Michael Jecks - The Bishop Must Die

‘Do you have a list of the manors which you have acquired with his help?’

‘Oh, this is foolish! There can be nothing in it!’

Baldwin stood. ‘Then clearly there is no need in my remaining. I shall leave you, bishop, and return to my wife. If you change your mind, and wish for me to investigate these messages, then you will be able to find me at my house.’

He stood and bowed, and was about to stride from the room, when the bishop called him back.

‘Sir Baldwin, I am sorry. Yes. I have a list of some of the manors.’

Montreuil

It was late in the afternoon by the time Paul had finished his lesson. Not that there was much he could teach the duke in any case. The young heir to the throne had been well lectured in his time by some of the best tutors in England, and the last one, to judge by the duke’s fulsome praise, had been a paragon of virtue and intelligence.

Not that it was the ability and shrewdness of the duke that caused Paul to feel so unwholesome. As he walked from the duke’s hall and out into the courtyard, all he was aware of was the thundering in his head. If he had been alone, he would have thrust his fingers down his throat to make himself sick on purpose. The acid in his belly was so foul, it would have been better to try to balance his humours by ejecting as much of it as possible, and then lining his stomach with cool milk to soothe it. He was still tempted to try it even now.

The yard was almost empty, but as he stood at the stairs, he heard the duke shouting for gloves and a cloak, and a little while afterwards, he was at Paul’s side.

‘Good tutor, would you care to join me in a ride?’

Paul tried to smile. ‘That would be most pleasant, but I am not your tutor, my son, I am your confessor. And I fear that to do my work as well as I might, I need to-’

‘Father, I would be glad of your company.’

Paul tried one last refusal. ‘But, Duke Edward, I am hardly the-’

‘Good. So, we need a horse for you too.’

‘We cannot go riding alone, surely?’

‘Why not? This is France, and I feel as safe here as anywhere.’

Paul stared around wildly, hoping for inspiration. He felt foul, his mouth was rough, his belly was threatening to explode, and the last thing he wished for was a fast canter across the countryside with this wayward duke. ‘What would your mother say?’ was the only phrase that came to mind.

The prince looked at him with that quiet gaze that was so coldly certain. It was very much as if he could see into Paul’s soul — and Paul did not like the feeling. Not that he had anything to hide. He was the son of a well-to-do knight, and brother to a sheriff. There was nothing for him to be ashamed of. But still, it was a very odd feeling to have this fellow, who was shorter than him, younger than him, less mature than him, stare at him in that peculiarly direct manner.

All right, then, he thought. If that’s what you want. ‘I am ready,’ he said aloud. ‘Let’s find horses, Your Highness.’

It was as though the damn things had been laid on. In a few moments there was a great bay and a little grey, and the duke sprang up on to the bay as though he had been born to the saddle. Paul was a little less elegant, he knew, as he clambered on to the grey, but not too bad.

‘Your Highness, you do realise that …’

But as he spoke, the boy thrashed the flanks of his beast, and without a backward glance, he was off through the gates.

Bishop’s Clyst

The bishop had sent a servant for his papers, and while he waited, he stared down at his knees.

Baldwin was struck by how broken this great leader had become. He could remember the first time he had met this man — six, no eight years ago. Then Bishop Walter Stapledon had been taller, fairer of hair, altogether much more youthful in appearance, giving an immediate impression of authority, keen intellect, and honour.

Throughout the length and breadth of his diocese of Devon and Cornwall, Bishop Walter was renowned for his integrity. The barons respected him for his control of the government, especially the Treasury, for he had taken an inefficient and failing system and completely modernised it; the wealthy merchant classes appreciated his commonsense and the way that he allowed business to flourish to the benefit of all; and the poorest were solidly behind him for his enforcement of church alms, as well as for the opportunities he gave to their children for education. All were impressed with the good bishop.

But he had spent too much time in government, Baldwin thought. The bishop had been forced to compromise his principles in order to see that the realm was stable and kept secure. Bishop Walter had become too close to Despenser. The two had formed a loose, but nonetheless dangerous alliance for some years. It was in part due to that, that the queen had left the kingdom, forlorn at losing the affections of her husband as he looked ever more to Despenser for companionship. A naturally strong-willed woman, she was unwilling to accept a secondary role, for she was queen, and the daughter of a great king, Philip of France. But Despenser was jealous, and wouldn’t allow even the king’s wife to intrude. Her distress was sealed when her lands were sequestrated, her household broken up, all her French companions arrested and gaoled, her income confiscated, and her children taken from her, to be placed in the custody of Despenser’s wife.

The final indignity, that had been. And for many women, it would have spelled a terrible end. Most would have succumbed to despair, and no doubt would have died of grief. Not this queen. She had fought back with all the skills at her disposal. Dissembling, playing the contented wife, deceiving all, until she was believed and trusted by even the Despenser himself.

She and Bishop Walter hated each other. The bishop could not understand a woman of her nature, one with an indomitable spirit and the courage to defy even a bishop. She, for her part, detested him with a ferocity that was unequalled, in Baldwin’s experience. It was no surprise, for the bishop had argued with the king that she was untrustworthy when the French overran Guyenne last year. To have a French-born queen with loyal subjects who adored her in Devon and Cornwall, where she owned many manors, was to invite invasion, he argued, and his words prevailed. Thus it was that she lost her income, and in a vile twist that dishonoured both bishop and king, Bishop Walter was later to accept the income from her lands to help him organise the defence of the shires.

Their disputes had led to the queen becoming ever more fiercely opposed to the bishop, but Baldwin could see now that the bishop and she, while both growing mutually antagonistic, had exhibited vastly contrasting responses.

While the queen had seen her authority removed, brick by brick, she had demonstrated her greatness. She had used cunning and her beauty to win over all those who might be swayed, she had persuaded, cajoled and bribed, and she had come to be viewed as the poor victim, while all commented on her fortitude and her beauty, as though her looks were a proof of her innocence. And at the same time, the bishop had found himself reviled and denigrated, which had led to this: a man who appeared shrunken, wizened almost. He was only a little older than the last time Baldwin had seen him, but the contrast was notable.

Even now, waiting for the servant to return, the bishop sat with his fingers drumming on his knees. His eyes were on the fire, deep in thought.

The servant returned, and the bishop looked up with a tired smile. ‘I think I should accept that I am an old man, and retire from all work for government. This life of toil is too much for a man of my age. I have the cathedral rebuilding to worry about. Why on earth should I strain myself for the government when I have so much to do? I should resign all the king’s commissions.’