The Bishop Must Die (24 page)

Third Monday before the Feast of St Paul and St John
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Baldwin trotted up the roadway to the bishop’s great house with an eye open to all dangers.

Only the last day, there had been some acts of hideous treachery committed. To hear of rape and murder was one thing, but to learn that the crimes had been committed on the Sabbath was most shocking, even to a man like Baldwin, who had witnessed so many foul crimes in his long life.

‘I am sorry that your journey was increased,’ William was saying again.

The poor fellow looked quite worn down, Baldwin thought, which was unlike him.

‘I am sure that it is merely a matter of sense,’ he said. ‘The bishop has so many calls upon his time, it is not surprising that he might decide to move away from the palace for a few days. Perhaps it was only to relax a little. He is always such a hard worker.’

‘Yes, you’re probably right,’ William said, but he retained an expression of watchful anxiety as they clattered over the drawbridge and up to the main yard.

There was good need for his concern. As Baldwin looked about him, he saw seven men-at-arms in the court, and up at the hall, he saw two more. That wasn’t counting the men on the walls. This was not a peaceful residence away from the city, it was a fortified manor in preparation for war. A sudden chill settled in his breast at the thought that the long-feared war might even now be at hand. It had not occurred to him that there could have been recent news about the queen and Mortimer. But if there were to be reports of imminent attack, it was natural that the bishop would go and see to the defences of his favourite house outside of Exeter.

So it was with some nervousness of his own that Baldwin dropped from his mount and made his way hurriedly from the court to the hall. Seeing John de Padington, he was reassured to recognise the stolid, unperturbable steward.

‘Sir Baldwin, you are most welcome. I hope you had a good journey? I am sure the good squire will have entertained you on your way.’

‘I wasn’t in the mood for entertaining,’ William said.

Baldwin nodded with mock severity. ‘No. He sought to avoid entertainment entirely, master steward. Rather, he saw fit to distract me from all pleasant contemplation of the roads, the fields, the woods, and ensured that I was engaged all the while in discussion of serious matters.’

‘I only spoke of the coming … oh. You jest!’ William said, with a roll of his eyes.

‘Friend, let’s see what the bishop has to say,’ Baldwin murmured, not unkindly.

‘He has much to tell you,’ John said. ‘There’s been another note.’

The weather was fine. That was the first thought that ran through Paul’s head as he gradually awoke. He could tell it was fine because he had forgotten to draw the shutters the night before, he had been so merry, and now he found that the light was a most unwelcome distraction.

At least he had slept well. His problem had been the drink. Usually he could cope with a quantity of ale, but last night, jealous of a squire with his wench on his arm, Paul had retreated to a small, smoky den at the back of the castle’s yard, near the kitchen, where he had found a small group of men playing at knucklebones for pennies a throw. The merry fellows were keen to welcome him in among their games; later, it was a still more merry bunch of men, while Paul’s mood had risen to elation, only to crash to misery as his gambling flowed and then inevitably ebbed. He had drunk more than he should, especially of the
strong local red wine, and when he left that party, he had been almost cleaned out of all money.

Recalling their faces now, he wondered whether he had been fleeced as many gulls in a new town would be. There was something about their looks which had struck him as perhaps a little secretive. One man with a face so bearded he looked like a gorilla, had winked to a companion as soon as Paul entered. That was odd, now he came to think of it: the men had all exchanged glances when he walked in, and the bearded man had been the one who accepted him into their game, but they had none of them asked who he was. After all, he was a stranger in their midst. But perhaps his face was already known to the garrison. He was the confessor to the young duke, after all.

With a flash, he remembered that today he was supposed to be aiding the duke with his lessons.

His predecessor as tutor had been a very widely read man, apparently, called Bury. But he had been sent to be Constable of Bordeaux, because Roger Mortimer had said that the town needed a good man at this difficult time. Now the prince seemed to feel the need for more education, almost as a defence against more work.

Rising and washing his face quickly, Paul shivered and made his way to the duke’s chamber.

‘Enter!’

‘My lord, I hope I find you well?’ Paul said as he knelt just inside the doorway.

‘No one has poisoned me today. Not that I know of, anyway,’ Edward replied, somewhat dully.

Paul licked his dry lips. ‘I am sure no one would wish to do that, my lord.’

‘Are you? Then you don’t know the world in which I live, priest,’ Edward said with heat. ‘My mother looks upon me only as a sacrificial groom, to marry to the best family she can find. My father hates me – he thinks I have defied him and am staying here of my free will, with the man whom he detests above all others – Roger Mortimer. He blames me, because I am to be
married against his will. He made me promise that I should not allow myself to accept any treaty of marriage while I was here with my mother, but she began negotiating to sell me six months ago. The only man who has no say in it is me!’

Paul was not prepared for such a declaration. His lips felt gummy, his flesh was clammy, and he had an oily churning in his belly. ‘I am sure you would prefer to have some peace, my lord. Look, I’ll leave you this morning. You are feeling out of sorts, and won’t want lessons from a poor instructor like me. You should get some rest, and we can continue tomorrow.’

‘No, stay here. In faith, you are truly my man, aren’t you? You are my confessor, my own private companion?’

‘I hope so, my lord. I have the duty of secrecy.’

‘Then advise me. What should I do? I cannot escape this trap here. I would have to run a long way to outrun the guards set all about me. Yet I ought to return to England. I promised my father that I would do that.’

‘Whether you promised or not, if you are being held against your will, it matters not. It is not your fault if you are prevented from doing your father’s will.’

‘You say that, but I am a duke! I was born to command. From my first weeks, I have been a royal earl in England. I have managed my household, controlled my estates – with a little help, it’s true, but mostly on my own. And yet here I don’t have anyone I can rely upon.’

‘There are some. The men I came here with, they are all determined to serve you.’

‘Oh, really? They are determined more to remain as far as possible from Sir Hugh le Despenser, I have heard. Assassins, felons – outlaws all. They do not fill me with confidence.’

‘They should, my lord. They may appear to be little more than draw-latches, but they are strong, and they have little to lose. It’s true that they’re all enemies of the Despenser, but if they can demonstrate loyalty to you, they may be able to hope for a pardon, if you could speak to the king on their behalf.’

‘You think so?’ The Duke of Aquitaine closed his eyes in
despair. ‘You do not know my father, nor the Despenser. The latter is vile. He considers only his own interests. I don’t know how he has inveigled his way into my father’s affections, but there is no doubt that he has done so with enormous skill. My father will do nothing without the approval of Despenser. He will not order his men-at-arms, he won’t command the admirals, he won’t rest or even take a piss, I sometimes think, without gaining the approval of that cursed knight! And if Despenser thought I was a threat to him personally, I would wager heavy odds that my life would be at threat.’

‘No matter. Despenser can’t live for ever. While there is the chance that you may return to England, the men here are your best guarantee of security. They will not throw away the only asset they have: your friendship.’

‘You think so, seriously? You believe that they could prove to be a reliable force to protect me?’

‘Yes, I think so. Look at them: what would they gain by being traitorous to you? The friendship of Despenser – who would trust to that!’

‘My father,’ the duke said bitterly.

The bishop tried to concentrate on the latest set of accounts for the rebuilding of the cathedral, but his mind would not focus. He had never known such doubts. Even in France last year, when he learned that the queen and Mortimer were plotting his death, he had not been as confused and scared as he was now. Once upon a time, he had taken upon himself all the accounts for the Exchequer and had sorted them into rational blocks, making the taxation a simpler task and freeing the king to do more as he wished. In those days, he had possessed the most logical brain in the country, he reckoned. And now? Now he couldn’t concentrate on a simple set of accounts from the cathedral fabric rolls.

It was a relief to see the knight at his door. ‘Sir Baldwin, please enter – enter. It is most kind of you to come all the way out here.’

‘John tells me that you have been unfortunate enough to have had another message?’

‘He speaks before he ought to,’ the bishop said, turning a cold eye upon his servant.

‘Aye? And if I did not, what then?’ John de Padington said belligerently. ‘Would you willingly inform the good knight after he came to see you, or would you try to keep it hidden?’

‘Enough, steward! Fetch my guest some wine and begone! You have no sense of propriety.’

‘Propriety, is it?’ John muttered perfectly audibly as he turned his back and walked to the buttery. ‘And I suppose propriety will save a bishop’s life?’

‘Ignore the old fool,’ Bishop Walter said. ‘I am truly most glad
to see you, Sir Baldwin. Tell me, how are the plans for the array proceeding?’

‘Not so well, it would appear, as the plans for your death. Show me these messages, Bishop. I know that they are unpleasing, but perhaps I can learn something from them.’

‘I doubt it,’ Bishop Walter said. He stood and walked to a small chest placed on a table opposite the fire. Opening it, he moved some scrolls and leather wallets aside before finding the purse. ‘Here it is. The notes are inside.’

Baldwin took the notes. ‘Which was first, which second?’

‘That one you hold there:
you who think
… and so on – that was first. The second was that
The author of so much
… and that is the latest.’

Baldwin read it. ‘
Your doom approaches. The city will not avail you now
. What do you think that means?’

‘Simply that there is no defence in the city of Exeter, of course. What else could it mean? And it’s not surprising. The city contains many who dislike me. There are men there who would willingly collaborate with an assassin. I have made enemies in the Priory of the Dominicans, I have enemies in the city itself, and there are too many easy methods of ingress to the Close and the bishop’s palace. That was why I moved myself to here. I think that this should be a safer base from which to assert my freedom and independence.’

‘It is well fortified,’ Baldwin said. He was still studying the little scraps of parchment. ‘The writer has a good hand,’ he said at last. ‘Each one is perfectly legible.’

‘Which at least means it’s less likely to be one of my parish priests,’ the bishop commented sourly.

‘This purse is interesting, though.’

The door from the screens passage opened and William walked in, holding it wide for John, who was carrying a large tray laden with wine, goblets, and meat as well as cheeses.

Bishop Walter nodded to the steward. ‘Very good, John.’

‘We want to hear what the Keeper says,’ John said.

‘I wish for some peace,’ the bishop said firmly.

‘We have to learn all we can if we’re going to protect you,’ William protested. ‘It would be foolish for us to be turned away. What does the last message say?’ he asked.

Baldwin passed the note to him, and the squire stood reading it blankly for a moment. ‘What does it mean? The city wouldn’t exactly rise up to defend a man, no matter who it was.’

‘I agree with the bishop that it was a good idea to come here,’ Baldwin said, studying the first two messages closely. His eyes were not so good as once they had been.

The bishop shook his head. ‘I believe firmly that this is all nonsense, and will soon be shown to be of no consequence.’

‘This purse is most curious,’ Baldwin said. ‘It is too small to be used as a man’s purse. Good, fine leather, but so small. No man would carry something so petite. And this stain …’

Bishop Walter rubbed at the bridge of his nose. ‘Yes, it looks like blood, I know.’

‘Well, Bishop, I believe you if you say you’ve not killed a man,’ Baldwin said with a smile.

The bishop returned it, although his own, he felt, was rather more brittle than the knight’s. ‘I am glad to hear you say that. I would not like to be accused of a simple murder, Sir Baldwin.’

To his annoyance, the knight appeared to pay no attention to his words.

‘No. I don’t think you have killed a man yourself. However, the author of these notes believes that you have. And that means he must have some reason to suspect you. Is it possible that you have a servant who has killed and that you are being held responsible? The only alternative, surely, is that you have, because of negligence or inaction, allowed someone to die. I cannot believe that.’

‘Why, because you don’t think me capable of incompetence or laziness?’ Bishop Walter said pointedly.

Again though, Sir Baldwin did not look across at him. He remained turning the purse over and over in his hands. ‘No, it is merely a matter of commonsense. If you’d allowed someone to die from either cause, you would be aware of the deaths. If it
were something which you were completely unaware of, your negligence or inaction would be irrelevant. Unless it was your negligence in following up a death? But this is pointless. It is trying to weave a tapestry to form a picture when we only have one colour of thread. What we need is different colours to tell our tale. So let us consider the next scene, and see if there is more thread there.’