The Bishop Must Die

Chapter Eighteen

Bishop’s Palace, Exeter

The fire was dying gradually as evening drew in. Bishop Walter had dismissed his servants except for his steward, John de Padington, and now his nephew, the squire William Walle, rejoined them.

Bishop Walter had both scraps of parchment in his lap, and he peered from one to the other through his spectacles, rereading them both time after time, while his brow remained furrowed.

William broke the silence. ‘Perhaps you should put them away, Uncle? There is little you can do about the matter tonight.’

‘I know that,’ Bishop Walter said with a sigh. William was right, but that didn’t help matters. He pushed the two fragments back into the purse and drew the string tight. ‘Do you think that this purse was intended to be recognisable to me? I know nothing at all about it, but it was sent with the message as though I should find it significant.’

‘You are quite sure you don’t know it?’ William asked.

‘If I had any idea where it came from, I would have said so,’ Walter replied, quite gently.

The pair of them were worried, he could see. Both had the impression that whoever was responsible for sending these messages would not stop there. They would be sure to try to act out the threats. Someone was going to try to kill him.

It was infuriating! He clenched a fist and thumped it on his table top, sending one goblet flying, and stood, head down, staring into the fire. ‘This is ridiculous. Someone sends threats like this, and my household is frozen with fear. It will not do!’

‘We’re worried,’ William said firmly. ‘First a message, then a man’s head, now another message threatening your death — do you think we can afford not to take these matters seriously?’

‘Bishop,’ John said, ‘we seek only to ensure your protection.’

‘Very well. Do so, then, but do not expect me to assist you in destroying my reputation and making more of this than I need. For sooth! Someone has shown cunning and skill in sending these two messages to me, but that is all. A low cunning is not proof of intellect. The writer is nothing more than a felon who seeks to extort a response by instilling fear in me. Well, I will not submit to it. I know nothing of this purse, nothing of the messages. I do not know who has sent them, so I will not live in terror as though I am under a sentence of death. Do you both watch over me, but no more. I shall not allow this matter to change my life or rule my behaviour.’

‘Perhaps we could increase your guard, my lord Walter?’ John asked tentatively.

‘What, have another twenty men? Thirty? That would look marvellous to the crowds, wouldn’t it? A bishop living in terror of his life. And how soon before all heard of these messages and wondered whether there was much truth in the affair? They would soon speculate about the murders I had committed.’

‘Uncle, no one who knows you would think you guilty of such a crime.’

Bishop Walter looked at him. ‘You know I was under excommunication for some while? No? Then do not leap to conclusions, William. There is more to me than perhaps you know. And many people remember this, and would take delight in attacking me.’

‘But if you will not allow us to increase your guard, what would you have us do?’

The bishop considered a moment. ‘There is one thing, perhaps. Ask Sir Baldwin de Furnshill to come and advise us.’

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

Tiverton Castle, Tiverton

Sir Baldwin de Furnshill trotted into the castle and shouted to the ostler, ‘Take my horse,’ as he dismounted and stood a moment, tugging the gloves from his hands.

‘Not a good day, then? What have you done with your companion?’

Baldwin turned to find himself confronted by the smiling face of William Walle. ‘Squire William! My friend, I am very glad to see you! In truth, were I to have to spend another evening with that dull-witted slobberdegulleon, Ovedale, I would be driven to distraction. If it were not for the fact that the fool was a comrade of Sir Hugh le Despenser, he would not have any authority. As it is, though …’

He paused, catching sight of a slight grin on his friend’s face. ‘Very well, Squire William. So you take my words as the foolish maunderings of an old man, I suppose? Be that as it may, I am only a little more than double your age, and I have no more lost my faculties than have you or my good friend, your uncle.’

Immediately he saw the look that passed over William Walle’s face, as the squire replied, ‘Sir Baldwin, it is about him that I have come to speak with you today.’

‘Why? The good bishop is well, isn’t he?’ Baldwin asked sharply.

‘May we speak in private?’

Montreuil, Northern France

The weather was, for once, mild and dry. After the last few days, that itself was a cause for celebration, Ralph la Zouche felt as he followed their guide in through the city walls and along the narrow streets.

It was a pleasant city, this. Flowers in pots seemed to proliferate, with many bright poppies and roses. After all the rain, the roads had been washed clean, and there was the smell of fresh, damp soil rather than the normal odours of excrement and rotten foods. The buildings were all pleasing to Sir Ralph’s eye, with good limewashed timber and daub, while the people seemed less surly than some peasants he had known. Yes, all in all, it was a pleasant place.

Their ride had taken some days, but if the weather had been dry, they would have been able to walk such a short distance without trouble. It was noticeable that the roads were of poor quality, and in the rain it was hard to see where the horses might place their feet in safety. However, the roads in much of England were little better. He could not blame the people here for that failing.

At the little castle, all the men dismounted, with a slight sense of anticipation. It was not every day that a group of knights were to meet a duke.

They were divested of their mounts in short order, and soon all were being led up some stairs to the great hall.

It was richly decorated, and Sir Ralph could feel the eyes of the others on all the decorations and hangings. Much gold thread had been used, and the paintings on the walls were the very finest. At various places there were silver bowls, crosses with gilt hammered over them, while on the table, drinks were set out, and all the goblets were of solid silver. It was enough to make a man’s mouth water.

However, there was one more delight here for a man’s eyes.

She entered a short time after them. A small, slender woman, not yet thirty, clad all in black like a widow. She stood, elegant and still, like a small statue, until they had noticed her presence, and then she slowly walked along the hall to study the men one by one.

Sir Ralph frowned a little at the sight of this woman. She appeared to glide from one to another, without speaking. Behind her came a saucy little blond piece with a roguish eye, and in the doorway stood a young man, of perhaps fourteen or fifteen years. He at least appeared to show the respect due to a force of men like these.

‘I think you must be in charge of these men,’ the woman said to him.

‘I suppose I might be,’ he grunted. ‘Your Highness.’

She had dimples in both cheeks when she smiled; it made her appear even more fetching. ‘You know me?’

‘I could not mistake you. Not with your son in the doorway, my queen.’

She turned and nodded to her son. He began to walk across the floor towards them. It struck Sir Ralph that the son was equal in beauty to his father, but there were differences. Both had the same courtly bearing, and both were broad shouldered, as a knight must be, but for all that, this fellow was so much younger, his brow was smooth. Where the king had scowling lines engraved deeply in his forehead from all the times his wishes had been thwarted by his subjects, this boy had a more enquiring manner. He appeared genuinely interested in other men, if Sir Ralph had to guess.

Not that it mattered. He was a duke at present, and from the way things were progressing, it was unlikely he would ever be a king. ‘My lord, I hope I see you well,’ Sir Ralph said respectfully.

‘Sir Ralph la Zouche, I believe. I am pleased to see you,’ the fellow responded. He snapped a finger, and two servants ran to the table. While one cleaned an already spotless goblet, the second poured a small measure into a cup, swilled it, sniffed it, and then took a deep swallow with a contemplative air. He nodded, and poured a larger measure into the freshly cleaned goblet, before bringing it to the duke, bowing low. As soon as Duke Edward had it, the man stepped away silently, walking backwards the whole way.

The Duke hardly seemed to notice. ‘Sir Ralph. You have come here from England. Why is that?’

‘There were matters. It was better that we should all evade Sir Hugh le Despenser’s men.’

‘You have caused him embarrassment?’ Queen Isabella asked breathlessly. She was as quick and eager as a polecat, Sir Ralph thought to himself.

He nodded. ‘I and my family killed one of the Despenser’s men. He was ever stealing from me and my family, and we could not tolerate it any longer.’

‘Who?’ the Duke asked.

‘You know Belers? His favourite in the Treasury?’

‘This is good news!’ the queen said with delight. ‘My husband must be feeling desolate. You have killed his favourite in the Treasury, while I have taken delivery of his silver.’

‘Silver?’ Sir Ralph repeated.

‘He sent five barrels of silver to bribe the peers of France,’ Duke Edward said. ‘But the ship was captured by our friends. They took the barrels to the Duke of Hainault, who naturally passed it to us.’

Sir Ralph said nothing, but thought a lot. The fact that the queen and her son possessed a vast sum in silver was worth knowing. They could reward their friends — which was no doubt why they had told him. ‘You asked us to come here to look after you,’ he said solemnly. ‘What do you wish from us?’

The duke answered. ‘I have my own household, of course, but my father is growing ever more irrational, I fear. I seek more men to guard me and protect me from capture. There are tales of ships which are being provisioned to bring Englishmen to France to catch me and take me back. I would prefer not to have this happen.’

There was just a slight hint of reticence as he spoke: the proof of a boy not yet a man, who would prefer not to alienate his father.

Sir Ralph nodded. ‘We have all these men — proven fighters — and they’ll be as loyal to you as I am.’

‘Do you think any of them could be persuaded to return to the king?’ Queen Isabella asked.

‘Any of us?’ Sir Ralph laughed. ‘I will be hanged if I return, as will my brother and the others. We are all enemies of Despenser. What, would you think we could return to England with the threat of our lives, in the hope that we might sell news to the king? No. We are all here because we have no life in England now.’

‘There is a man there with a tonsure.’

‘He is a priest from Exeter, I think. He’s run here too.’

The queen’s face hardened, and if it was possible, Sir Ralph would have said that the room grew chill.

‘If he came from Exeter, I do not blame him. It must be foul — disgusting — to live in the same city as that accursed Bishop, Walter Stapledon!’

Tiverton Castle

It was not easy for Baldwin to listen to William as the squire told all his news. The idea that a man might send messages to warn the bishop that he was soon to die seemed so irrational as to be insane. However, there was the appeal of a desperate man in Squire William’s eyes, and Baldwin would not desert the bishop when he needed Baldwin’s help. True, in the last year or more, Stapledon had been less than deft in his dealings with Despenser, and had a few times put Baldwin and his friend into difficult situations with that most powerful magnate, but that was no reason not to help him.

‘You are sure of all this?’ Baldwin asked. ‘What sort of messages were they?’

The squire related everything he could remember about the messages, describing the parchment, the little purse, everything. ‘But the real difficulty is, the bishop has no recollection of anyone whom he could have hurt, and a man who was stabbed and wounded would surely have etched himself on Bishop Walter’s memory?’

Baldwin nodded vaguely. ‘Perhaps. Not all men remember those whom they have hurt in such a manner, but I agree, I think that Walter would do so, certainly. Why did you say “a man who was stabbed”?’

‘The purse has a stain upon one side, which to me looked like blood. So I thought, if the bishop had once hurt a man, so that the man fell down later, and his blood marked his purse, perhaps then the fellow would harbour a grudge, and would try to-’

‘No, it will not do!’ Baldwin declared with certainty. ‘You propose that a fellow is stabbed, so violently that his blood is permitted to leak and stain the ground all about him? If that was the case, it would be remarkable if the man lived. Yet you say he does live and seeks revenge? Hardly likely. Then you say that he had this purse. It soaked up the blood. That is possible, but again, it would mean significant effusions of the vital fluid. Finally, you say that these notes were written. My friend, if notes were written, it is not at all likely that the man who was wounded would have written them. Unless your uncle unwittingly stabbed a clerk.’

‘A clerk?’

‘The only profession in which writing is an essential skill. But if he had stabbed a priest or cleric, he would recall it.’

William was suddenly pale as a thought struck him.

‘Speak your mind,’ Baldwin said. ‘Come — speak!’

‘He mentioned to me only the other day, when he sent me here, that he was once excommunicated. Did you hear of it?’

‘Yes. It was a long time ago though. I was abroad.’

‘The cathedral had a dispute with the friars, the Dominicans. They were attempting to bury a corpse, against the rules of the cathedral, and my uncle and another man went to the friary with the aim of bringing the corpse back to the cathedral. They took the funerary items, the candles, the cloth, all the items you would expect.’

‘And he was accused of beating a man, I recollect.’

‘Certainly the party was accused of spilling blood. Perhaps this could be one of the friars? They can write, they live nearby, and they had a man who had bled profusely, if the tale is true.’

‘And there were probably two other men badly beaten that same night who were nowhere near the friary. The pouch could have been taken and dropped into another pool of blood. There is nothing to say that the good bishop had anything to do with it. And if there was a fight and men were beaten, then it would have been the lay brothers, not your uncle, who did the beating. No, I don’t believe that is very likely.’

‘Oh, so it wasn’t one of them.’

‘Perhaps it was,’ Baldwin said kindly. The squire appeared to be quite crestfallen. ‘It would be wrong to ignore any possibility until there has been a chance of considering it in more detail. Now, what is the bishop doing about this possible threat? Let me guess — refusing to tolerate any change in his plans or routines?’

‘Absolutely. He says that to do so would only prove to those in the city who mean him harm that there was substance in the story.’

‘And he may be right. However, if the cost of proving your confidence in your innocence is your life, perhaps a different fee could be considered, eh? Well, you have convinced me. I shall ride back to Exeter with you. We will leave very soon, and stay overnight at my house. It will be good to return and see my wife once more,’ he added.