Falls the Shadow (52 page)

They were admitted by a young serving maid. Within moments, a woman was crossing the hall toward them. She was neatly dressed in a bright blue gown and snowy white wimple, but her hands and apron were streaked with flour. Unselfconscious, she smiled, explaining, “We’ve a new cook; I was showing him my favorite eel pasty recipe.”

“Dame Cecilia.” De Gisors bowed over a slim, flour-dusted hand. “I believe you know Augustine de Hadestok. This gentleman is Richard Picard, like myself a court vintner, and this is my nephew, Clement, newly come to London.”

“I’ll send a servant to see to your comfort whilst I inform my husband that you are here. He may not be able to see you at once, for he is meeting in the solar with Sir Thomas Puleston.”

Clement had a sharp eye, caught the expressions of distaste that flickered across the faces of his companions. As soon as they were alone, he queried, “Who is this Puleston? I gather you like him not, Uncle.”

“Indeed not.” De Gisors lowered himself onto a cushioned bench. “Puleston is not one of us, even though he did marry into one of London’s better families. He comes of Shropshire gentry, is a royal justice…and a born conniver. He and de Montfort are two of a kind, arrows shot from the same bow. He’s the Earl’s sworn man, cares not who knows it. He—”

Cutting himself off abruptly, he got stiffly to his feet. Clement turned in time to see a figure emerging from the corner stairwell. While it was obvious that this dapper, youthful man was their host, he so little resembled de Gisors’s lurid characterization that Clement could only stare, mouth ajar. As Fitz Thomas drew near, he saw that the Mayor was not as young as he first appeared, but he could still more easily have been taken for an Oxford student than a merchant in his mid-forties. Of slight build, with fine, flaxen hair, Norse-blue eyes, and a friendly, ingratiating smile, he seemed so innocuous to Clement that he found himself doubting his uncle’s judgment, wondering how they could possibly see this mild-mannered draper as Lucifer’s henchman.

Thomas Fitz Thomas greeted them affably, as if they were friends, not political rivals, bade them be seated, and promised to be with them shortly. Clement held his tongue until Fitz Thomas disappeared into the stairwell, and then blurted out, “That is the firebrand Mayor? Jesú, Uncle, he looks like a clerk!”

De Hadestok gave a derisive snort, and de Gisors said grimly, “Appearances can mislead, lad. To look at the magpie, you’d not think a bird with such beautiful plumage would be a thief, a scavenger that feeds upon other birds’ eggs. Fitz Thomas may indeed look like a church deacon, but he has the soul of a pirate. He has a diabolical ability to stir up a crowd, has turned the Folkmoot into a dangerous weapon and learned to unleash the London rabble at his will.”

“The Folkmoot? Is that not a public meeting of London freemen? I thought it had fallen into disuse, was little heeded nowadays.”

De Gisors nodded. “That is what makes Fitz Thomas so formidable a threat, Clement. He has resurrected the Folkmoot, made of it his own creature, serving his ends. Had you but seen him yesterday noon—” He broke off, shaking his head. “The Folkmoot met, as always, at Paul’s Cross, but never have I seen such a gathering. So many men turned out that there was not a foot to spare in all of the churchyard, and they cheered lustily as Fitz Thomas preached them a fire-and-brimstone sermon. To hear him tell it, the Oxford Provisions were like Holy Writ, and when he finally put it to a vote, asking if they supported Simon de Montfort and the Provisions, the simple fools shouted their ‘yeas’ to the heavens, as if they’d been asked to acclaim Christ the Redeemer!”

“John…” Augustine de Hadestok gave a warning cough, and de Gisors spun around. If Fitz Thomas had heard the last of this harangue, it did not show on his face; his smile did not waver. Another man had followed him out of the shadows of the stairwell. Clement knew this dark, saturnine stranger must be the hated knight Puleston. Unlike Fitz Thomas, the wolf in sheepskin, Puleston at least looked the part; he could have been the reincarnation of every pilgrim’s fears, the wicked brigand lurking in every dark woods, around the bend of every lonely road. Puleston had a rakish, sardonic grin and penetrating black eyes; Clement had a sudden irrational conviction that they could see into his very soul, and he flushed, looked hastily away.

After an exchange of ice-edged greetings, Puleston made an unhurried departure. Fitz Thomas wandered over to the trestle table littered with sealing wax, pens, letters, and parchment scrolls. They were in disorder, for Augustine de Hadestok had been riffling through them, and when Fitz Thomas glanced up at his guests, his smile was knowing, ironic. “What may I do for you, gentlemen?”

“Do you still mean to go to the King, demand that he accept the Provisions?”

“Demand, no. Urge him, yes. He must realize that support for the Provisions runs deep in London. Our last Folkmoot—”

“—was a farce,” de Hadestok said indignantly. “You’ve given a voice to the lowest elements in the city, whilst utterly ignoring the views of men of consequence, men of property. And when we sought to rebut you, we were shouted down!”

Fitz Thomas shrugged. “It is unfortunate,” he said, “but not surprising, that rudeness ofttimes follows apace of revolution.”

De Gisors gasped. “You admit, then, that you seek to foment a revolution?”

Fitz Thomas looked at them. “Do you not know, Master de Gisors,” he said softly, almost gently, “that you are even now living through one?”

Richard Picard, hitherto silent, now blistered the air with an embittered oath. “I told you we were wasting our time, John. Let’s be gone from here.”

“Not yet.” De Gisors moved toward the Mayor. “You are no fool. You must realize the danger in what you are doing. In courting the rabble, you imperil the entire social order. Why are you doing this? What do you seek to gain?”

“ ‘The rabble’?” Fitz Thomas echoed, no longer amused. “I suppose by that you mean the men of the craft guilds. I’ll grant you that the fishmongers, the cordwainers, and potters do not enjoy the same stature as the trade guilds—the shipping magnates like you, Master de Hadestok, or the vintners like you, Master de Gisors. But the members of the craft guilds are decent, hard-working men, men entitled to a say in the government of their city, and that you have denied them.”

De Gisors was shaking his head. “Nay, you wrong me. We may have been often at odds with upstart craftsmen, but I would not call them ‘rabble.’ It is not their influence I fear. It is the journeymen, those who work for wages, the riffraff, the baseborn. Can you deny that such men are fickle, untrustworthy, ever on the edge of violence?”

Fitz Thomas leaned back against the table. “During my term as sheriff,” he said, “I often attended inquests. The verdicts were varied, ranging from murder in a street brawl to death by mischance to the most common cause, river drowning. But when it came to the disposition of the dead man’s property, again and again the finding was the same: ‘Goods and chattels had he none.’ When men have nothing to lose, gentlemen, when they are given no stake in what you call the ‘social order,’ is it truly so surprising that they do not share your belief in the sanctity of the law?”

“If I wanted to hear a sermon on the plight of Christ’s poor, I would be at Mass,” de Hadestok jeered, and Picard chimed in, no less mockingly. De Gisors and his nephew were silent, the former looking tired and troubled, the latter intrigued in spite of himself. Clement no longer wondered why so much controversy swirled around Fitz Thomas; the man’s passion was contagious.

“What do you hope to accomplish?” he asked, not to bait the Mayor but because he truly wanted to know. They all sensed his sincerity; he earned himself glowering looks from his companions and an honest answer from Fitz Thomas.

“On more than ten separate occasions, King Henry has seized control of the city’s government. I want to make sure that never happens again. In the past, aldermen have abused their office, getting special tax exemptions, brazenly favoring their friends and family. That, too, I would stop. I would protect our city’s rights against the encroachments of the abbey at Westminster. I would gain recognition for the craft guilds.”

He paused, his eyes flicking from face to face, and then burst out laughing. “What did you expect me to say—that I meant to sell my soul to the Devil, my city to the Saracens? That I yearned to be a kingmaker? My aims are more modest than that. I want to protect the welfare of my city. I want to see the Oxford Provisions accepted by all men, its reforms carried out. If I would also like to become London’s most memorable Mayor, what harm in that? I said my aims were modest. By the grace of God Almighty and the Earl of Leicester, they are attainable, too.” He smiled suddenly. “I think, gentlemen, that is what frightens you so much.”

“I was wrong,” de Gisors snapped. “You are indeed a fool. All this talk of the common people, the craftsmen, apprentices, beggars. What do they mean to a lord like Leicester? He will make use of you as long as it serves his purposes, but he’ll never see you as an ally, an equal. He’ll—” He paused, for Fitz Thomas was laughing again.

“Of course the Earl of Leicester believes in the supremacy of blood; what lord does not? You are right when you say the Earl does not see me as his equal. If one of my sons sought to wed his daughter, I daresay he’d be greatly affronted.” He moved forward, stopped in front of de Gisors.

“Leicester might deny my son a highborn bride, but he would not deny him justice. You asked why he would care about the fate of a fishmonger, a tanner? Because even the lowest wretch is deserving of God’s mercy, the protection of the King’s laws. He believes that, you see. I’ve never known another lord who did, but Simon de Montfort truly does. I’ll not deny that self-interest colors his views; what of it? Only a saint is deaf to that voice. But the Earl has a heartfelt vision of the way the world should be. I like his vision, Master de Gisors, I like it well. So do the citizens of London.”

“Come away, John,” Richard Picard urged, and this time de Gisors heeded him. He turned, followed the others across the hall. But at the door, he stopped, glanced back at the Mayor.

“You do not understand,” he said tautly, “do not realize what is at stake. There’ll be no going back. England will never be the same!”

Fitz Thomas nodded. “God willing,” he said, “indeed it will not.”

On July 13, Henry capitulated, sent Simon de Montfort word that he would abide by the barons’ terms. But his belated recognition of reality was not shared by his outraged Queen. Telling Henry that if he lacked the backbone to resist these rebels, she did not, Eleanor announced her intention of joining their eldest son, Edward, at Windsor Castle. Henry, his nerves raw and bleeding, angrily bade her go, and within the hour, her bargemen were rowing away from the Tower, heading upstream.

Her ladies were obviously ill at ease as the Queen’s barge struggled against the current, for Beatrice and Auda would bear the brunt of Eleanor’s temper on the twenty-mile journey to Windsor. Moreover, both women were fearful of river travel, and Eleanor’s anger had propelled them out onto the Thames less than an hour after the cresting of high water. They sat stiffly upright, clutching the edge of their seats, dreading the moment when their barge would have to shoot the bridge. If Eleanor shared their misgivings, it didn’t show. In high dudgeon, she was railing indiscriminately, heaping verbal abuse upon her husband, Simon de Montfort, the Earl of Gloucester, Londoners in general and Mayor Fitz Thomas in particular. When she began to berate their boatmen for their clumsy piloting, her ladies exchanged glumly resigned glances; this was going to be a very long trip.

The Queen’s barge soon attracted the attention of youngsters fishing along the river bank. One, bolder than his companions, shouted, “Go back to France!” The others took up the taunt. Eleanor was incensed enough to demand that they be punished, but her knights quickly pointed out that the boys would vault a fence, disappear into an alley long before their barge could reach the shore. Eleanor could not refute their logic and subsided, still fuming.

Such displays of antagonism had become all too common of late. The most unpopular Queen since the Conquest, Eleanor was attacked for her extravagant spending, her foreign birth, her multitude of acquisitive relatives, even for Henry’s foibles, and—unfairly—for the crimes of Henry’s de Lusignan kin, whom she detested. But nowhere was she more hated than in London, where she’d alienated the citizens by taxing all boats using the Queenhithe wharf, by claiming a payment of “queen’s gold.” Much of the time, she was indifferent to the hostility of her subjects, but her anger had made her vulnerable, and as she listened now to the gibes of these London youngsters, she found herself remembering the exuberant welcome Londoners had accorded her upon her first entry into their city, so many years ago.

So caught up was she in these regretful reveries that she did not at once notice their barge was losing ground, beginning to drift. The oarsmen were no longer rowing. When she rebuked them, they pointed. “Madame, look!” Turning, she was unable to stifle a gasp. Ahead lay the bridge. It was always a formidable obstacle to river traffic, but never had it presented so daunting a barrier, for it was thronged with an angry crowd, men, women, even children. They filled every available space, leaning recklessly over the railing, blocking the narrow pathway, trapping carts and pack mules, even hanging out of the windows of the houses lining the bridge. As Eleanor stared, disbelieving, a hoarse shout went up: “She comes! The bitch comes!”

“Madame.” The captain of her guards half-rose, causing the barge to rock. “We’d best return to the Tower. We can resume our journey once that rabble has been dispersed.”

“Indeed not!” Eleanor raised her chin. “I’ll not be affrighted by common churls. We continue on to Windsor.” She gestured to the oarsmen. “Row!”

Reluctantly, they obeyed; the barge lurched forward. The cries of the crowd grew louder, more strident. Eleanor sat still, head high, staring straight ahead. They could hear the roar of the river now, pounding against the piers. The tide was quickening, waves slapping the sides of the barge; they were soon drenched in spray. The oarsmen steered toward the widest arch, in mid-bridge. Above it rose the small chapel of St Thomas à Becket; it, too, had been invaded, angry, contorted faces showing at the open windows. The first missile to strike the barge was a raw egg. It landed beside Beatrice, splattered the Queen’s seat cushions. Beatrice screamed and a second egg flew through the air, thudded onto the floor of the barge.