Michael Jecks - The Bishop Must Die

Swearing to himself, John Biset urged his horse on, and rode at a fast pace all the way back to his manor.

Teigh

The cottage felt cold this morning as Richard de Folville rolled from his low palliasse and clambered to his feet. His legs felt stiff after his unaccustomed wanderings the day before, and the saddle of the horse he had taken from his brother had made his arse sore.

It was ridiculous that he might be forced to leave just because of the Belers matter, but there was no doubting his brother’s sincerity. The men who had sought the killers of Belers had found his brother, and now they might well come searching for him as well. And no matter what happened, John would do nothing to protect him or Eustace, or any of the other members of that gang. It was shameful.

To think that all this could have been brought upon them by the advisers to the king. Both Despenser and Stapledon would rue the day they first chose to plot against him. ‘Damn you both to hell for what you’ve done to my family,’ he said with vicious emphasis.

The horse was still outside. Taking a small leather satchel, he filled it with the last of his bread and some meats, and threw it over his shoulder. Then he stopped and gazed about him, as though this was the last time he would ever see his room again. It was perilous to try to cross the sea. Many people died on the waves each year, as he knew. But it was as dangerous for him merely to remain here in Teigh. If the men who sought him truly were from Despenser and Bishop Walter Stapledon, his life was worth little, and even if he managed to put a hundred miles between him and the church here, he would still be a hunted man.

No, he would have to ride away, head for France, and hope that he might escape the posse.

West Sandford

When he woke, Simon yawned and stretched, and Margaret smiled to see his face.

‘This looks to me as though, for the first time in many months, you have truly slept well,’ she said.

‘No, wench. I was awake half the night,’ he said, stretching again with a grunt of pleasure.

‘Oho, is that true? And there was me thinking that you didn’t wake me last night because you were contented for once. And asleep.’

‘I couldn’t sleep. You were snoring too much,’ he said, and then protested as she punched and kicked at him unmercifully. ‘Hoi! Stop that, woman, you’ll break me!’

‘Then apologise.’

‘For what?’

‘Saying I snore, husband. Because unless you do, I may have to beat you.’

‘You can’t beat me!’

‘I can if you’re so sleepy,’ she said.

‘Woman, stop that or …’

‘Or what, darling husband?’ she asked sweetly, and prodded his belly. She knew it tickled him, and expected a response, but the swiftness of his reaction surprised her.

He grabbed her wrists, and pushed, rolling himself on top of her. And then, while she smiled up at him, he slowly grinned back. She saw his gaze float over her body, and wriggled her hips a little. He lifted his torso, so she could move her legs — and then he was between them, his weight on her pelvis.

Margaret could feel the blood in her veins, and it seemed to match the beat of his heart. She could feel him so near, it was a subtle torture. She wanted to prolong it, and she wanted it to end.

Which it soon did.

‘Father! Mummy!’

And Perkin ran in and jumped on his parents.

Bishop’s Palace, Exeter

It was with a frown that William Walle wandered the Cathedral Close that morning.

‘Squire William, I wish you a good morning,’ John de Padington called as soon as he saw the younger man. ‘Are you well?’

‘In short, no. My uncle has all the appearance of a man in great discomfort,’ William said, after a little display of hesitation.

‘Squire William, I hope I am in your trust? I would hate to believe that you mistrusted even me?’

‘No, my friend. I trust you entirely. And yet I cannot help but wonder whether my uncle is himself suffering from a malady, perhaps? He has been astonishingly short with me this morning. I merely enquired about the sheriff and the timing of the next sheriff’s courts, and I thought that my head would be swept from my shoulders in an instant!’

John eyed him sympathetically. ‘I will have to be frank: you’ve scratched at a bad scab. He only learned last evening that the rector, the sheriff’s brother, had made an escape.’ He told the surprised squire about Paul de Cockington and his many offences. ‘So with your mention of the sheriff, it is a miracle he did not have you thrust in gaol in place of the man’s brother.’

‘Where is this brother now?’

‘God alone will know that. If I were to guess, I should think he will be in Ireland or in France. Or on his way, more likely. He was never a man to overstretch himself. It would be too tiring.’

‘Well, that is a relief, anyway,’ William said. ‘I thought it was something I myself had done to offend him.’

‘I wouldn’t worry yourself about that,’ John said.

William parted from the steward and made his way over the Close to the palace itself, and climbed the small spiral staircase to the bishop’s chamber.

This smaller room was comfortable and warm, compared with the great hall, which was a chilly, unwelcoming place unless the fire had been lit and kept well fed for more than a day. The bishop, a frugal man in his own household, begrudged the waste of so much unnecessary fuel, and when he was here, he preferred generally to spend his time up in his private chamber, with a good fire in the fireplace. William preferred it simply because the smoke left via the chimney, whereas in the great hall it relied on the wooden shingles in the roof for egress.

The bishop was still in the chapter meeting, William assumed. He would often go to discuss matters with the dean and chapter when he was here in Exeter, and William set about preparing the room for the bishop’s return.

Although the fire was smouldering nicely, there was still a coolness in the air, so he brought a blanket to the chair, making the cushions soft by thumping them, and resetting them. He ensured that the wine jug was full — naturally John had seen to that already — and brought inks and parchments to the table nearby. Bishop Walter’s spectacles he set close to hand, along with the bishop’s constant companion — a book of the thoughts of St Thomas Aquinas. When the bishop was troubled, he knew that this book would always soothe him.

It was while he was reaching across the table for a spare group of parchments, that William saw the small leather wallet.

Pale cream in colour, it was made of a good quality goatskin, from the feel of it. Or perhaps pigskin, like a good glove. Either way, it had suffered. The leather was stained on one side, and roughened, as though it had been left to soak up filth from the road. It was not the sort of object which the bishop would usually keep. And this was on his table, as though he felt the need to keep it close at hand.

William was handling it without conscious thought. He was no breaker of confidences, nor was he by nature nosy; he merely happened upon the thing, and had a mind enquiring enough to open it without consideration.

Inside was a small piece of parchment, rolled tightly. He withdrew it, and recognised it from the other evening. This was the piece he had told John of. He opened it.

‘William, why did you do that?’ Bishop Walter sighed as he caught sight of his squire. ‘Did you read it all?’

William turned to him, his face blanched with horror. ‘Uncle, why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you tell anyone?’

Rockbourne, Hampshire

John Biset’s anger kept him going until he was back in his yard dropping from his horse. It was almost as though his mind only caught up with the action when he was home. A man was dead, but he deserved his end. ‘ Christ! Destroy all those who would murder by the wayside, all those who rob, who thieve, who kill, those who sleep by day and walk by night! ’ he prayed, and was assailed by a sudden feebleness.