Michael Jecks - The Bishop Must Die

While his mind meandered on along this line, he frowned quickly. ‘Where is that priest?’

The duke did not turn to look at him. Not yet fourteen years old, he had the confidence of a king already. ‘He has fled.’

Roger Crok was surprised. ‘He was keen enough to be here with us at first, Your Highness.’

‘He certainly wasn’t happy when we were attacked near Montreuil, was he? Sat on his beast like a dumbstruck peasant, the poor fool. And as for his tutoring, I won’t miss that at all. He has little idea of anything. It was too easy to twist him in his own tortuous reasoning. Besides, I got the impression that he was more fearful of Roger Mortimer than he was of the king. So I would not be surprised if even now he is trying to find a ship to take him home.’

‘He cannot do that,’ Richard de Folville said. ‘If he was safe in England, he would not have been here. Only those with natural fears of Despenser or others in the king’s pay would have come here, because allies of the Despenser and his comrades would not be welcome here.’

‘I think he had some other secret,’ the duke said. ‘But whatever his reasoning, I do not wish to see his face again. He was not the most congenial company.’

Roger Crok felt a pang of anxiety at that summary. The fact that it was he who had brought the priest to their ranks made him worry that some of them might look upon Crok himself askance. He would have to be more careful, he thought, and turned to find Richard de Folville watching him from those cold, unfeeling eyes of his. They were the eyes of a killer.

Roger Crok stared calmly back at him, although inwardly he cringed. This man was truly terrifying. Roger had thought that he was a clerk of some kind who was on the run, much like Paul de Cockington, because his hair seemed to show the mark of a tonsure, but the more he saw of the man, the more he grew convinced that de Folville was a felon evading justice, and who might have shaved his head as a means of disguise, to aid his escape.

He would be wary of de Folville, he decided, because the alternative might be to wake one morning with a knife in the guts.

Canterbury

It was late when the bishop finally returned to his hall. The journey from the king’s chambers in the priory was not great, but the way was filled with the masses who were here to attend as many services as possible in the great church, and he had been forced to shove and push against the press with William and John and two clerks.

At first it had been a little intimidating, but then he had grown aware of a feeling of extreme fear. It was a tightness in his breast, a hideous pounding in his ears, and he could feel, he was sure, the death that was approaching him. He did not know whether it would come at the point of a dagger, or the tip of an arrow, but he had a most definite presentiment of his approaching destruction, and the thought was enough to make him falter and almost fall. He cast about in a panic, staring wildly at the people all around, but all he received was a series of bovine looks from the pilgrims.

And then he saw the face. Only fleetingly, but Christ’s blood it was there. Shadowy, slightly bearded, dark haired, and with blue eyes that glittered with hatred, he saw his nemesis: Paul of Taunton.

Dear God! He had nearly fainted with horror. That man should still be in Exeter, and yet here he was, ready to persecute him once more. It made his heart thunder so violently, he felt certain it must burst in an instant, but then gradually logic returned. He gazed back in the same direction, but the face was gone.

When at last they returned to the chambers in which the bishop had taken rooms, the squire looked at him anxiously. ‘Are you quite well? Uncle, you look terrible.’

‘I thank you for your care and attention, if not your frankness,’ the bishop replied wryly. ‘Some wine would be good, John! William, I saw a vision out there today. It shook me, shook me badly.’

‘What?’

‘The clerk — Paul. I saw him, so I thought, in the crowds.’

‘What!’ William had sprung towards the door, and now stood close to it, listening, as though ready to wrench it open and hurtle out to find the man.

‘William, please come back here.’

‘With the man who is sworn to kill you, wandering the streets just outside? He didn’t get close to you?’

‘No, no. He remained some distance away. It was so like him, and yet I think it must have been the light, the action of the dying sun on my eyes, or just the confusion of the mob. He couldn’t really be here.’

‘No, Uncle. I shouldn’t think so,’ the squire said, but he wore a worried frown.

‘You are not to concern yourself over this, you understand me? It is probably nothing. I was not wearing my spectacles. A face amongst all those — is it any surprise that one, two, or even a dozen, might look like my persecutor? No, it was merely my imagination,’ Bishop Walter said, and drank down the first goblet of wine without pause.

‘I am not sure, Uncle,’ William said. He was almost at the door, and the bishop saw him glance at it.

The dear boy! William had always been one of his best-loved nephews. Perhaps because his mother had been Walter’s favourite sister. Dear Mabel, so much younger than him, and she married quite late, bringing this one son into the world before she died. The young man was a reminder of his sister; he even had the vulnerability that Walter had seen in her.

‘William, no. Leave it. There is no point in going down there. Do you think he could pass by so many guards on his way to hurt me without being apprehended? Of course not! So, please, just sit and be easy. There is nothing to worry about in here.’

He watched as his nephew rested his hand on the sword at his side as though to remind himself that in here, in the bishop’s chamber, there was still defence enough.

‘Very well,’ he capitulated. ‘As you say, it is safe enough in here.’

‘Let us just take our ease,’ Bishop Walter said tiredly. ‘And then let me sit here quietly. I am not so young as once I was.’

‘Do you want me to fetch Master Puttock? He should know the king’s mind. And Paul de Cockington, too.’

‘Yes, the rector. He is an inordinately fortunate man, isn’t he?’ the bishop said drily. ‘To have escaped all, and now to be rewarded … I should have pressed the king to have him punished, but I confess, it would have been hard work, with the king looking so delighted with his news. Ach, yes. Fetch good Master Puttock. He should hear the fruits of his efforts.’

William rose and left him quietly, and the bishop leaned back in his chair with his eyes closed, thinking again about the audience with the king and the rapid advance of strategies that immediately flowed from the news. Men were ordered, plans demanded, a new view on possible risks considered, and then the conclusions were debated at length. It was one of the abiding beliefs of so many that this king was incompetent and incapable of making decisions, and yet those who said so should have seen him at moments like this; when it truly mattered, he was rational, logical and determined. If his plans sometimes went awry, and his men were not strong enough to see his commands through, that was no reflection on the king himself. It was the fault of the men he had beneath him.

Glancing about him, the bishop took stock. There was little here in Canterbury to keep him. Now that he had seen that face, his peace was destroyed. Perhaps it was time for him to return to Exeter and leave national politics altogether? He was an old man, in Christ’s name! Not some youth out to make a reputation.

Seeking some peace, he rose and walked to a shelf set into the wall. Here were his favourite books, and he hesitated before taking down the Chanson de Roland . The memory of that cursed note had coloured his feelings about this book, but there was still a joy in reading the beautiful prose that overcame any reticence he might feel. He carried it to the table, where he set it down and opened it.