Michael Jecks: The Bishop Must Die

‘Yes, rector, you cough it up,’ the man said unsympathetically. ‘And while you do, we’ll look for medicine to cure you, eh? Go on, boys. Look everywhere. I’ll keep the rector company and make sure he doesn’t have another attack.’

Richard wiped his eyes and rocked back on his haunches, peering up at the man. ‘Why do that?’ he gasped thickly. ‘What have I done to you?’

‘Nothing to me. But your family is bad. Your brothers are murderers and thieves, and I think you are no better. I’d bet you know where they all are, don’t you?’

Richard stood shakily, still rubbing his belly. ‘You are a fool. No doubt if you were guilty of a homicide you would remain at the scene, but any man with a brain would leave the area at once. Do you really believe I’d stay here after helping to kill a man so powerful as Sir Roger Belers? No! If I’d been involved, I would have bolted immediately.’

‘Like your brothers, you mean?’ the man sneered.

‘My brothers do not live here. You would need to ask them.’

The man gazed past him. ‘Well? Find anything?’

His men returned, shaking their heads. ‘Nothing in the church. No one here.’

‘You see?’ Richard said, emboldened. ‘I said that there would be nothing here.’

Suddenly the fist struck him on the chin, and he flew backwards, tripping over a loose tile in the floor and falling headlong. Dazed, he looked up and saw the man-at-arms holding a sword to his throat.

‘Look at me, little priest. My name is Ranulf Pestel — Squire Ranulf. Look on me carefully, little priest, because if I learn that there was a man in clerk’s garb at the killing, I will be back, and I’ll have you in irons. Then I’ll have you dragged to Sir Hugh le Despenser and the king. They were friends to Belers, and they want blood for his blood. So, rector, if you had anything to do with this, you should start praying now !’

Rougemont Castle, Exeter

The steady tramp of feet along the corridor outside was followed by a muttered series of commands, and then the door was thrown wide and Paul de Cockington found himself being studied by his older brother, the sheriff. Paul grinned and rose from his brother’s chair, bowing and motioning to offer the chair.

His smile was not returned. ‘You’ve been a complete tarse, haven’t you?’ James said, glowering at Paul. ‘Do you realise how much trouble you’ve caused me? It’s a miracle the bishop isn’t here already. I’m half-tempted to have you taken back there again.’

‘There’s no need, brother,’ Paul said. ‘It’ll all blow over. I’ll pay the man back all the property he gave me, and tell him that if he keeps quiet, you won’t harm him. That’ll be enough.’

‘You haven’t been here long, have you, Cods-for-brains? This little city is Exeter, not some huge place like London, where a man could become lost among the teeming hordes. There aren’t all that many people here. What, six thousand all told? You will not be able to hide. This fellow Gydie will find you if he bothers to try — and he does have some small motivation. You stole his wife and raped her, and then you kept the ransom he offered you, as well as the wench. Dear God! I hope she was worth it.’

‘She was, brother — oh, she was! You don’t understand what it was like! I was a celibate for so long, and then that gorgeous woman started batting her eyelids at me during services. I couldn’t help but notice. No man with a heart and blood in his brains could have ignored her.’

‘It’s not blood in your heart or head that worries me.’

‘Very funny. She had the most incredible body though,’ Paul added reminiscently. ‘A pair of bubbies so large, it was hard to span one with both hands. Oh, brother, you should have-’

‘Spare me! No matter how you feel about her, the fact that you took her means that you will have trouble all the while you are in Exeter. You need to leave the city.’

‘Oh, come on! I don’t think-’

‘No, you don’t,’ his brother said directly. ‘You don’t think how the bishop may react to learning you’re free; you don’t think how Gydie will respond to finding you here; you don’t think how all this will make me look either, do you? No, you commit acts of pathetic theft and rape, and then leave it to me to pick up the pieces. But I am the law here, and if men learn I have shielded my brother from his punishment, I’ll not be safe either. I’ve spent the last months trying to convince the locals that I’m trustworthy, and now you’re throwing that all out of the window with last night’s soil. Well, swyve a sow, brother! I won’t have you ruining the best post I could have landed in the whole of Devon.’

‘What do you suggest, then?’

‘I shall find space for you on a boat to Gascony or France. You can go out there and try your luck for a little. I have some money you can take, and I will give you fresh clothing. When it’s all calmed down, you can come back, but not until then. You understand me? You’ll stay away — especially from here — until you’re called back.’

‘How long will that be?’ Paul said, flabbergasted that his brother had decided this.

‘As long as it takes.’

Tiverton Castle

The Lady Isabella was most grateful to the generous-hearted baron for allowing her to come here to this restful little castle up at the top of the hill overlooking two rivers. Without his kindness, she was not sure what she might have done when her carter’s horse fell by the roadside, his foreleg snapped in a pothole.

A widow’s life was never easy. The first loss of a husband had been a shock to her. A sudden, tragic death was always hard to accept, but at least her darling Peter Crok had died quickly, without apprehension, unlike Henry Fitzwilliam. He had languished for such an awful long time, in that cursed gaol, with no friends, no support or companionship. Just installed there, and left to rot for thirty-nine weeks, suffering all the torments a man may. The king would not consider a pardon; his heart forged from steel. So poor Henry waited and waited, until one day his heart simply gave out. Even then there was no honour in his treatment. His body was left in the gaol at Gloucester until his son came to collect it.

And Henry was but one of many. There were hundreds of decent, honourable men betrayed by their king as he continued his infatuation with the one knight whose every whim and fancy he would tolerate unquestioningly: Despenser. All others may be executed, bar this one. And that devil, Stapledon, was a friend of both men.

As a widow, the Lady Isabella was no threat to any man, and yet she had been persecuted by that evil bishop after her husband’s death. May his name live on in infamy!

She still prayed, whenever she was at the altar, that her son was safe. Poor, darling Roger had been forced to flee so quickly when the plot to steal their lands became plain, that he had no time to speak with her and tell her where he might go. She hoped he had made his way to Ireland or France. The Irish were devoted to Sir Roger Mortimer, while the French were happy to befriend any man who was an enemy of the English king.

She heard steps, and glanced around to see the tall figure of the coroner, Sir Peregrine de Barnstaple.

‘My Lady Fitzwilliam, I hope you are well?’

‘I thank you, Sir Peregrine, I am as well as I could hope,’ she said.

‘That is good. I am pleased to hear it.’

He had a kind smile, and she felt sure that he was already fond of her. A man his age — what, some five-and-forty years? — it was a surprise that he had never married. And yet he had once formed an association, so she had heard: it was said that he had adopted two children when their mother died. Certainly he did not appear to her to be afraid of her sex.