London (57 page)

Only one other thing had been agreed. If the strategy of the seven was to work, then discretion was advisable. The bargaining position must not be revealed. Absolute silence about the meeting would need to be maintained. “And then,” Bull muttered with deep satisfaction, “the day will be ours.”

He was surprised, when he reached home, to find Pentecost Silversleeves awaiting him. A glance told him that the Exchequer clerk was in a sorry state. He had been pacing up and down the courtyard for almost an hour. Rushing up to the merchant now, he begged him for news.

Though his face showed nothing, the merchant thought quickly.

“You are on your way to Longchamp?” he asked. Silversleeves nodded. “Then you may tell him,” he said carefully, “that London is loyal.”

Minutes later, the relieved Exchequer clerk was on his way to the Tower, leaving Bull alone with his thoughts.

Did I lie? Bull wondered. No. No Bull ever lied. “I just said London was loyal,” he said out loud.

He had not said loyal to what.

It was shortly after dark when young David Bull saw the strange little procession. All afternoon he had been watching from Ludgate for signs of the approaching forces, but though there was a rumour that they were close to Westminster, he had not seen them. At dusk the gates had been shut.

So who were the party of twenty hooded horsemen being led quickly through the quiet streets by men with torches and lanterns? He saw them near St Paul’s and followed them curiously down the incline towards the Walbrook. At the London Stone, the procession paused. Three of the riders went up a lane opposite; some of the others dismounted. Still curious, David drew closer. There was no one else in the street. The horsemen were clustered together and he did not quite dare approach them, but after a moment he noticed a large figure holding a lantern detach himself from the group and go towards the shadowy lane. Running up behind him, David touched his arm and softly enquired, “Can you tell me, sir, who are these men?” And was amazed, as the figure turned round, to see in the glow of the lantern the large, heavy-set face of his father.

“Go home!” Bull hissed to his startled son, and then, in a low voice, “I’ll tell you about it later.”

Obediently David turned to go. Unable to resist, however, he hesitated for a moment. “But who are they, Father?” he whispered.

He was truly astonished when his father muttered, “It’s Prince John, you fool. Now go.”

It had been a relief to Ida to hear that her husband and his fellow merchants were loyal. Alone that afternoon, she had even quietly congratulated herself. Clearly, her influence had begun to do some good. Crude merchant though he was, there was decency in Bull. She would express her approval that evening.

There was also the other matter to discuss, she thought. It would be well to talk about that too.

At first, then, when David came in that evening and told her what had happened, she could not quite believe it. “You must have misunderstood,” she told him. But as an hour passed, and then another, she began to wonder. What could it mean? What was her husband up to? As she thought of the aldermen dealing with the treacherous prince, her face became pale and taut. When Bull finally arrived her large brown eyes fixed upon him and she asked her simple question in a voice that was low and icy.

“What have you done?”

He was not abashed, glancing first at her, then at David.

“A deal,” he answered coolly.

“What kind of deal?”

“The best in the history of London,” he cheerfully replied.

“You dealt with the traitor John?”

“With John. Yes.” Was his calm contemptuous?

“The enemy of the king. What deal?”

Bull ignored his wife’s tone, as though he was so satisfied he did not much care what she thought of him, and answered her easily enough.

“Tomorrow, madam, Prince John will officially enter the city with the king’s council. We shall open the gates and welcome him. Then the city will give Prince John and the council its full support in deposing Longchamp. If necessary, we shall storm the Tower.”

“And then?”

“We shall join the council and swear to recognize John as King Richard’s heir instead of Arthur.”

“But that is monstrous,” Ida cried. “You effectively give England to John at once.”

“Not in law. The council rules. But in practice you may be right.”

“Why have you done this?” Her voice was hoarse with dismay.

“The deal, you mean? Oh, it is excellent.” He smiled. “You see, in return for London’s cooperation at this critical time, Prince John has granted us something we greatly deserve.”

“Which is?”

“Why my dear, the commune, of course! London is now a commune. We shall choose our mayor tomorrow.” He beamed at them both. “London is free.”

For just a moment Ida was too stunned to speak. It was worse, more cynical, more wicked, than anything she had imagined. The happy weeks of the summer at Bocton were forgotten. She erupted.

“London a commune,” she shouted. “So that you merchants can strut and call yourselves barons and pretend your mayor’s a king? For that you have sold England to that devil John?” She stared at him with rage. “You traitor!” she screamed.

Bull shrugged, then turned around. And because he did so, he did not see young David Bull, staring through tears at his father not only with shock but, for the first time in his life, with hatred, before he rushed out of the house.

Pentecost and the four horsemen rode through the dark streets. He had decided to join the patrol in case he could learn any further news, but everything was quiet.

His meeting with Longchamp had heartened him. The chancellor might be a dark, coarse-featured fellow, but one had to admire his cool resolve. All his castles, Pentecost learned, were well defended. The dispositions at the Tower were excellent. “And tomorrow at dawn, you are to ensure that all the gates of London stay closed, upon my order,” he told Silversleeves. The clerk had also helped him begin a letter to King Richard, setting out John’s treacherous game in detail. “If, as you tell me, the city will stand firm, we can probably frighten John off,” Longchamp remarked. “And then,” he added with a grin, “we must find you another estate, my friend Silversleeves,” the prospect of which had greatly increased the clerk’s valour.

The patrol had reached the foot of Cornhill and was about to return to the Tower when it met three knights riding up from the river. Wondering who they were, Pentecost listened idly as the patrol leader, glad of something to do at last, told them to identify themselves. He was surprised when, after a slight hesitation, one of the knights responded with: “Who may you be?”

“The chancellor’s men. Identify yourselves.” Again there was a slight pause. He heard one of the three knights mutter something, and another laugh. Then came the reply.

“I am Sir William de Montvent, fellow. And your master is a dog!”

John’s men. What could it mean? He had no time to think. The sound of swords drawn, a pale flash of steel in the dark, and the knights were running their horses at them.

What happened next took place so quickly that afterwards Pentecost could never quite remember the sequence of events. As the three knights rushed, he instinctively tried to wheel his horse to run away. But there were cobbles underfoot. His panic made him act so suddenly that his horse slipped and fell, and he was lucky, as he crashed on to the hard ground, to fall clear.

By the time he struggled up, two of the three knights were already a hundred yards away. He heard the clash of steel. Then he looked up. The third knight was gazing coolly down at him, his sword drawn. He laughed. “Fancy a little swordplay?” he asked. “I’ll come down then.” And in a leisurely manner, he began to get down from his steed.

Terrified, Pentecost did not even have time to think. As he clambered to his feet and drew his sword he saw, for just a second, that as the knight dismounted he had his back to him. He lunged, and by good fortune struck deep into the fellow’s side. A mortal blow.

With a cry the knight fell. Pentecost looked at him, aghast. The knight was on the ground staring up at him, groaning softly and very pale. He looked about, wondering what to do. The others were already round a corner, out of sight.

It was just at this moment that, from the direction of the West Cheap, a single figure came wandering dejectedly through the shadows towards him. Pentecost peered nervously, then murmured in surprise. It was David Bull. Pentecost hesitated. Should he hide? It was too late. The boy had recognized him and was hurrying up. Catching sight of the fallen knight as he drew close, David gasped. “He attacked me,” Silversleeves said quickly.

And then the boy said the words that caused Pentecost to grow paler than the dying knight. “Oh sir,” he cried, “do you know what has happened? My father and the aldermen have sold London to Prince John.”

Silversleeves stared. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. He told me so himself. There’s to be a commune.” He was so distressed he was near to tears again. Gazing miserably at Silversleeves he asked; “Is it all over, then?”

Now Pentecost had to think very fast. Glancing down, he saw with relief that the knight was dead. He looked up and down the street. Those knights would be back soon to find their companion. Had anyone else seen the killing? He did not think so.

“All is not lost,” he told the boy. “The chancellor’s here. We have men.”

“You mean you’ll still oppose Prince John?” The boy brightened. “You’ll fight for Lionheart?”

“Of course,” said Pentecost. “Won’t you?”

“Oh yes,” cried David Bull. “I will.”

“Good. Take my sword,” Silversleeves said, handing it to him. “I’ll have his.” Reaching down, he picked up the fallen knight’s weapon. Once more, he glanced around. All was silent.

Then, with a single, easy thrust, he plunged the knight’s sword into David Bull’s heart.

A few moments later, having put the sword back in the dead knight’s hand and closed his fingers around it, he went to get his horse. Fortunately the animal was still sound. Then, making a small detour, he waited in a nearby alley to watch.

It turned out as he had thought. After only a few minutes the other knights, having chased the patrol to the Tower, returned to find their companion. From his hiding place, he could hear their voices.

“By God,” one cried, “he’s been killed by a boy.”

“The boy attacked him from behind. Look.”

“He managed to kill the little brute before he died, though.” And they picked up the body of their comrade and rode away.

Not long afterwards, Pentecost arrived at the house of Alderman Sampson Bull.

“I’ve come to ask a favour,” he told Bull. “I’ve left Longchamp. He’s finished. Would you put in a good word for me with John and the council? After all I did for you?” And, feeling a little guilty at having misled him earlier, Bull grudgingly agreed. “All right. I’ll do my best.”

“You are a true friend,” said Silversleeves.

“By the way,” Bull remarked, “my boy went running out into the street a little while ago. You haven’t seen him, have you?”

“No,” Pentecost replied, “I haven’t.”

On 7 October in the year of Our Lord 1191, a momentous event took place in the history of London. After being summoned to the churchyard by the great bell of St Paul’s, the ancient Folkmoot, of the citizens of London, met to hear the council, in the presence of a large body of magnates and, of course, Prince John, depose Chancellor Longchamp. At this meeting John was proclaimed heir to the throne. But most wonderful of all, it was declared that, subject to the confirmation of King Richard – should he ever return – London was to be a commune. With a mayor.

During this happy ceremony, a red-faced Alderman Sampson Bull stood somewhat apart from his fellows, who tried not to look at his large body shaking almost continuously with silent tears.

When the tragedy of his son had become known to him the previous night and he had returned home with David’s body, it was perhaps not surprising that, in his grief, he had blamed Ida. “It was you who turned him against me and filled his head with nonsense,” he cried in anguish. “Now see what you have done. Get out of my house,” he bellowed, “for ever.” When she refused, he struck her.

So guilty did she feel, so shocked and sorry for the merchant as she witnessed the full extent of his agony, that she let him strike her. Nor did she say anything when, as she stumbled up, he struck her again, breaking two of her teeth.

But the third time, before the blow fell, she begged him: “Do not strike me again.” And as he paused, she told him the thing she had been about to tell him for a little while: “I’m pregnant.”

Strangely, in his pain that day it was his brother Michael to whom Bull went for comfort.

1215

The castle of Windsor was a pleasant sight. Constructed over the last century, it occupied a single hill, covered with oak woods, and rose like a guardian over the placid meadows by the River Thames. It commanded a magnificent view of the hamlets and countryside around. Around the broad summit, above the trees, there was a high curtain wall with battlements. But where the Tower of London was square and grim, this other great royal castle further up the Thames had a sedate, almost kindly presence.