Michael Jecks - The Bishop Must Die

‘No. Should I have?’

William shook his head quickly, but then grimaced. ‘You see, I saw him reading a note that upset him last night.’

‘That’s not unnatural. Your uncle has many communications from all over the diocese and the rest of the kingdom — and some are bound to be of a serious nature. He is an important man, you know that.’

‘Yes — and yet he has never concealed anything from me before.’

John glanced at him with surprise. ‘He wouldn’t, would he, because he knows he can trust you, squire. You are of his blood, as well as having his confidence from your service to him.’

‘That is true, and yet as soon as he saw me, he snatched the parchment away before I might see it, as though he was guilty or ashamed.’

‘You are sure you did not mistake his action?’

‘No. He deliberately hid it from me. I am certain there is something wrong. But do you keep an eye on him for me, steward, in case there is something that alarms him. I would help him if I may.’

Exeter Cathedral

There was no more galling experience than to be frightened by an unseen enemy, the bishop told himself bitterly. And he was frightened.

He had always known that he would be unpopular with some. Bishops were wielders of enormous power, and as such were always feared, and therefore hated. A man who had power of life and death over another did not enjoy his respect. All too often, he was the subject of loathing, because such power could seem too arbitrary to the peasant who saw a friend hanged. Bishop Walter II had tried to prevent abuses of power, but it was not always possible. And on occasion, he had been forced to use his own power — for the greater glory of the Church, not for himself.

When he was only a canon, he had been excommunicated. It was a lot of nonsense, but nonetheless embarrassing. He had heard, with another canon, of an illegal burial taking place at the Dominican Friary towards the east of the city. The cathedral jealously guarded their monopoly of all burials, because they were enormously lucrative. Those who wished for a church funeral were keen to have their souls protected with prayers, and with proximity to the high altar, and the Dominicans knew it. So they tried to have this knight buried in their priory so that they could benefit from the grave goods, the wax, the linen and rich cloths, as well as by the man’s gifts to them.

Well, the cathedral had greater need of the money and goods than the Dominicans. It was ludicrous that the friars should attempt such a gross infringement of cathedral liberties. So Canon Walter, as he then was, had gone with lay brothers to chastise the friars. He had managed to get into their chapel, and there he had the lay brothers pick up the hearse, the body and all the valuable items he could find, and all would have been well, had not a belligerent group of friars come and tried to remonstrate with him. There was a scuffle, most unseemly in the House of God, and a friar was given a bloody nose before the cathedral men escaped with their booty.

They had tried to return the body for burial later, when they had held their service to justify keeping the treasure, but the friars wouldn’t accept it, so Walter had told the lay brothers to leave the fellow at their gate. It remained there for some days, until the city had made pointed comments to the bishop, and Walter was ordered to collect it. In the end, it was buried in the cathedral.

The friars had blamed Walter for the assault on their priory. They almost succeeded in preventing his election to the bishopric, in their determination for revenge. Fortunately, others intervened, and he was consecrated.

All these years later, there were many more whom he had offended and who had come to hate him. But that was no reason for the foul message yesterday. How any man could seek to send such a vile note was beyond him. Well, he was determined that he would not allow it to affect him and his ministry. He had too much to see to, too much to achieve. And at the same time there was the terrible problem of the king and queen. So many issues to be resolved. He could not afford to be distracted by some anonymous threat.

Indeed, it was ridiculous.

Yet, no matter how ridiculous, the bishop could not help but glance about him, as though there was an assassin nearby waiting to slay him.

Church of the Holy Trinity, Teigh

It was a curious thing that, after participating in such a crime, he could feel so at ease with himself.

Richard de Folville stood before the altar at his little church, staring at the crucifix. It was a simple cross of wood, but with a figure that was startlingly realistic, he now realised. He hadn’t seen a man dying violently before. To see Belers collapse so swiftly was oddly comforting, as though showing him that even the most evil men could be removed, and also proving that his own end need not be too terrifying. That was good, too.

The best part was the loss of fear. He had confronted his own worst horrors and come through. While struggling through the brambles, he had been anxious to get to the fight before it was over, and at the same time petrified that he might have to kill one of the men himself. The thought of blood on his hands was, before the actual killing, quite scary. But then he’d seen the dead lying about, and there was nothing to be afraid of — he realised that very quickly. God was not worried about these men. Belers was evil, and God was using the Folville brothers to punish him. It was only reasonable. The man had stolen, extorted, and thieved all his life. Just because he had been made the Treasurer, he thought he could live immune to any risks. Well, Richard and his brothers had proved to him that no man was above divine retribution.

He stared at his hands. Quite still. Perfectly calm. And his soul too felt serene, as though the blood falling on the ground was enough to remove any stain from his soul. God could not have felt that he deserved punishment, for any man who was to receive such from Him would feel the weight of that judgement. And Richard felt perfectly content. Almost gay.

The sound of tramping boots came to him then; and he tore his attention away from the altar as three men-at-arms walked in. Their leader was a tall, grizzled man with a square face and sharp hazel eyes.

‘Rector? I’ve been sent to ask where your brothers are.’

‘Why?’

‘I think you know why. Sir Roger Belers is lying dead over at Kirby Bellers, and folks remember your brothers being near that place on the day. Eustace, Robert and Walter, your brothers, were all there — as were others. One was Ralph la Zouche and his brother Roger. Were you with them?’

‘I do not know where they are,’ Richard said. ‘I have not seen them for some days. Are you saying someone witnessed the murder?’

‘There are plenty saw your brothers and others on that road. And they say you might be holding some here. There are always places in churches where a man can be hidden.’

‘Perhaps so — but not in here. You realise that you have no right to come in here and search?’

‘We have been told to find these men.’

‘Then go and seek. But you will not search in here. This is God’s House.’

The older man sucked his cheek, and then his fist suddenly flew. It struck Richard high in his belly, and he fell back instantly, the breath knocked from him. Curled on the floor, he could not breathe, only gasp and struggle in agony. His stomach was a pit of torment. He was sure that he would be sick, then that he must surely die, and then, as the small pricks of light appeared before his eyes, suddenly a spasm went through his body, and he could feel the air in his lungs again. Coughing and retching, he rolled over to his knees, one hand on the floor before him, the other at his belly.