The Bishop Must Die by Michael Jecks

closely?’
    ‘My lord bishop, I meant no insult to you,’ Baldwin said withan easy grin. ‘You look anxious though, and I wondered whether you have received ill news.’
    ‘Ill enough. A rector of mine has misbehaved, but I have had him held in the gaol, so that should resolve
that
.’
    ‘Would that be the brother of the sheriff? That odious little prickle, Paul de Cockington?’
    ‘Rarely has a man had a more suitable name. You have heard of him, of his offences? Yes – well, the purblind fool can stay in my gaol for a while, until I decide what sort of punishment to exact. Although I confess that other matters seem more pressing just now.’
    The bishop closed his eyes a moment, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. Then he stood and walked over to the table. Selecting a parchment, he peered down at it, then, with a mutter of frustration, picked up his spectacles and opened them out at the hinge. The two lenses separated, and he held them over his nose as he traced the words on the page. Nodding, he brought the sheet to Baldwin and gave it to him. ‘Look at that.’
    The knight had been taught to read and write when he was a youth, but the writing on this sheet was difficult to decipher. He held it up, so that the light from the window caught it more fully, and narrowed his eyes to read. ‘From the king, then. And it’s an order …’
    ‘Yes. To stop all communications leaving the country. All letters which could be of use to the queen are to be sought, discovered, and their source traced.’
    Baldwin frowned at the sheet. ‘But how could any man search all the goods leaving Exeter? Let alone Topsham, Exmouth, Dartmouth … Dear heaven, does the king propose to search all the bales of wool leaving the country? All the barrels being loaded at London? There are not the men in the land to do such a job. He would need half the peasants just to search.’
    ‘It is impossible, yes,’ the bishop sighed. He rubbed his nose again. ‘But the instructions are clear enough. We must have men installed in all the ports or earn the king’s disfavour.’
    ‘Are you thinking of Simon?’ Baldwin said.
    ‘Who else?’ the Bishop asked rhetorically. ‘This is a warning to me because I am an adviser to the king – but when the warrants are signed and arrive here in the hands of the sheriff, I will have to find the best men for the job.’
    ‘Simon has suffered enough in the king’s service. Try to leave him from this, if you can, my lord.’
    Stapledon eyed him, and then nodded. ‘Very well. Unless I am specifically asked about him, I will not mention him at all.’
    ‘Thank you,’ Baldwin nodded. ‘This writing – it is not like those of other commissions and warrants I have seen. The writing is exceedingly poor.’
    ‘More and more are arriving by the week. I fear that the king’s clerks are strained to write out so many in so short a space of time. And when they have time, the writing is little better. Mayhap it is concern.’
    Baldwin looked at him sharply. It was plain enough that the bishop meant that the men of the king’s household were fearful. ‘You think an invasion could come soon?’
    ‘I have heard men say that there is a fleet off Normandy. It could sail in less than a month. I do not say that I believe it – I have no corroboration – but it shows the thinking in London. And just because there are no ships in Normandy doesn’t mean that a fleet is not to be gathered.’
    Baldwin felt his heart chill. This was worse than he had feared. In all the time he had known the bishop, he had never seen him so downcast. Even the last year when they had escorted the young Duke of Aquitaine, Edward, the king’s heir, to visit his mother, and death threats had been issued against the bishop, even then Stapledon had remained suave and calm. Now there was a distraction to his manner, as though the threat of invasion was a constant weight on his mind.
    ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ Baldwin