The Bishop Must Die

Chapter Two

Morrow of the Feast of the Assumption of Our Lady, seventeenth year of the reign of King Edward II^*

Olveston, Gloucestershire

Lady Isabella Fitzwilliam wept quietly as she prayed for her poor, dear son Roger. She hoped that he was safe, but she could guess all too easily how harsh his life would have become.

Dust and ashes, that was her own life: everything she had loved and sought to defend was turned to dust and ashes. Her hopes and dreams, the children, the husbands — all would have been better, had she never lived. To be born, to live with hope, to wed a good man only to see him die; to wed again, but to have him taken from her in turn, that was too cruel. How could God, the All-seeing, the All-powerful, punish her so cruelly?

The father, her confessor, had told her that He would be eternally kind to her when she died; that her suffering in this world was to be an example to others, and that they would benefit marvellously from her bearing in this time of woe. She was a source of strength for all those who knew her. A pious woman in adversity was a wonder to all, he said.

Her confessor was lucky to be alive.

She had no wish to be an example to any man, woman or child. And as for her soul, what was that compared with the beauty she had created in her womb? She would willingly give it up for another year with her son — even for a message to learn he was safe. Her lovely boy, poor Roger.

Her early life had been so privileged, it was hard to believe that her status could have sunk so low. Poverty was a hard lord. She had loved her first husband, Peter Crok, with all the fervour and excitement that a young woman’s heart could feel. A tall, fair man, with the slim, aquiline features and blue eyes that were so uncommon about here, he had set all the ladies a-twitter. However, it was she, Isabella, who had snared him. And their marriage had been entirely happy. When little Roger was born, he was the cap to their bliss.

And then all began to fall apart. Peter fell from his horse and died almost immediately. An awful tragedy, but natural. As a widow, Isabella was well provided for, and her dower was a pair of rich manors: Berwick and Olveston in Gloucestershire. She and her five-year-old son were sad to lose him, but were not destitute.

Later, marrying Henry Fitzwilliam had seemed a good idea, too. Henry was a kindly fellow, warm hearted and jolly, without the aloofness of so many other knights of his rank. He was an important man, a retainer of the powerful Maurice Berkeley, but none would guess it to see him. He was welcoming, generous and honourable. Which was why he had been killed.

It was that evil year, the year of Boroughbridge, when the king threw off all pretence of courtesy or chivalry. He had marched against the Lords Marcher in support of his lover, the foul Despenser. Sir Hugh le Despenser despoiled all, taking whatever he craved. Where he passed, all were impoverished. No man’s lands, castles, treasure or even wife were safe from the intolerable greed of the Despenser.

The dispute of the Lords Marcher was with him — not with the king. They were no traitors, nor were they willing to hold up arms against the king and his standard. So when confronted with Edward’s host, all the honourable men among the Marchers laid down their weapons.

Most were captured and sentenced with exceptional brutality. Even Lancaster, the king’s own cousin, was beheaded. Others were thrown into irons and hanged outside their own towns and cities as visible demonstrations of the king’s authority. Never again would he agree to having his power restricted or his decisions questioned. It was clear that all those who attempted to thwart him would suffer the same punishment.

Henry was captured, like so many. It was a source of some little comfort that he did not suffer the undignified death of execution like his friends: he died in Gloucester gaol before he could be attainted. But he had waited so long for his death: thirty-nine weeks. All that while in a tiny cell, without warmth or comfort. Waiting until death might come and take him. She had mourned him as a widow even while he lived.

And when he was dead, the men tried to capture her darling Roger. To this day she had no idea what had happened to him. In truth, she prayed he was safely abroad. At least Henry’s own son Ranulf was alive, sent to live safely under the protection of the Church.

To lose both husband and son was unbearable. But her pain was soon to be compounded.

Because her husband had been arraigned as a traitor to the king, her manors were both taken into the king’s hands. She had lost all rights to them because Sir Henry was found to have supported the rebels, even though he died before his guilt was proven. Her husband’s lands, her son’s and her own, were all forfeit.

Except she was told that they couldn’t take her dower. These lands were of the free tenement of her first husband, so they weren’t eligible to be confiscated. And Isabella had had nothing to do with the rebels, other than being wife to one and mother to another. However, when she had been discussing her affairs with her man of business, she had heard a shocking story — that the Bishop of Exeter, Walter Stapledon, had been asking about her and her manors. There were tales that Bishop Walter had grown to covet her manors, and that it was he who had told the king that she supported the Lords Marcher. It was also he who then advised that all her dower lands were forfeit, along with those of Henry Fitzwilliam. And the bishop had taken her lands into his hands on the first Friday after the Feast of the Ascension in the sixteenth year of the king’s reign.^*

Her son, dear Roger, was gone. She did not know where. Both husbands were dead, and all her dower stolen, all to satisfy the insatiable greed of the bishop.

She cursed him to hell.

Second Sunday before Candlemas, nineteenth year of the reign of King Edward II^**

Near Kirby^***

Sir Roger Belers knew this land, all right. He rode along like the experienced knight he was, rolling with his palfrey as the beast walked steadily along the muddy road, a strong man in his prime, hair still black apart from two wings of white at the temples, his eyes heavily lidded and inattentive. Why should a man be wary so near to his own home? This road was well used and known to be safe, for it was the main road from Melton Mowbray to Leicester, and this fellow was aware of all the efforts to keep it clear of murderers and other felons.

‘Keep steady!’ was the quiet whisper as the small cavalcade approached.

Richard de Folville nodded, his breath sounding loud and raw in his ears. He was a rector, of the church of Teigh in Rutland, and the thought of joining a band of outlaws had been the furthest thing from his mind. And yet here he was, crouched behind a tangle of undergrowth, gripping his sword. They were in a small stand of trees, he and his fellows. At the other side of the road, more men waited, their weapons ready, for the moment when a call would draw them out to capture this man, this fiend.

Belers, he was named! Sir Roger Belers of Kirby Bellers. A name to drive fear into the heart of any man. Once a sworn ally of Earl Thomas of Lancaster, he had deserted that cause as soon as he saw how the wind was changing, and even as the earl was murdered by his cousin the king, Belers was scurrying off to curry favour. He was welcomed with open arms by the king and Despenser, and by the middle of the year, had been made a baron of the Treasury.

Avarice. The word could have been exemplified by a picture of Belers. There was no one in the whole of the shire who would regret his passing. For him, Richard Folville, this baron of the Treasury was nothing more than a thief who stole with the king’s consent. No better than the foul Despenser himself.

Belers was highly favoured by the king for his change of heart before the Lords Marcher rode to defy Edward’s favourite, Despenser. After the Battle of Boroughbridge, which saw the king’s enemies defeated, Belers was made a commissioner of the lands of those who had stood with the Lords Marcher. And soon he began to throw his weight around, making an enemy of all those who lived in the county. He had no friends here.

There was a sudden burst of sound. Belers’s palfrey had smelled something, and now it neighed, tossing its head, unnerved. Woken from his reverie, Belers glanced about him even as Richard’s brother Eustace roared, ‘Now!’ and leaped forward. Richard scrambled to his feet, but he was already too late. His brothers and the others were quicker — more used to ambush and fighting.

Richard thrust himself through the brambles and hollies: before him was a mass of struggling men, and the air was loud with hoarse cries and screams, swords clattering against knives, knives against cudgels, cudgels against staves. All his learning rebelled at the sight and sounds — but he was thrilled, too. He saw a short man with a steel cap fall under a flurry of blows from his brother Walter and Ralph la Zouche, blood spraying up and over the three. A man-at-arms was flying away, darting along the road like a rabbit with a hound after him, and Richard’s other brother Robert sprinted off after him, pulling him down and sliding his sword into the man’s kidneys, while the fellow shrieked and thrashed about.

And then it was over. Richard stood dazed, sword still clean, gazing about him wonderingly as though this was a dream. There were groans from two men near the middle of the road, and as Richard watched, he saw them despatched with a dagger-thrust to the heart, their bodies arching and twitching in their death throes. But already every man’s attention was on the last man: Belers himself.

He showed no fear, only an all-encompassing rage. ‘You dare to attack me? Me? Do you know who I am? You have killed my squire, you bastard! Yes, you! I’ll have your cods for my dog, you arse! You pig’s turd, you barrel of lard, you tun of fat!’

The man he berated turned slowly. ‘You speak to me, Belers? You should hold your tongue before I have it cut out. Don’t you remember me?’

He was a heavyset man in his thirties or so, a fellow with a body that looked as sturdy as a small oak, and with dark, sunburned skin to match. He was clad in a worn tunic and hosen like all the others, with a tattered cloak to keep him warm, but for all the meanness of his clothing, there was something about him that proved his position. This was a man who had held senior posts, a man of importance. It was there in his stillness, and in the intense dark brown eyes that gazed at Belers like a priest eyeing a demon.

Belers blustered now. ‘Why should I? I don’t bother to remember the face of every felon whose path I cross, but I will remember yours, you mother-swyving churl! I’ll appreciate your looks when I see them blacken and your eyes pop as you dance for the crowds at Melton Mowbray’s gibbet!’

‘You threaten me — a knight with more history to his name than you? My family came here with William the Norman, and you tell me you’ll see me dance?’

‘You are dead, all of you!’

‘Look again, Belers! Do you still not recognise me?’

‘I have no idea who you are. You aren’t from around here.’

‘Think to the Marcher war, Belers. The family from Lubbersthorpe — remember them? The man whom you robbed of his manors and income, the mother you cast out from her home — remember?’

‘I don’t recall-’

‘Lubbersthorpe. Where you took everything for yourself, and then rode away. And you had the mother’s son captured and thrown into gaol. Remember?’

‘That was la Zouche, wasn’t it? What is it to do with you?’

‘I am Sir Ralph la Zouche,’ the man said, and now he drew a long dagger. ‘And by my honour, I will enjoy this!’

So saying, he stepped forward towards Belers. As the baron tried to move away, hands grabbed him, and Sir Ralph reversed the blade in his hands, so that now it pointed downwards. While Belers was held firmly, Sir Ralph came to him. He studied Belers a moment, and then spat into the baron’s face. The baron turned with an expression of loathing, and while his head was averted, Sir Ralph brought his knife down, thrusting past the collar bone and down into the man’s breast.

Belers’s body jolted like a stung stallion, and his head snapped about, until he was staring full into Sir Ralph’s face, and then slowly he began to sink to the ground, while his face paled. His jaw worked as though to speak, but there was nothing more to be heard from him. His soul had fled.

‘Take that piece of shit and throw it in the ditch. He pollutes the road,’ Sir Ralph said, and turned on his heel.

Monday, Feast of St Sebastian, nineteenth year of the reign of King Edward II^*

West Sandford^**

It was a cold, grey morning when Simon Puttock left his house. He had nothing to attend to, but he had always feared growing a paunch to rival his father’s, and every day he would try to take his rounsey out for a ride to clear his head and ease his spirits.

A tall man of almost forty, with a calm expression on his weather-beaten face, his eyes were dark grey and steady — the eyes of a man who had suffered much and found himself strong enough to cope.

Entering the little byre, he paused in the darkness. His two cows were inside, away from the worst of the recent weather, and he slapped the rump of the nearer one, running his hand over her enormous frame, feeling the size of the calf inside. Both were strong beasts, but this had been the better milker over the years, and now that he had lost his position at Tavistock Abbey, Simon was determined to make more money from cheese and milk sales.

‘She’ll be fine.’

Simon turned to see his servant Hugh, a morose-looking, truculent old devil, watching him from the doorway.

‘I was just patting her,’ Simon said, half-defensively.

Hugh grunted disbelievingly. ‘I’ve been looking after sheep and cows since I could first handle a sling,’ he muttered, as he walked over to the two great beasts. He rested his hand on the cow’s back. ‘There’s no need for you to come and upset them with your “patting”.’

Simon smiled. In the last years, Hugh had married, had suffered the loss of his wife and the child she bore, and had returned to Simon’s side. Despite his sour exterior, Simon knew that he was devoted to him and to his family.

‘Have you heard from Edith?’ Hugh said, without looking at Simon.

Simon felt the smile wiped from his face like a towel clearing mud. ‘No.’

Exeter

The bishop was surprised to hear that there were two men to see him, but he was a believer in the old principles of courtesy and hospitality, so he nodded to his steward, John, to allow them entry.

The two were not tonsured, he saw at once. The older was a tallish fellow, with a russet tunic and tan cloak thrown back over his shoulder. He had a beard that covered his cheeks from a little below his eyes, down past his chin, over his throat and down to his tunic. His eyes were steady as they studied the bishop. His companion was much younger, a fair-haired fellow with a sparkle in his eyes, who seemed unable to grow a beard yet. He had a crossbow slung over his shoulder.

‘Yes?’ the bishop asked, once they had bent their knees and kissed his ring. ‘You wished to see me?’

‘We have been sent to speak with you,’ the older man said. ‘Sir Hugh le Despenser sends you his greetings.’

‘I see.’ Bishop Walter set his jaw. ‘And?’

‘There is a man who is causing my Lord Despenser some trouble, and he has asked for you to help us find him. It is a man called John Biset.’

Biset … Yes, the bishop knew this fellow. ‘Why does he wish to find him?’

There was no answer, and he had not truly expected one. When Sir Hugh le Despenser decided to send a message to a man, it was rarely a matter of pleasantries. There would be violence.

‘I know where he lives,’ the bishop said slowly, ‘but I am reluctant to-’

‘You need not fear. All we want is the address of someone nearby who can help us,’ the younger man said with a smile. He was always smiling, Bishop Walter noticed.

‘I do not fear,’ Bishop Walter said coolly. ‘But I would not have unnecessary violence.’

‘There will be none,’ the older man said. ‘Now give us the name of the man who can help us.’

His rudeness was almost enough to have him thrown from the bishop’s room, but then Bishop Walter reconsidered. He had managed to alienate the king already, because of his failure as Edward’s representative last year. That mission had been a disaster. He could not afford to upset Sir Hugh le Despenser — the second most important man in the country — as well. It was a horrible thought that he must become complicit in the attack on an innocent man, in order to maintain his own position, but he was not the first to have been forced to this. And he had done worse in the past.

‘No bloodshed?’

‘We don’t intend to shed blood, Bishop,’ the younger, smiling man said with an expression of surprise and hurt. ‘We just have to leave him a message.’

Bishop Walter eyed the older man, but there was not a hint of a smile on his dark features. ‘You?’

The fellow shook his head slowly.

‘Very well. If you are not to cause bloodshed, I can give you my help,’ the bishop said. He called to his steward. ‘John, take these two to my clerk, and have them write a message to the chaplain at the church of Coombe Bisset. Tell him I ask that he helps these men and provides them with food and drink while they stay with him.’

He watched the two stride out, the younger turning and giving him a wave like an affectionate son taking his farewell before a pilgrimage. There was no unpleasantness in his manner. Bishop Walter tried to convince himself that the two strangers were not intending to cause harm.

But secretly, he felt sure that this was a vain hope. He knew Sir Hugh too well.