The Bishop Must Die (25 page)

‘I have no idea what you are talking about,’ the bishop said heavily.

‘Merely this, my lord Bishop. This purse – consider it carefully. It is so small, no man would use it as his purse, as I said. However, it is a useful size for certain things. I would imagine that many items would fit inside it, wouldn’t you?’

Squire William leaned forward. ‘What sort of thing, do you think?’

Baldwin peered at it very closely, resting his elbows on his knees. He scratched the outside, sniffed at it, studied it with his head on one side, and finally peered into the interior. He sniffed again, and then scratched at the inside, staring with a frown at his fingernail.

‘Well?’ the bishop said.

‘Someone used this to store a seal,’ Baldwin said slowly. He weighed the purse in his hand thoughtfully. ‘It’s very fine leather, good and soft. It would be enough to protect a man’s seal, and there is a residue of red wax on the inner seam.’

‘Great heaven!’ the bishop breathed as he took the purse and gazed inside. ‘I saw that, but didn’t think anything of it. So you consider that this might have been a seal’s purse. But how that can help us, I do not know.’

Baldwin was watching him closely, he noticed. ‘Yes, Sir Baldwin?’

‘May I be frank, Bishop? Before our companions?’

The bishop looked up at Squire William and his steward, then back at Baldwin, and he allowed a hint of steel to enter his voice. ‘I have no secrets from my nephew and the man who has shown himself my most trusted servant over many years, Sir Baldwin.’

‘In that case, bishop, I would ask how many manors you have acquired for yourself in recent years. This is a goodly sized purse for a large seal. That to me indicates that the seal was from a good manor. It is not a legal seal, for they are held in wooden boxes. It is not a regal seal, for they are larger. This is a middling seal for a man who was proud enough to have a leather purse made for his seal. Perhaps a rich squire, or a knight or knight banneret.’

‘I have not murdered anyone.’

‘That may be true. However, I am sure that there will have been occasions when you have worked with Sir Hugh le Despenser. Perhaps on some occasions he has been more …
energetic
in pursuing your joint ambitions than you would have been on your own.’

‘I am sure that I would have learned of murder, had he committed it.’

‘Do you have a list of the manors which you have acquired with his help?’

‘Oh, this is foolish! There can be nothing in it!’

Baldwin stood. ‘Then clearly there is no need in my remaining. I shall leave you, bishop, and return to my wife. If you change your mind, and wish for me to investigate these messages, then you will be able to find me at my house.’

He stood and bowed, and was about to stride from the room, when the bishop called him back.

‘Sir Baldwin, I am sorry. Yes. I have a list of some of the manors.’

It was late in the afternoon by the time Paul had finished his lesson. Not that there was much he could teach the duke in any case. The young heir to the throne had been well lectured in his time by some of the best tutors in England, and the last one, to judge by the duke’s fulsome praise, had been a paragon of virtue and intelligence.

Not that it was the ability and shrewdness of the duke that
caused Paul to feel so unwholesome. As he walked from the duke’s hall and out into the courtyard, all he was aware of was the thundering in his head. If he had been alone, he would have thrust his fingers down his throat to make himself sick on purpose. The acid in his belly was so foul, it would have been better to try to balance his humours by ejecting as much of it as possible, and then lining his stomach with cool milk to soothe it. He was still tempted to try it even now.

The yard was almost empty, but as he stood at the stairs, he heard the duke shouting for gloves and a cloak, and a little while afterwards, he was at Paul’s side.

‘Good tutor, would you care to join me in a ride?’

Paul tried to smile. ‘That would be most pleasant, but I am not your tutor, my son, I am your confessor. And I fear that to do my work as well as I might, I need to—’

‘Father, I would be glad of your company.’

Paul tried one last refusal. ‘But, Duke Edward, I am hardly the—’

‘Good. So, we need a horse for you too.’

‘We cannot go riding alone, surely?’

‘Why not? This is France, and I feel as safe here as anywhere.’

Paul stared around wildly, hoping for inspiration. He felt foul, his mouth was rough, his belly was threatening to explode, and the last thing he wished for was a fast canter across the countryside with this wayward duke. ‘What would your mother say?’ was the only phrase that came to mind.

The prince looked at him with that quiet gaze that was so coldly certain. It was very much as if he could see into Paul’s soul – and Paul did not like the feeling. Not that he had anything to hide. He was the son of a well-to-do knight, and brother to a sheriff. There was nothing for him to be ashamed of. But still, it was a very odd feeling to have this fellow, who was shorter than him, younger than him, less mature than him, stare at him in that peculiarly direct manner.

All right, then, he thought. If that’s what you want. ‘I am ready,’ he said aloud. ‘Let’s find horses, Your Highness.’

It was as though the damn things had been laid on. In a few moments there was a great bay and a little grey, and the duke sprang up on to the bay as though he had been born to the saddle. Paul was a little less elegant, he knew, as he clambered on to the grey, but not too bad.

‘Your Highness, you do realise that …’

But as he spoke, the boy thrashed the flanks of his beast, and without a backward glance, he was off through the gates.

The bishop had sent a servant for his papers, and while he waited, he stared down at his knees.

Baldwin was struck by how broken this great leader had become. He could remember the first time he had met this man – six, no eight years ago. Then Bishop Walter Stapledon had been taller, fairer of hair, altogether much more youthful in appearance, giving an immediate impression of authority, keen intellect, and honour.

Throughout the length and breadth of his diocese of Devon and Cornwall, Bishop Walter was renowned for his integrity. The barons respected him for his control of the government, especially the Treasury, for he had taken an inefficient and failing system and completely modernised it; the wealthy merchant classes appreciated his commonsense and the way that he allowed business to flourish to the benefit of all; and the poorest were solidly behind him for his enforcement of church alms, as well as for the opportunities he gave to their children for education. All were impressed with the good bishop.

But he had spent too much time in government, Baldwin thought. The bishop had been forced to compromise his principles in order to see that the realm was stable and kept secure. Bishop Walter had become too close to Despenser. The two had formed a loose, but nonetheless dangerous alliance for some years. It was in part due to that, that the queen had left the kingdom, forlorn at losing the affections of her husband as he looked ever more to Despenser for companionship. A naturally
strong-willed woman, she was unwilling to accept a secondary role, for she was queen, and the daughter of a great king, Philip of France. But Despenser was jealous, and wouldn’t allow even the king’s wife to intrude. Her distress was sealed when her lands were sequestrated, her household broken up, all her French companions arrested and gaoled, her income confiscated, and her children taken from her, to be placed in the custody of Despenser’s wife.

The final indignity, that had been. And for many women, it would have spelled a terrible end. Most would have succumbed to despair, and no doubt would have died of grief. Not this queen. She had fought back with all the skills at her disposal. Dissembling, playing the contented wife, deceiving all, until she was believed and trusted by even the Despenser himself.

She and Bishop Walter hated each other. The bishop could not understand a woman of her nature, one with an indomitable spirit and the courage to defy even a bishop. She, for her part, detested him with a ferocity that was unequalled, in Baldwin’s experience. It was no surprise, for the bishop had argued with the king that she was untrustworthy when the French overran Guyenne last year. To have a French-born queen with loyal subjects who adored her in Devon and Cornwall, where she owned many manors, was to invite invasion, he argued, and his words prevailed. Thus it was that she lost her income, and in a vile twist that dishonoured both bishop and king, Bishop Walter was later to accept the income from her lands to help him organise the defence of the shires.

Their disputes had led to the queen becoming ever more fiercely opposed to the bishop, but Baldwin could see now that the bishop and she, while both growing mutually antagonistic, had exhibited vastly contrasting responses.

While the queen had seen her authority removed, brick by brick, she had demonstrated her greatness. She had used cunning and her beauty to win over all those who might be swayed, she had persuaded, cajoled and bribed, and she had come to be viewed as the poor victim, while all commented on her fortitude
and her beauty, as though her looks were a proof of her innocence. And at the same time, the bishop had found himself reviled and denigrated, which had led to this: a man who appeared shrunken, wizened almost. He was only a little older than the last time Baldwin had seen him, but the contrast was notable.

Even now, waiting for the servant to return, the bishop sat with his fingers drumming on his knees. His eyes were on the fire, deep in thought.

The servant returned, and the bishop looked up with a tired smile. ‘I think I should accept that I am an old man, and retire from all work for government. This life of toil is too much for a man of my age. I have the cathedral rebuilding to worry about. Why on earth should I strain myself for the government when I have so much to do? I should resign all the king’s commissions.’

Baldwin smiled, but did not feel the need to say anything. The bishop was a politician to his fingernails, as Baldwin knew. He liked the bishop personally, but the man was so fully immersed in the realm’s government that breaking the chains of service would be enormously difficult.

‘Well, Sir Baldwin, here are the records. These are all the manors I have acquired in the last years.’

‘How far do these go back?’ Squire William asked.

‘Five or six years, I think. My register has others – but would we need to look further back in time?’

Baldwin shook his head. ‘If it were longer ago, surely the man would have done something before now.’

‘What now, then?’ the steward said.

Baldwin looked up from the heavy book. The bishop sat, sad and afraid, watching him, flanked by the squire and the steward. Squire William was full of determination to see his uncle protected, while the steward had a grimness about him, as though already aware that he might have to kill a man in the defence of his master.

‘Now, I have to begin reading this tome with the help of any man who can tell me about each of the cases so we can begin to
form an opinion about who has been sending these notes. With your leave, Bishop, I will start right away. Who was this “William atte Bow”?’

Third Wednesday before the Feast of St Paul and St John
^*

The little force was being readied as Paul de Cockington completed his lesson for the day. He was feeling smug. Never before had he been asked to tutor a boy, but he was nothing if not methodical, as he told himself, and there was little that a man with a brain could not achieve without a bit of practical effort. He would still much rather be getting to grips with the little maid who was the queen’s constant companion, for she looked as though she would be worth a wrestle or two. The mere thought of stripping her and feasting his eyes upon her undoubted assets was enough to make him quiver like a hound seeing the quarry.

But it was not going to happen. Not here. The sad fact was, she was so rarely away from the queen that the opportunity would be very unlikely to present itself. And while he was proud of the speed of his assaults, he would need a little time to persuade this one. Even he wouldn’t want to try to ravish a maid in the queen’s service while he was in the royal lady’s household.

There was another thing – the man Mortimer was always around the place. His eyes were everywhere, so it seemed. Paul couldn’t even glance at a serving maid without finding that Mortimer was staring at him immediately afterwards. The fellow was desperate to know everything that was happening, as though he thought that all the men in his household, all those sitting in
his hall, were plotting to kill him. Quite mad.

It was noticeable that his eyes rested more commonly on Paul than on others though, and that was a source of some fear. Paul didn’t like being watched; he thought that this must be how a mouse feels while the hawk hovers overhead; unseen, unheard, but always moments away from a deadly blow.

Still, the lessons had seemed to be going well. He had managed to surprise the lad – up until yesterday, anyway.

Yesterday the boy had seemed thoroughly impressed; it was clear by the way that he had responded to his teachings. Sometimes the young duke had the temerity to question details, but Paul was always able to adopt a lofty attitude, while making up stories to prove that he was correct. That was one skill he had never lost. There were a couple of moments when the boy had tried to speak over him, as though thinking that he knew the answers to some issues, but Paul had airily waved away his protests. It would not do to have a pupil believe that he knew more than his tutor, after all.

Yes, he had been quite enjoying his teachings, spouting forth while daydreaming about the backside of the maid. Just a shame that he couldn’t get to grapple with that little blonde.

The bell at the chapel tolled, and he gladly closed the book before him. Enormous, it covered the campaigns of the Greek Alexander, and the thing was tedious – and somewhat worrying, too. The boy had specifically asked for it today. Yesterday he had demonstrated an insatiable appetite for stories of the man’s achievements, and it had begun to strain Paul, to come up with new facets of the warrior’s character. Every time he thought that he had successfully shut down one avenue of the duke’s enquiries, the little monster would come up with another. It really had been hard work. The boy seemed to delight in finding new questions. Still, Paul’s inventiveness had been up to it, or so he had felt. He had told of how the man was actually not particularly brave, and that was why he had lived to such a grand old age. Alexander was, naturally, a coarse, thuggish man with the manners of a barbarian, and his appreciation of arts and the finer
things in life were obviously going to extend no further than those things which he could grab and stuff in a cart to be sold.