Michael Jecks - The Bishop Must Die

The bishop himself looked terrible. His skin was almost yellow, and his head was bent — as one who was carrying an appalling burden of grief on his shoulders.

‘Here, my friend — what on earth’s the matter with the choir?’ he enquired when he reached the fosser.

The others in the bishop’s household were also affected, he could see. There was a youngish fellow, well built and with the bearing of a fighter, who stood near Stapledon, with tears falling from his face.

‘Bishop’s old friend has died,’ the fosser said, wiping his brow with the back of a muddy hand. ‘Father Joshua was a popular figure up yer. ’E was old, mind. Ancient as the old cathedral, they say. Looked ’un.’

There was much more in a similar vein, about the special service being planned, the tomb under the flags in the cathedral near the altar, the mourning that would continue for the rest of the day and through the night while the bishop held his vigil over the corpse with his most loyal servants and other friends of the dead man.

‘Who is that man with the bishop now?’ Roger asked, pointing.

‘’Im? ’E’s the bishop’s nephew, Squire Willum.’

Roger nodded, half to himself, but even as he did so, he realised that his interest had been noticed. The squire and another man were staring at him openly, just as he gazed at the bishop.

And then a singular thing happened. He saw Walter Stapledon stumble, a hand at his brow.

The bishop, the evil, dangerous man on whom he had sworn direst vengeance, was no more than a frail old man, who was weeping and distraught because of the death of a dear companion.

Roger thanked the fosser, then slowly turned and walked away, out of the Close, along the old lanes to the inn. There, he paid his last bill and gathered his belongings, making his way to the South Gate, and thence leaving the city and walking down to the coast.

He was a warrior. And the sight of the bishop in such a pathetic state had convinced Roger Crok of one thing: he was no assassin of old men.

No, he must leave England and find exile in France.

West Sandford

‘He wants me today?’ Simon said.

Margaret could see that he was restraining himself with difficulty. The messenger was a short lad, perhaps fifteen years old, and rather poorly fed by the look of him. She had tried to persuade him to eat, but the boy had refused, saying that he was in a great hurry, because the bishop had demanded that the message be given urgently.

‘Yes, sir. He said that you would understand the need for urgency. The king himself has said that he wants all the ports to be watched.’

‘I am no spy !’ Simon bellowed suddenly, and brought his fist down on the table before him. ‘This is sheer panic, nothing else. Well, I am damned if I will submit to panic! You can tell-’

‘Simon!’ Margaret said warningly. ‘Hugh, take our guest to the kitchen and give him food and ale. The lad needs something, he is exhausted.’ She waited until Hugh had persuaded the fellow to leave, and then turned to her husband. ‘You have to do as he bids.’

‘If I go to wherever he sends me, when shall I see you again?’ Simon demanded, his face pale. ‘If war does rear its head here, what will happen to you and Perkin if I am not near?’

‘Hugh can protect us. Simon, you have already upset Despenser. You only have one ally powerful enough to defend us now, and that is the bishop. Don’t upset him as well!’

‘I don’t intend to, but in Christ’s name, Meg, how can I leave you all when war is approaching? It’s tearing me apart just to think of it.’

‘Then don’t! We’ll be safe here. I swear.’

‘No. I cannot leave you,’ Simon said, but now there was a speculative expression on his face.

‘What are you thinking?’

‘The good bishop is a politician. And a politician always seeks a compromise. Well, I shall offer him one. One that will be within his gift. Wherever he sends me, he’ll have to give me space for my family. I have been pushed from here to Lydford, to Dartmouth, and forced to travel across the seas too often in the last few years. I will not leave you behind again, Meg. If he wants me, he must protect my family too.’

Wednesday after the Feast of St Mathias *

Exeter

The wind that idled along the lane was so cold, it seemed to leave thorns of ice embedded in John Biset’s face as he rattled along on the cart.

In truth, he had not thought that a place like Exeter would be so cold even in the middle of winter, and to have come all the way here to leave his little message now seemed like a fool’s errand. The roads had been dangerous, threatening to spill him and his load at every downhill turn. His cart was old, the steel tyres worn smooth from a thousand leagues, and it creaked and groaned alarmingly, the ancient timbers moving against each other.

But he had wanted to leave his mark. Allowing the bishop to get away with attempting to kill him was unthinkable.

So John was here to leave his own mark in return. He would see whether the bishop liked his as much.

There were few things more irritating than threats that never materialised, the bishop thought as he rose from his throne in the cathedral and went through the last minutes of the Mass.

The fact that his life was now so set about with controls was itself deeply infuriating. He had matters he needed to see to. There were the parishes to the north-west of his diocese which he had not visited in rather a long time, the nunneries which needed to be checked over to see that some of the flagrant abuses were no longer tolerated. So much to do …

The service was finished, and he left the cathedral by the side door opening into the cloister, where his nephew William met him.

Bishop Walter said nothing as they strode out across the little grassed area, along a narrow lane and thence into his palace, but he was tempted to speak. This constant attention was surely unnecessary. It was weeks since the note, and in the meanwhile, there had been nothing whatsoever. Only the death of poor Joshua, still sorely missed.

Reaching his chamber, he sat at his table and called for his steward. John de Padington entered in a rush, wiping his hands, and the bishop asked for mulled wine and biscuits. It was a cold day, but at least this room was always cosy.

As John came back, he brought another man with him. ‘This fellow says he has a gift for you,’ John announced, serving the bishop.

‘What is it?’ Bishop Walter asked.

The man was carrying a small barrel, such as might be used to transport a gallon of wine, but there was no stopper from which to pour. Instead, it had a tightly fitting lid.

‘William, you open it, please,’ he asked, reaching for his goblet of wine, which was why he missed the sight as the squire lifted the lid and gave a short cry of horror.

The barrel fell from his hands to the floor, and as the bishop turned, startled, he saw the dried and salted head tumble from within, rolling clumsily over the floor until it lay still, staring up from those hideous eyeballs as though accusing Bishop Walter himself.

Friday after the Feast of St Mathias *

Exeter

‘Yes, I swear it — and no, I did not!’ the bishop declared.

To William Walle, the bishop looked almost broken. The damage inflicted by that accursed note had been almost healed, but the arrival of this grisly remnant had set Bishop Walter back even further. His eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep, and he had developed a curious shake in his left hand, which he tried to conceal by gripping it in his right.

The coroner, a bearded bear of a man called Sir Richard de Welles, snorted as he peered into the barrel again. ‘So this fellow was deposited here, although you don’t know him? Yet the barrel was addressed to you personally? You see me point, Bishop. Hard to believe you don’t have any connection with the deceased.’