The Bishop Must Die

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Tower of London

Margaret Puttock was feeling anxious. She had been chatting to Sir Peregrine when a sergeant had hurried past and muttered something to the coroner, who had quickly stifled a curse, murmured a polite apology and left at a trot, bellowing for men to follow him.

The rest of the time had passed in a blur as panicked men ran by, weapons clattering and clanking. There was a large number of archers, and they all ran to the entranceway, to the walls overlooking the drawbridge and down south to the river’s walls. It looked to Margaret as though they were seeking to defend the areas where an attack could be launched. But then she heard the tramp of marching boots, and walked to the walls herself, Perkin at her side.

It was there that she found herself staring down into the royal barge as the king and Sir Hugh le Despenser clambered aboard, servants and guards with them. In the floor of the boat was a series of barrels, and she wondered about them for a moment, but then her attention returned to the people all about, especially as she heard Sir Peregrine bellowing again. Then he turned and seemed to catch sight of her, and his face broke into a smile of such happiness that at first Meg thought, with horror, that he might have fallen in love with her. But then she realised that he was looking at Lady Isabella Fitzwilliam, who waved to him, before stepping over to join Margaret.

The two women had exchanged a few words in the last days, and had nodded to each other from a distance, but they were living in different quarters, and Margaret was not keen to wander about the castle grounds while there were so many men in the garrison, so she had not made the effort to seek out Isabella. However, just now any companionship was welcome.

‘Where is the king going?’ she asked.

‘He isn’t going anywhere,’ Isabella said. ‘No, he’s sending money to pay men to fight for him. They say he’s ordered Sir Robert Waterville to gather fifty thousand men to repel the invaders.’

‘I thought he had men there already?’ Margaret said with some confusion. ‘There was talk of a huge number of men — that he was sending them to the coast to stop Mortimer and the queen before they could form a hold on the land.’

‘Is that what you heard?’ Lady Isabella asked. ‘What of your husband?’

‘I don’t think he knows more than that himself,’ Margaret protested. ‘Why? What is happening?’

‘Sir Peregrine has told me what they have been discussing,’ Lady Isabella said. ‘He thinks that the king’s reign could be about to end. There has been no fighting whatever since Queen Isabella landed. She arrived with only some thousand men, they say. The king’s navy did nothing to harry them on their way, and when they landed, no one challenged them. The king’s captain and arrayer for Essex, Norfolk and all about there, made no effort to halt the queen, and Sir Peregrine thinks he has gone to her side, and taken his men with him. And he believes that many others will do the same. There are few who will stand by the king.’

‘Surely there must be enough men who will do their duty and obey their monarch?’ Margaret wondered.

‘Where? All the most loyal have been dispossessed by the king or robbed by Despenser,’ Isabella said harshly. She was staring down at the men by the little landing-stage, and Margaret saw that her eyes were fixed upon Bishop Walter.

Without fanfare, the barge moved slowly away from the fort. There was a drum on board, and the oarsmen began to row to its beat, the great vessel starting its voyage up the river.

‘Where will he go?’ Margaret asked.

‘To Westminster, I think. There he’ll give orders for the country, and collect such of his household as are still loyal.’

‘He looks broken,’ Margaret said.

‘He knows his rule in the country is over,’ Lady Isabella said. ‘He will come back tonight, I suppose, since this is the strongest fortress in his realm. But it will be clear to him that his reign is over. This is the end.’

Outside the Tower of London

Simon, Rob and Hugh watched the barge as it slowly passed by, and Simon was taken by the sudden change in the crowd’s behaviour.

Where before there had been shouting, abuse, waved fists and occasional weapons displayed as men roared their defiance at a king no longer honoured, now there was a funereal silence.

The king and Sir Hugh le Despenser could be seen standing on the barge, amid the wonderful crimson cushions scattered on the benches. Neither sat, but both stared back at the crowds on the shore with a sort of desperation in their faces. Simon actually thought, looking at them, that they both thought they were at real risk of attack from the mob on the shore.

Certainly that was in the mind of some in the crowd, Simon reckoned. But there was an appreciation that if the king were to lose his crown, then their sovereign and protector was gone. And most people knew that when the ruler left, there was no rule. This felt like a city which was about to fall to lunacy and danger for all involved.

Simon had seen enough. ‘Come with me,’ he said tersely, and set off to the gate, but as he did so, he saw that the way was still blocked. The gates were closed, with no guards risking their lives by standing beyond them, and even as he watched, he saw a stone lobbed towards the gates. It struck with a dull, echoing thud that seemed to reverberate around inside the Middle Tower, but even that didn’t seem to rouse the crowd from its torpor. However, the sight of a bailiff walking up to the gate and tapping to ask to be allowed inside, might be enough to do just that, and Simon wanted no part of it.

‘Can’t get in there,’ Hugh summarised succinctly.

‘Wonderful! Then how do we get into the castle, if we cannot go in by the gate?’ Simon said curtly, still thinking.

‘Like the king,’ his servant grunted.

‘What is that supposed to mean?’

‘River’s there, isn’t it?’

Simon glared, and then turned about. ‘Then we’ll go to Billingesgate and see whether we can get a ride,’ he said, furious with himself that he hadn’t seen the obvious way in.

‘Master, what’s going to happen now?’ Hugh asked as they trudged along the lane.

‘I don’t know, Hugh. The people here seem more than happy to let the city fall apart. I haven’t seen much in the way of bailiffs or sheriff’s men to stop the mob taking over.’

‘It’s a long ride home,’ Hugh commented.

‘I don’t think it’s a good time to attempt it, either,’ Simon said. ‘Not with the king trying to raise an army west of the city, and the queen’s forces about to arrive.’

‘You think they are coming here?’

‘I don’t reckon the king would have been running quite so quickly unless he was sure of it,’ Simon said. ‘If Edward reckoned he could protect the city, he’d have remained here. He provisioned the Tower against a siege for the full garrison — and that means weeks of food. He must have felt that the risk was there for him to be bottled up inside, and that no one would come to protect him.’

Hugh pulled a face. He looked up at the sky, checking the weather as a good shepherd always would, then glanced around at the street. ‘Best get on, then,’ he said. ‘Rob, move yourself, boy!’

‘You’re always ordering me about,’ the boy complained.

‘You’ll get a kick up your backside if you start that again,’ Hugh said imperturbably.

Simon smiled through his concern. It was good to know that, no matter what else happened, these two would carry on bickering.

It was worrying that the king had fled though. There was nothing in his appearance that spoke of a man making a short journey, only to return with a new host. Rather, it was the broken figure of one who radiated failure, a king who was running into exile.

And that meant that those who remained in his service would find life rather too exciting for their taste. The immediate problems were to get back inside and ensure that Meg and Perkin were safe, then to see what, with Baldwin, might be done to secure their escape from the Tower, and from London itself. Perhaps it would be possible to ride from the city and make their way to Devon by degrees. He didn’t like to think of his daughter in Exeter, all alone but for her husband and father.

But problems of this nature were more easily dealt with one at a time. The first was how to return to the castle, and this was soon resolved. While they stood on the wharf, staring out at the grey river, Simon saw a rowing boat making its way towards them. It drew level, and as the man grasped a rope and lashed it to an iron ring in the stonework, Simon accosted him. ‘Would you take us a little way down the river? I’ll pay for it.’

‘You three? Where you want to go?’

‘Let us in, and we’ll point it out,’ Simon said. ‘We’re not from around here.’

‘I can hear that,’ the rower said suspiciously, but his face lit up at the sight of the coins in Simon’s hand, and any reservations he might have felt seemed to dissipate. Soon they had all clambered aboard, and the little craft was moving out into the middle of the waters to miss a ship coming into the quay.

Watching, Simon saw a number of stevedores lining up. One in particular caught his eye. He nudged the oarsman and pointed. ‘Those men. What are they doing?’

‘They unload the ships that come in here.’

‘They’re all Londoners?’

‘I don’t know. Mostly, I suppose. There’s always one or two from outside, maybe, but most should be from London.’

‘They were carrying goods into the Tower the other day. I saw one of them there.’

‘They’re stevedores,’ the man said pointedly. ‘That’s what they do: carry things.’

‘Yes,’ Simon said. He could hear the contempt for this foolish foreigner in the man’s voice, but ignored it. He was sure there was something about that particular man that spoke of danger. Even as he had the thought, the fellow seemed to notice him in turn, and he saw the man’s eyes follow the boat down the river as though he had recognised Simon as well.

Recognised him as an enemy.

Tuesday, Morrow of the Feast of St Michael^*

Tower of London

It was a grim family who gathered for their morning meal, and although Margaret did all she could to lighten the mood, she knew in her heart that it was not possible.

The departure of the king, together with his Treasury, had been preying on her mind. It was some relief when, later, the vessel returned, with the king and his adviser still aboard, but Margaret had heard the comments of the people in the Tower.

‘They all said he was running,’ she said in a low voice to Simon as she served him with ale.

‘What — from the realm?’ Baldwin asked.

‘They thought he was running because his wife would soon be here,’ Margaret said.

‘I did too,’ Simon admitted, ‘but if he runs, he will lose all. He has to remain here. At least here in the fort he is safe enough. And gradually, if he is besieged, he will find that his loyal subjects will come to support him. They wouldn’t let their anointed king be captured.’

‘You think so?’ Baldwin murmured. ‘Would you stay to defend Sir Hugh le Despenser if you were asked?’

‘No!’ Simon said, remembering the time months ago when the bishop had asked the same thing.

‘And that is the problem for the king. He, I think, believes that the kingdom will rally about him, but he has his principal adviser speaking words of caution in his ear all the time, because Sir Hugh knows perfectly well that as soon as he is captured, whether the king is with him or not, he will be executed for the manifest crimes for which he is responsible. He cannot live. There is nowhere for him to flee to in exile, save perhaps the Holy Roman Empire or beyond. Certainly, if he was found in France, he would be killed on sight.’

‘So you think Sir Hugh will persuade him to leave London?’ Margaret asked.

Baldwin nodded. He shot her a glance, and she knew he was trying to keep her spirits up when he said, ‘I think that Despenser will try to get him away, and that the city will go to the queen as soon as she deigns to show her face.’

‘Will she have the king arrested?’ Margaret said. It came out without her thinking, just a random thought, but as soon as she spoke, the hideous idea took hold of her.

It was unthinkable that a man anointed by God Himself should be thrown aside by mere men. There were times when a man set himself against God, but that was his own fault, of course. That a man might break God’s commandments and take the king’s throne, that was appalling. When the man involved had made his own oath of allegiance to the king, and now was committing adultery with the queen, the matter rose from the merely shocking to … Well, she didn’t have words to express her feelings.

Baldwin was looking at her again. ‘The main thing is, Margaret, I think you will be safe here with Perkin. If there were to be a siege, there is food enough in this fortress, but I don’t think it will come to that. Despenser will want to get away, and he dare not fly without the king at his side, for the limited protection Edward can provide him. And once they are gone, the Tower will become a secure and safe place for us all.’

Margaret nodded, and she sat at her husband’s side with a smile. But although she set bread and meats on her trencher, she found it impossible to eat. She had no appetite.

When the knock came on the door, Simon and Baldwin were sitting before the fire. The two of them watched as Hugh padded across the floor and pulled it wide.

‘It’s Sir Peregrine,’ he announced with a scowl as he stood back to let the knight walk in.

‘Simon, Sir Baldwin, I hope I see you well. Ah, Mistress Puttock, I trust you will not mind if I ask that I may make use of your men for a short while? Eh?’

In a few minutes, the men were all outside, Baldwin armed with a spare sword Sir Peregrine had brought for him, and then the coroner marched them across the green towards the drawbridge.

‘Where do you want to take us?’ Simon asked.

‘We are to walk to the cathedral. There is to be an announcement at St Paul’s Cross,’ the knight said, and although he was perfectly polite, he spent the time looking about them, eyeing the walls of the fortress, glancing at the keep, up at the towers, and over to the river.

‘Sir Peregrine? What is it that troubles you so?’ Baldwin said.

‘Is it that obvious?’

‘You have the look of a man about to ascend the steps to the executioner’s block,’ Baldwin chided him mildly.

‘I think you should ask this fellow, rather than me,’ Sir Peregrine said.

At the first gate they found William Walle waiting. His face lit up as soon as he saw the three approaching, and he stepped forward. ‘I am so glad you’re coming too. I was really worried when it was only me.’

‘What is happening?’ Baldwin asked, and Simon could see that he was becoming alarmed. ‘What are all these for?’ He jerked a thumb at the men behind them. There were about twenty of them, all men-at-arms with mail and some plate, and all carrying polearms. ‘They look like the garrison’s men, but they aren’t in the king’s tabards. What is going on, William?’

‘I thought that Sir Peregrine would have told you,’ Walle said. ‘No matter. There is to be a reading at St Paul’s Cross.’

He explained as they marched off. The king had issued a papal bull of excommunication to be read at the cathedral. It stated that invaders of England would become excommunicate and forfeit their souls.

‘That should settle the mood of the kingdom,’ Walle said, and rubbed his gloved hands gleefully. ‘You wait and see how the mob reacts to that!’

The mob had already begun to disperse as they trooped on to the bridge itself, then made their way up to La Tourstrate, and then along to Candelwryhttestrate, and from there to the cathedral.

This was fully deserving of its reputation for magnificence and beauty, Simon reckoned. A glorious, soaring building, set atop the Ludgate Hill, the first and most prominent hill in the city itself, it showed God’s glory in all its splendour. However, the place had sour memories for him, because last year he had been here with Baldwin when the Bishop of Exeter was almost attacked by a small mob. At the time Simon and Baldwin had thought that it could be another manifestation of Despenser’s ill-will, but it was as likely to be a mere mischance. The London populace were ever forward and troublesome.

Today at least they appeared less determined to disrupt. There was quite a crowd of men and women at the ancient folk moot.

It was a roughly shaped area of grassy land bounded to the south by the north-eastern wall of the cathedral, and to the north by the charnel chapel, and hemmed in by the massive belfry to the east. Simon and Baldwin went with the squire and Sir Peregrine to stand near the cathedral’s wall, where they should have a good view of events.

They did not have long to wait. First, a number of men arrived, and from the fumes of alcohol, Simon could tell that they had been to the alehouses and taverns that sat along the roads. More, rougher-looking men appeared, some of them carters and hucksters, others the meanest of scavengers and tanners. They brought the smell of their business with them, and Simon was considering moving when he was grateful to see a party of apprentices turn up, younger, fitter and cleaner men all round.

Next to arrive were the bishops, five all told. They walked to the Cross, resplendent in their robes and mitres, their right hands aloft as they muttered prayers and made the sign of the cross towards the waiting audience. The Bishops of London and of Winchester, the Abbots of Waltham and Westminster, and behind them came Archbishop Reynolds, with a number of censer-swinging priests on either side; a thickset fellow with brawny arms and a threatening demeanour carried the cross on a tall pole. The way he stared at the public all around left Simon in no doubt that the fellow was keen to protect his cross, and Simon was sure he had been picked for his truculent attitude. Any man trying to steal it from him would receive a buffet about the head that would make him swiftly regret his inclination.

It was also plain that the archbishop anticipated some form of trouble. He irritably waved on the guards who followed his party, and the men reluctantly interposed themselves between the public and the religious, their polearms held upright, but all ready to bring them down and use them. That much Simon could see in their anxious faces and their alertness.

The archbishop began talking, but Simon scarcely heard a word. He was watching the men listening all around. Soon, a young priest darted forward holding a book, and stood as a living lectern as the archbishop peered at the writing. It was a fairly interminable reading, all in Latin, and there was a priest who bawled a translation. But to Simon’s surprise, when the archbishop finished and his servant folded the book once more, disappearing as quickly as he had appeared, a bystander suddenly shouted out, ‘When was that written, Archbishop?’

‘What?’ the archbishop said, and his uncertainty was instantly communicated.

‘What’s the date on the bull?’

‘It is in force. The pope issued the bull to prevent wars in our land. Why, do you want to see war here?’

‘That’s not about this, is it? It’s a bull about the Scottish, not the righteous queen of our country,’ a man said loudly, and Simon, peering about, was surprised to see that it was an apprentice who spoke so rudely. He hadn’t expected a youth studying his profession to be so insulting to an archbishop. Youngsters had so little respect nowadays …

‘When was it dated?’

The cry was taken up, and now the scavengers were pressing forwards. There was a shout, and the guards before the priests lowered their staffs, but too late. The crowd was so close already that the staffs would only fall on heads and shoulders, and none of the men was willing to do that and begin the bloodshed. In preference, they all crossed their weapons and tried to keep the crowd back.

First it was an apple. A brown, rotten apple curled through the air, and landed a short distance behind the guards, some of the flesh spattering Reynolds’s robes. He stared at the muck with distaste, then glared at the crowds. But before he could say anything, the apprentices started to throw old fruit and some bread, anything they had about them. Others were collecting small stones and aiming them at the guards. They rattled on their helmets, and one cried out, his hand going to his eye.

The bishops and abbots abruptly turned around and hurried across the grass to the door to the cathedral.

Simon watched as the guards also beat a quick retreat. Stones continued to fall, some larger ones crashing into the cross itself, or slamming into the walls of the cathedral, but none, by a miracle, hit any of the glass windows.

There was a slithering sound that he recognised, and when Simon turned, he saw that Baldwin had drawn his sword. Like a statue carved from moorstone, Baldwin stared at the apprentices, his sword-point resting on his boot’s toe, his hand resting on the hilt.

Before Simon could ask why he had taken his sword out, he saw a couple of the apprentices glance around. One had a stone in his hand, which he hefted, a sneer curling his lip. Then he saw Baldwin, and Baldwin shook his head, slowly and deliberately, but with menace. The two looked away.

While he watched them, Simon caught sight of William Walle’s face. He registered only horror. ‘How could they do that?’ he kept repeating, over and over again, as though it was a prayer that could eradicate the memory of that hideous scene.