Michael Jecks: The Bishop Must Die

John Biset rose and marched to meet them, and as he arrived, he saw a man hurrying away from the chamber. ‘Where is it? Where’s my scroll?’ he demanded.

‘Being written up even as we speak,’ Despenser said smoothly. ‘And while we wait, I would like to discuss some matters with you.’

‘There is nothing to discuss.’

‘I have a wish for some land.’

‘You will not have Rockbourne.’

‘You say so? Perhaps you have forgotten to whom you speak?’

‘I know you, my lord Despenser. You will not have my manor. And now, if that is all-’

‘No, it is not all,’ Despenser said. ‘You will give me the manor or I shall lose the document for you.’

‘You may try, but all these people saw the man take my parchment. You try to deny that the inquest has proved my age, and you will lose,’ John Biset said scathingly. ‘I am of age, and I own the wardship of Maubank. I will not give it away, nor the manor.’

Despenser said nothing. He set his head to one side though, and subjected John Biset to a wondering study, as though astonished that such innocence could still exist.

‘Then there is nothing more to be said,’ Despenser declared. ‘I have held up matters as far as I may. My lord bishop, I give you a good day.’

Bishop Walter nodded, but his eyes were firmly fixed upon John as Despenser walked away. ‘Godspeed, my friend.’

John Biset made as though to move away, but the bishop set his hand on John’s arm, saying softly, ‘You would do well to heed my friend Sir Hugh.’

‘You would do well to give up trying to take my money,’ John said.

The bishop left his hand resting on John’s upper arm. ‘Sir Hugh is not a good loser in battle. He is used to taking what he wants, and whether you agree or not, he will have what he wishes. If you fight him, it will end with your misery and failure. You cannot defeat him.’

‘Oh aye? And when the king’s court has pronounced in my favour?’

‘That … Yes, well, I am afraid that you will find proving that more difficult.’

‘When I have my-’ John was assailed with a sudden doubt. He snatched his arm away, and would have dashed after the clerk with his parchment, but the bishop’s calm voice stopped him.

‘No. The document is gone now. And I shall make you a deal, Master Biset. If you pay me, I may allow you to have it back. I know where it is: it is safe.’

‘You’ve stolen my proof!’

‘The proof that you have come of age is perfectly safe,’ Bishop Walter repeated, and now all softness was gone. In its place was a steely certainty. ‘I have it, and I shall keep it until you have paid double the extent of the wardship of the Maubank boy. When you pay me, you may have your document again, and you can profit from it as you will.’

‘And you want me to give my manor to Despenser too?’

‘No. And I shall do you this service. If you will pay me as I ask, I shall persuade my lord Despenser to relinquish his claim on you. There! With such an offer to tempt you, how might you object?’

Vigil of the Feast of the Assumption of Our Lady, seventeenth year of the reign of King Edward II *

Canon’s Lane, Exeter

He woke with the scream bubbling in his throat, his eyes snapping wide in an instant, seeing that sword sliding in so smoothly, feeling with his mind how it snagged on the bones of the ribcage while the man stared, his eyes wide in horror, knowing that this was the end of his life. He coughed once, his lips stained crimson, a fine spray jetting over the man who twisted the blade and laughed aloud, then stepped back and yanked the sword loose again.

Master Ranulf had seen this scene so often in his dreams, he almost welcomed it. He lay silently, grateful for the freshness of the evening air, feeling the sweat slowly cooling on his flesh, thankful that he hadn’t screamed out this time. It was embarrassing to wake the others with his shrill cries. They either looked upon him with expressions of sympathy, as though he had some sort of a brain fever, or with sullen incomprehension, wishing he would simply get over it, or go. They had no desire to have their evenings ruined by his nightly mare.

Looking about him, he could tell that it was the middle watches of the night, and it would be a long time before daylight lit the shutters. Yet he had to fetch something to slake his thirst. He rose and slipped his tunic over his head. Drawing his cloak about him, he padded along the chamber, and then down the ladder to the ground floor, and out to the well in the garden. There was an old copper mug by the well, and he drew a bucket to the well’s side, and dunked the cup twice, draining it slowly each time, savouring the relief of liquid slipping down his throat.

Here it was never entirely silent. The cathedral was out of sight, but on a clear evening he could hear the music. At Matins, the sonorous tones of the canons and vicars singing was delightful to him. He would sit here and listen, staring up at the night sky. Best of all was when there were no clouds, and he could gaze in wonder at the heavens high overhead, sprinkled with stars. Someone had once told him that the stars were in fact diamonds dangling in the vast emptiness, while another man said that they were holes in a massive curtain that enveloped the world. Ranulf didn’t care. To him, they were things of beauty.

Tonight there were wisps of fine silken clouds that seemed to shimmer in the air. And then he saw a marvel — a shooting star that flew across the sky and then burst into flames, roaring into magnificent life, before disappearing again.

It made his heart stop, it was so beautiful. For an age, he remained out there, staring up in awe, hoping to see another, and then mourning the loss of that one. It was a star that had fallen to the earth, he thought. Perhaps that was what happened. When a star was old, it could fall from the sky. But how did it get up there in the first place? Well, that was for God to know, and men to wonder at.

It was tempting to stay out here, in the cool night air, and avoid the eternal torment that was his service, but he could not. He must return to his little palliasse and try to sleep. For all that he hated his post here, he must keep his position, he must conceal his true feelings.

He had a task, a solemn duty, to perform: the murder he had dreamed of for so long.

Morrow of the Feast of the Assumption of Our Lady, seventeenth year of the reign of King Edward II *

Olveston, Gloucestershire

Lady Isabella Fitzwilliam wept quietly as she prayed for her poor, dear son Roger. She hoped that he was safe, but she could guess all too easily how harsh his life would have become.

Dust and ashes, that was her own life: everything she had loved and sought to defend was turned to dust and ashes. Her hopes and dreams, the children, the husbands — all would have been better, had she never lived. To be born, to live with hope, to wed a good man only to see him die; to wed again, but to have him taken from her in turn, that was too cruel. How could God, the All-seeing, the All-powerful, punish her so cruelly?

The father, her confessor, had told her that He would be eternally kind to her when she died; that her suffering in this world was to be an example to others, and that they would benefit marvellously from her bearing in this time of woe. She was a source of strength for all those who knew her. A pious woman in adversity was a wonder to all, he said.

Her confessor was lucky to be alive.

She had no wish to be an example to any man, woman or child. And as for her soul, what was that compared with the beauty she had created in her womb? She would willingly give it up for another year with her son — even for a message to learn he was safe. Her lovely boy, poor Roger.