London - Edward Rutherfurd [192]
It was common enough, of course, for the king’s bastards to be made bishops; it gave them an income and something to do. The appointment of one of King Henry II’s many extra sons as archbishop would not have mattered, except that he was a known collaborator of John’s and had been expressly forbidden to enter England by King Richard.
So when, last month, he had landed at Kent, the chancellor had been right to insist he swear allegiance. When the cunning fellow refused, Longchamp’s mistake had been to throw him in jail.
“The whole thing was a deliberate trap,” Pentecost judged. If so, his master had fallen into it. To John’s delight, there was an outcry. The archbishop, though quickly released, was hailed a martyr, like Becket himself. John and his party had protested, and even now a great council, meeting between Oxford and London, had summoned Longchamp to explain himself. “They mean to get him this time,” Silversleeves moaned.
Yet nothing was certain. Many in the council were suspicious of John. The chancellor still held several castles, including Windsor. The key, as usual, would be London. Which way would the city go? Silversleeves was not surprised, therefore, at the urgent message from his master summoning him to London at once.
But what of the parchment in his other hand?
At first sight it looked like any of a hundred Exchequer records. Until you looked in one corner. For there, nestling inside a large capital letter, was a neatly drawn caricature of the chancellor. It was a work of art, and it was vicious. Longchamp’s heavy features had been accentuated until he looked like a coarse and fleshy gargoyle. His mouth was dripping as if he had eaten more than he could contain. The thing was not just a caricature, it was contemptuous, insulting. And this was the chancellor himself. No Exchequer scribe would dare leave such a thing in the records unless he were sure, very sure, that the chancellor was doomed. “So what does this scribe know that I don’t?” Pentecost wondered aloud.
But the parchment contained something even worse. In the margin beside the capital was a second caricature, this one of a dog that the chancellor was holding on a leash. The face of the dog, with its greedy, slobbering mouth and long nose, was also, alas, unmistakable. It was himself.
So – they thought he was doomed too. If they were right, he should desert his patron now. Quickly and firmly. As an exercise, he quickly went over all the chancellor’s actions. Were there any secret crimes he could denounce if he fled to Longchamp’s enemies? Were there any in which he himself was not implicated? Only two or three, but in an emergency they would have to do. On the other hand, if Longchamp survived this crisis and he had deserted him, Pentecost would have lost all hope of reward, probably for ever. For several agonizing minutes, he considered his future.
Then, carefully taking his knife, he cut away the offensive corner of the parchment and walked out. By evening, he was on his way to London.
On 7 October, at the house by the sign of the Bull, Ida spent the hour around noon quietly. She was glad to do so after the disturbances of the last two days.
First, Longchamp the chancellor had arrived from Windsor with a troop of men the day before. He was in the Tower now, securing the fortifications. Parties of his men were patrolling the streets. Then, this morning, news had come that the council, Prince John, knights and men-at-arms were advancing towards the city and should arrive by evening. “They intend to depose the chancellor,” the messenger reported.
But that might not be so easy. If the city stayed loyal to Richard’s man and closed the gates, there would not be much the council could do. Not that she cared for Longchamp much, but he was loyal to Richard. “And anything,” she remarked to her husband, “is better than that traitor John.” Bull himself had gone out two hours earlier. A meeting of all the aldermen and the greatest men of the city had been called to decide what attitude