Michael Jecks - The Bishop Must Die

Portchester, Hampshire

Simon Puttock walked into his house and slammed the door behind him. In the distance he could hear his son shouting and screaming, and he paused a moment, long enough to guess that Perkin was again trying his luck against grim authority, represented by Hugh. He gave a grin, and walked along the narrow passageway to the hall.

There was a good fire crackling and hissing, and he sighed with pleasure to be able to stand before it, his hands stuffed into his belt.

‘I did not expect you home so soon,’ Margaret said, hurrying in, wiping her hands on a towel. ‘You must be tired. Would you like ale or wine?’

‘I think today I need a strong wine. Where is Perkin?’

‘Your son has been a sore distraction to me today,’ Margaret said, dropping onto a stool. ‘He stole a pie before noon, and tried to blame a dog for the theft. Then he started digging with his knife at the new wall, and pulled off a foot of plaster, when he knew that the man only finished the work last week, and as soon as I chastised him for that, he stamped off sulking and snapped the heads off the roses. Simon, I worry about that boy. He is uncontrollable.’

‘Meg, he’s not yet four.’

‘There are some who say that a boy’s mind is fixed sooner than that. I would hate to think that he-’

‘Meg, come here and rest a moment. You’ve been working too hard,’ Simon said, drawing up his chair. ‘Tell me what this is really all about.’

‘It’s nothing.’

‘I know it’s nothing. Now tell me what is nothing?’

‘I am still worried about Edith.’

Simon sighed. ‘We know that she is as well as can be expected.’

‘I just want to hear from her. I worry that something could have happened.’

‘Baldwin would tell us,’ Simon pointed out. ‘He hears from her fairly often, and lets us know when he does.’

‘We’re so far away though. A week’s journey, and …’

‘And there’s nothing to worry about. The trouble is, Baldwin’s busy. You know that.’

It was true. They had been used to receiving little messages every so often, whenever Baldwin could find a man travelling in the correct direction. He had been able to use Edgar to make contact, just as he had planned, and for some weeks news had filtered through to them regularly, but recently Baldwin had been called to help Hugh de Courtenay and the Bishop of Exeter to array the men of Devon and Cornwall ready to repel any possible attack. Baldwin had conveyed a message with a tranter to say that all was well, but that he had been sent with another man, by name of Peter Ovedale, to array the men at Launceston. Since then, Simon had heard nothing from him. And that had been at the time of the Feast of the Discovery of the Cross — about a month ago.

There had been times when Simon himself had wondered about that delay. It was a long time to have heard nothing from Baldwin. Usually they kept in touch each fortnight even when they were both busy, but now things were changed. Simon had occasional irrational fears that Baldwin could have grown irritated with him because of their falling-out last year, and then he grew anxious that the knight could have met with an accident. There was no logical reason to think this, but the lands west of Exeter were always rather lawless compared with the rest of the kingdom, and since the queen had lost all her lands in Cornwall the previous year, the area had grown still more dangerous.

The news from all over the realm was not reassuring. It was good to be one of the first to hear it, because as a king’s officer at the port, he was given a great deal of information daily: sailors from London with their bizarre language and tones telling of the expectation in the city itself, with stories of arms being stored in the Tower, along with barrels full of saltpetre and honey, ready to manufacture that marvellous black powder that so terrified horses and men alike in battle.

Reports from other places were no less chilling. There were tales of French troop movements all along the Guyennois border, and other reports spoke of men mustering in Hainault, as well as the accumulation of ships. If Simon believed half of the stories he had heard, England would be absorbed into France within a matter of weeks. Fortunately, he was aware that these reports were likely exaggerated.

Just then, there was a commotion from outside, and Simon lifted his eyes to the door as Perkin ran in, Hugh stomping along behind him, a fierce glower on his face.

‘Daddy!’

‘How are you, little man?’

‘I am-’

‘He has knocked over the dish with the supper,’ Hugh said, with grim satisfaction.

Paris

Rector Paul de Cockington was not unhappy to be in France.

As soon as his brother had been able to guarantee a safe passage for him, Paul had taken his place in a small band of wandering merchants, men-at-arms and lawyers bound for Exmouth where they intended taking a ship to Guyenne.

The past year had seen confusion over England’s control of the French possessions. There had been wrangling for a long time over the rights of the King of France to the King of England’s great Duchy of Aquitaine. The bitter enmity between the French and English sprang from ancient causes; ever since the Duke of Normandy had invaded and taken the English crown for his own, the French Kings had deprecated the presumption of England’s kings. The presumption was escalated by the warmonger Richard I, Coeur-de-Lion, who forced the French King to build his magnificent fortress, the Louvre, in order to protect his city against a potential attack from Richard’s Norman territory.

Once Richard I was dead, the French wasted no time in confiscating all the English lands in Normandy, with such efficiency and resolve that soon nothing remained.

However, this did not affect the jewel in the English crown: Aquitaine. This vast swathe of France had been given by France to England as a dower, and its loss was resented. Especially since this present English King Edward II refused to travel to France to pay homage for the territories even though he held them as a feudal lord from his liege lord. He was King of England, perhaps, but in France he was a mere duke, and he must bend his knee to King Charles IV and promise to serve his king, just as any man might.

The fact that King Edward II would not come served to polish the hatred that already existed until it gleamed. And so King Charles had waited until there was a pretext for war, and when it presented itself, he swiftly ordered the invasion of Aquitaine. The operation had been so well planned in advance, it took little time to overwhelm the English garrisons. In a matter of weeks, France had reclaimed the whole of the Duchy and the English were left spluttering with futile rage back in their island.

Negotiations had immediately been instigated. The Pope tried to forge an alliance between these two nations, that they might soon join and renew their assault on the Moslem hordes which had overrun the Holy Land. But he failed. It was only when Edward II’s queen, King Charles IV’s sister, travelled to France that the stalemate began to ease. Her son was sent to her, duly invested with the magnificent Duchy, in order that he might give homage for it in his own right. And the magnificent territories had been returned to the English.

So now, many officers, warriors and lawyers were hurrying to Aquitaine in the hope of enriching themselves — much like miners who had heard of a rich seam of ore. They flocked to the place in their hundreds. In a land which had recently seen war and devastation, there was always hope for lawyers and men trained in weapons, just as there was the hope of king’s officials that they might resolve disputes and accept bribes in return. Territory only recently at war was always a source of good pickings.