Michael Jecks: The Bishop Must Die

‘We don’t intend to shed blood, Bishop,’ the younger, smiling man said with an expression of surprise and hurt. ‘We just have to leave him a message.’

Bishop Walter eyed the older man, but there was not a hint of a smile on his dark features. ‘You?’

The fellow shook his head slowly.

‘Very well. If you are not to cause bloodshed, I can give you my help,’ the bishop said. He called to his steward. ‘John, take these two to my clerk, and have them write a message to the chaplain at the church of Coombe Bisset. Tell him I ask that he helps these men and provides them with food and drink while they stay with him.’

He watched the two stride out, the younger turning and giving him a wave like an affectionate son taking his farewell before a pilgrimage. There was no unpleasantness in his manner. Bishop Walter tried to convince himself that the two strangers were not intending to cause harm.

But secretly, he felt sure that this was a vain hope. He knew Sir Hugh too well.

Feast of St Sebastian *

Exeter Cathedral

The room was warm already, with a fire roaring in the grate, throwing glorious golden light about the tapestries and illuminating the table. Made of oak, it was almost new, and the wood had not yet endured long years of smoke or stains from ink. In the gleaming firelight, it looked as though there were threads and globules of gold just beneath the surface. Another could have been tempted by the sight to take a knife and see if a little might be prised loose.

Not this man, though. He stopped at the doorway, listening intently, a shadow standing free of the candles and fire, searching with every sense for another man in the chamber. He waited with his mouth open, so that even his breath could not give him away, while his eyes flitted about the walls, chairs, stools, the rest of his body unmoving.

There was no one. Reassured, he pushed the door wide and slipped inside. It was the bishop’s private chamber, but the bishop wasn’t here. He had gone with his familia to the cathedral church to celebrate the Feast, and the bishop’s palace was all but empty. Apart from him , the unseen.

In his breast he felt a shiver, beginning at his heart but then swelling and engulfing his torso, before flying away. It was a total, all-consuming desire to consummate this deed, because he knew that the bishop had to die. His evil would live on perhaps, but the man’s crimes were too many to be excused. And must be punished.

It would not be a swift vengeance. This was a carefully planned assassination. It would take many weeks and months. All the better for the victim to learn how to suffer, how to know true terror.

Before the familia returned, he must complete his task and escape. Glancing about once more to be certain, he hurried over the wooden floor to the table and pulled the little purse from beneath his tunic. Light and insubstantial, yet it was the heretic’s death warrant. This bishop, this Stapledon , was the most impious, avaricious, dishonourable bishop to walk God’s pure, English soil. Damn him, damn his arrogance, and his greed. They would be the destruction of him.

The little purse was placed carefully on the table. There were parchments lying nearby, and he shoved it beneath them, standing back to see the effect. It made a slight lump in the parchments, but not more than that. It was so small, after all. Yes, it would do. He stepped away from the table, going to the wall, not the middle of the floor where the boards might creak and give him away, and thence out to the doorway.

Staring back, the room was a tranquil little scene. It was the one place where the bishop was able to relax, away from the mayhem of the Close outside, away from the disputes and petty wrangles which constituted life in the cathedral.

However, the good bishop was about to discover that even his favourite chamber was not safe.

Exeter

Even from a distance the size of the city had seemed daunting. But for a man in desperate straits, this scarcely mattered.

Roger Crok pulled his cloak more tightly about him and lowered his head against the cold wind. It pulled at his clothing, and made the edges of his cloak snap and crackle, while his ungloved fingers felt as though they were growing brittle in the freezing air. He was grateful that his beard had grown so quickly, even though he now looked a scruffy remnant of his past self.

Dear God, he hoped his mother was all right! She had been so grief-stricken when the bastards had told her that she was widowed again, that it had turned Roger’s heart to stone even as his mother’s shattered.

Henry Fitzwilliam hadn’t been that much of a catch, so far as Roger had been concerned. Roger had a simple guideline to work to, which was how a man measured against his father. Peter Crok had been handsome, powerful and clever withall. Roger’s memories were so distinct: he recalled the little wrinkles at the side of Peter’s eyes, the broad smiles, the great bear-hugs when his father was happy, as well as the bellow of disapproval when he was convinced his son had misbehaved. All these made his father seem almost superhuman. A magnificent man, a great warrior. It was hardly surprising that when his mother married a second time, his replacement should prove to be a sad disappointment.

But for the men who killed poor Henry to come and gloat at his widow’s distress was the act of mother-swyving churls who were not good enough to clean the privy, who deserved to be punished for all eternity.

West Sandford

It took a while for Simon to calm down.

He had left the farm by the top road, then ridden up to and climbed the ridge, ducking below the trees that overshadowed the track, and down the other side. The trail turned to the right here, but he continued on down, through a gate and to the stream at the bottom.

He was still furious that Hugh could have asked about Edith, when the servant knew the terrible truth.

Simon let the rounsey drink at the stream, and then trotted up the lane on the opposite side of the ford. There was a good, broad roadway here, and he urged his beast on at a faster pace. He needed the wind in his face, the feeling of burning as the chill air froze his flesh, as though he could somehow scour the hollow space in his heart.

His wife had the same sense of loss, he knew. It was just the same as when they had lost their first little boy, Peterkin. He had been a baby still, when he fell victim to some foul malady. Over days, he wailed and whined, while Simon and Margaret did all in their power to try to aid his recovery, but their efforts were to no avail. There was nothing they could do which would alleviate the poor little boy’s suffering, and at last, when he did die, Simon had a shocking reaction of relief. It was a sensation that did not last for long, but he was aware of it, and it scarred him. He had hitherto believed that he was a good father, a kind and decent man who cared deeply for his children. That sensation to him was proof that he was more selfish than he had realised.

He had been able to grow away from that memory over time. It was painful that it should return now, he thought. And with that he lashed his mount harder and galloped along at speed.

At the Morchard Bishop road he turned off, heading northwards, but there was a curious inevitability when, as though on a whim, he turned his horse’s head to the south and west, following the ridge that pointed almost as straight as an arrow towards Copplestone.

Now, as he rode, he could see the lowering hills of the moors. Filthy grey-black clouds floated above them, but there was no need for threats of foul weather. The moors were already white, as though God had laid a covering of samite over Cawsand Beacon and Belstone Tor. There was a stark beauty to the scene, Simon thought, and felt his fingers loosen their grip on the reins. He allowed the rounsey to ease his pace, and sat back in his saddle as the beast jogged along.