The Bishop Must Die

Chapter Sixteen

Louvre, Paris

Paul de Cockington gazed about him with wonder at the sight of the soaring walls of the great fortress at the western end of the city. He had seen them often enough, of course, for no one could miss the fortress from anywhere in the city. It loomed over all, as much a symbol of dominance and control as it was of protection, but he had not come so near to its huge white walls before, and from here, they were stunning.

‘Who are you?’ he asked his new friend.

‘My name is Roger Crok. I am a squire.’

‘But not in the service of the king,’ Paul said shrewdly. No man here in France was in the English king’s service.

Crok’s face hardened. ‘I was once a loyal squire. My father was a contrary old man, and he died some years ago. When my mother remarried, she tied herself to a gentleman who was opposed to Despenser. So Despenser took his revenge and had my stepfather arrested. He died in prison. Not content with that, Despenser and Bishop Stapledon stole my mother’s dower, and finally sought to capture and execute me. That is how Despenser and the bishop operate, after all. They capture men, allege treachery, and then conspire to steal their victims’ lands and treasure. I preferred not to wait for that day. I took to the sea as soon as I realised my danger.’

He smiled still, but there was an edge to his voice that told Paul not to push him further. Not that he had a desire to. Paul could recognise a dangerous man when he met one. Still, he was a dangerous man himself. There was no need to be scared of a fellow like this. Not when his brother was sheriff of Exeter.

It was humiliating to be stuck here in this strange land, without friends. The clerk with whom he was lodged had no interest in him whatsoever.

‘What are you doing here?’ Crok asked.

It was Paul’s turn to smile. ‘I was accused of a crime and forced to leave the kingdom. I would prefer to return, but have been told it would be better were I to stay away for now.’

‘Likely true enough,’ Crok said. ‘Did you do it?’

‘What?’

‘The crime you were accused of.’

Paul felt his face begin to redden. ‘I would hardly …’

‘So you did, then,’ Crok noted. He eyed Paul speculatively, in a way that increased the latter’s wariness.

‘It is undoubtedly a matter of some embarrassment, which is why I’m here,’ Paul said stiffly. ‘But I’m not bereft of friends even now. Just because I’ve made one mistake means nothing. I am a friend to the Earl of Winchester, for example, and to-’

‘Then I would be silent if I were you,’ Crok said, and now his tone was markedly different. ‘Do you have no understanding about your position here? In Christ’s name, man, you are in Paris amidst all the king’s enemies — his wife among them! And you boast about being friendly with Sir Hugh le Despenser’s father? He would be pleased, I doubt me not, were he to learn that you were here, so that you might spy for him on the camp. You are not a spy, are you?’

The suddenness of his question threw the befuddled Paul off balance. ‘Spy? Me? I wouldn’t-’

‘No, you don’t have the look of a spy. That would imply dissembling, and you don’t seem very good at that, do you? Still, I would watch your tongue when in the company of Englishmen. There are many here who would happily execute a friend of Despenser’s.’

‘I … I had not thought …’

‘Plainly. Here, you are safe from the French. In this castle you are protected by the King of France himself. But that won’t serve to help you if you tell all inside that you are a friend of the Despenser. Even the French King detests the man.’

Third Wednesday before the Feast of St John and St Paul^*

Louvre, Paris

He had thought that the blessed realm of France was one of continual sunshine and delight, but this was the second day on which Paul de Cockington had awoken to find that the skies were black with filthy clouds that were determined, apparently, to wash all evidence of the castle from the city. The rain fell in torrents, until a man standing at one side of the great courtyard at the Louvre might find it impossible to see the wall opposite. Paul had never seen such appalling weather.

In England, he had heard France spoken of as the epitome of style, culture and elegance. Well, as far as Paul was concerned, the people ate mostly peasant food, even here in the castle, and the French knights and squires he had met appeared to lack even a modicum of politeness and civility.

It was not as if he had offended anybody. After his little chat with Crok, he had been enormously careful to whom he spoke, and what he said. There was no point in taking risks. If it were not for the men he had seen with Crok that day, he would have returned to his little chamber … But that would mean going back to the companionship of that tedious clerk, and in fairness to the staff of the Louvre, it was probably better here than there.

Especially since there were so many Englishmen here in the castle. In some ways, it put him in mind of a massive gaol, with so many malcontents all living together. If King Edward could have simply locked the doors and set fire to the whole place, it would have saved him a great deal of time, effort and worry, for almost every soul inside was his enemy. The only significant two who were missing were Queen Isabella and the appalling Roger Mortimer, the man whom all knew as the greatest traitor this king had been forced to suffer. Mortimer had escaped from his captivity in the Tower of London and, so all said, was now the lover of the king’s own wife. The poisonous little vixen! Paul would like to chastise her properly. Ha, that would be a wonderful experience. She was said to be the most beautiful woman in all Christendom.

Yes, but even without the two most significant enemies, the rest of the fellows cooped up in the Louvre were all dedicated to ending the oppression of his rule. If they were not dedicated to regicide, which was a peculiarly hazardous ambition, bearing in mind God’s anointing of King Edward, they were all devoted to the death of his ally and adviser, Sir Hugh le Despenser.

Sir Hugh was so cunning, so able and devious, that he had contrived to steal the houses from about the ears of many men. Not alone, of course. Since arriving here in Paris, Paul had been staggered by the number of men who spoke with scorn and detestation of his own bishop. There were many who said that Walter Stapledon was just as guilty of theft and extortion as Despenser himself. All of which came as a big shock to Paul, who had assumed all believed the bishop to be as nearly saintly as was possible for a man on this earth. Stapledon had always been spoken of with regard, in his experience. All in Devon knew how hardworking and assiduous in the improvement of the diocese, how organised and effective he had been. Not that it changed Paul’s opinion of the bastard! And yet here, he found himself just one among those who considered the bishop to be the least honourable clerk in Holy Orders. It was refreshing.

The weather began to clear at midday, and Paul walked outside in order that he might find a local tavern in which to spend the afternoon, but as he stepped over the threshold and found himself in the lane just south of the Louvre, he saw a group of men sitting at a table, all talking earnestly, one jabbing with a finger, while others nodded seriously.

‘Here’s a man who can assist us,’ said Crok, glancing up as Paul approached.

‘Assist? I shall, if I may,’ Paul said. He took pains to ensure that he held the appearance of an honourable priest whenever he met with others, and he attempted that feat now, as he clasped his hands and bowed his head respectfully.

‘We are to be honoured with the presence of a notable fellow soon,’ Crok said. ‘But although we and others can form his honour-guard, he will require a priest as well. Would you stand as his confessor?’

‘If he be a man without evil in his soul, I would be pleased to be his confessor. But who is this man? One of you here?’

Paul looked about them smiling vaguely at each man in turn. He knew them all. There were the two brothers, one fair, one dark, both tall and with eyes that appeared too close together: Sir Ivo la Zouche of Harringworth and Sir Ralph la Zouche; the strange young man with the black Celtic hair and blue eyes called Sir John Biset; the young man with the tonsure still growing out, who called himself Sir Richard de Folville, and of course Roger Crok, the man who had saved him from the French in the street, and brought him here to rescue him. Of them all, he was sure that Crok would be the safest.

It was Ivo la Zouche who curled his lip and chuckled. ‘You think it’s one of us, eh? No, little priest. We have a better man for you to concentrate on. You will be the confessor to the Earl of Chester.’

‘The Earl of Chester?’ This was better than he had hoped. There wasn’t an Earl alive who didn’t have a purse filled with gold. As confessor to a man like that, he would have access to better food, a new chemise, perhaps even the odd trinket of his own …

‘He’s counting the coins already!’ Crok said delightedly.

Richard de Folville was eyeing him with a look of disdain. ‘He hasn’t any idea who you’re talking about, Sir Ivo. Tell him.’

‘Don’t you know who the Earl of Chester is?’ Sir Ivo asked. He looked slightly shocked when Paul shook his head.

‘He is the son of the king, man,’ John Biset said, and gave a sour grin at the expression of sheer horror that passed over Paul’s face.

Exeter Cathedral Close

The familia gathered outside the little chapel and waited for the bishop to arrive.

It was Bishop Walter’s routine to have his people wait outside for him, and then they would all troop into his private chapel together for the morning’s Mass. Later, he would have a quiet period of prayer with his chaplain alone, and only on feast days would he go to the cathedral itself and take his throne, the new massive wooden seat which he had helped design as a part of the rebuilding of the quire. More commonly, this most devout bishop preferred a quiet service, away from the noise of the rebuilding and the public.

To John’s eye, it was too austere. He had mentioned it often enough, but Bishop Walter would not listen.

‘You ought to be in full fig, and with a golden goblet and cross,’ the steward grumbled.

‘All that folderol is unnecessary in my own chapel. I want peace in there, so that I can concentrate. That is not too much to ask.’

‘So you praise God while denigrating Him by wearing that old black robe,’ John said dismissively.

The arguments would always rage from that point, with the bishop convinced that there was no point in excess in his private chapel, while John remained certain that God would expect it.

It was months now since the discovery of that message and the head’s appearance. Months in which John and William Walle had stayed alert, ever watchful in case some stranger might attempt to approach the bishop and slide a dagger in under his ribs, or fire a crossbow, or poison him. The number of ways in which a man could be killed was alarming to John, once he had begun to learn a little about assassination. There was a master of the arts of defence in the city who had taken delight (and several coins) in instructing John in the more dangerous aspects of protecting a man. Of course, like most masters of defence, this fellow was more keen to ensure that his client was safe, and it was difficult for him to appreciate the difference here, bearing in mind that the man being protected was not the man paying him his money.

‘Can’t you bring him to me?’

‘He would not be keen.’

‘I’ve had unwilling clients before,’ the man had laughed.

‘Not like this one,’ John said with certainty.

He and William had become pretty comfortable that their charge would be safe while both were near to hand. The main task appeared to be to prevent anyone from approaching within a few feet of the bishop. There was always the possibility of a lone archer trying his luck, of course, but there were few places in which an archer could hide without being seen; likewise, if a man attempted poison, he must get right into the bishop’s palace kitchen. John had set the cooks to be wary and prevent strangers from gaining access.

In all the months since John and William had started to take precautions, nothing had so far happened. As was entirely natural, they were growing gradually less and less alert to danger. In the weeks after the first note, William and he had searched all crowds for an assassin, and William once thought he had seen one, a shifty-eyed fellow in the Close at about the time of Father Joshua’s death, but there were no further developments. Even now, John found himself looking up at the sky, observing the movements of birds, idly noting that the elm tree over towards the Close would have to have the limb that pointed southwards lopped off, if it were not to fall on a man’s head.

Thus it was that the bellow of shock and fear came as a sudden bolt of lightning from a clear summer’s evening.

‘The bishop!’ he gasped, and set off at a run. Rounding the corner of the building, he saw the sight he had dreaded for so long. There, on the ground, was his master lying prostrate. ‘My lord! My lord, what has happened to you?’ he cried, throwing himself down at the side of the bishop.

‘I tripped, you blithering idiot!’ the bishop rasped. ‘Help me up, both of you! Who left that plank there? The builders are not supposed to be here! Is there nowhere a man may find peace, even in his own grounds? This is ridiculous!’

Before long, John and William had managed to lift the bishop to his feet, where he stood, dusting off the mess from the pathway.

‘You aren’t cut, nor broken?’ John asked solicitously.

‘Do stop fussing, man! All that happened was, I missed my footing. If I could wear my spectacles more, I should be fine, but the things are too clumsy. I hate holding them up to my eyes as I walk about, it makes me fall more often. When all is said and done, I am an old man. Never needed help before, but as soon as I became fifty years old, my sight began to falter. Ach! Look at me!’

‘My lord bishop, let me fetch you a little wine.’

‘No. I am late enough as it is.’

So saying, the Bishop of Exeter swept up his gowns and marched purposefully onwards. John fell into step beside William. ‘I am relieved that this was a mere accident.’

‘Yes. He looked quite comical as he fell, though I doubt he would have been pleased to know he afforded me a degree of amusement.’ William was still smiling at the memory: the bishop had taken a fair tumble, his gowns and cloak flying in all directions like the tattered remains of a crow shot by a sling.

‘I begin to wonder whether the man who wrote the note simply sought to instil fear?’ John mused. ‘It has been such a long time since it was found. We’re halfway through the year. I’ve never known a man threaten violence and then allow his threats to mature for so long.’

‘You are right, of course. It’s perfectly likely that we did overreact,’ William agreed. But then he stopped and glanced at the steward. ‘But what if we relaxed our guard, and that happened to be the very day in which the killer took the bishop’s life? Would we ever be able to forgive ourselves?’

‘No.’

They entered the chapel, bowing and genuflecting as they entered, using a little of the holy water from the conical stoup set into the wall by the door, and made their way down to the bishop, kneeling immediately behind him, their hands clasped together like a prince’s paying homage.

The service, so William felt, was too slow. He had a mind that could rarely remain focused on one matter for too long, and he found it wandering as he listened to the interminable muttering of the chaplain. He was too old, and his teeth unsure, so his breath whistled as his voice rose and fell in the familiar cadences. It was a surprise that such an old fellow was retained by the bishop, for usually he sought younger fellows who would have more stamina. Not only must they be prepared to act as the bishop’s private chaplain here in Exeter, but when he must travel about his diocese, the chaplain would have to ride with him; if he was called to London or York to meet the king, again, his chaplain would be at his side. William wondered if having an older man with him reminded him a little of his old friend, Father Joshua.

When the service was over, William was pleased to be able to leave the chapel and gain the open air again. He looked about him quickly, but there was no sign of danger, and he continued on his way, looking at all the places which might be useful for an assassin to hide in.

‘Here we are, Uncle,’ he said, as he opened the door to the bishop’s private chamber.

The bishop walked in as William stood holding it wide, and crossed the wooden floor to his little seat near the fire. John had seen to it that the room was prepared. A fire crackled and hissed most reassuringly in the hearth, a jug of wine had been set near to his elbow, a silver goblet beside it. There was nothing the bishop could require that had not been provided already. Even his favourite books were placed near to hand, the Chanson de Roland, and Girart of Vienne, both beautifully illustrated works, and a book of St Thomas Aquinas.

‘My life has been one of service, you know, William,’ the bishop said heavily.

‘You have served all well, Uncle: your king, your flock, and God.’

‘You say that so glibly. I wonder whether it is true? I have done what I thought was right, but perhaps I have failed. I have sought to serve God and see to the ministry of His souls. What if that was not good enough? I have tried to serve our kingdom, tried to mediate between the king and his queen, but my efforts served no purpose. Did I bring them back together? No. Even now she sits like some great spider in France, her web woven, waiting for us to fall into her clutches. And behind her, damned Mortimer, the best general our king ever had, and well he knows it! What have I achieved?’

‘You have made the Treasury efficient, you have secured education for many, you have …’

But the bishop was not listening. He gazed into the fire, his fingers drumming on the table top beside him. William went over and poured wine into his goblet.

Absently, the bishop took it up and drank. His fingers reached for St Thomas Aquinas and he opened the book, his eyes running down the text without seeing. William passed him his spectacles, and he took them, but then shook his head, closed the book, and reached for his copy of Roland. ‘The Chanson. It always soothes me,’ he murmured, and lifted the cover as his nephew walked back to the door, bowing and taking his leave.

His gasp of horror was enough to make the young squire rush back to the bishop’s side.

There, inside, was a second note.