The Bishop Must Die

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Leatherhead, Surrey

Their passage so far had been quiet and uneventful, which was how it should have been. Sir Peregrine of Barnstaple glanced over at the lady beside him on her horse, and felt his heart glow. She was beautiful, wise, accomplished … He was entirely smitten with her.

‘You enjoy the view, Sir Peregrine?’ she asked sweetly.

‘How did you know I was looking at you?’ he protested. ‘You were not watching me, I know.’

‘My dear Sir Peregrine,’ she said, turning and facing him in that strange little manner she had, her head a little lowered, her eyes studying him seriously. It was a fascinating idiosyncrasy, making him feel that she was treating him like a wayward son, but it was also enormously seductive.

‘Yes?’

‘You perhaps do not realise that even a widow can tell when a man is studying every facet of her dress to see where the mud lies. Or that he is searching her face for any new wrinkles.’

‘My lady, you know that is not true! I have only allowed myself to view you in an entirely chaste manner, seeking to remember every aspect of your beauty so that, when I am no longer in your company, I may still be able to bring it to mind.’

‘Oh, in truth, gentle charmer? I think that if you were to seek such magnificence, you would do better to have stayed last night with that delicious young wench at the inn.’

‘Which?’

‘You liked more than one, then?’ she said, mock-chidingly.

‘My lady, please do not torment me!’ he groaned. ‘If you prefer, I can ride at the rear with the men in the van.’

She allowed a smile at that. ‘You would be happier there?’

‘No. I feel warmed by you as though you were the sun. You fill me with delight. In truth, I do not know how to describe my feelings for you. You are all kindness, all generosity, all beauty …’

‘Enough! You must stay here, and continue to pretend to adore me with your eyes. I cannot believe you are serious, for I am a mean little creature, in truth. No, don’t deny it.’

‘But I do! Fervently! I have been so happy to escort you these last days, and would prefer that you wished to travel to France, or to the Holy Roman Empire, so that our time together was not to end so soon. I … I wish we could spend more time together, madam.’

‘Oh, I am sure you would grow to dislike my pettiness, my many faults.’

‘How could a man grow to dislike the stars? How could he dislike the beauty of the sun? No man could look upon you once and fail to be utterly possessed by you.’

‘Really? And do I possess your heart, then?’ she smiled, and in an instant the smile was blotted out, and she put her hand up. ‘Nay, do not answer, I beg you.’

‘I cannot hope that you may one day reciprocate my feelings?’

She looked at him again, with that serious consideration he was growing to recognise so well. ‘I think that I do already, my friend. But that is one thing: to bind ourselves at this time is another. I do not wish to hurt you.’

‘How can you?’

‘By dying. By being taken from you. You have lost so much already. You have told me of your other women.’

That much was perfectly true. He had been so unfortunate with his loves, and he was left, at each loss, with an ever-increasing sense of his own loneliness. ‘You too have known tragedy,’ he sighed.

‘Yes. I fear that together, you and I would be a great source of danger,’ she said lightly. ‘I have two dead husbands, and you have three women you have loved. What, would I die first, before we could wed, or would you expire shortly after our wedding?’

‘Or would we both live, enjoying our time together, nourishing each other, and living to a happy, contented old age?’

He could hear the hope in his voice as he tried to show her how easy this would be, and for a moment, he thought he had succeeded. She turned to him again, and there was a gleam in her eyes. But then the light faded, and her face took on a sad, faraway look that he didn’t understand. He wanted to speak, but the words wouldn’t come, because even as he saw her expression change, and she turned away from him to face the road once more, he realised that he had lost her. She would not be his.

There was nothing more he could say. He rode on with poison in his heart.

Canterbury

The sight of Simon arriving was enough to make the bishop rise from his chair. ‘Simon, you are a sight to gladden the heart of the most jaded bishop. Enter, please! Tell me all that has happened since I left Sir Baldwin in Portchester. I would have news of-’ His voice was cut off as sharply as though a knife had severed his throat.

Simon had to grin. ‘My lord bishop, you know this disreputable knave, I believe.’

‘William — fetch a guard. I want that dishonourable churl in gaol here before he pollutes the floor of my chamber.’

Paul hurriedly fell to his knees. ‘Listen, please, my lord! I have terrible news from France that must be taken to the king. Perhaps my indiscretion in Exeter was merely God making use of me as He saw fit, in His divine perfection. He took the least deserving vessel and sent me-’

‘Shut up, fool! You mean to deride God Himself?’

‘I think you ought to hear him,’ Simon said.

‘I will listen, then, until I decide he is lying. What do you mean “terrible news”? Speak out, man!’

With many a sidelong glance at Simon, Paul told his story, finishing with the ambition of the duke to travel to Rouen. ‘It should be easy to find him and capture him there.’

‘You say so? You have had experience of fighting and battles, have you?’

‘I only mean to-’

‘Don’t! Simon, what do you think?’

‘If this fellow’s telling the truth, it would be hazardous not to inform the king. If he lies, let the king discover it and punish this git. Better that he does than we soil our hands.’

‘You think so? Even after what this evil cretin did to poor Agatha de Gydie?’ The bishop stared down at Paul with an expression of intense disgust. ‘You make me want to vomit, rector. Rise, and remove yourself from my sight — and William? Go with him. Do not let him near anything that he could steal, eat or drink. He is to wait on a bench in the hall until I call for him.’

He waited until they had left the chamber, and then lifted an eyebrow to Simon. ‘Well, I suppose I shall have to take this unwelcome news to the king. I don’t know what to make of it.’

‘The clear suggestion he made was that the Despenser had paid silver to have the duke murdered,’ Simon said. ‘I would suggest that you leave that side of matters to the rector to bring up. You do not wish to be the man who stands between the king and Despenser.’

‘True enough. Not that he has much time for affairs of any kind just now,’ the bishop said.

‘How do you mean, my lord?’

‘He is so entangled in the webs he has woven for himself, he can find little pleasure in anything just now,’ the bishop said, motioning to John to bring wine. ‘He is terrified, I think, that Mortimer will arrive at our shores with an army. He is under no illusions as to his popularity in the realm, while Mortimer has the queen and the young duke with him. The mother of the heir and the heir himself, and arrayed against them are the king and Despenser.’

‘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 dozen, 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.