Instead, Simon and Baldwin had ridden back to the Tower with William Walle, and on their way they discussed the morning’s attack. Baldwin tentatively raised the matter of the two felons.
‘Why should they want to attack the bishop?’
‘The Folvilles and la Zouches have been enemies of Bishop Walter for many years. They blame him for their losses, just as they have also blamed the Despenser family. Any hardship they endure, they have to put at the feet of others whom they distrust.’
‘Why Bishop Walter though?’ Baldwin pressed.
William pulled a face. ‘I have heard my uncle mention before now that he took some lands from the Folvilles. I think that there is no love lost between him and them.’
‘Is it extreme enough for a Folville to wish to kill the bishop?’
‘I would say that the dislike between them is strong enough for the bishop to want to kill them as well!’ William said. ‘My uncle was fond of Belers.’
Baldwin thought back to the man who had kicked the prone body of Roger Crok five days before. ‘I could recognise him again. What about you, Simon?’
‘I would, yes. But what are the chances of him still being here? Surely he would have ridden away by now.’
‘Perhaps — and yet the city is ready for war. Escaping would be easy, but dangerous at the same time. Perhaps he is still here. And if someone could recognise him, that would at least make the threat of him attacking the bishop less likely.’
‘Yes,’ Simon said. He considered. ‘So you think we ought to try to leave the bishop as bait and ride with him, then?’
William Walle began to shake his head with an anxious frown. ‘No, you mustn’t do that! What if you are in the bishop’s guard and see those two? You could ride off after them and leave his protection sorely weakened!’
‘William, you will be there with him, won’t you?’ Baldwin said soothingly. ‘And not alone. There will be plenty of men with you. Leave it to us, my friend.’
Third Wednesday after the Feast of St Michael*
Enfield
The day was cool, and Baldwin, sitting on his horse, could feel the chill air on his face. A kiss of ice, he thought idly, as the horse moved beneath him.
Bishop Walter had insisted upon joining the archbishop two days before in a second meeting at St Mary’s, in Southwark. The little village was unused to the sudden arrival of so many bishops and men-at-arms, but at least there were no more armed assaults on the men, and to Simon and Baldwin’s relief, the bishop had not encountered any further violence.
While waiting for him, Simon and Baldwin had begun to put into place a plan for guarding the bishop. Although there was no longer any reason to think that the warning notes would bring forward an attack on him, there was still concern about the man Folville and his companion, la Zouche. The pair of them had disappeared since their beating of Crok, and no matter how many people were offered bribes, nobody seemed to know anything of the two. Simon had grown convinced that they had indeed left the city, but Baldwin was less convinced, and he continued to worry at the problem, wondering where such men might hide themselves, where they might go, what they might do.
After that, the last two days had become hectic. Following the meeting at St Mary’s, Bishop Walter had returned yesterday to Lambeth, where the bishops tried to decide who could be sent to the queen, but there was a singular lack of agreement. Eventually, Bishop Walter declared that the matter had been discussed enough and left, and with his guards rode up through the city. Instead of going to the Tower again however, he took the old drovers’ road north, and spent the night at his manor here at Enfield, much to Simon’s irritation; he wanted to return to his wife.
Still, the rest away from the city had clearly done the bishop much good. He was much happier today, and now he came out from the doorway to view his guards with a more relaxed manner. His eyes were clearer, Simon thought, as though the sleep and his praying in the little private chapel had eased his soul.
He chatted to the men, walking amongst them, touching a man’s knee, holding a mount’s reins, while he spoke calmly and quietly, like a warrior leading his men into battle. And clad all in armour, that was precisely the impression he exuded, while behind him John de Padington and William Walle stood and grinned to hear his confidence. They both appeared to be congratulating themselves on having protected the bishop from the dreadful fears of those appalling notes.
It was early in the morning still when he finally went to the mounting block and the whole cavalcade could begin to make their way out through his enormous gatehouse and off to the road which led to London.
The weather may have appeared warmer in the yard, but now, trotting along the roads, Simon felt the need to pull his cloak tighter about him. The armour was hideously freezing, and the faint breeze that met his face felt as though it was flaying his flesh from his cheeks.
Still, London lay ahead, only some three leagues or so. It would be good, he thought, to get back there. After all the effort he had gone to, Simon felt quite sure that Folville and la Zouche could present little, if any, danger. The bishop must be safe.
Chapter Forty-Five
Frydaystrate, behind St Matthew’s, London
Richard de Folville shivered in the cold morning air. This whole exercise was turning into a farce.
They had tried to leave London as soon as they had clubbed Crok to the ground, but the stable had been locked and barred, and when they threw a rock through the man’s window, he had told them to clear off. He would not open today, he said. There was too much violence.
The next day, they had laid in wait for the fellow, and managed to catch him and drag him back to the stableyard, but then they were forced to change their own minds. The place was in the midst of a crowd of furious, baying citizens, and even la Zouche himself was nervous about entering with all those people in the way. They had the look of a mob which could turn on any stranger to their parish, and Folville had experienced enough danger in the last year already. He made the decision that they would have to remain here in London for another day or so.
That one day had become three, then four, and now it was a whole week! He could have killed that cretin Crok for keeping them back those first few days. God alone knew where the queen was now. She would probably not even remember them, and if she did, it would be only to punish their tardiness.
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.