Michael Jecks - The Bishop Must Die

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.

Lambeth Palace

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.