The Bishop Must Die

Chapter Seventeen

Louvre, Paris

There was a crunch behind him, and Ralph la Zouche immediately dropped low, span round upon his toe and snatched at his sword, sweeping it out in a slither of steel, eyes narrowed, left hand ready to block any sudden attack.

The ostler gaped, dropping his saddle and almost turning to flee at the sight of this grim, bearded Englishman. ‘M’sieur, je veux …’

‘Put your sword up, Sir Ralph! Do you want to have the whole castle upon us?’ Richard de Folville hissed.

Sir Ralph carefully inserted the point of his sword into the scabbard, then thrust it home, but stood a few moments, staring at Folville. The Folvilles had been allies of his family for years, but this one, this Richard, who had been sent to become a priest and yet who now allowed his tonsure to grow out, was not made from the same mould as them. This shit-britches would run to mummy at the first sign of trouble. If he dared to tell Sir Ralph what to do, the knight would squash him like a fly.

Beckoning the ostler, Sir Ralph pulled out a coin from his purse, flipping it into the air, and stalking away before anyone could say anything more.

Folville had not laughed. That fact had saved his life, because a shitten priest wouldn’t laugh twice at Sir Ralph. No, not even a Folville could insult Sir Ralph.

He was the eldest of his brothers, and the one man most aware of the family’s honour. Ever since their first arrival in England from Normandy, his family had been at the forefront of English politics. They had come with William the Bastard, and they had been at the vanguard of his host as Duke William rode hither and thither over the realm, quelling all the rebels who tried to use terrorism to evict their lawful conquerors. Those must have been hard days: sitting long hours in the saddle, then riding down the pathetic English rebels at the point of the lance. Sir Ralph wished he could have been born in those days, with the chance of fighting them. It was what he was born for: fighting.

There had been times for glory only recently, too. It wasn’t only dead history. In King Edward I’s reign, there had been thrilling opportunities for a man to go to Scotland or Wales. His own father had fought in both countries, making himself a small fortune in the process, when he captured two Welsh princes and ransomed them. The money from those two had bought the family two good manors, which had in some ways compensated them for the other difficulties that they had encountered with neighbours. The Belers family was always a difficult competitor, and they had always sought to influence people to the detriment of the la Zouches.

The feud had its genesis far back in the distant past. Grandfather had once said that it actually went back to the times before the invasion of the country. In France, their ancestors had maintained a running competition since the days of Roland, bickering and quarrelling over their rights to different parcels of land. When they came to England, Duke William had given all his knights tracts of land which were diversely spread over the whole country, so that no one man would have enough power in any shire to be able to gather up forces to threaten his own rule, and also so that the knights would be too busy travelling from one manor to another to be able to foment trouble. As a policy, it had worked. But in succeeding years, all the lords and barons had gradually accumulated more lands in their own favoured locations, and some had formed strong power bases.

In their territories, it had perhaps been natural that the Belers and the la Zouches should have come to view each other askance. As they soon did. But it was all the fault of the Belers family. That much was clear. It was why the la Zouches had been forced to take such drastic action.

And why Sir Ralph was here, he told himself, watching the ostler settling the saddle on his mount’s back.

That rector didn’t like him. Well, that was fine by Sir Ralph. If Richard Folville’s brothers had all been here, maybe Sir Ralph would have been concerned. But they weren’t, so the priest should stay out of Sir Ralph’s way.

The others here in the Louvre were an unknown quantity. He could utterly rely on his brother Ivo, of course. But the others: John Biset, Roger Crok, and now this new priest Paul de Cockington as well, were not the sort of men to inspire confidence in a commander.

If these were the only men who were designated to protect Duke Edward of Aquitaine, Sir Ralph would have his work cut out.

There was no denying that he felt the edginess of the others. They were all too short with each other, too prepared to snap and argue. Just as he was himself, if he were honest. All of them were too well aware of the dangers they ran in being here. But for them there was nowhere else to go. Nothing to do. They were victims of the cretinous king and his lover, Despenser.

Because they all knew that they were now considered to be traitors. They were each of them worth money to the king and Despenser … dead.

Bishop’s Palace, Exeter

John was glad of William’s presence when he heard of the second message.

‘What does it say?’ he demanded, while the men-at-arms ran about the palace, searching all the most likely, and several frankly impossible, places of concealment.

‘Look for yourself,’ William said curtly.

Taking it, John read aloud. ‘The author of so much misery must pay for it all. Death, and Hell, await you.’

‘How dare he accuse my uncle of being the architect of misery! A kinder, more thoughtful and considerate man never walked the earth,’ William said heatedly.

John nodded. ‘There is nothing to show how this was brought to the palace. Who would dare to enter my master’s private chamber and fiddle with his books?’

‘The very same man who would dare to threaten him with death and damnation.’

‘How did he get into the palace?’ John wondered. ‘The doors should have been locked.’

‘Do the familia lock all the doors when they go with the bishop to the chapel or church? I doubt it. All our careful planning has come to nought, John. We didn’t think of that.’

‘Why should we? It’s been five months. We were both beginning to think that the danger had receded.’

‘I certainly had,’ William said. His face was gaunt as the full import of the afternoon’s event was brought home to him. ‘Someone was here, John — in his private chamber, and even knew to place the parchment into that book. The courage of the devil.’

‘We shall have to find this man,’ John said. ‘It is someone who must know about the bishop’s movements at certain times.’

‘All I can think of is a man who could hate so much, but who also holds the power to enter a palace like this. It seems like more than one man, does it not?’

Neither heard the door behind them open, as William continued speaking, taking the parchment back again.

‘So, it must be someone enormously powerful — and bold enough to walk in here, or prepared to pay someone else to do it.’

Bishop Walter stepped forward and took the scrap of parchment. He glanced at it, then flung it aside. ‘I am one of the most powerful men in Exeter, yet I have no idea who could have done this!’

William nodded, but glanced at John as he said, ‘Could you show us the first message, please? I think it would be useful for John to see it as well.’

The bishop set his jaw. ‘Very well. John, it is in the large chest in my bedchamber.’

John nodded and walked from the room by the small spiral staircase set into the corner of the chamber.

‘Who could want to do this to you?’ William asked.

‘You have asked me that before. I don’t know.’

‘Uncle, there is a man whom you have upset enough to make him loathe you. You could surely not have inspired such hatred without knowing it!’

‘Nephew, I hold power in this cathedral and my diocese; I have held extraordinary power as the Lord High Treasurer. Men hate me for both of these roles. I have negotiated with the queen on behalf of the king, so she hates me. Others think I helped take too much of their lands or treasure for tax and they too hate me. There are many, many men who would happily see me sink into hell.’

John returned, holding the cream-coloured purse. He passed it to the bishop without a word.

‘So, the first told you that the reckoning was at hand, while this second says more definitely that hell awaits you.’

‘And I have no idea who could have written them.’

John was studying the purse itself. ‘This stain — it is old blood. The purse has lain in a man’s blood.’

The bishop reached for it and studied the brown marks. ‘How can you be so sure? It looks like mud to me.’

‘I am sure,’ John said.

William looked at his uncle. ‘Have you killed a man?’

‘No. I have fought, but never slain.’

‘Well, there are no guards on your doors,’ William said. ‘In the Cathedral Close there could have been a thousand men and women today, so it is not possible to work out who could have come to this room while we were in chapel. All we can do is wait for him to try it again.’

‘And next time, with luck, we shall catch him,’ John said. He looked at his master, and felt as though his heart must tear in two at the expression of dismay on the bishop’s face. ‘Do not fear, my lord bishop. We shall catch him.’

‘You will not be hurt by this man,’ William added.

‘No,’ the bishop said, but he did not sound convinced. A short while later, John and William were outside his room.

‘Squire William, I am scared.’

‘Master John, do not be. All we must do is ensure that my uncle is safe from intruders. If we can do that, and stop these ridiculous messages reaching him, he will soon be himself again.’ But as William turned away, he thought sadly that the bishop looked like a frail old man, a man who had not many more months to live.

Paris

Their path took them up the roads away from Paris itself, and soon Richard Folville was glad to see that their route was taking them away from the woods, as well. There was a steady sense of anxiety in his belly whenever he was in a close-confined area.

The murder of Belers was a passing memory now. It had been necessary because the thieving scrote had tried to steal too much from the Folville family as well as the la Zouches. Belers was always happy to enrich himself at the expense of all-comers. Well, he could rob peasants as often as he wished, but if a Belers tried to grab the lands of an old established family like the Folvilles, he would have his hands cut off.

Folville had been lucky in his escape. As soon as he reached the port, he had found a man who was more than willing to stow him away on board, and within a few hours he was at sea on the fishing vessel, bucketing about in the middle of the Channel. It took a mere two days to cross (the weather had been foul), and soon Richard Folville made his way to Paris, telling the story of how his family had been impoverished as a result of the Despenser hold on power at the king’s court.

There had been little surprise at his arrival. During his first day at Paris, he had himself seen a steady stream of men with similar tales, men who had lost everything because of the appalling greed of Sir Hugh le Despenser, or because of the irrational behaviour of the king.

It was curious, watching all those men. Some had been utterly broken, their spirits gone. One man in particular, he recalled, had behaved as a supplicant, weeping, his hands claws, smearing ashes and filth into his beard and hair. The sort of man, in short, whom Richard would have refused entry to his church. This was the type of vagabond who would have earned himself a sharp kick to the backside and a poke with a heavy staff to tempt him to find alternative accommodation. It was surely a credit to the patience of the French that they not only endured his whimpering, but gave him a hearing. It led to his telling some tale of his daughters being raped and murdered, while his wife was imprisoned, and he himself had been due to be executed. Not that he had been, of course. He had escaped, to come here and whine.

The astonishing thing was, all manner of men were accepted here in Paris. Rich and poor alike, for many who travelled to Paris would be poor when they arrived. The mere fact of leaving England was an assurance of poverty, for the king would confiscate all lands, all treasure, all income. Nothing was too small that it would be ignored by the king’s clerks. Every item in a house or castle would be listed, down to the smallest pin, and removed.

He wished he knew where his brothers were. There was a man in the Louvre who had said that the rest of them had travelled up to Hainault, to be with the queen and her lover Mortimer, but Richard was not yet convinced. Another man had grave news: he said that Roger had been captured and was being held in gaol, but he didn’t sound entirely sure. Perhaps he was wrong. It would be terrible to think that Roger was dead.

As it would to hear that any of his brothers had fallen. Richard would avenge any of them, if he might.

And he would be able to. The despatching of the man in the wastes before escaping England to come here had shown him that he was indeed a strong man, capable of killing when necessary.

All through his youth, he had looked upon his brothers as more powerful. They had been taught in arms, while he had been taken away when he had shown an especial ability with words and reading. A man able to read and write was always a valuable asset to a family, and if there was the inevitable result that the poor fellow concerned would be forced into the Church, well, that was a price worth paying. In particular because it meant that there would be a confessor for the brothers when they unfortunately behaved as men sometimes would, and killed a man. At those times, Richard had felt his nerves quail. There was something so masculine about them in the way that they stormed into the church, demanding to be heard, taking delight in telling him all about their offences as though he would be proud of their exploits. It made him jealous.

No longer. Now he knew that he was as competent as they. It was a matter of slipping a blade into a torso, that was all. And next time, perhaps, he would watch more closely. Watch the eyes, see how they dilated and contracted as his knife cut through arteries and veins, punctured the heart, stopped the brain. It would be wonderful to watch all that, to see a man actually dying before him.

He was looking forward to the next man he would kill.