The Bishop Must Die (4 page)

‘You are dead, all of you!’

‘Look again, Belers! Do you still not recognise me?’

‘I have no idea who you are. You aren’t from around here.’

‘Think to the Marcher war, Belers. The family from Lubbersthorpe – remember them? The man whom you robbed of
his manors and income, the mother you cast out from her home –
remember
?’

‘I don’t recall—’

‘Lubbersthorpe. Where you took everything for yourself, and then rode away. And you had the mother’s son captured and thrown into gaol. Remember?’

‘That was la Zouche, wasn’t it? What is it to do with you?’

‘I am Sir Ralph la Zouche,’ the man said, and now he drew a long dagger. ‘And by my honour, I will enjoy this!’

So saying, he stepped forward towards Belers. As the baron tried to move away, hands grabbed him, and Sir Ralph reversed the blade in his hands, so that now it pointed downwards. While Belers was held firmly, Sir Ralph came to him. He studied Belers a moment, and then spat into the baron’s face. The baron turned with an expression of loathing, and while his head was averted, Sir Ralph brought his knife down, thrusting past the collar bone and down into the man’s breast.

Belers’s body jolted like a stung stallion, and his head snapped about, until he was staring full into Sir Ralph’s face, and then slowly he began to sink to the ground, while his face paled. His jaw worked as though to speak, but there was nothing more to be heard from him. His soul had fled.

‘Take that piece of shit and throw it in the ditch. He pollutes the road,’ Sir Ralph said, and turned on his heel.

Monday, Feast of St Sebastian, nineteenth year of the reign of King Edward II
^*

It was a cold, grey morning when Simon Puttock left his house. He had nothing to attend to, but he had always feared growing a paunch to rival his father’s, and every day he would try to take his rounsey out for a ride to clear his head and ease his spirits.

A tall man of almost forty, with a calm expression on his weather-beaten face, his eyes were dark grey and steady – the eyes of a man who had suffered much and found himself strong enough to cope.

Entering the little byre, he paused in the darkness. His two cows were inside, away from the worst of the recent weather, and he slapped the rump of the nearer one, running his hand over her enormous frame, feeling the size of the calf inside. Both were strong beasts, but this had been the better milker over the years, and now that he had lost his position at Tavistock Abbey, Simon was determined to make more money from cheese and milk sales.

‘She’ll be fine.’

Simon turned to see his servant Hugh, a morose-looking, truculent old devil, watching him from the doorway.

‘I was just patting her,’ Simon said, half-defensively.

Hugh grunted disbelievingly. ‘I’ve been looking after sheep and cows since I could first handle a sling,’ he muttered, as he walked over to the two great beasts. He rested his hand on the cow’s back. ‘There’s no need for you to come and upset them with your “patting”.’

Simon smiled. In the last years, Hugh had married, had suffered the loss of his wife and the child she bore, and had returned to Simon’s side. Despite his sour exterior, Simon knew that he was devoted to him and to his family.

‘Have you heard from Edith?’ Hugh said, without looking at Simon.

Simon felt the smile wiped from his face like a towel clearing mud. ‘No.’

The bishop was surprised to hear that there were two men to see him, but he was a believer in the old principles of courtesy and hospitality, so he nodded to his steward, John, to allow them entry.

The two were not tonsured, he saw at once. The older was a tallish fellow, with a russet tunic and tan cloak thrown back over
his shoulder. He had a beard that covered his cheeks from a little below his eyes, down past his chin, over his throat and down to his tunic. His eyes were steady as they studied the bishop. His companion was much younger, a fair-haired fellow with a sparkle in his eyes, who seemed unable to grow a beard yet. He had a crossbow slung over his shoulder.

‘Yes?’ the bishop asked, once they had bent their knees and kissed his ring. ‘You wished to see me?’

‘We have been sent to speak with you,’ the older man said. ‘Sir Hugh le Despenser sends you his greetings.’

‘I see.’ Bishop Walter set his jaw. ‘And?’

‘There is a man who is causing my Lord Despenser some trouble, and he has asked for you to help us find him. It is a man called John Biset.’

Biset … Yes, the bishop knew this fellow. ‘Why does he wish to find him?’

There was no answer, and he had not truly expected one. When Sir Hugh le Despenser decided to send a message to a man, it was rarely a matter of pleasantries. There would be violence.

‘I know where he lives,’ the bishop said slowly, ‘but I am reluctant to—’

‘You need not fear. All we want is the address of someone nearby who can help us,’ the younger man said with a smile. He was always smiling, Bishop Walter noticed.

‘I do not fear,’ Bishop Walter said coolly. ‘But I would not have unnecessary violence.’

‘There will be none,’ the older man said. ‘Now give us the name of the man who can help us.’

His rudeness was almost enough to have him thrown from the bishop’s room, but then Bishop Walter reconsidered. He had managed to alienate the king already, because of his failure as Edward’s representative last year. That mission had been a disaster. He could not afford to upset Sir Hugh le Despenser – the second most important man in the country – as well. It was a horrible thought that he must become complicit in the attack on an innocent man, in order to maintain his own position, but he
was not the first to have been forced to this. And he had done worse in the past.

‘No bloodshed?’

‘We don’t intend to shed blood, Bishop,’ the younger, smiling man said with an expression of surprise and hurt. ‘We just have to leave him a message.’

Bishop Walter eyed the older man, but there was not a hint of a smile on his dark features. ‘You?’

The fellow shook his head slowly.

‘Very well. If you are not to cause bloodshed, I can give you my help,’ the bishop said. He called to his steward. ‘John, take these two to my clerk, and have them write a message to the chaplain at the church of Coombe Bisset. Tell him I ask that he helps these men and provides them with food and drink while they stay with him.’

He watched the two stride out, the younger turning and giving him a wave like an affectionate son taking his farewell before a pilgrimage. There was no unpleasantness in his manner. Bishop Walter tried to convince himself that the two strangers were not intending to cause harm.

But secretly, he felt sure that this was a vain hope. He knew Sir Hugh too well.

Feast of St Sebastian
^*

The room was warm already, with a fire roaring in the grate, throwing glorious golden light about the tapestries and illuminating the table. Made of oak, it was almost new, and the wood had not yet endured long years of smoke or stains from ink. In the gleaming firelight, it looked as though there were threads and globules of gold just beneath the surface. Another could have been tempted by the sight to take a knife and see if a little might be prised loose.

Not this man, though. He stopped at the doorway, listening intently, a shadow standing free of the candles and fire, searching with every sense for another man in the chamber. He waited with his mouth open, so that even his breath could not give him away, while his eyes flitted about the walls, chairs, stools, the rest of his body unmoving.

There was no one. Reassured, he pushed the door wide and slipped inside. It was the bishop’s private chamber, but the bishop wasn’t here. He had gone with his familia to the cathedral church to celebrate the Feast, and the bishop’s palace was all but empty. Apart from
him
, the unseen.

In his breast he felt a shiver, beginning at his heart but then swelling and engulfing his torso, before flying away. It was a total, all-consuming desire to consummate this deed, because he
knew that the bishop had to die. His evil would live on perhaps, but the man’s crimes were too many to be excused. And must be punished.

It would not be a swift vengeance. This was a carefully planned assassination. It would take many weeks and months. All the better for the victim to learn how to suffer, how to know true terror.

Before the familia returned, he must complete his task and escape. Glancing about once more to be certain, he hurried over the wooden floor to the table and pulled the little purse from beneath his tunic. Light and insubstantial, yet it was the heretic’s death warrant. This bishop, this
Stapledon
, was the most impious, avaricious, dishonourable bishop to walk God’s pure, English soil. Damn him, damn his arrogance, and his greed. They would be the destruction of him.

The little purse was placed carefully on the table. There were parchments lying nearby, and he shoved it beneath them, standing back to see the effect. It made a slight lump in the parchments, but not more than that. It was so small, after all. Yes, it would do. He stepped away from the table, going to the wall, not the middle of the floor where the boards might creak and give him away, and thence out to the doorway.

Staring back, the room was a tranquil little scene. It was the one place where the bishop was able to relax, away from the mayhem of the Close outside, away from the disputes and petty wrangles which constituted life in the cathedral.

However, the good bishop was about to discover that even his favourite chamber was not safe.

Even from a distance the size of the city had seemed daunting. But for a man in desperate straits, this scarcely mattered.

Roger Crok pulled his cloak more tightly about him and lowered his head against the cold wind. It pulled at his clothing, and made the edges of his cloak snap and crackle, while his ungloved fingers felt as though they were growing brittle in the
freezing air. He was grateful that his beard had grown so quickly, even though he now looked a scruffy remnant of his past self.

Dear God, he hoped his mother was all right! She had been so grief-stricken when the bastards had told her that she was widowed again, that it had turned Roger’s heart to stone even as his mother’s shattered.

Henry Fitzwilliam hadn’t been that much of a catch, so far as Roger had been concerned. Roger had a simple guideline to work to, which was how a man measured against his father. Peter Crok had been handsome, powerful and clever withall. Roger’s memories were so distinct: he recalled the little wrinkles at the side of Peter’s eyes, the broad smiles, the great bear-hugs when his father was happy, as well as the bellow of disapproval when he was convinced his son had misbehaved. All these made his father seem almost superhuman. A magnificent man, a great warrior. It was hardly surprising that when his mother married a second time, his replacement should prove to be a sad disappointment.

But for the men who killed poor Henry to come and gloat at his widow’s distress was the act of mother-swyving churls who were not good enough to clean the privy, who deserved to be punished for all eternity.

It took a while for Simon to calm down.

He had left the farm by the top road, then ridden up to and climbed the ridge, ducking below the trees that overshadowed the track, and down the other side. The trail turned to the right here, but he continued on down, through a gate and to the stream at the bottom.

He was still furious that Hugh could have asked about Edith, when the servant knew the terrible truth.

Simon let the rounsey drink at the stream, and then trotted up the lane on the opposite side of the ford. There was a good, broad roadway here, and he urged his beast on at a faster pace. He needed the wind in his face, the feeling of burning as the chill air
froze his flesh, as though he could somehow scour the hollow space in his heart.

His wife had the same sense of loss, he knew. It was just the same as when they had lost their first little boy, Peterkin. He had been a baby still, when he fell victim to some foul malady. Over days, he wailed and whined, while Simon and Margaret did all in their power to try to aid his recovery, but their efforts were to no avail. There was nothing they could do which would alleviate the poor little boy’s suffering, and at last, when he did die, Simon had a shocking reaction of relief. It was a sensation that did not last for long, but he was aware of it, and it scarred him. He had hitherto believed that he was a good father, a kind and decent man who cared deeply for his children. That sensation to him was proof that he was more selfish than he had realised.

He had been able to grow away from that memory over time. It was painful that it should return now, he thought. And with that he lashed his mount harder and galloped along at speed.

At the Morchard Bishop road he turned off, heading northwards, but there was a curious inevitability when, as though on a whim, he turned his horse’s head to the south and west, following the ridge that pointed almost as straight as an arrow towards Copplestone.

Now, as he rode, he could see the lowering hills of the moors. Filthy grey-black clouds floated above them, but there was no need for threats of foul weather. The moors were already white, as though God had laid a covering of samite over Cawsand Beacon and Belstone Tor. There was a stark beauty to the scene, Simon thought, and felt his fingers loosen their grip on the reins. He allowed the rounsey to ease his pace, and sat back in his saddle as the beast jogged along.

This ride always tended to cool his overheated moods. He remembered riding here on the day he learned of the murders, when he had first met Baldwin, ten years ago, during the famine. That had been a terrible time. The only good thing had been the discovery of a new friend.

Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, his best and longest friend – and yet he too was lost to Simon.