The Oath

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Fourth Friday after the Feast of St Michael[25]

Bristol

Margaret was still distressed as she sat with her husband the next morning. The reappearance of Sir Charles was not welcome.

The knight entered the inn with a mildly distracted air, but smiled at the sight of Simon and his wife. ‘Old friend, I am glad to see you are not still trying to flee the city, like so many. They are queuing all about the gates, demanding the right to leave. They won’t be allowed to do so, though. We cannot afford to let them.’

‘Why not?’ Margaret asked quietly. ‘Surely it would be better to have the city emptied of all the unnecessary mouths? Couldn’t some, like us, be allowed to leave?’

Sir Charles turned his smile upon her. ‘My dear Madame Puttock, it would be too dangerous. How many of those leaving could tell the enemy how to break into the city? How many know where a weak point in the wall lies, or where a postern to access the castle may be found? They may not wish to betray us, but if they are captured and put to the torture… No, better to keep everyone caged here, and ensure that none go to the Queen to tell her the secrets of the city.’

‘We are strangers here – we know nothing of such things,’ Margaret protested.

‘The rule is to be enforced nonetheless, Madame.’

‘I am not happy that we are to be kept here as prisoners,’ Simon said.

‘I know – and if I could find a way for you to escape safely, I would do so immediately. But the way things are just now, you’d not get far before being captured. If the stories are true, the Queen’s men are almost in sight now. They encircle the whole city.’

Margaret turned away, hiding her tears. They were trapped here in this damned city for as long as the Queen maintained her siege. She wondered whether she would ever see her daughter again, whether she would at last see her grandson. But no. It was likely that she and her son would perish here.

Despair made her bitter. ‘Simon, I should like to find food,’ she said curtly.

‘My love, I think that all the food is likely to be locked away now.’

‘I want dried meat and some bread here, for Peterkin and me,’ Margaret snapped. ‘As soon as this siege begins to bite, the city will likely allow all strangers and foreigners to starve. You will be all right, Simon, because you can help guard the city, so they will feed you. What about Peterkin and me? Simon, I don’t want to watch our son die!’

This last was a wail of despair, and Simon felt it like a punch to his belly. He stared at Sir Charles, wretched in his inability to help his own wife, to protect his family.

Sir Charles was not the fastest-thinking knight Simon had ever met, but now he held up both hands. ‘Madame Margaret, you and your husband will stay in the chamber allocated to me in the castle, and I shall find somewhere else. Then you will be able to eat the food stored for the siege. Nothing could be easier. I will not permit you to go hungry, my lady.’

Simon had gone to his wife and held her in his arms. ‘You are sure?’ he asked.

‘Of course. My lady, do not worry yourself – it is all solved. There is no need for you to be alarmed. Now, Simon, let us discuss this unfortunate peasant – Cecilia? Cecily?’

And Simon went to sit and talk with the knight about the woman found the night before, while Margaret watched unhappily. Because it was one thing to say that they would be fed within the castle, but another for Simon and she to be safe, when all the Queen’s forces were now to be aimed at that self-same castle, with bolts and stones hurled from the siege machines of her artillery.

She glanced up at the ceiling as though expecting the sky to begin to rain rocks upon her head. It was terrifying. And there was no escape.

South of Bristol

Exhaustion kept Baldwin in a deep slumber, and it was only when a hungry Wolf thrust his nose in his armpit that he was jerked fully awake.

Although the knight was keen to be away on the road to Furnshill, he found himself content in the hall with Thomas Redcliffe and his wife. The couple chattered happily, and it was pleasant to see their ease with each other this morning. They clearly enjoyed their domestic existence, even with the disaster of his business failure.

Their companionship was not the only reason for Baldwin’s reluctance to make a start. From the moment he had woken he had heard the steady thrumming of rain on the roof, and as soon as he pulled open the shutters, he knew that the day would be miserable. It reminded him of the time a decade earlier, when the rain had been so unrelenting that crops failed and famine struck the whole of Europe. People died in such vast numbers that English Coroners could not view all the bodies, and a special dispensation was given to all vills to hold their own inquests – unless there was good reason to suspect foul play.

Sir Baldwin offered a prayer that there would be no such repetition. None who had lived through the famine had survived unmarked by tragedy.

At the table, while he and Jack ate a large breakfast of thick pottage in which cubes of ham floated, Redcliffe spoke of the trials of the King.

‘It is a terrible thing for the Queen to have deserted her husband,’ he said.

‘I am sure that it was not a decision she took lightly,’ Baldwin said.

‘You do not mean to support her in her treason?’ Redcliffe asked.

‘I myself intend to ride to the King’s support,’ the knight pointed out. ‘A man can do no more. But I do not condemn.’

‘There are few who would be so moderate as you, Sir Baldwin.’

‘Perhaps we should talk of happier matters,’ Roisea suggested, seeing their guest’s discomfort. ‘How far is your home, Sir Baldwin?’

‘If we ride well, I suppose three days from here,’ Baldwin said, and tried to block out the noise of falling rain. Wolf sat at his side, shoving his head under Baldwin’s hand. ‘Yes. We should be on our way,’ he muttered.

They completed their meal, and after a short period of leave-taking, Baldwin and Jack were on their way. Redcliffe had advised on their best road. They should follow the great river westwards, and then take the coastal route towards the moors. From there Baldwin would be able to find his own way, he was sure.

It was a relief to be setting off on the last part of their journey, and Baldwin tugged his heavy riding cloak about him as he and Jack trotted slowly up the road which led away from the city, Wolf behind them. Soon they could see the hills rising in front of them, and in the miserable weather it was good, Baldwin reflected, to have such clear, distinct targets to aim for.

The weather had worsened, and the rain had penetrated even Baldwin’s sturdy clothes. Usually his cloak would serve against the worst that even Dartmoor could hurl, but not today. The rain was so heavy it made Baldwin blind. It was simply impossible to keep on peering ahead in such foul weather. Jack, who had no decent clothing, was already soaked through to the skin, his jack and shirt hanging shapelessly from his body, while his hat with its broad brim drooped so badly he was forced to lift it in order to gaze ahead.

It was enough to persuade Baldwin that they should turn back. The roads were grown too slippery and dangerous. The horses were picking their way with care, but it would only take one pothole to break a leg.

‘Jack, we’ll have to make our way back,’ he called through the biting wind. The rain was clattering all about them, and much too loud for he had to bellow just to make himself heard, but when Jack turned to him, his expression was one of sheer horror.

Baldwin followed the direction of his eyes and felt his mouth drop. There, before them, was an army.

‘Back to Bristol, my boy, and quickly!’ Baldwin bawled, pulling his horse’s head around to the north, and clapping spurs to the beast’s flanks.

Bristol

‘Shite. If this was but a little warmer, it would be as miserable as hell,’ a man joked as Simon wandered towards the group.

He could not argue with his sentiment. The rain pattered about the roads, and Simon’s boots splashed in puddles all the way.

He had left Margaret at the inn with Hugh to guard her and Peterkin. Seeing her mood, Sir Charles had set a watchman at the door of the inn to protect them too. Now he and Simon were standing at the edge of a small crowd while the formal inquest began.

‘I had assumed that you would hold this inquest,’ Simon whispered.

‘Me?’ Sir Charles murmured. ‘No. I am no Coroner, only a humble seeker after truth. He is the Coroner: Sir Stephen Siward.’

‘Then why did you call me last night? And why drag me out here now?’ Simon asked with a frown, but Sir Charles merely indicated the tall fellow approaching.

The Coroner was of a similar build to Sir Charles, but had dark hair and blue eyes – a combination that Simon instinctively mistrusted. The man looked too much like a murderous Cornishman. His smile was oddly out of place at such a meeting, too, as he chatted quietly to a clerk sitting with a board over his knees and parchment, reeds and ink set out ready.

He did at least seem to know his business. The jurors were called forward, the men ranging in age from one lad of perhaps thirteen, to the oldest who was at least sixty. When they had given their names and the clerk had enrolled them on his parchment, the Coroner asked who was missing. These names were noted too, so that they could be amerced for their non-attendance later, and then the jury had to swear on the Gospels held to them by the clerk that they would tell the truth on all the points the Coroner put to them. Then the body was studied.

The Coroner had the duty of viewing and feeling the bodies which were found, so that his clerk could record every injury. So as usual, Cecily’s body was unceremoniously stripped and then displayed naked to the Coroner and the jury. Her limbs were moved, her flesh pressed and prodded; the stab wound was measured and her throat studied for signs of throttling. There was remarkably little damage, only a faint path of bruising about her mouth and the stab to the heart, and when they investigated, no sign of rape.

Still, Simon looked away. It felt like a second violation of the woman, for her to be displayed in such a lewd manner before so many men – all of them seeing the parts of her body which only a husband should have known. It was degrading to all of them, he thought.

When he glanced about, he saw that all the jury bar one man were gawping at the body. The last, though, was a rough-looking man, slim, ferrety-faced, with dark, slightly squinting eyes. He was not looking at the body, but instead stared at the Coroner with an expression of fear.

Then his attention was taken by the Coroner again.

‘I, Sir Stephen Siward, find that this maid was killed by a dagger with a blade of about one-inch width at the hilt, and perhaps six inches long,’ the Coroner said. He studied the wound again. ‘The blade was double-edged, I’d say. The wound is diamond-shaped, not triangular. It’s a good-sized blade – a dagger.’

He turned to the jurors after the body had been rolled over and over twice, an ungainly mess of arms and legs without dignity. ‘Well? Jury, do you find that this woman has been slain feloniously, died by misadventure, or that she died of natural causes?’

His tone was ironic, but it was the normal form of the questions, as Simon knew. The jury must answer all to the best of their ability or risk a large fine.

‘Feloniously killed.’

‘Very well. I agree that this woman was unlawfully killed by a person or persons armed with at least a small dagger. Do you all know the woman?’

‘She is Cecily,’ two men called out, and the clerk noted that too.

‘Good,’ the Coroner said, and began to rattle through the other questions: where did she live, had anyone witnessed the killing, had there been any noises in the area before the body was discovered, and had anyone seen somebody in the area.

It was a perfunctory affair, Simon thought, perhaps because the jury and the Coroner himself were distracted. Why concern themselves with one death when at any time an onslaught could be launched that would slaughter hundreds? However, Simon was sure that there was something else in the Coroner’s eyes when he looked at Cecily’s body. Something akin to sadness, as though he had some feeling for this particular woman. It was rare, in Simon’s experience, for most Coroners were immune to sympathy. They saw too many dead men and women for that.

The summary was given, the bill of amercements called out that all in the area should know how much they must pay, and then the Coroner ordered that the body be taken at once to the nearest cemetery for burial in accordance with the law. Soon, poor Cecily was placed upon a cart, and two men began to wheel her away, her clothing bundled separately in order that it should be sold later.

‘So why did you bring me here?’ Simon asked Sir Charles once more. ‘If you have no authority in this case, I cannot understand why you asked me to join you last night and today.’

‘I did not wish to see that woman’s homicide go unreported. If her death was felonious, then I wanted to make sure that the Coroner recorded the fact and that she had a proper enquiry into her murder. You see, Bailiff, I don’t think that he would have done so, had I not forced him.’

‘Why? He seemed perfectly competent and obedient to his duty,’ Simon argued.

‘Come with me. I will show you.’