The Bishop Must Die

Chapter Thirteen

West Sandford

Simon was up and about early that morning. The idea that there could be an intervention by Baldwin had given him such a sense of hopefulness that it was hard to stay in bed. Unusually for him, he was awake before dawn, and rather than run the risk of disturbing his wife, he rose and went to his hall.

The fire was cold and dead, and he set about making it afresh. Leaving the ashes to form a base, he went and fetched a bundle of twigs from his woodstore. Each year as the men laid the hedge and trimmed old twigs, they were collected and tied into faggots like this. He had a little piece of charred cloth and wisps of birch bark which he collected together, and then began to strike a spark from a flint with the back of his knife.

As he worked, his mind wandered. The scrape, scrape, scrape was comforting in some curious way, and he found that he could consider the recent events dispassionately.

His first thoughts were of absolute gratitude to Baldwin. There was no one else who would have been able to think of a speedy solution to his problems with such apparent ease and then leave to put it in force.

Baldwin was a good friend; Simon knew that. Oh, in the deepest misery of the last month or two, when he had thought Baldwin to have betrayed him, he had been unsure, as though the one incident could have altered Baldwin’s personality — or perhaps showed it in its true colours. Margaret would not believe it, and she had grown quite angry with Simon on occasion as he muttered futilely about Baldwin’s bad faith, his preparedness to risk all for his own safety. And it was irrational. But a man was entitled to be irrational when it came to the safety of his own daughter.

The spark caught and there was a tiny red glimmer from the black cloth. He carefully wrapped it about some more of the thin bark scrapings, and blew gently until there was a larger glow, adding a little material, some twigs and more bark about the outside of his cylinder of tinder, still blowing, gradually moving to set it on the ashes. A flame caught, and he picked up some dry rushes from the floor, which soon flared up. More bark on top, and then he could start setting twigs about and above the heat. Soon there was the healthy crackle of fire, and he gently set the faggot over the top, hoping not to disturb the tinder.

He fetched bread and some wine, and warmed the wine by the side of the fire while he brought logs inside and stacked them nearby.

It was a ritual he had performed every day when he was smaller, but now the task of preparing and making a fire was something he did only rarely. There was a sadness in that, he reflected. A man should have certain jobs, certain duties, which defined him. Simon had been a bailiff and had carried out that function for many years. Other men were not so lucky as to have a role for that long. Many died before reaching Simon’s advanced age. Not that he felt old. He was the same man inside as he had always been, and yet there was no denying that his paunch was becoming as formidable as his father’s had been, and the line of his throat was not so sleek as before.

But the fact of losing first one job, and then his post as Keeper of the Port for the abbot, had left him feeling dislocated. That was only enhanced when Despenser grew to know him, and decided to attack him deliberately — first by alarming Simon himself and threatening his home, and then by attacking his family. Well, Despenser had taken the house at Lydford, and Simon sincerely hoped that it would never bring in a benefit for him. Simon had loved that house, but he would be content to set fire to it now, just to deprive Sir Hugh of any profit.

As usual, a short while before the sun rose and penetrated the window, there was a rattle of small feet, and suddenly Perkin was in the room with him. He stopped dead on seeing his father, and then a mischievous grin washed over his face, and he ran at Simon, throwing his arms about him and crying, ‘Hello, Daddy!’

Simon ruffled his hair. At times like this he found it difficult to put his emotions into words. His heart seemed to swell; he knew pride, he knew surprise to think that he could have created such a marvellous little man, and he knew overwhelming love. Simple adoration, the sort of affection that could never be erased.

Margaret followed soon after, as all the servants began to surface. Hugh walked in, scowled at the hearth as though disgusted that a grown man could have produced such a meagre fire, and promptly set about building it with fresh logs, until it was roaring. Only then did he nod to himself and walk out again, all the while ignoring his master. Only Margaret merited a greeting.

There was a shout, then a cry, and soon after that, a scrabble of boots and a tousled figure appeared. ‘Hugh kicked me!’

‘No. He kicked your bedding. Of course, you wouldn’t have been abed still, not at this time of day, would you?’ Simon said with poisonous politeness.

‘He meant to kick me,’ Rob said sulkily.

While he lived in Dartmouth, Simon had acquired this lad. He was only thirteen or so, with a dark, ferrety face and the eyes of one who knew how to rob a man’s laces while he was not looking. Probably the son of a sailor, because Simon was sure that his mother would be over-friendly to any matelot with a bulging purse, he had been raised as an urchin at Dartmouth’s port, surviving on whatever he could gain for himself. He was no angel, but Simon felt some sympathy for the lad. Rob had not been granted the best opportunities, yet had managed to live without gaining the close attention of Dartmouth’s authorities.

‘Then you should be glad he wasn’t angry,’ Simon said. ‘Or he would have broken something.’

‘It’s not fair! I’m a free man.’

‘You’re in my employ, boy, and you have failed yet again to get up in time.’ Simon tried to speak sternly, but knew it was pointless. ‘Go and fetch more logs in, then start your chores. I can’t do all your jobs for you, lad.’

Margaret was grinning as Rob shuffled his feet on his way out. ‘You didn’t thrash him today, then?’

‘How can you thrash a lad like him? He wouldn’t feel it.’

‘Ah, my husband, the soul of kindness, always!’

‘Meg, let’s take the air before breaking our fast,’ Simon suggested, wanting a private word with her. ‘Come and walk with me a while.’

They strolled along the old lane, to where the land rose and they could look down over a vast swathe of territory. Turning to the south-west, Simon pointed with his chin. ‘Look at that. Dartmoor.’

‘And it’s raining there again,’ his wife responded. ‘What is it, Simon?’

‘The next year will be dangerous, Meg. From all I’ve heard, Despenser will not give up power, and the king will support him in all he does. But Despenser cannot be allowed to stay. Baldwin and I discussed it last night.’

‘This is dangerous talk.’

‘Meg, there’s no sense hiding it. I agree with Baldwin. I think war is coming.’

Her face froze at those words. She looked away, over the peaceful countryside, at the little copses, the shaws and fields. The pastures were empty, but that only added to the atmosphere of calmness. Quietly, she said, ‘You think the fighting would reach here?’

‘My love, Baldwin is right: the fighting may even start here. The queen could choose to land in Devon; the King has not been favoured here since he confiscated her territories, has he? Whereas her popularity has grown.’

Margaret could not help but throw a glance towards their house. ‘Perkin …’

‘And you. All of us would be in danger. So I think we should consider moving away for a little while.’

‘Where to?’

‘We may be safer in a city.’

‘But cities suffer siege. Here, we could run away.’

‘True, but this little farm is no haven. What could I do if I was here with you, and I knew that the children and you had no means of escape or concealment? I would be distraught.’

‘There is no need to be.’ Margaret took a deep breath. ‘You are right, husband. We do have to consider such matters, but I refuse to live in terror. If there is an invasion, there should be some warning. And if there is not, we shall have to pray to God to protect us. There is no more that Christians can do.’

And with that, she kissed him and made her way back to the house, refusing to discuss the matter further.

However, her confidence was sorely shaken when the messenger arrived from the bishop.

Langtoft, Lincolnshire

‘I am on urgent business for the Bishop of Norwich,’ Richard de Folville said, scrambling to his feet.

The man on horseback smiled, and Richard could see that he was assessing this catch. Only one day from his home, and he was already snared as tightly as a rabbit in a net!

‘I am sergeant to the Kirby Bellers estates,’ the man said, ‘and I am hunting a felon called Richard de Folville, a bald-pated priest who looks just like you, master.’

‘I don’t know the man. I am Peter of Huntingdon, and I am here on the business of the Bishop of Norwich, as I said. You cannot hold me. I have the benefit of clergy, and-’

‘Don’t give me that ballocks, priest. We know all about your “benefit” here. There was a priest killed a man a couple of years ago — and we may have released him when the bishop demanded it, but only after he’d been found guilty. You see, up here, we think that murdering scum is murdering scum. It doesn’t matter what habit you wear, nor whether you’ve had a good shaven pate: if you kill, you’re a killer.’

‘I’m no murderer! I’ve never killed anyone — I swear it before God.’

‘Perhaps. You can tell the justice when you see him. For now though, pack your gear and come with me.’

‘Right away?’

‘You catch on fast.’

Folville stared down at his pot. The steam was beginning to rise from the surface, and he could almost taste the mint. ‘I need my drink first. And then I’ll get my horse and join you,’ he said. And in his heart, he knew there was no escape for him. This man would bind him and sit him upon his horse, and he would lead Richard all the way back to Melton Mowbray, to the gaol. If he was fortunate, the bishop would send a man to rescue him, eventually, and he would be transferred from one gaol to the bishop’s own. It was a grim outcome.

‘There is no time for that, priest. Get your things. Now!’

‘But I want to-’

The man swung himself down from his horse and trampled Richard’s fire, kicking over the pot, upsetting the water, and there was a rush of noise and steam that inundated the place.

Richard stared with dismay at his fire, shaking his head in disbelief. There was the smell of soggy coals already, and the steam was rising pathetically from the embers. He let out a tiny sob, and began to bend down to pick up the pot, just in case there might be a little water left in it, and now the man kicked again, his boot striking the pot and sending it high in the air.

It was his mistake. The sergeant followed the trajectory of the pot with a smirk on his face, and didn’t see the flash of steel, nor register the danger until he felt the small explosion in his breast as the sharp point punctured his lungs and continued up, shearing through the muscles of his heart.

He coughed — that was the first thing that Richard was aware of — then clutched at his throat, pulling at his hood and tunic as though they were strangling him; he jerked and thrashed, while the blood poured in a crimson gush from his lips, until he slumped to the ground. A last shiver ran through the man’s body, and the corpse was not a human being, it was merely an accumulation of muscle, flesh and bones. There was not even the indication of a soul.

Richard scrambled away, wanting to scream in pure horror, wanting to escape this scene of hell, this picture of his own guilt. For this man had not died at the hands of his brother, but had been killed by him — by him personally. By the one de Folville who was a man of God.

His mind was rushing on from one horrible consideration to another, and yet Richard gradually understood that it was not the reality of what he had done that scared him; it was the thought of the punishment, were he discovered. He would be safe in heaven, after all. He had studied, and he knew perfectly well that, provided he made a fulsome apology and confessed before death, his soul would be secure.

Already, all panic was leaching away, and in its place was a rational consideration. First, he must conceal the body as best he could. Second, he must also conceal the horse, if possible, and finally he must make good his escape.

Taking his knife from the corpse, he cleaned it on the man’s chemise, before rolling the body away, down to the bank of a little stream. Shoving the sergeant over and into the water, he felt sure that the body would remain unseen for some little while. Then he returned to his fire and shook his head mournfully. For the want of a hot drink he had killed that man. He wanted his mint tea more than anything he had ever desired, but he could do nothing about it. First he must ride away to Bishop’s Llyn.

His belly growling and his throat parched, he tiredly repacked his few belongings, then fetched his horse. Saddling it and then tying his blanket to the saddle took but little time. The sergeant’s horse had meanwhile ambled over to the stream, and now was sniffing at it with perplexity. In a moment, it had started to whinny and paw at the ground, and Richard realised his error. He should have killed the brute before. Now it was too late. He was desperate to get away, to find a ship to help him escape. The thought of catching and killing a horse now was too daunting.

With a set jaw, he mounted. Beneath him, his own horse was prancing with excitement — catching some hints of the scent of blood, he thought — and then he was off, pointing the beast eastwards, and, so he hoped, to safety.

Exeter

Roger Crok had found himself a cheap lodging at an inn near the West Gate overlooking the walls, and beyond, the river and the vills that spread out in the valley and up the hills. It was the sort of view Roger could look at all day with happiness to remind himself that he was in a safe, enclosed city.

There had been little opportunity so far, but he was determined to find his way to the bishop somehow.

He walked about the city a lot of the time; it was easy to pass unnoticed among the thronging hordes. Most days he went over to the Cathedral Close and stood watching the canons and the lay brothers at their duties. There was one old fosser who always seemed ready to chat — and Roger deliberately avoided him. He had no desire to be noticed and remembered.

The sight of the canons marching to their services was always impressive, and today, it was something that made Roger pause.

It was clear that news of some sort had reached the cathedral. Was it that he was here? That was his first thought. Someone must have guessed that the bishop was an assassin’s target, because as soon as the first canons strode out from their doors to the cathedral’s grassed areas, he saw the extra men.

Usually the black-gowned clerics would appear quietly, their garments flapping in the wind like the wings of ravens, and wait with more or less patience as their entire household formed behind them, and then make their way to the cathedral. Today, all was different. The canons appeared to be glaring about them with intense suspicion.

When the bishop and his own familia arrived, he knew in his heart that it must be true. They had heard he was here to kill the bishop.

And then he began to see that the looks were not aimed at him, nor at the others in the Close. All the suspicion was aimed at each other.

Asking around in the crowd, he learned nothing about the cause of this change, and was reluctantly left with the belief that the only man who could help him was the fosser — who at the moment was up to his waist in a new grave. As Roger cautiously made his way over to the old man, he kept his gaze fixed on the bishop’s household.

The bishop himself looked terrible. His skin was almost yellow, and his head was bent — as one who was carrying an appalling burden of grief on his shoulders.

‘Here, my friend — what on earth’s the matter with the choir?’ he enquired when he reached the fosser.

The others in the bishop’s household were also affected, he could see. There was a youngish fellow, well built and with the bearing of a fighter, who stood near Stapledon, with tears falling from his face.

‘Bishop’s old friend has died,’ the fosser said, wiping his brow with the back of a muddy hand. ‘Father Joshua was a popular figure up yer. ’E was old, mind. Ancient as the old cathedral, they say. Looked ’un.’

There was much more in a similar vein, about the special service being planned, the tomb under the flags in the cathedral near the altar, the mourning that would continue for the rest of the day and through the night while the bishop held his vigil over the corpse with his most loyal servants and other friends of the dead man.

‘Who is that man with the bishop now?’ Roger asked, pointing.

‘’Im? ’E’s the bishop’s nephew, Squire Willum.’

Roger nodded, half to himself, but even as he did so, he realised that his interest had been noticed. The squire and another man were staring at him openly, just as he gazed at the bishop.

And then a singular thing happened. He saw Walter Stapledon stumble, a hand at his brow.

The bishop, the evil, dangerous man on whom he had sworn direst vengeance, was no more than a frail old man, who was weeping and distraught because of the death of a dear companion.

Roger thanked the fosser, then slowly turned and walked away, out of the Close, along the old lanes to the inn. There, he paid his last bill and gathered his belongings, making his way to the South Gate, and thence leaving the city and walking down to the coast.

He was a warrior. And the sight of the bishop in such a pathetic state had convinced Roger Crok of one thing: he was no assassin of old men.

No, he must leave England and find exile in France.