Michael Jecks: The Bishop Must Die

‘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.