The Bishop Must Die (46 page)

‘Bailiff, I’ll be glad to be out of here,’ Hugh said with a grimness that was unusual even for him. ‘This city is grown too fiery for my taste.’

‘I think we’re safe enough,’ Simon said, but he was less convinced than he sounded.

‘What if a man like him sees us leave the fort and decides to attack us?’ Hugh grunted. ‘Wouldn’t stand a chance in ’mong this lot.’

‘If the worst came to the worst, at least the Tower has stocks to last for months,’ Simon said.

It was true. The Tower could last for a long time under siege. That must have been the king’s plan, Simon realised now. He wished he had known it at the time, because he would have been a lot happier to be out of London and hurrying back homewards if the stories were all correct and war was approaching.

They returned to the fortress when a thin drizzle started to fall; now, if anything, the mood amongst the populace had turned uglier, and Simon was growing alarmed.

‘I don’t know how we can get inside there,’ he said to Hugh, who nodded morosely.

There was too much shouting and cursing for anyone to think of barging past to the gates. One or two people had been prising up stones from the roadway and were hurling them at the gates, and the men at the walls now all wore steel caps and helmets with vizors. In this mood, a mob could all too easily turn against any foreigners, and Simon and Hugh, with their Devon accents, would likely be pulled to pieces. That was the reason why Simon pulled back from the street into a doorway, wondering if there was another way up into the Tower.

Climbing the wall was clearly impossible. The whole area was surrounded by a moat, and even if the three could swim across without being brained by the mob’s missiles, they would have to climb the steep ramps that led to the walls. And the walls were tall, and manned by guards with crossbows and bows. Either way, they didn’t stand a chance.

The solution was given to him a moment or two later. There was a hiss from the crowd, and Simon could feel their attention moving away from the gateway itself and being diverted to the river. Craning his neck, Simon saw a great barge with rows of oars moving gently in unison, a flag fluttering at the prow.

‘What’s happening?’ Hugh demanded.

‘The garrison,’ Simon said dully, ‘would seem to think that it’s too dangerous to use the main gates.’

Margaret Puttock was feeling anxious. She had been chatting to Sir Peregrine when a sergeant had hurried past and muttered something to the coroner, who had quickly stifled a curse, murmured a polite apology and left at a trot, bellowing for men to follow him.

The rest of the time had passed in a blur as panicked men ran by, weapons clattering and clanking. There was a large number of archers, and they all ran to the entranceway, to the walls overlooking the drawbridge and down south to the river’s walls. It looked to Margaret as though they were seeking to defend the areas where an attack could be launched. But then she heard the tramp of marching boots, and walked to the walls herself, Perkin at her side.

It was there that she found herself staring down into the royal barge as the king and Sir Hugh le Despenser clambered aboard, servants and guards with them. In the floor of the boat was a series of barrels, and she wondered about them for a moment, but then her attention returned to the people all about, especially as she heard Sir Peregrine bellowing again. Then he turned and seemed to catch sight of her, and his face broke into a smile of such happiness that at first Meg thought, with horror, that he might have fallen in love with her. But then she realised that he was looking at Lady Isabella Fitzwilliam, who waved to him, before stepping over to join Margaret.

The two women had exchanged a few words in the last days, and had nodded to each other from a distance, but they were living in different quarters, and Margaret was not keen to wander
about the castle grounds while there were so many men in the garrison, so she had not made the effort to seek out Isabella. However, just now any companionship was welcome.

‘Where is the king going?’ she asked.

‘He isn’t going anywhere,’ Isabella said. ‘No, he’s sending money to pay men to fight for him. They say he’s ordered Sir Robert Waterville to gather fifty thousand men to repel the invaders.’

‘I thought he had men there already?’ Margaret said with some confusion. ‘There was talk of a huge number of men – that he was sending them to the coast to stop Mortimer and the queen before they could form a hold on the land.’

‘Is that what you heard?’ Lady Isabella asked. ‘What of your husband?’

‘I don’t think he knows more than that himself,’ Margaret protested. ‘Why? What is happening?’

‘Sir Peregrine has told me what they have been discussing,’ Lady Isabella said. ‘He thinks that the king’s reign could be about to end. There has been no fighting whatever since Queen Isabella landed. She arrived with only some thousand men, they say. The king’s navy did nothing to harry them on their way, and when they landed, no one challenged them. The king’s captain and arrayer for Essex, Norfolk and all about there, made no effort to halt the queen, and Sir Peregrine thinks he has gone to her side, and taken his men with him. And he believes that many others will do the same. There are few who will stand by the king.’

‘Surely there must be enough men who will do their duty and obey their monarch?’ Margaret wondered.

‘Where? All the most loyal have been dispossessed by the king or robbed by Despenser,’ Isabella said harshly. She was staring down at the men by the little landing-stage, and Margaret saw that her eyes were fixed upon Bishop Walter.

Without fanfare, the barge moved slowly away from the fort. There was a drum on board, and the oarsmen began to row to its beat, the great vessel starting its voyage up the river.

‘Where will he go?’ Margaret asked.

‘To Westminster, I think. There he’ll give orders for the country, and collect such of his household as are still loyal.’

‘He looks broken,’ Margaret said.

‘He knows his rule in the country is over,’ Lady Isabella said. ‘He will come back tonight, I suppose, since this is the strongest fortress in his realm. But it will be clear to him that his reign is over. This is the end.’

Simon, Rob and Hugh watched the barge as it slowly passed by, and Simon was taken by the sudden change in the crowd’s behaviour.

Where before there had been shouting, abuse, waved fists and occasional weapons displayed as men roared their defiance at a king no longer honoured, now there was a funereal silence.

The king and Sir Hugh le Despenser could be seen standing on the barge, amid the wonderful crimson cushions scattered on the benches. Neither sat, but both stared back at the crowds on the shore with a sort of desperation in their faces. Simon actually thought, looking at them, that they both thought they were at real risk of attack from the mob on the shore.

Certainly that was in the mind of some in the crowd, Simon reckoned. But there was an appreciation that if the king were to lose his crown, then their sovereign and protector was gone. And most people knew that when the ruler left, there was no rule. This felt like a city which was about to fall to lunacy and danger for all involved.

Simon had seen enough. ‘Come with me,’ he said tersely, and set off to the gate, but as he did so, he saw that the way was still blocked. The gates were closed, with no guards risking their lives by standing beyond them, and even as he watched, he saw a stone lobbed towards the gates. It struck with a dull, echoing thud that seemed to reverberate around inside the Middle Tower, but even that didn’t seem to rouse the crowd from its torpor. However, the sight of a bailiff walking up to the gate and tapping to ask to be
allowed inside, might be enough to do just that, and Simon wanted no part of it.

‘Can’t get in there,’ Hugh summarised succinctly.

‘Wonderful! Then how do we get into the castle, if we cannot go in by the gate?’ Simon said curtly, still thinking.

‘Like the king,’ his servant grunted.

‘What is that supposed to mean?’

‘River’s there, isn’t it?’

Simon glared, and then turned about. ‘Then we’ll go to Billingesgate and see whether we can get a ride,’ he said, furious with himself that he hadn’t seen the obvious way in.

‘Master, what’s going to happen now?’ Hugh asked as they trudged along the lane.

‘I don’t know, Hugh. The people here seem more than happy to let the city fall apart. I haven’t seen much in the way of bailiffs or sheriff’s men to stop the mob taking over.’

‘It’s a long ride home,’ Hugh commented.

‘I don’t think it’s a good time to attempt it, either,’ Simon said. ‘Not with the king trying to raise an army west of the city, and the queen’s forces about to arrive.’

‘You think they are coming here?’

‘I don’t reckon the king would have been running quite so quickly unless he was sure of it,’ Simon said. ‘If Edward reckoned he could protect the city, he’d have remained here. He provisioned the Tower against a siege for the full garrison – and that means weeks of food. He must have felt that the risk was there for him to be bottled up inside, and that no one would come to protect him.’

Hugh pulled a face. He looked up at the sky, checking the weather as a good shepherd always would, then glanced around at the street. ‘Best get on, then,’ he said. ‘Rob, move yourself, boy!’

‘You’re always ordering me about,’ the boy complained.

‘You’ll get a kick up your backside if you start that again,’ Hugh said imperturbably.

Simon smiled through his concern. It was good to know that,
no matter what else happened, these two would carry on bickering.

It was worrying that the king had fled though. There was nothing in his appearance that spoke of a man making a short journey, only to return with a new host. Rather, it was the broken figure of one who radiated failure, a king who was running into exile.

And that meant that those who remained in his service would find life rather too exciting for their taste. The immediate problems were to get back inside and ensure that Meg and Perkin were safe, then to see what, with Baldwin, might be done to secure their escape from the Tower, and from London itself. Perhaps it would be possible to ride from the city and make their way to Devon by degrees. He didn’t like to think of his daughter in Exeter, all alone but for her husband and father.

But problems of this nature were more easily dealt with one at a time. The first was how to return to the castle, and this was soon resolved. While they stood on the wharf, staring out at the grey river, Simon saw a rowing boat making its way towards them. It drew level, and as the man grasped a rope and lashed it to an iron ring in the stonework, Simon accosted him. ‘Would you take us a little way down the river? I’ll pay for it.’

‘You three? Where you want to go?’

‘Let us in, and we’ll point it out,’ Simon said. ‘We’re not from around here.’

‘I can hear that,’ the rower said suspiciously, but his face lit up at the sight of the coins in Simon’s hand, and any reservations he might have felt seemed to dissipate. Soon they had all clambered aboard, and the little craft was moving out into the middle of the waters to miss a ship coming into the quay.

Watching, Simon saw a number of stevedores lining up. One in particular caught his eye. He nudged the oarsman and pointed. ‘Those men. What are they doing?’

‘They unload the ships that come in here.’

‘They’re all Londoners?’

‘I don’t know. Mostly, I suppose. There’s always one or two
from outside, maybe, but most should be from London.’

‘They were carrying goods into the Tower the other day. I saw one of them there.’

‘They’re stevedores,’ the man said pointedly. ‘That’s what they do: carry things.’

‘Yes,’ Simon said. He could hear the contempt for this foolish foreigner in the man’s voice, but ignored it. He was sure there was something about that particular man that spoke of danger. Even as he had the thought, the fellow seemed to notice him in turn, and he saw the man’s eyes follow the boat down the river as though he had recognised Simon as well.

Recognised him as an enemy.

Tuesday, Morrow of the Feast of St Michael
^*

It was a grim family who gathered for their morning meal, and although Margaret did all she could to lighten the mood, she knew in her heart that it was not possible.

The departure of the king, together with his Treasury, had been preying on her mind. It was some relief when, later, the vessel returned, with the king and his adviser still aboard, but Margaret had heard the comments of the people in the Tower.

‘They all said he was running,’ she said in a low voice to Simon as she served him with ale.

‘What – from the realm?’ Baldwin asked.

‘They thought he was running because his wife would soon be here,’ Margaret said.

‘I did too,’ Simon admitted, ‘but if he runs, he will lose all. He
has
to remain here. At least here in the fort he is safe enough. And gradually, if he is besieged, he will find that his loyal subjects will come to support him. They wouldn’t let their anointed king be captured.’

‘You think so?’ Baldwin murmured. ‘Would you stay to defend Sir Hugh le Despenser if you were asked?’

‘No!’ Simon said, remembering the time months ago when the bishop had asked the same thing.

‘And that is the problem for the king. He, I think, believes that the kingdom will rally about him, but he has his principal adviser speaking words of caution in his ear all the time, because Sir Hugh knows perfectly well that as soon as he is captured, whether the king is with him or not, he will be executed for the manifest crimes for which he is responsible. He cannot live. There is nowhere for him to flee to in exile, save perhaps the Holy Roman Empire or beyond. Certainly, if he was found in France, he would be killed on sight.’

‘So you think Sir Hugh will persuade him to leave London?’ Margaret asked.