The Bishop Must Die (54 page)

Simon nodded. ‘Very well. But Sir Peregrine must keep her close by him all day next Wednesday. If she does try to make an attempt on Bishop Walter’s life, I will have no choice but to seek her out, and kill her.’

Roger Crok smiled. ‘Gentlemen, I am deeply honoured that you are being so generous to my mother. Especially after you managed to break my head in so magnificent a manner.’

‘That was not us,’ Simon said. ‘The guards at the gate said that
there were two men who crept up on you and presented you to them.’

Roger’s ease fled in an instant. ‘Damn them! Folville and la Zouche!’

Second Monday after the Feast of St Michael
^*

Simon and Baldwin saw to their own horses as the bishop’s guard prepared themselves.

It was a raw morning. The wind was howling up the Thames, promising snow and ice before too long, and hoar frost limed the grass even here in the Tower’s yard.

Tugging on the cinch strap, Baldwin looked at his stallion’s eye. Waiting a moment, he jabbed his thumb up into the mount’s belly, and yanked on the leather again, tightening it two more notches. ‘Old devil,’ he muttered as he threaded the leather strap through its restrainer. ‘Why do I have to do that every day?’

Simon was already in the saddle as Baldwin finished, checking the straps of the reins and harness. ‘I hope we’ve done the right thing, Baldwin.’

‘I am sure that we have,’ he said with assurance. He set a foot in the stirrup and swung himself up, gazing down speculatively. It felt secure enough. ‘I think we have saved Sir Peregrine from making a terrible error, while also protecting a woman who is in every way a wonderful mate for him.’

‘What of the son?’

Baldwin shrugged. ‘I would think that he could be released soon.’

‘Hugh will be glad,’ Simon said. He had set Hugh and Rob to
guard their prisoner, and although Roger Crok was probably peevish at being held against his will, Hugh had made his own feelings abundantly clear on the matter. He wanted to be out of the hall and off to the tavern at the corner of the castle’s yard, not stuck in here with Crok.

After some discussion, Simon and Baldwin had agreed that Sir Peregrine would escort Isabella, Roger Crok’s mother, back to Devon, and that Roger himself would be held, on the promise of his not attempting to escape, at Simon’s residence. There seemed little need to worry about his attempting to run away, for with the lump swelling his head, he was incapable of fast riding or making off on his feet, and clearly incapable of attempting an attack on the bishop. He could barely rise without the colour draining from his face. The blow that had knocked him down at the castle’s entrance was a cruel one.

With both Isabella Fitzwilliam and Roger out of the way, Simon and Baldwin were feeling a great deal more comfortable. The threat from Isabella and the two men had been effectively eradicated, and there were no other sons of hers to fear.

However, it was one thing to remove a threat, and another to remove
all
threats.

‘I don’t like this,’ Simon muttered again.

Baldwin grunted. They were riding with the guard to take the bishop to the Archbishop’s Palace at Lambeth, where there was to be a great convocation of bishops, with the intention of discussing how to bring about peace and some semblance of stability once more. The madness and mob-rule had to stop.

‘The city is close to riot,’ Simon said.

The mood of the populace was clear enough as they rode out over the moat and left the Tower behind. Simon was uncomfortable in a steel breastplate and armour over his legs and thighs. It pinched at his flanks, and compressed his paunch, but he was glad that Baldwin had prevailed upon him to wear something. All around was quiet with the false peace of a summer’s day before a storm. The men and women who could be seen were all glowering and disrespectful as the men trotted past Bishopesgate
and up towards the great bridge. The bishop himself was clad all in steel – he had needed no encouragement to dress himself in protective clothing.

There were fires in the road at three places. The people had behaved as Londoners always would, building great mounds of rubbish and setting them alight. There were a few children warming themselves at the second of them, but at the others there was no crowd, which was itself a relief. Simon was beginning to hope that they might make their way to the London Bridge without injury, just as the first attack was launched.

A man bellowed, ‘For the queen!’ and hurled a lump of rock at them. It whirled past Simon’s face and hit the man-at-arms on his left, the fellow giving a loud curse that was audible over the ringing sound of rock on steel, and then there was a general hissing of steel as all the men in the guard drew their weapons. In the brief silence afterwards, Simon heard the bishop’s voice telling a clerk to find out who had been hit. He would be given a penance later for his blasphemy.

That rock was the signal for all hell to break loose. A scrambling mass of men threw themselves at the guard from the alleys, shouting and swearing, faces distorted with rage and hatred and fear, hands gripping bills and daggers and long knives, butchers in their leather aprons wielding cleavers, a mason with a great hammer, and a smith with a gleaming blade that looked as though it was fresh from the forge.

Simon found his horse rearing, and was hard pressed merely to keep his seat, but he bellowed, kicked, spurred and cajoled until the beast came under some sort of control, and by then he was in the middle of the press. Men tried to stab him, and he realised with a shock of horror that they meant to drag him from his horse and kill him. He had to swing his sword about, flailing ineffectually, just to clear a path. Others weren’t so fortunate: he saw one guard hauled from his horse, to disappear beneath a mass of bodies – and then there was a scream and a gout of blood, and a cheer of animal success.

‘Baldwin! Baldwin!’ he shouted, and saw his old friend at last.

He was calm, to all appearances, and fitted to his saddle as firmly as a blade welded to a hilt. The horse was an extension of the knight, swivelling and kicking and biting, while Baldwin used his sword only when necessary. He caught sight of Simon and, recognising his friend’s alarm, immediately glanced over his shoulder to see that the bishop was safe. Then he moved towards Simon.

There were three men between them. The butcher, a footpad with a thick cudgel, and a man who looked as though he might have been a priest, with thick hair about his skull, but a scant layer over his pate.

He was first to be pushed from Baldwin’s way, even as the butcher swung his cleaver at Simon. He tried to knock the blow aside, but the massive two-handed cleaver came down upon his thigh and although it did not penetrate the metal, Simon could feel the steel buckle under the blow. He swore, and then felt the horse shiver. The blade had sprung from his armour and glanced off into the horse’s back, and now the beast was shocked into movement, bucking and rearing to escape this hell. At least his wild hoofs made the attackers fall back, and soon Simon felt Baldwin at his side.

Simon was terrified that this great brute might suddenly collapse and die. He had seen it before with horses which were given even apparently small injuries: they could suddenly take fright at the pain and collapse. The thought of falling here, with so many men who would be pleased to cut his throat for him, was terrifying.

Fortunately, Baldwin’s presence seemed to steady the beast for a moment, just as the bishop and the other men sprang forward and on, past their attackers. Simon set his head after them and clapped his spurs to the beast’s flanks. The animal hesitated only a moment, and then was off, with Simon clinging on and urging it to greater speed. On and on they went, fast as the wind, until they had reached the bridge itself, and there they scarcely slowed their pace, but took the corner at a canter, and then rode on through the crowds lining the bridge without taking any care of the people thronging the place.

They reached the great palace of the archbishop a short time later.

Simon rode in under the great gates with his heart still thudding painfully in his breast like the thunder of pounding hoofs. He dropped to the ground thankfully, his hand over his chest, but the metal plate would give him no comfort. It felt as though his heart must explode with the shock.

‘Simon? Are you all right?’ Baldwin asked solicitously.

‘I think so. I don’t have any wounds,’ Simon said, and immediately felt the urge to weep. It was infuriating. He had survived an unannounced attack, and had every right to feel proud and glad to escape uninjured, and instead he felt an overwhelming lassitude and confusion.

‘You need a cup of strong wine,’ Baldwin said. ‘Come with me, old friend.’

‘Wait,’ Simon said, and checked his horse. The glancing blow from the cleaver had by good fortune only nicked the animal, most of the energy being dissipated in the leather of the saddle, but there was a small scratch, and Simon asked a nearby ostler to put some tar on it to stop it growing infected.

Baldwin led Simon into a large undercroft near the gateway, in which a number of other men were gathered and talking in low, anxious voices. Some were guards who had come here today, but others were plainly travellers, servants and messengers. All turned to peer at them as they walked inside and crossed the flagged floor to the bar.

‘Not the most cheerful welcome,’ Baldwin noted.

Simon could not disagree. They took their jug of wine and cups out into the great yard and sat on a tree trunk waiting to be sawn into planks, sipping their wine.

‘Why did they attack us like that?’ Simon said after a while. He could feel the warmth of the wine making its way along his bones and muscles, soothing and relaxing them.

‘The Londoners don’t like bishops any more,’ was Baldwin’s assessment. ‘They hate Walter in particular, and with the queen on her way, they reckon that it is time to assert their rights again.’

‘So it’s just that they wanted to kill Walter?’ Simon said.

William Walle was in the yard and he joined them, taking Simon’s cup and draining it. ‘A fairly exciting morning, gentlemen. Who would have thought that the London mob could exert itself to attack a bishop so effectively?’

‘Baldwin is sure that the good bishop was the target of their especial hatred,’ Simon said. ‘I find it hard to believe, though.’

‘Why?’ asked William. ‘Because you and I know him for what he truly is, a decent, generous, good man? But think of all the hordes in London who only see him as the man who was, until recently, in charge of all the taxes. It has been said often enough that no one loves a taxman. Even his own mother, I believe,’ he added with a grin.

‘So you think that’s what the attack was about?’ Simon said sceptically.

‘We saw the mob attack him last year,’ Baldwin said thoughtfully. ‘He was assaulted outside St Paul’s, remember.’

‘Yes,’ Simon said, ‘but that was different. Today a man was killed. I saw him.’

‘Yes,’ William said, ‘and I think that the mob would have killed Bishop Walter if they could have reached him. It is fortunate that we had enough men with us to prevail.’

‘We may not have next time,’ Baldwin said.

‘At least the other threat has been removed,’ Simon said. ‘It is one thing to worry about a mob, and another to fear a single, dedicated assassin.’

‘Yes,’ Baldwin said. ‘Although I would like to be reassured of something … Tell me, good squire: the men I found in among the lists of the bishop’s enemies – there were only the two, I think, weren’t there? There was the Crok family, whom we have now discovered is no threat, and the family of Biset, is that correct? And one Londoner, a fellow called Hamo?’

‘Yes. That’s right, but how do you know Crok and—’

‘You need not worry about them,’ Baldwin said firmly. ‘And I cannot divulge a secret which is not my own. It was not they who made me concerned. A friend has mentioned two more dangerous
men who are in London, and who struck him down: a fellow called Richard de Folville and another called Ralph la Zouche. Do you know of them?’

William’s face hardened. ‘Know those two? In God’s name, I wish I didn’t! Folville is a detestable felon. His family has been an enemy to the law and justice these ten years past. The la Zouches are no better. The only good news I have heard recently is that Ivo la Zouche has died in France. It was these two families which attacked poor Belers and slew him. You remember that murder?’

Baldwin had known Belers slightly. He did not like the man, but he was a king’s official, and to be slaughtered by the side of the road was a disgraceful matter. ‘I have heard that they are in London,’ he said quietly. ‘Would they be enemies of the bishop?’

‘Yes,’ William said firmly.

It was a relief to hear that the bishop was to remain at the palace for the afternoon.

Simon had almost bellowed when he was told that the plan of Archbishop Reynolds was that the bishops should ride to St Paul’s to meet and pray, planning to launch a new peace initiative by sending some bishops to meet with the king and the queen and begin negotiations.

‘Does he never leave his own fortress here?’ Simon expostulated. ‘The streets are full of wandering killers! There was an assault on us this morning, in Christ’s name!’

His were not the only words of protest. Several of the Bishop of Exeter’s men-at-arms were heard to raise their voices angrily at the thought of fighting into the city, while clerks and even two friars lifted their own in their determination to prevent such a foolish task. ‘It’ll only lead to the deaths of innocents!’ they declared, and began to preach to all who would listen how it was quite wrong to tempt the people of the city into committing the crime of attacking a group of bishops. The guilt for that would lie with the bishops themselves.

In the end, to the huge relief of all, the archbishop had bowed to the inevitable. It was a hundred and fifty years or more since
the murder of Becket, and no one wanted to see another bishop killed.