Michael Jecks - Dispensation of Death

But it was not merely the wall that caught his attention. Beyond was the cathedral, standing clear in the grey morning light on its hill.

‘Saint Paul’s,’ Baldwin said.

They entered the great city by the gate, and were soon making their way up Ludgate Hill, Baldwin speaking about the port which supplied so much of the population’s needs.

For Simon there was an especial thrill in standing before the enormous church. Peering at the two towers, the statues and decorations, he was lost in wonder. When Baldwin interrupted him, he was quite startled.

‘I think we ought to get a move on, Simon. Here comes Bishop Walter and his retinue.’

‘Oh? Oh, yes.’ Simon was excited at the prospect of seeing the interior. It was surely not so vast as Exeter, with its massive length of nave, nor as well decorated as the fabulous cathedral of Santiago de Compostela, but for all that, it was a splendid sight.

Except that for the second time that morning, he gradually became aware that Baldwin was very jumpy: his eyes were roving about the people in the street, watching them carefully.

‘What is it, Baldwin?’ he asked a trifle testily. Only then did he himself grow aware of the terrible tension in the crowds about the Cathedral. There was an almost palpable hatred in the air. As the Bishop’s party approached the Cathedral, the babble had dulled, and now the people were glaring at him with sullen faces.

As Simon registered the mood of the people there, a stone was hurled. It flew high over Simon’s head, and he heard it smack into the flank of one of the men-at-arms’ horses. The mount gave a snort and jerked his head, bouncing up and down. And then there was another missile, this time some ordure from the kennel, and it splattered into the wall of the church not far from the Bishop’s head.

Bishop Walter kept calm, and merely clattered on, but there were shouts now on all sides, and curses and imprecations were thrown at him as he passed towards the hitching posts. A couple of urchins stood there, taking the reins for all those who were attending the service, and they gleefully took the Bishop’s, gazing about in the hope of boys everywhere that they might see some excitement.

When he had given away his mount, he stood and surveyed the crowds. There was more shouting, and Baldwin distinctly heard someone berating Stapledon about the ‘Eyre’.

The Bishop held up his hand and glared about at the people in front of him. Baldwin nudged Simon, and began to walk towards him, pushing through the crowd with an increasing sense of concern. The guards from his party were looking from one side to another with increasing alarm, their hands on their swords. In the whole space before the Cathedral, the only man who appeared calm and collected still was the Bishop. He held up both hands now, in a gesture of mild reproof.

‘Wait, my friends,’ he called. His answer was a small hail of pebbles. It was all Baldwin needed. He saw a young man, probably an apprentice, levering a cobble from the roadway with a metal bar. Before the lad could heft the rock, he was aware of a bright blue blade under his chin.

‘Drop it.’

The lad not only dropped it, he took one look at Baldwin’s face and bolted.

But scaring one man was not sufficient to ensure the Bishop’s safety. Baldwin saw that Simon had grabbed a long staff from someone, and had cracked another man over the wrist with it. The fellow was standing looking daggers at Simon while nursing his forearm. Another had drawn a knife and was eyeing Simon warily, but the Bailiff had seen him, and although he looked relaxed, Baldwin was not for a moment fooled. He knew that Simon was at his most dangerous when he wore that easygoing expression. If the man lunged, he would be unconscious on the ground in a moment.

‘This is Candlemas, and you are threatening the peace of this Church,’ the Bishop spoke out. ‘You have no right to try to draw blood, but if you do so today of all days, the Feast Day of the Purification of the Blessed Virgin, you will be committing a mortal sin. Think of that, all of you! Do you want to be excommunicated? You may escape punishment here on earth, but God watches over all that you do. Do not …’

The rest of his words were drowned out in the shouting. Men were shaking their fists at him, and now more missiles were hurled. For the first time, Baldwin saw that the Bishop was worried. His three men-at-arms appeared less than keen to get between him and the mob, and he could plainly see that the door to the Cathedral was some distance away. If he were to run, it was most unlikely that he could make it without being grabbed by someone more fleet of foot, or be felled by a flying rock.

‘Christ’s ballocks!’ he heard Simon say, and the two looked at each other. Then, with a nod, both took a deep breath and plunged into the crowd to try to reach him.

As though by a miracle, the noise and bellowing suddenly ceased. At first Baldwin thought that the sight of a single knight with his sword drawn, or perhaps a Bailiff with a staff, was enough to bring sense to this unruly throng, and he felt a slight uplifting of his heart. But then he heard the shouted order, the rattle of hooves on cobbles, and the ringing of chains and armour. There was a clatter of steel as men drew their swords, and when he turned, he saw a line of men-at-arms on horseback eyeing the rabble with contempt.

‘Disperse in the name of the King!’

It was Sir Hugh le Despenser. He trotted forwards a short distance, and Baldwin saw disdain in his eyes — a contempt for the churls who dared to stand before him. Baldwin was convinced that this man would willingly ride down all the people in this street. He cared nothing for any of them.

The people knew him, because their noise was stilled instantly as they froze into fearful submission. Stones were dropped, knives hastily sheathed, and the fellows began to slip away, their faces bitter and surly. One man stood before Despenser with a staff in his hand, but Sir Hugh spurred his great horse onward, and the man was barged aside. He opened his mouth as though to shout defiance, but as he did so, one of Sir Hugh’s men drew his sword and casually swung his pommel into the man’s skull. He collapsed, blood spurting from a gash over his brow, whimpering with the shock as the horses passed by him.

As people realised that their fun for the day was over, the horde started to thin. After a short while, three women ran to the old man’s side, gentling him and no doubt praising him for his courage.

Simon watched them for a moment, relieved that the man was not badly hurt. ‘Thank God for that. I thought you and I were about to die trying to protect Walter from that rabble. Sweet Mother Mary, thank God they arrived just then.’

Even Baldwin was prepared to admit: ‘I never thought I should be glad to see Sir Hugh le Despenser arrive behind me with a force of men.’

‘Really, Sir Baldwin?’

Sir Hugh’s voice was nearer than Baldwin had expected. He had left his horse with one of his men, and now was only a couple of feet away, and he eyed Baldwin’s sword pointedly.

Baldwin smiled without guile and took it up to sheath it, but Sir Hugh was peering closer, and the knight felt a cold dread that seemed to settle in his bowels. Hurriedly he thrust it home, and put his thumbs into his belt, defiantly meeting Sir Hugh’s gaze.

‘This was a close affair, Sir Baldwin. You and Master Simon here could have been hurt.’

‘We naturally wished to do all we could to protect Bishop Stapledon,’ Baldwin said.

The Bishop was already making his way to them. He was pale, and his eyes reflected the anxiety which he must surely feel. ‘Ha! The London mob. I have often seen them rise to attack others, but this is the first time I have been on the receiving end of their ire. It is not an experience I should wish to repeat.’