The Bishop Must Die

Chapter Seven

Wednesday before Candlemas^*

Exeter

The bishop rose from his chair as Sir Baldwin walked into the room. ‘Please, Sir Baldwin, take your ease here near the fire. It is hardly inclement for the time of year, but I confess that as I grow older, the chill sits less happily on my bones. This year seems dreadfully cold.’

Baldwin smiled and took the proffered seat. ‘I admit that the fire looks most welcoming,’ he said.

The bishop motioned to John de Padington, who brought a large goblet and ladled mulled cider into it, passing it to Baldwin before moving away.

Baldwin took it, blowing on the surface. ‘That smells divine.’

‘Then let us hope that such refreshment will be available to us in the afterlife,’ the bishop said with a thin smile.

Baldwin had ridden to Exeter to meet with the sheriff, a man whom he cordially despised, and had broken his journey homewards to see his old friend the bishop, but now he looked at the older man with a measuring intensity.

‘I have heard it said,’ Bishop Walter said, ‘that you, Sir Baldwin, can perceive a man’s thoughts by studying him. Your eyes are the most feared tools of justice available in the whole of Devon, my friend. Why do you observe me so closely?’

‘My lord bishop, I meant no insult to you,’ Baldwin said with an easy grin. ‘You look anxious though, and I wondered whether you have received ill news.’

‘Ill enough. A rector of mine has misbehaved, but I have had him held in the gaol, so that should resolve that.’

‘Would that be the brother of the sheriff? That odious little prickle, Paul de Cockington?’

‘Rarely has a man had a more suitable name. You have heard of him, of his offences? Yes — well, the purblind fool can stay in my gaol for a while, until I decide what sort of punishment to exact. Although I confess that other matters seem more pressing just now.’

The bishop closed his eyes a moment, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. Then he stood and walked over to the table. Selecting a parchment, he peered down at it, then, with a mutter of frustration, picked up his spectacles and opened them out at the hinge. The two lenses separated, and he held them over his nose as he traced the words on the page. Nodding, he brought the sheet to Baldwin and gave it to him. ‘Look at that.’

The knight had been taught to read and write when he was a youth, but the writing on this sheet was difficult to decipher. He held it up, so that the light from the window caught it more fully, and narrowed his eyes to read. ‘From the king, then. And it’s an order …’

‘Yes. To stop all communications leaving the country. All letters which could be of use to the queen are to be sought, discovered, and their source traced.’

Baldwin frowned at the sheet. ‘But how could any man search all the goods leaving Exeter? Let alone Topsham, Exmouth, Dartmouth … Dear heaven, does the king propose to search all the bales of wool leaving the country? All the barrels being loaded at London? There are not the men in the land to do such a job. He would need half the peasants just to search.’

‘It is impossible, yes,’ the bishop sighed. He rubbed his nose again. ‘But the instructions are clear enough. We must have men installed in all the ports or earn the king’s disfavour.’

‘Are you thinking of Simon?’ Baldwin said.

‘Who else?’ the Bishop asked rhetorically. ‘This is a warning to me because I am an adviser to the king — but when the warrants are signed and arrive here in the hands of the sheriff, I will have to find the best men for the job.’

‘Simon has suffered enough in the king’s service. Try to leave him from this, if you can, my lord.’

Stapledon eyed him, and then nodded. ‘Very well. Unless I am specifically asked about him, I will not mention him at all.’

‘Thank you,’ Baldwin nodded. ‘This writing — it is not like those of other commissions and warrants I have seen. The writing is exceedingly poor.’

‘More and more are arriving by the week. I fear that the king’s clerks are strained to write out so many in so short a space of time. And when they have time, the writing is little better. Mayhap it is concern.’

Baldwin looked at him sharply. It was plain enough that the bishop meant that the men of the king’s household were fearful. ‘You think an invasion could come soon?’

‘I have heard men say that there is a fleet off Normandy. It could sail in less than a month. I do not say that I believe it — I have no corroboration — but it shows the thinking in London. And just because there are no ships in Normandy doesn’t mean that a fleet is not to be gathered.’

Baldwin felt his heart chill. This was worse than he had feared. In all the time he had known the bishop, he had never seen him so downcast. Even the last year when they had escorted the young Duke of Aquitaine, Edward, the king’s heir, to visit his mother, and death threats had been issued against the bishop, even then Stapledon had remained suave and calm. Now there was a distraction to his manner, as though the threat of invasion was a constant weight on his mind.

‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ Baldwin asked.

‘There is only one thing we can all do,’ Bishop Walter said, ‘and that is prepare for war. Do you return home and see to your men, sir. You may have need of armed force before long. When the array is commanded, I am sure that the king will ask Sir Hugh de Courtenay to take charge with me of this part of the country, and I will wish to delegate the task to you, so that I myself can ride to the side of the king. It is where I should be,’ he added quietly.

He could not meet Baldwin’s eyes.

Church of the Holy Trinity, Teigh

Richard de Folville winced as he clambered upright. Kneeling to pray was painful since that bastard’s whelp had come to visit. Ranulf Pestel, he called himself. Well Richard called him Rancid Pestilence. The shit! Richard’s leg was sore, his chin ached where he had been knocked down, his belly was still bruised, and his back hurt where Ranulf’s men had kicked him as he lay on the ground, angry that there was no evidence of his guilt.

‘Little brother, you look as though you’re worn out after a long night’s swyving a bishop’s slattern.’

Richard nearly jumped out of his skin. Turning, he saw his brother Eustace. ‘What are you doing here, you fool!’ he hissed. ‘Don’t you realise that half the country is looking for you? The men from Kirby Bellers have been here already. They half-kicked me to death, and if they find you, what will happen then?’

‘Calm yourself, little brother. You worry too much. If God wanted us to be caught, He’d have sent us to hell the day we killed Belers. That bastard deserved to die, and God Himself knows it.’

‘He may do, but Ranulf Pestel doesn’t.’

‘Who is he?’

‘A man-at-arms who served Belers. He was here two days after, and he threatened me, trying to find out where you were.’

‘And you didn’t tell him?’

Richard looked at his brother with exasperation. ‘I didn’t know,’ he said, walking with a hobble to the door. Peering out, he could see Eustace’s horse, a few yards away, and two more men on horseback. ‘What will you do?’

‘Oh, I shall keep quiet, and when it’s safer I-’

‘Don’t you understand yet? It’s not just a local squabble! Belers was a king’s official — a baron of the Treasury! His men, and Despenser’s, are all after us now. There is nowhere to go in the king’s realm. Brother, you will be found and killed!’

‘And if that happens, so be it. Richard, you are the man who is supposed to be telling me of the wonderful life to come. What is the matter with you?’

‘The matter with me is that you should run away. Go abroad, perhaps. To France, or Flanders. There are many nobles who would be happy to have your sword at their side. Don’t stay here and get killed. It would be shameful.’

‘It would be more shameful to run and hide,’ his brother growled.

‘Better to live than die,’ Richard said. ‘Find a ship to take you over the water. You can make a new life.’

‘You are most keen to dispose of me, brother,’ Eustace said.

‘You haven’t seen these men. They have no respect for God’s House; they will kill even a priest for fun.’

‘They were harsh with you, then?’

‘Very. Look at this.’ Richard lifted the hem of his robe.

The bruises stood out lividly against his pale flesh, and suddenly Eustace’s face altered. ‘They did this to you? What were their names?’

‘I only know the leader — Ranulf Pestel. A big man, strong and cruel. I thought that he was going to kill me when he started, but they only knocked me down and kicked me a few times. It could have been much worse.’

‘I will find him. And when I do, I’ll castrate the son of a whore for hurting you, little brother.’

‘Eustace! No! Look, he hurt me, yes — but it was only because he was frustrated in his search for you and the others. If you kill him too, you will have the full might of the king’s men on your backside. You will never be able to escape them. Just leave me and fly the country. Please.’

‘You know who Pestel is, don’t you?’ Eustace said grimly. ‘He’s the king’s man, all right — one of those who lives and breathes his service to his master. If he’s on my path, I had best kill him before he finds me.’

‘How do you know him?’

‘He was in the king’s household at the same time as me. This makes it all more troublesome.’

‘Why?’

‘If he is showing an interest, then who else is involved? It could be the king, but who else would want Belers avenged?’

His tone was thoughtful as he and Richard left the church and walked towards the rector’s modest home. Richard glanced at him. ‘Is there anyone? His widow? A relative?’

‘Or perhaps his colleague …’

‘Who?’

‘Sir Walter Stapledon. The present Treasurer wouldn’t want to think that the sort of man who could kill Belers might still be walking abroad, would he?’

‘No. It cannot be him.’

‘Why not?’

‘The bishop is not here. He must be in Exeter, or in London. Pestel was not sent here at short notice from either city — he was here already, arrived at the church too soon after we killed Belers. No, it can’t be the bishop.’

‘Perhaps you’re right. But I know this, little brother: the man Stapledon is a danger to all. He will steal our money and say it’s fair taxation; he’ll hold an Eyre and say that we don’t have this or that right; he’d sell our souls if he saw profit in it.’

‘That may all be true, but it makes no difference. You must go. There is nothing more for you here, Eustace.’

They had reached his house, and now Richard entered and brought his brother a skin of wine. ‘Take this — but leave now. Don’t delay, and don’t come here again, in Christ’s name! There is only death for you here. Run abroad.’

Eustace gave a lopsided grin. ‘Aye, you were ever the bold one, Richard, weren’t you? Maybe I will, at that. There’s nothing here for a man with balls. The country’s falling apart. Perhaps France would be better. My thanks for the wine.’

‘Godspeed, brother,’ Richard said, and stood at his door to watch the older man stride out to his horse and mount.

Then, with his companions, he waved once, wheeled, and rode off.

Richard was sad to see him go, but glad at the same time. His brother was a potential embarrassment, after all. But then, he thought he caught sight of some smoke. Peering in that direction, he saw a rising cloud of dust. And it approached at speed, before moving off around the vill and hurtling off in pursuit of Eustace.

He couldn’t see the faces of the men in that posse, but the rider in front, he saw, was a large man. Like Pestel.

Exeter

It was late afternoon when Baldwin finally walked from the bishop’s palace and into the bustling High Street.

He had left Edgar at the market seeking two horses, and had hopes that his servant would have had some luck, but trying to make his way there was sorely trying in this crush. He had to push past many men and women, scowling ferociously all the while, until at last, when he was close to Carfoix, he was ready to bawl at anyone who came too close, let alone shoved him. And it was here that he saw Edith, Simon’s daughter.

She was an easy woman to spot, even in a crowd like this. Tall, slim, fair, she was as beautiful as her mother Meg, but with the freshness of youth about her. Many men stopped to ogle her as she passed, and Baldwin grinned to himself.

‘My lady!’ he called. ‘Mistress Edith? It’s me, Baldwin.’

There was a young man with her. Not her husband, but an ill-favoured servant with a mean look about him. He glared at Baldwin and raised his staff threateningly as though preparing for a fight.

Edith put her hand out to him. ‘Sir Baldwin is a friend,’ she said quickly.

Baldwin was confident that, if the youth had tried to harm him, he would soon have learned the error of his ways. ‘Sorry, friend,’ Baldwin said. ‘I know this lady well.’

‘My master said-’

‘Your lady is now telling you not to be so foolish,’ Baldwin said mildly.

‘How do I know who you are?’

Baldwin’s smile became a little fixed. ‘Friend, I am the Keeper of the King’s Peace. If you do not wish to find yourself in gaol, you will now be silent while your mistress and I talk. Edith, you are looking radiant.’

‘Thank you, Sir Baldwin. I am very well.’

‘And your husband?’

‘Oh, Peter is well enough. He is recovered, although-’

‘Look, I don’t-’ The servant stepped forward, as though to push between Baldwin and Edith.

Baldwin said nothing, but as the fellow shoved his staff ahead of him, the knight grasped it in his left hand, yanked it forward, pulling the man off balance, and gripped his throat with his right. ‘Do not interrupt me again,’ he said, then pushed the man away.

The servant withdrew, rubbing at his throat, leaving the staff in Baldwin’s hands.

‘I am glad to hear that,’ Baldwin continued. Edith’s husband had recently been arrested on false charges, probably so that the sheriff could try to extort money from his father. Corruption was rife in the kingdom at present. The poor boy, who was only in his early twenties, was utterly broken by the experience. Gaol was a bad enough place for those who knew that they deserved incarceration, but for a man who was entirely innocent, the experience could be devastating, especially when the victim had no idea what his crime was, nor who was accusing him. In cases like his, where the case itself was a fiction, there was not even the certainty of hiring a pleader to fight on a man’s behalf. All was dependent on the cynicism and greed of the man sitting on the judge’s seat.

‘At least we did manage to rescue him from that,’ Baldwin said. He glanced over at her. ‘How are you?’

‘I …’ She licked her lips and gave a short shake of her head. ‘I am well. But would you please pass on a message from me to Father? Just tell him that I love him very much. And Mother. And I miss them … I miss them very much …’

‘Edith, are you all right?’ Baldwin asked. To his horror, she began to weep quietly, the tears streaming. He put out a hand to her, but she gently removed it.

‘No, sir. Please, just tell them I love them. And now I must go. I am sorry, sir.’

The servant with her was chewing at his lip, his head darting forward and back as he tried to gauge Edith’s mood, anxious that he might be failing in his task of protection, but fearful of upsetting a knight wearing a sword.

Baldwin said slowly, ‘Edith, if you truly do not want to confide in me, that is your prerogative and I will understand, but please believe me when I say that if there is something which is upsetting you, I can help. Let me know if you wish for my aid.’

She made no comment, but simply nodded, and then, with her head bowed, she continued on her way.

The servant was about to scurry after her when Baldwin grabbed his arm, and the man squeaked as he was drawn round to face the knight.

‘You will watch over her like the most faithful hound in the world. You will not allow anyone to harm her, understand? And if you learn that someone is hurting her, you will defend her. Because if you do not,’ and Baldwin leaned closer now, ‘I will come to you and your worst nightmares will not prepare you for my wrath, little man!’

The fellow nodded quickly, eyes wide like a terrified child, and then set off after Edith.

‘Boy!’ Baldwin called. He held out the staff to him. Shamefacedly, the servant returned, snatched the staff, and made off after his mistress at a canter.

‘That is a most distressed lady, or I am a Moor,’ Baldwin muttered, and set off to find Edgar.