Michael Jecks - The Bishop Must Die

Life was so easy for a fellow like him. Born the son of a king, he would never know hardship or the struggle that most people had to endure. It made Richard intensely, furiously jealous. He wanted a little of that good fortune. If it wasn’t for Despenser advancing his own friends over the heads of those more deserving, like the Folvilles, Richard would still be in his little church at Teigh, with his brother still ensuring that his annual stipend was good, praying and keeping the peasants happy. That was where he ought to be now, and it was only the likes of Despenser who had forced him out of his own country. The king, Despenser, the Bishop of Exeter — they were all cut from the same cloth. They took, and could declare it legal purely because they had power.

Well, Richard would tolerate it no longer. He and his family deserved better. They would take what they wanted.

Perhaps he was better served to remain with the duke. The boy did at least look after them all well. He was no penny-pincher, that was true.

Richard de Folville had been out to the privy at the end of the little garden, and he straightened his hosen and chemise as he strolled back. Pulling his hat onto his head — a broad-brimmed felt hat which he had bought on the first day here in Rouen as a defence against the hot sun — he suddenly saw a man peering out from a ground-floor window.

It made his blood freeze like ice. Curious sensation. Here he was, a man who had killed before, and yet his overriding sense was of fear at the sight of this man, this symbol of power and terror.

He swaggered onwards, without looking again at the man. What was his name? Pestel , that was it. Squire Ranulf, he had said, and he had mentioned that he was a loyal servant of Belers. That must be why he was here: he had somehow learned that Richard had been involved in the murder of his master, and wanted revenge. He’d said as much. If he heard that there was a cleric involved … But Richard wasn’t dressed as a rector now. He was a well-dressed Frenchman.

With that thought, he had a plan.

It was gloomy in the hall where Baldwin and the others waited, so as he left it and walked into the garden, Squire Ranulf was blinded for a moment. It was enough for him to see that there was only a single man there, wandering about idly among the herbs and flowers.

He spotted a long, low building though, and thought it would be an ideal hiding-place for the duke. Stepping forward, he peeped in through a window.

It was dark inside there too, but then he gradually began to make out voices — and one, he felt sure, was English. These were no Frenchmen, he could tell.

He drew back, a grin on his face. It had to be the duke and his entourage. Sir Baldwin would be able to come and persuade the fellow to return with them, he was sure. And then a man punched him in the back, and he gave a cry of surprise. Turning, he saw a man — the Frenchman — behind him, a knife in his hand. And suddenly Ranulf knew that he had been stabbed. It was not fatal though — he was sure of that. He grabbed for his own knife, but before he could draw it, the man was on him again. This time, the fellow took Ranulf’s hand and gripped it, while the knife was thrust under his armpit, a solid blow that Ranulf felt through the whole of his breast.

There was a flowing sensation, and a weakness in his arms. He could only feel a great bruise at his side, no pain, and he was sure that he had been lucky, that the blow had missed all his organs, and he still made to yank his own knife free, but his assailant had his hand grasped too firmly, and try as he might, he couldn’t release it.

‘French git,’ he gasped.

‘Me — French? Oho, squire, if you can’t remember a face, you shouldn’t make such rash threats. I am Richard de Folville. You said you’d come back and hunt me, didn’t you? I think I beat you to it!’

Ranulf stared. The name of Folville was known to him well enough. They were outlaws, murderers … but he couldn’t hold on to his thoughts. There was a strange exhaustion washing over him, and he could no longer support his own weight. He had to drop to one knee. Ranulf slipped down, and then he toppled to his side, and he continued to stare at Folville fixedly as the life ebbed out of him.

A man’s eyes would hold the last sight he saw, so Folville had heard. He didn’t want some clever official peering into Ranulf Pestel’s eyes and seeing himself gazing back. No. So he took his knife and made sure that no one would be able to read anything in Ranulf’s eyes ever again.

Ralph la Zouche heard the scuffle outside, and by the time the door was opened, his sword was already out, but then he saw it was the Folville man dragging a body into the chamber. He stood, panting.

‘My lord duke, this man was in there asking about you. I think there are friends of his nearby. We have to escape.’

The duke gaped from Folville to the body. ‘Who is he?’

‘A retainer of one of Despenser’s men. I have killed him. I knew him before — his name was Squire Ranulf Pestel.’

The duke looked at Ralph. ‘Have you heard of him?’

‘The name is familiar, yes. He was one of Belers men, I think. If Richard de Folville has killed him, he has done us a service,’ Ralph said, ‘but you should have brought him in here alive so we all could have questioned him.’ He turned to the duke. ‘My lord, I think Richard is right — there will be others. I recommend that we mount and leave immediately.’

‘But I wanted to see the grave of King Richard on the Holy Mother’s Feast Day,’ the duke objected.

‘You can return another time. For now, I advise that we should ride straight to Hainault.’

‘Very well,’ the young man sighed. ‘Have the horses prepared. We shall ride as soon as they are ready.’

Baldwin was becoming concerned at the length of time Ranulf was taking. ‘If he doesn’t hurry, we’ll not have time to look into any other inns,’ he muttered. He waited a little longer, and then gave a swift curse. ‘Paul, you stay here with Jack, and I shall go to see if I can find him. We cannot stand here all day.’

So saying, he walked out of the small hall and into the garden. At that moment, the sound of shouting and commands reached his ears, coming from an outbuilding.

Quickly crossing the yard, he reached the door to the building, and pushed it wide.

‘Another!’

He heard the shout and instantly threw himself sideways in case an arrow came hurtling towards him. There was none, but he could hear booted feet approaching, and then a sword appeared. Baldwin grasped the wrist and wrenched. The man let go of his sword as his arm was jerked towards Baldwin, across his body, and Baldwin picked it up in a flash. A second man came out, and now Baldwin knew he must have come to the correct place.

‘Hold!’ he shouted. ‘I am come to speak with the duke!’

The second fellow was a swarthy man-at-arms with black hair and bright blue eyes. He had his sword held like a professional, his left hand at his groin, ready to pat away Baldwin’s. His sword was held low, the blade angled up from his hand, protecting most of his body. Baldwin was sure that he would be competent, but it was not the best defence; he held his own in the true Guardant , with his fist above his head, the blade dropping down and towards his enemy.

His main concern right now was the first man, who had massaged his wrist, and now looked ready to grab a stone and brain Baldwin. He would have to be held and prevented. This second man was-

A sparkle of the sun on steel and the blade leaped forward. Baldwin blocked it with his own, continuing to stab downwards at the man’s thigh, but he saw the danger and stepped back. Instantly Baldwin was a step nearer, his blade darting right in a feint, then left towards the man’s breast. The blue eyes narrowed as he slammed his fist across, then reversed his blade and slashed at Baldwin’s throat. Baldwin ducked, knocked his opponent’s sword up and away, and launched himself forwards and up, his blade coming to rest upon his Adam’s apple. ‘Yield!’ he snarled.