Michael Jecks - The Bishop Must Die

There was a shout, then more, and a steady rumbling noise that he couldn’t understand at first, and then he realised it was the sound of many feet hurrying along a roadway. He walked up to Westchepe, and looked along it in the direction of St Paul’s.

Heading towards him was the largest mob of men and women he had ever seen. It was a sight to strike horror into the boldest heart, and he stared dumbly as they approached, some waving weapons, others shouting obscenities, and he shrank back into the street away from them as they came closer, before sweeping on past him, in a torrent of humanity, towards the east.

La Zouche was behind him when he turned. ‘What in Christ’s name are they all doing?’ he asked, visibly shocked.

There was a man in the road in front of them. ‘The queen’s left a letter on the doors of St Paul’s,’ he said. ‘She’s asking for the support of the city, and we’re all going to the Guildhall to demand that the city agrees!’

This was a curious event, certainly, but if it went as the mob appeared to wish, it would help their escape from London. As soon as the queen came closer, the fears of spies must dissipate. Richard Folville made a quick decision. Any action was better than sitting here and doing nothing all day.

‘Come with me. We’ll go and watch this,’ he said.

Cripplegate, London

As they drew nearer to the city, Simon knew that something terrible was happening. Smoke was rising from several great fires, and if the people of London were burning fires in the streets, that meant the mob was close by.

‘You’ve seen them?’ he said quietly to Baldwin, gesturing at the bonfires.

Baldwin scratched at his neck where his armour was rubbing. ‘This looks bad,’ he agreed. ‘But let us hope that we may make our entry in peace.’

In that at least, his hopes appeared to be met. They rode in through the Cripplegate and down Wodestrate, past the large flint-built church of St Alphage where it was set in the wall, and on past St Alban. Already there was a curious stillness about all the men-at-arms, Simon noticed. Before reaching London, they had been a raucous, rumbustious group, but now, as they trotted along the broad streets, they seemed to gather together for security, their eyes all about, looking for the citizens who would normally be here. There was a feeling of danger, of threat, that was so strong, it could almost be smelled. And in return, Simon thought that they were adding their own subtle odour of fear to the mix of smoke, piss and filth.

They continued to Westchepe, where they halted. There was a terrible roaring and shouting from the west, nearer the cathedral, and for a while Simon feared that the bishop might suggest that they should go and investigate, but to his relief, he had a better idea.

‘We will go to my house at Old Dean’s Lane,’ the bishop told them all.

Simon glanced at Baldwin, who nodded. But Simon could see that the knowledge was written on his grim visage. The city was about to explode.

Guildhall

The mob was already turning ugly by the time that Folville approached the Guildhall, and he chose the safer option of keeping back with la Zouche.

‘I don’t like this,’ Ralph said, and Richard had to agree. ‘Come,’ he said, and the two fought their way free. At last they were on Westchepe, and with relief, Richard spotted a tavern that looked as though it was open.

Just then, there was a mighty shout from along the road, up towards the great conduit, and there they saw a man being dragged towards them, hemmed in by a large crowd of men and women, all baying like hounds.

‘Who is that?’ la Zouche asked nervously.

‘I don’t know,’ Richard Folville said, and as he spoke, there was another roar from the mob. Someone had cut the head from the unfortunate victim, and now a man was holding it high by the hair, shaking it and sprinkling people with the man’s blood. ‘Sweet Jesu,’ he muttered. ‘This is no place for us, Ralph.’

‘No,’ la Zouche agreed, but before the two could make good their escape, they were thrust from the path of another crowd. This time there were men among them whom Richard recognised. There was the Abbot of Westminster and the Dean of St Paul’s — and even as Richard watched, they were forced to kneel in the road and beg for the protection of the city, while also stoutly stating that they were all devoted servants of the queen.

Taking their cue from the crowds, Richard prodded Ralph, and both began to bellow their support for the queen. After all, as Richard told himself, it was why they were there.

Holborn, London

If he could, Simon would have refused to stop here when the force reached the first of the roadblocks. There was a huge bonfire nearby, and the men could all see the heads of young and old alike beyond. The flames glinted from their steel caps, from the polished and sharpened swords and axes.

It was enough to drive the bishop to a sharp rage. ‘What is all this?’ he bellowed, standing up in his stirrups. ‘I am riding to my house and you fools have blocked my path! I will pass!’

There was no response at first, and then a man shouted, ‘Your home’s out the other side of the city. Not that there’ll be much left.’

‘What is that supposed to mean?’ the bishop demanded.

‘The mob’s gone to your house, bishop. They were seeking you, but since you’re not there, they’ll probably just burn it down!’

‘Dear God in heaven,’ the bishop groaned. ‘All my books, and my register … Quick, we must go to my house.’

Simon grunted unhappily. ‘We should carry on to his house in Old Dean’s Lane, Baldwin. If the mob’s up there at Temple Bar, that’s the last place we ought to go.’

‘Come with me, Simon,’ Baldwin said, and spurred his horse on to catch up with the bishop. ‘Bishop? Bishop Walter?’

‘What, Sir Baldwin?’

‘We really believe that you should not be heading this way. My lord, this city is close to riot: you can hear it and see it all about you. You should come with us to the Tower.’

‘I will not run away from a mob of London churls when they attack my house!’ the man said obstinately.

Simon could see his face. There was no fear in his eyes, only a cold determination and anger. ‘But Bishop Walter, if you go to Temple Bar, it is likely you’ll be killed.’

‘Look at the men with me,’ the bishop scoffed. ‘Do they look terrified? No. And nor should you be, Simon. The threats of the notes is all over and done with. I am a bishop, in God’s service. I don’t think that the London mob will do anything to harm me. Englishmen don’t tend to kill bishops very often!’

Baldwin and Simon exchanged a glance. There was nothing they could do to stop the bishop if he was set on this course. ‘There are plenty of guards,’ Simon said.

‘I hope there are enough,’ Baldwin said. He was not enthusiastic. But he had remained in London to help guard the bishop, and he wouldn’t turn away now. ‘Ach, come on, Simon! Let us stay with him, for good or ill. You never know — there may be something good to come of it all.’

And so it suddenly seemed.

As they rode back the way they had come, up Westchepe, Simon caught sight of a face that looked familiar. ‘Baldwin — look there!’

Folville saw them at the same time. ‘Shit! Ralph, we’re being hunted. Come!’

Spinning on his heel, Richard bolted away from Westchepe and along Bredstrete, followed by Ralph, their boots rattling on the flagged way, while behind them they heard shouting, and then the stolid clatter of hoofs.

Folville did not know this part of the city, but he was gambling on the fact that their pursuers might not know it either, and he led Ralph la Zouche at a ferocious pace, down over West Fish Market, and then snapping right, along another little parish church. There was the sound of a horse skidding as it took the stones at the corner too quickly, but then the horsemen were after him again, and he must run still harder, while his blood roared and hissed in his ears, and his lungs felt that they must burst. It was awful. But then he saw an opening in a wall, and he bolted inside, feeling rather than seeing Sir Ralph stumble in behind him.