‘I see. You have done well, Hob. Thank you,’ said John, and gave his man a few pennies to share out for his trouble.
It was an intriguing conundrum though, and he was determined to seek the truth in the matter. He pulled his hood over his head, and marched off along the lane to the chapel, which stood a little south and east.
The chaplain here was a man a great deal older than John. Old Peter was an ancient man of nearly seventy summers, and intensely loyal to the family which had installed him here. ‘Sir John,’ he smiled on seeing the manor’s lord as he entered the church. ‘How can I serve you?’
Old Peter took the little parchment from John while he listened to the news of the attack. ‘That is bad, master. Bad indeed, to be set upon by men in full daylight. They must be terrible felons. You’ve called the coroner to report it?’
‘I have sent one of the stable-boys. What of this though?’
‘Well, it’s a note telling someone to go, to Coombe Bissett. It says, Find the chaplain there and show him this note. Tell him I have ordered that you be allowed to rest in his home until you wish to leave. And it’s signed. Here. It says Exeter.’
‘So it means the Bishop of Exeter sent those two here,’ John said, outwardly calm.
‘Well, Sir John, all it says is, he was offering hospitality to people. No mention of attempting to rob a man.’
‘I don’t think they meant to rob me,’ John said. ‘No, they were here to kill me. That’s why they left the chapel early each morning, returning late. Apart from today, because I discerned their plan and thwarted it.’
Old Peter eyed him for a few moments, and then shook his head, passing the parchment back to him. ‘This means nothing. The bishop may have been asked by someone else to see to lodging for them. He may have sent the men here on his own business, and they chose to steal from people on their own initiative.’
‘I disagree. I think this means that Bishop Walter of Exeter intended to kill me,’ John said calmly.
He left a short while later, leaving Old Peter kneeling before his little altar, praying that John was wrong. But John knew he wasn’t. No, this was further proof that the bishop was prepared to use any means to remove him and win the manor.
That bastard! The action of Bishop Walter of Exeter was so disgraceful that it quite took his breath away. He would have his revenge on that scheming murderer, if it was the last thing he did in this life. How dare he, a man of God, behave in so feral a manner! He was a disgrace to his cloth.
And yet he was still a powerful man. Perhaps the third most powerful in the whole realm, after only the king and Despenser. His servants were dedicated to his protection, and all were armed.
No matter, John decided, as he climbed the stairs to his hall. He paused at the top, staring out over the landscape.
This was his land. He would not give it up, and if the bishop tried to remove him, he would fight for it.
If necessary, somehow he would kill the bishop himself.
Bishop’s Palace, Exeter
‘So you asked him?’ the steward enquired.
William had lost that amiable expression for which he was so well noted. ‘This was so grave a shock to me — yes, I did.’
John de Padington looked him up and down with a considering expression. ‘I have been called astute in my time, and one is credited with such honours by dint of hard effort and the occasional recourse to strong wines. You look like a man who is in sore need of a potent drink to refresh your mind and your heart.’
He left the little chamber for a few minutes, and William walked to the stool beside the fire, listening to the sounds of crockery clattering. Soon the steward returned, a large jug in one hand, while in the other he carried two of his most prized possessions, a pair of green-glazed drinking horns, which he set on the floor beside him, and carefully poured from the jug.
‘What is that?’ William asked.
‘A good wine from the bishop’s own stores. He opened this a few weeks ago at a feast, and I took the remainder of the barrel. It would have soured if I’d left it,’ he added defensively.
‘This,’ William said, sniffing appreciatively, ‘would have been wasted as vinegar. Your health!’
After both had taken a large swallow, he continued.
‘I held this parchment up to him, and he just shook his head, wouldn’t even look at it. You know how he is. Usually he would scold me for looking at one of his documents; he would rant and roar and put the fear of God into any man whom he thought had been so presumptuous. But when I confronted him with this thing, he just looked abashed. It was as though he had been scared of it, and being shown it again redoubled his fears. He walked from me, keeping his back to me, and said nothing for a long time. I kept asking him, “Why didn’t you tell me? Tell any of us?” and all he would say was, “What good would that do?€™
‘So what exactly did the parchment say?’ John asked. He had pulled up a small bench, and now he sat on it near the fire, opposite the squire, listening intently. ‘You told me it was threatening?’
‘It said You, who think yourself above the law, you, who have destroyed so much with your avarice and abuse, your reckoning is at hand. Prepare to die.’
‘What do you think that meant?’
‘Obviously that he has been guilty of offending someone. Perhaps a man he stole from?’
Both of them were quite well aware of the source of the bishop’s wealth. Bishop Walter II was not a violent nor a cruel man by nature, and yet all knew that he had tied his ambition to the king, and the possibilities for enriching himself had been, and still were, legion.
‘I know that the folk of London hate him,’ William added. ‘He was the instigator of the Grand Eyre of five years ago.’
‘Many detest him for that,’ John agreed shortly.
It was true. Londoners were growing more and more confident in their importance during the fourteenth year of King Edward II’s reign, and it was this, as well as the dire conditions of the king’s finances, which led to the Grand Eyre, the public inquisition into all rights, customs, taxes and liberties within the city. To the administrative mind, it was a means of ensuring that those monies due to the crown were actually accumulated; in the opinion of the over-taxed and burdened population of London it was an unbearable trial, designed to ensure that all those who could not prove quickly with legal documents that they were entitled to their money would be forced to give it up to the king. Bishop Walter was the Lord High Treasurer, so it was he who had instigated this investigation, and thus it was he who was most loathed out of all the king’s advisers. In London he was looked upon as a thief who had stolen the bread from the mouths of all inhabitants.
‘What did he say?’ John asked more quietly.
‘You know him.’ William restlessly stretched a leg, and sat staring at the flames while he chewed his lower lip. ‘He said at first that he was not going to be made fearful by some anonymous threats; that the person who wrote that message was clearly lunatic, and not someone to be feared.’
‘And yet he has allowed himself to become fretful because of it,’ John noted.
‘Aye. He denies it, but it’s the truth. We both know that. He did declare that he had no idea who on earth could have sent it.’
‘Where did he find it?’
‘On his table. Someone had come in and put it there.’
‘Who?’
‘How can we find out? It was so long ago now, and my uncle didn’t bother to question anyone. He didn’t want people to think he was fearful of such threats, I think. His mind appears to have been set on other things at that time. He said that he didn’t readily understand the import of the message.’
‘So someone has said that they will see that he gets his reckoning,’ John repeated, nodding pensively to himself. ‘Well, you and I will have to be most vigilant. We will have to be at his side to protect him at all times.’