body fell into the water below with a loud splash.
‘Who goes there?’ a sentry cried.
And a helmet leaned out of a crenel on the summit of the Clock Tower.
The three fugitives clinging to the rope ladder pressed close to the wall.
‘Why did I do that?’ Mortimer wondered. ‘What an absurd temptation to yield to! There are surely enough risks already without inventing more. And I don’t even know if it was Edward …’
But the sentry was reassured by the silence and continued his beat; they heard his footsteps fading into the night.
They went on climbing down. At this time of year the water in the moat was not very deep. The three men dropped into it up to the shoulders, and began moving along the foundations of the fortress, feeling their way along the stones of the Roman wall. They circled the Clock Tower and then crossed the moat, moving as quietly as possible. The bank was slippery with mud. They hoisted themselves out on to their stomachs, helping each other as best they could, then ran crouching to the river-bank. Hidden in the reeds, a boat was waiting for them. There were two men at the oars and another sitting in the stern, wrapped in a long dark cloak, his head covered by a hood with earlaps; he whistled softly three times. The fugitives jumped into the boat.
‘My lord Mortimer,’ said the man in the cloak, holding out his hand.
‘My lord Bishop,’ replied the fugitive, extending his own.
His fingers encountered the cabochon of a ring and he bent his lips to it.
‘Go ahead, quickly,’ the Bishop ordered the rowers.
And the oars dipped into the water.
Adam Orleton, Bishop of Hereford, who had been provided to his see by the Pope and against the King’s wish, was leader of the clerical opposition and had organized the escape of the most important baron in the kingdom. It was Orleton who had planned and prepared everything, had persuaded Alspaye to play his part by assuring him he would not only make his fortune but attain to Paradise, and had provided the narcotic which had put the Tower of London to sleep.
‘Did everything go well, Alspaye?’ he asked.
‘As well as it could, my lord,’ the Lieutenant replied. ‘How long will they sleep?’
‘Two days or so, no doubt. I have the money promised each of you here,’ the Bishop said, showing them the heavy purse he was holding under his cloak. ‘And I have also sufficient for your expenses, my lord, for a few weeks at least.’
At that moment they heard the sentry shout: ‘Sound the alarm!’
But the boat was well out into the river, and no sentry’s cries would succeed in awakening the Tower.
‘I owe everything to you, including my life,’ Mortimer said to the Bishop.
‘Wait till you’re in France,’ Orleton replied; ‘don’t thank me till then. Horses are awaiting us at Bermondsey on the farther bank. A ship has been chartered and is lying off Dover, ready to sail.’
‘Are you coming with me?’
‘No, my lord, I have no reason to fly. When I have seen you on board, I shall go back to my diocese.’
‘Are you not afraid for your life, after what you have just done?’
‘I belong to the Church,’ the Bishop replied with some irony. ‘The King hates me but will not dare touch me.’
This calm-voiced prelate, who could carry on a conversation in these circumstances and in the middle of the Thames as tranquilly as if he were in his episcopal palace, possessed a singular courage, and Mortimer admired him sincerely.
The oarsmen were in the centre of the boat; Alspaye and the barber in the bows.
‘And the Queen?’ Mortimer asked. ‘Have you seen her recently? Is she being plagued as much as ever?’
‘At the moment, the Queen is in Yorkshire, travelling with the King; his absence has made our undertaking all the easier. Your wife’ – the Bishop slightly emphasized the last word – ‘sent me news of her the other day.’
Mortimer felt himself blush and was thankful for the darkness that concealed his embarrassment. He had shown concern for the Queen before even inquiring about his family and his wife. And why had he lowered his voice to ask the question? Had he thought of no one but Queen Isabella during his whole eighteen months in prison?
‘The Queen wishes you well,’ the Bishop went on. ‘It is she who has furnished from her privy purse, from that meagre privy purse which is all our good friends the Despensers consent to allow her, the money I am going to give you so that you may live in France. As for the rest, Alspaye, the barber, the horses and the ship that awaits you, my diocese will pay the expenses.’
He put his hand on the fugitive’s arm.
‘But you’re soaked through!’ he said.
‘No matter!’ replied Mortimer. ‘A free air will dry me quick enough.’
He got to his feet, took off his tunic and shirt, and stood naked to the waist in the middle of the boat. He had a shapely, well-built body, powerful shoulders and a long, muscular back; imprisonment had made him thinner, but had not impaired the impression he gave of physical strength. The moon, which had just risen, bathed him in a golden light and threw the contours of his chest into relief.
‘Propitious, dangerous to fugitives,’ said the Bishop, pointing to the moon. ‘We timed it exactly right.’
The night air was laden with the scent of reeds and water, and Roger Mortimer felt it playing over his skin and through his wet hair. The smooth black Thames slid along the sides of the boat and the oars made golden sparks. The opposite bank was drawing near. The great Baron of the Marches turned to look for the last time at the Tower, standing tall and proud above its fortifications, ramparts and embankments. ‘No one ever escapes from the Tower …’ And, indeed, he was the first prisoner who ever had escaped from it. He began to consider the importance of his deed, and the defiance it hurled at the power of kings.
Behind it, the sleeping city stood out against the night. Along both banks, as far as the great bridge with its shops and guarded by its high towers, could be seen the innumerable, crowded, slowly waving masts of the ships of the London Hanse, the Teutonic Hanse, the Paris Hanse of the Marchands d’Eau, indeed of the whole of Europe, bringing cloth from Bruges, copper, pitch, wax, knives, the wines of the Saintonge and of Aquitaine, and dried fish, and loading for Flanders, Rouen, Bordeaux and Lisbon, corn, leather, tin, cheeses, and above all wool, which was the best in the world, from English sheep. The great Venetian galleys could be distinguished by their shape and their gilding.
But Roger Mortimer of Wigmore was already thinking of France. He would go first to Artois to ask asylum of his cousin, Jean de Fiennes, the son of his mother’s brother. He stretched his arms wide in the gesture of a free man.
And Bishop Orleton, who regretted that he had been born neither so handsome nor so great a lord, gazed with a sort of envy at this strong, confident body that seemed so apt for leaping into the saddle, at the tall, sculptured torso, the proud chin and the rough, curly hair, which were to carry England’s
