London - Edward Rutherfurd [194]
“What have you done?”
He was not abashed, glancing first at her, then at David.
“A deal,” he answered coolly.
“What kind of deal?”
“The best in the history of London,” he cheerfully replied.
“You dealt with the traitor John?”
“With John. Yes.” Was his calm contemptuous?
“The enemy of the king. What deal?”
Bull ignored his wife’s tone, as though he was so satisfied he did not much care what she thought of him, and answered her easily enough.
“Tomorrow, madam, Prince John will officially enter the city with the king’s council. We shall open the gates and welcome him. Then the city will give Prince John and the council its full support in deposing Longchamp. If necessary, we shall storm the Tower.”
“And then?”
“We shall join the council and swear to recognize John as King Richard’s heir instead of Arthur.”
“But that is monstrous,” Ida cried. “You effectively give England to John at once.”
“Not in law. The council rules. But in practice you may be right.”
“Why have you done this?” Her voice was hoarse with dismay.
“The deal, you mean? Oh, it is excellent.” He smiled. “You see, in return for London’s cooperation at this critical time, Prince John has granted us something we greatly deserve.”
“Which is?”
“Why my dear, the commune, of course! London is now a commune. We shall choose our mayor tomorrow.” He beamed at them both. “London is free.”
For just a moment Ida was too stunned to speak. It was worse, more cynical, more wicked, than anything she had imagined. The happy weeks of the summer at Bocton were forgotten. She erupted.
“London a commune,” she shouted. “So that you merchants can strut and call yourselves barons and pretend your mayor’s a king? For that you have sold England to that devil John?” She stared at him with rage. “You traitor!” she screamed.
Bull shrugged, then turned around. And because he did so, he did not see young David Bull, staring through tears at his father not only with shock but, for the first time in his life, with hatred, before he rushed out of the house.
Pentecost and the four horsemen rode through the dark streets. He had decided to join the patrol in case he could learn any further news, but everything was quiet.
His meeting with Longchamp had heartened him. The chancellor might be a dark, coarse-featured fellow, but one had to admire his cool resolve. All his castles, Pentecost learned, were well defended. The dispositions at the Tower were excellent. “And tomorrow at dawn, you are to ensure that all the gates of London stay closed, upon my order,” he told Silversleeves. The clerk had also helped him begin a letter to King Richard, setting out John’s treacherous game in detail. “If, as you tell me, the city will stand firm, we can probably frighten John off,” Longchamp remarked. “And then,” he added with a grin, “we must find you another estate, my friend Silversleeves,” the prospect of which had greatly increased the clerk’s valour.
The patrol had reached the foot of Cornhill and was about to return to the Tower when it met three knights riding up from the river. Wondering who they were, Pentecost listened idly as the patrol leader, glad of something to do at last, told them to identify themselves. He was surprised when, after a slight hesitation, one of the knights responded with: “Who may you be?”
“The chancellor’s men. Identify yourselves.” Again there was a slight pause. He heard one of the three knights mutter something, and another laugh. Then came the reply.
“I am Sir William de Montvent, fellow. And your master is a dog!”
John’s men. What could it mean? He had no time to think. The sound of swords drawn, a pale flash of steel in the dark, and the knights were running