The Oath

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Robert Vyke found himself one of the very last to enter Bristol before the gates were locked, and he rode under the gateway with great relief.

The last few miles had been a hideous race. They were still some miles from the city when they had come across riders who were clearly up to no good. The men shouted at them loudly, with curious, foreign accents, but fortunately their old nags weren’t up to the chase, or they were too drunk to bother, and the Coroner’s party rode on unmolested. That was worrying enough, but soon things grew rapidly worse, because as they came past a small wood, they realised that the fellows they had seen were only part of a much larger force.

The Coroner was idling along on his rounsey, snapping questions at the clerk on his old donkey, and paying little heed to the road ahead, when Robert spotted the first of the great wagons. ‘Sir!’

‘Oh, in Christ’s name!’ the Coroner grumbled, muttering some other choice curses which Robert missed, and snapped his reins. The beast whinnied, and then leaped away to the north, so as to navigate a route past all the men and their provisions, but it was too late. The rearmost carters were already bawling and pointing, and men were pelting towards them. Coroner Stephen bowed low in his seat, galloping at full tilt, with Robert clinging on for dear life on his own chestnut mare, but falling behind, while the clerk was squeaking ineffectually and bumping along, lashing his donkey to little effect. He was soon overwhelmed, and Robert looked back to see him encircled by rough men. Then there was a narrow gateway, into a field divided into long, narrow strips for the peasants, and he was thundering along the line, praying that he might make it to the other side without falling and being taken by these murderous-looking fellows, when he was suddenly out the other side, and staring at a wide river.

The Coroner was a little way ahead of him. He and Robert set off again, along the side of the river, both horses flagging a little. There were men at the banks, watering their own beasts, there were dogs, yelping and snapping at their hooves, and other men, standing with polearms or swords drawn, who scattered as the two men lowered their heads and galloped onwards, and there were the flocks of sheep, no doubt stolen from every homestead and farm along the way for food on the hoof, which bleated and bolted as though the hounds of hell were after them.

And then… then they were through, and their mad career could slow, while they gasped for breath and stared about them wildly.

After that, their journey was less eventful, fortunately. Until now, reaching the gate. ‘What will happen to your clerk?’ Robert asked.

‘Him? He’d smell of roses if he fell in the city midden,’ Sir Stephen said dismissively.‘A luckier man never was born. He’ll be fine.’ But now they were in the city, he bellowed for the gatekeeper. ‘Keep an eye open to south and east, man. If you see anyone approach, lock the gates immediately. There is a host of men out there, and they’ll be here very soon, God save our souls!’

Margaret was angry with herself more than with Simon. She knew as well as he that it was dangerous even to think of leaving for their home, but the sense that they were betraying their daughter was so strong, she felt a powerful guilt, as if their inaction was itself about to put Edith into danger.

The inn’s yard was almost empty at this time of day. Usually it would be full of merchants, traders, hawkers and others jostling for space. There would be carts and wagons arriving every few moments with foodstuffs for the inn, and straw and hay for the stables. The inn was one of the largest in the city and, with its proximity to the castle, often took all the excess visitors from there as well – but right now it was all but silent. There were no travellers to the city.

It was mute proof of the fairness of her husband’s words, but it only served to increase Meg’s bitterness. The realm was falling apart, and the thought that they might soon be snared inside a besieged city was like a needle in her brain. It was a miracle that they had managed to escape the city of London, and doubly frustrating that their freedom had been of such short duration.

Hugh and Rob walked behind her as she made her way out and along the wall of the castle to the river, where she stepped silently, staring at the waters. There was a slight breeze, and clouds were covering the sky, so she had to wrap her arms about her breast to keep herself warm. There was something soothing about the river lapping against the bank, the trickling sounds, the sudden gurgles, that cooled her hot temper.

It was unlike her to be angry, and to respond so fiercely to Simon. It was not his fault, after all.

She had been married to Simon so long ago now, it was hard to remember a time when she had been free. He had come to their farm, and she had been taken by his looks and manner immediately. The son of the steward to the de Courtenay family, Simon was a man of some importance in their county, and Margaret was proud when he asked for her hand. And she had never had cause to regret her choice. He was kind, he was faithful, he was witty, and he had given her and the children a good life. What more could a woman ask from her man than all that?

Yet in the last months their lives had been entirely disrupted, and this last obstacle had been the final straw on the camel’s back. All along, she had coped with the strain of her daughter’s marriage, then the enmity of Sir Hugh Despenser, who had so cruelly broken them by seeing them thrown from their home of ten years or so at Lydford, and then the horrid periods when Simon had been sent off to London or Paris to do the King’s bidding. But like a thread wound too tightly, the tension of the last year or more had finally made her snap.

They had walked on and were near the main bridge to the city from the southern side of the Avon. She stood a moment, gazing out over the waters to the lands in front, wondering how long it would actually take to ride to Exeter, to go to her daughter’s house and make sure that she and her little child were safe. Five days? Perhaps three if she made haste. One hundred miles was not so terribly far, after all.

There was a bellow, and she looked up to see a small group of men riding fast towards the city gates. The man at the head of the group was an older fellow, and he had a herald with him who bore a fluttering standard, while behind him were thirty men-at-arms, all well mounted, and with armour that glittered and shone.

As they approached, a Bailiff of the city stepped forward with his polearm at the ready. ‘Who are you?’

‘Stand aside for the Earl of Winchester, Constable of the Castle of Bristol!’ the herald roared, and the men rode in at the canter, their hooves clattering on the cobbles as they made for the castle.

‘Hugh!’ Margaret said urgently. ‘Take me back to the inn. We have to tell Simon!’

Bristol Castle

He heard the shouting in the yard and hurried to the door of his chamber, pulling it wide open. There was a small corridor before the walkway on the castle’s wall, and Sir Laurence reached it almost before the first riders had swung down from the saddle.

‘Oh, Mary, Mother of God,’ he muttered, and went to the stairs in the tower nearby.

This was not what he had expected. The Earl of Winchester was one of the most powerful men in the country, probably somewhere after the King and his son, Sir Hugh le Despenser. Sir Laurence knew that in the realm there were few who could equal the Earl’s authority. Even Bishops and Archbishops did not have the same access to the King, because Sir Hugh was Edward’s most favoured adviser, and if the King’s adviser recommended an action or sought a specific end, it was highly unlikely to be refused.

He came to the bottom of the stairs and emerged into the courtyard. ‘Earl Hugh, my lord, you are very welcome.’

‘Don’t give me that ballocks, Sir Laurence! You’re wondering what in God’s name I’m doing here, aren’t you?’ the Earl said as he carefully climbed from his horse. ‘Time was, I’d have jumped from my mount. Beware old age, Sir Laurence. It creeps up on you like a draw-latch, and takes away all your abilities. I’ve been riding too quickly in the last few days, and my muscles are all complaining. I didn’t realise I had so many in my backside, in God’s name!’

He stood a moment with a hand rubbing his lower back, and then nodded towards the hall. ‘Let’s go and talk.’

The castle’s hall was a good-sized room, with a fireplace set into the northern wall that was already filled with flames from some small logs. A pair of larger logs lay before it, warming before they too could be set on the hearth. There was little decoration here, apart from some paintings on the wall behind the dais, which showed scenes of hunting: men on horseback winding their horns as they galloped towards a glorious hart, raches and alaunts leading the way. It was a scene which Sir Laurence had always loved, being a keen huntsman himself. Away on the right of the picture was a final scene, in which the alaunts had encircled the hart and were preparing for their final attacks, teeth bared, while the poor creature remained at bay.

For the first time, seeing the picture, Sir Laurence was suddenly struck by this scene. It was as though the artist was depicting the final days of Bristol, the noble hart encircled by ravening foes preparing to rip it to pieces. The thought made him feel chill.

The Earl stomped into the room, glanced about him with a glower, and made his way to the fire. He barked an order to his page, who ran to the dais, snatched up a chair, and brought it to the fireside.

‘Well!’ the Earl said as he allowed himself to fall into the seat with a grimace. ‘We are in a pretty pickle. What’s the status of the castle?’

‘The outer walls are all strong. No weaknesses in the towers. It seems the foundations are all well-laid, and the undercrofts are provisioned. We have enough, with the full garrison, to last three months or more. The men are in good heart, and all are loyal to the King.’

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ the Earl said, and wiped a hand over his face. Suddenly he looked more grey, as though he had become enfeebled. His eyes were watery as he looked into the fire, and he gave the impression of immense sadness.

Sir Laurence told his steward to fetch wine, and waited while the Earl sat thinking.

He took the wine when it arrived and lifted his mazer to Sir Laurence in a mute toast of appreciation, then drained it. ‘Well, you will know already that the Queen is outside your city. She has a force of thousands. The King has a few tens remaining. His reign is in trouble. If we can just hold the city for a little, we may yet prevail. She cannot sweep past us and hope to be safe. I would immediately order an attack on her supply-lines, and try to raise enough men to attack her flanks, if I may. We could destroy her, with only a little luck. Mortimer’s a shrewd devil, so he’ll know that. They’ll do their best to reduce us to rubble. That’s my feeling. Do you disagree?’

‘No, my lord.’

‘So, we must hold the place. The King has placed me in charge of all the west of the country: Somerset, Devon, Cornwall, Dorset, Hampshire, Wiltshire – it’s all mine. While he attempts to raise his own forces, it is our duty to hold the Queen and her rabble here for as long as we can.’

‘Very well.’

‘What is the mood of the city?’

‘Generally good, I think. The people here are a contrary lot. They tend to hate Mortimer more than the King, though.’

He went on to discuss the stores within the city, the different city walls and the options for defence. It was not overall a bad situation. ‘With a strong garrison, we can maintain the castle without problem even if they break into the city.’

‘I see.’ The Earl looked at him. ‘I know, Sir Laurence. It’s not a bad position for us. We must only pray for God to look over us – and over our families,’ he added quietly, staring into the fire again.

That was when Sir Laurence realised the truth: that the Earl did not expect to be able to hold the city. He only hoped to keep it long enough to allow his son and the King to escape.

Sir Laurence’s eyes flew back to the picture of the hart, but now, in his mind’s eye, he saw the city encircled, while bloodthirsty demons laughed and gibbered about it, ready to crush the city for ever.

Simon was relieved when Margaret arrived back. She sent Peterkin out of the room with Hugh to find Rob.

‘The Earl, eh?’ Simon said. There was a note of hope in his voice. ‘That’s better news. He’s a fair man, I reckon. His son is a prickle of the first rank, but the father isn’t so bad – and he’s had some experience of warfare. Perhaps he can hold things together here.’

‘What will we do, Simon?’ Margaret could feel the onset of tears in her eyes, and there was a panicky feeling in the pit of her stomach. ‘I can’t stay here and suffer another siege, not after all that we went through in London.’

‘Meg,’ he said, rising and putting his arms round her. ‘Where can we go? The way home is bound to be dangerous, with armed men wandering about at will. The only safe place for us is here in the city. Would you really be prepared to leave Bristol if it meant you were putting Peterkin’s life at risk?’

‘Simon, if the city is besieged, the first thing the locals will do is throw all the useless, foreign mouths from the gates. That would mean me and Peterkin.’ She pulled away from his encircling arms. ‘If we stay here, are you prepared to watch as Peterkin and I are forced out of the city and left as a barrier between the wall and the army? That’s what you said happened in sieges before now, Simon – that the women and children were evicted and left to starve so that the besieged and besiegers didn’t have to feed them. They’d keep you here because you can handle a sword, but us? No. We’d be thrown from the gates.’

‘I don’t think it’ll come to that,’ Simon said.

She tore from his grasp. ‘Don’t say that! Don’t try to calm me, when you have no idea what may happen! You don’t know that we’ll be safer here in the city than on the road, do you? You don’t know that Bristol won’t be fired and pillaged, with many people inside slain, which means all of us! How can you stand there and try to be so rational when it’s our lives you’re gambling with?’

He was infuriating her! Did he mean to insult her? She was intelligent enough to manage his household when he was away, and yet now he was treating her like a child!

It was only then, when she had spat the last words into his face, that she saw his own despair. He was not arguing because he seriously believed that one choice was better than another: both had strengths and pitfalls – and he was confused and desperate. He needed help to choose the better option. In his face she saw her own anguish reflected. He was disheartened by this latest proof of his inability to serve his family.

‘Oh, Simon,’ she said, and felt the tears beginning to flow as she put her arms around his neck again and held him close. She was relieved to feel his arms about her waist, his head resting on her shoulder.

‘I’m sorry, Meg,’ he said, his voice curiously quiet. ‘I had thought we would be safe here, and I had thought all our problems were over, but no decision I take ever seems to work in the manner I intend. I didn’t want Edith to marry when she did; I didn’t want to work in Dartmouth; nor did I want to become stuck in the King’s arguments with the barons or upset Despenser – but it’s all happened. I’ve lost our treasure, our daughter, and now we’re in danger too. I no longer know what to do for the best!’

She shushed him, stroking his head as she would a weeping child’s. ‘You are a good man, Simon Puttock. Be strong for me. Don’t let my complaining offend your good sense. You make the decisions based on your reason.’

‘My “reason”,’ he repeated bitterly, and pushed himself from her, walking to the window. ‘My “reason” told me we would be safe here because no one in their right mind would want to harm the second city in the realm. And now the Earl of Winchester is here to defend it with all his might. Well, every choice I have made so far has turned to disaster. So no, Meg, I won’t choose this time. This time, I will follow your judgement. It is always better than mine. So we shall pack and leave the city, and make our way as swiftly as possible to Exeter.’