The Bishop Must Die: (Knights Templar 28)

by Michael Jecks

  ‘The country will rally to the king,’ Simon said scornfully. ‘Would you, Simon?’ the bishop shot out.

  It was so sudden and unexpected that Simon could not respond instantly with the answer he would have intended: ‘Of course!’ Instead he reflected briefly, and as he opened his mouth to answer, the bishop was already smiling cynically and shaking his head.

  ‘My son, do not lie to yourself, nor to me. You have been most shamefully treated by the Despenser, and if you were suddenly called upon in the heat of battle, would you really be able to defend the man who defends your enemy? I know what Despenser has done to you, to your family, to your daughter. So do not answer, but make sure that you behave with honour and integrity. That will be enough.’

  ‘But I have an especial reason to hate the man.’

  ‘So do many others, Simon. So do many others. He has treated almost all entirely shamefully, and the idea that they might soon be freed of the shackles of fear with which Despenser has bound so many of the good people of the realm, fills him with dread. As well it might. The English are an unmannerly lot. When they feel that their rulers have treated them poorly, they respond. All too often with extreme and swift brutality.’

  ‘Does he really suffer so much?’ Simon said.

  ‘Simon, it would do your heart good to see how much he suffers,’ the bishop said. He added, ‘It does my own heart good to see how drawn and anxious he looks.’

  Simon smiled. ‘You will take the message to the king, then? Tell him about his son and the fact that he may be at Rouen?’

  ‘I will. And then I will pray that God will give us all the judgement to decide on the proper course of action.

  ‘I feel a sense of doom. The kingdom is on a knife’s edge, and I cannot see upon which side it will fall.’

  Near Lisieux, Normandy

  The countryside was flat here, and Sir Richard de Folville could not help but notice how rich the lands looked. ‘Much like my own homelands,’ he noted.

  Duke Edward heard him and glanced back with a grin. ‘Makes you wonder what on earth William the Bastard and his men were doing travelling to England when they could have enjoyed a quiet life here, eh?’

  ‘But a quiet life would not suit them so well as a life dedicated to war,’ Roger Crok joked.

  John Biset agreed, but with a hint of regret in his voice. ‘Just think of a life of rest and tranquillity. How tedious!’

  The duke chuckled. ‘He probably bethought himself that this land would be easy enough to take back, were he to lose it. And in any case, I cannot complain about his action, can I? Would I have a crown to claim when my father dies, were it not for Duke William conquering my kingdom for me? No, I do not think so. My people are too quarrelsome, and if they hadn’t been conquered, God knows what might have become of the country.’

  Richard nodded, but he was thinking of other matters. He had no money, and like all of the duke’s bodyguards, was dependent on the youth’s largesse. It occurred to Richard that it would be an easy task to knock the duke on the head and take his purse … Easy, but dangerous. Perhaps he could form an alliance with another man, and then kill him later to take all the profits? It was a thought. Biset seemed quite malleable. That Crok wasn’t – he was too quick witted to be trusted.

  While his mind meandered on along this line, he frowned quickly. ‘Where is that priest?’

  The duke did not turn to look at him. Not yet fourteen years old, he had the confidence of a king already. ‘He has fled.’

  Roger Crok was surprised. ‘He was keen enough to be here with us at first, Your Highness.’

  ‘He certainly wasn’t happy when we were attacked near Montreuil, was he? Sat on his beast like a dumbstruck peasant, the poor fool. And as for his tutoring, I won’t miss that at all. He has little idea of anything. It was too easy to twist him in his own tortuous reasoning. Besides, I got the impression that he was more fearful of Roger Mortimer than he was of the king. So I would not be surprised if even now he is trying to find a ship to take him home.’

  ‘He cannot do that,’ Richard de Folville said. ‘If he was safe in England, he would not have been here. Only those with natural fears of Despenser or others in the king’s pay would have come here, because allies of the Despenser and his comrades would not be welcome here.’

  ‘I think he had some other secret,’ the duke said. ‘But whatever his reasoning, I do not wish to see his face again. He was not the most congenial company.’

  Roger Crok felt a pang of anxiety at that summary. The fact that it was he who had brought the priest to their ranks made him worry that some of them might look upon Crok himself askance. He would have to be more careful, he thought, and turned to find Richard de Folville watching him from those cold, unfeeling eyes of his. They were the eyes of a killer.

  Roger Crok stared calmly back at him, although inwardly he cringed. This man was truly terrifying. Roger had thought that he was a clerk of some kind who was on the run, much like Paul de Cockington, because his hair seemed to show the mark of a tonsure, but the more he saw of the man, the more he grew convinced that de Folville was a felon evading justice, and who might have shaved his head as a means of disguise, to aid his escape.

  He would be wary of de Folville, he decided, because the alternative might be to wake one morning with a knife in the guts.

  Canterbury

  It was late when the bishop finally returned to his hall. The journey from the king’s chambers in the priory was not great, but the way was filled with the masses who were here to attend as many services as possible in the great church, and he had been forced to shove and push against the press with William and John and two clerks.

  At first it had been a little intimidating, but then he had grown aware of a feeling of extreme fear. It was a tightness in his breast, a hideous pounding in his ears, and he could feel, he was sure, the death that was approaching him. He did not know whether it would come at the point of a dagger, or the tip of an arrow, but he had a most definite presentiment of his approaching destruction, and the thought was enough to make him falter and almost fall. He cast about in a panic, staring wildly at the people all around, but all he received was a series of bovine looks from the pilgrims.

  And then he saw the face. Only fleetingly, but Christ’s blood it was there. Shadowy, slightly bearded, dark haired, and with blue eyes that glittered with hatred, he saw his nemesis: Paul of Taunton.

  Dear God! He had nearly fainted with horror. That man should still be in Exeter, and yet here he was, ready to persecute him once more. It made his heart thunder so violently, he felt certain it must burst in an instant, but then gradually logic returned. He gazed back in the same direction, but the face was gone.

  When at last they returned to the chambers in which the bishop had taken rooms, the squire looked at him anxiously. ‘Are you quite well? Uncle, you look terrible.’

  ‘I thank you for your care and attention, if not your frankness,’ the bishop replied wryly. ‘Some wine would be good, John! William, I saw a vision out there today. It shook me, shook me badly.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The clerk – Paul. I saw him, so I thought, in the crowds.’

  ‘What!’ William had sprung towards the door, and now stood close to it, listening, as though ready to wrench it open and hurtle out to find the man.

  ‘William, please come back here.’

  ‘With the man who is sworn to kill you, wandering the streets just outside? He didn’t get close to you?’

  ‘No, no. He remained some distance away. It was so like him, and yet I think it must have been the light, the action of the dying sun on my eyes, or just the confusion of the mob. He couldn’t really be here.’

  ‘No, Uncle. I shouldn’t think so,’ the squire said, but he wore a worried frown.

  ‘You are not to concern yourself over this, you understand me? It is probably nothing. I was not wearing my spectacles. A face amongst all those – is it any surprise that one, two, or even a doze
n, might look like my persecutor? No, it was merely my imagination,’ Bishop Walter said, and drank down the first goblet of wine without pause.

  ‘I am not sure, Uncle,’ William said. He was almost at the door, and the bishop saw him glance at it.

  The dear boy! William had always been one of his best-loved nephews. Perhaps because his mother had been Walter’s favourite sister. Dear Mabel, so much younger than him, and she married quite late, bringing this one son into the world before she died. The young man was a reminder of his sister; he even had the vulnerability that Walter had seen in her.

  ‘William, no. Leave it. There is no point in going down there. Do you think he could pass by so many guards on his way to hurt me without being apprehended? Of course not! So, please, just sit and be easy. There is nothing to worry about in here.’

  He watched as his nephew rested his hand on the sword at his side as though to remind himself that in here, in the bishop’s chamber, there was still defence enough.

  ‘Very well,’ he capitulated. ‘As you say, it is safe enough in here.’

  ‘Let us just take our ease,’ Bishop Walter said tiredly. ‘And then let me sit here quietly. I am not so young as once I was.’

  ‘Do you want me to fetch Master Puttock? He should know the king’s mind. And Paul de Cockington, too.’

  ‘Yes, the rector. He is an inordinately fortunate man, isn’t he?’ the bishop said drily. ‘To have escaped all, and now to be rewarded … I should have pressed the king to have him punished, but I confess, it would have been hard work, with the king looking so delighted with his news. Ach, yes. Fetch good Master Puttock. He should hear the fruits of his efforts.’

  William rose and left him quietly, and the bishop leaned back in his chair with his eyes closed, thinking again about the audience with the king and the rapid advance of strategies that immediately flowed from the news. Men were ordered, plans demanded, a new view on possible risks considered, and then the conclusions were debated at length. It was one of the abiding beliefs of so many that this king was incompetent and incapable of making decisions, and yet those who said so should have seen him at moments like this; when it truly mattered, he was rational, logical and determined. If his plans sometimes went awry, and his men were not strong enough to see his commands through, that was no reflection on the king himself. It was the fault of the men he had beneath him.

  Glancing about him, the bishop took stock. There was little here in Canterbury to keep him. Now that he had seen that face, his peace was destroyed. Perhaps it was time for him to return to Exeter and leave national politics altogether? He was an old man, in Christ’s name! Not some youth out to make a reputation.

  Seeking some peace, he rose and walked to a shelf set into the wall. Here were his favourite books, and he hesitated before taking down the Chanson de Roland. The memory of that cursed note had coloured his feelings about this book, but there was still a joy in reading the beautiful prose that overcame any reticence he might feel. He carried it to the table, where he set it down and opened it.

  His gasp as he saw the latest note seemed to take the very breath from his lungs, and the room whirled about him, making him stagger back.

  Your life will soon end. Prepare to meet thy Maker.

  Chapter Thirty

  Canterbury

  When he was called to see the bishop, Simon had been getting to know a barrel of strong red wine from northern France. In his experience, most wines that were affordable tended to come from around Bordeaux and the Guyennois regions. This, though, was very tasty, and he was looking forward to a second jugful, when William walked into the bar and saw him.

  ‘Master Puttock, would you be so good as to come and see the bishop?’

  ‘He’s back from the king? How did it go?’

  ‘The king was impressed, I think, that you and my uncle managed to bring some news of his son. It is more than all the spies Despenser has had in France for the last six months have done.’ William grinned. ‘I think you are back in the king’s favour.’

  Simon grunted at that. ‘So long as it doesn’t mean it’ll cost me money or force me to come and live in a new town yet again, I suppose that’s good enough.’

  ‘I believe the only thing he will wish from you is to return to Portchester with the rector.’

  ‘Why with him? Can’t the king keep him here? You have no idea how tedious his whining became on the way here. He was constantly complaining about the journey and the roads and the weather …’

  ‘You have guards to keep him to hand? Good. If he escapes again, it would be a sore embarrassment to my uncle,’ William said.

  They had crossed the inner courtyard and gone through the door to the bishop’s rooms. Reaching the parlour, William knocked loudly, and hearing the bishop’s call, the two men entered.

  ‘My lord bishop, are you well!’ Simon exclaimed. ‘You have the look of a man who has seen a ghost!’

  ‘He saw a man in the crowds today who resembled the one who has been leaving threatening messages,’ William explained. ‘It gave him a shock.’

  In response, the elderly man snatched up the scrap of parchment and flung it at them. ‘Look on that! The damned man has been in here – in here in my private chambers – while we were with the king! Damn him!’

  Simon peered at the small writing. ‘Is this the same as the other messages? I heard of them from Baldwin when he came to visit me at Porchester.’

  ‘It looks remarkably similar,’ the bishop said heavily. ‘Dear God, how could he have got in here? I thought this room at least would be safe for me.’

  ‘The guards,’ William said, and was instantly out through the door to see what might be learned from them.

  Simon placed the parchment on the table. ‘This sounds serious, my lord bishop. What on earth does he have against you?’

  ‘I have no idea! Sir Baldwin had compiled a list of men whom he felt might have harboured a grudge against me, but how on earth could I tell which one of them might be responsible for this?’

  ‘You say that you have seen the man here today?’ Simon said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you are sure that his face was previously unfamiliar to you? If so, that would surely make it very surprising that he is your enemy.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ the bishop said grimly. ‘I have already explained this to Sir Baldwin. While I was Lord High Treasurer, I made many enemies.’

  ‘I see. So this could be someone from that period of your life – someone whom you never knew, but who feels himself to have been badly treated by you. But surely, even then they would be known to you, because they would have had to present themselves in court to make any claim or defend their position against you?’

  ‘Again, not necessarily. In the Grand Eyre of five years ago, for example, I did not attend. It was held under my name, but the justices were professionals. Besides, this fellow Paul was quite young – perhaps in his early twenties. He would have been under age at the time of the Eyre, I’d guess.’

  ‘That young? So, for example, if he holds a grudge of some sort,’ Simon became thoughtful, ‘it would possibly be his father whom he sought to avenge?’

  The bishop pulled a face. ‘So now I have to wonder about the sons of all those who might hold a desire to punish me for any real or imagined slight? Master Puttock, you do not put me at my ease!’

  ‘I am sorry, my lord bishop. I was thinking out aloud. I am sure that you will be safe enough, if you can only keep away from large crowds.’

  ‘In this city?’

  Simon gave a wry grin. ‘Yes, that could be problematic. Perhaps if you were to return to Exeter?’

  ‘I came all this way on the advice of our friend Sir Baldwin in order to evade the man, yet he has followed me here. I find it very hard to believe that I would be safer travelling all the way back there again,’ Bishop Walter said irascibly.

  ‘I understand.’

  Just then, William returned, a furious expression on his face. He
slammed the door and made an expansive gesture that took in the door, the men beyond it, and all the men-at-arms in the city. ‘Those cretins would be dangerous if they had one brain between them! They were glad to allow a young stranger in because he told them that you had ordered some pilgrim badges, and he was to deliver them. They allowed him up and left him in your chamber for some little while.’

  ‘Did they not realise that no one was to be allowed in?’ Simon asked.

  ‘Oh, they knew, yes. But the king is here in the town, and when they knew the bishop was visiting the king, they didn’t bother to protect this chamber, reasoning that he was being guarded by proximity to the king. The fools did not think about a man entering the chamber here.’

  In a flash, Simon and William had the same idea. One man had been up here for some while, and could have installed a dangerous device to hurt or kill the bishop. They exchanged a look, and some innate understanding of the dread word assassin was communicated.

  But although the two searched the room assiduously, looking behind tapestries, inside the chest, behind the cupboards and even beneath the bed, there was clearly no instrument nor agent of death.

  ‘That is a relief,’ William said, ‘but it still proves that it is too dangerous for you here. Exeter is no better, because the fellow managed to hide himself there before. Perhaps he has a relative or friend who lives there? The best thing to do would be to go on in the king’s company. You would be safer in London, in the Tower. There are too many men-at-arms and guards there, for this Paul to ever gain access. You should be safe there.’

  ‘I refuse to skulk,’ the bishop said.

  ‘Oh well, if you prefer to walk about as a living target for any disgruntled assassin with a bow, Uncle,’ William said sweetly, ‘you go ahead. You won’t have to do so for long, I’m sure.’