Michael Jecks - The Bishop Must Die

‘I have not the faintest idea who it was,’ the bishop said again, shuddering.

William watched as the coroner shrugged and made to take his leave. He would investigate as best he could, he declared, but the likelihood of finding a body missing a head was more problematic than people might suspect. Most men tended to keep their skulls with them.

John the steward saw the coroner to the door, and William remained in the room with his uncle. He placed the lid on the top of the barrel again, pressing it down firmly. ‘I shall deliver this to the fosser,’ he said. ‘There’s no reason for you to keep it in here.’

‘No. Thank you.’

William hesitated.

‘Don’t you ask me as well,’ the bishop sighed. ‘I am sure he is not from here. We haven’t missed a man with fair hair like that, have we?’

‘No one has gone missing in recent weeks,’ William agreed. ‘I was wondering though, whether it could have been a while ago that this fellow died. He has been stored in salt, after all.’

‘What of it?’ the bishop said.

‘Salt would dry out the skin, make him look older than he really was.’

‘So?’

‘Perhaps this was a young man? After all, he has no beard to look at, and-’

‘Christ’s pain! No beard?’ the bishop gasped. ‘Show it to me again!’

‘Why, do you think …?’ William said, opening the barrel and lifting the foul remnant.

‘The man from Despenser,’ the bishop breathed.

‘It was nothing to do with me,’ the bishop said, sipping his wine. ‘The men arrived here. You were with me, weren’t you, John?’

‘Aye. Didn’t like them, neither.’

‘No. Well. They were sent to me by Sir Hugh le Despenser,’ the bishop continued. He glanced at the lidded barrel, and averted his eyes again. ‘He wanted to send them to meet John Biset.’

‘Who’s he?’ William asked.

‘A boy who owns two manors that would be useful to me. I fear I … There is no concealing it: I was attempting with Sir Hugh to take the manors. The matter is closed so far as I am concerned now, but Sir Hugh wanted to progress, so he sent two men here, asking that I arrange for them to visit.’

‘Did you help them?’

‘I did not have a great deal of choice,’ the bishop said heavily. ‘I dared not defy Sir Hugh — you know what he is like. I asked the two if they were set upon bloodshed, and when both denied it, I felt that they were perhaps just wishing to speak with John Biset. And that was all.’

‘So you did help them?’

‘I allowed them an introduction to the nearest church and the chaplain. They took it, and that was that.’

‘Well, it appears that Master Biset was unimpressed, since here is one of them,’ William said. ‘Will you write to Despenser yourself and let the coroner know?’

The bishop stared at the barrel again. ‘I am tempted to send this to Despenser and leave it to him. But if I do, he is as likely to throw the head in the Thames as see to it that the fellow has a burial.’

‘Then bury it here,’ John said. ‘It’s what you were going to do anyway. Either the other man got away and Sir Hugh le Despenser knows their mission failed, or the fellow got killed, in which case Despenser knows nothing and there is no need to tell him.’

‘Perhaps you are right,’ the bishop said.

William shook his head. ‘What if this man Biset thinks you sent the men? He had the head delivered here, what if he tries to take his revenge on you?’

‘I don’t think he’ll do that. He’s made his point,’ the bishop said.

William nodded, but he was unconvinced. He would have to remain doubly on guard, he thought.

Fourth Monday before the Feast of St John and St Paul *

Exeter

It was in the middle of the morning when he knew that it was safe to go to the bishop’s chamber again.

Many months had passed since the first note, and it was time to turn the screw a little. That was how it felt, he thought: as if he was actually turning a thumbscrew on the man, every little twist of news adding to the man’s anguish. And this was the ideal time to do it, now that Bishop Walter’s first nervousness was waning.

It was astonishing to him, how badly that first message had affected the bishop. There had been an immediate deterioration in his appearance. Last year he had been a tall, striking fellow, until he had been sent with the king’s son to France, to try to maintain peace between the English in Guyenne and the French, but that mission had been a disaster. The queen took her son and kept him with her, the boy refusing to leave her, and all the guards bar a few who travelled with the bishop threw in their lot with the queen rather than return to England with him. To the bishop’s horror, he discovered that he was a marked man. Death threats were given, and he was forced to clothe himself in pilgrim’s garb and flee for his life. To hear him, it sounded as though he escaped only by the merest chance.

It had been that which had led to the plot. The sight of the man who was so detested arriving back in England like a beggar, with his clothes all disordered, his face wild and anxious, registering the terror that had driven him from France, had been a source of joy to those who hated him. Making him suffer as he had caused so many others to suffer, was massively appealing.

He slipped into the hall without being seen. It was easy enough. There was no one on the door at this time of day, and he could cross to the stairs which led up to the bishop’s private chamber. These were a narrow spiral set into the wall, and as he climbed, he feared that at any moment he might hear a voice demanding to know what he was doing there. Then he would be discovered, along with his guilty secret.

The stairs were dark at the top. There was a door to block the way, but it was ajar, and he pressed a palm against the timbers as he listened, eyes wide, head turned a little towards the opening, fearing disaster while also strangely hoping for it.

It was a curious feeling, this. He wanted to continue with the plan, to see the bishop wild with fear — and yet there was this odd compulsion to have it all end as well. To get caught. Part of him wanted to confront the man, to tell him who had done all this. To stand before the bishop and denounce him for his many crimes.

The deep pounding of his heart seemed to reverberate about his belly as he pushed the door open an inch, a little more, a little more again — until he could sidle through the gap.

The table stood at the far edge of the room. He crossed to it, trying to avoid the weaker, creaking boards in the middle of the room, but one gave out a shrill noise and he froze like a rabbit awaiting the talons of his predator.

He had no time to wait; he must get it over with. In a hurry now, he darted to the table. There was a mess of papers on it, and he was about to thrust the note in amongst them, when he saw the three books sitting on a nearby shelf. He picked up the first, but shook his head. It was the Thoughts of St Thomas Aquinas , and he couldn’t pollute that. The next book was a copy of the Chanson de Roland . The great epic story of the Battle of Roncevaux was one which the bishop had often extolled, and this was a book he returned to often. Without further thought, he picked up the Chanson de Roland , opened it and thrust the parchment inside.

Quickly and quietly, he made his way along the wall, the silent wall where no floorboards creaked or screamed, and reached the door. He drew it to behind him, and tiptoed down the stairs.

‘What are you doing up there?’

And hearing the voice, he stopped dead in terror.

Fourth Monday before the Feast of St John and St Paul *