Michael Jecks - Dispensation of Death

‘This road is called King Street,’ Baldwin said. ‘It leads us north for a while, and then we head east on the road called Straunde.’

Rob frowned. ‘What does that mean?’

‘A “straunde” is a beach, and this is the old line of the Thames, I think,’ Baldwin said. ‘When I was first here, many years ago, there were still some areas of marsh over there towards the river. It appears all is covered now. They have drained most of the marsh and dumped soil and gravel on top so that they can build on it.’

Rob gazed about him. ‘Why bother? Couldn’t they go a bit further away and build there?’

Baldwin smiled. ‘This is the main road from the kingdom’s greatest city to the Palace where the King makes his laws. Courtiers, bishops, innkeepers and pie-sellers all want to be near the seat of power, my friend. It is where the money lies … and that is all anyone is interested in nowadays,’ he added more sadly.

‘What is that?’ Simon asked. He was pointing at a great open space with low buildings behind it. Before it, stood a magnificent construction. Some five-and-twenty yards tall, it was a spire, with ornately carved sides. In arches on each face were figures, heads bent in mourning.

Baldwin sighed. ‘The King’s father, Edward the first, put that up, and eleven others, to commemorate his beloved wife, Eleanor of Castile. She was so dear to him, that when she died, he brought her body in procession back here to London. There is a great tomb for her in the Abbey, back there on Thorney Isle.’

‘He must have loved her dearly to have that built.’

‘Not just that, Simon, it is only one of twelve. She died in Nottinghamshire, and the King had one of these crosses built at each place where the procession stopped each night. And when they returned here, he had her heart buried in the Dominican House in London so that it was near the heart of her son Alfonso. He had died some years before her.’

‘A terrible thing for any mother or father,’ Simon said quietly. He had lost his own first son.

‘Yes. That is a useful marker for us, though,’ Baldwin continued, seeing his mood and trying to lighten it. ‘Because for us it indicates the end of King Street. Where that cross stands is the royal mews.’

Simon said, ‘Ah!’ The wide open space behind the cross was where the royal falcons and hawks would be exercised, then, and the buildings beyond were the houses where the birds could ‘mew’ or moult, as well as housing their falconers. From the sound of baying, he thought that some hounds must also be kept there.

‘The King enjoys his hunting, then?’ he said, his mind on happier things, just as his old friend had intended.

‘He enjoys mostly alternative pursuits, Simon. He likes to go hedging and ditching, or rowing boats or swimming,’ Baldwin chuckled. ‘Not that that is the worst, sadly. Do you know, he has been known to enjoy acting? There are many scandalised barons who have mentioned that. The thought that a king should enjoy such frivolous pastimes is enough to send some of them into the vapours.’

‘Acting, eh? How low can a man sink,’ Simon laughed.

‘From here, at Charing, the road becomes known as Straunde. It runs from here to the city of London itself, and there it becomes the Fleet Street.’

‘Why so many names?’ Rob grumbled. ‘Can’t they make do with one, like other towns?’

‘Because this is not like other towns, boy,’ Baldwin said, adding with a slightly sarcastic edge to his voice, ‘It is too great for one name to suffice. The people here adore display above all else.’

‘What do you mean by that?’ Simon asked. He was staring at a large building on their right. ‘Look at that! It’s as big as the Bishop’s house at Bishop’s Clyst!’

‘It’s a Bishop’s London home,’ Baldwin said absently. He gazed at it a moment, brow puckered with the effort of memory. ‘Ah yes, I think that is the Bishop of Norwich’s place. He is nearest Charing and the cross. Then comes the Bishop of Durham’s house, I think. And after that, the Bishop of Carlisle’s home. What I meant about display was that here in London, I always had the feeling that people like to make an impression, above all else. In Exeter or Salisbury or Winchester, or anywhere else, people take pride in beauty for beauty’s sake. They would have a wonderful building because they like beautiful things. A Bishop might commission a painting on his walls to make his cathedral more lovely, a merchant may do the same in his hall — but here, the aim seems to be sheer ostentation. They want to instil a sense of inferiority — or fear — in visitors. It is a harsh, dangerous city. Be cautious when Londoners congregate, that is my advice to you both.’

Simon could see that he was musing on other things, but knew better than to press his old friend. And to be truthful, he was more keen on looking at the huge manor houses which lined this great road. Ostentatious or not, he found them fascinating.

‘This is it,’ Baldwin said shortly.

Simon followed his pointing finger to a range of small dwellings, mostly little shops and some houses, with an inn. In the midst of them was a grand arched gateway, with a small door to one side. Baldwin rode to the gates and dropped from his horse. This late, for it was almost dark now, the gates had been closed, and he rapped sharply on them with his knuckles.

There was a grunt and soft curse, and then Simon heard footsteps. A panel shot open in the gate and a pair of scowling eyes peered out. ‘Yes? What do you want?’

‘The gates opened, old man. We are here to speak with the Bishop.’

‘His inn is just up there. Come back in the morning.’

‘We are his guests, Porter. If you wish, we can go as you say, and you can explain to him why it is that the men whom he invited to stay with him were turned away at his door.’

The eyes looked Baldwin up and down. ‘No one tells me anything!’ he grumbled. The panel slid shut, and shortly afterwards they heard the welcome sound of bolts rattling open and the rasp of timbers being drawn back to unbar the gates.

‘Please enter, my Lords.’

Simon rode into a space that seemed as large as his village green and sat for a while on his horse, simply drinking in the view.

Ahead of them was the Bishop’s residence while in London. It was a great stone hall with a shingled roof, rather like a smaller version of the King’s Great Hall. It clearly stood over a large undercroft, because the entrance was up a flight of stairs at the left-hand side, while on the right side was a two-storey block which would hold the Bishop’s private rooms and a chapel. Next to that were some stables and working sheds. The middle was one large expanse covered with a thick layer of gravel.

‘It’s huge,’ Simon breathed.

‘You forget that the good Bishop is one of the most important men in the country,’ Baldwin pointed out.

‘But he has the palace in Exeter, and his manor at Bishop’s Clyst. I didn’t think he’d have a property like this in London too,’ Simon said.

‘He is a very wealthy man,’ Baldwin said quietly.

Admitting it before Simon was hard, but Baldwin too was shocked by the size of this palace. He knew how much the Bishop had been forced to invest in the rebuilding works at Exeter Cathedral, and he had also been patron of schools and colleges. To have bought and built this massive property as well in the last fifteen years showed just how much Bishop Walter Stapledon had prospered. It left Baldwin feeling uneasy: so much wealth was hard to explain. However, Bishop Walter had been Lord High Treasurer twice in the last few years, and it was likely that some of the money used here had had its foundation in the King’s Exchequer.

They led their horses over to the stables, and then Baldwin and Simon marched to the hall.