Michael Jecks - The Bishop Must Die

Baldwin smiled, but did not feel the need to say anything. The bishop was a politician to his fingernails, as Baldwin knew. He liked the bishop personally, but the man was so fully immersed in the realm’s government that breaking the chains of service would be enormously difficult.

‘Well, Sir Baldwin, here are the records. These are all the manors I have acquired in the last years.’

‘How far do these go back?’ Squire William asked.

‘Five or six years, I think. My register has others — but would we need to look further back in time?’

Baldwin shook his head. ‘If it were longer ago, surely the man would have done something before now.’

‘What now, then?’ the steward said.

Baldwin looked up from the heavy book. The bishop sat, sad and afraid, watching him, flanked by the squire and the steward. Squire William was full of determination to see his uncle protected, while the steward had a grimness about him, as though already aware that he might have to kill a man in the defence of his master.

‘Now, I have to begin reading this tome with the help of any man who can tell me about each of the cases so we can begin to form an opinion about who has been sending these notes. With your leave, Bishop, I will start right away. Who was this “William atte Bow”?’

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

Montreuil

The little force was being readied as Paul de Cockington completed his lesson for the day. He was feeling smug. Never before had he been asked to tutor a boy, but he was nothing if not methodical, as he told himself, and there was little that a man with a brain could not achieve without a bit of practical effort. He would still much rather be getting to grips with the little maid who was the queen’s constant companion, for she looked as though she would be worth a wrestle or two. The mere thought of stripping her and feasting his eyes upon her undoubted assets was enough to make him quiver like a hound seeing the quarry.

But it was not going to happen. Not here. The sad fact was, she was so rarely away from the queen that the opportunity would be very unlikely to present itself. And while he was proud of the speed of his assaults, he would need a little time to persuade this one. Even he wouldn’t want to try to ravish a maid in the queen’s service while he was in the royal lady’s household.

There was another thing — the man Mortimer was always around the place. His eyes were everywhere, so it seemed. Paul couldn’t even glance at a serving maid without finding that Mortimer was staring at him immediately afterwards. The fellow was desperate to know everything that was happening, as though he thought that all the men in his household, all those sitting in his hall, were plotting to kill him. Quite mad.

It was noticeable that his eyes rested more commonly on Paul than on others though, and that was a source of some fear. Paul didn’t like being watched; he thought that this must be how a mouse feels while the hawk hovers overhead; unseen, unheard, but always moments away from a deadly blow.

Still, the lessons had seemed to be going well. He had managed to surprise the lad — up until yesterday, anyway.

Yesterday the boy had seemed thoroughly impressed; it was clear by the way that he had responded to his teachings. Sometimes the young duke had the temerity to question details, but Paul was always able to adopt a lofty attitude, while making up stories to prove that he was correct. That was one skill he had never lost. There were a couple of moments when the boy had tried to speak over him, as though thinking that he knew the answers to some issues, but Paul had airily waved away his protests. It would not do to have a pupil believe that he knew more than his tutor, after all.

Yes, he had been quite enjoying his teachings, spouting forth while daydreaming about the backside of the maid. Just a shame that he couldn’t get to grapple with that little blonde.

The bell at the chapel tolled, and he gladly closed the book before him. Enormous, it covered the campaigns of the Greek Alexander, and the thing was tedious — and somewhat worrying, too. The boy had specifically asked for it today. Yesterday he had demonstrated an insatiable appetite for stories of the man’s achievements, and it had begun to strain Paul, to come up with new facets of the warrior’s character. Every time he thought that he had successfully shut down one avenue of the duke’s enquiries, the little monster would come up with another. It really had been hard work. The boy seemed to delight in finding new questions. Still, Paul’s inventiveness had been up to it, or so he had felt. He had told of how the man was actually not particularly brave, and that was why he had lived to such a grand old age. Alexander was, naturally, a coarse, thuggish man with the manners of a barbarian, and his appreciation of arts and the finer things in life were obviously going to extend no further than those things which he could grab and stuff in a cart to be sold.

If Paul had made it up, that was little concern at the time. No one could prove him wrong, after all. Or so he had thought, but then the duke had asked to study this book with Paul. And Paul now had a distinct feeling that he might have been trapped. This book seemed to indicate that Alexander had died rather younger than the hoary old warrior he had envisaged. If the book were to be believed, he was also rather cultured. And not an acquisitive mercenary like the modern knight Paul had imagined. It led Paul to wonder whether he had, in fact, been taken in by the lad.

‘Ready for your ride?’ the duke asked. He had a slight smile, and his eyes were lidded, as though he was amused by something. Or suspicious.

‘Yes, of course, my lord,’ Paul said, and he was aware of a nervousness as he bowed.

Bishop’s Clyst

‘What can you tell me about these affairs?’ Baldwin asked as the bishop walked in, William Walle and John behind him.

Baldwin was sitting at the table, head resting on his fists, while he tried to make sense of the crabbed writing before him.

‘Which?’ the bishop asked. He crossed the floor and sat at Baldwin’s side. ‘Oh, the Hamo case? That was a difficult matter. The boy, his son John, was orphaned, so we thought, when his father died in the Scottish war. That damned Bruce killed so many of our men that year. May his soul rot in hell. Since Hamo atte Font was dead — or so everyone thought — we had to look after his boy. I took on his wardship, and Hamo’s assets were taken.’

‘It says here that Hamo’s son was to be placed into the guardianship of his mother?’ Baldwin said.

‘Well, yes, that was suggested. But some of us felt that the matter was not so simple. Anyway, it was all resolved quickly. Hamo managed to return later, and he took up his properties in his own right.’

‘I see. And you had no fights with them?’

‘No. Nor did I take up a seal or try to keep his assets once he arrived home again,’ the bishop said sharply.

‘Very good. There are a number of other matters here though. All have been listed with this mark.’

‘What mark? Oh.’

Baldwin could see the bishop’s eyes move away, even as he pointed to the small ‘D’ at the corner of the first section. ‘Bishop — what does this signify?’

‘There is no secret to it. It means that it was a matter in which I involved myself with my lord Hugh le Despenser. We occasionally had need of some mutual support, I suppose, and would help people together.’

‘People such as this Roger Crok?’

‘People such as he, yes.’

‘What happened with him?’

‘He was a supporter of the king’s enemies. Of the Lords Marcher. As such, his property became forfeit.’