Michael Jecks - The Bishop Must Die

The third man was aiming at his head even as he glanced about. Instinct made him lift his sword to knock it aside, but lack of practice made his blade miss his mark and take the man’s wrist and hand off. The stump shot a jet of blood, and suddenly Richard was soaked in warm stickiness, and he would have pressed home his attack, but the man leaped from his horse and grabbed for his hand as though to try to replace it.

Richard left him. The duke was his concern, and just now the young man was being pressed by another man-at-arms. Richard rode on, and knocked the man aside, seeing the duke’s sword slice through the fellow’s throat as he fell.

And that was it. The battle was over. All the men who had sought to attack them were dead or fleeing. And none of the duke’s men were harmed, Richard saw. Ivo and his brother Ralph were trotting back, holding each other’s hands, and Richard felt nothing, only a vague disquiet, as he saw Ivo’s head fall to his breast, and then the man’s great body slowly topple from his horse, showing a great gash in his flank that pulsed as the blood oozed.

Bishop’s Clyst

When the stern-faced Keeper walked from the room, leaving the bishop sitting pale and stunned by Sir Baldwin’s summary, William nodded to John to stay with his uncle, and marched quickly after the knight.

‘Sir Baldwin, please. Sir Knight — a moment?’

‘Yes, squire?’

William jerked a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the bishop’s chamber. ‘You meant what you said in there?’

‘I would not have said it else.’

‘I didn’t mean to insult you, Sir Baldwin. Please, do not grow angry with me. I only seek to protect my uncle.’

‘You are fond of him?’

William smiled, and joined Baldwin, the two walking side-by-side out into the sunshine of the bishop’s garden, then beyond to the small orchard. ‘I love him greatly. He has been enormously kind to me. When I was young, it was Bishop Walter who looked after me and saw to my education. Later, when I was confused, and thought that I might seek a career in the Church like him, it was he who sat down with me and questioned my interests, my motives, and persuaded me to look hard, deep into my heart. And I found that there, although it was harder to admit it to myself when I was young, I preferred the companionship of a woman than that of many sex-starved and desperate men! I would never have made a good churchman. He was quite right. But the bishop has given me help all through my life, he has given me money, and his example has shown me the best routes to take always.’

‘You speak as a man who has much to thank his uncle for.’

‘I think you too have had cause to appreciate his kindness and generosity?’

The knight threw him a sharp look, which the squire found hard to fathom. It was as though Sir Baldwin was torn between anxiety and a swift anger. ‘Why? What has he said to you?’

They were at the hedge that bounded the orchard now, and Squire William spoke carefully. ‘Sir Baldwin, my uncle has told me only two things about you: that he has always found you entirely honourable and fair, a true seeker after justice in your dealings with felons and outlaws. That, he says, makes you a rare man among the king’s law officers. He has also told me that you were once a pilgrim, and that your journeys to the Holy Land must have coloured your every thought for the long years since.’

‘I see,’ Baldwin said quietly. He stared out eastwards. Far away there was the ridge of the Blackdown Hills, standing grey-blue in the distance.

To William, he looked like a man rent by conflicting emotions. The scar that stretched from his eyebrow almost to his chin shone in the sunlight, and the little wrinkles at the corners of his eyes were less prominent. Instead, it was the tracks of sadness and bitterness that stood out, the deep gashes at his brow and at either side of his mouth. His was a face that had seen much anguish, and he had suffered greatly.

‘Sir Baldwin, I am sorry. You are distressed. I will leave you.’

‘No, Squire William. No, my friend. I was merely reflecting that when a man has given a confidence to another, it is ever his fear that his trust was misplaced. I am sorry that I have given you cause to be upset as well. I should have trusted your uncle and his discretion.’

Squire William was surprised to find his hand grasped by the knight, and then Baldwin’s dark, intense eyes were turned to him, as he said, ‘You are a good man. You will need courage though, in the days ahead, unless I am much mistaken.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You heard us discuss the men who could wish your uncle’s death? That is all they are: the most obvious suspects. Your uncle has lived a long life, and he has made many enemies, my friend. Key among them is the queen herself. She will return to the kingdom before long, and there will be great battles fought as men protect the country from her and her invaders. Many will die, I fear.’

His eyes turned east again, and Squire William saw the haunting fear that had invaded his eyes. ‘Sir Baldwin, I am sure that the king will be able to defend his realm.’

‘Yes, but at what cost? There have been wars before in our poor little country, but at least they were fought by us in defence of our lands and privileges. This war is not to be so honourable, Squire. This is a battle between a husband and wife, and such battles are ever more vicious and brutal. No one will likely win. I fear for us all.’

‘One or the other must win!’

Baldwin turned to him, and now the anxiety was gone, to be replaced by a shrewd calculation. ‘You think so? What if the men who come over with the queen are all French and owe their allegiance solely to the French king? What if, when they have defeated our king, they refuse to honour a past arrangement, and instead decide to take the realm for the French? A man would not have to be terribly cynical to see a dreadful disaster unfolding.’

‘That would not bode well, not for England, nor for my uncle.’

‘You are correct there. Your uncle is detested by the French.’

‘I feel it is a mutual antagonism,’ Squire William said with a small grin.

‘You may well be right,’ Baldwin grinned back.

‘But in the meantime, Sir Baldwin, would you not help us? We need to learn what we may about the men who seek the bishop’s death.’

‘You want me to, but I cannot. My wife is here, and I must remain with her. I could not leave her alone to face an invasion. In the last year I have travelled widely to help the king, to help your uncle, and to protect the Duke of Chester. I cannot in conscience leave my lady again. Now is the time for a man to remain at home and guard his property.’

‘I understand. But there is no invasion yet. There are no ships at our ports bringing men and matériel. While the nation is still moderately peaceful, would you not help to protect your friend?’

‘You cannot understand. I have a wife and children who need me.’

‘Do you not think that you could spend just a little more time with us? It may be nothing, anyway. There may be no one there. These threats might be from another man altogether, for all we know.’

Baldwin held his gaze for a long while, staring silently at him. ‘I will do anything I can to help the good bishop, but I have a higher loyalty. My wife, my family, are more important to me even than your uncle.’

‘I understand.’ William sighed and made to move away, but Baldwin’s next words made him stop.

‘There is one other thing,’ the knight said pensively. ‘These notes were all delivered to the bishop’s chamber in Exeter. That would seem to show that the person who delivered them knew when the room would be empty. And more than that, no one was seen on his way to or from the place. Surely that must mean that the fellow is someone from inside your entourage — a servant, say, or an embittered priest. An annuellar maybe? There are so many inside the cathedral.’