Michael Jecks - The Bishop Must Die

‘He is the son of the king, man,’ John Biset said, and gave a sour grin at the expression of sheer horror that passed over Paul’s face.

Exeter Cathedral Close

The familia gathered outside the little chapel and waited for the bishop to arrive.

It was Bishop Walter’s routine to have his people wait outside for him, and then they would all troop into his private chapel together for the morning’s Mass. Later, he would have a quiet period of prayer with his chaplain alone, and only on feast days would he go to the cathedral itself and take his throne, the new massive wooden seat which he had helped design as a part of the rebuilding of the quire. More commonly, this most devout bishop preferred a quiet service, away from the noise of the rebuilding and the public.

To John’s eye, it was too austere. He had mentioned it often enough, but Bishop Walter would not listen.

‘You ought to be in full fig, and with a golden goblet and cross,’ the steward grumbled.

‘All that folderol is unnecessary in my own chapel. I want peace in there, so that I can concentrate. That is not too much to ask.’

‘So you praise God while denigrating Him by wearing that old black robe,’ John said dismissively.

The arguments would always rage from that point, with the bishop convinced that there was no point in excess in his private chapel, while John remained certain that God would expect it.

It was months now since the discovery of that message and the head’s appearance. Months in which John and William Walle had stayed alert, ever watchful in case some stranger might attempt to approach the bishop and slide a dagger in under his ribs, or fire a crossbow, or poison him. The number of ways in which a man could be killed was alarming to John, once he had begun to learn a little about assassination. There was a master of the arts of defence in the city who had taken delight (and several coins) in instructing John in the more dangerous aspects of protecting a man. Of course, like most masters of defence, this fellow was more keen to ensure that his client was safe, and it was difficult for him to appreciate the difference here, bearing in mind that the man being protected was not the man paying him his money.

‘Can’t you bring him to me?’

‘He would not be keen.’

‘I’ve had unwilling clients before,’ the man had laughed.

‘Not like this one,’ John said with certainty.

He and William had become pretty comfortable that their charge would be safe while both were near to hand. The main task appeared to be to prevent anyone from approaching within a few feet of the bishop. There was always the possibility of a lone archer trying his luck, of course, but there were few places in which an archer could hide without being seen; likewise, if a man attempted poison, he must get right into the bishop’s palace kitchen. John had set the cooks to be wary and prevent strangers from gaining access.

In all the months since John and William had started to take precautions, nothing had so far happened. As was entirely natural, they were growing gradually less and less alert to danger. In the weeks after the first note, William and he had searched all crowds for an assassin, and William once thought he had seen one, a shifty-eyed fellow in the Close at about the time of Father Joshua’s death, but there were no further developments. Even now, John found himself looking up at the sky, observing the movements of birds, idly noting that the elm tree over towards the Close would have to have the limb that pointed southwards lopped off, if it were not to fall on a man’s head.

Thus it was that the bellow of shock and fear came as a sudden bolt of lightning from a clear summer’s evening.

‘The bishop!’ he gasped, and set off at a run. Rounding the corner of the building, he saw the sight he had dreaded for so long. There, on the ground, was his master lying prostrate. ‘My lord! My lord, what has happened to you?’ he cried, throwing himself down at the side of the bishop.

‘I tripped, you blithering idiot!’ the bishop rasped. ‘Help me up, both of you! Who left that plank there? The builders are not supposed to be here ! Is there nowhere a man may find peace, even in his own grounds? This is ridiculous!’

Before long, John and William had managed to lift the bishop to his feet, where he stood, dusting off the mess from the pathway.

‘You aren’t cut, nor broken?’ John asked solicitously.

‘Do stop fussing, man! All that happened was, I missed my footing. If I could wear my spectacles more, I should be fine, but the things are too clumsy. I hate holding them up to my eyes as I walk about, it makes me fall more often. When all is said and done, I am an old man. Never needed help before, but as soon as I became fifty years old, my sight began to falter. Ach! Look at me!’

‘My lord bishop, let me fetch you a little wine.’

‘No. I am late enough as it is.’

So saying, the Bishop of Exeter swept up his gowns and marched purposefully onwards. John fell into step beside William. ‘I am relieved that this was a mere accident.’

‘Yes. He looked quite comical as he fell, though I doubt he would have been pleased to know he afforded me a degree of amusement.’ William was still smiling at the memory: the bishop had taken a fair tumble, his gowns and cloak flying in all directions like the tattered remains of a crow shot by a sling.

‘I begin to wonder whether the man who wrote the note simply sought to instil fear?’ John mused. ‘It has been such a long time since it was found. We’re halfway through the year. I’ve never known a man threaten violence and then allow his threats to mature for so long.’

‘You are right, of course. It’s perfectly likely that we did overreact,’ William agreed. But then he stopped and glanced at the steward. ‘But what if we relaxed our guard, and that happened to be the very day in which the killer took the bishop’s life? Would we ever be able to forgive ourselves?’

‘No.’

They entered the chapel, bowing and genuflecting as they entered, using a little of the holy water from the conical stoup set into the wall by the door, and made their way down to the bishop, kneeling immediately behind him, their hands clasped together like a prince’s paying homage.

The service, so William felt, was too slow. He had a mind that could rarely remain focused on one matter for too long, and he found it wandering as he listened to the interminable muttering of the chaplain. He was too old, and his teeth unsure, so his breath whistled as his voice rose and fell in the familiar cadences. It was a surprise that such an old fellow was retained by the bishop, for usually he sought younger fellows who would have more stamina. Not only must they be prepared to act as the bishop’s private chaplain here in Exeter, but when he must travel about his diocese, the chaplain would have to ride with him; if he was called to London or York to meet the king, again, his chaplain would be at his side. William wondered if having an older man with him reminded him a little of his old friend, Father Joshua.

When the service was over, William was pleased to be able to leave the chapel and gain the open air again. He looked about him quickly, but there was no sign of danger, and he continued on his way, looking at all the places which might be useful for an assassin to hide in.

‘Here we are, Uncle,’ he said, as he opened the door to the bishop’s private chamber.

The bishop walked in as William stood holding it wide, and crossed the wooden floor to his little seat near the fire. John had seen to it that the room was prepared. A fire crackled and hissed most reassuringly in the hearth, a jug of wine had been set near to his elbow, a silver goblet beside it. There was nothing the bishop could require that had not been provided already. Even his favourite books were placed near to hand, the Chanson de Roland , and Girart of Vienne , both beautifully illustrated works, and a book of St Thomas Aquinas.