‘Nephew, I hold power in this cathedral and my diocese; I have held extraordinary power as the Lord High Treasurer. Men hate me for both of these roles. I have negotiated with the queen on behalf of the king, so she hates me. Others think I helped take too much of their lands or treasure for tax and they too hate me. There are many, many men who would happily see me sink into hell.’
John returned, holding the cream-coloured purse. He passed it to the bishop without a word.
‘So, the first told you that the reckoning was at hand, while this second says more definitely that hell awaits you.’
‘And I have no idea who could have written them.’
John was studying the purse itself. ‘This stain — it is old blood. The purse has lain in a man’s blood.’
The bishop reached for it and studied the brown marks. ‘How can you be so sure? It looks like mud to me.’
‘I am sure,’ John said.
William looked at his uncle. ‘Have you killed a man?’
‘No. I have fought, but never slain.’
‘Well, there are no guards on your doors,’ William said. ‘In the Cathedral Close there could have been a thousand men and women today, so it is not possible to work out who could have come to this room while we were in chapel. All we can do is wait for him to try it again.’
‘And next time, with luck, we shall catch him,’ John said. He looked at his master, and felt as though his heart must tear in two at the expression of dismay on the bishop’s face. ‘Do not fear, my lord bishop. We shall catch him.’
‘You will not be hurt by this man,’ William added.
‘No,’ the bishop said, but he did not sound convinced. A short while later, John and William were outside his room.
‘Squire William, I am scared.’
‘Master John, do not be. All we must do is ensure that my uncle is safe from intruders. If we can do that, and stop these ridiculous messages reaching him, he will soon be himself again.’ But as William turned away, he thought sadly that the bishop looked like a frail old man, a man who had not many more months to live.
Paris
Their path took them up the roads away from Paris itself, and soon Richard Folville was glad to see that their route was taking them away from the woods, as well. There was a steady sense of anxiety in his belly whenever he was in a close-confined area.
The murder of Belers was a passing memory now. It had been necessary because the thieving scrote had tried to steal too much from the Folville family as well as the la Zouches. Belers was always happy to enrich himself at the expense of all-comers. Well, he could rob peasants as often as he wished, but if a Belers tried to grab the lands of an old established family like the Folvilles, he would have his hands cut off.
Folville had been lucky in his escape. As soon as he reached the port, he had found a man who was more than willing to stow him away on board, and within a few hours he was at sea on the fishing vessel, bucketing about in the middle of the Channel. It took a mere two days to cross (the weather had been foul), and soon Richard Folville made his way to Paris, telling the story of how his family had been impoverished as a result of the Despenser hold on power at the king’s court.
There had been little surprise at his arrival. During his first day at Paris, he had himself seen a steady stream of men with similar tales, men who had lost everything because of the appalling greed of Sir Hugh le Despenser, or because of the irrational behaviour of the king.
It was curious, watching all those men. Some had been utterly broken, their spirits gone. One man in particular, he recalled, had behaved as a supplicant, weeping, his hands claws, smearing ashes and filth into his beard and hair. The sort of man, in short, whom Richard would have refused entry to his church. This was the type of vagabond who would have earned himself a sharp kick to the backside and a poke with a heavy staff to tempt him to find alternative accommodation. It was surely a credit to the patience of the French that they not only endured his whimpering, but gave him a hearing. It led to his telling some tale of his daughters being raped and murdered, while his wife was imprisoned, and he himself had been due to be executed. Not that he had been, of course. He had escaped, to come here and whine.
The astonishing thing was, all manner of men were accepted here in Paris. Rich and poor alike, for many who travelled to Paris would be poor when they arrived. The mere fact of leaving England was an assurance of poverty, for the king would confiscate all lands, all treasure, all income. Nothing was too small that it would be ignored by the king’s clerks. Every item in a house or castle would be listed, down to the smallest pin, and removed.
He wished he knew where his brothers were. There was a man in the Louvre who had said that the rest of them had travelled up to Hainault, to be with the queen and her lover Mortimer, but Richard was not yet convinced. Another man had grave news: he said that Roger had been captured and was being held in gaol, but he didn’t sound entirely sure. Perhaps he was wrong. It would be terrible to think that Roger was dead.
As it would to hear that any of his brothers had fallen. Richard would avenge any of them, if he might.
And he would be able to. The despatching of the man in the wastes before escaping England to come here had shown him that he was indeed a strong man, capable of killing when necessary.
All through his youth, he had looked upon his brothers as more powerful. They had been taught in arms, while he had been taken away when he had shown an especial ability with words and reading. A man able to read and write was always a valuable asset to a family, and if there was the inevitable result that the poor fellow concerned would be forced into the Church, well, that was a price worth paying. In particular because it meant that there would be a confessor for the brothers when they unfortunately behaved as men sometimes would, and killed a man. At those times, Richard had felt his nerves quail. There was something so masculine about them in the way that they stormed into the church, demanding to be heard, taking delight in telling him all about their offences as though he would be proud of their exploits. It made him jealous.
No longer. Now he knew that he was as competent as they. It was a matter of slipping a blade into a torso, that was all. And next time, perhaps, he would watch more closely. Watch the eyes, see how they dilated and contracted as his knife cut through arteries and veins, punctured the heart, stopped the brain. It would be wonderful to watch all that, to see a man actually dying before him.
He was looking forward to the next man he would kill.
Chapter Eighteen
Bishop’s Palace, Exeter
The fire was dying gradually as evening drew in. Bishop Walter had dismissed his servants except for his steward, John de Padington, and now his nephew, the squire William Walle, rejoined them.
Bishop Walter had both scraps of parchment in his lap, and he peered from one to the other through his spectacles, rereading them both time after time, while his brow remained furrowed.
William broke the silence. ‘Perhaps you should put them away, Uncle? There is little you can do about the matter tonight.’
‘I know that,’ Bishop Walter said with a sigh. William was right, but that didn’t help matters. He pushed the two fragments back into the purse and drew the string tight. ‘Do you think that this purse was intended to be recognisable to me? I know nothing at all about it, but it was sent with the message as though I should find it significant.’
‘You are quite sure you don’t know it?’ William asked.
‘If I had any idea where it came from, I would have said so,’ Walter replied, quite gently.