‘I don’t know the man. I am Peter of Huntingdon, and I am here on the business of the Bishop of Norwich, as I said. You cannot hold me. I have the benefit of clergy, and-’
‘Don’t give me that ballocks, priest. We know all about your “benefit” here. There was a priest killed a man a couple of years ago — and we may have released him when the bishop demanded it, but only after he’d been found guilty. You see, up here, we think that murdering scum is murdering scum. It doesn’t matter what habit you wear, nor whether you’ve had a good shaven pate: if you kill, you’re a killer.’
‘I’m no murderer! I’ve never killed anyone — I swear it before God.’
‘Perhaps. You can tell the justice when you see him. For now though, pack your gear and come with me.’
‘Right away?’
‘You catch on fast.’
Folville stared down at his pot. The steam was beginning to rise from the surface, and he could almost taste the mint. ‘I need my drink first. And then I’ll get my horse and join you,’ he said. And in his heart, he knew there was no escape for him. This man would bind him and sit him upon his horse, and he would lead Richard all the way back to Melton Mowbray, to the gaol. If he was fortunate, the bishop would send a man to rescue him, eventually, and he would be transferred from one gaol to the bishop’s own. It was a grim outcome.
‘There is no time for that, priest. Get your things. Now!’
‘But I want to-’
The man swung himself down from his horse and trampled Richard’s fire, kicking over the pot, upsetting the water, and there was a rush of noise and steam that inundated the place.
Richard stared with dismay at his fire, shaking his head in disbelief. There was the smell of soggy coals already, and the steam was rising pathetically from the embers. He let out a tiny sob, and began to bend down to pick up the pot, just in case there might be a little water left in it, and now the man kicked again, his boot striking the pot and sending it high in the air.
It was his mistake. The sergeant followed the trajectory of the pot with a smirk on his face, and didn’t see the flash of steel, nor register the danger until he felt the small explosion in his breast as the sharp point punctured his lungs and continued up, shearing through the muscles of his heart.
He coughed — that was the first thing that Richard was aware of — then clutched at his throat, pulling at his hood and tunic as though they were strangling him; he jerked and thrashed, while the blood poured in a crimson gush from his lips, until he slumped to the ground. A last shiver ran through the man’s body, and the corpse was not a human being, it was merely an accumulation of muscle, flesh and bones. There was not even the indication of a soul.
Richard scrambled away, wanting to scream in pure horror, wanting to escape this scene of hell, this picture of his own guilt. For this man had not died at the hands of his brother, but had been killed by him — by him personally. By the one de Folville who was a man of God.
His mind was rushing on from one horrible consideration to another, and yet Richard gradually understood that it was not the reality of what he had done that scared him; it was the thought of the punishment, were he discovered. He would be safe in heaven, after all. He had studied, and he knew perfectly well that, provided he made a fulsome apology and confessed before death, his soul would be secure.
Already, all panic was leaching away, and in its place was a rational consideration. First, he must conceal the body as best he could. Second, he must also conceal the horse, if possible, and finally he must make good his escape.
Taking his knife from the corpse, he cleaned it on the man’s chemise, before rolling the body away, down to the bank of a little stream. Shoving the sergeant over and into the water, he felt sure that the body would remain unseen for some little while. Then he returned to his fire and shook his head mournfully. For the want of a hot drink he had killed that man. He wanted his mint tea more than anything he had ever desired, but he could do nothing about it. First he must ride away to Bishop’s Llyn.
His belly growling and his throat parched, he tiredly repacked his few belongings, then fetched his horse. Saddling it and then tying his blanket to the saddle took but little time. The sergeant’s horse had meanwhile ambled over to the stream, and now was sniffing at it with perplexity. In a moment, it had started to whinny and paw at the ground, and Richard realised his error. He should have killed the brute before. Now it was too late. He was desperate to get away, to find a ship to help him escape. The thought of catching and killing a horse now was too daunting.
With a set jaw, he mounted. Beneath him, his own horse was prancing with excitement — catching some hints of the scent of blood, he thought — and then he was off, pointing the beast eastwards, and, so he hoped, to safety.
Exeter
Roger Crok had found himself a cheap lodging at an inn near the West Gate overlooking the walls, and beyond, the river and the vills that spread out in the valley and up the hills. It was the sort of view Roger could look at all day with happiness to remind himself that he was in a safe, enclosed city.
There had been little opportunity so far, but he was determined to find his way to the bishop somehow.
He walked about the city a lot of the time; it was easy to pass unnoticed among the thronging hordes. Most days he went over to the Cathedral Close and stood watching the canons and the lay brothers at their duties. There was one old fosser who always seemed ready to chat — and Roger deliberately avoided him. He had no desire to be noticed and remembered.
The sight of the canons marching to their services was always impressive, and today, it was something that made Roger pause.
It was clear that news of some sort had reached the cathedral. Was it that he was here? That was his first thought. Someone must have guessed that the bishop was an assassin’s target, because as soon as the first canons strode out from their doors to the cathedral’s grassed areas, he saw the extra men.
Usually the black-gowned clerics would appear quietly, their garments flapping in the wind like the wings of ravens, and wait with more or less patience as their entire household formed behind them, and then make their way to the cathedral. Today, all was different. The canons appeared to be glaring about them with intense suspicion.
When the bishop and his own familia arrived, he knew in his heart that it must be true. They had heard he was here to kill the bishop.
And then he began to see that the looks were not aimed at him, nor at the others in the Close. All the suspicion was aimed at each other.
Asking around in the crowd, he learned nothing about the cause of this change, and was reluctantly left with the belief that the only man who could help him was the fosser — who at the moment was up to his waist in a new grave. As Roger cautiously made his way over to the old man, he kept his gaze fixed on the bishop’s household.
The bishop himself looked terrible. His skin was almost yellow, and his head was bent — as one who was carrying an appalling burden of grief on his shoulders.
‘Here, my friend — what on earth’s the matter with the choir?’ he enquired when he reached the fosser.
The others in the bishop’s household were also affected, he could see. There was a youngish fellow, well built and with the bearing of a fighter, who stood near Stapledon, with tears falling from his face.
‘Bishop’s old friend has died,’ the fosser said, wiping his brow with the back of a muddy hand. ‘Father Joshua was a popular figure up yer. ’E was old, mind. Ancient as the old cathedral, they say. Looked ’un.’
There was much more in a similar vein, about the special service being planned, the tomb under the flags in the cathedral near the altar, the mourning that would continue for the rest of the day and through the night while the bishop held his vigil over the corpse with his most loyal servants and other friends of the dead man.