Michael Jecks - The Bishop Must Die

‘My life has been one of service, you know, William,’ the bishop said heavily.

‘You have served all well, Uncle: your king, your flock, and God.’

‘You say that so glibly. I wonder whether it is true? I have done what I thought was right, but perhaps I have failed. I have sought to serve God and see to the ministry of His souls. What if that was not good enough? I have tried to serve our kingdom, tried to mediate between the king and his queen, but my efforts served no purpose. Did I bring them back together? No. Even now she sits like some great spider in France, her web woven, waiting for us to fall into her clutches. And behind her, damned Mortimer, the best general our king ever had, and well he knows it! What have I achieved?’

‘You have made the Treasury efficient, you have secured education for many, you have …’

But the bishop was not listening. He gazed into the fire, his fingers drumming on the table top beside him. William went over and poured wine into his goblet.

Absently, the bishop took it up and drank. His fingers reached for St Thomas Aquinas and he opened the book, his eyes running down the text without seeing. William passed him his spectacles, and he took them, but then shook his head, closed the book, and reached for his copy of Roland . ‘The Chanson . It always soothes me,’ he murmured, and lifted the cover as his nephew walked back to the door, bowing and taking his leave.

His gasp of horror was enough to make the young squire rush back to the bishop’s side.

There, inside, was a second note.

Louvre, Paris

There was a crunch behind him, and Ralph la Zouche immediately dropped low, span round upon his toe and snatched at his sword, sweeping it out in a slither of steel, eyes narrowed, left hand ready to block any sudden attack.

The ostler gaped, dropping his saddle and almost turning to flee at the sight of this grim, bearded Englishman. ‘M’sieur, je veux …’

‘Put your sword up, Sir Ralph! Do you want to have the whole castle upon us?’ Richard de Folville hissed.

Sir Ralph carefully inserted the point of his sword into the scabbard, then thrust it home, but stood a few moments, staring at Folville. The Folvilles had been allies of his family for years, but this one, this Richard, who had been sent to become a priest and yet who now allowed his tonsure to grow out, was not made from the same mould as them. This shit-britches would run to mummy at the first sign of trouble. If he dared to tell Sir Ralph what to do, the knight would squash him like a fly.

Beckoning the ostler, Sir Ralph pulled out a coin from his purse, flipping it into the air, and stalking away before anyone could say anything more.

Folville had not laughed. That fact had saved his life, because a shitten priest wouldn’t laugh twice at Sir Ralph. No, not even a Folville could insult Sir Ralph.

He was the eldest of his brothers, and the one man most aware of the family’s honour. Ever since their first arrival in England from Normandy, his family had been at the forefront of English politics. They had come with William the Bastard, and they had been at the vanguard of his host as Duke William rode hither and thither over the realm, quelling all the rebels who tried to use terrorism to evict their lawful conquerors. Those must have been hard days: sitting long hours in the saddle, then riding down the pathetic English rebels at the point of the lance. Sir Ralph wished he could have been born in those days, with the chance of fighting them. It was what he was born for: fighting.

There had been times for glory only recently, too. It wasn’t only dead history. In King Edward I’s reign, there had been thrilling opportunities for a man to go to Scotland or Wales. His own father had fought in both countries, making himself a small fortune in the process, when he captured two Welsh princes and ransomed them. The money from those two had bought the family two good manors, which had in some ways compensated them for the other difficulties that they had encountered with neighbours. The Belers family was always a difficult competitor, and they had always sought to influence people to the detriment of the la Zouches.

The feud had its genesis far back in the distant past. Grandfather had once said that it actually went back to the times before the invasion of the country. In France, their ancestors had maintained a running competition since the days of Roland, bickering and quarrelling over their rights to different parcels of land. When they came to England, Duke William had given all his knights tracts of land which were diversely spread over the whole country, so that no one man would have enough power in any shire to be able to gather up forces to threaten his own rule, and also so that the knights would be too busy travelling from one manor to another to be able to foment trouble. As a policy, it had worked. But in succeeding years, all the lords and barons had gradually accumulated more lands in their own favoured locations, and some had formed strong power bases.

In their territories, it had perhaps been natural that the Belers and the la Zouches should have come to view each other askance. As they soon did. But it was all the fault of the Belers family. That much was clear. It was why the la Zouches had been forced to take such drastic action.

And why Sir Ralph was here, he told himself, watching the ostler settling the saddle on his mount’s back.

That rector didn’t like him. Well, that was fine by Sir Ralph. If Richard Folville’s brothers had all been here, maybe Sir Ralph would have been concerned. But they weren’t, so the priest should stay out of Sir Ralph’s way.

The others here in the Louvre were an unknown quantity. He could utterly rely on his brother Ivo, of course. But the others: John Biset, Roger Crok, and now this new priest Paul de Cockington as well, were not the sort of men to inspire confidence in a commander.

If these were the only men who were designated to protect Duke Edward of Aquitaine, Sir Ralph would have his work cut out.

There was no denying that he felt the edginess of the others. They were all too short with each other, too prepared to snap and argue. Just as he was himself, if he were honest. All of them were too well aware of the dangers they ran in being here. But for them there was nowhere else to go. Nothing to do. They were victims of the cretinous king and his lover, Despenser.

Because they all knew that they were now considered to be traitors. They were each of them worth money to the king and Despenser … dead.

Bishop’s Palace, Exeter

John was glad of William’s presence when he heard of the second message.

‘What does it say?’ he demanded, while the men-at-arms ran about the palace, searching all the most likely, and several frankly impossible, places of concealment.

‘Look for yourself,’ William said curtly.

Taking it, John read aloud. ‘ The author of so much misery must pay for it all. Death, and Hell, await you .’

‘How dare he accuse my uncle of being the architect of misery! A kinder, more thoughtful and considerate man never walked the earth,’ William said heatedly.

John nodded. ‘There is nothing to show how this was brought to the palace. Who would dare to enter my master’s private chamber and fiddle with his books?’

‘The very same man who would dare to threaten him with death and damnation.’

‘How did he get into the palace?’ John wondered. ‘The doors should have been locked.’

‘Do the familia lock all the doors when they go with the bishop to the chapel or church? I doubt it. All our careful planning has come to nought, John. We didn’t think of that.’