Michael Jecks - The Bishop Must Die

Here, staring out at the harbour, Paul was, for the first time in several days, keen to reach the English shore.

He hadn’t been so at first, knowing that as soon as he arrived, he would have to ensure that his mission was appreciated, and that he must not be passed over instantly to the bishop’s men. But this port was not in Devon or Cornwall, so the bishop’s writ was far less strong here. It wasn’t as safe as London, true, but this was the first and only ship he had found, and a man as desperate as he was could not afford to pick and choose.

At least this ship was larger. When he first fled England, he had ended up on one of those cogs that sailed its way up the beach at high tide, and then waited for the sea to withdraw, so that the vessel could be unloaded at leisure in the period while they waited for the sea to return. Once empty, it was lighter, and the returning tide would easily take it back out to sea.

This was infinitely more safe and secure. It was better to sit safely on the ship, and wait until the little lighters arrived to empty her. Paul would be able to go ashore with one of them. That would be good, he thought.

And it was at that very moment that he felt the first prickle of danger — and turned to see two sailors, both wearing broad smiles, and both gripping unsheathed swords perilously close to his belly.

Portchester

Simon and Baldwin were both glad of the interruption when the man arrived and told them that there was a fellow who had been captured on a ship, and was being held in the little gaol.

This, when Baldwin saw it, was no better than a privy. Tiny, noisome, and damp, it was the kind of chamber which would enthusiastically remove the life from even the most courageous and healthy prisoner. And the man inside gave no indication that he was either.

‘What have they put me in here for?’ he ranted. ‘I told them I had urgent news for the Keeper of the Port, but none of them listened to me! Who are you two, anyway?’

Simon leaned against the wall beside the grille that was the only aperture in the gaol’s walls. ‘You can talk to me. I am the Keeper here. What have you been up to? The sailors said they thought you were a spy.’

‘I am no such thing! I am brother to Sir James de Cockington in Exeter. You sound like a Devon man, so you will know his name. I am no spy, I have come from France with urgent news for the king, and if you would not wish to see yourself punished, you would do well to release me, fellow.’

‘You could be the sheriff’s brother, it’s true,’ Baldwin said. ‘He too is arrogant enough to think that the best way to get what he wants is to insult men who only seek to help him. What were you doing in France?’

‘I was with the young Duke of Aquitaine. I have been with him for some while now, and I can help him to be captured or rescued,’ Paul said slyly.

Baldwin and Simon exchanged a shocked glance.

‘So, if you two know what is good for you, you will help me out of this cell and get me some food. I am starved!’

Exeter

It was so hard to get up in the mornings, Edith found. Although the baby needed feeding and changing, there was this awful lethargy that she couldn’t shake off. Any value which she had put upon herself was meaningless now. She was nothing more than a milch cow for her son. A walking dairy.

Every so often she would remember a little scene from when she had been a young girl, living with her parents. Generally they were happy, those fleeting memories, of running through a sun-drenched pasture filled with flying dandelion seeds; walking with her father over the moors near home, of a candle-lit feast with her parents and Hugh looking on appreciatively … so many little snippets of recollection that made up her life so far. But since her marriage and child’s birth: nothing.

There were times when she could easily have taken up her son and dashed his brains against the wall, and more when she could have run a dagger into her own heart. The despair she felt made her want to cry at all hours.

Nobody could understand her — she knew that. They didn’t see the awful existence that was hers. She was useless — useless — and so stupid. Hoping to win over the heart of Peter had been a vain dream. He couldn’t love her, any more than anyone could. There was a mirror in her chamber, but she had removed it so that she wouldn’t have to look at her own face any more. It was become repugnant.

‘Edith? Are you all right?’ her husband called quietly.

He had entered so silently, she had not heard him. She stood still, as though discovered in some heinous crime, holding their son in her arms and staring at him.

‘My love, you look so tragic!’ he said with a catch in his voice.

‘I am fine,’ she said mechanically. It was the correct answer, she knew.

Portchester

Simon eyed the man who gnawed on the lamb-shank before him. He glanced occasionally at Baldwin, but his friend sat with his eyes lidded, as though he was giving the man only half his mind, while concentrating on other matters. Of course, Simon knew that it was a show. Baldwin was capable of fierce intensity when he studied a man like this.

And the man was worth the effort.

Simon and Baldwin had been to France themselves, and Simon knew all the problems of long-distance travelling — not only the exhaustion, but the misery of a ship in poor weather, the emptiness of the belly after hours of throwing up, the natural desire for the journey to end. And late last year, he and Baldwin had been forced to fly from France in peril, so they believed, of their lives, since their friend Bishop Walter had been threatened with death while there. Now, as Baldwin had mentioned once or twice, the actual threat of death from men while they were on an official embassy from England, was probably less than they had perceived at the time. Still, Simon could all too easily remember the petrifying terror of their flight.

This fellow, so he said, had experienced the same. It was quite possible.

‘Well? You will have to answer us now,’ he said, his sense of urgency overwhelming him as the man reached across and lifted the jug. He seemed about to raise the whole thing to his lips, but Simon’s scandalised expression made him reconsider, and he poured some into a little green-glazed pot.

‘I would like to, masters. But perhaps I should wait until the king’s own sheriff has arrived. This is very important information.’

Baldwin stirred, but said nothing. His head fell to his breast, and he appeared to study the table’s surface near him. It was left to Simon to speak with a touch of asperity in his voice. ‘I am the Keeper of this Port, and as such I have authority. If you have any news for us, I suggest you tell us quickly. You wouldn’t want your information to become out of date, would you? Your value would reduce accordingly.’

‘You think I care about such things?’ Paul said loftily. ‘I know my place, and the importance of my information, Keeper, so there is no point you trying to get what you can out of me.’

‘What is that supposed to mean?’ Simon demanded, and he felt the blood rush to his face as the fellow gave him a calculating look.

‘Keeper, I am no fool. I know how the world works. You intend to take the news I bring and get credit for it, don’t you? It won’t be the first time it’s happened, and it won’t be the last. Well, this time I intend to gain full reward for all the risks I have taken. I’ll not give it all up to the first officer who pays me one lamb shank and a cup of wine! Hah! Only a fool would do that.’

Simon sprang to his feet and would have grasped the man by the throat across the table for his insolence, but Baldwin held up a hand to stop him. ‘Let me speak with him a moment, Simon,’ he murmured.