The Bishop Must Die

Chapter Four

Exeter

He had to visit it, just so that he could say later that he had seen the place. And now, sitting in the tavern, Roger Crok wondered why it had seemed so important to come here and try to bring home to the bishop how his offences had hurt so many. The man was incapable of human emotions. He had proved that already.

Bishop Walter II was a massively powerful man. He was second only to Despenser and the king in wealth and prestige. Somehow, walking to the cathedral and seeing it in that half-reconstructed state, had brought home to Roger Crok just how great this bishop truly was. It made his rage against the man seem pointless; someone with such authority was impregnable in his palace. The man was there trying to rebuild the great church in this city, responsible for vast sums of money, commanding hundreds of men for his own protection — he was surely far beyond Roger Crok’s feeble attempts to hurt him.

Still, he must try. The bishop had been the cause of so much harm in recent years, to all in the country. It was not only Roger himself and his mother Isabella who had suffered. No, his stepfather was as much a victim as any other, even if it had not been the bishop who had seen to his death, because the bishop had maltreated Henry Fitzwilliam’s widow and stolen her lands from her. That made him utterly contemptible. To rob a widow was the act of a felon, a paltry draw-latch; he was a man of no honour.

But it was more than that to Roger. Now that his mother had seen her little manors stolen from her, entirely to satisfy this intolerable bishop’s greed, and at the same time Roger himself had been declared outlaw, it was not enough that the bishop should be fought in courts. He ought to have the depth of his crimes brought home to him. And that was why Roger was here, to make sure that the bishop was tormented in the same manner as his mother.

Roger called for another pot of cider and drank deeply. The drink flowed into his blood like liquid fire, and soon his fingers had recovered their feeling, his face felt hot from the great fire in the hearth in the middle of the room, and his temper became more sanguine.

The bishop might do some little good here in Exeter, but that meant nothing. It was Roger Crok’s task to make him suffer, and in God’s name, in God’s good time, he would see Walter Stapledon endure the torments of the devil, if he could.

Bishop’s Palace, Exeter

Once he was alone again, the bishop left his hall and walked to his private chapel. His chaplain was not present — he did not have need of the fellow today — and the bishop knelt alone in that quiet chamber, his eyes fixed on the crucifix.

It was the best way to think, here, abased before God. Here he could empty his mind and concentrate on the problems to hand. And remind himself who he really was.

There had been a time when he had not thought himself capable of rising in the Church. When he was younger, he had assumed that his brothers, Robert, Richard and Thomas, would be the successful ones, and he, Walter, would remain as a minor chaplain, perhaps a vicar, if he grew fortunate.

That was why, when he had been young, he had spent so much time looking at others and seeing how he might help them, even if sometimes his motives were called into question. In later years, others complained about him, especially Londoners, because they blamed him for the Eyre of five years ago, when he had been the man behind the court held to investigate all the rights and privileges of the city. However, that was not his doing. Yes, he was the figurehead, the Lord High Treasurer, when the king demanded his inquest, but it was not his choice.

There were many who loathed him. In God’s name, so many! He had made enemies wherever he went, something that sometimes made him regret ever taking a leading position in the realm. But someone had to, and he was sure that at least he would be able to do some good.

Some might dispute that, no doubt. They would think that his sole aim had been to make money for himself, but they didn’t realise that he took nothing. He was a frugal man, with little need for fripperies. He liked some comforts, it was true, and he had great need of his spectacles, but beyond that, he was not cocooned in gold, swaddled in silver, or laden with tin. Those who criticised were all too keen to suggest that a bishop lived in luxury all his life. Well! They should try covering a diocese like his, and getting around it in order to view all the priests and make sure that they were complying with their duties. They would soon give up any notion of luxurious living.

Yes, he had enemies, but they were for the most part irrational. London’s mob was one thing, but the others who felt that he had unfairly deprived them of property or chattels had no idea what he was struggling with every day: debt. Massive, incomprehensible debt that would crush a man less determined. He had to grab all the treasure he could, just to maintain the steady flow into the cathedral’s coffers and keep the building works going. For what use would his cathedral be, without the final efforts? The stonemasons wouldn’t remain here without their money. The carpenters, joiners, plumbers, ropemakers and tilers, all would leave in an instant if they couldn’t see their pay or their beer turning up.

That was his biggest fear. The great church had been adequate two hundred years or more ago, but it had to develop to cope with the growing population of the city. So some fifty years ago, a farsighted bishop had taken the decision to raze and rebuild it, in sections. First to go was the Norman eastern end and, while the building works continued, the canons moved into the middle of the church. Only recently had that part of the church been completed, and now the new choir stalls and bishop’s throne had been installed in the new quire, before the workmen turned their efforts to the western part of the building.

But demolishing a building was almost as expensive as purchasing the new stones, the timbers, the poles for the scaffolding — it was all hideously costly, and there was a constant need for more funds. Bishop Walter would not go down in history as the bishop who failed the diocese. He wanted to be known as one of the patrons of the church, and had already chosen the spot where his body would lie when he had died, a position prominently located in the quire behind the high altar. That would be suitable enough for him, the man who had increased the money given by the bishop to the church almost six-fold.

What would he be remembered for? he wondered. Perhaps for his gifts to the church. Better that he be remembered for that than for his time as Treasurer. His efforts to improve the education of so many would be a good legacy, but how many would recall that effort after his death? That was the sort of thing that the individuals would remember, not the majority. The majority, he sighed, would only remember his taking their money, and would naturally assume that he had taken it for his own purse, not seeing the new cathedral as it rose about them. But that was the way of men and there was little he could do about it.

Ach! There was no reason for him to brood. He was like an old hen, squatting here alone in his chapel. There was work to be done, and he should carry on with it.

He rose stiffly to his feet, massaging his left leg where the knee joint appeared to be growing ever more reluctant to unbend, and after making his obeisance, walked from the chapel and back into his room. His steward was not in the room, so Bishop Walter hobbled to the sideboard and poured himself a large goblet of strong red wine. Smacking his lips appreciatively, he collapsed in his comfortable little chair, and grunted with satisfaction.

It was then that he saw how the pile of documents was disordered. There was a lump in one corner, and it made him frown. Setting his goblet down, he reached across. Moving the parchments, he found himself staring at a little purse. A plain, cream-coloured purse, made of some soft skin, and with a curious dark stain that marred the outer edge. He took it up. It was extraordinarily light, and clearly held no money. Intrigued, he pulled the drawstring open and peeped inside. There was a small scrap of parchment, and he felt his eyebrows rise when he saw that there was writing on it.

He took it out and read it, then felt his scalp crawl, and the flesh of his skull tighten, as he absorbed the vile message.

Tuesday, morrow of the Feast of St Sebastian^*

Furnshill

Sir Baldwin de Furnshill stalked from his house and stood a moment, snuffing the early morning air.

It was his daily custom to walk to the pasture and practise with his sword. The idea of training, constantly improving his skills, was ingrained from his days in the Holy Land, where he had joined the Poor Fellow Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon — the Knights Templar.

Now approaching his middle fifties, there were few men of his age who could compare with him in speed or strength. Other, younger men might be able to dispute with him, but he was confident that his wiliness would protect him in a fight against a more powerful opponent. He had fought often enough. There were wounds all over his body, from knives, from swords, and from crossbow bolts — and he had survived all. The most obvious was the scar at his cheek, which ran down to the thin beard that followed the line of his jaw. It was peppered with grey now, but his hair was gradually fading entirely. It was only a few years ago that he had found the first white strays, and now the whole of his scalp looked like a snowed hillside. There was dark beneath, but white overlaid all.

Of course, he was not remotely vain, but it was still a slight shock to realise that he was growing old. He didn’t feel it.

His house was quiet still, this early, a thin smoke rising from the fire. Inside, he knew, his wife would be preparing food with their maidservant, while a second helped his children out of their beds. Edgar, his servant for so many years, would be outside with a groom, feeding and petting the horses. It was, Baldwin considered, an idyllic scene. One worth keeping, one worth protecting. And that was why he must practise. To make sure that it remained like that: safe and serene in this world of passion and blood. This world which appeared to be falling apart so quickly.

That thought was enough to give him the resolve he needed. He stood, his sword in the outside guard, his right fist punched out, the sword’s blade angled upwards to protect his body, high enough so that he could peer beneath it at his imaginary opponent, and then he moved.

Feet fixed firmly at first, he swung down, chopping at his enemy’s weapon, then lifting his sword to block the responding attack, swooping it low to hack at legs, thrusting hard, retreating and lifting the weapon to knock a stabbing blade to one side. He shifted his feet, all the while moving his sword incessantly, blocking, guarding, stabbing and hacking, making use of the main guards: the dexter; the sinister, with the right arm passing across his body to protect it, while his sword was angled up over his line of sight; the unicorn guard, in which he gripped the hilt before his groin, arm outstretched, so that the sword’s point was at his eye level; and the hanging guard, the one he believed was the only true guard, his arm outstretched, his sword’s hilt held high, while the sword’s tip pointed towards the enemy, angled so that he could sweep it across to the right, chop to the left, or perform any number of manoeuvres.

Daily practice was a part of him. If the weather was too inclement, he would resort to standing in his barn, but for the most part he would come here, feeling the blood singing in his veins as he thrust and slashed. And every so often a scene would intrude upon his mind. A picture of bloody faces, of corpses lying in the rubble, of his friends writhing as they tried to hold their shattered bodies together.

Those memories had been returning more often recently. There was a terrible trepidation in him, a growing conviction that his family, his manor — even the whole shire — was threatened. The scenes in his mind were from years ago, from the last days of Acre, when that wonderful Christian city had been overrun and razed by the crazed hordes of the Mameluke King. The latter had succeeded in destroying a tower on the wall, and poured in through the breach. Baldwin himself was injured and was pulled away by the Templars, installed on one of their ships, and taken to safety as the city fell. It was gratitude at having his life saved that had made him join the Order.

That was many years ago now — thirty-five, all told. Since then, his Order had been arrested, tortured, their wealth stolen, and the Knights Templar disbanded. All because the King of France and the pope had wanted to take that money for themselves.

It was after that shameful destruction that Baldwin had come here, to the quiet West Country of England, to hide himself from the politicians and ecclesiastics who were so antagonistic to the Order he had adored.

But although he had tried to escape, there was more danger now.

Hearing steps, he turned and nodded. ‘Edgar.’

‘Sir Baldwin, Despot has a strain in his right front — I think it is his fetlock.’

‘Again?’

Edgar said nothing. He was taller than Baldwin, and his face always held a slight grin as though he was secretly amused by a jest which others could not appreciate. Women found his suave sophistication utterly enthralling. Men were more often wary, and rightly so. As a fighter he was quite ruthless, and as swift and lethal as a thunderbolt.

‘That beast is proving to be expensive. He’s only just recovered from the strain.’

‘He appears to be an unfortunate fellow,’ Edgar agreed.

Baldwin grunted, wiping at the blade of his sword with the corner of his tunic to remove some smudges. ‘Perhaps it is time he was retired. I will need a new rounsey if I cannot have faith in him.’

‘I shall begin to search for a new one, then.’

‘Yes — no. Find two. But it will wait until I next visit Exeter. You can join me then and look for some decent brutes.’

Edgar said nothing, but Baldwin could feel his eyes upon him. He looked up. ‘Yes, Edgar?’

‘Are you preparing for war?’

‘We have to be ready. The king appears convinced that it may come to that.’

‘You think that the queen will return with an army?’

Baldwin sighed. ‘I just do not know. She is an honourable woman, I would stake my soul on that. But she has been terribly mistreated. What might she not do?’

‘We should look to the defence of the house,’ Edgar said.

‘If it comes to war, I shall be asked to help,’ Baldwin said. ‘And if that does happen, I may have to leave home for some time.’

‘I shall be with you.’

‘I would prefer you to stay here.’

Edgar shook his head. ‘When you fought before, I was always at your side, Sir Baldwin. I should be there again if you are to ride to battle.’

‘I cannot ride to war knowing that Jeanne and the children are left here alone and in danger,’ Baldwin said firmly. ‘I am sorry, old friend. But you must remain here to protect the manor and all within it.’

‘It may not come to it.’

Baldwin smiled without humour. ‘The king thinks it will. From all I have heard recently, Edward is planning to defend the realm against both the queen and the French. There is a fear that there will be an invasion, possibly two.’

‘But they will be seeking the king, surely?’ Edgar said.

Baldwin nodded, unconvinced. ‘It is possible, yes. But I have this concern: you know as well as I do, that the queen’s lands were mainly here in Devon and Cornwall. Perhaps there are enough men here who have sympathy for her.’

‘Sympathy for a woman who leaves her husband?’

‘Don’t presume to judge her,’ Baldwin said. ‘She has suffered enough. First her husband chose to spend his time with Despenser, then he broke up her household, arrested any Frenchmen in her service, sequestrated all her properties, confiscated all her money and income and left her with a pittance — and then even took away her children and gave them into the protection of Despenser’s wife. A chivalrous man might consider that she had reason enough to wish to stay away from her husband.’

‘Perhaps. However, I think there are more men in the realm who would flock to her simply because they hate the Despenser than because they admire or sympathise with her.’

‘True enough!’ Baldwin chuckled, but then he grew serious again. ‘Yet I fear that there could be warriors marching through these fields before long, Edgar. Perhaps before spring. It has happened before.’

‘So, I should find two good rounseys,’ Edgar said.

Baldwin nodded and watched as the other man strode back to the house.

Baldwin had known many knights in the Order whom he could call ‘friend’. There was something about a life of dedication, an existence based entirely on service to others, which had forged between the Templars an enduring bond; those who still lived were comrades who had served together in countless battles, and the obscene betrayal of their companions only strengthened it. All through those dark days, Edgar had remained at his side, and whenever there had been a risk of a fight, Baldwin had always been glad of Edgar’s strong, calm presence nearby. If it were to come to it, Baldwin would feel strange riding to war without his sergeant. It would leave him with an odd sense of loneliness.

It made him think of Simon. His friend for more than a decade, Simon had been terribly offended late the previous year when Baldwin had been told to throw down his weapons by a felon. It was impossible for Baldwin to do so. If he had, matters could have ended in disaster. So he had kept a firm grip on his weapon, and the issue had been resolved. But Simon had feared for his daughter. And since that day, the two men had not spoken.

Baldwin thrust the sword back into its scabbard. It had been hard to tell Edgar he must remain. But it was harder to know that even Simon Puttock would not be at his side.

He felt truly alone.