London - Edward Rutherfurd [168]
“Have they committed such terrible sins?” she asked.
“Not all. Some have yet to commit them.” He made a high-pitched, bird-like squawk. “But we have them in our hands already. We’re leading them towards temptation, and then to their doom.” He began to move on.
“Will any of them be saved?” she called after him.
He did not turn around, but gave a raucous chuckle.
“A few,” his voice came back. “Only a few.”
For some time she watched these desolate pilgrims crowding by. She saw numerous people she knew and murmured a prayer for each. Once or twice she called out to try to warn them, but it seemed they did not hear. Then she saw Alderman Bull. He was sitting on a horse, but the wrong way round. He was dressed, as usual, in red, and his huge frame looked as powerful as ever. But she noticed that his face and his hands were covered in boils, and shook her head sadly. She knew he would get to hell, and she did not even try to call out to him.
But nothing had prepared her for what followed.
Only a few paces behind the heavy alderman, his pale face looking tragically sad, walked a still more familiar figure, the sight of which caused her to gasp. It was Brother Michael.
How could it be? He walked slowly and deliberately, as was his habit. His head was bent down, not in reflection, but in sorrow and shame. His eyes seemed to be fixed upon something just in front of him, as though he were hypnotized. What, she wondered, could he possibly have done? She cried out to him. She ran along beside the procession, calling to him again and again. Once, it seemed to her, his head raised as if he might have heard, but then, as though pulled by some unseen force, it bowed down again as he continued his dismal march.
She stood by the side of the lane and wondered. She could not believe Brother Michael had committed any grave crime. Was there some sin he was going to commit?
And then it also occurred to her: If he’s bound for hell, I’m sure I must be too. And she searched amongst the passing souls, but could not see herself, try as she might.
And then the vision vanished.
THE MAYOR
1189
In the summer of 1189, King Henry II of England died, and the heir he had crowned having predeceased him, he was succeeded by his second son, Richard.
Thus began a period of several years that has entered the realm of legend. For what chronicle in England’s history is better known than that of Robin Hood and the greedy Sheriff of Nottingham, of good King Richard, away on crusade, and his evil brother, John? It is a fine tale and it grew out of real events.
But the true account of those years, though a little more complex, is even more interesting. And it took place, mostly, in London.
News travelled quickly wherever he went. Already that August morning a little crowd had gathered in a semicircle before the fine new gateway to await his coming. No one was more excited than the boy standing at the front.
David Bull looked much as his father Sampson had at thirteen: fair, broad-faced, with a ruddy complexion and bright blue eyes that were now shining with excitement.
Before him stood the gateway to the Temple. Of all the religious houses whose great walled compounds were arising throughout the city, none were more splendid than those of the two crusading orders. These military religious organizations serviced the logistical needs of the Holy War. To the north of Smithfield were the Knights of St John, who were responsible for the hospitals; here, on the slopes above the Thames, about halfway along the lane that ran westwards from St Bride’s to the Aldwych, lay the precincts of the powerful order that arranged the great convoys of money and supplies, the Knights Templar. Through the gateway could be seen their stout stone church, recently built and instantly recognizable because, like all Templar churches, it was not rectangular but round. And from this church, at any moment, the greatest hero in Christendom was