The Bishop Must Die: (Knights Templar 28)

by Michael Jecks

  If these were the only men who were designated to protect Duke Edward of Aquitaine, Sir Ralph would have his work cut out.

  There was no denying that he felt the edginess of the others. They were all too short with each other, too prepared to snap and argue. Just as he was himself, if he were honest. All of them were too well aware of the dangers they ran in being here. But for them there was nowhere else to go. Nothing to do. They were victims of the cretinous king and his lover, Despenser.

  Because they all knew that they were now considered to be traitors. They were each of them worth money to the king and Despenser … dead.

  Bishop’s Palace, Exeter

  John was glad of William’s presence when he heard of the second message.

  ‘What does it say?’ he demanded, while the men-at-arms ran about the palace, searching all the most likely, and several frankly impossible, places of concealment.

  ‘Look for yourself,’ William said curtly.

  Taking it, John read aloud. ‘The author of so much misery must pay for it all. Death, and Hell, await you.’

  ‘How dare he accuse my uncle of being the architect of misery! A kinder, more thoughtful and considerate man never walked the earth,’ William said heatedly.

  John nodded. ‘There is nothing to show how this was brought to the palace. Who would dare to enter my master’s private chamber and fiddle with his books?’

  ‘The very same man who would dare to threaten him with death and damnation.’

  ‘How did he get into the palace?’ John wondered. ‘The doors should have been locked.’

  ‘Do the familia lock all the doors when they go with the bishop to the chapel or church? I doubt it. All our careful planning has come to nought, John. We didn’t think of that.’

  ‘Why should we? It’s been five months. We were both beginning to think that the danger had receded.’

  ‘I certainly had,’ William said. His face was gaunt as the full import of the afternoon’s event was brought home to him. ‘Someone was here, John – in his private chamber, and even knew to place the parchment into that book. The courage of the devil.’

  ‘We shall have to find this man,’ John said. ‘It is someone who must know about the bishop’s movements at certain times.’

  ‘All I can think of is a man who could hate so much, but who also holds the power to enter a palace like this. It seems like more than one man, does it not?’

  Neither heard the door behind them open, as William continued speaking, taking the parchment back again.

  ‘So, it must be someone enormously powerful – and bold enough to walk in here, or prepared to pay someone else to do it.’

  Bishop Walter stepped forward and took the scrap of parchment. He glanced at it, then flung it aside. ‘I am one of the most powerful men in Exeter, yet I have no idea who could have done this!’

  William nodded, but glanced at John as he said, ‘Could you show us the first message, please? I think it would be useful for John to see it as well.’

  The bishop set his jaw. ‘Very well. John, it is in the large chest in my bedchamber.’

  John nodded and walked from the room by the small spiral staircase set into the corner of the chamber.

  ‘Who could want to do this to you?’ William asked.

  ‘You have asked me that before. I don’t know.’

  ‘Uncle, there is a man whom you have upset enough to make him loathe you. You could surely not have inspired such hatred without knowing it!’

  ‘Nephew, I hold power in this cathedral and my diocese; I have held extraordinary power as the Lord High Treasurer. Men hate me for both of these roles. I have negotiated with the queen on behalf of the king, so she hates me. Others think I helped take too much of their lands or treasure for tax and they too hate me. There are many, many men who would happily see me sink into hell.’

  John returned, holding the cream-coloured purse. He passed it to the bishop without a word.

  ‘So, the first told you that the reckoning was at hand, while this second says more definitely that hell awaits you.’

  ‘And I have no idea who could have written them.’

  John was studying the purse itself. ‘This stain – it is old blood. The purse has lain in a man’s blood.’

  The bishop reached for it and studied the brown marks. ‘How can you be so sure? It looks like mud to me.’

  ‘I am sure,’ John said.

  William looked at his uncle. ‘Have you killed a man?’

  ‘No. I have fought, but never slain.’

  ‘Well, there are no guards on your doors,’ William said. ‘In the Cathedral Close there could have been a thousand men and women today, so it is not possible to work out who could have come to this room while we were in chapel. All we can do is wait for him to try it again.’

  ‘And next time, with luck, we shall catch him,’ John said. He looked at his master, and felt as though his heart must tear in two at the expression of dismay on the bishop’s face. ‘Do not fear, my lord bishop. We shall catch him.’

  ‘You will not be hurt by this man,’ William added.

  ‘No,’ the bishop said, but he did not sound convinced. A short while later, John and William were outside his room.

  ‘Squire William, I am scared.’

  ‘Master John, do not be. All we must do is ensure that my uncle is safe from intruders. If we can do that, and stop these ridiculous messages reaching him, he will soon be himself again.’ But as William turned away, he thought sadly that the bishop looked like a frail old man, a man who had not many more months to live.

  Paris

  Their path took them up the roads away from Paris itself, and soon Richard Folville was glad to see that their route was taking them away from the woods, as well. There was a steady sense of anxiety in his belly whenever he was in a close-confined area.

  The murder of Belers was a passing memory now. It had been necessary because the thieving scrote had tried to steal too much from the Folville family as well as the la Zouches. Belers was always happy to enrich himself at the expense of all-comers. Well, he could rob peasants as often as he wished, but if a Belers tried to grab the lands of an old established family like the Folvilles, he would have his hands cut off.

  Folville had been lucky in his escape. As soon as he reached the port, he had found a man who was more than willing to stow him away on board, and within a few hours he was at sea on the fishing vessel, bucketing about in the middle of the Channel. It took a mere two days to cross (the weather had been foul), and soon Richard Folville made his way to Paris, telling the story of how his family had been impoverished as a result of the Despenser hold on power at the king’s court.

  There had been little surprise at his arrival. During his first day at Paris, he had himself seen a steady stream of men with similar tales, men who had lost everything because of the appalling greed of Sir Hugh le Despenser, or because of the irrational behaviour of the king.

  It was curious, watching all those men. Some had been utterly broken, their spirits gone. One man in particular, he recalled, had behaved as a supplicant, weeping, his hands claws, smearing ashes and filth into his beard and hair. The sort of man, in short, whom Richard would have refused entry to his church. This was the type of vagabond who would have earned himself a sharp kick to the backside and a poke with a heavy staff to tempt him to find alternative accommodation. It was surely a credit to the patience of the French that they not only endured his whimpering, but gave him a hearing. It led to his telling some tale of his daughters being raped and murdered, while his wife was imprisoned, and he himself had been due to be executed. Not that he had been, of course. He had escaped, to come here and whine.

  The astonishing thing was, all manner of men were accepted here in Paris. Rich and poor alike, for many who travelled to Paris would be poor when they arrived. The mere fact of leaving England was an assurance of poverty, for the king would confiscate all lands, all treasure, all income. Nothing was too small that
it would be ignored by the king’s clerks. Every item in a house or castle would be listed, down to the smallest pin, and removed.

  He wished he knew where his brothers were. There was a man in the Louvre who had said that the rest of them had travelled up to Hainault, to be with the queen and her lover Mortimer, but Richard was not yet convinced. Another man had grave news: he said that Roger had been captured and was being held in gaol, but he didn’t sound entirely sure. Perhaps he was wrong. It would be terrible to think that Roger was dead.

  As it would to hear that any of his brothers had fallen. Richard would avenge any of them, if he might.

  And he would be able to. The despatching of the man in the wastes before escaping England to come here had shown him that he was indeed a strong man, capable of killing when necessary.

  All through his youth, he had looked upon his brothers as more powerful. They had been taught in arms, while he had been taken away when he had shown an especial ability with words and reading. A man able to read and write was always a valuable asset to a family, and if there was the inevitable result that the poor fellow concerned would be forced into the Church, well, that was a price worth paying. In particular because it meant that there would be a confessor for the brothers when they unfortunately behaved as men sometimes would, and killed a man. At those times, Richard had felt his nerves quail. There was something so masculine about them in the way that they stormed into the church, demanding to be heard, taking delight in telling him all about their offences as though he would be proud of their exploits. It made him jealous.

  No longer. Now he knew that he was as competent as they. It was a matter of slipping a blade into a torso, that was all. And next time, perhaps, he would watch more closely. Watch the eyes, see how they dilated and contracted as his knife cut through arteries and veins, punctured the heart, stopped the brain. It would be wonderful to watch all that, to see a man actually dying before him.

  He was looking forward to the next man he would kill.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Bishop’s Palace, Exeter

  The fire was dying gradually as evening drew in. Bishop Walter had dismissed his servants except for his steward, John de Padington, and now his nephew, the squire William Walle, rejoined them.

  Bishop Walter had both scraps of parchment in his lap, and he peered from one to the other through his spectacles, rereading them both time after time, while his brow remained furrowed.

  William broke the silence. ‘Perhaps you should put them away, Uncle? There is little you can do about the matter tonight.’

  ‘I know that,’ Bishop Walter said with a sigh. William was right, but that didn’t help matters. He pushed the two fragments back into the purse and drew the string tight. ‘Do you think that this purse was intended to be recognisable to me? I know nothing at all about it, but it was sent with the message as though I should find it significant.’

  ‘You are quite sure you don’t know it?’ William asked.

  ‘If I had any idea where it came from, I would have said so,’ Walter replied, quite gently.

  The pair of them were worried, he could see. Both had the impression that whoever was responsible for sending these messages would not stop there. They would be sure to try to act out the threats. Someone was going to try to kill him.

  It was infuriating! He clenched a fist and thumped it on his table top, sending one goblet flying, and stood, head down, staring into the fire. ‘This is ridiculous. Someone sends threats like this, and my household is frozen with fear. It will not do!’

  ‘We’re worried,’ William said firmly. ‘First a message, then a man’s head, now another message threatening your death – do you think we can afford not to take these matters seriously?’

  ‘Bishop,’ John said, ‘we seek only to ensure your protection.’

  ‘Very well. Do so, then, but do not expect me to assist you in destroying my reputation and making more of this than I need. For sooth! Someone has shown cunning and skill in sending these two messages to me, but that is all. A low cunning is not proof of intellect. The writer is nothing more than a felon who seeks to extort a response by instilling fear in me. Well, I will not submit to it. I know nothing of this purse, nothing of the messages. I do not know who has sent them, so I will not live in terror as though I am under a sentence of death. Do you both watch over me, but no more. I shall not allow this matter to change my life or rule my behaviour.’

  ‘Perhaps we could increase your guard, my lord Walter?’ John asked tentatively.

  ‘What, have another twenty men? Thirty? That would look marvellous to the crowds, wouldn’t it? A bishop living in terror of his life. And how soon before all heard of these messages and wondered whether there was much truth in the affair? They would soon speculate about the murders I had committed.’

  ‘Uncle, no one who knows you would think you guilty of such a crime.’

  Bishop Walter looked at him. ‘You know I was under excommunication for some while? No? Then do not leap to conclusions, William. There is more to me than perhaps you know. And many people remember this, and would take delight in attacking me.’

  ‘But if you will not allow us to increase your guard, what would you have us do?’

  The bishop considered a moment. ‘There is one thing, perhaps. Ask Sir Baldwin de Furnshill to come and advise us.’

  Third Saturday before the Feast of St Paul and St John*

  Tiverton Castle, Tiverton

  Sir Baldwin de Furnshill trotted into the castle and shouted to the ostler, ‘Take my horse,’ as he dismounted and stood a moment, tugging the gloves from his hands.

  ‘Not a good day, then? What have you done with your companion?’

  Baldwin turned to find himself confronted by the smiling face of William Walle. ‘Squire William! My friend, I am very glad to see you! In truth, were I to have to spend another evening with that dull-witted slobberdegulleon, Ovedale, I would be driven to distraction. If it were not for the fact that the fool was a comrade of Sir Hugh le Despenser, he would not have any authority. As it is, though …’

  He paused, catching sight of a slight grin on his friend’s face. ‘Very well, Squire William. So you take my words as the foolish maunderings of an old man, I suppose? Be that as it may, I am only a little more than double your age, and I have no more lost my faculties than have you or my good friend, your uncle.’

  Immediately he saw the look that passed over William Walle’s face, as the squire replied, ‘Sir Baldwin, it is about him that I have come to speak with you today.’

  ‘Why? The good bishop is well, isn’t he?’ Baldwin asked sharply.

  ‘May we speak in private?’

  Montreuil, Northern France

  The weather was, for once, mild and dry. After the last few days, that itself was a cause for celebration, Ralph la Zouche felt as he followed their guide in through the city walls and along the narrow streets.

  It was a pleasant city, this. Flowers in pots seemed to proliferate, with many bright poppies and roses. After all the rain, the roads had been washed clean, and there was the smell of fresh, damp soil rather than the normal odours of excrement and rotten foods. The buildings were all pleasing to Sir Ralph’s eye, with good limewashed timber and daub, while the people seemed less surly than some peasants he had known. Yes, all in all, it was a pleasant place.

  Their ride had taken some days, but if the weather had been dry, they would have been able to walk such a short distance without trouble. It was noticeable that the roads were of poor quality, and in the rain it was hard to see where the horses might place their feet in safety. However, the roads in much of England were little better. He could not blame the people here for that failing.

  At the little castle, all the men dismounted, with a slight sense of anticipation. It was not every day that a group of knights were to meet a duke.

  They were divested of their mounts in short order, and soon all were being led up some stairs to the great hall.

 
It was richly decorated, and Sir Ralph could feel the eyes of the others on all the decorations and hangings. Much gold thread had been used, and the paintings on the walls were the very finest. At various places there were silver bowls, crosses with gilt hammered over them, while on the table, drinks were set out, and all the goblets were of solid silver. It was enough to make a man’s mouth water.

  However, there was one more delight here for a man’s eyes.

  She entered a short time after them. A small, slender woman, not yet thirty, clad all in black like a widow. She stood, elegant and still, like a small statue, until they had noticed her presence, and then she slowly walked along the hall to study the men one by one.

  Sir Ralph frowned a little at the sight of this woman. She appeared to glide from one to another, without speaking. Behind her came a saucy little blond piece with a roguish eye, and in the doorway stood a young man, of perhaps fourteen or fifteen years. He at least appeared to show the respect due to a force of men like these.

  ‘I think you must be in charge of these men,’ the woman said to him.

  ‘I suppose I might be,’ he grunted. ‘Your Highness.’

  She had dimples in both cheeks when she smiled; it made her appear even more fetching. ‘You know me?’

  ‘I could not mistake you. Not with your son in the doorway, my queen.’

  She turned and nodded to her son. He began to walk across the floor towards them. It struck Sir Ralph that the son was equal in beauty to his father, but there were differences. Both had the same courtly bearing, and both were broad shouldered, as a knight must be, but for all that, this fellow was so much younger, his brow was smooth. Where the king had scowling lines engraved deeply in his forehead from all the times his wishes had been thwarted by his subjects, this boy had a more enquiring manner. He appeared genuinely interested in other men, if Sir Ralph had to guess.