The Malice of Unnatural Death

Chapter Six

The Bishop’s Palace

‘Sir Baldwin, I am glad to see you once more. You are well, I hope?’

The Bishop of Exeter sat coolly as Baldwin entered his chamber. Bishop Walter II was a tall man, with peering eyes, a stoopedback, and all too often a frown on his face. Just now his expression was welcoming, but as Baldwin bent to kiss the episcopalring, he was quite sure that before long that cheerful smile would fade.

Their greetings over, the bishop sat back and toyed with his spectacles. Baldwin knew that Walter was very shortsighted. Itwas the natural effect of so many years studying religious books, and more recently keeping a close eye on the detailed reportsof the nation’s finances. He was Lord High Treasurer, close adviser to the king, and recently he had become friend and allyof the Despenser family.

‘Sir Baldwin, I was very sad to hear that you were unhappy with the idea of becoming a member of the king’s parliament. No!’ He held up a hand as Baldwin tried to interrupt him. ‘Please let me finish. My feeling was, and is, that you would be a perfectfoil for some of the more foolish people who presently advise the king. There are many who would be better employed elsewhere. A man such as yourself would bring more experience and sense to many of the discussions.’

‘My Lord Bishop, I am very mindful of the honour you do me by suggesting me for this,’ Baldwin said with a smile, ‘but I amafraid I think that it is a step too far for me. I am at bottom a simple knight who is happy with my quiet life here in thecountry. I have no interest in lengthy journeys to London, York or Winchester to attend meetings with bishops, barons andlords. And the help I could give would be minimal. Look at me! I’m a rural knight with an interest in rural affairs, not thoseof great moment in the nation’s politics.’

‘That is precisely the point,’ the bishop said, pouring a goblet of strong red wine and passing it to Baldwin. ‘The parliamentis there to bring to the fore all the views of all the king’s subjects. He is as interested in the affairs of the lowliestchurl steeping a hedge as in the doings of a great lord.’

Baldwin said nothing as to the peasant steeping a hedge. There were strong rumours that the king enjoyed such activities fartoo much. It was hardly the occupation of a man who would lead barons into battle. ‘You mean a great lord such as Thomas of Lancaster?’

Bishop Walter looked at him coldly. ‘Earl Thomas was a traitor. He spoke treason, and supported those who would have destroyedthe king’s honour and dignity. If it were not for his influence, I doubt that the Lords Marcher would have dared to rise inrebellion.’

In his heart Baldwin disagreed. The Lords Marcher had risen against the Despensers, the acquisitive and ruthless father andson who had enriched themselves by robbing others up and down the country, depriving widows of their estates, bearing falsewitness against those whom they considered their enemies, and preventing any from petitioning the king without paying them bribes. There was none who daredstand against them, not since the king had brutally executed his own cousin, Earl Thomas of Lancaster, in their support. Theirhold on his affection was so strong that to murmur against the Despensers could be viewed as treason. And Baldwin hated himselffor not saying as much to the bishop.

‘There has never been more need of cool, calm advice than now,’ the bishop continued. ‘The threat from the French king… if we were to lose Guyenne, the crown would be greatly damaged. We have to protect the king’s lands over there, but how? You are a man experienced in war. Your advice could be invaluable.’

‘My fighting days are long past,’ Baldwin said shortly.

‘I did not say you should fight, Sir Baldwin, but that you ought at least to be prepared to share your knowledge of battle. You were involved in the last great battle of Acre, I recall?’

‘It was a long time ago, my lord.’

‘Perhaps. Much has happened since then, naturally.’

Baldwin felt his blood thicken. There was a sudden emptiness in his belly as he absorbed the bishop’s words. He had told Stapledonmany years ago about his experiences in Acre, but surely he had never mentioned the fact that he used to be a Knight Templar? Yet there seemed to be an edge to Bishop Walter’s voice that implied he knew — and more, that if Baldwin didn’t acquiesceto being elected, the bishop might tell others of his position. To be known as a renegade Templar could cost him his life. Those who were found after escaping the original arrests were still potentially at risk of a pyre.

His mind flashed with scenes of his life today: his daughter and pregnant wife at their home near Cadbury. Then came the memoryof bodies burned and unrecognisable lying in the smouldering ashes of a large fire, and the sight of Jacques de Molay standingproudly before the Cathedral at Notre Dame and declaring that the accusations were baseless, unfounded, and malicious… He could see himself in a burst, his clothes on fire, his mouth wide in a scream of agony so intense it curdled the fluidin his veins just to think of it.

And then the anger flooded him. ‘You say I should go to advise? And what good would that achieve when there are so many nearthe king who enjoy his trust and whose words he will accept over all others?’

‘We have a truce with France, but there is no guarantee that this time next month, or even next week, we shall not be at waragain.’

‘The king is fortunate enough to have a ready-made ambassador. He married her,’ Baldwin said sarcastically. ‘Perhaps he oughtto enquire of her what the best action would be?’

‘Come, now, sir knight!’ Bishop Stapledon snapped. ‘You think that the sister of the French king would be an impartial counsellor? She may well seek to return to her mother land. What better ally could the French hope for than a spy within the king’s ownhousehold? She is too dangerous.’

‘Who made her so?’ Baldwin demanded sharply. ‘Is it not true that her husband left her for others?’

The Bishop stared at him for a long moment, and Baldwin wondered whether he had overstepped the bounds of his patience, butthen Stapledon closed his eyes and held them shut for a few minutes. At last he opened them, and now his tone was simply weary.

‘In God’s name, Baldwin, I swear, I believe that the woman could be inimical to the security of the realm. I have myself arguedfor the sequestration of her lands and the reduction of her household so that the threat is reduced, but I did not enjoy it. Nor the other measures taken. But whatever the reasons for her behaviour, they are not justified. The king is king, and masterof the whole kingdom, and whatever she feels about his actions, she should not be provoked.’

‘You think she has been?’

‘I know her. She is a woman of intelligence and spirit,’ the bishop answered. ‘And while the French challenge us at Guyenne,she must remain here — safe.’

‘You see, though, Bishop, that we do not agree on the issues here,’ Baldwin said. ‘What useful purpose could I serve in parliament? Leave me here to remain as a contented rural knight, raising my family in peace and without the interruptions of nationalaffairs.’

‘I wish I could,’ the bishop replied. ‘But, Baldwin, I believe your intellect could help save the country from disaster. Iam being frank with you, old friend.’

‘It is neither to my taste nor to my interest,’ Baldwin said with conviction.

The bishop leaned forward and fixed Baldwin with a serious gaze before speaking both urgently and quietly, as though tryingto conceal his words from any who may be listening. ‘Think of your duty, then, Sir Baldwin … if you do not go, will itnot be only those who seek to flatter and promote the king who will be granted positions in the parliament?’

There was a soft knocking at the door, and Baldwin saw the bishop’s expression alter, just slightly. It was a fleeting thing, a sudden sharpness in the eyes, as though this interruption was expected, but not anticipated quite so soon, and thenthe bishop was calling to the visitor to enter.

‘Oh, Sheriff. It is good to see you,’ he said.

The tall, urbane figure who had just entered walked across the room and stood before the bishop, bending to kiss the episcopalring. Only then did he acknowledge Baldwin. ‘Sir Baldwin — it is good to see you again.’

‘And you, Sir Matthew. All must say it is always a pleasure to see you.’

Sir Matthew de Crowethorne smiled at that as he moved over the floor to a chair. Once seated, with a goblet of wine from thebishop’s steward, he shot a look at the bishop as though questioning whether he should begin. He was clad in rich velvet,a shimmering green with particoloured green and red hosen, and the cloak which he so carelessly tossed over a bench was trimmedwith warm squirrel fur. He was, like so many sheriffs, keen on ostentation, and glanced at Baldwin’s faded and worn red tunicwith amused contempt.

Bishop Walter did not see his look. ‘The good sheriff has many duties here in Exeter, Sir Baldwin, as you know. But just nowhe is seeking to find the best knight to send to the next parliament. I have suggested to him that we need someone with someintellect, a man of honour. I have, in short, suggested you.’

‘It is very kind of you, but I would be most reluctant to accept any such position.’

‘Even though it would be for the good of the shire? And the state?’ Sheriff Matthew pressed.

Baldwin opened his mouth to respond, but before he could there was a loud knocking at the door of the palace, and the sheriffand the bishop were both quiet, listening intently. For once, Baldwin felt relief at the interruption of that familiar voice.

‘Didn’t you hear me, you cretinous little scrote? I asked if Sir Baldwin de Furnshill was here, man. Don’t hop from foot tofoot, damn your arse. Just fetch him here, or tell me where to find him. Oh … and my compliments to your lord bishop, too.’

Exeter City

The morning in the city was less bright already. The sun was concealed behind clouds, and to add to the dimness, as soon asdawn reached the town, people were already gathering their faggots of twigs and thrusting them onto their fires. In less thana couple of hours after the sun’s light had first licked the tops of the cathedral’s towers, already there was a thick fumerising from the city: the proof of civilisation anywhere.

It was a delightful sight and smell, Robinet thought to himself. Others might have different feelings, but to him as an experiencedtraveller there was little better than the view through a group of trees which showed a rising plume of smoke. That held thepromise of warm, dry beds and rooms with a fire inside for the weary. It was like a place he had seen many years before — at least fourteen — when he was in France. He had been sent by the king to visit Vienne, and he could well remember the feelingof relief to see that after so many miles on unfamiliar roads in a strange, hot land, there was a set of gibbets with fly-blowncorpses hanging in chains. Those parcels of decaying flesh meant that at last there was a place nearby where law held sway. Outlaws were no more to be feared.

Exeter was different, though. He knew how dangerous a city like this could be, and Robinet had no intention of being harmed. He needed to escape the place if he could. Walter wouldbe able to help him as soon as he had got his belongings back.

But if he did grab his things and run, he might never find out what had happened. James’s death might never be solved — adreadful thought. The two men had been estranged for so long, and now he was thinking of bolting only the morning after theyhad sealed their renewed friendship. That was sad. No: worse than that: it was sick.

The swelling over his ear was slightly crusted with blood, but the pain was reducing, thanks to Christ. He was sure now thatsomeone had struck him down. He really should leave. Others were here to learn what had happened to the dead messenger. Itwas a city, it had its coroners and keepers. He could scarcely do anything that they couldn’t.

Except he hated to leave the affair like this. James deserved a little loyalty. Was it James who had knocked him down? Thewhole of the evening after they had left the tavern was a haze … there were some images, but all indistinct, unclear… no matter how he tried to concentrate, he couldn’t bring anything back. Someone had struck him at some point, someonehad helped him to the hay. And then James had been thrown into a rubbish heap, the foul stuff hauled over him to hide him. It was demeaning, disgraceful, to treat a man so.

Suddenly Robinet felt a flash of anger. His belly roiled, but his eyes narrowed and he began to think more quickly as he startedto walk.