The Bishop Must Die

Chapter Forty-Five

Frydaystrate, behind St Matthew’s, London

Richard de Folville shivered in the cold morning air. This whole exercise was turning into a farce.

They had tried to leave London as soon as they had clubbed Crok to the ground, but the stable had been locked and barred, and when they threw a rock through the man’s window, he had told them to clear off. He would not open today, he said. There was too much violence.

The next day, they had laid in wait for the fellow, and managed to catch him and drag him back to the stableyard, but then they were forced to change their own minds. The place was in the midst of a crowd of furious, baying citizens, and even la Zouche himself was nervous about entering with all those people in the way. They had the look of a mob which could turn on any stranger to their parish, and Folville had experienced enough danger in the last year already. He made the decision that they would have to remain here in London for another day or so.

That one day had become three, then four, and now it was a whole week! He could have killed that cretin Crok for keeping them back those first few days. God alone knew where the queen was now. She would probably not even remember them, and if she did, it would be only to punish their tardiness.

There was a shout, then more, and a steady rumbling noise that he couldn’t understand at first, and then he realised it was the sound of many feet hurrying along a roadway. He walked up to Westchepe, and looked along it in the direction of St Paul’s.

Heading towards him was the largest mob of men and women he had ever seen. It was a sight to strike horror into the boldest heart, and he stared dumbly as they approached, some waving weapons, others shouting obscenities, and he shrank back into the street away from them as they came closer, before sweeping on past him, in a torrent of humanity, towards the east.

La Zouche was behind him when he turned. ‘What in Christ’s name are they all doing?’ he asked, visibly shocked.

There was a man in the road in front of them. ‘The queen’s left a letter on the doors of St Paul’s,’ he said. ‘She’s asking for the support of the city, and we’re all going to the Guildhall to demand that the city agrees!’

This was a curious event, certainly, but if it went as the mob appeared to wish, it would help their escape from London. As soon as the queen came closer, the fears of spies must dissipate. Richard Folville made a quick decision. Any action was better than sitting here and doing nothing all day.

‘Come with me. We’ll go and watch this,’ he said.

Cripplegate, London

As they drew nearer to the city, Simon knew that something terrible was happening. Smoke was rising from several great fires, and if the people of London were burning fires in the streets, that meant the mob was close by.

‘You’ve seen them?’ he said quietly to Baldwin, gesturing at the bonfires.

Baldwin scratched at his neck where his armour was rubbing. ‘This looks bad,’ he agreed. ‘But let us hope that we may make our entry in peace.’

In that at least, his hopes appeared to be met. They rode in through the Cripplegate and down Wodestrate, past the large flint-built church of St Alphage where it was set in the wall, and on past St Alban. Already there was a curious stillness about all the men-at-arms, Simon noticed. Before reaching London, they had been a raucous, rumbustious group, but now, as they trotted along the broad streets, they seemed to gather together for security, their eyes all about, looking for the citizens who would normally be here. There was a feeling of danger, of threat, that was so strong, it could almost be smelled. And in return, Simon thought that they were adding their own subtle odour of fear to the mix of smoke, piss and filth.

They continued to Westchepe, where they halted. There was a terrible roaring and shouting from the west, nearer the cathedral, and for a while Simon feared that the bishop might suggest that they should go and investigate, but to his relief, he had a better idea.

‘We will go to my house at Old Dean’s Lane,’ the bishop told them all.

Simon glanced at Baldwin, who nodded. But Simon could see that the knowledge was written on his grim visage. The city was about to explode.

Guildhall

The mob was already turning ugly by the time that Folville approached the Guildhall, and he chose the safer option of keeping back with la Zouche.

‘I don’t like this,’ Ralph said, and Richard had to agree. ‘Come,’ he said, and the two fought their way free. At last they were on Westchepe, and with relief, Richard spotted a tavern that looked as though it was open.

Just then, there was a mighty shout from along the road, up towards the great conduit, and there they saw a man being dragged towards them, hemmed in by a large crowd of men and women, all baying like hounds.

‘Who is that?’ la Zouche asked nervously.

‘I don’t know,’ Richard Folville said, and as he spoke, there was another roar from the mob. Someone had cut the head from the unfortunate victim, and now a man was holding it high by the hair, shaking it and sprinkling people with the man’s blood. ‘Sweet Jesu,’ he muttered. ‘This is no place for us, Ralph.’

‘No,’ la Zouche agreed, but before the two could make good their escape, they were thrust from the path of another crowd. This time there were men among them whom Richard recognised. There was the Abbot of Westminster and the Dean of St Paul’s — and even as Richard watched, they were forced to kneel in the road and beg for the protection of the city, while also stoutly stating that they were all devoted servants of the queen.

Taking their cue from the crowds, Richard prodded Ralph, and both began to bellow their support for the queen. After all, as Richard told himself, it was why they were there.

Holborn, London

If he could, Simon would have refused to stop here when the force reached the first of the roadblocks. There was a huge bonfire nearby, and the men could all see the heads of young and old alike beyond. The flames glinted from their steel caps, from the polished and sharpened swords and axes.

It was enough to drive the bishop to a sharp rage. ‘What is all this?’ he bellowed, standing up in his stirrups. ‘I am riding to my house and you fools have blocked my path! I will pass!’

There was no response at first, and then a man shouted, ‘Your home’s out the other side of the city. Not that there’ll be much left.’

‘What is that supposed to mean?’ the bishop demanded.

‘The mob’s gone to your house, bishop. They were seeking you, but since you’re not there, they’ll probably just burn it down!’

‘Dear God in heaven,’ the bishop groaned. ‘All my books, and my register … Quick, we must go to my house.’

Simon grunted unhappily. ‘We should carry on to his house in Old Dean’s Lane, Baldwin. If the mob’s up there at Temple Bar, that’s the last place we ought to go.’

‘Come with me, Simon,’ Baldwin said, and spurred his horse on to catch up with the bishop. ‘Bishop? Bishop Walter?’

‘What, Sir Baldwin?’

‘We really believe that you should not be heading this way. My lord, this city is close to riot: you can hear it and see it all about you. You should come with us to the Tower.’

‘I will not run away from a mob of London churls when they attack my house!’ the man said obstinately.

Simon could see his face. There was no fear in his eyes, only a cold determination and anger. ‘But Bishop Walter, if you go to Temple Bar, it is likely you’ll be killed.’

‘Look at the men with me,’ the bishop scoffed. ‘Do they look terrified? No. And nor should you be, Simon. The threats of the notes is all over and done with. I am a bishop, in God’s service. I don’t think that the London mob will do anything to harm me. Englishmen don’t tend to kill bishops very often!’

Baldwin and Simon exchanged a glance. There was nothing they could do to stop the bishop if he was set on this course. ‘There are plenty of guards,’ Simon said.

‘I hope there are enough,’ Baldwin said. He was not enthusiastic. But he had remained in London to help guard the bishop, and he wouldn’t turn away now. ‘Ach, come on, Simon! Let us stay with him, for good or ill. You never know — there may be something good to come of it all.’

And so it suddenly seemed.

As they rode back the way they had come, up Westchepe, Simon caught sight of a face that looked familiar. ‘Baldwin — look there!’

Folville saw them at the same time. ‘Shit! Ralph, we’re being hunted. Come!’

Spinning on his heel, Richard bolted away from Westchepe and along Bredstrete, followed by Ralph, their boots rattling on the flagged way, while behind them they heard shouting, and then the stolid clatter of hoofs.

Folville did not know this part of the city, but he was gambling on the fact that their pursuers might not know it either, and he led Ralph la Zouche at a ferocious pace, down over West Fish Market, and then snapping right, along another little parish church. There was the sound of a horse skidding as it took the stones at the corner too quickly, but then the horsemen were after him again, and he must run still harder, while his blood roared and hissed in his ears, and his lungs felt that they must burst. It was awful. But then he saw an opening in a wall, and he bolted inside, feeling rather than seeing Sir Ralph stumble in behind him.

Motioning, he sent Sir Ralph to crouch at one side of the entrance, while he took the other, and both waited, motionless, panting, their swords out and ready.

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.