The Bishop Must Die

by Michael Jecks

Genres: General Fiction; Medieval; Historical Mysteries

Synopsis

1326: Queen Isabella refuses to leave France and humiliates her husband King Edward II by flaunting her adulterous relationship with the arch-traitor Sir Roger Mortimer. The King is furious when he hears she has also betrothed their son to the daughter of the French Count of Hainault, and all England fears invasion. As news of an invasion fleet is received, the King’s knights, including Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, are commanded to London to protect the King and his realm.

Meanwhile Bishop Stapledon, the Treasurer of England, is under threat – but from whom? He has made many enemies and Baldwin and ex-bailiff Simon Puttock must do all they can to find the would-be assassin before it’s too late.

Release date: February 27, 2014

Publisher: Soundings

Print pages: 480

Sample

Third Saturday following the Feast of St Michael, sixteenth year of the reign of King Edward II*

The stench was unbelievable.

Hundreds had gone through this place in recent months. Since the battle at Boroughbridge, the ‘contrariants’, who chose to dispute the king’s excessive powers, had been hunted down and incarcerated – many of them here in Gloucester, and all appeared to have left their mark. The gaol reeked of sweat, piss and blood – and the little sewer outside was incapable of taking away the faeces of so many.

Men died here every day. The battle had been lost, and since then the fortunate ones had been taken out in their threes and fours, and executed on the green, where the city’s folks could watch. Sometimes there was a festival atmosphere, and loud cheering and laughter heralded the latest jerking body at the end of a rope, but that was at the beginning. Now even Gloucester’s people were grown weary of the sight of so many men being killed. There had been a feeling after the battle that the king’s rage was natural. Not now. The dead were displayed in cages up and down the country; some, quartered, had their leathery limbs decorating the principal cities, while their blackened, skull-like heads stared out from the tops of spikes in London.

But Ranulf’s father had died here today without fanfare. An old man, he had endured the grim misery of the gaol for nearly forty weeks, from his arrest until today. The king had not seen fit to put a stop to his suffering sooner. He was no threat, after all, so there was no urgency in hastening his end.

Sir Henry Fitzwilliam. Proud knight, good father to a motherless son, husband to a second wife, kind and generous to all servants and travellers, he did not deserve to die in this foul prison, without seeing the sun for months.

‘Here he is. You want him or not?’ the gaoler demanded.

Weeping, the young man lifted the filthy, light old body onto his shoulder, and walked out. In the sunshine he had a cart waiting, and he gently settled his father onto the bed, covering his foul clothing with a linen wrap. It would do until he could have his father’s body washed and cleaned.

One hand protruded from the cloth, and as Ranulf tried to push it under, he saw the little leather purse.

The purse that held the symbol of Sir Henry’s authority, status and power. Empty now, for the king had stolen the stamped disc months before, after his order to confiscate Sir Henry’s lands last December, but still his father had retained the purse.

His father’s determination to hold on to the last token of his life was the thing that made the young man break down now.

It was the last time Ranulf would weep for his father, he swore.

First Tuesday after the Feast of the Birth of St John the Baptist, sixteenth year of the reign of King Edward II*

It was sweltering as the young knight hurried across the yard, making his way to the king’s Great Hall and the offices of the Exchequer. Raucous laughter ebbed about him from the massed tents and stalls that stood so tightly packed that even the alleys between were almost impassable.

He detested this place. It was the site of corruption and theft. Only dissembling politicians, conniving clerics and masters of deceit came here. Barons, lords, bishops and lawyers – all the dregs of the realm – would congregate, trying to steal for themselves whatever they could get their hands on. Well, not this time, not from John Biset. He was of age now, and he could prove it; he would prove it.

At the door to the Exchequer, he paused, suddenly irresolute, and glanced down at the parchment rolled tightly in his hand. It looked so mundane, just a simple legal document, but with the huge seal attached, it was so much more than that. It became, with that seal, a command. An order to obey.

The reflection was enough to make him stand taller. He would have nothing to fear after this. His persecutors would find it hard to refuse him anything now.

Above him towered the mass of the Great Hall, a fabulous construction, built originally by King William II more than two hundred years before, and still unequalled, he thought. Nearer him, at the corner, was the large, two-storeyed block that housed the Exchequer itself, and, steeling himself, he walked inside.

Immediately he was struck by the chill. The stone kept the sun at bay, and several of the clerks in here were forced to huddle within their robes when they were at work for long periods. John Biset eyed the men in the room, casting about for the bishop, but without luck. It was only when he asked a small clerk with a face so badly pocked he looked as though he had been scarred in a fire, that he was directed through the door at the rear which gave out into the Baron’s Chamber, a smaller meeting room.

‘Bishop Walter. I am glad to find you,’ John said.

Bishop Walter II of Exeter was a tall man, somewhat stooped. He peered about him with the short-sightedness so common to those who strained their eyes late into the night with only a flickering candle to help them. ‘Yes?’

John stepped forward and took the Bishop’s hand, giving the ring a cursory kiss before stepping away again. ‘I have it, my lord. I have confirmation.’

‘Do I know you, my son?’

‘I am John Biset. You may not remember me, but perhaps you recall my tenant – Sir Philip Maubank. His name will be familiar, I am sure. He’s the man who died this last Whitsuntide,* leaving his grandson and heir as my ward, and placing the custody of his lands in my hands. Until you tried to take them!’

‘Me?’ the bishop said mildly. ‘I am sure you are wrong.’

‘Oh no, my lord bishop. You aided your friend Sir Hugh le Despenser when he tried to steal my manor from me.’

‘Which manor was that?’

‘Rockbourne in Hampshire. Sir Hugh is not content with all his other lands, now he must try to steal from me as well.’

‘Oh?’

‘But this proves you cannot just take my manor and walk away. Sir Hugh won’t have Rockbourne, and I can prove my age.’

At the name of the manor, the bishop’s eyes had grown hooded. ‘How will you do that?’

‘I have a statement here which proves my age.’

That was the moment when John Biset saw the quick, shrewd concentration in the bishop’s eyes. ‘You have a statement? Let me see it.’

‘Oh no, my lord bishop. This is mine. You will see it soon enough, when I go into the court and present it.’

‘The inquest is not yet held,’ the bishop said.

‘No. But as soon as it is, I will have my proof, and then I shall have the wardship of Maubank.’

‘Perhaps,’ the bishop said. But he spoke musingly, and hearing his tone, Biset thought he was merely ruminating on the vicissitudes of his life. For the bishop had sought to win the wardship for himself. Maubank was not hugely wealthy, but the amount of money which his lands would bring each year was not insignificant. And for a bishop who was attempting to fund the rebuilding of his cathedral, such money was not to be given up lightly.

That was all John Biset thought of the matter at first. But later that day, after the inquest held into his age, he was a little alarmed to see the clerks at the bench writing out the findings and passing them along the table until they were taken by another clerk. The latter took the papers around behind the working men at the bench, and a few minutes later, John Biset saw Sir Hugh le Despenser appear, in deep conversation with Bishop Walter.

At once a flare of alarm ran through John Biset’s body. The last man he had expected to see here was Sir Hugh. Known throughout the kingdom as the most rapacious and covetous man, yet was he protected by the king, who sought always to cosset and enrich his favourite.

John Biset rose and marched to meet them, and as he arrived, he saw a man hurrying away from the chamber. ‘Where is it? Where’s my scroll?’ he demanded.

‘Being written up even as we speak,’ Despenser said smoothly. ‘And while we wait, I would like to discuss some matters with you.’

‘There is nothing to discuss.’

‘I have a wish for some land.’

‘You will not have Rockbourne.’

‘You say so? Perhaps you have forgotten to whom you speak?’

‘I know you, my lord Despenser. You will not have my manor. And now, if that is all—’

‘No, it is not all,’ Despenser said. ‘You will give me the manor or I shall lose the document for you.’

‘You may try, but all these people saw the man take my parchment. You try to deny that the inquest has proved my age, and you will lose,’ John Biset said scathingly. ‘I am of age, and I own the wardship of Maubank. I will not give it away, nor the manor.’

Despenser said nothing. He set his head to one side though, and subjected John Biset to a wondering study, as though astonished that such innocence could still exist.

‘Then there is nothing more to be said,’ Despenser declared. ‘I have held up matters as far as I may. My lord bishop, I give you a good day.’

Bishop Walter nodded, but his eyes were firmly fixed upon John as Despenser walked away. ‘Godspeed, my friend.’

John Biset made as though to move away, but the bishop set his hand on John’s arm, saying softly, ‘You would do well to heed my friend Sir Hugh.’

‘You would do well to give up trying to take my money,’ John said.

The bishop left his hand resting on John’s upper arm. ‘Sir Hugh is not a good loser in battle. He is used to taking what he wants, and whether you agree or not, he will have what he wishes. If you fight him, it will end with your misery and failure. You cannot defeat him.’

‘Oh aye? And when the king’s court has pronounced in my favour?’

‘That . . . Yes, well, I am afraid that you will find proving that more difficult.’

‘When I have my—’ John was assailed with a sudden doubt. He snatched his arm away, and would have dashed after the clerk with his parchment, but the bishop’s calm voice stopped him.

‘No. The document is gone now. And I shall make you a deal, Master Biset. If you pay me, I may allow you to have it back. I know where it is: it is safe.’

‘You’ve stolen my proof!’

‘The proof that you have come of age is perfectly safe,’ Bishop Walter repeated, and now all softness was gone. In its place was a steely certainty. ‘I have it, and I shall keep it until you have paid double the extent of the wardship of the Maubank boy. When you pay me, you may have your document again, and you can profit from it as you will.’

‘And you want me to give my manor to Despenser too?’

‘No. And I shall do you this service. If you will pay me as I ask, I shall persuade my lord Despenser to relinquish his claim on you. There! With such an offer to tempt you, how might you object?’

Vigil of the Feast of the Assumption of Our Lady, seventeenth year of the reign of King Edward II*

He woke with the scream bubbling in his throat, his eyes snapping wide in an instant, seeing that sword sliding in so smoothly, feeling with his mind how it snagged on the bones of the ribcage while the man stared, his eyes wide in horror, knowing that this was the end of his life. He coughed once, his lips stained crimson, a fine spray jetting over the man who twisted the blade and laughed aloud, then stepped back and yanked the sword loose again.

Master Ranulf had seen this scene so often in his dreams, he almost welcomed it. He lay silently, grateful for the freshness of the evening air, feeling the sweat slowly cooling on his flesh, thankful that he hadn’t screamed out this time. It was embarrassing to wake the others with his shrill cries. They either looked upon him with expressions of sympathy, as though he had some sort of a brain fever, or with sullen incomprehension, wishing he would simply get over it, or go. They had no desire to have their evenings ruined by his nightly mare.

Looking about him, he could tell that it was the middle watches of the night, and it would be a long time before daylight lit the shutters. Yet he had to fetch something to slake his thirst. He rose and slipped his tunic over his head. Drawing his cloak about him, he padded along the chamber, and then down the ladder to the ground floor, and out to the well in the garden. There was an old copper mug by the well, and he drew a bucket to the well’s side, and dunked the cup twice, draining it slowly each time, savouring the relief of liquid slipping down his throat.

Here it was never entirely silent. The cathedral was out of sight, but on a clear evening he could hear the music. At Matins, the sonorous tones of the canons and vicars singing was delightful to him. He would sit here and listen, staring up at the night sky. Best of all was when there were no clouds, and he could gaze in wonder at the heavens high overhead, sprinkled with stars. Someone had once told him that the stars were in fact diamonds dangling in the vast emptiness, while another man said that they were holes in a massive curtain that enveloped the world. Ranulf didn’t care. To him, they were things of beauty.

Tonight there were wisps of fine silken clouds that seemed to shimmer in the air. And then he saw a marvel – a shooting star that flew across the sky and then burst into flames, roaring into magnificent life, before disappearing again.

It made his heart stop, it was so beautiful. For an age, he remained out there, staring up in awe, hoping to see another, and then mourning the loss of that one. It was a star that had fallen to the earth, he thought. Perhaps that was what happened. When a star was old, it could fall from the sky. But how did it get up there in the first place? Well, that was for God to know, and men to wonder at.

It was tempting to stay out here, in the cool night air, and avoid the eternal torment that was his service, but he could not. He must return to his little palliasse and try to sleep. For all that he hated his post here, he must keep his position, he must conceal his true feelings.

He had a task, a solemn duty, to perform: the murder he had dreamed of for so long.

Morrow of the Feast of the Assumption of Our Lady, seventeenth year of the reign of King Edward II*

Lady Isabella Fitzwilliam wept quietly as she prayed for her poor, dear son Roger. She hoped that he was safe, but she could guess all too easily how harsh his life would have become.

Dust and ashes, that was her own life: everything she had loved and sought to defend was turned to dust and ashes. Her hopes and dreams, the children, the husbands – all would have been better, had she never lived. To be born, to live with hope, to wed a good man only to see him die; to wed again, but to have him taken from her in turn, that was too cruel. How could God, the All-seeing, the All-powerful, punish her so cruelly?

The father, her confessor, had told her that He would be eternally kind to her when she died; that her suffering in this world was to be an example to others, and that they would benefit marvellously from her bearing in this time of woe. She was a source of strength for all those who knew her. A pious woman in adversity was a wonder to all, he said.

Her confessor was lucky to be alive.

She had no wish to be an example to any man, woman or child. And as for her soul, what was that compared with the beauty she had created in her womb? She would willingly give it up for another year with her son – even for a message to learn he was safe. Her lovely boy, poor Roger.

Her early life had been so privileged, it was hard to believe that her status could have sunk so low. Poverty was a hard lord. She had loved her first husband, Peter Crok, with all the fervour and excitement that a young woman’s heart could feel. A tall, fair man, with the slim, aquiline features and blue eyes that were so uncommon about here, he had set all the ladies a-twitter. However, it was she, Isabella, who had snared him. And their marriage had been entirely happy. When little Roger was born, he was the cap to their bliss.

And then all began to fall apart. Peter fell from his horse and died almost immediately. An awful tragedy, but natural. As a widow, Isabella was well provided for, and her dower was a pair of rich manors: Berwick and Olveston in Gloucestershire. She and her five-year-old son were sad to lose him, but were not destitute.

Later, marrying Henry Fitzwilliam had seemed a good idea, too. Henry was a kindly fellow, warm hearted and jolly, without the aloofness of so many other knights of his rank. He was an important man, a retainer of the powerful Maurice Berkeley, but none would guess it to see him. He was welcoming, generous and honourable. Which was why he had been killed.

It was that evil year, the year of Boroughbridge, when the king threw off all pretence of courtesy or chivalry. He had marched against the Lords Marcher in support of his lover, the foul Despenser. Sir Hugh le Despenser despoiled all, taking whatever he craved. Where he passed, all were impoverished. No man’s lands, castles, treasure or even wife were safe from the intolerable greed of the Despenser.

The dispute of the Lords Marcher was with him – not with the king. They were no traitors, nor were they willing to hold up arms against the king and his standard. So when confronted with Edward’s host, all the honourable men among the Marchers laid down their weapons.

Most were captured and sentenced with exceptional brutality. Even Lancaster, the king’s own cousin, was beheaded. Others were thrown into irons and hanged outside their own towns and cities as visible demonstrations of the king’s authority. Never again would he agree to having his power restricted or his decisions questioned. It was clear that all those who attempted to thwart him would suffer the same punishment.

Henry was captured, like so many. It was a source of some little comfort that he did not suffer the undignified death of execution like his friends: he died in Gloucester gaol before he could be attainted. But he had waited so long for his death: thirty-nine weeks. All that while in a tiny cell, without warmth or comfort. Waiting until death might come and take him. She had mourned him as a widow even while he lived.

And when he was dead, the men tried to capture her darling Roger. To this day she had no idea what had happened to him. In truth, she prayed he was safely abroad. At least Henry’s own son Ranulf was alive, sent to live safely under the protection of the Church.

To lose both husband and son was unbearable. But her pain was soon to be compounded.

Because her husband had been arraigned as a traitor to the king, her manors were both taken into the king’s hands. She had lost all rights to them because Sir Henry was found to have supported the rebels, even though he died before his guilt was proven. Her husband’s lands, her son’s and her own, were all forfeit.

Except she was told that they couldn’t take her dower. These lands were of the free tenement of her first husband, so they weren’t eligible to be confiscated. And Isabella had had nothing to do with the rebels, other than being wife to one and mother to another. However, when she had been discussing her affairs with her man of business, she had heard a shocking story – that the Bishop of Exeter, Walter Stapledon, had been asking about her and her manors. There were tales that Bishop Walter had grown to covet her manors, and that it was he who had told the king that she supported the Lords Marcher. It was also he who then advised that all her dower lands were forfeit, along with those of Henry Fitzwilliam. And the bishop had taken her lands into his hands on the first Friday after the Feast of the Ascension in the sixteenth year of the king’s reign.*

Her son, dear Roger, was gone. She did not know where. Both husbands were dead, and all her dower stolen, all to satisfy the insatiable greed of the bishop.

She cursed him to hell.

Second Sunday before Candlemas, nineteenth year of the reign of King Edward II**

Sir Roger Belers knew this land, all right. He rode along like the experienced knight he was, rolling with his palfrey as the beast walked steadily along the muddy road, a strong man in his prime, hair still black apart from two wings of white at the temples, his eyes heavily lidded and inattentive. Why should a man be wary so near to his own home? This road was well used and known to be safe, for it was the main road from Melton Mowbray to Leicester, and this fellow was aware of all the efforts to keep it clear of murderers and other felons.

‘Keep steady!’ was the quiet whisper as the small cavalcade approached.

Richard de Folville nodded, his breath sounding loud and raw in his ears. He was a rector, of the church of Teigh in Rutland, and the thought of joining a band of outlaws had been the furthest thing from his mind. And yet here he was, crouched behind a tangle of undergrowth, gripping his sword. They were in a small stand of trees, he and his fellows. At the other side of the road, more men waited, their weapons ready, for the moment when a call would draw them out to capture this man, this fiend.

Belers, he was named! Sir Roger Belers of Kirby Bellers. A name to drive fear into the heart of any man. Once a sworn ally of Earl Thomas of Lancaster, he had deserted that cause as soon as he saw how the wind was changing, and even as the earl was murdered by his cousin the king, Belers was scurrying off to curry favour. He was welcomed with open arms by the king and Despenser, and by the middle of the year, had been made a baron of the Treasury.

Avarice. The word could have been exemplified by a picture of Belers. There was no one in the whole of the shire who would regret his passing. For him, Richard Folville, this baron of the Treasury was nothing more than a thief who stole with the king’s consent. No better than the foul Despenser himself.

Belers was highly favoured by the king for his change of heart before the Lords Marcher rode to defy Edward’s favourite, Despenser. After the Battle of Boroughbridge, which saw the king’s enemies defeated, Belers was made a commissioner of the lands of those who had stood with the Lords Marcher. And soon he began to throw his weight around, making an enemy of all those who lived in the county. He had no friends here.

There was a sudden burst of sound. Belers’s palfrey had smelled something, and now it neighed, tossing its head, unnerved. Woken from his reverie, Belers glanced about him even as Richard’s brother Eustace roared, ‘Now!’ and leaped forward. Richard scrambled to his feet, but he was already too late. His brothers and the others were quicker – more used to ambush and fighting.

Richard thrust himself through the brambles and hollies: before him was a mass of struggling men, and the air was loud with hoarse cries and screams, swords clattering against knives, knives against cudgels, cudgels against staves. All his learning rebelled at the sight and sounds – but he was thrilled, too. He saw a short man with a steel cap fall under a flurry of blows from his brother Walter and Ralph la Zouche, blood spraying up and over the three. A man-at-arms was flying away, darting along the road like a rabbit with a hound after him, and Richard’s other brother Robert sprinted off after him, pulling him down and sliding his sword into the man’s kidneys, while the fellow shrieked and thrashed about.

And then it was over. Richard stood dazed, sword still clean, gazing about him wonderingly as though this was a dream. There were groans from two men near the middle of the road, and as Richard watched, he saw them despatched with a dagger-thrust to the heart, their bodies arching and twitching in their death throes. But already every man’s attention was on the last man: Belers himself.

He showed no fear, only an all-encompassing rage. ‘You dare to attack me? Me? Do you know who I am? You have killed my squire, you bastard! Yes, you! I’ll have your cods for my dog, you arse! You pig’s turd, you barrel of lard, you tun of fat!’

The man he berated turned slowly. ‘You speak to me, Belers? You should hold your tongue before I have it cut out. Don’t you remember me?’

He was a heavyset man in his thirties or so, a fellow with a body that looked as sturdy as a small oak, and with dark, sunburned skin to match. He was clad in a worn tunic and hosen like all the others, with a tattered cloak to keep him warm, but for all the meanness of his clothing, there was something about him that proved his position. This was a man who had held senior posts, a man of importance. It was there in his stillness, and in the intense dark brown eyes that gazed at Belers like a priest eyeing a demon.

Belers blustered now. ‘Why should I? I don’t bother to remember the face of every felon whose path I cross, but I will remember yours, you mother-swyving churl! I’ll appreciate your looks when I see them blacken and your eyes pop as you dance for the crowds at Melton Mowbray’s gibbet!’

‘You threaten me – a knight with more history to his name than you? My family came here with William the Norman, and you tell me you’ll see me dance?’

‘You are dead, all of you!’

‘Look again, Belers! Do you still not recognise me?’

‘I have no idea who you are. You aren’t from around here.’

‘Think to the Marcher war, Belers. The family from Lubbersthorpe – remember them? The man whom you robbed of his manors and income, the mother you cast out from her home – remember?’

‘I don’t recall—’

‘Lubbersthorpe. Where you took everything for yourself, and then rode away. And you had the mother’s son captured and thrown into gaol. Remember?’

‘That was la Zouche, wasn’t it? What is it to do with you?’

‘I am Sir Ralph la Zouche,’ the man said, and now he drew a long dagger. ‘And by my honour, I will enjoy this!’

So saying, he stepped forward towards Belers. As the baron tried to move away, hands grabbed him, and Sir Ralph reversed the blade in his hands, so that now it pointed downwards. While Belers was held firmly, Sir Ralph came to him. He studied Belers a moment, and then spat into the baron’s face. The baron turned with an expression of loathing, and while his head was averted, Sir Ralph brought his knife down, thrusting past the collar bone and down into the man’s breast.

Belers’s body jolted like a stung stallion, and his head snapped about, until he was staring full into Sir Ralph’s face, and then slowly he began to sink to the ground, while his face paled. His jaw worked as though to speak, but there was nothing more to be heard from him. His soul had fled.

‘Take that piece of shit and throw it in the ditch. He pollutes the road,’ Sir Ralph said, and turned on his heel.

Monday, Feast of St Sebastian, nineteenth year of the reign of King Edward II*

It was a cold, grey morning when Simon Puttock left his house. He had nothing to attend to, but he had always feared growing a paunch to rival his father’s, and every day he would try to take his rounsey out for a ride to clear his head and ease his spirits.

A tall man of almost forty, with a calm expression on his weather-beaten face, his eyes were dark grey and steady – the eyes of a man who had suffered much and found himself strong enough to cope.

Entering the little byre, he paused in the darkness. His two cows were inside, away from the worst of the recent weather, and he slapped the rump of the nearer one, running his hand over her enormous frame, feeling the size of the calf inside. Both were strong beasts, but this had been the better milker over the years, and now that he had lost his position at Tavistock Abbey, Simon was determined to make more money from cheese and milk sales.

‘She’ll be fine.’

Simon turned to see his servant Hugh, a morose-looking, truculent old devil, watching him from the doorway.

‘I was just patting her,’ Simon said, half-defensively.

Hugh grunted disbelievingly. ‘I’ve been looking after sheep and cows since I could first handle a sling,’ he muttered, as he walked over to the two great beasts. He rested his hand on the cow’s back. ‘There’s no need for you to come and upset them with your “patting”.’

Simon smiled. In the last years, Hugh had married, had suffered the loss of his wife and the child she bore, and had returned to Simon’s side. Despite his sour exterior, Simon knew that he was devoted to him and to his family.

‘Have you heard from Edith?’ Hugh said, without looking at Simon.

Simon felt the smile wiped from his face like a towel clearing mud. ‘No.’

The bishop was surprised to hear that there were two men to see him, but he was a believer in the old principles of courtesy and hospitality, so he nodded to his steward, John, to allow them entry.

The two were not tonsured, he saw at once. The older was a tallish fellow, with a russet tunic and tan cloak thrown back over his shoulder. He had a beard that covered his cheeks from a little below his eyes, down past his chin, over his throat and down to his tunic. His eyes were steady as they studied the bishop. His companion was much younger, a fair-haired fellow with a sparkle in his eyes, who seemed unable to grow a beard yet. He had a crossbow slung over his shoulder.

‘Yes?’ the bishop asked, once they had bent their knees and kissed his ring. ‘You wished to see me?’

‘We have been sent to speak with you,’ the older man said. ‘Sir Hugh le Despenser sends you his greetings.’

‘I see.’ Bishop Walter set his jaw. ‘And?’

‘There is a man who is causing my Lord Despenser some trouble, and he has asked for you to help us find him.