Michael Jecks: The Bishop Must Die

And any who upset him would suffer dire consequences.

‘It would be dangerous to try to harm a man with such connections,’ the dean said quietly.

‘The man who has lost his wife — is he important?’ the bishop asked after a moment.

‘No. His name is Alured de Gydie. A man of no significance.’

‘So he has no power to fetch his woman back?’

‘None whatsoever. He is a cooper — a man of some skill, I understand — but not rich.’

‘And his woman — she is still held by the rector?’

‘Yes.’

The bishop drummed his hands on his table. ‘The Despenser is a rich and dangerous opponent.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘So we should act swiftly. Bring the rector here. If the ransom is lost, it will go evil with that fellow! I will not have priests in my diocese acting in such a high-handed manner, and I do not care who his friends are. If the sheriff wishes to complain, he can come and speak with me. I shall have some choice words for him if he tries to protect a brother who is so steeped in wrongdoing that he thinks he may steal a man’s wife and defile her. In Christ’s name, I will not tolerate such behaviour! Go and fetch him to my gaol, Dean.’

‘With pleasure, my lord bishop.’

‘And Dean?’

‘Yes?’

‘Do not forget, my friend, I know Despenser very well. He is crafty and dangerous — but so am I!’

Exeter

He had to visit it, just so that he could say later that he had seen the place. And now, sitting in the tavern, Roger Crok wondered why it had seemed so important to come here and try to bring home to the bishop how his offences had hurt so many. The man was incapable of human emotions. He had proved that already.

Bishop Walter II was a massively powerful man. He was second only to Despenser and the king in wealth and prestige. Somehow, walking to the cathedral and seeing it in that half-reconstructed state, had brought home to Roger Crok just how great this bishop truly was. It made his rage against the man seem pointless; someone with such authority was impregnable in his palace. The man was there trying to rebuild the great church in this city, responsible for vast sums of money, commanding hundreds of men for his own protection — he was surely far beyond Roger Crok’s feeble attempts to hurt him.

Still, he must try. The bishop had been the cause of so much harm in recent years, to all in the country. It was not only Roger himself and his mother Isabella who had suffered. No, his stepfather was as much a victim as any other, even if it had not been the bishop who had seen to his death, because the bishop had maltreated Henry Fitzwilliam’s widow and stolen her lands from her. That made him utterly contemptible. To rob a widow was the act of a felon, a paltry draw-latch; he was a man of no honour.

But it was more than that to Roger. Now that his mother had seen her little manors stolen from her, entirely to satisfy this intolerable bishop’s greed, and at the same time Roger himself had been declared outlaw, it was not enough that the bishop should be fought in courts. He ought to have the depth of his crimes brought home to him. And that was why Roger was here, to make sure that the bishop was tormented in the same manner as his mother.

Roger called for another pot of cider and drank deeply. The drink flowed into his blood like liquid fire, and soon his fingers had recovered their feeling, his face felt hot from the great fire in the hearth in the middle of the room, and his temper became more sanguine.

The bishop might do some little good here in Exeter, but that meant nothing. It was Roger Crok’s task to make him suffer, and in God’s name, in God’s good time, he would see Walter Stapledon endure the torments of the devil, if he could.

Bishop’s Palace, Exeter

Once he was alone again, the bishop left his hall and walked to his private chapel. His chaplain was not present — he did not have need of the fellow today — and the bishop knelt alone in that quiet chamber, his eyes fixed on the crucifix.

It was the best way to think, here, abased before God. Here he could empty his mind and concentrate on the problems to hand. And remind himself who he really was.

There had been a time when he had not thought himself capable of rising in the Church. When he was younger, he had assumed that his brothers, Robert, Richard and Thomas, would be the successful ones, and he, Walter, would remain as a minor chaplain, perhaps a vicar, if he grew fortunate.

That was why, when he had been young, he had spent so much time looking at others and seeing how he might help them, even if sometimes his motives were called into question. In later years, others complained about him, especially Londoners, because they blamed him for the Eyre of five years ago, when he had been the man behind the court held to investigate all the rights and privileges of the city. However, that was not his doing. Yes, he was the figurehead, the Lord High Treasurer, when the king demanded his inquest, but it was not his choice.

There were many who loathed him. In God’s name, so many! He had made enemies wherever he went, something that sometimes made him regret ever taking a leading position in the realm. But someone had to, and he was sure that at least he would be able to do some good.

Some might dispute that, no doubt. They would think that his sole aim had been to make money for himself, but they didn’t realise that he took nothing. He was a frugal man, with little need for fripperies. He liked some comforts, it was true, and he had great need of his spectacles, but beyond that, he was not cocooned in gold, swaddled in silver, or laden with tin. Those who criticised were all too keen to suggest that a bishop lived in luxury all his life. Well! They should try covering a diocese like his, and getting around it in order to view all the priests and make sure that they were complying with their duties. They would soon give up any notion of luxurious living.

Yes, he had enemies, but they were for the most part irrational. London’s mob was one thing, but the others who felt that he had unfairly deprived them of property or chattels had no idea what he was struggling with every day: debt. Massive, incomprehensible debt that would crush a man less determined. He had to grab all the treasure he could, just to maintain the steady flow into the cathedral’s coffers and keep the building works going. For what use would his cathedral be, without the final efforts? The stonemasons wouldn’t remain here without their money. The carpenters, joiners, plumbers, ropemakers and tilers, all would leave in an instant if they couldn’t see their pay or their beer turning up.

That was his biggest fear. The great church had been adequate two hundred years or more ago, but it had to develop to cope with the growing population of the city. So some fifty years ago, a farsighted bishop had taken the decision to raze and rebuild it, in sections. First to go was the Norman eastern end and, while the building works continued, the canons moved into the middle of the church. Only recently had that part of the church been completed, and now the new choir stalls and bishop’s throne had been installed in the new quire, before the workmen turned their efforts to the western part of the building.

But demolishing a building was almost as expensive as purchasing the new stones, the timbers, the poles for the scaffolding — it was all hideously costly, and there was a constant need for more funds. Bishop Walter would not go down in history as the bishop who failed the diocese. He wanted to be known as one of the patrons of the church, and had already chosen the spot where his body would lie when he had died, a position prominently located in the quire behind the high altar. That would be suitable enough for him, the man who had increased the money given by the bishop to the church almost six-fold.