The knight of Cumberland stood on the battlements of the White Tower and watched as his king fled the capital. There was no dignity in Edward’s departure, no stately progress that might have overawed the commons and given the impression that His Majesty's departure was but temporary. Instead it was a rout, an undignified scramble, of the sort that had earned Edward his reputation throughout Christendom as a cowardly and incompetent leader of men. The news that Isabella and Mortimer had reached Dunstable, with an army said to be growing by the hour, had broken his fragile nerve.
Enormous crowds gathered to watch their anointed monarch abandon them, and few were sorry to see him go. Many watched in sullen silence as the golden-haired figure galloped past, followed by the Despensers, the shame-faced Earls of Arundel and Surrey, and the rest of the entourage, a chaotic procession of clerks, squires and Welsh bowmen, all laden with baggage and the bags of silver that Edward hoped to use to finance the coming campaign, almost thirty thousand pounds in silver.
Some of the braver or more outraged citizens hooted and threw things. Most of their missiles, handfuls of mud from the street, stones, and rotting vegetables, were aimed at the Despensers. Where once they would have responded with extreme violence, sending their thugs against the culprits, they now endured the pelting and the curses with stiff, terrified expressions, and kept as close to their master as possible. No one, not even those who most hated Edward, dared to aim anything but jeers at him.
Swale felt cold as he watched the King's party ride away. He was keenly affected by a sense of loss, of things ending, and of personal betrayal. That King Edward's reign was drawing to a close now seemed inevitable, despite all the brave noises made about raising an army in the West. Swale knew that Edward had been a catastrophe and a misfit as king, and that England could seldom have been governed so badly as in the past twenty years. Still, he had always been a King's man, and was by no means certain that he would survive the new regime.
The sense of betrayal was two-fold. King Edward’s decision to pardon criminals who agreed to fight for him had enraged Swale, who never thought to hear a king he had bled for, the sworn defender of law and justice, toss aside his coronation vows to save his own hide. His anger was tempered slightly by Edward’s omission of the Folvilles from the general pardon, but his innate sense of loyalty had come under severe strain.
The more betrayal stemmed from his master, Hugh Despenser. He had rewarded Swale's loyal service by shunting him into the entourage of the Bishop of Exeter, with orders to assist in the impossible task of holding London against the advancing rebels. Despenser's promise to grant Swale a fine manor on his estates in Glamorgan was completely forgotten, though Swale appreciated that his lord was no longer in any position to grant anything. All the King and his favourites could do was run away to their safe havens in Wales and the West Country, and hope that God sent them a miracle.
Several days after the King's departure, Stapledon convened an emergency meeting at Lambeth Palace. Attending were the Bishop, the Mayor, Hamo de Chigwell, the Younger Despenser's wife Eleanor de Clare, Archbishop Reynolds, the Bishops of Rochester and Stratford, and Swale. As the least important figure present in this company of grandees, Swale took care to stand aside from the council table, keep his mouth closed and listen.
Swale studied Stapledon with interest. An old man, lean as a stick and white-haired, his reputation was of a diligent and conscientious churchman, but like most bishops and archbishops, tainted by the sin of avarice. He suffered from a palsy that caused his right hand to shake uncontrollably, and as soon as he started to speak Swale judged him to be demoralised by the awful burden that his King had dumped on him.
Stapledon also had good reason to fear for his life, since he had assisted the King and the Despensers in levying harsh taxes on the Londoners and stripping them of some of their cherished liberties.
“To enter the City is dangerous,” he said in a hoarse, stumbling voice. “The streets are given over to the mob, and we have not the troops to restore order. We barely have enough men to defend us here. I would welcome any suggestions.”
“Our first priority is to protect Prince John,” Eleanor de Clare said firmly. She was an intense, severely handsome woman, fire-hardened by twenty years of unimaginably grim marriage to the Younger Despenser.
“The Prince may be your priority, madam, but he is in no danger at all,” Archbishop Reynolds snapped. “His mother is the darling of the commons, and even the lowest of them would not harm a hair on his head. The most pressing issue is how to defend the city. As His Grace of Exeter has just pointed out, we have no means of doing so, and much of the city is given over to the Queen’s supporters.”
Eleanor sniffed, and Stapledon’s aged face wrinkled in a frown. The Archbishop’s attempt to drum up support for the King among the London citizenry by reading out a Papal Bull at St Paul’s Cross had met with hostility, but the crowds had allowed him to depart unmolested. Many in the room suspected him of having pro-Isabella sympathies, and his next words heightened their suspicions.
“I propose we discuss plans to approach the Queen and reach a peace settlement,” he said. “The alternative is to allow the City to plunge into lawlessness, and to risk an assault we have no means of repelling.”
The Archbishop’s calm, measured suggestion, which Swale thought had a ring of common sense, met with hostility.
“That is tantamount to betraying His Majesty’s trust,” said the Mayor. “There is no question of opening negotiations with traitors. If we cannot restore order in the City, then we must do our best to hold the Tower until the King returns.”
“His Majesty will not return to London, except as a prisoner,” said Rochester with his customary frankness, “and anyone who thinks otherwise is deluded. Where will the King find an army to match the Queen’s, now that Leicester has joined her?”
Swale knew he spoke the truth. The latest news was that the Earl and his northern levies had marched south and joined the Queen’s forces at Dunstable. Meanwhile the King was said to be rushing from one stronghold to another in the West, issuing a blizzard of writs and commissions for men to join him, all of them futile.
Worse news had arrived in the form of Isabella’s open letter to the Londoners, copies of which were soon circulating around the city and being pasted on the windows of shops and houses, despite Stapledon’s proclamation that anyone found in possession of it was a traitor.
“The mood of the city is worse than Your Grace supposes,” Rochester continued. “I would warn anyone here not to cross the Thames, or try to enter the City. The people in their present mood would tear you to pieces.”
Bishop Stratford nodded sombrely. “We are surrounded by enemies, within and without,” he said. “Unpalatable as it may seem, an offer of peace must be extended to the Queen.”
Swale thought that the support of the two Bishops for Reynolds might settle it, but reckoned without Stapledon’s intransigence. “Traitors, traitors, traitors,” he cried weakly, curling his good hand into a fist. “You would go to the Queen and the Mortimer and bow before them, as so many have done? I will not allow it. You will remain inside London, under arrest if necessary.”
“No man calls me traitor,” said the Archbishop, rising abruptly, “and no man holds me prisoner either. You have said your peace, Exeter, and I see no virtue in this meeting going on any longer.”
“I concur,” declared Rochester. “You may rush to your deaths, sirs, but do not expect us to join you.”
Reynolds, Rochester and Stratford swept out of the council chamber, followed by Stapledon’s anguished bleating that they should be arrested. The sentries at the door ignored his commands and let the three men pass. Obedience to authority, Swale realised, was becoming a matter of choice.
“Damn them,” exclaimed the Mayor. “They will make their peace with the rebels, and join them, like as not. And with each defection, the mob will grow bolder.”
“A gesture must be made,” Eleanor said. “Some action to demonstrate that the King’s representatives are still a force to be reckoned with, that we will not merely skulk behind the walls of the Tower.”
Swale was alarmed to see Stapledon nodding his foolish old head at Eleanor’s words, and even more alarmed when the Bishop fastened his cloudy gaze on him.
“I will ride out,” said Stapledon, his right hand trembling violently. “Yes…I will put on armour, and ride out. That will take the commoners by surprise! They will not expect it. What, shall I hide, then, like a common thief, and wait for them to come and take me? God has made me of sterner stuff, I hope.”
“Your Grace,” said the Mayor, placing a hand on the old man’s arm, “think what you are saying, and on Rochester’s warning, traitor though he may be. To what end would you risk your life like this?”
Stapledon shrugged him off. “To make a point! The rebels think they are in command of the city. I shall prove that they are mistaken. We have enough soldiers left to make a show. There is one, a good, solid lump of beef, standing there.”
He pointed at Swale, who had just enough presence of mind to bow as some of the most powerful eyes in the land turned to examine him.
“Your husband gave this one to me,” Stapledon said to Eleanor, as though he was discussing the sale of a cow, “and assured me he was made of the right stuff. What do you know of him?”
Eleanor briefly glanced at Swale, and shrugged. “Very little,” she replied. “My lord did not always confide in me. He must be trustworthy enough, I suppose. What do you propose to do with him, and any other fighting men you can scrape together?”
Stapledon leaned back in his chair. “I will ride out in force from the Tower and advance on the Guildhall,” he said, “where I shall demand that the merchants surrender the keys of the city to me. If they refuse, I will arrest the leading dissidents and have them brought in chains back to the Tower. Any who oppose us shall be put to the sword.”
Swale almost said something, but it was not his place. As always his place was to obey, and die if necessary.
****
Only sixteen men could be found who were willing to ride out with Stapledon. Apart from Swale, who was the only knight among them, they included the Bishop’s two young squires, and Despenser’s clever clerk, John de Marshal, who had supplied Swale with information for his mission to Leicester. The others were men-at-arms promised triple their wages f they risked their lives guarding Stapledon.
The little procession rode out of the Tower, every man stark-faced and silent, and west through Aldgate into the City. Swale was just behind the Bishop, a ridiculous, ungainly figure in full armour stuck up on a great war-horse that he had difficulty controlling. John de Marshal, an anxious, long-nosed fellow, looked equally uncomfortable in armour. Swale felt like asking him why Despenser had abandoned him, too, but the man was clearly in no mood for talk.
All seemed quiet until they reached Bishopsgate, where people were milling about the streets. Heads turned and fingers were pointed as Stapledon and his troop rode into view, and somewhere a bell started clanging.
“See the rogues run!” exclaimed Stapledon as the people dispersed, running down side alleys or streaming west, further into the City. Some of the braver youths remained, shaking their fists and shouting obscenities at the armed men riding in their direction. A few ran in close and threw stones, one of which rattled off Swale’s breastplate.
“Ignore them, lord,” he advised as Stapledon’s hand, quivering inside its gauntlet, reached for his sword.
“They are in need of a good hanging,” said the Bishop, but the boys posed no real threat and quickly scattered, legging it down the side-streets.
More warning bells could be heard ringing inside the heart of the City, along with the rattle of kettle-drums and blasts of trumpet and clarion. Crowds gathered as Stapledon’s men turned onto Old Broad Street, and showed no signs of melting away. Many of the citizens were armed with bills, spears and bows, and some wore bits and pieces of armour, back and breasts, bowl helmets, old rusting hauberks, padded jacks, and the like. They set up a great howl at the sight of the Bishop, whom they loathed, rising to a roar as it became clear how few men he had with him.
The sight was enough to make anyone hesitate, and quite enough for John de Marshal. “Your Grace, I suggest we fall back to the Tower,” said the clerk, clearing his throat and leaning close so that Stapledon, partially deaf and enclosed inside a helm, might hear him.
One of the Bishop’s squires moved in to push Marshal away, and Stapledon did not seem to have heard him. “Forward, at once,” he growled, rising slightly in his stirrups. “Ride these traitors down if they get in your way.”
He pricked his war-horse into life, and the great beast lumbered into a trot, hoofs slapping against the cobbles. His squires on their smaller ponies kept pace with their master, with Swale and Marshal close behind. Most of the men-at-arms followed, though with considerable reluctance, and two at the rear did not move at all. After exchanging glances, they turned their horses about and galloped back the way they had come.
The crowds made no attempt to resist Stapledon’s men, though they could have presented a wall of points that the horses would have baulked at riding at. Instead they parted, creating a corridor that the Bishop and his remaining entourage cantered down, towards Gresham Street and the Guildhall.
Swale kept his eyes front, doing his best to ignore the curses and spittle that came his way, and the stones, vegetables, and handfuls of shit hurled against his armour. A horse and rider screamed in unison just behind him, followed by a great cheer from the crowd, and he suspected that one of the men-at-arms had been knocked or dragged from his saddle.
The looming edifice of the Guildhall, ceremonial and administrative heartland of the City of London, rose before Stapledon and his shrinking entourage as they clattered into the central plaza. Here the crowds were at their thickest, and only a small square in the middle opened up for the King’s men to gather.
Swale reined in and looked around him at the press of stinking, raging bodies, the hundreds of gnarled faces, working men and women, dirty and rough-hewn and twisted in rage. Chandlers, dyers, tailors, mercers, masons, carpenters, tapsters, serving-men, farriers – the common and artisan classes of London were all gathered here, people whose language Swale did not speak, with whom he shared no common experience or understanding.
The noise of their shouting was tremendous, mingled with the deafening thunder of drums, trumpets and clarions. Stapledon raised his arm for silence, and they responded with a chorus of jeers. Someone threw a makeshift spear at him, a carving knife strapped to a length of stick, but the throw was clumsy and it clattered harmlessly off the cobbles. His horse shied, driving the Bishop into a red rage, and he again reached for his sword.
“No swords!” bellowed Swale, struggling to be heard above the din. “Leave it, Your Grace, or we are all dead!”
Stapledon looked at him irritably, and for a moment their eyes met. The old man’s hand was still wrapped about the gripe of his sword, and Swale desperately shook his head and tried to mouth a warning, anything to get the old man to listen.
Perhaps the Bishop was too proud, or he knew that death was at hand whatever he did. He lugged out his sword and raised it aloft. “Traitors!” he screamed in a high, reedy voice. “You are all traitors to His Majesty!”
He slammed in his spurs and urged his horse straight at the mob, as if he hoped to burst through their ranks, charge into the Guildhall and retrieve the keys to the City, all by himself.
The first few men in his way scattered to avoid being trampled, and Stapledon rode deep into the press, yelling and flailing about him with his sword. His faithful squires tried to follow, but were quickly surrounded and pulled down. Their ponies were killed, screaming as billhooks and butcher’s knives hacked into their flesh.
The sight of blood drove the people mad, and they surged in to pull down the rest of Stapledon’s terrified entourage. Forced to abandon caution, Swale drew his sword and pointed it threateningly at the butcher’s boys, tradesmen, and apprentices that clustered about him, shouting that he would kill the first one to take a step closer.
It was no use. They had no fear of him now, and the ugly, pinched faces gaped with laughter at his threat. Fresh screams broke out behind him, with the clatter of weapons and triumphant, bloodthirsty cheers. Swale dragged his horse around and saw Richard de Marshal being plucked from his horse and held down on the flagstones by dozens of grubby hands. Despenser’s clerk writhed and bucked and shrieked for mercy, and his screams redoubled as a grinning docker opened up his belly with a meat-hook.
That was it. Hell was unleashed now, and Swale’s only chance was to ride for his life. Lashing about him with his sword, careless of whom he hit, he mimicked Stapledon and urged his horse straight into the crowd. His animal was also a knightly war-charger, of a similar size and temperament to the Bishop’s, and the civilians gave back as she plunged, snorting and whinnying, into their packed ranks.
Swale lopped the head from a spear that thrust at his face, and ignored the clatter of bills, stones and axes on his armour. His fear was that someone would stab his horse, but no-one was keen to get too close to the giant beast.
The towering spire of St Paul’s Cathedral dominated the skyline to the south-west, and his heart leaped. If he could just reach the cathedral, he could claim sanctuary inside its walls. Surely even the mob would not dare to desecrate such a holy place, or so he hoped. There was no time to think of anything else. Reaching St Paul’s was his only chance of coming out of this mess alive.
He relied on his horse to batter a path through the heaving, maddened throng, and stabbed his sword at any who came too close. All around him, the plaza was a scene of unbridled violence and killing as Stapledon’s men-at-arms were overwhelmed and murdered. Some died fighting, some died pleading for mercy and claiming kinship with the Londoners, but all died.
Swale broke free of the chaos in the plaza and spurred his horse down past the parish church of St Leonard’s in Foster Lane, chased by townsmen baying for his head. He was astonished to see Stapledon had also escaped, and was riding for the cathedral. It was only natural that a churchman should think of claiming sanctuary inside a church, but hordes were streaming in pursuit of him. Many did not turn in time to see Swale galloping up behind them, and were flattened or swatted aside.
Foster Lane opened up to reveal St Paul’s, a massive fortress-like building dominated by its central spire. Stapledon was making for the north door, but he was old and exhausted, and his horse was limping with the broken-off point of a spear stuck in her hind leg. Abandoning her, he tumbled from the saddle, almost getting his foot caught in the stirrup as he did so, and staggered feebly towards the door. The weight of armour on his old bones was too much, and the mob was quickly on him, yelping and screeching in excitement.
The old man was dragged to the ground, his sword ripped from his grasp and his helmet torn off. Rough hands pinned him to the floor and started to pull off the rest of his armour, piece by piece.
“Help me!” Stapledon begged as he saw Swale. “Please, as you love God, help me!”
He begged in vain, for Swale was hard pressed to help himself. The mob had caught up with him as well, not just those on foot but horsemen armed with clubs, galloping into the court in front of St Paul’s. Someone loosed an arrow and the striped shaft buried in the neck of his horse, causing her to squeal and rear up on her hind legs. Swale clung on with his knees, and another arrow rebounded off his armoured shin.
He righted himself, looked around, and knew this was the end. The townsmen were on all sides and closing in, shouting and cursing, many of them spattered with the blood of the men they had murdered already.
One gang of roughs was more eager than the rest, and rushed towards him in a body, brandishing clubs and knives. Struggling to control his wounded horse, Swale slashed awkwardly at the leading man, a tall, heavy-set thug, and caught him a glancing blow on the side of the head. His victim swore horribly, blood starting from his nose, and smashed his club against Swale’s sword arm. The knight’s fingers went numb and he dropped his weapon, and men were swarming all round him, clutching at his limbs and lifting him bodily from the saddle.
“What are you going to do with him, brothers?” shouted a goldsmith’s apprentice as Swale was manhandled to the ground.
“Take him into the cathedral, and sacrifice him before the altar,” the man he had wounded said with a laugh, jabbing one great hairy finger in the direction of St Paul’s. The apprentice laughed with him, but the attention of most was fixed on His Grace, the Bishop of Exeter.
His armour was all torn away now, and the spindly old man beneath revealed in his undershirt and drawers. He was still alive, his white head smeared with blood and muck from where he had been kicked and dragged across the cobbles, though the crowd around him were chanting for his death.
A raw, exultant shout of triumph went up as Stapledon was hoisted onto the shoulders of six burly freemen. The churchman groaned feebly and thrashed his limbs like a trapped insect as he was borne away, towards the pulpit and the open meeting place at St Paul’s Cross in the grounds of the cathedral. There his former colleague Archbishop Reynolds had recently preached so unsuccessfully on behalf of the King, and there he would now meet his fate.
Most of the crowd streamed after him, rejoicing in their trophy. A few remained to jeer at Swale and suggest various disgusting tortures that could be inflicted on him, and his captors laughed and agreed to try as many as were practical.
Pinned under their weight, for they were seven strong men who knew their business, Swale could hardly breathe as he was shoved onto his front and his gauntlets pulled off. Once that was done, his arms were pressed against his back and his wrists roughly bound.
Once again, his attempt to do the right thing had led him into captivity; and this time, he felt certain, not just captivity, but death.