Read Online The Bishop Must Die by Michael Jecks - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michael Jecks
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I’m trustworthy, and now you’re throwing that all out of the window with last night’s soil. Well, swyve a sow, brother! I won’t have you ruining the best post I could have landed in the whole of Devon.’
‘What do you suggest, then?’
‘I shall find space for you on a boat to Gascony or France. You can go out there and try your luck for a little. I have some money you can take, and I will give you fresh clothing. When it’s all calmed down, you can come back, but not until then. You understand me? You’ll stay away – especially from here – until you’re called back.’
‘How long will that be?’ Paul said, flabbergasted that his brother had decided this.
‘As long as it takes.’
Tiverton Castle
The Lady Isabella was most grateful to the generous-hearted baron for allowing her to come here to this restful little castle up at the top of the hill overlooking two rivers. Without his kindness, she was not sure what she might have done when her carter’s horse fell by the roadside, his foreleg snapped in a pothole.
A widow’s life was never easy. The first loss of a husband had been a shock to her. A sudden, tragic death was always hard to accept, but at least her darling Peter Crok had died quickly, without apprehension, unlike Henry Fitzwilliam. He had languished for such an awful long time, in that cursed gaol, with no friends, no support or companionship. Just installed there, and left to rot for thirty-nine weeks, suffering all the torments a man may. The king would not consider a pardon; his heart forged from steel. So poor Henry waited and waited, until one day his heart simply gave out. Even then there was no honour in his treatment. His body was left in the gaol at Gloucester until his son came to collect it.
And Henry was but one of many. There were hundreds of decent, honourable men betrayed by their king as he continued his infatuation with the one knight whose every whim and fancy he would tolerate unquestioningly: Despenser. All others may be executed, bar this one. And that devil, Stapledon, was a friend of both men.
As a widow, the Lady Isabella was no threat to any man, and yet she had been persecuted by that evil bishop after her husband’s death. May his name live on in infamy!
She still prayed, whenever she was at the altar, that her son was safe. Poor, darling Roger had been forced to flee so quickly when the plot to steal their lands became plain, that he had no time to speak with her and tell her where he might go. She hoped he had made his way to Ireland or France. The Irish were devoted to Sir Roger Mortimer, while the French were happy to befriend any man who was an enemy of the English king.
She heard steps, and glanced around to see the tall figure of the coroner, Sir Peregrine de Barnstaple.
‘My Lady Fitzwilliam, I hope you are well?’
‘I thank you, Sir Peregrine, I am as well as I could hope,’ she said.
‘That is good. I am pleased to hear it.’
He had a kind smile, and she felt sure that he was already fond of her. A man his age – what, some five-and-forty years? – it wasa surprise that he had never married. And yet he had once formed an association, so she had heard: it was said that he had adopted two children when their mother died. Certainly he did not appear to her to be afraid of her sex.
Many men were uncaring about a woman’s feelings. They some of them affected an insouciance in a woman’s company, while others simply preferred the companionship of other men. Those who had been raised as knights in training were, not surprisingly, unsure how to behave with women, and could be unthinkingly brutal. There were plenty who would seek to impress a lady by taking her, as though she had no feelings, no rights, no more authority than a dog. For some, it was as though they believed that a woman would respect and adore them once she had been raped, as though that was proof of sincere adoration! When boys were sent away from home and brought up in
‘What do you suggest, then?’
‘I shall find space for you on a boat to Gascony or France. You can go out there and try your luck for a little. I have some money you can take, and I will give you fresh clothing. When it’s all calmed down, you can come back, but not until then. You understand me? You’ll stay away – especially from here – until you’re called back.’
‘How long will that be?’ Paul said, flabbergasted that his brother had decided this.
‘As long as it takes.’
Tiverton Castle
The Lady Isabella was most grateful to the generous-hearted baron for allowing her to come here to this restful little castle up at the top of the hill overlooking two rivers. Without his kindness, she was not sure what she might have done when her carter’s horse fell by the roadside, his foreleg snapped in a pothole.
A widow’s life was never easy. The first loss of a husband had been a shock to her. A sudden, tragic death was always hard to accept, but at least her darling Peter Crok had died quickly, without apprehension, unlike Henry Fitzwilliam. He had languished for such an awful long time, in that cursed gaol, with no friends, no support or companionship. Just installed there, and left to rot for thirty-nine weeks, suffering all the torments a man may. The king would not consider a pardon; his heart forged from steel. So poor Henry waited and waited, until one day his heart simply gave out. Even then there was no honour in his treatment. His body was left in the gaol at Gloucester until his son came to collect it.
And Henry was but one of many. There were hundreds of decent, honourable men betrayed by their king as he continued his infatuation with the one knight whose every whim and fancy he would tolerate unquestioningly: Despenser. All others may be executed, bar this one. And that devil, Stapledon, was a friend of both men.
As a widow, the Lady Isabella was no threat to any man, and yet she had been persecuted by that evil bishop after her husband’s death. May his name live on in infamy!
She still prayed, whenever she was at the altar, that her son was safe. Poor, darling Roger had been forced to flee so quickly when the plot to steal their lands became plain, that he had no time to speak with her and tell her where he might go. She hoped he had made his way to Ireland or France. The Irish were devoted to Sir Roger Mortimer, while the French were happy to befriend any man who was an enemy of the English king.
She heard steps, and glanced around to see the tall figure of the coroner, Sir Peregrine de Barnstaple.
‘My Lady Fitzwilliam, I hope you are well?’
‘I thank you, Sir Peregrine, I am as well as I could hope,’ she said.
‘That is good. I am pleased to hear it.’
He had a kind smile, and she felt sure that he was already fond of her. A man his age – what, some five-and-forty years? – it wasa surprise that he had never married. And yet he had once formed an association, so she had heard: it was said that he had adopted two children when their mother died. Certainly he did not appear to her to be afraid of her sex.
Many men were uncaring about a woman’s feelings. They some of them affected an insouciance in a woman’s company, while others simply preferred the companionship of other men. Those who had been raised as knights in training were, not surprisingly, unsure how to behave with women, and could be unthinkingly brutal. There were plenty who would seek to impress a lady by taking her, as though she had no feelings, no rights, no more authority than a dog. For some, it was as though they believed that a woman would respect and adore them once she had been raped, as though that was proof of sincere adoration! When boys were sent away from home and brought up in
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