Michael Jecks - The Bishop Must Die

Simon had managed to find the extra men he felt were needed, and had viewed them all with William’s help. He had insisted upon questioning all of them at length, before telling them why they were needed. The process had taken much of the previous afternoon and evening. By the time he returned to his own chamber, Margaret, Perkin and Rob were already asleep, and he had sat up in front of his fire with a large cup of wine which Hugh had brought for him.

‘How’s the brat?’ Simon had asked, nodding towards Rob.

‘Argumentative little prickle,’ was the gloomy response. ‘He’ll not make a servant while he’s got a hole in his arse.’

‘The only time I have seen him obey anyone was when Sir Richard de Welles met him.’

Hugh grunted. He was quiet a moment, then, ‘I think the devil himself would obey if Sir Richard stood over him.’

‘True enough,’ Simon had chuckled.

The memory of Hugh’s glum expression made him grin again now, as he walked about the yard outside the bishop’s rooms. There was little enough to make him grin else. The men were all in their allotted places, and the bishop was safe indoors, but in the name of Christ, all it meant was that Simon was the gaoler of the bishop.

At lunchtime, he decided that he would have to get outside the castle to stretch his legs. He had a fancy for some fish, and thought he might surprise Margaret with it, so he arranged for William to take over for a little while, and walked out.

At different times in the last year he had come to London with Baldwin. It was big, rumbustious, garish, in a way that was thrilling and worrying at the same time. He had always felt moderately safe, but not today. He had only walked a few paces before he felt the mood of the city. He should have noticed it when he arrived with Meg, but somehow he hadn’t — probably because they had travelled so far that day, and his thoughts were totally focused on reaching a warm fire and a bowl of food.

But here, on the streets, he couldn’t miss it.

The lanes and roadways were thronging with people. It was the sort of city where a man could become lost in an instant. Men, women, horses, dogs — the press was so thick, Simon often had to shoulder his way through. Tranters and sellers of all types bellowed their wares, and Simon was almost knocked to the ground by a horse which came from behind him as he gaped at a collection of pies in one shopfront. As it was, the thing scraped an iron-shod hoof down the side of his leg, and he had to bite back a curse as he fell. Still, it could have been much worse.

‘Arrogant arsehole!’ one man roared, and bent to help Simon. ‘Master? Are you all right? It’s the pig-swyvers like that one who cause all the trouble here in the city. How can decent fellows live when morons like that ride about like fools and threaten to break your leg for you?’

Simon thanked him and stood. All around, there were others who had seen the incident, and Simon saw a man hawk and spit in the direction of the man on the horse, while a woman clenched her fist and shrieked imprecations after him. Simon glanced about him and was shocked by the angry mood of the crowd.

It was the same wherever he went. The whole city appeared to be on edge. Many blamed the king for all their woes, while more still spoke of Despenser. As for Bishop Walter, he was disparaged loudly and with venom. One man, who was quickly hushed, roared that the sooner the king’s friends were dead, the happier the realm would be. There were many who harboured that sentiment, Simon included.

He hurried to the market at Billingesgate, bought some good white fish, then set off back to the Tower, listening intently to the conversations on all sides. His concern grew at every step.

This was a city preparing to overthrow its king.

Near Rouen, Normandy

Following a poor night’s rest, Baldwin had his riders ready a little after dawn. For the most part they were young fellows with no experience of war. Three were squires, who had at least trained, but the rest were peasants who happened to be able to ride. So be it.

‘Come, Jack,’ he said to the boy, and helped him to his pony. ‘Now, don’t forget, if there is to be a fight, you must hold back with the packhorses. Don’t try to join us — you’ll be trampled in an instant. Better that you stay back with our goods so that we can know our food is safe.’

He had insisted on bringing supplies with them. It was conventional for a force like his to live from the land on a chevauchée, but Baldwin knew it would turn the locals against them, were they to rob a farm. Better by far to slip through unnoticed, ride quickly down to Rouen, take the duke if possible, and hurry back.

It was good country down here, too. The little farms looked prosperous, their fields good and green. The harvest was in, and Baldwin often saw the families about their work in the fields, looking after their animals or working on buildings, preparing them for winter. One little boy waved happily from his pasture where he was supposed to be watching a small flock of sheep. It was a perfect pastoral picture.

They were following the river. A poor track wound about the northern bank, and although it was occasionally muddy and foul, it was better than trying to cut their way through the pastures and hedges that lay beyond. Baldwin urged them all to ever greater efforts, trying to preserve the strength of their mounts, but maintaining a steady pace as far as was possible.

He had guessed that their route would be at least fifty miles, but with the bends in the river, he was sure that they were going much further. Still, when they reached the late afternoon, off in the distance they could see a great yellowish haze, and he knew that this was their first view of the city.

Baldwin called Paul de Cockington forward.

‘That, I think, is Rouen. We need to get to it tomorrow and find the duke. Tell me, what sort of lodging does he usually seek?’

‘A lowly inn — so long as the food is good and they have plenty of wine,’ Paul said sulkily. ‘Why, did you expect him to lie in a brothel?’

Baldwin spoke kindly. ‘If I hear you speak to me in such a manner again, rector, I will break your head and leave you here in the roadway as a message to all arrogant fools who think they can bandy words with a knight. Do you understand me?’ And he smiled with a sweetness that was almost angelic.

The rector gulped, and it was clear that he found Baldwin’s smile more terrifying than his earlier bellows. ‘Yes.’

‘Good. Then tell me: what sort of inn has he gone to in the past? Expensive, large — those with, as you point out, women? Does he go to the centre of the town or prefer the quieter outskirts? Does he invariably stay within the city walls, does he visit priories, or does he have no set tastes?’

‘I do not know … But hold! There was mention of an inn near the cathedral itself. Sir Richard de Folville spoke of it. It was very close, only a few buildings to the west, I think he said.’

‘Then we may hope to be fortunate,’ Baldwin said. He sighed. ‘Right, we will encamp here, and tomorrow I shall ride into the town with you, Paul. So we should all try to rest as best we may. The coming day will be one of danger for all of us.’

London

Simon had returned with his prize of good fish and asked Hugh to cook it for them all. It was quite delicious when Hugh presented it with a salad of mixed leaves and some good quality bread with which to soak up the juices.

For Simon, however, the evening had lost all lustre. His experiences in the street had heightened his sense of danger, and in the afternoon, when he wandered about the yard outside the bishop’s hall, he spent much of his time looking about him as though expecting at any moment to see the populace clambering over the walls of the Tower to steal the crown and jewels, and slaughter all who lived inside.