Michael Jecks - The Bishop Must Die

For now the best he could do was remain here and wait for the long-overdue invasion, at which point, if he had helped enough, he might be able to plead a pardon. Because there was no doubt in his mind that Mortimer was returning to England in force, and would soon overwhelm the country. No one wanted the king to remain. Not while he relied on Despenser. That scurrilous rat would have to be executed, and when he was gone, the king would be more pliant, more willing to look favourably on those who had protected his son while he was abroad, so long as no one mentioned Belers, and linked his death to Folville before he had a chance to explain how Belers had brought it all upon himself. Stupid, thieving bastard!

At least this ride was pleasant enough. About three and a half leagues each way, and the fresh sea air was good for a man’s soul. They had a routine already, after only three days. They would ride out, find a suitable wine seller, drink and eat, and then ride along the sea shore a short way, so the prince could stare out towards England. It was as though he was showing respect to his father, trying to cross the sea even though there was no boat for him. He reminded Richard of a man he had once seen at the coast in England. He was guilty of murder or somesuch, and had claimed sanctuary for some days, before agreeing to abjure the realm, accepting voluntary exile rather than offer himself to the jury. But when he got to the sea, there were no boats, and he had walked into the water up to his groin every day in proof of his desire to leave the realm.

Hadn’t helped him, of course. His body was found one morning in the midden near a tavern. Throat cut, but also one leg and both arms broken, so he’d been beaten extensively before dying. Probably his victim’s family had caught up with him, or something.

‘Are you ready to ride to the sea?’ the confessor asked the duke, and the young fellow nodded. He had finished his wine already, and now the others all stood, draining their cups as quickly as they might, and following the heir to their king’s throne, out to where the horses had been fed and watered.

The duke was first to mount, as always, and sat on his mount while he waited for the others to emulate him. All were soon ready and the cavalcade made its way through the town and out the other side to the water.

‘There is England,’ the duke said quietly, in Richard’s hearing.

His voice was low and quiet, and desperate with longing, and Richard felt a sudden empathy for him. So young to be here, thrust from his quiet, comfortable life into the turbulent waters of great politics. A lad so young was certain to feel a certain dislocation on being hurled over the ocean at the whim of a mother whose only wish was to recover her own position and wealth, while his father longed for his return.

At least, Richard hoped that his father still doted on him. It was that which held alive his hope for a secure future with a pardon.

‘Come!’ the duke shouted, and spurred his beast. He whirled the horse about, and cantered away before any of the men had the chance to follow. To Richard’s chagrin, he saw that Ivo la Zouche and his brother Ralph were already up and with the duke. And that was when it became confused.

There was a shout, carried on the blustery wind. Richard glanced in that direction, and saw that the priest was bellowing and pointing to the south. When he looked, Sir Richard saw a group of men on horses pounding up towards them. It was a sight to chill the marrow, and Richard quickly counted the men. Only the same number as the duke’s party, with eight all told, but Richard was not fool enough to believe that it was all. He scanned the landscape and saw another party, this time riding hell-for-leather for them. So at least double their number, he thought ruefully.

The priest clapped his heels to his mount and thundered away even as Richard did the same, and Richard’s mount reared, neighing with excitement. It was good to feel the thrill of battle about to commence, and Richard felt the now-familiar tingling in his spine and cods at the thought of an engagement. God alone knew who they were, but he would see to it that he took as many of them as possible before any man managed to kill him.

In front, there was a bellow, and he saw Sir Ivo drag his sword free from the scabbard, whirl it about his head, and charge. His brother was a moment or two behind him, and then he set off at the gallop as well, while the pasty-faced, smiling one, Crok, whipped out his own weapon, and suddenly shrieked like a banshee, clapped spurs to his mount and galloped as though all the demons of hell were after him, straight at the men.

Richard and the priest stayed nearer to the duke, watching. The duke twice tried to ride on too, but Richard had a firm grip on the duke’s reins. He would not allow his ticket to pardon and freedom risk his life.

The first impact was a clatter of metal, with the stern clash of steel blades. Noises assailed Richard’s ears. Horses neighing so highly in their excitement and rage that they sounded like women screaming. Crok’s beast reared and brought a hoof down on the head of another, and his victim was felled like a rabbit shot from a sling. The rider tried to kick himself free from the stirrups, but the beast’s collapse trapped his leg underneath, and the man could only stare in horror as Crok’s sword thrust down, twice, and there was a short spurt of blood from the man’s eye as he died.

Ivo was after the two leaders, and he crouched in his saddle, sword arm high, laughing and roaring like a drunken matelot, as he crashed into the two, his beast holding his head high, thundering into the first horse with the solid mass of horse and rider concentrated in his broad chest, slamming the other two into each other. There was a slashing blow from Ivo’s arm, and a great gout of blood flew into the air, drenching Ivo in an instant. The first rider fell, the second roared defiance, and hacked at Ivo, but his blade rang as it met Ivo’s, and then there was a sparkle as Ivo’s blade caught the sun, whirling in a semi-circle, and the other man’s head dropped forwards, held to his neck by the thinnest of slivers of flesh. Ivo’s sword had ripped through bone and flesh.

The second party was with them now, and Richard looked about for a safer position, but there was no time to escape. Instead, he drew his sword, and prepared himself. He just wished he had taken more interest in the weapons-handling instruction when he had been younger.

His companion was less uncertain. With a shriek, sounding for all the world like a demented woman, the duke lifted his own sword, and pointing it at the men approaching them, he suddenly jerked his reins from Richard’s hand, and was off, pounding towards the men alone.

Richard gritted his teeth and followed. At his side he saw the priest, Paul, his eyes wide in horror, clinging to his horse for dear life. He had no sword, not even a dagger that Richard could see, the fool. But he could no more turn away than fly. His horse was trained to fight, not run away, and it was charging with the others whether his rider wished it or no.

Then Richard’s focus became more concentrated. There was no time for others. They must see to their own safety. A great crash knocked his horse sideways, there was a hideous crack at his thigh, and he thought it might have broken; a horse had ridden into him. No sword near his head yet. He stabbed at the horse itself, and was rewarded with a thick spray of blood. It neighed defiance, and reared, but even as it did so, its eyes rolled, and it tumbled to the ground.

A second man, this time passing beside Richard, as though to attack the duke from behind. Richard clapped spurs, and as he lurched forward, his blade slid in under the man’s shoulder blade. There was a scream of hideous anguish, and the man fell, rolling over and over in his agony.