The Bishop Must Die

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, there 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 serving wench came and took his order, and he could not help but appraise her backside as she swayed with the athletic precision of a dancer between the benches and stools set all about. Dark hair, and that air of willingness that always took his fancy. Not that it would ever again, of course.

She was back soon with a large earthenware jug of wine. She passed him a cup, then bent to pour. And in that moment, Paul once again had a vision of heaven, as her tunic fell open and he could see the delicious breasts within.

He was gaping. As she stood upright again, he snapped his mouth shut and gave her a smile. She returned it — with a small wink, he thought, as though she was showing she knew what he had seen, and he was welcome to it …

Perhaps there was no need to hurry to Exeter, after all, he considered, watching her taut body as she walked away again.

Furnshill

Jeanne heard the hoofs and went to fetch her dagger. Edgar marched to the door, reporting, ‘One rider — it’s him again.’

She set the dagger back on its hook on the wall and wiped her hands on her apron. It was good that Peter had been coming here so often. There was a hope in her breast that he and Edith would be able to mend the fracture and live together again, although she was not sure that she herself would be willing to live with her own father-in-law, had he been so inconsiderate to her. Still, it was Edith’s choice, not her own.

‘Master Peter, you are most welcome,’ she said, greeting him warmly.

‘Lady Jeanne, I am very glad to be here,’ he said, his eyes going to the room behind her. ‘How is my wife?’

‘She is well,’ Jeanne said, and felt satisfaction that he had at least asked after Edith rather than his own son.

‘I would like to speak with her, if I may.’

‘I will fetch her,’ Jeanne said. Edith was out in the little garden Jeanne had created, and it took only a few moments to bring her back inside.

‘Please, Lady Jeanne, don’t go,’ Peter said. ‘You should hear this too, because you have been so kind to us all.’

‘Very well.’

‘Edith, I am here to ask you to have me back again,’ Peter said. ‘I know that the last months have been very difficult for you, and I promise I will do everything I can to make things easier in future. Will you have me again?’

Edith looked at Jeanne, but Jeanne could not interfere in the affairs of another married couple. This had to be Edith’s own decision.

‘Peter, I would like to live with you again, but I cannot give up my parents and their friends. Where would I be now, without the kindness and generosity of Lady Jeanne here?’

‘I agree. And I will not force you to do that.’

‘I will agree, then. But it is hard for me to live with your parents.’

‘Then it is fortunate that I don’t ask that!’

‘You don’t …?’

‘We shall return to our own house. I cannot live under my father’s rules either, and need my own household. Will you return with me to the old house?’

‘Very happily!’ Edith said, and now she did run into his arms as Jeanne dabbed at her eyes and sniffed, and left them alone.

London

As they passed over the London Bridge, riding down into Surrey, Simon halted at the city drawbridge. He took out the purse and weighed it in his hand, and then hurled it as far as he could downstream, watching it as it bobbed on the water, and then disappeared out of sight.

It felt as though he had cast out a demon.

* 16 October 1322

* 28 June 1323

* 15 May 1323

* 14 August 1325

* 16 August 1325

* 6 May 1323

** 19 January 1326

*** Kirby Bellers in Leicestershire

* 20 January 1326

** West Sandford, near Crediton, Devon

* 20 January 1326

* 21 January 1326

* 29 January 1326

* 11 November

* 30 January 1326

* 31 January 1326

* The lands here were acquired by King Henry VIII after the Dissolution, at which point the town was renamed Lynn Regis or King’s Lynn. The latter name stuck.

* 26 February 1326

* 28 February 1326

* 2 June 1326

* 2 June 1326

* 4 June 1326

* 7 June 1326

* 9 June 1326

* 11 June 1326

* 12 June 1326

* 13 June 1326

* 17 June 1326

* 26 July 1326

* 29 July 1326

* 4 August 1326

* 14 August 1326

* 26 August 1326

* 28 August 1326

* 2 September 1326

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* 6 September 1326

* 7 September 1326

* 10 September 1326

* 12 September 1326

* 25 September 1326

* 29 September 1326

* 30 September 1326

* 1 October 1326

* 2 October 1326

* 6 October 1326

* 8 October 1326

* 13 October 1326

* 15 October 1326

* 16 October 1326