‘Fight there may be, but I do not relish a rest in the open all night,’ the Bishop grunted. ‘We may, possibly, press on and meet with the people at the gate? Viens! Allons-y!’
Baldwin looked at Simon, who muttered a heartfelt, ‘Shite!’ and then the two clapped spurs to their mounts and hurried off, trying to avoid the hounds who, seeing the horses beginning to race, joined in with gusto.
The road here was a dog-leg. A stand of trees at the wayside blocked their view for a moment. They rode past a great abbey — St Augustine’s, Simon was later to learn — and after this, the road took a sharp turn to the right, following the abbey’s outer wall. Now they could see the mess at the gate, and hear the shouting. Two men were plainly fighting. Simon could see one of their mounts rearing, while the fellow beat down with his sword, although whether he was slashing at an attacker, or merely knocking a fool on the pate with his pommel, Simon couldn’t tell.
Now they were taking an equally sharp left turn, and making a straight line for the city’s eastern gate, the Burgate. It was a run of only maybe a hundred yards, but now it was crammed with people shouting and screaming, and in the midst of it were the Bishop’s two men-at-arms, their arms flailing, and as Simon came closer, he could see that their blades were red with blood.
‘Christ!’ Simon swore. ‘Do you see them?’
Baldwin had no need to answer. There were three people on the ground at the feet of the two horses, two with bloody heads, and both the Bishop’s men were retreating towards the edge of the road, where a fence prevented their escape, and were looking about them with angry nervousness, as well they may, for there was a ring of rough-looking men about them, four carrying pole-arms as though they knew how to use them, two more with ash staffs, and more rushing to their side with knives and clubs.
‘Come, Simon!’ he called, and galloped to them.
It was almost too late. He saw a whirling flash of silver, and one of the Bishop’s men was lucky not to have his throat slashed wide by the razor-sharp weapon. It was only by clashing his sword against the staff’s length that Pons managed to save himself, deflecting the bill’s blade up and over his head as he ducked. His companion was less fortunate, and as Baldwin reached them, the lance held by one of his opponents tore a deep gash along from behind André’s temple to the back of his head, behind his ear. He gave a loud bellow of pain, and would have ridden the lanceman down, but bill and lance were too well paired. Even as he crouched to spur his mount, the bill came down to point at his breast. Were he to move, he would skewer himself on the point.
‘Stop this! Stop in the name of the King!’ Baldwin roared as he approached.
It was enough to distract one pole-arm. A man turned and faced Baldwin with his lance pointing dangerously towards him. ‘Halt!’
Before the others could turn, the mass of hounds and dogs was on them, barking and bouncing all about. The men with pole-arms could do little but beat at them with the butts of their staves, trying to push them away or club them. One or two blows connected — one in particular aiming a kick at Baldwin’s favourite dog which made him spur his horse onward.
‘Stop!’ Baldwin bellowed over the row of howling and shouting. ‘These two men are on the King’s business and carry letters of safe-conduct. If you harm them, the King will have your heads! Stand aside.’
‘Who are you?’
He was a short, pugnacious-looking man of about five-and-twenty. Dark, suspicious eyes met Baldwin’s, and the set of his thin mouth was determined.
‘I am Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, Keeper of the King’s Peace and member of the King’s Parliament,’ he said. ‘I am here to help protect a papal legate on an embassy to the King. An insult to the Pope’s own official is an insult to the King who gave letters of safe-conduct.’
‘That’s all pretty well, Sir Knight, but as you can see, your friends here have knocked three people down.’
‘This is not true!’ It was the injured guard. He held a hand to the flap of scalp which had been sliced wide. ‘We were trotting down here, when some arse threw something at us for riding past their line. I was struck by dung, and so was Pons here.’
‘We were both hit.’ Pons nodded, and turned his shoulder to demonstrate. On his flank there was a large mess of horse dung clinging to his tunic. ‘These fils de merde insulted us, and we retaliated. C’est tout.’
‘I saw these two wheel and ride down three people,’ the gate man said firmly. ‘That makes them felons unless the court decides that they were acting in self-defence.’
‘This was no premeditated attack,’ Baldwin said. ‘They were attacked and defended themselves. Did you see the initial attack?’
‘No.’ The man met Baldwin’s eye for a moment, then slid away.
Baldwin had seen that look in a man’s face before. It was not outright dishonesty, but a wariness caused by knowing a little too much, a little more than a man should have to.
‘Very well,’ he said after a moment. ‘I suggest this. Your name?’
‘I am Adam Cook to my friends.’
‘Very well, friend Cook. We are going to the Priory. I will wait for you there in the Prior’s guest rooms. We shall discuss this matter there. For now, it is more urgent that you and your friends see to the locking of the gates than that we argue the matter here in the open.’
Cook nodded slowly, ignoring the angry cries of the men and women queuing behind him. ‘Very well. Come along, get inside, all those who want to. We lock the gates as soon as it is dusk.’
Baldwin nodded, and trotted forward as the Bishop reached them, gazing down and studying the three bodies on the ground as he went. His dog sniffed at them with apparent confusion, as though not understanding what they were doing lying in the road, until a stone was thrown at him. He yelped, glancing about him as though hurt, before following his master, who absently made the sign of the cross as he rode past the bodies.
It was another festering English city, the Bishop thought as he rode under the gates.
If only the Pope had managed to persuade another to come here and take on this mission, but it was not possible. There was no one else with such a good command of the barbaric language these peasants spoke. Other ambassadors had suffered from that. The English would tend to go into huddles and discuss matters in their own tongue, which often left the Pope’s men at a disadvantage. With such important affairs to negotiate, it was important that the best emissary was sent.
And there was the Queen, too. There was no one else who could be sent to speak for her. She was, as the Pope had said, ‘an angel of Peace’. She knew how to deal with her brother, and appeared to have some influence with her appalling husband. It must have been a terrible existence for her, in this miserable, grey, country, acting as bed-mate to a king who showed her scant regard. Poor woman.
It was a great pity that she was not the ruler of this land. The people were ferocious, unruly, disobedient, and entirely without dignity. They would brawl at the slightest insult, the lot of them, churls, peasants, farmers, whores, lords and earls. There was no sense in any of them. Obstinate and foolish. And cold.
The knight in his guard-party was one of the worst, too. Cold, unsmiling, taciturn … he clearly had no liking for the Bishop, as though the Bishop had done something to deserve his enmity. But the Bishop had never met the man before, so far as he could remember. No, this Sir Baldwin was just another typical example of an English ‘gentleman’.
The worst of them, naturally, was the one from whom all the ridiculous behaviour stemmed. A king who sought the companionship of peasants, who tested himself against hedgers and ditchers, who preferred the company of play-actors, dear Heaven, and who preferred to avoid the barons of his own land. He was intolerable!
It was fortunate indeed that no man thought him to be competent in his role as King. His failures in battle, his failure as a husband, his failure as a human, made him the laughing stock of all other lands. If he were to lose any more respect, he may even lose his crown among such a turbulent people.