Michael Jecks - The Bishop Must Die

No longer. Now he knew that he was as competent as they. It was a matter of slipping a blade into a torso, that was all. And next time, perhaps, he would watch more closely. Watch the eyes, see how they dilated and contracted as his knife cut through arteries and veins, punctured the heart, stopped the brain. It would be wonderful to watch all that, to see a man actually dying before him.

He was looking forward to the next man he would kill.

Bishop’s Palace, Exeter

The fire was dying gradually as evening drew in. Bishop Walter had dismissed his servants except for his steward, John de Padington, and now his nephew, the squire William Walle, rejoined them.

Bishop Walter had both scraps of parchment in his lap, and he peered from one to the other through his spectacles, rereading them both time after time, while his brow remained furrowed.

William broke the silence. ‘Perhaps you should put them away, Uncle? There is little you can do about the matter tonight.’

‘I know that,’ Bishop Walter said with a sigh. William was right, but that didn’t help matters. He pushed the two fragments back into the purse and drew the string tight. ‘Do you think that this purse was intended to be recognisable to me? I know nothing at all about it, but it was sent with the message as though I should find it significant.’

‘You are quite sure you don’t know it?’ William asked.

‘If I had any idea where it came from, I would have said so,’ Walter replied, quite gently.

The pair of them were worried, he could see. Both had the impression that whoever was responsible for sending these messages would not stop there. They would be sure to try to act out the threats. Someone was going to try to kill him.

It was infuriating ! He clenched a fist and thumped it on his table top, sending one goblet flying, and stood, head down, staring into the fire. ‘This is ridiculous. Someone sends threats like this, and my household is frozen with fear. It will not do!’

‘We’re worried,’ William said firmly. ‘First a message, then a man’s head, now another message threatening your death — do you think we can afford not to take these matters seriously?’

‘Bishop,’ John said, ‘we seek only to ensure your protection.’

‘Very well. Do so, then, but do not expect me to assist you in destroying my reputation and making more of this than I need. For sooth! Someone has shown cunning and skill in sending these two messages to me, but that is all. A low cunning is not proof of intellect. The writer is nothing more than a felon who seeks to extort a response by instilling fear in me. Well, I will not submit to it. I know nothing of this purse, nothing of the messages. I do not know who has sent them, so I will not live in terror as though I am under a sentence of death. Do you both watch over me, but no more. I shall not allow this matter to change my life or rule my behaviour.’

‘Perhaps we could increase your guard, my lord Walter?’ John asked tentatively.

‘What, have another twenty men? Thirty? That would look marvellous to the crowds, wouldn’t it? A bishop living in terror of his life. And how soon before all heard of these messages and wondered whether there was much truth in the affair? They would soon speculate about the murders I had committed.’

‘Uncle, no one who knows you would think you guilty of such a crime.’

Bishop Walter looked at him. ‘You know I was under excommunication for some while? No? Then do not leap to conclusions, William. There is more to me than perhaps you know. And many people remember this, and would take delight in attacking me.’

‘But if you will not allow us to increase your guard, what would you have us do?’

The bishop considered a moment. ‘There is one thing, perhaps. Ask Sir Baldwin de Furnshill to come and advise us.’

Third Saturday before the Feast of St Paul and St John *

Tiverton Castle, Tiverton

Sir Baldwin de Furnshill trotted into the castle and shouted to the ostler, ‘Take my horse,’ as he dismounted and stood a moment, tugging the gloves from his hands.

‘Not a good day, then? What have you done with your companion?’

Baldwin turned to find himself confronted by the smiling face of William Walle. ‘Squire William! My friend, I am very glad to see you! In truth, were I to have to spend another evening with that dull-witted slobberdegulleon, Ovedale, I would be driven to distraction. If it were not for the fact that the fool was a comrade of Sir Hugh le Despenser, he would not have any authority. As it is, though …’

He paused, catching sight of a slight grin on his friend’s face. ‘Very well, Squire William. So you take my words as the foolish maunderings of an old man, I suppose? Be that as it may, I am only a little more than double your age, and I have no more lost my faculties than have you or my good friend, your uncle.’

Immediately he saw the look that passed over William Walle’s face, as the squire replied, ‘Sir Baldwin, it is about him that I have come to speak with you today.’

‘Why? The good bishop is well, isn’t he?’ Baldwin asked sharply.

‘May we speak in private?’

Montreuil, Northern France

The weather was, for once, mild and dry. After the last few days, that itself was a cause for celebration, Ralph la Zouche felt as he followed their guide in through the city walls and along the narrow streets.

It was a pleasant city, this. Flowers in pots seemed to proliferate, with many bright poppies and roses. After all the rain, the roads had been washed clean, and there was the smell of fresh, damp soil rather than the normal odours of excrement and rotten foods. The buildings were all pleasing to Sir Ralph’s eye, with good limewashed timber and daub, while the people seemed less surly than some peasants he had known. Yes, all in all, it was a pleasant place.

Their ride had taken some days, but if the weather had been dry, they would have been able to walk such a short distance without trouble. It was noticeable that the roads were of poor quality, and in the rain it was hard to see where the horses might place their feet in safety. However, the roads in much of England were little better. He could not blame the people here for that failing.

At the little castle, all the men dismounted, with a slight sense of anticipation. It was not every day that a group of knights were to meet a duke.

They were divested of their mounts in short order, and soon all were being led up some stairs to the great hall.

It was richly decorated, and Sir Ralph could feel the eyes of the others on all the decorations and hangings. Much gold thread had been used, and the paintings on the walls were the very finest. At various places there were silver bowls, crosses with gilt hammered over them, while on the table, drinks were set out, and all the goblets were of solid silver. It was enough to make a man’s mouth water.

However, there was one more delight here for a man’s eyes.

She entered a short time after them. A small, slender woman, not yet thirty, clad all in black like a widow. She stood, elegant and still, like a small statue, until they had noticed her presence, and then she slowly walked along the hall to study the men one by one.

Sir Ralph frowned a little at the sight of this woman. She appeared to glide from one to another, without speaking. Behind her came a saucy little blond piece with a roguish eye, and in the doorway stood a young man, of perhaps fourteen or fifteen years. He at least appeared to show the respect due to a force of men like these.

‘I think you must be in charge of these men,’ the woman said to him.