London - Edward Rutherfurd [152]
“I can explain it,” Pentecost’s father had said. “It’s typical of a Becket. He’s found a new role to play. He’s just showing off as usual.”
Whatever the cause, the dispute had been dragging on for several years. The two men, once such friends, were now the bitterest enemies. Which was why King Henry had had his son crowned not, as was his right, by Canterbury, but by the Archbishop of York. Like everything Henry did, it was carefully – in this case viciously – calculated. It was the final insult.
“Poor Becket,” Silversleeves had remarked the day before with satisfaction. “That must really have hurt. I wonder what he’ll do now.”
Pentecost Silversleeves might have continued pondering this interesting question had there not, at this moment, been a sudden commotion at the entrance.
The short, sturdy master craftsman with the close-cropped brown beard and white patch in his hair burst through the courtiers in the doorway and fairly bounced into the chamber. He was wearing a bright green tunic and green leggings. His face, as red as his soft leather boots, was so puffed up with fury that he looked like an indignant cockerel. Behind him loomed two large bailiffs.
Seven startled scribes, quill pens still in hand, turned to stare. The courtiers, uncertain what to do, hesitated. The grave figures at the Exchequer table, surprised at this unseemly interruption, gazed down the chamber silently. But the craftsman was not concerned with them. He was shouting.
“There he is. That’s the one. Seize him!” The furious fellow pointed at Pentecost.
An astonished silence.
“Of what is he accused?” The awesome voice of the justiciar, personal representative of the king himself.
And then, ringing round every corner of that hallowed chamber, came the terrible reply:
“Of murder.”
The large, broad-faced man gazed around him with satisfaction. The other men in his little hall bowed respectfully, and Alderman Sampson Bull smiled back. This was going to be the best day of his life.
Everything about Alderman Sampson Bull was red. He was wearing a long red gown, a red hose, a red tunic with gold cuffs and a painted leather belt. On his head was a large red beret. His face, whose strong jowl carried two days’ growth of fair beard, was ruddy. Only his eyes were blue. With his head thrust forward from his bulky frame, his appearance matched his family name.
The name itself had come about gradually. After the Conquest, the family had been content to adopt the Norman way, adding their father’s name, with the prefix Fitz, to their own. But this system had one disadvantage. Whilst Leofric’s son was Edward FitzLeofric, his grandson was Richard FitzEdward, and Richard’s son was in his turn Simon FitzRichard. If three or four generations were living at any one time it could become very confusing. Since the family always lived by the sign of the Bull, however, they were often known more simply as the family of Bull.
Sampson Bull was a man of importance. Since his father’s death two years earlier, he had been head of the family. A rich mercer – a wholesale merchant dealing in wool and cloth – at the age of thirty he had already been chosen as alderman of his ward in the city. And it was no small thing to be an alderman. The government of London that was now taking on a settled form consisted of three levels. The lowest was the parish, often very small, but which might contain a few citizens of importance. Of greater significance were the twenty or so wards. Each ward had its own little council, the wardmote, consisting of its leading citizens, who also came together to form the city’s greater council. But at the pinnacle were the aldermen, one for each ward. Sometimes they still owned whole areas of their ward; often they kept their post for life. They organized the militia. And it was these men, like so many feudal barons, who made up the city’s all-powerful inner council. Sampson Bull was of this inner