Michael Jecks: The Bishop Must Die

And then it was over. Richard stood dazed, sword still clean, gazing about him wonderingly as though this was a dream. There were groans from two men near the middle of the road, and as Richard watched, he saw them despatched with a dagger-thrust to the heart, their bodies arching and twitching in their death throes. But already every man’s attention was on the last man: Belers himself.

He showed no fear, only an all-encompassing rage. ‘You dare to attack me? Me ? Do you know who I am? You have killed my squire, you bastard! Yes, you ! I’ll have your cods for my dog, you arse! You pig’s turd, you barrel of lard, you tun of fat!’

The man he berated turned slowly. ‘You speak to me, Belers? You should hold your tongue before I have it cut out. Don’t you remember me?’

He was a heavyset man in his thirties or so, a fellow with a body that looked as sturdy as a small oak, and with dark, sunburned skin to match. He was clad in a worn tunic and hosen like all the others, with a tattered cloak to keep him warm, but for all the meanness of his clothing, there was something about him that proved his position. This was a man who had held senior posts, a man of importance. It was there in his stillness, and in the intense dark brown eyes that gazed at Belers like a priest eyeing a demon.

Belers blustered now. ‘Why should I? I don’t bother to remember the face of every felon whose path I cross, but I will remember yours, you mother-swyving churl! I’ll appreciate your looks when I see them blacken and your eyes pop as you dance for the crowds at Melton Mowbray’s gibbet!’

‘You threaten me — a knight with more history to his name than you? My family came here with William the Norman, and you tell me you’ll see me dance?’

‘You are dead, all of you!’

‘Look again, Belers! Do you still not recognise me?’

‘I have no idea who you are. You aren’t from around here.’

‘Think to the Marcher war, Belers. The family from Lubbersthorpe — remember them? The man whom you robbed of his manors and income, the mother you cast out from her home — remember ?’

‘I don’t recall-’

‘Lubbersthorpe. Where you took everything for yourself, and then rode away. And you had the mother’s son captured and thrown into gaol. Remember?’

‘That was la Zouche, wasn’t it? What is it to do with you?’

‘I am Sir Ralph la Zouche,’ the man said, and now he drew a long dagger. ‘And by my honour, I will enjoy this!’

So saying, he stepped forward towards Belers. As the baron tried to move away, hands grabbed him, and Sir Ralph reversed the blade in his hands, so that now it pointed downwards. While Belers was held firmly, Sir Ralph came to him. He studied Belers a moment, and then spat into the baron’s face. The baron turned with an expression of loathing, and while his head was averted, Sir Ralph brought his knife down, thrusting past the collar bone and down into the man’s breast.

Belers’s body jolted like a stung stallion, and his head snapped about, until he was staring full into Sir Ralph’s face, and then slowly he began to sink to the ground, while his face paled. His jaw worked as though to speak, but there was nothing more to be heard from him. His soul had fled.

‘Take that piece of shit and throw it in the ditch. He pollutes the road,’ Sir Ralph said, and turned on his heel.

Monday, Feast of St Sebastian, nineteenth year of the reign of King Edward II *

West Sandford **

It was a cold, grey morning when Simon Puttock left his house. He had nothing to attend to, but he had always feared growing a paunch to rival his father’s, and every day he would try to take his rounsey out for a ride to clear his head and ease his spirits.

A tall man of almost forty, with a calm expression on his weather-beaten face, his eyes were dark grey and steady — the eyes of a man who had suffered much and found himself strong enough to cope.

Entering the little byre, he paused in the darkness. His two cows were inside, away from the worst of the recent weather, and he slapped the rump of the nearer one, running his hand over her enormous frame, feeling the size of the calf inside. Both were strong beasts, but this had been the better milker over the years, and now that he had lost his position at Tavistock Abbey, Simon was determined to make more money from cheese and milk sales.

‘She’ll be fine.’

Simon turned to see his servant Hugh, a morose-looking, truculent old devil, watching him from the doorway.

‘I was just patting her,’ Simon said, half-defensively.

Hugh grunted disbelievingly. ‘I’ve been looking after sheep and cows since I could first handle a sling,’ he muttered, as he walked over to the two great beasts. He rested his hand on the cow’s back. ‘There’s no need for you to come and upset them with your “patting”.’

Simon smiled. In the last years, Hugh had married, had suffered the loss of his wife and the child she bore, and had returned to Simon’s side. Despite his sour exterior, Simon knew that he was devoted to him and to his family.

‘Have you heard from Edith?’ Hugh said, without looking at Simon.

Simon felt the smile wiped from his face like a towel clearing mud. ‘No.’

Exeter

The bishop was surprised to hear that there were two men to see him, but he was a believer in the old principles of courtesy and hospitality, so he nodded to his steward, John, to allow them entry.

The two were not tonsured, he saw at once. The older was a tallish fellow, with a russet tunic and tan cloak thrown back over his shoulder. He had a beard that covered his cheeks from a little below his eyes, down past his chin, over his throat and down to his tunic. His eyes were steady as they studied the bishop. His companion was much younger, a fair-haired fellow with a sparkle in his eyes, who seemed unable to grow a beard yet. He had a crossbow slung over his shoulder.

‘Yes?’ the bishop asked, once they had bent their knees and kissed his ring. ‘You wished to see me?’

‘We have been sent to speak with you,’ the older man said. ‘Sir Hugh le Despenser sends you his greetings.’

‘I see.’ Bishop Walter set his jaw. ‘And?’

‘There is a man who is causing my Lord Despenser some trouble, and he has asked for you to help us find him. It is a man called John Biset.’

Biset … Yes, the bishop knew this fellow. ‘Why does he wish to find him?’

There was no answer, and he had not truly expected one. When Sir Hugh le Despenser decided to send a message to a man, it was rarely a matter of pleasantries. There would be violence.

‘I know where he lives,’ the bishop said slowly, ‘but I am reluctant to-’

‘You need not fear. All we want is the address of someone nearby who can help us,’ the younger man said with a smile. He was always smiling, Bishop Walter noticed.

‘I do not fear,’ Bishop Walter said coolly. ‘But I would not have unnecessary violence.’

‘There will be none,’ the older man said. ‘Now give us the name of the man who can help us.’

His rudeness was almost enough to have him thrown from the bishop’s room, but then Bishop Walter reconsidered. He had managed to alienate the king already, because of his failure as Edward’s representative last year. That mission had been a disaster. He could not afford to upset Sir Hugh le Despenser — the second most important man in the country — as well. It was a horrible thought that he must become complicit in the attack on an innocent man, in order to maintain his own position, but he was not the first to have been forced to this. And he had done worse in the past.

‘No bloodshed?’