London - Edward Rutherfurd [182]
How slowly, almost imperceptibly, it had all begun. At first there had been only whispers, vague rumours, but he knew how to read the signs, and by March he had been sure. It was John.
Why had King Richard relented and allowed his younger brother to enter England? Because he despised him. Indeed, in comparison with the rest of his family, John cut a poor figure. Where his father flew into rages, John had epileptic fits. Where Richard was tall, fair and heroic, John was dark, stout, stood only five feet five, and was an unlucky soldier. Occasionally brilliant, he did everything by fits and starts, and Richard was not afraid of him. But, like any Plantagenet, he coveted his brother’s throne.
To all outward appearances, he did nothing. Richard was still only two weeks’ journey away, collecting his forces on the Continent and consulting with his fellow crusader the King of France. John remained on his vast estates in the west of England. Hunting and hawking mostly, the reports said. But Silversleeves was not deceived. He’s biding his time, he concluded, before he strikes. And he knew who the target would be.
His patron, Longchamp.
To begin with it had seemed that all was going so well. The chancellor had succeeded brilliantly, becoming in his master’s absence the most powerful man in England. For his assiduous devotion, Pentecost had already been rewarded with a handsome benefice or two. The future might have been bright indeed, had it not been for one problem.
“Longchamp’s arrogant. That’s the trouble,” Pentecost told his wife. “He’s made enemies.” The chancellor had, unfortunately, made no secret of his scorn for some of the great feudal families. “And they mean to bring him down,” the Exchequer clerk lamented.
“They must not succeed,” his large wife cried. “He’s worth a fortune to us.”
The signs were small, but ominous. If any knight or baron ran foul of the chancellor, it was not long before a report came that they had gone to visit John. There were other rumours too. As early as January a merchant had remarked to him, “They say John’s agents are already in London,” though when he had asked who, the man had refused to say. Pentecost had been watchful, but was unable to discover anything.
How lucky, then, that he had become so friendly with Bull.
He could hardly say how it had happened. A casual invitation to the merchant’s house. A few chance encounters. If he had analysed it, Pentecost might have concluded that Bull had begun the friendship. Anyway, he was glad of it. “No one knows what’s going on in the city better than he does,” he told his wife. “I mean to stay close to him.”
He had even tried to make friends with Bull’s family. To Ida he was studiously polite. She would never be his friend, but she was somewhat mollified by the fact that nowadays he always bowed to her and addressed her as a lady. The boy David was easier. To him, Pentecost always said stoutly, “I’m the king’s man.” He took the boy round the Exchequer once, telling him, “Here we do the king’s business.” But for Bull himself, nothing was good enough. Today’s incident of the kiddles was just one more way to persuade the powerful alderman that he and his master, Longchamp, were his friends. “And you’ll tell me about anything you hear,” he always requested.
It was as he was leaving, that Pentecost suddenly noticed that the little boy holding the woman’s hand looked vaguely familiar. For a moment he frowned in puzzlement, but then he realized what it was: the child had a white patch in his hair.
“Who’s he?” he asked. Mabel told him.
Pentecost walked back towards Bull’s house thoughtfully. He had not known that Simon the armourer had left a son. It seemed to him the news was good. There was a score to settle there. Father or son, it was all the same to him; and since the son was so young,