Michael Jecks: The Bishop Must Die

What would he be remembered for? he wondered. Perhaps for his gifts to the church. Better that he be remembered for that than for his time as Treasurer. His efforts to improve the education of so many would be a good legacy, but how many would recall that effort after his death? That was the sort of thing that the individuals would remember, not the majority. The majority, he sighed, would only remember his taking their money, and would naturally assume that he had taken it for his own purse, not seeing the new cathedral as it rose about them. But that was the way of men and there was little he could do about it.

Ach! There was no reason for him to brood. He was like an old hen, squatting here alone in his chapel. There was work to be done, and he should carry on with it.

He rose stiffly to his feet, massaging his left leg where the knee joint appeared to be growing ever more reluctant to unbend, and after making his obeisance, walked from the chapel and back into his room. His steward was not in the room, so Bishop Walter hobbled to the sideboard and poured himself a large goblet of strong red wine. Smacking his lips appreciatively, he collapsed in his comfortable little chair, and grunted with satisfaction.

It was then that he saw how the pile of documents was disordered. There was a lump in one corner, and it made him frown. Setting his goblet down, he reached across. Moving the parchments, he found himself staring at a little purse. A plain, cream-coloured purse, made of some soft skin, and with a curious dark stain that marred the outer edge. He took it up. It was extraordinarily light, and clearly held no money. Intrigued, he pulled the drawstring open and peeped inside. There was a small scrap of parchment, and he felt his eyebrows rise when he saw that there was writing on it.

He took it out and read it, then felt his scalp crawl, and the flesh of his skull tighten, as he absorbed the vile message.

Tuesday, morrow of the Feast of St Sebastian *

Furnshill

Sir Baldwin de Furnshill stalked from his house and stood a moment, snuffing the early morning air.

It was his daily custom to walk to the pasture and practise with his sword. The idea of training, constantly improving his skills, was ingrained from his days in the Holy Land, where he had joined the Poor Fellow Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon — the Knights Templar.

Now approaching his middle fifties, there were few men of his age who could compare with him in speed or strength. Other, younger men might be able to dispute with him, but he was confident that his wiliness would protect him in a fight against a more powerful opponent. He had fought often enough. There were wounds all over his body, from knives, from swords, and from crossbow bolts — and he had survived all. The most obvious was the scar at his cheek, which ran down to the thin beard that followed the line of his jaw. It was peppered with grey now, but his hair was gradually fading entirely. It was only a few years ago that he had found the first white strays, and now the whole of his scalp looked like a snowed hillside. There was dark beneath, but white overlaid all.

Of course, he was not remotely vain, but it was still a slight shock to realise that he was growing old. He didn’t feel it.

His house was quiet still, this early, a thin smoke rising from the fire. Inside, he knew, his wife would be preparing food with their maidservant, while a second helped his children out of their beds. Edgar, his servant for so many years, would be outside with a groom, feeding and petting the horses. It was, Baldwin considered, an idyllic scene. One worth keeping, one worth protecting. And that was why he must practise. To make sure that it remained like that: safe and serene in this world of passion and blood. This world which appeared to be falling apart so quickly.

That thought was enough to give him the resolve he needed. He stood, his sword in the outside guard, his right fist punched out, the sword’s blade angled upwards to protect his body, high enough so that he could peer beneath it at his imaginary opponent, and then he moved.

Feet fixed firmly at first, he swung down, chopping at his enemy’s weapon, then lifting his sword to block the responding attack, swooping it low to hack at legs, thrusting hard, retreating and lifting the weapon to knock a stabbing blade to one side. He shifted his feet, all the while moving his sword incessantly, blocking, guarding, stabbing and hacking, making use of the main guards: the dexter; the sinister, with the right arm passing across his body to protect it, while his sword was angled up over his line of sight; the unicorn guard, in which he gripped the hilt before his groin, arm outstretched, so that the sword’s point was at his eye level; and the hanging guard, the one he believed was the only true guard, his arm outstretched, his sword’s hilt held high, while the sword’s tip pointed towards the enemy, angled so that he could sweep it across to the right, chop to the left, or perform any number of manoeuvres.

Daily practice was a part of him. If the weather was too inclement, he would resort to standing in his barn, but for the most part he would come here, feeling the blood singing in his veins as he thrust and slashed. And every so often a scene would intrude upon his mind. A picture of bloody faces, of corpses lying in the rubble, of his friends writhing as they tried to hold their shattered bodies together.

Those memories had been returning more often recently. There was a terrible trepidation in him, a growing conviction that his family, his manor — even the whole shire — was threatened. The scenes in his mind were from years ago, from the last days of Acre, when that wonderful Christian city had been overrun and razed by the crazed hordes of the Mameluke King. The latter had succeeded in destroying a tower on the wall, and poured in through the breach. Baldwin himself was injured and was pulled away by the Templars, installed on one of their ships, and taken to safety as the city fell. It was gratitude at having his life saved that had made him join the Order.

That was many years ago now — thirty-five, all told. Since then, his Order had been arrested, tortured, their wealth stolen, and the Knights Templar disbanded. All because the King of France and the pope had wanted to take that money for themselves.

It was after that shameful destruction that Baldwin had come here, to the quiet West Country of England, to hide himself from the politicians and ecclesiastics who were so antagonistic to the Order he had adored.

But although he had tried to escape, there was more danger now.

Hearing steps, he turned and nodded. ‘Edgar.’

‘Sir Baldwin, Despot has a strain in his right front — I think it is his fetlock.’

‘Again?’

Edgar said nothing. He was taller than Baldwin, and his face always held a slight grin as though he was secretly amused by a jest which others could not appreciate. Women found his suave sophistication utterly enthralling. Men were more often wary, and rightly so. As a fighter he was quite ruthless, and as swift and lethal as a thunderbolt.

‘That beast is proving to be expensive. He’s only just recovered from the strain.’

‘He appears to be an unfortunate fellow,’ Edgar agreed.

Baldwin grunted, wiping at the blade of his sword with the corner of his tunic to remove some smudges. ‘Perhaps it is time he was retired. I will need a new rounsey if I cannot have faith in him.’

‘I shall begin to search for a new one, then.’

‘Yes — no. Find two. But it will wait until I next visit Exeter. You can join me then and look for some decent brutes.’

Edgar said nothing, but Baldwin could feel his eyes upon him. He looked up. ‘Yes, Edgar?’