The horses came, slowed, and stopped.
‘We saw you enter, sirs. I call on you both, Sir Ralph la Zouche, and Richard de Folville, to come out. I am Keeper of the King’s Peace, and I wish to talk with you both.’
‘You want to talk? Give me your name, sir, and I’ll think about it. I don’t like to obey commands from any knight on horseback, no matter how honourable he may consider himself.’
‘I am Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, Keeper of the King’s Peace, and lately guard to the soul of the Bishop of Exeter.’
‘And I am rector to the parish church of Teigh. What do you want from me?’
He suddenly felt a sharp prick at the base of his spine. It pressed forward slowly, and he was forced to take a pace, then another, hardly daring to try to wheel and stab the man who had crept up behind him, because he had so little time to consider the dangers.
Ralph saw his attacker, and lurched forward to help him. As he did so, a sword shot out from the gate, and la Zouche tripped over the flat of the blade, falling heavily to the ground.
‘So, it would seem you have us!’ Richard said sneeringly as Simon took his wrists and bound them strongly with a long thong.
‘You will have to answer to the bishop for your actions,’ Baldwin said. ‘He is the guardian of the city just now, and I think he will be keen to speak with you. For my part, I am only glad that the last threat has been taken from him.’
He was kneeling on Sir Ralph’s back as he spoke, swiftly binding the knight’s wrists too, and then he and Simon lashed their thongs to longer ropes, and while Simon gathered up the men’s swords, Baldwin led the two to the horses, which had been tethered outside the gateway. Soon they were trotting northwards towards St Paul’s, the men walking at their side.
William Walle saw Baldwin and Simon suddenly pelt off southwards, and he wanted to tell the bishop, to suggest that they should at least wait a little for them, but the whole mood of the area was against him. There were men peering out from doorways and windows, and William was sure that he could see the gleam of oiled metal weapons when he looked more closely.
This was a strangely quietened city. It was odd, as though in the midst of this enormous city he had found a stillness and peace. He had never before seen these lanes so empty. Now there was only himself and the men about the bishop – no one else. It gave William a sense of calmness that was quite unlike anything he had known before.
And of fear.
Yes. It was there, deep in his breast, the certainty that there was something entirely wrong, as though the devil had come here to London and taken away all the people. It was too silent. The horses’ hoofs echoed in the emptiness, and now William could feel his heart beginning to thud more painfully as the realisation began to seep into his soul that this was not normal. They were being lured on.
‘Bishop!’
The cavalcade stopped, and William rode on urgently. ‘This must be some sort of trap, Uncle. When have you ever seen the streets so deserted?’
‘What would you have us do?’ his uncle replied. He smiled. ‘Don’t worry about the mob, William. It’s my books in the house that worry me!’
He gave the signal to ride, and they trotted on, but then William saw the men in front wavering. One turned and looked back at him, a small frown of concern on his face. ‘Squire?’
That was when he heard it. Behind them came a low, visceral sound, like a thousand wolves seeing a herd of deer after a long famine. It was hideous, but not so bad as when William turned to look.
There, a scant hundred yards away, stood a great mob of people. They filled the entire street from side to side, a feral mass of citizens – some, he saw with horror, spattered with blood from other victims. ‘Ride! Ride!’ he shouted, and spurred his own beast.
But it was too late. They had ridden beyond St Michael le Querne already, so the escape down Eldesfistrate was already denied them, and before them a second huge crush materialised as if from thin air. Men waving sickles, knives and polearms, with hideous grinning faces on seeing the horror and terror in the eyes of the men about the bishop.
‘Bishop! Ride for the cathedral! Claim sanctuary!’ he screamed, hoping that his voice would carry, and rode forward to try to protect him.
John de Padington was at his side now, and the old man gave him a wink. ‘Don’t worry, Will. He’ll be all right. The old bugger always falls on his feet!’ he said, and then coughed. And as William felt the splash of warmth on his face, he suddenly realised that John had been shot by a crossbow. The quarrel had hit his skull, and the blood and brains were spattered all over William’s face.
‘No!’ he cried, but already John’s senseless body was toppling backwards from his horse. Held by the stirrups, he rode forward, his horse witless with fear.
William gave a hoarse scream of defiance and drew his sword. He lifted it high, and would have ridden forward, but the press of riders about him was too thick, and then they were all engulfed by the mob, and he watched without comprehension as first one, then another, man disappeared, their bodies pulled from their horses, and while their arms flailed, their legs kicked, they were carried away. It was like watching ants consume a bee. The bee could sting and kill a hundred, a thousand, and still be borne off and absorbed.
There was a blow in his side, and he felt his arse lift from the saddle as a spear entered his breast. He did not fall. The spear was tugged free, and he tried to swing his sword at the man, but his strength and coordination were gone.
Through the confusion of men and weapons, he saw his uncle for the last time. The bishop had reached the north door of the cathedral, and there he was pulled to the ground. Now men were dragging his uncle up towards the great cross in the road by St Michael le Querne; he saw them manhandle him, strip him of his armour then beat him, forcing him to his knees, one shoving his head down so that the back of his neck was exposed, while another thumped him on the head twice, three times, with the handle of a knife … and then he saw the other man with the bread-knife sawing at his uncle’s neck until there was a huge fountain of blood which smothered the nearest people, and then the man was holding up his uncle’s head, dancing and laughing, while the crowd cheered and shrieked their glee like demented demons even as the bile rose, thick and acid, in his throat.
And he gave a groan that seemed to come from his feet and shivered throughout his body. And then he felt the moan growing within him, and it became a roar at the injustice, the disgrace, and he spurred his mount forward, lifting his sword over his head to ride in amongst the crowd and kill as many as he could, uncaring about his own safety, only determined to take as many with him as possible.
He was scarcely aware of the two swords that stabbed up under his breastplate, into his belly and chest, nor of the detonation of agony that lasted only a moment, and then he was toppling gently into a spinning world of flashes of light, which faded quickly to blackness.
Chapter Forty-Six
‘No!’ Simon cried, and would have ridden forward as William slowly toppled, lifeless.
Baldwin was staring at the man who had the bishop’s head. He had thrust it onto a pole, and now the obscene symbol danced over the heads of the crowds, bobbing and weaving.
‘Simon, we must go,’ he said.
‘We can’t just leave Walter to them!’ he said, distraught. ‘He was our friend!’
‘And he wouldn’t want us to throw away our lives needlessly,’ Baldwin said. He looked down at the two men, then nodded to Folville. ‘Stand still.’
He pressed the blade of Folville’s sword against the thong and saw it fall away. ‘Take your sword, sir. You will need it in among this place. London is given over to madness and murder. Do you come with us to the Tower, and you will be safe.’
‘You will arrest us?’
Baldwin looked at him bleakly. ‘No. I am offering you your life. If you stay here, you will die. Release your companion and follow us, if you would live.’
He looked at his friend. ‘Simon, the
re is nothing we can do for him. He is dead.’
‘He was only a good man seeking to serve!’
‘I know. But the mob will not hear reason. Not today. So come away, Simon. We must save ourselves. Your wife will be distraught, my friend. Come. Let us go to her.’
Simon nodded at last, and they set off at a fast trot, with Sir Ralph and Richard running lightly alongside. It was a stroke of good fortune that the Tower was so close. They made their way along narrow streets suddenly devoid of all people. All appeared to be hiding, or already at Westchepe, joining in the celebrations at the murders.
They clattered up the drawbridge into the Tower’s courtyard, and there Simon dropped from his horse and stood like a man who had fallen into a nightmare.
Baldwin slowly dismounted. Overhead, ravens cawed and soared on the air, and a blackbird sat on the wall nearby and sang loudly. The air was cold. So cold.
Margaret appeared in the doorway to the hall and walked towards them, smiling. ‘Simon, Baldwin – I am so glad to see you both. I had thought something was wrong last night when you didn’t come back. Where’s the bishop?’
Until that moment he had been fine, but as soon as she spoke those words, Simon began to weep.
Third Thursday following the Feast of St Michael*
Tower of London
The last night had been appalling.
From the highest point of the Keep, Baldwin had been able to follow the worst of the fighting and terror in the city. The Bishop of London had fled, as had the archbishop (by stealing another bishop’s horses), and the mob roved all over the city. They not only rampaged through the Bishop of Exeter’s house at Temple Bar, they also pillaged the house of the Bardi, the King’s bankers, and the manor of Finsbury, and St Paul’s and the priory of Holy Trinity. In each there was money and treasure housed for safekeeping, and the mob stole whatever it could. All through the night, watchmen dare not go about their duties. They would have been slaughtered by the groups of laughing, singing men who roved the streets wielding swords or knives.
They heard what had happened to the bishop’s body during the morning.
Bishop Walter’s head had been parcelled up and sent to the queen, who was then at Gloucester. His body was thrown to the dogs, and the mob made it clear that no one was to try to liberate it. The good canons of St Paul’s ignored that, and they rescued it at Vespers, taking the remains into the cathedral; but there were malicious rumours that the bishop had died while excommunicate, so in the morning it was removed and given to St Clement Danes, the church just outside Temple Bar where his favourite London house was. However, the rector who enjoyed the living there, and who owed his livelihood to the bishop, would not have the corpse within. He was scared of the mob. It was an old woman, poor and frail, who did not know Bishop Walter, but who still showed him kindness. She found some old fabric with which to cover up the mutilated body and persuaded others nearby to take it to a cemetery.
They took it to the graveyard at Holy Innocents, which was derelict now, and unused. There, Bishop Walter II’s body was dropped unceremoniously into a pit, and left to rot.
‘Still watching?’ Simon asked, as he joined Baldwin on the battlements.
‘There is plenty to see,’ Baldwin said.
There had been talk already of the gathering of men at Cornhulle. They had been clearly visible from several points, trudging up the roads. It was a quirk of London that it was built upon the two hills, Ludgate and Cornhulle, the two separated by the Walbrook River, so that from the Tower, there was a good view of much of the first hill.
‘It doesn’t bode well for us,’ Simon said.
‘No, it doesn’t,’ Baldwin agreed.
‘I’m sorry, Baldwin. You should have gone home to Jeanne and the children. It was pointless for you to remain here with us.’
‘Yes, but the trouble was, the journey would have been too uncertain just as the queen was moving to encircle the city. I am only sad that the bishop is dead.’
‘Yes,’ Simon sighed. It was still hard to believe that the good Bishop of Exeter was gone. ‘I don’t know that I shall ever get over seeing him yesterday. What a way to die!’
‘Worry less about him. He is gone and cannot suffer any more,’ Baldwin said with some sharpness. ‘It is ourselves we must consider now.’
‘I know. And yet the irony of it! To have striven so hard to protect him, from the death threats, from Crok, from Folville – from all the perils we saw – only to see him slaughtered like a pig by the mob. Where is the justice in that?’
‘There is never justice in death – not when the law ceases to prevail,’ Baldwin said. ‘All you can do is try to bring the law back to the land. I hope we may succeed in that before it is too late.’
Late in the morning, a party of men appeared at the Tower’s main gate, eyeing the place with ill-concealed greed. All knew that the crown jewels were stored here, deep within the Tower.
Baldwin and Simon went to hear the conversation.
‘You are to come with the keys to the Tower, and you are to give them up to the commonality of the city. You must bring the king’s son, John of Eltham, with you.’
All this was bawled from the far side of the moat, and it was the keeper of the Castle, John Weston, who agreed to the terms. He looked at the men in the courtyard behind him with a face that was pale and emotionless. Simon could see he believed he was marching to his death.
Still, his voice was calm enough. ‘Any of you who think it’d be safer to be gone from here – leave now, and ride hard. There will be some in London who would seek to capture you and kill you. Don’t let them. Ride fast, ride long, and may God give you a good conclusion. Fare well!’
Only half an hour later, Baldwin was at the gate again with his friend. ‘Godspeed, Simon. I hope you are safe.’
‘I hope I will be,’ Simon said. The two clenched their hands together, both reluctant to be the first to let go the grip. ‘Will you ride straight for home?’
‘I will, but only to ensure that Jeanne is safe. Then I ride to the king.’
‘You will be riding into danger, Baldwin,’ Simon said. ‘Why not remain at home?’
Baldwin looked away to the west. His sharp features were touched by a sadness bordering on despair that Simon had not seen for many years. ‘Because I owe service to my king,’ he said bitterly. ‘Even though I detest the king’s friends, who have brought him to this pass, still I owe him all the help I may give him.’
‘I will not. I will ride home, and pray that I find the farm still whole, and that my daughter is safe. I hope for nothing more.’
‘Well, when you go, ride fast, as Weston said. Do not delay, Simon. Ride like the wind!’
Simon watched his friend mount his horse with a strange feeling of desolation. Then he watched Baldwin waiting for Jack to mount his little pony, and then the two of them rode along the drawbridge, their horses’ hoofs echoing. At the far barbican, where the new entrance took a dog-leg to the north, Baldwin paused and waved once, his teeth flashing in the sun, before diving under the outer gateway. Then he was gone.
‘So that is that,’ Margaret said.
Simon nodded. ‘I think we should prepare too.’
‘Hugh has almost everything ready. He and Rob are with the horses, I think.’
‘Good,’ Simon said.
Walking with her to the stables, he found himself reflecting on the last year. So much danger, the constant threat of invasion, and now all had come to pass. And Bishop Walter was dead – murdered here, in this cruel city. And for all Simon and the others’ efforts, when it had counted, the bishop was not guarded with enough men. The notes and the leather purse had, in fact, succeeded. By distracting Simon from the real risk of the mob, they had helped kill the bishop, on the very day foretold.
‘Wait one moment,’ he said as they passed the Tower, and he walked into the bishop’s rooms.
Little had changed. With Walle and John de Padington dead, no one had seen fit to enter
and clear away his belongings.
It lay on the table. Simon went and took it up, pulling the drawstring loose and peering inside at the notes. The sight made a small shiver of revulsion run through him, and he tugged it shut again.
St Alban’s
The tavern was one of the best in the town, Paul de Cockington had been told, and as soon as he entered, he could tell it was true.
He was exhausted. The sailing to Normandy and back had been terrifying, what with his fear of the water, and his more pronounced horror of blades. He had been convinced that he would be killed when they got to Rouen, and it was surely only the miracle of the murder of that man Pestel that had saved them all. Neither the duke nor Sir Baldwin wanted to be found near the corpse. A murder victim was always difficult to explain.
After they landed at last, it had been touch and go as to whether he would be snatched away by some eager knight who sought more men. It had taken a very swift visit to a barber to ensure that his hair was cropped into a tonsure again so that he might walk away, and he had taken flight as soon as he could.
There was still danger, of course. He might have been discovered by the queen’s army. He had heard about that as soon as they landed. But once again, he had been fortunate. He had found a little abbey, and the abbot had been generous and kindly, and very hospitable. There, in the seclusion of the cloister, he had been sure of his safety, and for the first time since leaving Exeter, he felt truly at peace.
Still, yesterday he had decided he should try his luck again. He had his little chapel, after all, and it looked ever more appealing as the days passed. Never again would he put himself in such danger, he swore. No, he wouldn’t look at a woman like that de Gydie again, gorgeous though she was, with her slim little hips and enormous … But no. From now on, he was a celibate.
In the tavern, he sat at a bench with some others, who looked at him with suspicion, but moved along to give him space. He would rest here today, he decided, and continue on his way tomorrow. With fortune, he would make it to Exeter in only a week or so.
The Bishop Must Die: (Knights Templar 28) Page 44