The Oath

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Bristol

Baldwin woke with a curse on his lips. During the night a flea or similar malevolent creature had found its way to him, and now he had a series of lumps on his back that itched like the devil.

The house was a large one in a part of the city that had once been the Temple lands, and he had been struck with a strong sense of nostalgia as he rode this way with Redcliffe last evening. They had left the tavern while it was still just light, before the gates were closed against all intruders, and made their way southwards into the warren of little streets and lanes that made up the Temple area.

They had passed through this suburb on the way to the bridge, but seeing it in the morning light, Baldwin could understand why the merchant had decided to take him for drinks in the city itself. Last afternoon they had all been too tired to pay attention to the buildings about them. Now, as he stood in the stables over the road, Baldwin looked about him without favour.

‘I don’t suppose that Master Redcliffe is a very successful merchant,’ was Jack’s opinion when he saw Baldwin. He was grooming their mounts as he did each morning.

‘I think you could be right,’ Baldwin said. He noticed that Wolf was looking well-groomed as well, and he glanced at Jack, but the boy was concentrating on the horses.

Later, when their host brought them bread and some cold cuts of meat, he offered them his apology. ‘I did tell you I had lost everything when my ship sank. My creditors demanded all that I owed immediately afterwards, and I was forced to sell my house and gardens within the city. I am no longer a burgess, but at least I am fortunate to have my health and this little home.’

‘It is a good size,’ Baldwin commented.

‘Much smaller than the last, I fear. That was large, and with an excellent stables. I used to help the King to import horses from a Galician stud. Excellent, they were, too. I lost four magnificent destriers on my last ship. They were worth a lot of money.’ Thomas sighed at the memory.

The house had a goodly-sized hall, and behind it was a yard with some outbuildings, in which he hoped to store goods when he could buy space on a ship and try to return to his past career. For now, he relied on his wife to maintain the house while he worked on recovering his fortune.

‘If war comes,’ Baldwin said, ‘what then?’

‘There is always money to be made for a man with determination,’ Redcliffe said, but his voice was tired, and Baldwin thought he looked as though he had been knocked down so often that the prospect of another fight was too daunting for him.

Redcliffe was sitting on a small chair, and he looked up as his wife, Roisea, went to his side. He put his arm about her waist as he spoke, and smiled up at her now. It eased the lines of concern at his brow. They were much in love, from the look of them, Baldwin thought, and at that moment, Roisea was tugged, protesting, on to her husband’s lap. She leaned forward to kiss him enthusiastically, as if the two were alone in that chamber.

‘I am sorry, Sir Baldwin,’ Thomas said after a few moments. He grinned at his wife as she sprang from him and stood at his side once more.

She squeaked as he tried to encircle her waist again, moving out of his reach. ‘Husband,’ she chided, ‘your guest hardly knows where to look!’

‘You’re right, my love,’Thomas said. ‘So, Sir Baldwin, if real war comes here, I shall sell and trade whatever I may once more. As I say, there is always money for a man who is bold enough.’

Baldwin nodded, unconvinced. ‘There are often more men with determination who possess weapons and help themselves to all that they can,’ he pointed out. He did not want to say so, but there were enormous risks for young women like Madame Redcliffe. She was a short, but slender woman in perhaps her middle twenties, with a round face that was particularly attractive. She had a pale, peach-coloured complexion, lovely clear blue eyes, a broad, intelligent forehead, and full, soft lips that seemed made for smiling.

In many ways, she was the picture of desirability, and yet Baldwin could think only of his own wife, so many miles away, surely worrying about him and what he might be doing. He missed her, his lovely Jeanne. He had loved her since the first moment he had set eyes upon her in Tavistock all those years ago.

He looked again at Roisea and this time saw the fear in her eyes, while her mouth smiled.

‘Madame Redcliffe,’ he said gently, ‘I am most grateful for the use of your room.’

‘I am at your service, Sir Baldwin. It is very kind of you to honour us with your company, when you could have rested in any of the inns in the city itself.’

‘But such inns would not have so charming a hostess,’ Baldwin said with a slight bow.

‘You will stay with us a little?’

Baldwin glanced at her husband. ‘I fear I must return to my own home. My wife will be missing me, and I would prefer to be there in case of unrest.’

‘It is difficult when you have responsibilities,’ she said, and threw a look at her husband that Baldwin could not comprehend.

Women were so difficult to understand – he had spent too much of his youth in the convent without female companionship.

‘You will stay one day, at least?’ Redcliffe said. ‘I wouldn’t want to think you had to set off so soon, without any rest.’

Baldwin could feel Jack’s eyes on him as he said politely, ‘I am most grateful to you, Master Thomas, but no. I must return. At this time, I have a responsibility to my wife, but also to the King.’

‘You are a supporter of the King, then?’ Roisea asked. Her lips were parted, as though she awaited his answer with an especial keenness.

It was not a question he had expected, and Baldwin felt his brow crease in a fleeting frown. ‘I have given my oath to him, and I owe him my service as my Lord. Just as any knight must who holds lands from the King.’

‘You are a man of honour,’ Redcliffe said, pushing his wife away so that he could reach the food. ‘Come, Sir Baldwin, please eat.’

Bristol Castle

In the castle, Robert Vyke was happy to find that he was not to be held in one of the cells. All too often, as he knew, a city’s castle would contain the very best facilities for holding men – cold, damp chambers near the moat, plenty of smiths keen to show their skills at producing fetters of different types, and quite a lot of men who were equally enthusiastic about methods of enquiry involving the use of hot metal and pliers.

For Robert, the idea of the torture chamber was one that returned to his mind that morning when he was told that he was needed. He was called by a Sergeant with foul breath and a peculiar-looking beard which had a large gap in the left side of his jaw. When Vyke looked more closely, he saw that the man had suffered a ferocious wound there; the skin was all scarred, as though some weapon had torn away an inch-wide section of flesh.

‘Horse kicked me,’ the man said, seeing the direction of his attention.

‘In a battle?’

‘No,’ the Sergeant said, scowling. ‘I was grooming the bastard.’

Vyke was unsure what to say, so he followed the Sergeant out from the garrison’s sleeping chamber, where he had been installed for the night, along a short passageway, up two flights of stairs, and into a long, warm, rectangular room.

It was heated by an immense fire in the left-hand wall, and the glorious light illuminated rich hanging tapestries of hunting scenes, and a number of stools, chairs and two large tables. At one, a smiling older man was sitting, while opposite was a thin, grey-faced old fellow with wiry frame and grizzled hair. At the fireplace stood Sir Stephen, the Coroner.

‘Get in here,’ the Coroner said. His face was blank, just as it had been at the inquest. He was a strange serious man, who was either amused and jolly, or completely serious, concentrating on matters of importance. Now, clearly, he was considering something that gave him little cause for amusement.

The man with the smile was the Earl of Winchester, Vyke knew. He had heard about him from some of the garrison last night. Not a bad man, this one – unlike his son, by all accounts.

‘Come in, fellow. Come in. Now, the good Sir Stephen has said to us that you are bright, and capable of thinking for yourself. Is that right?’

‘I suppose so, sir.’

‘Good. You come from where?’

‘I’m from East Henret, sir. Oxfordshire.’

‘Oh. You’re a long way from your home, then.’

‘Sir. The men in the vill were arrayed and mustered and marched off. That was a while ago. We went east towards London, then we were turned about and came here instead.’

‘And your companions?’

‘They went on, sir. I was left behind because of my leg,’ he added, pointing.

‘You are loyal to your master?’

The impatient, grey-faced man interrupted him before he could reply. ‘You are loyal to your King, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Vyke said. He didn’t like the direction of the conversation.

‘You may be able to help the King in his trials now,’ the man said briskly. ‘We need to send him a message. Can you do that for us? Can you take him a message?’

‘I suppose so, sir.’

‘Good. Do this, and you’ll have the gratitude of the King, the Earl here, and of me, Sir Laurence Ashby.’

‘I’d gladly help, but I’d need directions. I don’t know this country.’

‘It should be easy enough to follow the King’s trail,’ the Earl said.

Sir Stephen folded his arms. ‘This is very important, Vyke. We have to make sure that the message gets through to him. You understand me?’

‘Yes. I understand, sir.’

‘Good. Then you can go now.’

‘One minute,’ the Earl said. ‘How bad is your leg? Can you use it for a long walk, do you think?’

‘If I need to. The cut was deep, but it’s not gone foul, my lord.’

‘You’re sure of that, are you? Has anyone looked at it?’

‘A priest did, my lord. He seemed very competent and–’

‘My friend Sir Stephen Siward here says you were hurt by a bent dagger: it sounds a curious accident. It is usually enough for a man to fall into a pothole without the additional encumbrance of a dagger inside. Do you have the dagger here?’

‘It is in my pack, my lord,’ Vyke said.

‘Good. Can you fetch it for our friend?’ the Earl said to the Sergeant, who still stood behind him. The Sergeant nodded and hurried from the room.

Sir Stephen pushed himself away from the wall and walked to the table where the Earl was sitting. He poured himself a goblet of wine from a pewter jug, but made no effort to offer it to the Earl or the other man, to Vyke’s surprise. It was almost as though the Coroner thought himself superior to the others in the chamber. Either that or he was so distraught at the idea of the coming days that he forgot himself.

There was the sound of steps approaching, and then the Sergeant walked in again. He had Vyke’s pack with him, and opened it on the floor near the Earl.

Earl Hugh took the dagger when it was offered to him, and Vyke saw him shake his head. ‘A valuable piece. I would think any man would rue its loss. You have done well to discover it, Vyke.’

‘I was going to see if I could straighten it,’Vyke said.

‘You mean to keep it?’ Sir Stephen asked.

‘Well, I don’t know whose it is, so…’ Vyke said, flustered. It seemed to him that Sir Stephen was planning to take it from him, and he was alarmed at the thought after all he had endured because of this damned blade with its pretty hilt.

‘I would think you would be better served to sell it,’ Sir Stephen said. ‘It is a valuable piece of metalwork, and if you were found with it, it may go evilly with you. Give it to me, and I will pay you a fair price for it. Six shillings?’

Vyke was about to take it gratefully when he spotted something out of the corner of his eye. It was the look on Sir Laurence’s face, an expression of sadness.

‘You know whose dagger that was, don’t you?’ Sir Laurence said. ‘It belonged to Squire William de Bar, who murdered Arthur Capon.’

‘You knew Capon?’ Sir Stephen said.

‘Many knew him. He was a useful money-lender to many nobles. I had reason to use him a few times – but I never expected to hear that he could have died at the hands of a man like that. Squire William deserved his end, for killing him and his family.’

Bristol

That afternoon, there was a bad feeling in the air as Cecily walked about. It was not only her and the weight of the guilt that bore down upon her shoulders, it was the atmosphere of the whole city.

There was no sign of the besieging force as yet, but the traders were already closing up as though they had sold all their wares. In reality, all knew that they would have to be more careful with their food and money.

Cecily had endured the siege here ten years before, and knew how people would change. Those who seemed happy-go-lucky could suddenly become depressed; others, who were rude, quarrelsome and argumentative could suddenly discover their Christian kindness and start to help their neighbours. Most, though, just tried to keep their heads down and survive.

Women, of course, were the most fearful of all, for when men were convinced that they were soon to die, they often lost all shame and fear of justice. During the last siege, Cecily had known women who had been raped by those who sought a momentary escape from the fears of death. She herself had been pulled into an alley by a neighbour, but had drawn her little knife and he had immediately slunk away, to stand sobbing at the alley’s entranceway.

It had shocked her more than anything, because he had always seemed a pleasant old man: thoughtful and amiable. To see someone like that suddenly turn into a monster who sought to rape her had been more terrifying than the thought of strangers attacking her, somehow. Perhaps, she wondered, it had been her fault? Maybe he had seen her so often, he had assumed she would welcome an advance from him? Or had he thought that she lusted after his body, just as he lusted for hers? Was it possible that she had, in her friendship with him, given him the impression that she would welcome his natural desires? Perhaps. But he had used the siege as the excuse. Yes, that was it: he was glad to have a reason which he could use for blame, rather than his own lustfulness.

Later, she had heard he had killed himself, taking a razor to his throat, and she felt sorry for him, although she couldn’t forgive him.

So now, as the mood of the city turned to fear and uncertainty, she walked in the wider roads, her head downcast beneath a hood, avoiding the eyes of passers-by.

It was when she passed along Peter Street that she felt the terror strike her again, and had to stop and breathe carefully so that her heart did not leap from her breast.

The two were lounging at the side of the street, chatting as though it was the most natural thing in the world. Anyone looking at them would think that they were normal men doing normal things. Only she, of all the people walking past, knew the truth about them both. They were murderers.

‘Come on, maid, you want to come and play?’ one called, seeing her and making an obscene gesture.

She could not look them in the eyes. Her loathing would be too clear, if she did that. She was no pretty young maid, but these men were drunk, and would go with any woman. She must walk on past them… if she could.

‘Maid, didn’t you hear us? Come here, let’s play the afternoon away.’

There was an edge to his voice; a hint of threat. If she could only walk on, simply placing one foot before the other, she would survive. Her knife was no match for these two.

‘Are you deaf? Or is it that you don’t want to lie with us, maid? Come on, you can say that. No? Ah, then you do want to?’

A loud laugh, a high giggling from the other, and she was aware of them both approaching her. She had to run, get away from here, as swiftly as she could, escape to the house where she lived now with Mistress Emma. But Cecily was frozen with panic.

‘Leave her, you men!’

There was a hand on her arm, and she squealed, wrenching it free, as Sir Stephen Siward smiled and said, ‘Come, Cecily. Do you not know me, then, that you look so fearful?’