The Oath

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

North of Bristol

When the news had spread of the Queen’s forces approaching the city, there had been an immediate panic, and it was felt not least by Robert Vyke as he had hurried to gather up his belongings and shove them into his little pack, before going to the northernmost gate of the city, where he was told by Sir Laurence that he could best make his escape.

He had not bothered to walk far in the gathering gloom, but took his rest in the meagre shelter of an old shepherd’s hut, where the roof had fallen in. This morning it was the rain that had woken him, landing on his face.

Eating a little bread with cheese, he stared back at the city through the rain. His thick cloak and hood were enormously heavy, now that they were soaked in water. There was no point in trying to keep dry in this weather, he decided, and hefted his pack again. At least the rattle of the coins in his purse was comforting. He couldn’t remember ever possessing such wealth in his life before, and the thought of the look on his Susan’s face when she saw the money was wonderful. It would make her so happy, she would be unable to speak for a long time, he thought with a smile. Six shillings was untold wealth for a peasant.

The way was fairly steep here, for he had left the road to continue on his own path. The main road was bound to be filled with the Queen’s men, and he had no intention of being caught. No, he would continue on his way here, towards the King. He was supposed to be in Chepstow or somewhere near. Robert would just keep on going until he found him. It couldn’t be too difficult to find a King, after all, he told himself. You just had to look for the big standard flying. If you could in this weather, he added miserably.

He clambered his way to the top of a hill among some trees and peered out. There was no sign of anyone. Here, so he had heard, the land began to drop down towards the great river, and he must cross it to reach the town. There were many boatmen at that point, even though there was no bridge, so he was moderately confident that he could reach the other side without difficulty. Once there, he must find the King and pass him the little sealed document in its leather tube, stoppered with thick wax, and await his answer.

It was not a task he had thought himself capable of in the past, but he hoped he would be rewarded. Surely a messenger who braved the weather and his monarch’s enemies to bring him news of the garrison of Bristol would be given at least some shillings, or even a golden ring.

With thoughts of still more astonishing wealth shortly to come his way, he emerged from the trees and found himself in a little lane. Looking up and down, he turned right, as being the direction to take him further away from Bristol, and continued on into the thick greyness.

Bristol

The man in the jury had turned to leave when Simon and Sir Charles reached him.

Simon did not like his face. There was something about the squint that implied a shifty nature, and his habit of shuffling his feet did not inspire confidence either.

‘Tell this man what you saw,’ Sir Charles said encouragingly.

‘I don’t know, sir, mayhap I was wrong. It was dark and–’

Sir Charles’s smile broadened, and then he snatched out with his hand and gripped the man about the throat. ‘I hope you don’t soil my glove, fellow, because I don’t want to have to take your money to buy new ones. They are expensive.’

The man’s eyes popped wide, and he gulped. ‘I’ll talk, I’ll talk!’

‘I know,’ Sir Charles said pleasantly.

‘That woman Cecily – I saw her yesterday. With a man,’ the fellow said desperately, his voice weakened by the pressure on his neck.

Simon felt coldness wash over his body. ‘You lied? After you swore on the Gospels? You lied to the Coroner?’

‘I couldn’t tell!’

Sir Charles turned to Simon with that smile still on his face, but in his eyes there was no humour. ‘No, he couldn’t tell the truth, Simon.’

‘God’s teeth! Why not?’

‘Because the man he saw, the one with whom she left, was another knight – a man called Sir Laurence Ashby. And a mere churl like this would never dare accuse a noble knight.’

South of Bristol

Baldwin and Jack had ridden hard to the outskirts of the city, all the way fearing capture, but their luck had held so far. Now they paused,and Baldwin peered behind them. His face was streaming, and he put a hand to his brow, wiping it away and flinging it to the side. It was hard to see anything yet, and he prayed that he and Jack had out-ridden the encircling men.

The force was that of the Queen; he had little doubt of that, because he knew that the King was already passed through and into Wales; his host would come to Bristol from the north and west. The men Baldwin had seen were approaching from the south and east.

He knew the Queen and Mortimer, having met them a few times in England and in France. While he rather admired the Queen, for not only was she beautiful, she was resolute, intelligent, and fiercely determined; yet Baldwin was less certain of Mortimer.

Roger Mortimer had been the King’s General – it was largely due to him that Edward had been able to pacify Ireland – but Despenser and Mortimer hated each other with a loathing that went back two generations. It was Despenser who had managed to see Mortimer, already a prisoner in the Tower of London, served with a death warrant. For that reason, Mortimer broke out of the prison and made his way to France, where he became the focus for all those who had cause to detest the reign of Despenser in London. Every malcontent, including the King’s own brothers, went to him and swelled his forces.

When Mortimer and the Queen landed in the east, they had only a few hundred men with them, but wherever they went, it seemed as though the people of the country flocked to them. The Queen had made a strategically successful statement when she stated that she was not in the country to oppose her husband, but to depose the tyrannical reign of Despenser. That struck a chord with almost every Englishman, for Hugh Despenser was universally hated. And then, the Queen also had the banner of her son, Edward Duke of Aquitaine, raised before her forces, so Baldwin had heard, so that even those who might have been inclined to support the King felt unable to raise a sword against her, because that would mean obstructing the next King.

That, Baldwin was sure, was the Queen’s own idea. She was shrewd and crafty, and would see that her son’s banner would help her. However, when she had enlisted the support of Mortimer, she was running a great risk. He might one day decide to throw her and her son aside.

Those were questions for another time. For now, Baldwin had other problems to consider. First was how to reach the far side of the river. The bridge, he knew, was blocked, for the city was already under a siege footing. They would not open the gates to any men from this side of the river now.

‘Come!’ he cried, and led Jack along the narrow streets and lanes all the way back to Redcliffe’s house. Here Baldwin threw himself off his horse and pounded on the door.

‘Dear Heaven, Sir Baldwin!’ Redcliffe said, starting in amazement when Baldwin and Jack were brought dripping into his hall. ‘What is all–’

‘The Queen is here already,’ Sir Baldwin said tersely. ‘You must tell me, how may I cross the river, for there is no escape on this side of the Avon.’

‘The Queen? With her host? Dear God!’ the man gaped.

Baldwin knew that Redcliffe was now faced with the prospect of being overwhelmed in fire and warfare, with all his remaining possessions being ransacked and stolen.

‘I am deeply saddened to bring such news to you,’ he said, ‘but my need is urgent. How can I escape?’

‘There is a ferry which crosses the river to the west of the bridge, Sir Baldwin. But if you take it, there will be little possibility of your coming back. No man will wish to cross the river again until the siege here is over.’

‘I don’t intend to cross it again,’ Baldwin said grimly. ‘I ride to the King – I have my oath to fulfil. I swore to support him and his realm, and I will not fail in my duty.’

Redcliffe swallowed, then said, ‘Sir Baldwin, I have urgent news for the King. May I travel with you? I will take you to the crossing myself.’

Bristol

‘It makes little or no sense,’ Simon frowned.

They were back at the inn, and he and Sir Charles sat side-by-side before the fire, sipping warmed wine as they considered their morning’s work.

‘Why would he ask you to investigate the killing, Sir Charles, when he is Coroner?’

‘When the murder was reported he was busy discussing the defences with Sir Laurence.’

‘And this Sir Laurence is castellan, you say.’

‘He gave me the impression that he thought the city was more important than one death,’ Sir Charles said. ‘But then I spoke with that man from the jury, and realised that Sir Laurence could be the murderer, but I don’t want to accuse him without evidence. That is the last thing we need at the moment – to have the castellan under suspicion. If a king’s official was thought to be guilty of murder, the city would rebel and there could be a riot.’

‘And you think Sir Stephen did not expect you to learn anything?’

‘No. And I shall not learn anything.’

‘Eh?’

‘Simon, my friend, there is no point in my trying to seek for the woman’s killer. If I do, Sir Laurence may learn about it and use his influence to stop me accusing him. It would distract him from the matter of our defence, which could be disastrous. Also, I have duties here to help in the protection of the city. Whereas a man without responsibility…’

‘I see,’ Simon said heavily.

‘It need not take you long. But if you could learn whether Sir Laurence has any connection to the dead woman, and whether he had any reason to wish to see her dead, that would be a great help.’

He smiled at Simon. ‘That isn’t too much to ask, is it?’

Sir Stephen finished his cup of wine and stepped out into the rain. There were four men at the end of the street, all drunk and shouting incoherently at each other.

It was a sign of things to come. Sir Stephen had not endured a lengthy siege before, but he knew men who had, and was aware that the first thing to fall apart was law and order.

He walked towards them, and felt the usual tingle of excitement in his belly as he saw two of the men stare at him, one unfocused, the other with a look of malevolence. It was he who picked up a stone from the roadway.

His voice was slurred, but his meaning was clear: ‘Look, a lazy, thieving knight, just like the others who got us into this mess. Sod the lot of them! Gits who argue, and when things go wrong, who do they use to try to get them out of the shit? Us, that’s who! Let’s get him!’

Sir Stephen did not slow his footsteps. Soon he was within striking range, and then, as a stone was flung, only to miss him by a foot, he sprang forward. His gauntlet caught the bold man about the mouth, and the steel plates cut him badly. Then Sir Stephen shoved hard, and the drunk fell back onto his rump, while the knight stood contemplating the rest. ‘Any more?’ he said pleasantly.

The three picked up their bleeding companion and were off in a hurry. It was pathetic, but the mob could not be permitted to gather about a ringleader like him, Sir Stephen thought as he walked on.

He found the place a few moments later. The church had a small gate, and he walked inside, bowing at the altar.

The priest was already holding a small service, and Sir Stephen stood at the rear of the great empty space, listening to the monotonous droning of the man’s voice, wondering how long the fellow could last. But finally all was done, and the body was carried outside into the rain. Sir Stephen walked along after it, and as it was lowered into the freshly dug hole, he saw that the water had already pooled in the bottom, and mud was soaking into the winding sheet. It was a sad end to an unhappy life, he thought.

At his side the priest muttered the ritual words quickly, in a hurry to get back inside his church and hide from the rain. A man should take a little time over a burial, Sir Stephen thought, giving him a frown, especially when the corpse had no family to mourn her, no husband or child. No one but himself.

The priest slowed, scowling, before reluctantly bending over, grabbing a handful of sodden soil, and babbling on in his uneducated Latin, hurling the mud at the body. Soon he was finished, muttering the last lines, and then he made the sign of the cross, before turning and almost running inside.

‘Cover her,’ Sir Stephen said to the fosser, who nodded, took up his spade, and began to shovel the earth into the hole. The first throw slapped wet soil onto her face, and the damp linen took on the lines of her mouth, nose, eyes. It was almost as though she was watching Sir Stephen through the gauzy material. A fresh shovelful landed on her belly, making the points of her breasts stand out, and the next smacked into her shoulder.

It was enough. He looked away, and then he reached inside his jack and pulled out the little bundle. He hefted it in his hand a moment, looking at it sadly, before glancing into the grave, and throwing the pack in.

Turning, he left the cemetery and went out into the road.

The fosser had buried more than a hundred people here in this graveyard, and he had often seen people throw in little trinkets of no value as he covered the bodies. And more than once he had seen those people return, peering in to make sure that he had actually left their gift to the dead and had not stolen it.

This time, he was not going to take any chances. He carried on piling in the soil at the foot and at the head of the woman’s body, until it was not possible to continue without burying the gift. Only then did he crouch quickly, slip the edge of the shovel under the packet, and slide it up the side of the mound of soil at Cecily’s feet. Taking it from the grave, he whistled in surprise as he slipped the wrapping from it to reveal a golden hilt and two rubies.

He quickly covered it in the waxed linen again, shoved it under his shirt, and finished his work.