The Bishop Must Die (13 page)

‘You think it will come to that?’

Baldwin made no acknowledgement. ‘When she lands, where should I take Jeanne and our children? The manor will be safe no longer, and I do not have enough men to defend it. Were I to have a strong wall, I still wouldn’t have enough men. Simon, this poor kingdom of ours is falling into decay. There is little we can do to protect it, but I would do all I could. Otherwise, we shall be conquered again, and the French shall rule all England.’

They were quiet for a moment. From the other room came the sounds of Perkin wailing, Margaret’s calm voice soothing him. Both drained their drinks, and Hugh refilled them.

‘Perkin sometimes has these dreams,’ Simon said by way of explanation. ‘Edith used to go to him in the night. Half the time I didn’t even hear him, she was so quick. Almost as though she could tell when he was about to cry.’

‘She’s a good girl,’ Hugh muttered. ‘Always looked after him. Even when you were gone.’

‘I didn’t want the job in Dartmouth,’ Simon said.

‘You’d have to be mazed to want to live in a place like that,’ Hugh grunted.

‘There are some who enjoy the bustle,’ Baldwin pointed out.

‘There’s some as like the warmth of a fire, till they get pushed into it,’ Hugh said.

‘Hugh, have you ever been to Dartmouth?’ Baldwin wondered.

‘No. Too far for me,’ he responded with an expression of distaste.

‘I don’t suppose you’ve even been to Exeter too often, have you?’ Baldwin said, and then his face cleared and he sat staring at the wall over Simon’s shoulder for a little while.

‘What is it, Baldwin?’ Simon asked.

‘Edith knows Hugh, and I suppose her husband does, too. But probably her maidservant doesn’t.’

Simon glanced up at Hugh, studying him with a speculative eye. ‘Nope. Don’t think she would. Have you met Jane, Hugh?’

‘No.’

‘What of her husband though?’ Baldwin said.

‘I know him well enough.’

‘No matter,’ Baldwin said, and smiled at Simon. ‘I think I know how you can keep in touch with Edith, old friend.’

Thursday before Candlemas
^*

It was a beautiful, clear day. For once the fog had lifted, and as John Biset pulled a tunic over his head and marched down the stairs from his solar, tugging his sleeves straight and scratching under an armpit where a particularly dedicated flea had chewed his soft flesh into a mass of reddened lumps, he felt a curious contentment. He still had the manor, and, with good fortune, he would soon be reimbursed for the efforts he had been forced to take to recover his due inheritance.

Bishop Walter of Exeter had tried to prevent him getting his money. That old sodomite had hankered after the wardship of Philip Maubank’s grandson, but even though he’d tried to withold the inquest results, John Biset had fought him all through the king’s courts until he had proved his rights. And now, soon, the money would be coming back to him.

He left by the rear door, crossing the cobbled yard where his horse stood patiently waiting for him, a large black stallion with a white star on the forehead and a splash of grey on the left shoulder. This great brute was the very last of his father’s old mounts, and although he had once been trained as a fighter, he was so venerable now that he showed not the slightest interest in kicking or biting, although he would sometimes have a little spark of resentment against his rider and try to buck. However, it
was easy to see when he was about to do so, for both ears would go back, and John, knowing that sign, would immediately clench his thighs about the beast’s chest and hold himself on.

There was something deeply satisfying in knowing that he had secured the future of the place. Sir Hugh le Despenser had wanted this manor from him. When John refused to give up the wardship that was his own inheritance, Despenser and Bishop Walter Stapledon had concealed his age. From that moment it had been a fight. Despenser wanted the manor, Stapledon wanted the wardship for himself, and in the end, the two bastards had asked for double the value of the wardship. Not in return for anything – they just demanded it without discussion.

John Biset was not the sort of man to bow to another’s demands. He came from stock every bit as good as Despenser’s or Stapledon’s. Neither of
them
was a magnate at birth. He had no idea what sort of family Stapledon came from, but he would shrewdly guess that the proud bishop was in fact little better than a mere freeman when he was born. As for Despenser, he was the son of a knight – but that was the most that could be said for
him
.

He would not knuckle under to a pair of felons like them.

So he had fought. He acquired the best legal advice he could afford; he paid pleaders and clerks; he left no stones unturned in his search for influential men at court who could help his case, and he had petitioned the king to be reimbursed for the damages done to him. That matter should soon be decided, and when it was, he would celebrate with a feast for his friends and neighbours in the area. It would be a great day.

He set off gently, warming the brute’s blood with a soft jogging pace, before thrashing it on the rump and galloping for a good three miles westwards. This area was perfect for a ride. Clear of trees for the most part, and flat, a man could see a long way. And in these unsettled times, it was necessary. There were too many felons who would seek to break a man’s head and empty his purse if they could, and John Biset was not foolish enough to put his life in danger for no reason. He preferred to take no chances and to go where he was safe.

The way was empty today. He carried on past Tidpit before taking the old path north, gradually making a full circuit of the lands. Here he went more slowly, feeling the comforting rock and sway of the horse beneath him. There were more trees about here, and he had to duck every so often to avoid branches, and then he was in a shady lane, with thin hedges at either side, now that all the leaves were fallen.

It was when he was halfway along this track that he saw a man up ahead, walking towards him. Just a scruffy-looking fellow in a tan cloak with a flash of russet tunic beneath, hooded against the cold.

There was nothing ostensibly to cause alarm, but John had a heightened sense of awareness after the last few months. Despenser was known to have killed men for thwarting him, and John had no illusions about his own position now: he stood in Despenser’s way. The only thing that saved him, so he felt, was the sheer panic which was exhibited by all those in the king’s household because of the queen’s threatened invasion. That was enough to keep them all in a state of permanent abstraction.

He caught a glimpse of something. No, two things. First there was a sparkle from over to his left, such as a piece of metal might make as it caught the low sun. And then there was the man on the roadway, who had looked up – very briefly, very swiftly – like a hunter checking the distance to his quarry.

John Biset was no coward, but neither was he a fool. The sparkle from the other side of the hedge might have been a drop of water catching the sun, but it might have been the catch on a crossbow. And he had too much respect for crossbows to want to risk it.

He reined in. The man ahead of him made no movement to show that he had registered John’s reluctance and continued on his trudging way.

But that itself was wrong. A man seeing a knight on horseback would be wary in case this was one of those knights whose temper was fiery, and who might well decide to spring upon a traveller to demand tolls, or merely to sweep off his head with a
sword for enjoyment. The realm had lost all law and order in the months since the queen’s departure for France last year.

Then he saw it. The man had moved his arm beneath his cloak, and now had firm grip of a sword.

It was enough: he jabbed his spurs into the horse’s flanks, wheeled, and galloped up the road again. As he went, he heard the low thrumming as the crossbow’s quarrel shot past his ear, and then he could rein in, turn again and ride back. It took time for a man to reload his bow, and John knew how fast he could ride on this old brute.

The man was still in the road, and had swept out his blade now – a short, riding sword, and stood resolutely blocking the way. Only a professional would try that, John knew. But he was not intending to attack the fellow directly. Instead, he picked the part of the hedge which seemed thinnest, and at the last moment forced his horse through it. There was a scraping at his hosen, a crackle and hiss as the blackthorn and holly tore at his legs and the horse’s breast, and then they were through. In front of him, a man suddenly found himself confronted by a furious knight on a large black destrier. He was trying to span his bow with hooks fitted to his belt, but the sudden eruption of the knight from the hedge made his foot slip from the crossbow’s stirrup, and the contraption sprang upwards, the stock striking him in the breast. He gave a cry, just before John’s sword stabbed into the side of his neck.

The forward momentum of his horse drew the blade swiftly along the side of his neck. It clove through the soft muscles, reached the spine, and the sharp metal snagged for an instant, and then sawed through that too. As he rode on, there was a gout of blood, and the head rolled away.

John spun in his saddle and saw the other felon in the gap he had made in the hedge, and then the man was off, haring along the lane like a rabbit pursued by a hound. John trotted over to the still-twitching body by the crossbow, and stared down.

The fellow was only a youth. He had scarcely enough fluff on his chin to call it a beard, and his hands and his fingers were so
clean, it looked as though he might have scraped all dirt from them with a knife. And they were not hardened like most, he saw. Any peasant would have horny hands by the age of ten, but not this.

He dropped from his mount and looked through the boy’s belongings, such as they were. A small crucifix at his throat had slid from the stump and now lay in the pool of blood. At his belt was a rosary, while in his purse there were a few pennies and a small lump of bread. And also, intriguingly, a piece of parchment with some scrawled writing on it.

Without thinking, John stuffed it inside his shirt as he remounted, casting about for any sign of the other man, but his delay had given the fellow a chance to run out of sight, or at the least to conceal himself.

Swearing to himself, John Biset urged his horse on, and rode at a fast pace all the way back to his manor.

The cottage felt cold this morning as Richard de Folville rolled from his low palliasse and clambered to his feet. His legs felt stiff after his unaccustomed wanderings the day before, and the saddle of the horse he had taken from his brother had made his arse sore.

It was ridiculous that he might be forced to leave just because of the Belers matter, but there was no doubting his brother’s sincerity. The men who had sought the killers of Belers had found his brother, and now they might well come searching for him as well. And no matter what happened, John would do nothing to protect him or Eustace, or any of the other members of that gang. It was shameful.

To think that all this could have been brought upon them by the advisers to the king. Both Despenser and Stapledon would rue the day they first chose to plot against him. ‘Damn you both to hell for what you’ve done to my family,’ he said with vicious emphasis.

The horse was still outside. Taking a small leather satchel, he filled it with the last of his bread and some meats, and threw it
over his shoulder. Then he stopped and gazed about him, as though this was the last time he would ever see his room again. It was perilous to try to cross the sea. Many people died on the waves each year, as he knew. But it was as dangerous for him merely to remain here in Teigh. If the men who sought him truly were from Despenser and Bishop Walter Stapledon, his life was worth little, and even if he managed to put a hundred miles between him and the church here, he would still be a hunted man.

No, he would have to ride away, head for France, and hope that he might escape the posse.

When he woke, Simon yawned and stretched, and Margaret smiled to see his face.

‘This looks to me as though, for the first time in many months, you have truly slept well,’ she said.

‘No, wench. I was awake half the night,’ he said, stretching again with a grunt of pleasure.

‘Oho, is that true? And there was me thinking that you didn’t wake me last night because you were contented for once. And asleep.’

‘I couldn’t sleep. You were snoring too much,’ he said, and then protested as she punched and kicked at him unmercifully. ‘Hoi! Stop that, woman, you’ll break me!’

‘Then apologise.’

‘For what?’

‘Saying I snore, husband. Because unless you do, I may have to beat you.’

‘You can’t beat me!’

‘I can if you’re so sleepy,’ she said.

‘Woman, stop that or …’

‘Or what, darling husband?’ she asked sweetly, and prodded his belly. She knew it tickled him, and expected a response, but the swiftness of his reaction surprised her.

He grabbed her wrists, and pushed, rolling himself on top of
her. And then, while she smiled up at him, he slowly grinned back. She saw his gaze float over her body, and wriggled her hips a little. He lifted his torso, so she could move her legs – and then he was between them, his weight on her pelvis.

Margaret could feel the blood in her veins, and it seemed to match the beat of his heart. She could feel him so near, it was a subtle torture. She wanted to prolong it, and she wanted it to end.

Which it soon did.

‘Father! Mummy!’

And Perkin ran in and jumped on his parents.

It was with a frown that William Walle wandered the Cathedral Close that morning.

‘Squire William, I wish you a good morning,’ John de Padington called as soon as he saw the younger man. ‘Are you well?’

‘In short, no. My uncle has all the appearance of a man in great discomfort,’ William said, after a little display of hesitation.