Ralph saw his attacker, and lurched forward to help him. As he did so, a sword shot out from the gate, and la Zouche tripped over the flat of the blade, falling heavily to the ground.
‘So, it would seem you have us!’ Richard said sneeringly as Simon took his wrists and bound them strongly with a long thong.
‘You will have to answer to the bishop for your actions,’ Baldwin said. ‘He is the guardian of the city just now, and I think he will be keen to speak with you. For my part, I am only glad that the last threat has been taken from him.’
He was kneeling on Sir Ralph’s back as he spoke, swiftly binding the knight’s wrists too, and then he and Simon lashed their thongs to longer ropes, and while Simon gathered up the men’s swords, Baldwin led the two to the horses, which had been tethered outside the gateway. Soon they were trotting northwards towards St Paul’s, the men walking at their side.
William Walle saw Baldwin and Simon suddenly pelt off southwards, and he wanted to tell the bishop, to suggest that they should at least wait a little for them, but the whole mood of the area was against him. There were men peering out from doorways and windows, and William was sure that he could see the gleam of oiled metal weapons when he looked more closely.
This was a strangely quietened city. It was odd, as though in the midst of this enormous city he had found a stillness and peace. He had never before seen these lanes so empty. Now there was only himself and the men about the bishop — no one else. It gave William a sense of calmness that was quite unlike anything he had known before.
And of fear.
Yes. It was there, deep in his breast, the certainty that there was something entirely wrong, as though the devil had come here to London and taken away all the people. It was too silent. The horses’ hoofs echoed in the emptiness, and now William could feel his heart beginning to thud more painfully as the realisation began to seep into his soul that this was not normal. They were being lured on.
‘Bishop!’
The cavalcade stopped, and William rode on urgently. ‘This must be some sort of trap, Uncle. When have you ever seen the streets so deserted?’
‘What would you have us do?’ his uncle replied. He smiled. ‘Don’t worry about the mob, William. It’s my books in the house that worry me!’
He gave the signal to ride, and they trotted on, but then William saw the men in front wavering. One turned and looked back at him, a small frown of concern on his face. ‘Squire?’
That was when he heard it. Behind them came a low, visceral sound, like a thousand wolves seeing a herd of deer after a long famine. It was hideous, but not so bad as when William turned to look.
There, a scant hundred yards away, stood a great mob of people. They filled the entire street from side to side, a feral mass of citizens — some, he saw with horror, spattered with blood from other victims. ‘Ride! Ride!’ he shouted, and spurred his own beast.
But it was too late. They had ridden beyond St Michael le Querne already, so the escape down Eldesfistrate was already denied them, and before them a second huge crush materialised as if from thin air. Men waving sickles, knives and polearms, with hideous grinning faces on seeing the horror and terror in the eyes of the men about the bishop.
‘Bishop! Ride for the cathedral! Claim sanctuary!’ he screamed, hoping that his voice would carry, and rode forward to try to protect him.
John de Padington was at his side now, and the old man gave him a wink. ‘Don’t worry, Will. He’ll be all right. The old bugger always falls on his feet!’ he said, and then coughed. And as William felt the splash of warmth on his face, he suddenly realised that John had been shot by a crossbow. The quarrel had hit his skull, and the blood and brains were spattered all over William’s face.
‘No!’ he cried, but already John’s senseless body was toppling backwards from his horse. Held by the stirrups, he rode forward, his horse witless with fear.
William gave a hoarse scream of defiance and drew his sword. He lifted it high, and would have ridden forward, but the press of riders about him was too thick, and then they were all engulfed by the mob, and he watched without comprehension as first one, then another, man disappeared, their bodies pulled from their horses, and while their arms flailed, their legs kicked, they were carried away. It was like watching ants consume a bee. The bee could sting and kill a hundred, a thousand, and still be borne off and absorbed.
There was a blow in his side, and he felt his arse lift from the saddle as a spear entered his breast. He did not fall. The spear was tugged free, and he tried to swing his sword at the man, but his strength and coordination were gone.
Through the confusion of men and weapons, he saw his uncle for the last time. The bishop had reached the north door of the cathedral, and there he was pulled to the ground. Now men were dragging his uncle up towards the great cross in the road by St Michael le Querne; he saw them manhandle him, strip him of his armour then beat him, forcing him to his knees, one shoving his head down so that the back of his neck was exposed, while another thumped him on the head twice, three times, with the handle of a knife … and then he saw the other man with the bread-knife sawing at his uncle’s neck until there was a huge fountain of blood which smothered the nearest people, and then the man was holding up his uncle’s head, dancing and laughing, while the crowd cheered and shrieked their glee like demented demons even as the bile rose, thick and acid, in his throat.
And he gave a groan that seemed to come from his feet and shivered throughout his body. And then he felt the moan growing within him, and it became a roar at the injustice, the disgrace, and he spurred his mount forward, lifting his sword over his head to ride in amongst the crowd and kill as many as he could, uncaring about his own safety, only determined to take as many with him as possible.
He was scarcely aware of the two swords that stabbed up under his breastplate, into his belly and chest, nor of the detonation of agony that lasted only a moment, and then he was toppling gently into a spinning world of flashes of light, which faded quickly to blackness.
Chapter Forty-Six
‘No!’ Simon cried, and would have ridden forward as William slowly toppled, lifeless.
Baldwin was staring at the man who had the bishop’s head. He had thrust it onto a pole, and now the obscene symbol danced over the heads of the crowds, bobbing and weaving.
‘Simon, we must go,’ he said.
‘We can’t just leave Walter to them!’ he said, distraught. ‘He was our friend!’
‘And he wouldn’t want us to throw away our lives needlessly,’ Baldwin said. He looked down at the two men, then nodded to Folville. ‘Stand still.’
He pressed the blade of Folville’s sword against the thong and saw it fall away. ‘Take your sword, sir. You will need it in among this place. London is given over to madness and murder. Do you come with us to the Tower, and you will be safe.’
‘You will arrest us?’
Baldwin looked at him bleakly. ‘No. I am offering you your life. If you stay here, you will die. Release your companion and follow us, if you would live.’
He looked at his friend. ‘Simon, there is nothing we can do for him. He is dead.’
‘He was only a good man seeking to serve!’
‘I know. But the mob will not hear reason. Not today. So come away, Simon. We must save ourselves. Your wife will be distraught, my friend. Come. Let us go to her.’
Simon nodded at last, and they set off at a fast trot, with Sir Ralph and Richard running lightly alongside. It was a stroke of good fortune that the Tower was so close. They made their way along narrow streets suddenly devoid of all people. All appeared to be hiding, or already at Westchepe, joining in the celebrations at the murders.
They clattered up the drawbridge into the Tower’s courtyard, and there Simon dropped from his horse and stood like a man who had fallen into a nightmare.