Michael Jecks - The Bishop Must Die

‘You are pulling my leg!’ William said with a smile. ‘You cannot mean that one of the bishop’s own servants would do a thing like this!’

‘It is as likely to be a man from within the Church as without. After all, how many men outside the Church have access to writing tools and parchment?’

Second Thursday before the Feast of St Paul and St John *

Montreuil

It was a chastened duke who rode back with them the previous day. There had been no glory in the way that the men had beaten off the enemy. Only a stern, fixed duty.

Of course, for Paul it was very different.

The others had joked and laughed about the affair, calling it the ‘Battle of the Beach’, proud of the way that they had managed to protect their heir. Ralph la Zouche was the only one who betrayed his emotions, weeping over the body of his younger brother. The duke had stopped and gone to him, offering him some comfort, but Sir Ralph was beyond that. In the way he wept, Paul wondered whether he was mourning his brother, or expressing his own selfish grief at being alone. Not that Paul would be likely to mention it. Any such comment could lead to a sudden explosion of rage, and Paul had no intention of being on the receiving end of Sir Ralph’s sword.

Duke Edward himself did not brag or laugh aloud. Instead he maintained a silent reserve as he rode.

It was easy to see what he was thinking, Paul reckoned. Clearly the lad, still so young, had been shocked and terrified by the battle. There were many men who would have been alarmed, Paul included, to see such a force. Well, Paul would make no bones about it. He had been scared. The mere thought of those men pounding towards him had been enough to turn his bowels to water, and if the battle had lasted a moment longer, he might have had an unfortunate and embarrassing proof of his fear to explain to the others. Still, he had survived without anyone noticing, he thought.

But for a youngster like this one, it must have been truly petrifying. He was only thirteen years old, and for him to see such an ambush, to know that men were prepared to assault each other in such a manner, that was surely appalling.

Later, in the castle once more, Paul had tried to go to him, to ensure that he was settled in his mind, but he received a curt rejection. The boy had his mother with him that evening, and perhaps it was better that she was there on hand to soothe the fellow. It was a woman’s task, after all.

It was with that reflection that Paul waited in the chamber for the young duke to come for his lessons. It was a pleasant little room, this, with a window that peered out over the river, and Paul settled himself there, resting his back against the wall and watching the peasants at work out in the fields, a tranter or two meandering along the roadway, carts and wagons passing slowly.

The door opened, and the duke entered. The man-at-arms who had accompanied him closed the door quietly, remaining outside.

‘My lord Duke, I hope you slept well?’ Paul greeted him.

‘I did not.’

Paul smiled benignly. ‘Ah, you must not allow a little action like that of yesterday to unsettle you, my lord. No, the main thing is, you were safe.’

‘You think so?’

‘Of course. While you have a force such as yesterday’s with you, you will be safe from robbers and outlaws.’

‘You think those men were outlaws, then?’

‘Yes, but there is nothing to fear from such men. You saw how poorly they fought.’

‘It’s true,’ the duke said musingly. ‘They were not a match for our men in some ways. The speed and determination of our guard was adequate to throw them into confusion.’

‘Naturally.’

‘But I am not concerned for outlaws; what I am worried about is the fact that I think they may have been sent for me.’

‘Oh, my lord, I don’t think-’

‘Do you really believe that a bunch of cutpurses would be so well armoured? Do you think that they would have aimed straight for the youngest in the group — me?’

‘I thought that they were all riding towards me ! In an action like that, you see, you can be-’

‘Shut up! If I want a fool to make me laugh, I can demand the services of a better trained one. Those men were sent to capture me — I hope.’

‘What do you mean, you “hope”?’

‘If they were not, they were sent to kill me,’ the duke said, and pursed his lips.

‘I think, Your Highness, you are taking this too seriously.’

‘A man of my bodyguard is dead, and you suggest I am too serious?’

‘No, but surely if there was such a danger to you, we would already know of it, eh?’

The duke gave him a withering look, and then took his seat on a large chair. ‘Priest, you make a poor adviser. I have to understand the nature of the threat in order to be able to protect myself from it.’

‘But who would want to see you harmed?’ Paul protested weakly.

‘Either Despenser wishes to have me captured and taken back to England, or killed. If I were to die here in France, the kingdom would blame my mother and Mortimer — and can you envisage the invasion of England succeeding if all in the country thought that? No! Despenser wishes to see me dead. Well, he will not — I will see his head on a spike first!’

‘What will you do?’ Paul asked.

‘First, we shall move away from the sphere of my mother’s influence — in order to protect her. We could go somewhere where it will be easier to remain safe. Perhaps to Paris — but the king, my uncle, is not happy to have us remain. He sees us as an embarrassment now. Or I could go to Normandy. There are plenty of safe places there for us to hide in.’

‘What does your mother say?’

‘Her view does not matter. This is my responsibility,’ the duke said firmly.

Paul nodded, but did not speak. Uppermost in his mind was the reaction of Mortimer. He was due to return the next day.

Furnshill

There was another man in the hall when Baldwin entered. ‘Sir Peregrine, I hope I see you well, sir?’

‘I am very well, Sir Baldwin.’

With this man, Baldwin was perfunctory at best. He had never liked Sir Peregrine de Barnstaple. The coroner was too much the politician for his tastes and while Baldwin agreed entirely with the ambition of seeing the Despenser removed from his secure position beside the throne, he deprecated the man’s enthusiasm for plotting.

To Baldwin it was a simple matter of honour: he had sworn allegiance to the king as his sovereign, and although the king could, and often did, make an appalling mess of his governance of the realm, yet he was still the man whom God had anointed with oil. He was the rightful king, and Baldwin must seek to preserve him.

‘You have come here from Tiverton, Sir Peregrine? Has there been a murder?’ he asked as he took his wife’s hand and kissed it, saying, ‘I missed you, my love.’

She rested her head on his shoulder. ‘And I you,’ she whispered. Then she stood away and nodded to Edgar. He strode off, returning a moment later with a mazer for Baldwin. There was already a jug at the side of Sir Peregrine, and Baldwin took it up, serving his guest first, topping up his cup, before filling his own and drinking deeply.

‘No, no murder yet,’ Sir Peregrine said with a smile. ‘Or perhaps I should say, not recently. It is a long time since Tiverton suffered from a crime of that sort. The reason I am here is because I was on my way to Exeter, to meet with the sheriff.’

‘That young fool de Cockington?’

‘True, he is not so experienced as you and I, Sir Baldwin, which makes him rather a refreshing fellow to have in a position like his. The opportunities for pulling the wool over his eyes are legion. Even when he believes he has struck a hard bargain with me, I usually manage to acquire all I need.’