The Bishop Must Die

Chapter Twenty-One

Third Wednesday before the Feast of St Paul and St John^*

Montreuil

The little force was being readied as Paul de Cockington completed his lesson for the day. He was feeling smug. Never before had he been asked to tutor a boy, but he was nothing if not methodical, as he told himself, and there was little that a man with a brain could not achieve without a bit of practical effort. He would still much rather be getting to grips with the little maid who was the queen’s constant companion, for she looked as though she would be worth a wrestle or two. The mere thought of stripping her and feasting his eyes upon her undoubted assets was enough to make him quiver like a hound seeing the quarry.

But it was not going to happen. Not here. The sad fact was, she was so rarely away from the queen that the opportunity would be very unlikely to present itself. And while he was proud of the speed of his assaults, he would need a little time to persuade this one. Even he wouldn’t want to try to ravish a maid in the queen’s service while he was in the royal lady’s household.

There was another thing — the man Mortimer was always around the place. His eyes were everywhere, so it seemed. Paul couldn’t even glance at a serving maid without finding that Mortimer was staring at him immediately afterwards. The fellow was desperate to know everything that was happening, as though he thought that all the men in his household, all those sitting in his hall, were plotting to kill him. Quite mad.

It was noticeable that his eyes rested more commonly on Paul than on others though, and that was a source of some fear. Paul didn’t like being watched; he thought that this must be how a mouse feels while the hawk hovers overhead; unseen, unheard, but always moments away from a deadly blow.

Still, the lessons had seemed to be going well. He had managed to surprise the lad — up until yesterday, anyway.

Yesterday the boy had seemed thoroughly impressed; it was clear by the way that he had responded to his teachings. Sometimes the young duke had the temerity to question details, but Paul was always able to adopt a lofty attitude, while making up stories to prove that he was correct. That was one skill he had never lost. There were a couple of moments when the boy had tried to speak over him, as though thinking that he knew the answers to some issues, but Paul had airily waved away his protests. It would not do to have a pupil believe that he knew more than his tutor, after all.

Yes, he had been quite enjoying his teachings, spouting forth while daydreaming about the backside of the maid. Just a shame that he couldn’t get to grapple with that little blonde.

The bell at the chapel tolled, and he gladly closed the book before him. Enormous, it covered the campaigns of the Greek Alexander, and the thing was tedious — and somewhat worrying, too. The boy had specifically asked for it today. Yesterday he had demonstrated an insatiable appetite for stories of the man’s achievements, and it had begun to strain Paul, to come up with new facets of the warrior’s character. Every time he thought that he had successfully shut down one avenue of the duke’s enquiries, the little monster would come up with another. It really had been hard work. The boy seemed to delight in finding new questions. Still, Paul’s inventiveness had been up to it, or so he had felt. He had told of how the man was actually not particularly brave, and that was why he had lived to such a grand old age. Alexander was, naturally, a coarse, thuggish man with the manners of a barbarian, and his appreciation of arts and the finer things in life were obviously going to extend no further than those things which he could grab and stuff in a cart to be sold.

If Paul had made it up, that was little concern at the time. No one could prove him wrong, after all. Or so he had thought, but then the duke had asked to study this book with Paul. And Paul now had a distinct feeling that he might have been trapped. This book seemed to indicate that Alexander had died rather younger than the hoary old warrior he had envisaged. If the book were to be believed, he was also rather cultured. And not an acquisitive mercenary like the modern knight Paul had imagined. It led Paul to wonder whether he had, in fact, been taken in by the lad.

‘Ready for your ride?’ the duke asked. He had a slight smile, and his eyes were lidded, as though he was amused by something. Or suspicious.

‘Yes, of course, my lord,’ Paul said, and he was aware of a nervousness as he bowed.

Bishop’s Clyst

‘What can you tell me about these affairs?’ Baldwin asked as the bishop walked in, William Walle and John behind him.

Baldwin was sitting at the table, head resting on his fists, while he tried to make sense of the crabbed writing before him.

‘Which?’ the bishop asked. He crossed the floor and sat at Baldwin’s side. ‘Oh, the Hamo case? That was a difficult matter. The boy, his son John, was orphaned, so we thought, when his father died in the Scottish war. That damned Bruce killed so many of our men that year. May his soul rot in hell. Since Hamo atte Font was dead — or so everyone thought — we had to look after his boy. I took on his wardship, and Hamo’s assets were taken.’

‘It says here that Hamo’s son was to be placed into the guardianship of his mother?’ Baldwin said.

‘Well, yes, that was suggested. But some of us felt that the matter was not so simple. Anyway, it was all resolved quickly. Hamo managed to return later, and he took up his properties in his own right.’

‘I see. And you had no fights with them?’

‘No. Nor did I take up a seal or try to keep his assets once he arrived home again,’ the bishop said sharply.

‘Very good. There are a number of other matters here though. All have been listed with this mark.’

‘What mark? Oh.’

Baldwin could see the bishop’s eyes move away, even as he pointed to the small ‘D’ at the corner of the first section. ‘Bishop — what does this signify?’

‘There is no secret to it. It means that it was a matter in which I involved myself with my lord Hugh le Despenser. We occasionally had need of some mutual support, I suppose, and would help people together.’

‘People such as this Roger Crok?’

‘People such as he, yes.’

‘What happened with him?’

‘He was a supporter of the king’s enemies. Of the Lords Marcher. As such, his property became forfeit.’

‘And that is all?’ Baldwin asked.

The bishop licked his lips, then shot a look at his nephew and appeared to make a resolution. ‘No. I was keen to acquire certain lands. There were two manors which his mother would have held, but since her son and her husband were both traitors, they were taken. The king settled both of her manors on me.’

‘Her husband and son are dead?’

‘To the best of my knowledge.’

‘What of this case — John Biset?’

The bishop could feel William Walle’s eyes on him as he answered. ‘Oh, he was a young landowner who wanted wardship of a tenant’s grandson, and I fought it. With good reason, too — the fellow was too young. Biset had hardly come of age when the wardship came up.’

‘So he was of age? You said “hardly”.’

‘Yes, he was technically old enough. But he had to have his age proven, and couldn’t.’

‘Why not?’

The bishop shrugged. ‘I confess, I and Sir Hugh le Despenser arranged matters so that he could not prove his age until late in June of that year, three years ago now. It meant that the wardship was automatically secured by the king. When the inquest was held, he could prove his age, but it is taking him time to win it back.’

‘Why deprive the fellow of his rightful possessions?’ Baldwin asked pointedly.

‘I was content to be reasonable, Sir Baldwin, but he was not. I would have settled happily for the wardship, or for a manor or two. But he wouldn’t agree.’

Baldwin closed the book gently, but he couldn’t help the anger showing in his eyes. ‘So you took from this boy his income, because he wouldn’t submit to you and Despenser trying to steal his manors? I find your innocence a little hard to square with the facts of the case.’

‘We did not, perhaps, cover ourselves with glory,’ the bishop admitted. ‘But the fellow was utterly determined. It was frustrating to have him thwart us in that manner.’

‘Is he alive?’

‘I believe so. Unless he has seriously annoyed the Despenser, there is no reason to think he would have expired,’ the bishop said.

‘Those are the cases I found which showed most promise,’ Baldwin said. ‘It is possible, I suppose, that Biset found your attempt to steal his manor to be so reprehensible that he sent you the notes and his old seal. Or, perhaps the seal belonged to the ward’s father?’

‘He was only a tenant. He may have possessed his own seal, I suppose, but I would doubt that it would have been kept in such a valuable purse.’

‘The poor will often value objects that the rich consider pointless,’ Baldwin said. ‘The Crok family would seem to have more use for a seal though, or this man Biset. They were landowners themselves, so if one of them survived, he may carry the urge for revenge for your theft.’

‘I consider that word to be most harsh,’ the bishop protested.

‘Then what term would you seek to use?’ Baldwin demanded. ‘In God’s name, I declare, I have never heard such a litany of crimes confessed in all my years on the bench listening to the gaol delivery sessions! So, we have the Crok family, if any survive, and the Biset family too. I would concentrate your efforts there, Bishop.’

William nodded. ‘I’ll have messengers sent to learn from the local sheriffs whether the men are alive or not.’

‘Any others you’ve forborne to record, my lord Bishop?’ Baldwin asked with more than a hint of sarcasm.

‘There is no one else. Occasionally there are some who will grow irritable with me,’ Bishop Walter said, ‘but that is natural when you are in a position of some power like me. That doesn’t mean that I need to listen to all of them.’

‘Such as whom?’

‘Sir Baldwin,’ the bishop expostulated, his hands thrown out in a gesture of openness, ‘how can I count them? Be reasonable! In London alone, I was hated by the commonality. All loathed me for I was the man who instigated the Grand Eyre of five years ago. It wasn’t my fault, but it was imposed on London while I had the position of Treasurer, so all blamed me. It is natural. Now, do you wish me to bring you a list of all the thousands of men who live in London? Of course not! Perhaps you would like me to compile a full audit of those who have cause to dislike my exactions in taxes in York, or in Winchester? It would leave you with many tens of thousands. That is the scale of the problem, you see. Any number could seek to assassinate me.’

‘In that case, my lord bishop, I would send my messengers, and hope to learn that all the enemies are dead or gone away. For those who have fled the nation are no danger to you, while those who are dead should also be safe, unless they have children who have decided to take on the feud.’

‘This is plainly someone who lives close,’ William said. ‘Might it be some other man who resents the cathedral for some reason, and has chosen to alarm the man who controls the canons?’

‘I had wondered that,’ Baldwin said, ‘but I can find no matters which could give cause for a man to try to attack the bishop. Are there any cases of fighting between the city and the cathedral in recent years?’

‘No, the city and we have been on most cordial terms. It is the advantage of being a Devon man through and through,’ the bishop said.

‘That being so, my Lord Bishop, I would urge you to be most cautious about your security and safety,’ Baldwin said. ‘I would suggest that you leave Devonshire for a little while, perhaps visit London, if it were not for the fact that you have told me you have alienated the whole population.’

‘There are some there who still appreciate me,’ the bishop smiled.

‘Bishop, there are many who appreciate you, I am sure. But there is one who doesn’t, and he is the one I am worried about. He has a good reason to want to kill you, I believe, and that means that I would prefer you to be far away from him. Since he knows you’re here, if you could move somewhere else, that may make you safer. It all depends.’

‘On what?’

‘If we learn that one of these men is still alive, and could be trying to attack you in earnest, then it would be easier for all if you were to travel while your guards watched for him. And if a man tried to follow you, and he had the appearance of one of these enemies, your men would be able to guess that he is the guilty one. So send men to learn about all these fellows, and to make sure if they can, that all these suspects are dead. Because dead men don’t kill.’

Montreuil

They all trotted from the town and made their way along the ridge beside the river, the curiously named Canche, which flowed westwards to Étaples. The duke did not want to go so far as that. Instead he took them to the old town of Berck, where they stopped at a wine shop and refreshed themselves. It had been a very easy canter from Montreuil, but the dust on the roads had clogged all of their throats, and the pints of wine they bought were very welcome, as were the thick slices of sausage and pottage fragrant with rosemary and sage. All felt considerably better afterwards.

Richard de Folville for one was glad to be away from Montreuil. Like Paul, he felt he was under surveillance. However, Mortimer was gone for now. He had ridden off earlier in the morning, apparently to meet with spies who had messages from England. He wasn’t expected back for two or three days.

The idea that any man might look at Folville and think him either untrustworthy or churlish was so insulting that he was tempted to take a knife to the bastard’s throat. Damn Mortimer! He was no better than Despenser! But Richard de Folville knew he had best not try any such attack. Better to be circumspect, for after all, he was a guest in this country. He could hardly kill a man here too, and run the risk of being forced to flee. Where could he go from here? Only to the outlandish wilds of the east, perhaps with the Teutonic Knights in their expansion along the coast, or down to the hot lands of the Portuguese or the Spaniards, helping protect them against the Moorish incursions. Neither was particularly attractive. Far better to return to Teigh and his church.

For now the best he could do was remain here and wait for the long-overdue invasion, at which point, if he had helped enough, he might be able to plead a pardon. Because there was no doubt in his mind that Mortimer was returning to England in force, and would soon overwhelm the country. No one wanted the king to remain. Not while he relied on Despenser. That scurrilous rat would have to be executed, and when he was gone, the king would be more pliant, more willing to look favourably on those who had protected his son while he was abroad, so long as no one mentioned Belers, and linked his death to Folville before he had a chance to explain how Belers had brought it all upon himself. Stupid, thieving bastard!

At least this ride was pleasant enough. About three and a half leagues each way, and the fresh sea air was good for a man’s soul. They had a routine already, after only three days. They would ride out, find a suitable wine seller, drink and eat, and then ride along the sea shore a short way, so the prince could stare out towards England. It was as though he was showing respect to his father, trying to cross the sea even though there was no boat for him. He reminded Richard of a man he had once seen at the coast in England. He was guilty of murder or somesuch, and had claimed sanctuary for some days, before agreeing to abjure the realm, accepting voluntary exile rather than offer himself to the jury. But when he got to the sea, there were no boats, and he had walked into the water up to his groin every day in proof of his desire to leave the realm.

Hadn’t helped him, of course. His body was found one morning in the midden near a tavern. Throat cut, but also one leg and both arms broken, so he’d been beaten extensively before dying. Probably his victim’s family had caught up with him, or something.

‘Are you ready to ride to the sea?’ the confessor asked the duke, and the young fellow nodded. He had finished his wine already, and now the others all stood, draining their cups as quickly as they might, and following the heir to their king’s throne, out to where the horses had been fed and watered.

The duke was first to mount, as always, and sat on his mount while he waited for the others to emulate him. All were soon ready and the cavalcade made its way through the town and out the other side to the water.

‘There is England,’ the duke said quietly, in Richard’s hearing.

His voice was low and quiet, and desperate with longing, and Richard felt a sudden empathy for him. So young to be here, thrust from his quiet, comfortable life into the turbulent waters of great politics. A lad so young was certain to feel a certain dislocation on being hurled over the ocean at the whim of a mother whose only wish was to recover her own position and wealth, while his father longed for his return.

At least, Richard hoped that his father still doted on him. It was that which held alive his hope for a secure future with a pardon.

‘Come!’ the duke shouted, and spurred his beast. He whirled the horse about, and cantered away before any of the men had the chance to follow. To Richard’s chagrin, he saw that Ivo la Zouche and his brother Ralph were already up and with the duke. And that was when it became confused.

There was a shout, carried on the blustery wind. Richard glanced in that direction, and saw that the priest was bellowing and pointing to the south. When he looked, Sir Richard saw a group of men on horses pounding up towards them. It was a sight to chill the marrow, and Richard quickly counted the men. Only the same number as the duke’s party, with eight all told, but Richard was not fool enough to believe that it was all. He scanned the landscape and saw another party, this time riding hell-for-leather for them. So at least double their number, he thought ruefully.

The priest clapped his heels to his mount and thundered away even as Richard did the same, and Richard’s mount reared, neighing with excitement. It was good to feel the thrill of battle about to commence, and Richard felt the now-familiar tingling in his spine and cods at the thought of an engagement. God alone knew who they were, but he would see to it that he took as many of them as possible before any man managed to kill him.

In front, there was a bellow, and he saw Sir Ivo drag his sword free from the scabbard, whirl it about his head, and charge. His brother was a moment or two behind him, and then he set off at the gallop as well, while the pasty-faced, smiling one, Crok, whipped out his own weapon, and suddenly shrieked like a banshee, clapped spurs to his mount and galloped as though all the demons of hell were after him, straight at the men.

Richard and the priest stayed nearer to the duke, watching. The duke twice tried to ride on too, but Richard had a firm grip on the duke’s reins. He would not allow his ticket to pardon and freedom risk his life.

The first impact was a clatter of metal, with the stern clash of steel blades. Noises assailed Richard’s ears. Horses neighing so highly in their excitement and rage that they sounded like women screaming. Crok’s beast reared and brought a hoof down on the head of another, and his victim was felled like a rabbit shot from a sling. The rider tried to kick himself free from the stirrups, but the beast’s collapse trapped his leg underneath, and the man could only stare in horror as Crok’s sword thrust down, twice, and there was a short spurt of blood from the man’s eye as he died.

Ivo was after the two leaders, and he crouched in his saddle, sword arm high, laughing and roaring like a drunken matelot, as he crashed into the two, his beast holding his head high, thundering into the first horse with the solid mass of horse and rider concentrated in his broad chest, slamming the other two into each other. There was a slashing blow from Ivo’s arm, and a great gout of blood flew into the air, drenching Ivo in an instant. The first rider fell, the second roared defiance, and hacked at Ivo, but his blade rang as it met Ivo’s, and then there was a sparkle as Ivo’s blade caught the sun, whirling in a semi-circle, and the other man’s head dropped forwards, held to his neck by the thinnest of slivers of flesh. Ivo’s sword had ripped through bone and flesh.

The second party was with them now, and Richard looked about for a safer position, but there was no time to escape. Instead, he drew his sword, and prepared himself. He just wished he had taken more interest in the weapons-handling instruction when he had been younger.

His companion was less uncertain. With a shriek, sounding for all the world like a demented woman, the duke lifted his own sword, and pointing it at the men approaching them, he suddenly jerked his reins from Richard’s hand, and was off, pounding towards the men alone.

Richard gritted his teeth and followed. At his side he saw the priest, Paul, his eyes wide in horror, clinging to his horse for dear life. He had no sword, not even a dagger that Richard could see, the fool. But he could no more turn away than fly. His horse was trained to fight, not run away, and it was charging with the others whether his rider wished it or no.

Then Richard’s focus became more concentrated. There was no time for others. They must see to their own safety. A great crash knocked his horse sideways, there was a hideous crack at his thigh, and he thought it might have broken; a horse had ridden into him. No sword near his head yet. He stabbed at the horse itself, and was rewarded with a thick spray of blood. It neighed defiance, and reared, but even as it did so, its eyes rolled, and it tumbled to the ground.

A second man, this time passing beside Richard, as though to attack the duke from behind. Richard clapped spurs, and as he lurched forward, his blade slid in under the man’s shoulder blade. There was a scream of hideous anguish, and the man fell, rolling over and over in his agony.

The third man was aiming at his head even as he glanced about. Instinct made him lift his sword to knock it aside, but lack of practice made his blade miss his mark and take the man’s wrist and hand off. The stump shot a jet of blood, and suddenly Richard was soaked in warm stickiness, and he would have pressed home his attack, but the man leaped from his horse and grabbed for his hand as though to try to replace it.

Richard left him. The duke was his concern, and just now the young man was being pressed by another man-at-arms. Richard rode on, and knocked the man aside, seeing the duke’s sword slice through the fellow’s throat as he fell.

And that was it. The battle was over. All the men who had sought to attack them were dead or fleeing. And none of the duke’s men were harmed, Richard saw. Ivo and his brother Ralph were trotting back, holding each other’s hands, and Richard felt nothing, only a vague disquiet, as he saw Ivo’s head fall to his breast, and then the man’s great body slowly topple from his horse, showing a great gash in his flank that pulsed as the blood oozed.