Michael Jecks: The Bishop Must Die

This ride always tended to cool his overheated moods. He remembered riding here on the day he learned of the murders, when he had first met Baldwin, ten years ago, during the famine. That had been a terrible time. The only good thing had been the discovery of a new friend.

Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, his best and longest friend — and yet he too was lost to Simon.

It was shocking that Baldwin could so quickly have become almost foreign to him. In the last ten years, Simon had grown to depend utterly upon the tall, greying knight. Baldwin was dedicated to justice, to the rational explanations that always lay at the heart of any mystery; he shone as bright as a beacon in Simon’s eyes. He was loyal, intelligent, and so widely travelled that Simon could only marvel at his tales of journeying from here to the Holy Land, and his accounts of the kingdoms and duchies that lay between.

But when Simon’s friend had been asked to drop his sword when Edith’s life was in peril, he had refused. And Simon could never forget or forgive that.

The irony was that, as soon as Simon had returned his daughter to her new family, to the man whom she loved and his parents, there had been a new demand. Her father-in-law, Charles, had told her that if she wished to remain with their son Peter, she must agree never to speak with Simon again.

Charles had been blunt and to the point. The association with Simon had put both their children at risk, and Charles was not prepared to run that risk again. He had told Edith that she must choose: her husband or her father. And she had chosen.

There was no thunderclap of ill omen to herald the event, no sudden deluge, no eclipse — but to Simon, it felt as though his world was ending. His family was all to him. His daughter had been the delight of his life, the physical embodiment of his love for his wife Meg. To accept that she had fallen in love with a man and would leave his family was hard enough; to find that she was gone from him for ever was a hideous disaster.

And to learn this just as he had discovered that he could not trust his old friend and companion, Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, the most compassionate man he had ever known, made the loss doubly painful.

Simon stopped his horse and sat staring at the moors ahead. There was an implacable permanence to those rolling hills. A steadiness that taunted him now. Once he had been a bailiff on the moors, and his life had been full and purposeful, serving the Abbot of Tavistock. That had been only a couple of years ago. And now all was lost: the abbot was dead, and with him Simon had lost his position, then his friend and his daughter.

Turning his rounsey’s head, he set off back homewards again, retracing his path. He didn’t look at the moors again.

It felt as though they were mocking his weakness.

Bishop’s Palace, Exeter

The bishop was unamused. ‘Fetch me the dean,’ he snapped, as he left the cloisters and walked up the path to his palace, his robes ungainly in the cold morning breeze.

‘My lord bishop?’ Dean Alfred entered with an enquiring expression fitted to his face. A mild-mannered man in his late sixties, with a nature better suited to studying than vigorous effort, the bishop knew he was nevertheless still possessed of a keen intellect, which he generally concealed behind an affable manner.

‘Dean, have you heard about the rector?’

The dean was experienced in the ways of the cathedral and knew that divulging too much when asked a question of this sort could result in embarrassment all round. ‘The … ah … rector?’ he repeated, assuming his usual air of bumbling diffidence.

The bishop peered at his dean. His poor sight was a sore irritation at times like these when he wanted to see the dean’s expression more clearly.

Eyes narrowed, he growled: ‘Don’t try to fob me off, Alfred. We know each other too well for that. Now tell me the truth: have you heard about the rector ?’

Seeing the look on his bishop’s face, the dean decided to give up the stammering speech which he used as a device of concealment. Candour was safer when Stapledon was in this mood. ‘My lord bishop, if you mean the rector of St Simon’s …’

‘Who else could I mean? Tell me, pray. I should like to know which other rector is so foul in the sight of God. What ?’

This last was addressed to an anxious servant who had sidled up to him. ‘I thought you might like a little wine, my lord bishop?’

‘Put it down and get out!’ While the man set the tray on the sideboard and hurriedly scuttled out again, Bishop Walter took a deep breath. ‘Tell me what actually happened. So far as you can, anyway. If you can remember anything now,’ he added snidely.

‘Um, it would seem, my lord bishop, that this fellow was enamoured of a young lady in his congregation. Events took their natural course.’

‘No, no, Dean! It is not natural for a rector to take a woman at all, let alone a married one! Was she willing?’

‘I fear that the rector’s lust was entirely his own. The poor lady in question was not a — ah — willing participant.’

‘And he also tried to extort money from her husband?’

‘Distressingly, I believe that to be the case.’

‘So this fellow captured the woman, raped her, and then demanded money from her husband to have her returned. And he took the money and kept the woman. Yes?’

‘I fear so.’

‘What sort of man is this rector? A cretin who does not understand the foul nature of his crimes? A fool so ill educated that he cannot appreciate the correct behaviour appropriate to his cloth? He should be taken at once. I wish him here.’

‘Yes. But there are difficulties.’

‘Enlighten me.’

‘Rector Paul is the youngest son of Sir Walter de Cockington.’

‘What of it?’

‘His brother is Sir James. The sheriff.’

‘And?’

‘It could make for tetchy relations in the city, were we to have him brought here.’

‘You think we should allow him to continue in this manner?’

‘No, my lord bishop. But I do think that for us to bring him here to your court may well be problematic.’

‘Dean, do you condone his behaviour?’

Dean Alfred gave his bishop a long, contemplative stare. ‘Not even remotely, my lord bishop. No. I personally would be more than content to throw the piece of shit to the dogs. He is foolish, arrogant to a fault, and seems to delight in shaming the Church.’

‘Then why do you hesitate? Remove him from his post without delay.’

‘His brother is a companion to Sir Hugh le Despenser, so I have heard,’ the dean murmured.

‘That I can believe,’ the bishop grunted, and strode to his chair, dropping on to it heavily. ‘The Despenser has friends all over the realm. Men who would take what they wish from anyone, and never pay their debts. Murderers and thieves take the protection of a lord’s livery, and are secure. No man dares take the law against another who is protected by Despenser, the king’s own friend!’

The bishop knew Sir Hugh le Despenser only too well. Once, Sir Hugh had been an insignificant young knight, but then, after the barons of the realm had won a dispute with the king, suddenly he was hurled into the centre of national politics. Installed in the king’s household as chamberlain, he was set to monitor the king’s expenditure — as a spy. Before long, he had become King Edward’s most trusted friend and adviser. The bishop had grown to know him when Despenser had seemed to be working to the benefit of all. Now his true colours were on display for all to see. Except the king.

Many suggested that this was because the two were lovers. The Despenser was married to the king’s own niece, Eleanor, and his father elevated to the earldom of Winchester, while he greedily took every opportunity to enrich himself at the expense of others. No one could speak to the king without first paying Sir Hugh; no suit would be presented, were Sir Hugh not rewarded. In all the realm nothing could happen, unless Sir Hugh le Despenser was in favour. He was the most powerful man, save only the king.