to risk all for his own safety. And it was irrational. But a man was entitled to be irrational when it came to the safety of his own daughter.

  The spark caught and there was a tiny red glimmer from the black cloth. He carefully wrapped it about some more of the thin bark scrapings, and blew gently until there was a larger glow, adding a little material, some twigs and more bark about the outside of his cylinder of tinder, still blowing, gradually moving to set it on the ashes. A flame caught, and he picked up some dry rushes from the floor, which soon flared up. More bark on top, and then he could start setting twigs about and above the heat. Soon there was the healthy crackle of fire, and he gently set the faggot over the top, hoping not to disturb the tinder.

  He fetched bread and some wine, and warmed the wine by the side of the fire while he brought logs inside and stacked them nearby.

  It was a ritual he had performed every day when he was smaller, but now the task of preparing and making a fire was something he did only rarely. There was a sadness in that, he reflected. A man should have certain jobs, certain duties, which defined him. Simon had been a bailiff and had carried out that function for many years. Other men were not so lucky as to have a role for that long. Many died before reaching Simon’s advanced age. Not that he felt old. He was the same man inside as he had always been, and yet there was no denying that his paunch was becoming as formidable as his father’s had been, and the line of his throat was not so sleek as before.

  But the fact of losing first one job, and then his post as Keeper of the Port for the abbot, had left him feeling dislocated. That was only enhanced when Despenser grew to know him, and decided to attack him deliberately – first by alarming Simon himself and threatening his home, and then by attacking his family. Well, Despenser had taken the house at Lydford, and Simon sincerely hoped that it would never bring in a benefit for him. Simon had loved that house, but he would be content to set fire to it now, just to deprive Sir Hugh of any profit.