Michael Jecks - The Bishop Must Die

But with the fact of Edith’s near-gaoling by her father-in-law, and because she was prevented from contacting her parents, Simon’s antipathy to Baldwin was leavened by his urgent need for a friend in this troubling time. And Baldwin’s arrival with a message from Edith, as well as his proposal for maintaining a communication with her, had been enough to return Simon to his earlier state of comradeship with his old friend.

Watching Baldwin ride away at about noon, she gently linked her arm with her husband’s. ‘It is good to see you so happy again, my love.’

‘Happy? Aye, well, it is encouraging to know that he has ideas for keeping in contact with our maid. If ever a man could wheedle his way into a wench’s affections, it was Edgar. The fellow has the luck of a devil when it comes to enticing women.’

‘It doesn’t work for every woman he meets,’ Margaret said with a chuckle.

‘No, well, you already have the best man in the world,’ Simon said.

‘I know.’

‘So now all we need do is wait to hear from him … and from Edith, of course.’

‘I will pray that we do so soon,’ Margaret said quietly.

‘And I too,’ Simon said, his eyes fixed on the horizon. The hills about here meant that Baldwin was already out of sight, but Simon stood staring out after him as though still watching his friend disappear from view.

‘He is a good friend, Simon, isn’t he?’ Margaret said.

‘Hmm? Baldwin? Oh, yes. The best you could hope to meet. I just pray that he will be successful.’

‘And what if he is? We shall still not be able to speak with her,’ Margaret said. ‘Even to see her would be known to her husband and father-in-law.’

‘But we may at least learn that she is well, and she can be reassured to know that we still love her,’ Simon said. ‘And perhaps we can arrange to see her in Exeter, away from her house.’

‘Perhaps,’ Margaret said. ‘I am only glad that we are here again, husband.’

He grunted, but she could see that he appreciated her comments. For his own part, she knew, he missed the moors and his old job of bailiff to the Stannaries. His had been one of the most important jobs on the moors: keeping the peace between the tenants and tin-miners. Miners were all working on the king’s lands, and were responsible only to him, so that they could maximise their harvest of metal, which enriched him as well. But their extensive rights meant that there were frequent clashes with other landowners in the area, so Simon was forever riding over the moors and breaking up fights, attaching men to come to his next court, or trying to discover the names of the bodies which were occasionally discovered, murdered, in the wastes.

Some years ago, the far-sighted Abbot Robert had invested one hundred pounds in the farm of tin on the moors. Thus Simon had reported to him, and some few years ago, as a reward for his hard efforts, the abbot had given him a new job: that of Keeper of his Port of Dartmouth. It should have been a wonderful promotion, and that was indeed what the abbot had intended, but for Margaret it was a dreadful disappointment. Simon had been taken away from her and installed for weeks at a time in the sea port, while it was impossible for her to follow him.

Since that kindly old man’s death, Simon and Margaret’s lives had grown still more unsettled. The abbacy itself had become the source of dispute and bickering.

While the monks elected Brother Roger Busse, another monk, John de Courtenay, desired the position for himself. He started a bitter legal case to demonstrate that Busse was not a fit man. The wrangling had grown fierce, with both candidates making ever more wild accusations, and in that terrible environment, Simon had found his own position grown intolerable. With both men vying for power, no one in authority was safe. They both attempted to persuade Simon to use what influence he had in support of them, while threatening him with dire consequences should he fail so to do.

In this atmosphere of distrust and deception, Simon had been persecuted by Despenser too, until he lost even his home in Lydford, and he and Margaret had been forced to return here to West Sandford.

She knew it was a sore disappointment to her husband, and she greatly regretted that — but she was content to be here now. The idea that she might be forced to cope with the loss of their daughter while her husband was sent off on business for the abbot, or while he wandered the moors in pursuit of felons or thrust himself between warring parties of miners and moorland tenants, was too awful. She wouldn’t be able to manage on her own.

Friday before Candlemas *

Langtoft, Lincolnshire

It was not a place he had ever been to before. A small town set amidst the flat lands, there was nothing here to interest him — but all around was absolute emptiness, and that was what Richard de Folville wished for now.

So he had rolled himself in a blanket under the stars, cursing his misfortune and his enemies, and praying for his safe arrival in France.

If only he knew where his brothers were. Their companionship was the thing he craved. He was a fool to have sent Eustace away like that. Rather than riding off to see John and tell him, he would have been better advised to remain with his brothers and ride with them.

He wished he knew which way they had taken. Eustace had mentioned that he would go to France, which probably meant heading south. That would have been direct, but Richard was convinced that with the posse being hard on his brothers’ heels, they would be best served by escaping England as quickly as possible. So this morning, after a miserable night in the open, he had lit a fire while he hunched down nearby, considering his route.

There was no choice really, he thought. He had heard that Bishop’s Llyn *was near to the sea, and it was surely the second or third most important port in the country, so it was ideal. He had first thought of London, but it was that little bit further, and with the king’s administration being based there, much more dangerous. Even though London was a massive city, to this renegade, it felt no better than walking into a trap.

The way to Bishop’s Llyn was some fifty miles or more, and he reckoned he must have ridden at least thirty yesterday. It hadn’t been easy. The going was hard, with plenty of wet, muddy roads — always a danger to a man who didn’t know where the potholes were.

It was dark before he had reached this place, but he had steeled himself and continued. If someone was to stop him, he would declare that he was riding on urgent business for the Bishop of Norwich. It wouldn’t persuade a posse, but it might just save him from arrest for riding about suspiciously. Any stranger making a journey at dark was a source of deepest suspicion, even a man with a tonsure.

The fire was good and heartening. There was something about the sight of flames and the warmth they gave off that soothed a man’s heart. It was not the mere heat itself, he was sure, but something about the colours and sparks that dazzled the intellect.

He had some water in a pot, which he had set over the flames, and now he chewed some stale bread while he waited for the water to boil. In his pack there were some leaves which he could steep — old, dried mint from last year. He could almost taste the hot drink already, and he hunched over the fire, watching the pot avidly. So avidly that he didn’t hear the horse until it was almost at his side.

‘So, a priest, and all alone out here, eh?’

West Sandford

Simon was up and about early that morning. The idea that there could be an intervention by Baldwin had given him such a sense of hopefulness that it was hard to stay in bed. Unusually for him, he was awake before dawn, and rather than run the risk of disturbing his wife, he rose and went to his hall.