The Bishop Must Die (7 page)

‘Get up!’ the man rasped from the doorway, and Paul jerked his head in disbelief.

He was a short fellow, but broad. That he was strong was
self-evident, but Paul knew he was only a lowly lay brother at best. ‘Are you talking to
me
?’

‘No – the rat. Get up!’ the man said, with a grin. He apparently felt that this was the height of inventive humour.

‘What is your name?’ Paul asked.

‘Gaoler. Now, shift yourself.’

‘I asked what your name—’

The man grimaced, and entered the room. Without speaking, he took Paul’s left wrist, and dragged the rector towards the door.

‘Hey, leave go of my hand, you churl! Who do you think you are, eh? Get off me, you fool.’

‘Who do I think I am? I’m a man from town, and friend to Alured de Gydie. You know – the man whose wife you stole and raped. The one you tried to rob! We take that sort of thing seriously down here, Rector – if you
are
a rector. You won’t need a title when you’re sitting in that gaol day after day, will you?’

‘You turd, let me go!’ Paul spat. He scrabbled with his spare hand to try to turn and get to his feet, but the gaoler had lugged him across the cell and out to the passageway before he had an opportunity. Then, springing to his feet, he tried to wrest his arm back, but the gaoler had his forearm in a grip as strong as a smith’s. ‘You’ll pay for this!’ he blustered.

‘I daresay,’ the gaoler said without emotion.

Paul de Cockington suddenly found that they were in the open air, and it was some surprise to note that they weren’t heading to the Bishop’s palace. Instead, the gaoler manhandled him past the great west door of the cathedral, and on, out to the Bickleigh Gate.

‘You aren’t taking me to the bishop,’ he declared.

‘Well noticed, Rector. With attention to detail like that, you’ll go far. Perhaps as far as the
city
gaol.’

‘You can sneer at me, man. When my brother the sheriff learns how you’ve treated me, you’ll learn to regret it.’

‘Go on, then. Go and find your brother,’ the gaoler said, and
released him. He carried on, marching east, past St Martin’s, and never once looking back.

Paul looked about him uneasily. He didn’t want anybody coming and discovering him. The streets were busy enough for him to be moderately safe, but there was always danger, if he were to be discovered by Gydie or one of his friends or servants. Better by far to get up to the castle.

His brother James would be able to protect him there.

Pulling up the collar of his tunic and drawing his cloak tighter about him, John de Padington opened the door and made his way to the bakery at the side of the cathedral. It was his usual morning task, to walk the short distance to fetch bread for his master’s breakfast. Bishop Walter II was never particularly fussy about his food, especially his first meal of the day. Something plain, but filling, was all he asked. Cold meat, a little bread, some cheese and wine was enough.

Other men were much more demanding, asking for strongly flavoured dishes with sauces, and sweetmeats afterwards, but the bishop had a strong constitution even now in his six-and-sixtieth year, and John was sure that a large part of that was due to his punishing schedule of work and his tendency to avoid the richer foods, as much as it was his dislike of too much strong drink. He would generally only drink two pints of wine in a day, along with perhaps a quart of ale at lunch.

John de Padington had been steward to the bishop for more years now than he cared to remember. They had grown old together, both of them grey now, and although they had had their arguments in the past (which master and servant never found cause for dispute over the years?), John felt he knew his master as well as, or better than, anyone else did.

All the canons and priests were terrified of their powerful lord. Stapledon had been so long at the very centre of English political life, ruling the Treasury with a rod of red-hot iron, that many feared a word spoken out of turn could lead to their being taken
away by officers of the King – or, worse, men under the orders of Sir Hugh le Despenser. Those taken by
his
men tended to disappear for ever.

The cemetery area was a mess, John thought, as he crossed in front of the cloisters on his way to the north tower where the bakery lay. Horses wandered about the grass, dogs bickered and snapped, and men were playing camp-ball near the west door, desultorily kicking their pig’s bladder about to the risk of all who walked past. John would have remonstrated, but two of the men looked over-aggressive, and John was not one to provoke a fight when such an action could be avoided.

Children played chase amongst the hillocks of newly dug earth. One earned a roar from beneath the soil: a wheeled barrow stood near a hole in the ground, from which the fosser’s head protruded, and he bellowed at the boys until they ran away. The fosser then returned to his digging, occasionally flinging a skull or other bones into a small pile ready for moving to the charnel chapel.

There was an appalling amount of rubbish here in the Close. The fish market that prevailed near the Broad Gate was not open today, but the debris from the previous market remained. The area reeked of old fish, from the piles of fish heads and guts, a sight that was not improved by the cats prowling around, all searching for a tidbit or the chance to spring upon a rat as it gorged itself.

Nor was the mess all the fault of the secular. Much was the responsibility of the cathedral itself, as the rebuilding works continued. Rubble lay about, with old timbers poking out amid the masonry. While stoneworkers chipped and hammered, there was as much noise from the carpenters with their hammers and saws, and over all, the bellowing of the master mason and his staff, all demanding greater efforts from the host of workers who scurried about at the foot of the building site like so many ants.

It was a shame, John reckoned, that the place was in such a state of chaos. He would have liked to have seen it as it was or as it would become, but just now the larch scaffolding was still all
about the nave. The quire had been rebuilt already, but now the walls of the old nave had been razed and were gradually beginning to re-form. However, it would be many years before the cathedral was completed. Neither he nor Bishop Walter would ever see it finished – that would be another thirty years or more.

The bakery was popular at this time of day. Carpenters, masons, priests, servants of all types, congregated at the door, some waiting patiently in line while others fretted, especially the novices and annuellars who stood lowest in the priestly orders. John himself was able to ignore the queues and march to the front, nodding to the chief baker and taking the two paindemaigne loaves of the highest quality that were waiting for the bishop.

William Walle was there too, and greeted John. ‘Good morning, steward.’

‘Not that it’ll remain that way for long,’ John said, nodding westwards towards darkening clouds.

‘Aye, well, there’s always a storm brewing somewhere,’ William said easily.

The squire was a tall, gangling young man, and the steward was as fond of him as he could be. Walle was a generous-hearted fellow, kindly and polite to all in the cathedral, even though he was the bishop’s nephew and need not strain himself. There were some who were born into positions of authority, John knew, who would instantly take on the mantle of arrogance and rudeness; others would treat all as equals. William fell into this second category.

‘There appear to be more storms than usual this year,’ John said as they returned to the palace. He did not need to explain. A grim mood lay over the entire country. The king’s dispute with his wife was known to all, and a French-funded invasion was cause for terror.

‘Aye, well, I believe that the summer could be good and warm, and the harvest better than we’ve seen for many years past,’ William said. ‘You know, good steward, that there is no reason to fear men. If God has decided that we need to be punished, He will
allow the French to come. There is nothing we may do, except try to repel them. But no matter what happens, a good harvest will fill our bellies, and that is a thing greatly to be desired.’

‘You say
this
thing is in God’s hands, but
that
thing is to be desired, Master William – yet both are in His gift. Neither one more than the other.’

‘True. So let us not worry about them, but instead plan for the worst and hope for the best, eh? I refuse to be alarmed while the weather is holding, and while I have my health and happiness.’

John shook his head at the sight of the squire’s grin. ‘I think it is proof of youthful ignorance that you mistake for optimism. There is nothing to be too cheerful about. Let us wait and see whether matters improve, whether the queen returns willingly to her husband, whether she brings their son with her, whether the French do agree that she should come home to her adopted land, and—’

‘And whether the rain doth fall for all the year and our nation starve once more! Come, steward, you have been eating too much melancholy food. You need the sparkle of some fresh cider in your belly to cheer yourself.’

John chuckled. It was impossible not to like young William. He was always brimful of happiness, and although an older man might bemoan the dire circumstances in which men found themselves, yet it was good to talk to William. He had that sunny disposition that tended to drive away the grim reality of the present.

‘I eat well enough,’ he responded, glancing at his taller companion. ‘I have all the rich, happy food I can manage. It’s the benefit of being your uncle’s steward. I get to finish the dishes he leaves – and he has a small appetite!’

‘That is good. I would hate to think that you were suffering from hunger,’ William teased.

‘Aye.’

They had passed by the building works and were approaching the cloisters. As they drew near, William stopped suddenly, and
said, ‘Steward, you know my uncle as well as any man alive. You haven’t seen him showing alarm recently, have you?’

‘No. Should I have?’

William shook his head quickly, but then grimaced. ‘You see, I saw him reading a note that upset him last night.’

‘That’s not unnatural. Your uncle has many communications from all over the diocese and the rest of the kingdom – and some are bound to be of a serious nature. He is an important man, you know that.’

‘Yes – and yet he has never concealed anything from me before.’

John glanced at him with surprise. ‘He wouldn’t, would he, because he knows he can trust you, squire. You are of his blood, as well as having his confidence from your service to him.’

‘That is true, and yet as soon as he saw me, he snatched the parchment away before I might see it, as though he was guilty or ashamed.’

‘You are sure you did not mistake his action?’

‘No. He deliberately hid it from me. I am certain there is something wrong. But do you keep an eye on him for me, steward, in case there is something that alarms him. I would help him if I may.’

There was no more galling experience than to be frightened by an unseen enemy, the bishop told himself bitterly. And he
was
frightened.

He had always known that he would be unpopular with some. Bishops were wielders of enormous power, and as such were always feared, and therefore hated. A man who had power of life and death over another did not enjoy his respect. All too often, he was the subject of loathing, because such power could seem too arbitrary to the peasant who saw a friend hanged. Bishop Walter II had tried to prevent abuses of power, but it was not always possible. And on occasion, he had been forced to use his own power – for the greater glory of the Church, not for himself.

When he was only a canon, he had been excommunicated. It was a lot of nonsense, but nonetheless embarrassing. He had heard, with another canon, of an illegal burial taking place at the Dominican Friary towards the east of the city. The cathedral jealously guarded their monopoly of all burials, because they were enormously lucrative. Those who wished for a church funeral were keen to have their souls protected with prayers, and with proximity to the high altar, and the Dominicans knew it. So they tried to have this knight buried in their priory so that they could benefit from the grave goods, the wax, the linen and rich cloths, as well as by the man’s gifts to them.

Well, the cathedral had greater need of the money and goods than the Dominicans. It was ludicrous that the friars should attempt such a gross infringement of cathedral liberties. So Canon Walter, as he then was, had gone with lay brothers to chastise the friars. He had managed to get into their chapel, and there he had the lay brothers pick up the hearse, the body and all the valuable items he could find, and all would have been well, had not a belligerent group of friars come and tried to remonstrate with him. There was a scuffle, most unseemly in the House of God, and a friar was given a bloody nose before the cathedral men escaped with their booty.

They had tried to return the body for burial later, when they had held their service to justify keeping the treasure, but the friars wouldn’t accept it, so Walter had told the lay brothers to leave the fellow at their gate. It remained there for some days, until the city had made pointed comments to the bishop, and Walter was ordered to collect it. In the end, it was buried in the cathedral.

The friars had blamed Walter for the assault on their priory. They almost succeeded in preventing his election to the bishopric, in their determination for revenge. Fortunately, others intervened, and he was consecrated.

All these years later, there were many more whom he had offended and who had come to hate him. But that was no reason for the foul message yesterday. How any man could seek to send such a vile note was beyond him. Well, he was determined that he
would not allow it to affect him and his ministry. He had too much to see to, too much to achieve. And at the same time there was the terrible problem of the king and queen. So many issues to be resolved. He could not afford to be distracted by some anonymous threat.