Michael Jecks - The Bishop Must Die

Except, as Paul had learned soon after arriving, a fresh dispute had arisen. The queen declared her hatred for her husband’s favourite and refused to return to England. Equally, she utterly refused to send her son home. While she wished to remain, the French king was reluctant to evict her, for he would not remove the offer of hospitality to his own sister, and thus there was a pause, while both nations stood and watched, almost as though both were holding their breath, daring the other to start the war again.

But for a cleric, such concerns were less pressing. Paul had a comfortable post in rooms near the cathedral, and he happily sauntered about in the sun. One of the clerks with whom he had travelled to Paris was a man in the pay of the Earl of Winchester, the father to Sir Hugh le Despenser, and Paul was able to help with some of his duties, for he spoke fluent French, having come from a good noble family. So for the last weeks, Paul had enjoyed his temporary exile.

There would one day be a reckoning, he was aware of that. He would have to return to England to learn what the Church intended to do with him, for there was no doubt that the Bishop of Exeter would refuse to return him to his post. Rather, he would wish to put him back in the bishopric’s gaol from which he had escaped.

That was not an outcome which appealed to him. The next time he was incarcerated, it would be a great deal more difficult to escape, no matter how much his brother bribed the guards and gaolers.

Paul lounged on a wall near the cathedral, overlooking the Seine and enjoying the sights in the sun. It was a glorious day, and he was debating whether to go to the little pie shop up near the Louvre which had become to him a delightful bolt-hole, or to walk over to the tavern near the eastern gate, when he caught sight of two women strolling along the road. Both, he sighed, were worth a second look. Adorable, the shorter one. Petite, with olive skin and luscious dark hair, she was his favourite. Light and bouncy, with a pair of breasts that would be enough to suffocate the man who shoved his face between them, and a backside that would grace a small pony, she was quite delectable, especially with her cheeky grin.

The other was a little taller, stronger, and fairer. She had grey eyes that held that challenging, ‘Damn you’ expression he so mistrusted. Women, he found, were better when they were smaller. Then the enthusiastic could be supported, while the recalcitrant could be forced. Larger women could prove to be too much of a handful, in his experience.

‘I wouldn’t, if I were you.’

The voice was that of a man immediately behind him, and he turned, startled, to find himself being studied by a shortish fellow with very clear blue eyes. He was only perhaps three- or four-and-twenty, and from the look of his fit, muscular frame and slim waist, he was used to fighting. And from the look of the creases at the corners of his eyes, he was also used to laughing.

‘Wouldn’t what?’ Paul asked.

‘Try to entice those ladies.’ He winked and turned to watch the women walking away along the street, and nodded shortly beyond them. ‘See those two?’

Paul gave a fleeting frown. His eyesight was not very good, but he could discern something. ‘Is it two men?’

‘Aye, friend. And I think we should be leaving this place.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, those two look to me like the sort of churls who’d quite like to investigate what your bowels would look like, looped over a fence. You’re English, they’re French, and even though you only eyed two Frenchwomen and didn’t make a move, I think they’d take you apart for the fun of destroying an Englishman.’

Oakhampton Castle, Devon

The entrance to the great castle of the de Courtenay family, guarding the main road into Cornwall from the valleys of Devon, was imposing.

Originally the castle had been a simple motte and bailey construction, Baldwin guessed as he trotted down the roadway. From here he could see the keep on its enormous mound. Many serfs would have been employed to manufacture that, because originally it had been a long ridge of rock; the first Normans had forced the local population to hack and dig at it, heaving heavy baskets of rock and soil away and tipping them on top of the mound, bringing its height up above the original ridge and making it still more imposing. No doubt much of the rock dug away would also have been used in constructing the early walls. No matter. The main fact was, by the end of it all, and thanks to the efforts of the poor townspeople, there was a huge fissure dug from the rock so that the castle keep stood isolated on a separate mound. And that was when the real building could begin.

The keep was a tall tower, square sided, and secure by virtue of the steep hill on which it stood. Below was the main hall and all the supporting buildings, enclosed within their high wall. Smoke was drifting into the air from the cooking fires and the forges, and the sound of hammering crashed into Baldwin’s ears as smiths went about their business making arrowheads, knife and sword blades, chains, steel balls for maces, and armour. The full paraphernalia of offence and defence. All a man could wish for, were he to desire to kill without dying.

At the bottom, facing the road, was the long corridor of the bastion, which curved up to the main gate.

‘De Courtenay has a strong fortress here,’ Peter Ovedale commented.

Baldwin shot a glance at him. ‘Yes. This is a good position for a man who wishes to guard the approaches to the town.’

‘It is better than that. It’s an excellent place from which to guard against attackers from Cornwall and thus to defend the realm,’ Ovedale said.

Baldwin grimaced. ‘Perhaps. Unless the attackers sweep around it and continue on their path.’

‘When these mercenaries arrive, sir, they will not wish to leave a solid little post like this,’ Ovedale said sententiously, then sniffed.

Baldwin grunted. The insufferable knight had been speaking like this for all the time he had known him, and he was heartily bored with it. Ovedale appeared to have decided he was competent to assess the defensive capabilities of any town or castle while they were involved in the commission of array, and had assumed responsibility for judging and reporting on them all. In his mind, it was clear that the queen with her mercenaries from France would land in Cornwall and sweep their way up this road, not stopping until they were met by the levies of Devon, at which point they would be annihilated.

‘You must concede, Sir Baldwin, that such mercenaries will not appreciate the full strength of the English and Cornish peasantry until they meet them.’

‘That, I believe, is quite correct,’ Baldwin said quietly. He had fought at Acre, when he was a raw, untested warrior who had thought that with God on his side, he must inevitably win. He had learned early on that a warrior who was practised would be more likely to survive a battle on his feet, and he knew that most mercenaries had already been tested in battle, and to line against them the poor, foolish, or even strong and intelligent of the countryside, was to give them a perfect series of targets for their weapons.

Swords and lances, spears and axes, all would crush opposition when the latter was comprised largely of peasants who had little understanding of combat, nor of the sheer hideous ferocity of war. A few would consider themselves fighters, and they might be keen to join the fray, thinking that their ability with fists or a dagger, after a night’s drinking scrumpy until fear was utterly eradicated, would have shaped them for modern warfare, but Baldwin knew otherwise. When the artillery hurled shot at them from trebuchets, or the foul, modern metal tubes belched fire and smoke, a man’s heart would quail; when hordes of screaming iron-clad men hurtled towards them, all gleaming with silver steel, rattling like a thousand cauldrons filled with bolts and nails, then the peasants would find their courage leaching away like blood soaking into the soil. War was not a sport for the faint-hearted.