London

by Edward Rutherfurd

  The trouble caused by treacherous Prince John seemed to have subsided. In July, the Archbishop of Rouen had concluded a peace between John and Longchamp. England was quiet again. And not only was the crusading King Richard alive and well, but reports in August announced he had married a beautiful princess who, surely, would give him the heir his loyal kingdom needed?

  One day Silversleeves came from London to have a talk with the merchant, to which David listened with great interest.

  “Was Richard wise to marry this princess?” Bull asked.

  “On the whole,” Silversleeves replied, “I think so. She comes from Navarre, you see, which lies just south of his own Aquitaine, so by this alliance, Richard lessens the chance of the French king attacking him from that direction. I’d say it was a sound move.”

  David was slightly puzzled by this. He was not a fool, but like his Saxon ancestors he liked things to be clear. Either a man was your friend or your enemy. He could not be both. “But surely,” he asked the Exchequer clerk, “King Richard and the King of France are sworn friends? They are brothers on crusade.”

  Silversleeves smiled sadly. Given the vast Plantagenet empire running down France’s western flank, the kings of France and Plantagenet England could never be more than temporary friends. “He’s only Richard’s friend for the moment,” he replied.

  David looked sad. “I’d die for King Richard,” he said bluntly. “Wouldn’t you?”

  Silversleeves only hesitated a second before smiling and answering, “Of course. I am the king’s man.”

  But, a few days later, as he was preparing to return to London, even this conversation was swept from the boy’s mind as another, truly miraculous piece of news arrived – proof, surely, that in this year of the Third Crusade God was sending a message of bright hope to the English and their valiant crusader king.

  News had just come from the western abbey of Glastonbury that the monks had discovered the tomb and the remains of King Arthur and his Queen Guinevere in the ancient abbey grounds. Could any sign be clearer, or more wonderful, than that?

  There was no more time. It was many years since Pentecost Silversleeves had experienced a state of panic, but now, on the afternoon of 5 October, he was near it. In his left hand was the urgent summons from his master and patron; in his right, another piece of parchment. Both were equally frightening. And both posed the awful question: which way should he jump? Still he hesitated.

  The crisis had broken quite unexpectedly in mid-September, and because of it the Michaelmas session of the Exchequer had been moved fifty miles up the Thames to Oxford. But that quiet castle town, with its little community of scholars, brought no peace to Silversleeves now.

  The cause of the wretched business was a bastard; the problem, that he had been made Archbishop of York.

  It was common enough, of course, for the king’s bastards to be made bishops; it gave them an income and something to do. The appointment of one of King Henry II’s many extra sons as archbishop would not have mattered, except that he was a known collaborator of John’s and had been expressly forbidden to enter England by King Richard.

  So when, last month, he had landed at Kent, the chancellor had been right to insist he swear allegiance. When the cunning fellow refused, Longchamp’s mistake had been to throw him in jail.

  “The whole thing was a deliberate trap,” Pentecost judged. If so, his master had fallen into it. To John’s delight, there was an outcry. The archbishop, though quickly released, was hailed a martyr, like Becket himself. John and his party had protested, and even now a great council, meeting between Oxford and London, had summoned Longchamp to explain himself. “They mean to get him this time,” Silversleeves moaned.

  Yet nothing was certain. Many in the council were suspicious of John. The chancellor still held several castles, including Windsor. The key, as usual, would be London. Which way would the city go? Silversleeves was not surprised, therefore, at the urgent message from his master summoning him to London at once.

  But what of the parchment in his other hand?

  At first sight it looked like any of a hundred Exchequer records. Until you looked in one corner. For there, nestling inside a large capital letter, was a neatly drawn caricature of the chancellor. It was a work of art, and it was vicious. Longchamp’s heavy features had been accentuated until he looked like a coarse and fleshy gargoyle. His mouth was dripping as if he had eaten more than he could contain. The thing was not just a caricature, it was contemptuous, insulting. And this was the chancellor himself. No Exchequer scribe would dare leave such a thing in the records unless he were sure, very sure, that the chancellor was doomed. “So what does this scribe know that I don’t?” Pentecost wondered aloud.

  But the parchment contained something even worse. In the margin beside the capital was a second caricature, this one of a dog that the chancellor was holding on a leash. The face of the dog, with its greedy, slobbering mouth and long nose, was also, alas, unmistakable. It was himself.

  So – they thought he was doomed too. If they were right, he should desert his patron now. Quickly and firmly. As an exercise, he quickly went over all the chancellor’s actions. Were there any secret crimes he could denounce if he fled to Longchamp’s enemies? Were there any in which he himself was not implicated? Only two or three, but in an emergency they would have to do. On the other hand, if Longchamp survived this crisis and he had deserted him, Pentecost would have lost all hope of reward, probably for ever. For several agonizing minutes, he considered his future.

  Then, carefully taking his knife, he cut away the offensive corner of the parchment and walked out. By evening, he was on his way to London.

  On 7 October, at the house by the sign of the Bull, Ida spent the hour around noon quietly. She was glad to do so after the disturbances of the last two days.

  First, Longchamp the chancellor had arrived from Windsor with a troop of men the day before. He was in the Tower now, securing the fortifications. Parties of his men were patrolling the streets. Then, this morning, news had come that the council, Prince John, knights and men-at-arms were advancing towards the city and should arrive by evening. “They intend to depose the chancellor,” the messenger reported.

  But that might not be so easy. If the city stayed loyal to Richard’s man and closed the gates, there would not be much the council could do. Not that she cared for Longchamp much, but he was loyal to Richard. “And anything,” she remarked to her husband, “is better than that traitor John.” Bull himself had gone out two hours earlier. A meeting of all the aldermen and the greatest men of the city had been called to decide what attitude they should take towards the council. Ida waited anxiously.

  And then there was the other matter, which she had not yet told him about.

  So when Ida heard someone in the courtyard, it was her husband she was expecting. It was with surprise, therefore, that, a moment later, she saw a different figure entirely.

  It was Silversleeves. She had never seen him like this before.

  Bull strode rapidly past St Paul’s. He was wearing a cloak of the deepest blue, lined around the collar with ermine. His broad face was set in a bluff expression that gave little away, but his heart was singing. Everything had gone to plan.

  The meeting of the aldermen had taken place in a chamber behind closed doors. There had been careful discussion, of course; several strategies had been suggested. But the group of seven had been well prepared. Months of working discreetly on the minds of their colleagues had now come to fruition. Their arguments had been cogent. They knew what to do, and how. The meeting had finally agreed to place everything in their hands, and at this moment a messenger was quietly slipping out through Ludgate.

  Only one other thing had been agreed. If the strategy of the seven was to work, then discretion was advisable. The bargaining position must not be revealed. Absolute silence about the meeting would need to be maintained. “And then,” Bull muttered with deep satisfaction, “the day will be ours.”


  He was surprised, when he reached home, to find Pentecost Silversleeves awaiting him. A glance told him that the Exchequer clerk was in a sorry state. He had been pacing up and down the courtyard for almost an hour. Rushing up to the merchant now, he begged him for news.

  Though his face showed nothing, the merchant thought quickly.

  “You are on your way to Longchamp?” he asked. Silversleeves nodded. “Then you may tell him,” he said carefully, “that London is loyal.”

  Minutes later, the relieved Exchequer clerk was on his way to the Tower, leaving Bull alone with his thoughts.

  Did I lie? Bull wondered. No. No Bull ever lied. “I just said London was loyal,” he said out loud.

  He had not said loyal to what.

  It was shortly after dark when young David Bull saw the strange little procession. All afternoon he had been watching from Ludgate for signs of the approaching forces, but though there was a rumour that they were close to Westminster, he had not seen them. At dusk the gates had been shut.

  So who were the party of twenty hooded horsemen being led quickly through the quiet streets by men with torches and lanterns? He saw them near St Paul’s and followed them curiously down the incline towards the Walbrook. At the London Stone, the procession paused. Three of the riders went up a lane opposite; some of the others dismounted. Still curious, David drew closer. There was no one else in the street. The horsemen were clustered together and he did not quite dare approach them, but after a moment he noticed a large figure holding a lantern detach himself from the group and go towards the shadowy lane. Running up behind him, David touched his arm and softly enquired, “Can you tell me, sir, who are these men?” And was amazed, as the figure turned round, to see in the glow of the lantern the large, heavy-set face of his father.

  “Go home!” Bull hissed to his startled son, and then, in a low voice, “I’ll tell you about it later.”

  Obediently David turned to go. Unable to resist, however, he hesitated for a moment. “But who are they, Father?” he whispered.

  He was truly astonished when his father muttered, “It’s Prince John, you fool. Now go.”

  It had been a relief to Ida to hear that her husband and his fellow merchants were loyal. Alone that afternoon, she had even quietly congratulated herself. Clearly, her influence had begun to do some good. Crude merchant though he was, there was decency in Bull. She would express her approval that evening.

  There was also the other matter to discuss, she thought. It would be well to talk about that too.

  At first, then, when David came in that evening and told her what had happened, she could not quite believe it. “You must have misunderstood,” she told him. But as an hour passed, and then another, she began to wonder. What could it mean? What was her husband up to? As she thought of the aldermen dealing with the treacherous prince, her face became pale and taut. When Bull finally arrived her large brown eyes fixed upon him and she asked her simple question in a voice that was low and icy.

  “What have you done?”

  He was not abashed, glancing first at her, then at David.

  “A deal,” he answered coolly.

  “What kind of deal?”

  “The best in the history of London,” he cheerfully replied.

  “You dealt with the traitor John?”

  “With John. Yes.” Was his calm contemptuous?

  “The enemy of the king. What deal?”

  Bull ignored his wife’s tone, as though he was so satisfied he did not much care what she thought of him, and answered her easily enough.

  “Tomorrow, madam, Prince John will officially enter the city with the king’s council. We shall open the gates and welcome him. Then the city will give Prince John and the council its full support in deposing Longchamp. If necessary, we shall storm the Tower.”

  “And then?”

  “We shall join the council and swear to recognize John as King Richard’s heir instead of Arthur.”

  “But that is monstrous,” Ida cried. “You effectively give England to John at once.”

  “Not in law. The council rules. But in practice you may be right.”

  “Why have you done this?” Her voice was hoarse with dismay.

  “The deal, you mean? Oh, it is excellent.” He smiled. “You see, in return for London’s cooperation at this critical time, Prince John has granted us something we greatly deserve.”

  “Which is?”

  “Why my dear, the commune, of course! London is now a commune. We shall choose our mayor tomorrow.” He beamed at them both. “London is free.”

  For just a moment Ida was too stunned to speak. It was worse, more cynical, more wicked, than anything she had imagined. The happy weeks of the summer at Bocton were forgotten. She erupted.

  “London a commune,” she shouted. “So that you merchants can strut and call yourselves barons and pretend your mayor’s a king? For that you have sold England to that devil John?” She stared at him with rage. “You traitor!” she screamed.

  Bull shrugged, then turned around. And because he did so, he did not see young David Bull, staring through tears at his father not only with shock but, for the first time in his life, with hatred, before he rushed out of the house.

  Pentecost and the four horsemen rode through the dark streets. He had decided to join the patrol in case he could learn any further news, but everything was quiet.

  His meeting with Longchamp had heartened him. The chancellor might be a dark, coarse-featured fellow, but one had to admire his cool resolve. All his castles, Pentecost learned, were well defended. The dispositions at the Tower were excellent. “And tomorrow at dawn, you are to ensure that all the gates of London stay closed, upon my order,” he told Silversleeves. The clerk had also helped him begin a letter to King Richard, setting out John’s treacherous game in detail. “If, as you tell me, the city will stand firm, we can probably frighten John off,” Longchamp remarked. “And then,” he added with a grin, “we must find you another estate, my friend Silversleeves,” the prospect of which had greatly increased the clerk’s valour.

  The patrol had reached the foot of Cornhill and was about to return to the Tower when it met three knights riding up from the river. Wondering who they were, Pentecost listened idly as the patrol leader, glad of something to do at last, told them to identify themselves. He was surprised when, after a slight hesitation, one of the knights responded with: “Who may you be?”

  “The chancellor’s men. Identify yourselves.” Again there was a slight pause. He heard one of the three knights mutter something, and another laugh. Then came the reply.

  “I am Sir William de Montvent, fellow. And your master is a dog!”

  John’s men. What could it mean? He had no time to think. The sound of swords drawn, a pale flash of steel in the dark, and the knights were running their horses at them.

  What happened next took place so quickly that afterwards Pentecost could never quite remember the sequence of events. As the three knights rushed, he instinctively tried to wheel his horse to run away. But there were cobbles underfoot. His panic made him act so suddenly that his horse slipped and fell, and he was lucky, as he crashed on to the hard ground, to fall clear.

  By the time he struggled up, two of the three knights were already a hundred yards away. He heard the clash of steel. Then he looked up. The third knight was gazing coolly down at him, his sword drawn. He laughed. “Fancy a little swordplay?” he asked. “I’ll come down then.” And in a leisurely manner, he began to get down from his steed.

  Terrified, Pentecost did not even have time to think. As he clambered to his feet and drew his sword he saw, for just a second, that as the knight dismounted he had his back to him. He lunged, and by good fortune struck deep into the fellow’s side. A mortal blow.

  With a cry the knight fell. Pentecost looked at him, aghast. The knight was on the ground staring up at him, groaning softly and very pale. He looked about, wondering what to do. The others were already round a corner, out of si
ght.

  It was just at this moment that, from the direction of the West Cheap, a single figure came wandering dejectedly through the shadows towards him. Pentecost peered nervously, then murmured in surprise. It was David Bull. Pentecost hesitated. Should he hide? It was too late. The boy had recognized him and was hurrying up. Catching sight of the fallen knight as he drew close, David gasped. “He attacked me,” Silversleeves said quickly.

  And then the boy said the words that caused Pentecost to grow paler than the dying knight. “Oh sir,” he cried, “do you know what has happened? My father and the aldermen have sold London to Prince John.”

  Silversleeves stared. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. He told me so himself. There’s to be a commune.” He was so distressed he was near to tears again. Gazing miserably at Silversleeves he asked; “Is it all over, then?”

  Now Pentecost had to think very fast. Glancing down, he saw with relief that the knight was dead. He looked up and down the street. Those knights would be back soon to find their companion. Had anyone else seen the killing? He did not think so.

  “All is not lost,” he told the boy. “The chancellor’s here. We have men.”

  “You mean you’ll still oppose Prince John?” The boy brightened. “You’ll fight for Lionheart?”

  “Of course,” said Pentecost. “Won’t you?”

  “Oh yes,” cried David Bull. “I will.”

  “Good. Take my sword,” Silversleeves said, handing it to him. “I’ll have his.” Reaching down, he picked up the fallen knight’s weapon. Once more, he glanced around. All was silent.

  Then, with a single, easy thrust, he plunged the knight’s sword into David Bull’s heart.

  A few moments later, having put the sword back in the dead knight’s hand and closed his fingers around it, he went to get his horse. Fortunately the animal was still sound. Then, making a small detour, he waited in a nearby alley to watch.

  It turned out as he had thought. After only a few minutes the other knights, having chased the patrol to the Tower, returned to find their companion. From his hiding place, he could hear their voices.