Michael Jecks - The Bishop Must Die

The fire was cold and dead, and he set about making it afresh. Leaving the ashes to form a base, he went and fetched a bundle of twigs from his woodstore. Each year as the men laid the hedge and trimmed old twigs, they were collected and tied into faggots like this. He had a little piece of charred cloth and wisps of birch bark which he collected together, and then began to strike a spark from a flint with the back of his knife.

As he worked, his mind wandered. The scrape, scrape, scrape was comforting in some curious way, and he found that he could consider the recent events dispassionately.

His first thoughts were of absolute gratitude to Baldwin. There was no one else who would have been able to think of a speedy solution to his problems with such apparent ease and then leave to put it in force.

Baldwin was a good friend; Simon knew that. Oh, in the deepest misery of the last month or two, when he had thought Baldwin to have betrayed him, he had been unsure, as though the one incident could have altered Baldwin’s personality — or perhaps showed it in its true colours. Margaret would not believe it, and she had grown quite angry with Simon on occasion as he muttered futilely about Baldwin’s bad faith, his preparedness to risk all for his own safety. And it was irrational. But a man was entitled to be irrational when it came to the safety of his own daughter.

The spark caught and there was a tiny red glimmer from the black cloth. He carefully wrapped it about some more of the thin bark scrapings, and blew gently until there was a larger glow, adding a little material, some twigs and more bark about the outside of his cylinder of tinder, still blowing, gradually moving to set it on the ashes. A flame caught, and he picked up some dry rushes from the floor, which soon flared up. More bark on top, and then he could start setting twigs about and above the heat. Soon there was the healthy crackle of fire, and he gently set the faggot over the top, hoping not to disturb the tinder.

He fetched bread and some wine, and warmed the wine by the side of the fire while he brought logs inside and stacked them nearby.

It was a ritual he had performed every day when he was smaller, but now the task of preparing and making a fire was something he did only rarely. There was a sadness in that, he reflected. A man should have certain jobs, certain duties, which defined him. Simon had been a bailiff and had carried out that function for many years. Other men were not so lucky as to have a role for that long. Many died before reaching Simon’s advanced age. Not that he felt old. He was the same man inside as he had always been, and yet there was no denying that his paunch was becoming as formidable as his father’s had been, and the line of his throat was not so sleek as before.

But the fact of losing first one job, and then his post as Keeper of the Port for the abbot, had left him feeling dislocated. That was only enhanced when Despenser grew to know him, and decided to attack him deliberately — first by alarming Simon himself and threatening his home, and then by attacking his family. Well, Despenser had taken the house at Lydford, and Simon sincerely hoped that it would never bring in a benefit for him. Simon had loved that house, but he would be content to set fire to it now, just to deprive Sir Hugh of any profit.

As usual, a short while before the sun rose and penetrated the window, there was a rattle of small feet, and suddenly Perkin was in the room with him. He stopped dead on seeing his father, and then a mischievous grin washed over his face, and he ran at Simon, throwing his arms about him and crying, ‘Hello, Daddy!’

Simon ruffled his hair. At times like this he found it difficult to put his emotions into words. His heart seemed to swell; he knew pride, he knew surprise to think that he could have created such a marvellous little man, and he knew overwhelming love. Simple adoration, the sort of affection that could never be erased.

Margaret followed soon after, as all the servants began to surface. Hugh walked in, scowled at the hearth as though disgusted that a grown man could have produced such a meagre fire, and promptly set about building it with fresh logs, until it was roaring. Only then did he nod to himself and walk out again, all the while ignoring his master. Only Margaret merited a greeting.

There was a shout, then a cry, and soon after that, a scrabble of boots and a tousled figure appeared. ‘Hugh kicked me!’

‘No. He kicked your bedding. Of course, you wouldn’t have been abed still, not at this time of day, would you?’ Simon said with poisonous politeness.

‘He meant to kick me,’ Rob said sulkily.

While he lived in Dartmouth, Simon had acquired this lad. He was only thirteen or so, with a dark, ferrety face and the eyes of one who knew how to rob a man’s laces while he was not looking. Probably the son of a sailor, because Simon was sure that his mother would be over-friendly to any matelot with a bulging purse, he had been raised as an urchin at Dartmouth’s port, surviving on whatever he could gain for himself. He was no angel, but Simon felt some sympathy for the lad. Rob had not been granted the best opportunities, yet had managed to live without gaining the close attention of Dartmouth’s authorities.

‘Then you should be glad he wasn’t angry,’ Simon said. ‘Or he would have broken something.’

‘It’s not fair! I’m a free man.’

‘You’re in my employ, boy, and you have failed yet again to get up in time.’ Simon tried to speak sternly, but knew it was pointless. ‘Go and fetch more logs in, then start your chores. I can’t do all your jobs for you, lad.’

Margaret was grinning as Rob shuffled his feet on his way out. ‘You didn’t thrash him today, then?’

‘How can you thrash a lad like him? He wouldn’t feel it.’

‘Ah, my husband, the soul of kindness, always!’

‘Meg, let’s take the air before breaking our fast,’ Simon suggested, wanting a private word with her. ‘Come and walk with me a while.’

They strolled along the old lane, to where the land rose and they could look down over a vast swathe of territory. Turning to the south-west, Simon pointed with his chin. ‘Look at that. Dartmoor.’

‘And it’s raining there again,’ his wife responded. ‘What is it, Simon?’

‘The next year will be dangerous, Meg. From all I’ve heard, Despenser will not give up power, and the king will support him in all he does. But Despenser cannot be allowed to stay. Baldwin and I discussed it last night.’

‘This is dangerous talk.’

‘Meg, there’s no sense hiding it. I agree with Baldwin. I think war is coming.’

Her face froze at those words. She looked away, over the peaceful countryside, at the little copses, the shaws and fields. The pastures were empty, but that only added to the atmosphere of calmness. Quietly, she said, ‘You think the fighting would reach here?’

‘My love, Baldwin is right: the fighting may even start here. The queen could choose to land in Devon; the King has not been favoured here since he confiscated her territories, has he? Whereas her popularity has grown.’

Margaret could not help but throw a glance towards their house. ‘Perkin …’

‘And you. All of us would be in danger. So I think we should consider moving away for a little while.’

‘Where to?’

‘We may be safer in a city.’

‘But cities suffer siege. Here, we could run away.’

‘True, but this little farm is no haven. What could I do if I was here with you, and I knew that the children and you had no means of escape or concealment? I would be distraught.’

‘There is no need to be.’ Margaret took a deep breath. ‘You are right, husband. We do have to consider such matters, but I refuse to live in terror. If there is an invasion, there should be some warning. And if there is not, we shall have to pray to God to protect us. There is no more that Christians can do.’