The Bishop Must Die

Chapter Three

Feast of St Sebastian^*

Exeter Cathedral

The room was warm already, with a fire roaring in the grate, throwing glorious golden light about the tapestries and illuminating the table. Made of oak, it was almost new, and the wood had not yet endured long years of smoke or stains from ink. In the gleaming firelight, it looked as though there were threads and globules of gold just beneath the surface. Another could have been tempted by the sight to take a knife and see if a little might be prised loose.

Not this man, though. He stopped at the doorway, listening intently, a shadow standing free of the candles and fire, searching with every sense for another man in the chamber. He waited with his mouth open, so that even his breath could not give him away, while his eyes flitted about the walls, chairs, stools, the rest of his body unmoving.

There was no one. Reassured, he pushed the door wide and slipped inside. It was the bishop’s private chamber, but the bishop wasn’t here. He had gone with his familia to the cathedral church to celebrate the Feast, and the bishop’s palace was all but empty. Apart from him, the unseen.

In his breast he felt a shiver, beginning at his heart but then swelling and engulfing his torso, before flying away. It was a total, all-consuming desire to consummate this deed, because he knew that the bishop had to die. His evil would live on perhaps, but the man’s crimes were too many to be excused. And must be punished.

It would not be a swift vengeance. This was a carefully planned assassination. It would take many weeks and months. All the better for the victim to learn how to suffer, how to know true terror.

Before the familia returned, he must complete his task and escape. Glancing about once more to be certain, he hurried over the wooden floor to the table and pulled the little purse from beneath his tunic. Light and insubstantial, yet it was the heretic’s death warrant. This bishop, this Stapledon, was the most impious, avaricious, dishonourable bishop to walk God’s pure, English soil. Damn him, damn his arrogance, and his greed. They would be the destruction of him.

The little purse was placed carefully on the table. There were parchments lying nearby, and he shoved it beneath them, standing back to see the effect. It made a slight lump in the parchments, but not more than that. It was so small, after all. Yes, it would do. He stepped away from the table, going to the wall, not the middle of the floor where the boards might creak and give him away, and thence out to the doorway.

Staring back, the room was a tranquil little scene. It was the one place where the bishop was able to relax, away from the mayhem of the Close outside, away from the disputes and petty wrangles which constituted life in the cathedral.

However, the good bishop was about to discover that even his favourite chamber was not safe.

Exeter

Even from a distance the size of the city had seemed daunting. But for a man in desperate straits, this scarcely mattered.

Roger Crok pulled his cloak more tightly about him and lowered his head against the cold wind. It pulled at his clothing, and made the edges of his cloak snap and crackle, while his ungloved fingers felt as though they were growing brittle in the freezing air. He was grateful that his beard had grown so quickly, even though he now looked a scruffy remnant of his past self.

Dear God, he hoped his mother was all right! She had been so grief-stricken when the bastards had told her that she was widowed again, that it had turned Roger’s heart to stone even as his mother’s shattered.

Henry Fitzwilliam hadn’t been that much of a catch, so far as Roger had been concerned. Roger had a simple guideline to work to, which was how a man measured against his father. Peter Crok had been handsome, powerful and clever withall. Roger’s memories were so distinct: he recalled the little wrinkles at the side of Peter’s eyes, the broad smiles, the great bear-hugs when his father was happy, as well as the bellow of disapproval when he was convinced his son had misbehaved. All these made his father seem almost superhuman. A magnificent man, a great warrior. It was hardly surprising that when his mother married a second time, his replacement should prove to be a sad disappointment.

But for the men who killed poor Henry to come and gloat at his widow’s distress was the act of mother-swyving churls who were not good enough to clean the privy, who deserved to be punished for all eternity.

West Sandford

It took a while for Simon to calm down.

He had left the farm by the top road, then ridden up to and climbed the ridge, ducking below the trees that overshadowed the track, and down the other side. The trail turned to the right here, but he continued on down, through a gate and to the stream at the bottom.

He was still furious that Hugh could have asked about Edith, when the servant knew the terrible truth.

Simon let the rounsey drink at the stream, and then trotted up the lane on the opposite side of the ford. There was a good, broad roadway here, and he urged his beast on at a faster pace. He needed the wind in his face, the feeling of burning as the chill air froze his flesh, as though he could somehow scour the hollow space in his heart.

His wife had the same sense of loss, he knew. It was just the same as when they had lost their first little boy, Peterkin. He had been a baby still, when he fell victim to some foul malady. Over days, he wailed and whined, while Simon and Margaret did all in their power to try to aid his recovery, but their efforts were to no avail. There was nothing they could do which would alleviate the poor little boy’s suffering, and at last, when he did die, Simon had a shocking reaction of relief. It was a sensation that did not last for long, but he was aware of it, and it scarred him. He had hitherto believed that he was a good father, a kind and decent man who cared deeply for his children. That sensation to him was proof that he was more selfish than he had realised.

He had been able to grow away from that memory over time. It was painful that it should return now, he thought. And with that he lashed his mount harder and galloped along at speed.

At the Morchard Bishop road he turned off, heading northwards, but there was a curious inevitability when, as though on a whim, he turned his horse’s head to the south and west, following the ridge that pointed almost as straight as an arrow towards Copplestone.

Now, as he rode, he could see the lowering hills of the moors. Filthy grey-black clouds floated above them, but there was no need for threats of foul weather. The moors were already white, as though God had laid a covering of samite over Cawsand Beacon and Belstone Tor. There was a stark beauty to the scene, Simon thought, and felt his fingers loosen their grip on the reins. He allowed the rounsey to ease his pace, and sat back in his saddle as the beast jogged along.

This ride always tended to cool his overheated moods. He remembered riding here on the day he learned of the murders, when he had first met Baldwin, ten years ago, during the famine. That had been a terrible time. The only good thing had been the discovery of a new friend.

Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, his best and longest friend — and yet he too was lost to Simon.

It was shocking that Baldwin could so quickly have become almost foreign to him. In the last ten years, Simon had grown to depend utterly upon the tall, greying knight. Baldwin was dedicated to justice, to the rational explanations that always lay at the heart of any mystery; he shone as bright as a beacon in Simon’s eyes. He was loyal, intelligent, and so widely travelled that Simon could only marvel at his tales of journeying from here to the Holy Land, and his accounts of the kingdoms and duchies that lay between.

But when Simon’s friend had been asked to drop his sword when Edith’s life was in peril, he had refused. And Simon could never forget or forgive that.

The irony was that, as soon as Simon had returned his daughter to her new family, to the man whom she loved and his parents, there had been a new demand. Her father-in-law, Charles, had told her that if she wished to remain with their son Peter, she must agree never to speak with Simon again.

Charles had been blunt and to the point. The association with Simon had put both their children at risk, and Charles was not prepared to run that risk again. He had told Edith that she must choose: her husband or her father. And she had chosen.

There was no thunderclap of ill omen to herald the event, no sudden deluge, no eclipse — but to Simon, it felt as though his world was ending. His family was all to him. His daughter had been the delight of his life, the physical embodiment of his love for his wife Meg. To accept that she had fallen in love with a man and would leave his family was hard enough; to find that she was gone from him for ever was a hideous disaster.

And to learn this just as he had discovered that he could not trust his old friend and companion, Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, the most compassionate man he had ever known, made the loss doubly painful.

Simon stopped his horse and sat staring at the moors ahead. There was an implacable permanence to those rolling hills. A steadiness that taunted him now. Once he had been a bailiff on the moors, and his life had been full and purposeful, serving the Abbot of Tavistock. That had been only a couple of years ago. And now all was lost: the abbot was dead, and with him Simon had lost his position, then his friend and his daughter.

Turning his rounsey’s head, he set off back homewards again, retracing his path. He didn’t look at the moors again.

It felt as though they were mocking his weakness.

Bishop’s Palace, Exeter

The bishop was unamused. ‘Fetch me the dean,’ he snapped, as he left the cloisters and walked up the path to his palace, his robes ungainly in the cold morning breeze.

‘My lord bishop?’ Dean Alfred entered with an enquiring expression fitted to his face. A mild-mannered man in his late sixties, with a nature better suited to studying than vigorous effort, the bishop knew he was nevertheless still possessed of a keen intellect, which he generally concealed behind an affable manner.

‘Dean, have you heard about the rector?’

The dean was experienced in the ways of the cathedral and knew that divulging too much when asked a question of this sort could result in embarrassment all round. ‘The … ah … rector?’ he repeated, assuming his usual air of bumbling diffidence.

The bishop peered at his dean. His poor sight was a sore irritation at times like these when he wanted to see the dean’s expression more clearly.

Eyes narrowed, he growled: ‘Don’t try to fob me off, Alfred. We know each other too well for that. Now tell me the truth: have you heard about the rector?’

Seeing the look on his bishop’s face, the dean decided to give up the stammering speech which he used as a device of concealment. Candour was safer when Stapledon was in this mood. ‘My lord bishop, if you mean the rector of St Simon’s …’

‘Who else could I mean? Tell me, pray. I should like to know which other rector is so foul in the sight of God. What?’

This last was addressed to an anxious servant who had sidled up to him. ‘I thought you might like a little wine, my lord bishop?’

‘Put it down and get out!’ While the man set the tray on the sideboard and hurriedly scuttled out again, Bishop Walter took a deep breath. ‘Tell me what actually happened. So far as you can, anyway. If you can remember anything now,’ he added snidely.

‘Um, it would seem, my lord bishop, that this fellow was enamoured of a young lady in his congregation. Events took their natural course.’

‘No, no, Dean! It is not natural for a rector to take a woman at all, let alone a married one! Was she willing?’

‘I fear that the rector’s lust was entirely his own. The poor lady in question was not a — ah — willing participant.’

‘And he also tried to extort money from her husband?’

‘Distressingly, I believe that to be the case.’

‘So this fellow captured the woman, raped her, and then demanded money from her husband to have her returned. And he took the money and kept the woman. Yes?’

‘I fear so.’

‘What sort of man is this rector? A cretin who does not understand the foul nature of his crimes? A fool so ill educated that he cannot appreciate the correct behaviour appropriate to his cloth? He should be taken at once. I wish him here.’

‘Yes. But there are difficulties.’

‘Enlighten me.’

‘Rector Paul is the youngest son of Sir Walter de Cockington.’

‘What of it?’

‘His brother is Sir James. The sheriff.’

‘And?’

‘It could make for tetchy relations in the city, were we to have him brought here.’

‘You think we should allow him to continue in this manner?’

‘No, my lord bishop. But I do think that for us to bring him here to your court may well be problematic.’

‘Dean, do you condone his behaviour?’

Dean Alfred gave his bishop a long, contemplative stare. ‘Not even remotely, my lord bishop. No. I personally would be more than content to throw the piece of shit to the dogs. He is foolish, arrogant to a fault, and seems to delight in shaming the Church.’

‘Then why do you hesitate? Remove him from his post without delay.’

‘His brother is a companion to Sir Hugh le Despenser, so I have heard,’ the dean murmured.

‘That I can believe,’ the bishop grunted, and strode to his chair, dropping on to it heavily. ‘The Despenser has friends all over the realm. Men who would take what they wish from anyone, and never pay their debts. Murderers and thieves take the protection of a lord’s livery, and are secure. No man dares take the law against another who is protected by Despenser, the king’s own friend!’

The bishop knew Sir Hugh le Despenser only too well. Once, Sir Hugh had been an insignificant young knight, but then, after the barons of the realm had won a dispute with the king, suddenly he was hurled into the centre of national politics. Installed in the king’s household as chamberlain, he was set to monitor the king’s expenditure — as a spy. Before long, he had become King Edward’s most trusted friend and adviser. The bishop had grown to know him when Despenser had seemed to be working to the benefit of all. Now his true colours were on display for all to see. Except the king.

Many suggested that this was because the two were lovers. The Despenser was married to the king’s own niece, Eleanor, and his father elevated to the earldom of Winchester, while he greedily took every opportunity to enrich himself at the expense of others. No one could speak to the king without first paying Sir Hugh; no suit would be presented, were Sir Hugh not rewarded. In all the realm nothing could happen, unless Sir Hugh le Despenser was in favour. He was the most powerful man, save only the king.

And any who upset him would suffer dire consequences.

‘It would be dangerous to try to harm a man with such connections,’ the dean said quietly.

‘The man who has lost his wife — is he important?’ the bishop asked after a moment.

‘No. His name is Alured de Gydie. A man of no significance.’

‘So he has no power to fetch his woman back?’

‘None whatsoever. He is a cooper — a man of some skill, I understand — but not rich.’

‘And his woman — she is still held by the rector?’

‘Yes.’

The bishop drummed his hands on his table. ‘The Despenser is a rich and dangerous opponent.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘So we should act swiftly. Bring the rector here. If the ransom is lost, it will go evil with that fellow! I will not have priests in my diocese acting in such a high-handed manner, and I do not care who his friends are. If the sheriff wishes to complain, he can come and speak with me. I shall have some choice words for him if he tries to protect a brother who is so steeped in wrongdoing that he thinks he may steal a man’s wife and defile her. In Christ’s name, I will not tolerate such behaviour! Go and fetch him to my gaol, Dean.’

‘With pleasure, my lord bishop.’

‘And Dean?’

‘Yes?’

‘Do not forget, my friend, I know Despenser very well. He is crafty and dangerous — but so am I!’