The Bishop Must Die

Chapter One

Third Saturday following the Feast of St Michael, sixteenth year of the reign of King Edward II^*

Gloucester Gaol

The stench was unbelievable.

Hundreds had gone through this place in recent months. Since the battle at Boroughbridge, the ‘contrariants’, who chose to dispute the king’s excessive powers, had been hunted down and incarcerated — many of them here in Gloucester, and all appeared to have left their mark. The gaol reeked of sweat, piss and blood — and the little sewer outside was incapable of taking away the faeces of so many.

Men died here every day. The battle had been lost, and since then the fortunate ones had been taken out in their threes and fours, and executed on the green, where the city’s folks could watch. Sometimes there was a festival atmosphere, and loud cheering and laughter heralded the latest jerking body at the end of a rope, but that was at the beginning. Now even Gloucester’s people were grown weary of the sight of so many men being killed. There had been a feeling after the battle that the king’s rage was natural. Not now. The dead were displayed in cages up and down the country; some, quartered, had their leathery limbs decorating the principal cities, while their blackened, skull-like heads stared out from the tops of spikes in London.

But Ranulf’s father had died here today without fanfare. An old man, he had endured the grim misery of the gaol for nearly forty weeks, from his arrest until today. The king had not seen fit to put a stop to his suffering sooner. He was no threat, after all, so there was no urgency in hastening his end.

Sir Henry Fitzwilliam. Proud knight, good father to a motherless son, husband to a second wife, kind and generous to all servants and travellers, he did not deserve to die in this foul prison, without seeing the sun for months.

‘Here he is. You want him or not?’ the gaoler demanded.

Weeping, the young man lifted the filthy, light old body onto his shoulder, and walked out. In the sunshine he had a cart waiting, and he gently settled his father onto the bed, covering his foul clothing with a linen wrap. It would do until he could have his father’s body washed and cleaned.

One hand protruded from the cloth, and as Ranulf tried to push it under, he saw the little leather purse.

The purse that held the symbol of Sir Henry’s authority, status and power. Empty now, for the king had stolen the stamped disc months before, after his order to confiscate Sir Henry’s lands last December, but still his father had retained the purse.

His father’s determination to hold on to the last token of his life was the thing that made the young man break down now.

It was the last time Ranulf would weep for his father, he swore.

First Tuesday after the Feast of the Birth of St John the Baptist, sixteenth year of the reign of King Edward II^*

New Palace Yard, Westminster Palace

It was sweltering as the young knight hurried across the yard, making his way to the king’s Great Hall and the offices of the Exchequer. Raucous laughter ebbed about him from the massed tents and stalls that stood so tightly packed that even the alleys between were almost impassable.

He detested this place. It was the site of corruption and theft. Only dissembling politicians, conniving clerics and masters of deceit came here. Barons, lords, bishops and lawyers — all the dregs of the realm — would congregate, trying to steal for themselves whatever they could get their hands on. Well, not this time, not from John Biset. He was of age now, and he could prove it; he would prove it.

At the door to the Exchequer, he paused, suddenly irresolute, and glanced down at the parchment rolled tightly in his hand. It looked so mundane, just a simple legal document, but with the huge seal attached, it was so much more than that. It became, with that seal, a command. An order to obey.

The reflection was enough to make him stand taller. He would have nothing to fear after this. His persecutors would find it hard to refuse him anything now.

Above him towered the mass of the Great Hall, a fabulous construction, built originally by King William II more than two hundred years before, and still unequalled, he thought. Nearer him, at the corner, was the large, two-storeyed block that housed the Exchequer itself, and, steeling himself, he walked inside.

Immediately he was struck by the chill. The stone kept the sun at bay, and several of the clerks in here were forced to huddle within their robes when they were at work for long periods. John Biset eyed the men in the room, casting about for the bishop, but without luck. It was only when he asked a small clerk with a face so badly pocked he looked as though he had been scarred in a fire, that he was directed through the door at the rear which gave out into the Baron’s Chamber, a smaller meeting room.

‘Bishop Walter. I am glad to find you,’ John said.

Bishop Walter II of Exeter was a tall man, somewhat stooped. He peered about him with the short-sightedness so common to those who strained their eyes late into the night with only a flickering candle to help them. ‘Yes?’

John stepped forward and took the Bishop’s hand, giving the ring a cursory kiss before stepping away again. ‘I have it, my lord. I have confirmation.’

‘Do I know you, my son?’

‘I am John Biset. You may not remember me, but perhaps you recall my tenant — Sir Philip Maubank. His name will be familiar, I am sure. He’s the man who died this last Whitsuntide,^* leaving his grandson and heir as my ward, and placing the custody of his lands in my hands. Until you tried to take them!’

‘Me?’ the bishop said mildly. ‘I am sure you are wrong.’

‘Oh no, my lord bishop. You aided your friend Sir Hugh le Despenser when he tried to steal my manor from me.’

‘Which manor was that?’

‘Rockbourne in Hampshire. Sir Hugh is not content with all his other lands, now he must try to steal from me as well.’

‘Oh?’

‘But this proves you cannot just take my manor and walk away. Sir Hugh won’t have Rockbourne, and I can prove my age.’

At the name of the manor, the bishop’s eyes had grown hooded. ‘How will you do that?’

‘I have a statement here which proves my age.’

That was the moment when John Biset saw the quick, shrewd concentration in the bishop’s eyes. ‘You have a statement? Let me see it.’

‘Oh no, my lord bishop. This is mine. You will see it soon enough, when I go into the court and present it.’

‘The inquest is not yet held,’ the bishop said.

‘No. But as soon as it is, I will have my proof, and then I shall have the wardship of Maubank.’

‘Perhaps,’ the bishop said. But he spoke musingly, and hearing his tone, Biset thought he was merely ruminating on the vicissitudes of his life. For the bishop had sought to win the wardship for himself. Maubank was not hugely wealthy, but the amount of money which his lands would bring each year was not insignificant. And for a bishop who was attempting to fund the rebuilding of his cathedral, such money was not to be given up lightly.

That was all John Biset thought of the matter at first. But later that day, after the inquest held into his age, he was a little alarmed to see the clerks at the bench writing out the findings and passing them along the table until they were taken by another clerk. The latter took the papers around behind the working men at the bench, and a few minutes later, John Biset saw Sir Hugh le Despenser appear, in deep conversation with Bishop Walter.

At once a flare of alarm ran through John Biset’s body. The last man he had expected to see here was Sir Hugh. Known throughout the kingdom as the most rapacious and covetous man, yet was he protected by the king, who sought always to cosset and enrich his favourite.

John Biset rose and marched to meet them, and as he arrived, he saw a man hurrying away from the chamber. ‘Where is it? Where’s my scroll?’ he demanded.

‘Being written up even as we speak,’ Despenser said smoothly. ‘And while we wait, I would like to discuss some matters with you.’

‘There is nothing to discuss.’

‘I have a wish for some land.’

‘You will not have Rockbourne.’

‘You say so? Perhaps you have forgotten to whom you speak?’

‘I know you, my lord Despenser. You will not have my manor. And now, if that is all-’

‘No, it is not all,’ Despenser said. ‘You will give me the manor or I shall lose the document for you.’

‘You may try, but all these people saw the man take my parchment. You try to deny that the inquest has proved my age, and you will lose,’ John Biset said scathingly. ‘I am of age, and I own the wardship of Maubank. I will not give it away, nor the manor.’

Despenser said nothing. He set his head to one side though, and subjected John Biset to a wondering study, as though astonished that such innocence could still exist.

‘Then there is nothing more to be said,’ Despenser declared. ‘I have held up matters as far as I may. My lord bishop, I give you a good day.’

Bishop Walter nodded, but his eyes were firmly fixed upon John as Despenser walked away. ‘Godspeed, my friend.’

John Biset made as though to move away, but the bishop set his hand on John’s arm, saying softly, ‘You would do well to heed my friend Sir Hugh.’

‘You would do well to give up trying to take my money,’ John said.

The bishop left his hand resting on John’s upper arm. ‘Sir Hugh is not a good loser in battle. He is used to taking what he wants, and whether you agree or not, he will have what he wishes. If you fight him, it will end with your misery and failure. You cannot defeat him.’

‘Oh aye? And when the king’s court has pronounced in my favour?’

‘That … Yes, well, I am afraid that you will find proving that more difficult.’

‘When I have my-’ John was assailed with a sudden doubt. He snatched his arm away, and would have dashed after the clerk with his parchment, but the bishop’s calm voice stopped him.

‘No. The document is gone now. And I shall make you a deal, Master Biset. If you pay me, I may allow you to have it back. I know where it is: it is safe.’

‘You’ve stolen my proof!’

‘The proof that you have come of age is perfectly safe,’ Bishop Walter repeated, and now all softness was gone. In its place was a steely certainty. ‘I have it, and I shall keep it until you have paid double the extent of the wardship of the Maubank boy. When you pay me, you may have your document again, and you can profit from it as you will.’

‘And you want me to give my manor to Despenser too?’

‘No. And I shall do you this service. If you will pay me as I ask, I shall persuade my lord Despenser to relinquish his claim on you. There! With such an offer to tempt you, how might you object?’

Vigil of the Feast of the Assumption of Our Lady, seventeenth year of the reign of King Edward II^*

Canon’s Lane, Exeter

He woke with the scream bubbling in his throat, his eyes snapping wide in an instant, seeing that sword sliding in so smoothly, feeling with his mind how it snagged on the bones of the ribcage while the man stared, his eyes wide in horror, knowing that this was the end of his life. He coughed once, his lips stained crimson, a fine spray jetting over the man who twisted the blade and laughed aloud, then stepped back and yanked the sword loose again.

Master Ranulf had seen this scene so often in his dreams, he almost welcomed it. He lay silently, grateful for the freshness of the evening air, feeling the sweat slowly cooling on his flesh, thankful that he hadn’t screamed out this time. It was embarrassing to wake the others with his shrill cries. They either looked upon him with expressions of sympathy, as though he had some sort of a brain fever, or with sullen incomprehension, wishing he would simply get over it, or go. They had no desire to have their evenings ruined by his nightly mare.

Looking about him, he could tell that it was the middle watches of the night, and it would be a long time before daylight lit the shutters. Yet he had to fetch something to slake his thirst. He rose and slipped his tunic over his head. Drawing his cloak about him, he padded along the chamber, and then down the ladder to the ground floor, and out to the well in the garden. There was an old copper mug by the well, and he drew a bucket to the well’s side, and dunked the cup twice, draining it slowly each time, savouring the relief of liquid slipping down his throat.

Here it was never entirely silent. The cathedral was out of sight, but on a clear evening he could hear the music. At Matins, the sonorous tones of the canons and vicars singing was delightful to him. He would sit here and listen, staring up at the night sky. Best of all was when there were no clouds, and he could gaze in wonder at the heavens high overhead, sprinkled with stars. Someone had once told him that the stars were in fact diamonds dangling in the vast emptiness, while another man said that they were holes in a massive curtain that enveloped the world. Ranulf didn’t care. To him, they were things of beauty.

Tonight there were wisps of fine silken clouds that seemed to shimmer in the air. And then he saw a marvel — a shooting star that flew across the sky and then burst into flames, roaring into magnificent life, before disappearing again.

It made his heart stop, it was so beautiful. For an age, he remained out there, staring up in awe, hoping to see another, and then mourning the loss of that one. It was a star that had fallen to the earth, he thought. Perhaps that was what happened. When a star was old, it could fall from the sky. But how did it get up there in the first place? Well, that was for God to know, and men to wonder at.

It was tempting to stay out here, in the cool night air, and avoid the eternal torment that was his service, but he could not. He must return to his little palliasse and try to sleep. For all that he hated his post here, he must keep his position, he must conceal his true feelings.

He had a task, a solemn duty, to perform: the murder he had dreamed of for so long.