Michael Jecks - The Bishop Must Die

‘You have fought, haven’t you?’ he asked one of the older men as he dismissed the last of the claims and the rest of the petitioners filed from his hall.

Saul of Cadbury squinted up at him. He was not so old as Baldwin, but his body had been shaped by his work. He had the bent back which labour in the fields had given him, while his hands were large and powerful. Fortunately, the expression in his eyes was always amiable. Baldwin had only ever seen him angry once, and that was when a small bull had butted him into a wall. Saul had bellowed, ‘Ye auld bugger!’ and punched the beast so hard that it retreated, blinking. It was only later that Saul realised the bull had broken his rib.

‘I’ve had my share. I took my billhook up to the muster when the old king wanted men for Wales.’

‘What of the men now, Saul? What’s the mood among the villeins?’ Baldwin asked. He beckoned Edgar and passed Saul a large mazer filled with wine.

Saul was pensive a moment. ‘They’ll fight for you, I reckon. If a man tried to overrun our lands, they’d all fight at your side, Sir Baldwin.’

‘You know the rumours.’

‘We all do,’ Saul said, his weather-beaten face cracking into a smile. ‘The queen was a good lady, but we follow you.’

Baldwin watched him leave a few moments later with a frown of concern.

‘Sir? Do you want more wine?’ Edgar said.

‘No, no. I’ve had enough,’ Baldwin said. He was not so abstemious as once he had been, but he had more work to do. ‘What do you think?’

‘Saul is right. The people will fight for their lord, and that is you. Although I would be happier were I at your side.’

‘Petronilla wouldn’t, though. And nor would I. I only wish Simon was …’

Edgar looked at him. ‘You could try to see him.’

‘I don’t think so. He doesn’t want to speak with me.’

‘Sir Baldwin, you don’t know that.’

‘I hurt his feelings badly. I think I was right, but that will have little impact on him. If he had forgiven me, I would have heard from him by now. The fact that we’ve seen nothing of Simon, Meg nor Hugh is significant. And I do not know — perhaps I couldn’t forgive him if he had endangered my Richalda’s life. Even if afterwards he was proved to be correct, how would I respond? Maybe it is better that we do not meet again for a while.’

‘You have so many friends you can afford to lose your best?’ Edgar said pointedly, and left.

Baldwin was about to call after him, but then subsided back into his chair.

He knew all about losing friends; so many had died over the years — in Acre, in skirmishes against Moslems in Spain, and then in the terror of the inquisition against the Templars. If ever a man should have grown experienced to loss, it was Baldwin.

Yet in recent times he had been more fortunate. He had been able to settle here, in the little manor in Furnshill, and marry his lovely Jeanne who had given him Richalda and little Baldwin. In his professional life he had been fortunate, too, being granted the post of Keeper of the King’s Peace, and regularly serving as a Justice of Gaol Delivery too. He was busy, and he should have felt fulfilled.

But he could not. Even now, he remembered the worries that had assailed him during the night.

Pictures of death and anguish seared his mind.

Wednesday before Candlemas *

Exeter

The bishop rose from his chair as Sir Baldwin walked into the room. ‘Please, Sir Baldwin, take your ease here near the fire. It is hardly inclement for the time of year, but I confess that as I grow older, the chill sits less happily on my bones. This year seems dreadfully cold.’

Baldwin smiled and took the proffered seat. ‘I admit that the fire looks most welcoming,’ he said.

The bishop motioned to John de Padington, who brought a large goblet and ladled mulled cider into it, passing it to Baldwin before moving away.

Baldwin took it, blowing on the surface. ‘That smells divine.’

‘Then let us hope that such refreshment will be available to us in the afterlife,’ the bishop said with a thin smile.

Baldwin had ridden to Exeter to meet with the sheriff, a man whom he cordially despised, and had broken his journey homewards to see his old friend the bishop, but now he looked at the older man with a measuring intensity.

‘I have heard it said,’ Bishop Walter said, ‘that you, Sir Baldwin, can perceive a man’s thoughts by studying him. Your eyes are the most feared tools of justice available in the whole of Devon, my friend. Why do you observe me so closely?’

‘My lord bishop, I meant no insult to you,’ Baldwin said with an easy grin. ‘You look anxious though, and I wondered whether you have received ill news.’

‘Ill enough. A rector of mine has misbehaved, but I have had him held in the gaol, so that should resolve that .’

‘Would that be the brother of the sheriff? That odious little prickle, Paul de Cockington?’

‘Rarely has a man had a more suitable name. You have heard of him, of his offences? Yes — well, the purblind fool can stay in my gaol for a while, until I decide what sort of punishment to exact. Although I confess that other matters seem more pressing just now.’

The bishop closed his eyes a moment, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. Then he stood and walked over to the table. Selecting a parchment, he peered down at it, then, with a mutter of frustration, picked up his spectacles and opened them out at the hinge. The two lenses separated, and he held them over his nose as he traced the words on the page. Nodding, he brought the sheet to Baldwin and gave it to him. ‘Look at that.’

The knight had been taught to read and write when he was a youth, but the writing on this sheet was difficult to decipher. He held it up, so that the light from the window caught it more fully, and narrowed his eyes to read. ‘From the king, then. And it’s an order …’

‘Yes. To stop all communications leaving the country. All letters which could be of use to the queen are to be sought, discovered, and their source traced.’

Baldwin frowned at the sheet. ‘But how could any man search all the goods leaving Exeter? Let alone Topsham, Exmouth, Dartmouth … Dear heaven, does the king propose to search all the bales of wool leaving the country? All the barrels being loaded at London? There are not the men in the land to do such a job. He would need half the peasants just to search.’

‘It is impossible, yes,’ the bishop sighed. He rubbed his nose again. ‘But the instructions are clear enough. We must have men installed in all the ports or earn the king’s disfavour.’

‘Are you thinking of Simon?’ Baldwin said.

‘Who else?’ the Bishop asked rhetorically. ‘This is a warning to me because I am an adviser to the king — but when the warrants are signed and arrive here in the hands of the sheriff, I will have to find the best men for the job.’

‘Simon has suffered enough in the king’s service. Try to leave him from this, if you can, my lord.’

Stapledon eyed him, and then nodded. ‘Very well. Unless I am specifically asked about him, I will not mention him at all.’

‘Thank you,’ Baldwin nodded. ‘This writing — it is not like those of other commissions and warrants I have seen. The writing is exceedingly poor.’

‘More and more are arriving by the week. I fear that the king’s clerks are strained to write out so many in so short a space of time. And when they have time, the writing is little better. Mayhap it is concern.’

Baldwin looked at him sharply. It was plain enough that the bishop meant that the men of the king’s household were fearful. ‘You think an invasion could come soon?’