The Bishop Must Die (5 page)

It was shocking that Baldwin could so quickly have become almost foreign to him. In the last ten years, Simon had grown to depend utterly upon the tall, greying knight. Baldwin was dedicated to justice, to the rational explanations that always lay at the heart of any mystery; he shone as bright as a beacon in Simon’s eyes. He was loyal, intelligent, and so widely travelled that Simon could only marvel at his tales of journeying from here to the Holy Land, and his accounts of the kingdoms and duchies that lay between.

But when Simon’s friend had been asked to drop his sword when Edith’s life was in peril, he had refused. And Simon could never forget or forgive that.

The irony was that, as soon as Simon had returned his daughter to her new family, to the man whom she loved and his parents, there had been a new demand. Her father-in-law, Charles, had told her that if she wished to remain with their son Peter, she must agree never to speak with Simon again.

Charles had been blunt and to the point. The association with Simon had put both their children at risk, and Charles was not prepared to run that risk again. He had told Edith that she must choose: her husband or her father. And she had chosen.

There was no thunderclap of ill omen to herald the event, no sudden deluge, no eclipse – but to Simon, it felt as though his world was ending. His family was all to him. His daughter had been the delight of his life, the physical embodiment of his love for his wife Meg. To accept that she had fallen in love with a man and would leave his family was hard enough; to find that she was gone from him for ever was a hideous disaster.

And to learn this just as he had discovered that he could not trust his old friend and companion, Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, the most compassionate man he had ever known, made the loss doubly painful.

Simon stopped his horse and sat staring at the moors ahead. There was an implacable permanence to those rolling hills. A
steadiness that taunted him now. Once he had been a bailiff on the moors, and his life had been full and purposeful, serving the Abbot of Tavistock. That had been only a couple of years ago. And now all was lost: the abbot was dead, and with him Simon had lost his position, then his friend and his daughter.

Turning his rounsey’s head, he set off back homewards again, retracing his path. He didn’t look at the moors again.

It felt as though they were mocking his weakness.

The bishop was unamused. ‘Fetch me the dean,’ he snapped, as he left the cloisters and walked up the path to his palace, his robes ungainly in the cold morning breeze.

‘My lord bishop?’ Dean Alfred entered with an enquiring expression fitted to his face. A mild-mannered man in his late sixties, with a nature better suited to studying than vigorous effort, the bishop knew he was nevertheless still possessed of a keen intellect, which he generally concealed behind an affable manner.

‘Dean, have you heard about the rector?’

The dean was experienced in the ways of the cathedral and knew that divulging too much when asked a question of this sort could result in embarrassment all round. ‘The … ah … rector?’ he repeated, assuming his usual air of bumbling diffidence.

The bishop peered at his dean. His poor sight was a sore irritation at times like these when he wanted to see the dean’s expression more clearly.

Eyes narrowed, he growled: ‘Don’t try to fob me off, Alfred. We know each other too well for that. Now tell me the truth:
have you heard about the rector
?’

Seeing the look on his bishop’s face, the dean decided to give up the stammering speech which he used as a device of concealment. Candour was safer when Stapledon was in this mood. ‘My lord bishop, if you mean the rector of St Simon’s …’

‘Who else could I mean? Tell me, pray. I should like to know which other rector is so foul in the sight of God.
What
?’

This last was addressed to an anxious servant who had sidled up to him. ‘I thought you might like a little wine, my lord bishop?’

‘Put it down and get out!’ While the man set the tray on the sideboard and hurriedly scuttled out again, Bishop Walter took a deep breath. ‘Tell me what actually happened. So far as you can, anyway. If you can
remember
anything now,’ he added snidely.

‘Um, it would seem, my lord bishop, that this fellow was enamoured of a young lady in his congregation. Events took their natural course.’

‘No, no, Dean! It is
not
natural for a rector to take a woman at all, let alone a married one! Was she willing?’

‘I fear that the rector’s lust was entirely his own. The poor lady in question was not a – ah – willing participant.’

‘And he also tried to extort money from her husband?’

‘Distressingly, I believe that to be the case.’

‘So this fellow captured the woman, raped her, and then demanded money from her husband to have her returned. And he took the money and kept the woman. Yes?’

‘I fear so.’

‘What sort of man is this rector? A cretin who does not understand the foul nature of his crimes? A fool so ill educated that he cannot appreciate the correct behaviour appropriate to his cloth? He should be taken at once. I wish him here.’

‘Yes. But there are difficulties.’

‘Enlighten me.’

‘Rector Paul is the youngest son of Sir Walter de Cockington.’

‘What of it?’

‘His brother is Sir James. The sheriff.’

‘And?’

‘It could make for tetchy relations in the city, were we to have him brought here.’

‘You think we should allow him to continue in this manner?’

‘No, my lord bishop. But I do think that for us to bring him here to your court may well be problematic.’

‘Dean, do you condone his behaviour?’

Dean Alfred gave his bishop a long, contemplative stare. ‘Not even remotely, my lord bishop. No. I personally would be more than content to throw the piece of shit to the dogs. He is foolish, arrogant to a fault, and seems to delight in shaming the Church.’

‘Then why do you hesitate? Remove him from his post without delay.’

‘His brother is a companion to Sir Hugh le Despenser, so I have heard,’ the dean murmured.

‘That I can believe,’ the bishop grunted, and strode to his chair, dropping on to it heavily. ‘The Despenser has friends all over the realm. Men who would take what they wish from anyone, and never pay their debts. Murderers and thieves take the protection of a lord’s livery, and are secure. No man dares take the law against another who is protected by Despenser, the king’s own friend!’

The bishop knew Sir Hugh le Despenser only too well. Once, Sir Hugh had been an insignificant young knight, but then, after the barons of the realm had won a dispute with the king, suddenly he was hurled into the centre of national politics. Installed in the king’s household as chamberlain, he was set to monitor the king’s expenditure – as a spy. Before long, he had become King Edward’s most trusted friend and adviser. The bishop had grown to know him when Despenser had seemed to be working to the benefit of all. Now his true colours were on display for all to see. Except the king.

Many suggested that this was because the two were lovers. The Despenser was married to the king’s own niece, Eleanor, and his father elevated to the earldom of Winchester, while he greedily took every opportunity to enrich himself at the expense of others. No one could speak to the king without first paying Sir Hugh; no suit would be presented, were Sir Hugh not rewarded. In all the realm nothing could happen, unless Sir Hugh le Despenser was in favour. He was the most powerful man, save only the king.

And any who upset him would suffer dire consequences.

‘It would be dangerous to try to harm a man with such connections,’ the dean said quietly.

‘The man who has lost his wife – is he important?’ the bishop asked after a moment.

‘No. His name is Alured de Gydie. A man of no significance.’

‘So he has no power to fetch his woman back?’

‘None whatsoever. He is a cooper – a man of some skill, I understand – but not rich.’

‘And his woman – she is still held by the rector?’

‘Yes.’

The bishop drummed his hands on his table. ‘The Despenser is a rich and dangerous opponent.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘So we should act swiftly. Bring the rector here. If the ransom is lost, it will go evil with that fellow! I will
not
have priests in my diocese acting in such a high-handed manner, and I do not care who his friends are. If the sheriff wishes to complain, he can come and speak with me. I shall have some choice words for him if he tries to protect a brother who is so steeped in wrongdoing that he thinks he may steal a man’s wife and defile her. In Christ’s name, I will
not
tolerate such behaviour! Go and fetch him to my gaol, Dean.’

‘With pleasure, my lord bishop.’

‘And Dean?’

‘Yes?’

‘Do not forget, my friend, I know Despenser very well. He is crafty and dangerous – but so am I!’

He had to visit it, just so that he could say later that he had seen the place. And now, sitting in the tavern, Roger Crok wondered why it had seemed so important to come here and try to bring home to the bishop how his offences had hurt so many. The man was incapable of human emotions. He had proved that already.

Bishop Walter II was a massively powerful man. He was second only to Despenser and the king in wealth and prestige. Somehow, walking to the cathedral and seeing it in that half-reconstructed state, had brought home to Roger Crok just how great this bishop truly was. It made his rage against the man seem pointless; someone with such authority was impregnable in his palace. The man was there trying to rebuild the great church in this city, responsible for vast sums of money, commanding hundreds of men for his own protection – he was surely far beyond Roger Crok’s feeble attempts to hurt him.

Still, he must try. The bishop had been the cause of so much harm in recent years, to all in the country. It was not only Roger himself and his mother Isabella who had suffered. No, his stepfather was as much a victim as any other, even if it had not been the bishop who had seen to his death, because the bishop had maltreated Henry Fitzwilliam’s widow and stolen her lands from her. That made him utterly contemptible. To rob a widow was the act of a felon, a paltry draw-latch; he was a man of no honour.

But it was more than that to Roger. Now that his mother had seen her little manors stolen from her, entirely to satisfy this intolerable bishop’s greed, and at the same time Roger himself
had been declared outlaw, it was not enough that the bishop should be fought in courts. He ought to have the depth of his crimes brought home to him. And that was why Roger was here, to make sure that the bishop was tormented in the same manner as his mother.

Roger called for another pot of cider and drank deeply. The drink flowed into his blood like liquid fire, and soon his fingers had recovered their feeling, his face felt hot from the great fire in the hearth in the middle of the room, and his temper became more sanguine.

The bishop might do some little good here in Exeter, but that meant nothing. It was Roger Crok’s task to make him suffer, and in God’s name, in God’s good time, he would see Walter Stapledon endure the torments of the devil, if he could.

Once he was alone again, the bishop left his hall and walked to his private chapel. His chaplain was not present – he did not have need of the fellow today – and the bishop knelt alone in that quiet chamber, his eyes fixed on the crucifix.

It was the best way to think, here, abased before God. Here he could empty his mind and concentrate on the problems to hand. And remind himself who he really was.

There had been a time when he had not thought himself capable of rising in the Church. When he was younger, he had assumed that his brothers, Robert, Richard and Thomas, would be the successful ones, and he, Walter, would remain as a minor chaplain, perhaps a vicar, if he grew fortunate.

That was why, when he had been young, he had spent so much time looking at others and seeing how he might help them, even if sometimes his motives were called into question. In later years, others complained about him, especially Londoners, because they blamed him for the Eyre of five years ago, when he had been the man behind the court held to investigate all the rights and privileges of the city. However, that was not his doing. Yes, he was the figurehead, the Lord High Treasurer, when the king
demanded his inquest, but it was not his choice.

There were many who loathed him. In God’s name, so many! He had made enemies wherever he went, something that sometimes made him regret ever taking a leading position in the realm. But someone had to, and he was sure that at least he would be able to do some good.

Some might dispute that, no doubt. They would think that his sole aim had been to make money for himself, but they didn’t realise that he took nothing. He was a frugal man, with little need for fripperies. He liked some comforts, it was true, and he had great need of his spectacles, but beyond that, he was not cocooned in gold, swaddled in silver, or laden with tin. Those who criticised were all too keen to suggest that a bishop lived in luxury all his life. Well! They should try covering a diocese like his, and getting around it in order to view all the priests and make sure that they were complying with their duties. They would soon give up any notion of luxurious living.

Yes, he had enemies, but they were for the most part irrational. London’s mob was one thing, but the others who felt that he had unfairly deprived them of property or chattels had no idea what he was struggling with every day: debt. Massive, incomprehensible debt that would crush a man less determined. He had to grab all the treasure he could, just to maintain the steady flow into the cathedral’s coffers and keep the building works going. For what use would his cathedral be, without the final efforts? The stonemasons wouldn’t remain here without their money. The carpenters, joiners, plumbers, ropemakers and tilers, all would leave in an instant if they couldn’t see their pay or their beer turning up.