The Oath

CHAPTER TWO

First Thursday after the Feast of St Michael[4]

London

All about London, there was an air of expectation as the King finally rode out through the gates of his castle, the Tower of London, and past the great crowd of men and women watching silently in the streets outside. There was no fanfare.

From his vantage point, Thomas Redcliffe watched most intently, eyeing the King himself, the man riding at his side – Sir Hugh le Despenser – and then the other knights all riding in a knot. Behind them came the men-at-arms of all degrees, the group of Welsh knifemen whom the King honoured so highly, the pikemen with their long weapons shouldered ready for the march. And all about was the slow clank and rattle of chains and harnesses, the leaden rumble of cartwheels turning on the cobbles as wagons and carts passed by.

The King looked furious, Redcliffe thought. He rode upright, stiffly ignoring the stares from all sides. The whole world could have been here, and his disdain would have passed magnificently over it, noting nothing worth seeing, for this King was being forced to ride from his own capital by his Queen.

Those with him looked fearful of their own shadows, the marching men-at-arms ready to take up their weapons at the slightest provocation. They had been bottled up in the Tower for too long as the city began to fall apart. Law and order were collapsing as the King’s authority waned, and the men in the King’s guard knew it. It would take very little for the crowd to launch themselves on them, knowing that Edward’s son and wife were only a few leagues away. The hated Sir Hugh le Despenser would die in moments, and all those who committed such a crime would be pardoned in an instant by the Queen. There was a rich reward offered for his head.

The entourage was still passing when Redcliffe dropped from the side of the building where he had been waiting, and in a moment he was gone, invisible amongst the restless hordes about the streets.

It was something he had always regretted, this ability to disappear in the midst of a throng. In the past he was sure that it had cost him membership of the Freedom of his city, and yet now he hoped it would help him to regain his lost fortune. He had much to win back.

All because of pirates and a thieving banker.

On the Road to Baldock, Hertfordshire

That evening, when they all settled in the next town, the Duke of Aquitaine was eating a solitary meal when his door opened and Sam Fletcher walked in.

‘My lord, I have messages from Sir Roger for you.’ He waved at the Duke’s steward to leave, and the man bowed his way from the room.

Fletcher was a heavily-built man, but all was muscle, not fat. His face was square, with an unfashionable moustache and beard, and his leathery skin was burned dark by the wind and the sun. He was not a restful companion, because he rarely relaxed. His grey eyes tended to be ever-watchful for danger. Now, they were fixed unblinkingly on the Duke.

Duke Edward sighed. ‘Is there never to be any peace? Put them down and let me alone.’

‘Yes, my lord. Shall I fetch you some wine first?’ Sam said, closing the door behind him.

Duke Edward threw down his spoon and glared at Sam. The seething resentment which had been brewing for months was ready to spill over, and he felt as his grandsire must have done, when he was frustrated in his ambitions. Tales of King Edward I’s rages were numerous in the household, especially over his son, Duke Edward’s father, who once, so it was said, was grasped by King Edward I and shaken so firmly that handfuls of his hair had been pulled free. Now the Duke could feel a similar vexation even with his most loyal guard.

‘You son of a hog – do you never listen to me?’ he raged. ‘No one else does, I know, but I’d hoped you at least would pay me some attention, man! Why does–’

He broke off as Sam Fletcher held a finger to his lips, then pointed at the door. Others were outside, listening.

‘Oh, bring me some wine, Fletcher, if you insist I must read these things,’ Duke Edward muttered, slumping in his seat. There was no point in arguing.

There were so many notes and orders for him to read and sign each day, so much to approve. He suspected that he was being deliberately given work to do, to maintain the feeling that he was important, while others went ahead and did just as they wished. He was caged here, a prince without the title, without the freedom to pursue his own ambitions, tied to his mother’s apron-strings and forced to trail after her and her lover, always taking second place.

‘Here, my lord.’

Still scowling, he took the goblet and drank off a half in one gulp. When he looked up at Sam Fletcher, he saw something in the man’s eyes. ‘What?’

Speaking very quietly, Sam Fletcher walked around until his back was to the door. No one could see his face through the keyhole or gaps in the planks. ‘My lord, you must listen carefully,’ he whispered. ‘I dare not speak loudly in case we are overheard. Do not shout or exclaim, I beg. It would bring you trouble, and cost me my life.’

The Duke nodded slowly.

‘I have a friend in Sir Roger’s household. He tells me there is a plot to seek out the King your father and see him murdered. A man has been hired to assassinate him.’

First Saturday after the Feast of St Michael[5]

Marshfield near Bristol

Father Paul stepped back towards his church as the light began to fade, the old spade in his hand.

Today he had been out in the little strip fields with the other villagers. It was a long way away, but the walk did him good. Anything that could help him forget was good.

He had been fortunate, or so he had thought, to be given the job a few weeks ago of priest here in the little vill near Marshfield. It offered him that element of freedom from the Bishop that a little distance conferred. Marvellous to wake in the morning and hear only the wind in the trees rather than the rattle and clatter of the city. Not that he disliked Bristol itself, but he did not see how the city could ever give a man enough peace in order to consider the more important issues of life. The idea that a man would be able to find his place in the world while living in so hectic and febrile an environment was laughable.

And then there was the loss which he had suffered.

The wind was cold, a gust of pure ice that seemed to shear through his jack and chemise to the very marrow in his bones, as though his flesh and blood were no protection whatever. He stood a moment, feeling the weight of the wooden spade, a piece of carved wood with a strip of metal at the bottom of the wooden paddle to help it cut into soil, and the exhaustion that came from a day’s hard work. Exhaustion both mental and physical.

It was hard to think of her and their babe. The little one should be four or five months old now, and yet Paul had not seen it. Never would, knowingly. That had been made quite clear to him. He had besmirched himself with the sins of the flesh but, what was worse, his Bishop said, he had also tempted a young and immature married woman into adultery. That was unforgivable.

Yes, it was. He knew that. He knew it as he first met her and felt that magical lurch in his breast at the sight of her smile. That she felt the same was written there in her eyes. He could not have been mistaken. She came alive at the sight of him.

And it was hardly surprising, after a look at the Squire. A more cruel and inflexible sinner it was difficult to imagine. The man did not deserve to own poor little Petronilla, as he proved that day when he took hold of her wrists and beat her across the back and buttocks. That was why Paul had to save her.

About him, a few beech trees were hissing in the wind, their little bronze-coloured leaves dancing, and he shuddered as he returned to the present.

The ferns were all turning, too. Their fronds golden and umber, they had begun to collapse on top of each other, while behind them the dark purple sloes were showing in the blackthorns. It was a lovely time of year, he always felt, but terrifying too, because it was the onset of the death of nature, the beginning of winter. He only prayed that his stock of food would last him. At least now, he thought with a small sigh, all memories of that other life were fading. He was a soul at rest, more or less, once more.

Continuing to the small single-bay cottage, he set the spade beside the chest where he kept his belongings, and pulled off his thick, fustian overtunic, hanging it on a hook near the fire to dry while he shrugged on a thick robe.

It was cold in the chamber. He would have to survive without heat for now, for he hadn’t managed to keep his little fire going while he was out. The sticks and logs were still there on the clay hearth, but there was no warmth in the room. It was a miserable reminder of the way that the weather had turned in the last month.

He blew on his hands and set off for his chapel, crossing himself with some holy water from the stoup at the door and walking towards the altar, bending to his knees on the hard-packed soil of the floor.

The simple wooden cross was enough. He had made it himself out of two pieces of roughly squared wood, their faces cut and shaped so that they could slot together. It had been the first thing he had done when he arrived here, a kind of penance for the grave crime he had committed.

Petronilla had been his test, the trial of his faith. And to his undying shame, he had succumbed and failed.

Still, he reflected, at least he was here now in the peace of the countryside, where all memories of that crime could be forgotten. He was far enough away for his crime to be unremarked. As for the husband, cruel and vengeful as he was, Squire William wouldn’t seek for him here; and Petronilla herself would be safe in her father’s house.

He was safe; she was safe.

And that, he hoped, was the end of their story. The woman whom he had adored would live out her life with the joy of her freedom and their child to remind her of their brief time together.

Second Tuesday after the Feast of St Michael[6]

Bristol

Sir Stephen Siward thrust his thumbs into his sword belt as he left the castle by the great gates, strolling past the carters and sumptermen bringing in additional supplies, and out into the city itself.

To the city folk who met him, he was an amiable fellow, dark-haired, with blue eyes in a square face that was prone to smiling even when he stood before them in his new position as Coroner of the city. For a knight it was a post of some importance. There was no money in it, true, but a shrewd man could always turn a position like this to his advantage.

Yes, there was much to smile about. The city suited him well; he had been here only a little while, but there was an atmosphere of opulence about it that he liked, and he could still live well and be comfortable, despite his straitened circumstances.

Money was not so plentiful as once it had been. His two manors, on which he depended for his livelihood, had each suffered a catastrophe. The barn had caught fire, destroying the stocks of hay and the building itself, and in his panic, his favourite horse had tried to escape from the stables next door. Damned creature broke a foreleg attempting to free himself and had to be killed.

To add insult to injury, as well as the fire, there had been a outbreak of murrain in his flocks, and his sheep continued to die. He had needed a loan to survive the winter, at ruinous interest. Still, he had just won a small wager with the castellan’s clerk, and with three shillings in his purse, Sir Stephen felt as though life was improving.

Seeing Emma Wrey, he bowed slightly. The widow was rather beneath his standing as a King’s Coroner, and he had no desire to have other people seeing him show her respect as though she was the widow of an equal. Her husband had been merely a goldsmith and merchant, who had built a profitable business by loaning money, ignoring the Gospels’ strictures against usury.

There were some other bold fellows in the city who were money-lenders too, not only Wrey. Such men had their uses: there were occasions, such as during tournaments, when a knight needed to ransom his horse and armour from a more successful opponent – or when a man’s manors failed – but in the general run of things, it was better to avoid them. And it was best to avoid this widow, because Cecily worked for her, and Sir Stephen had no desire to meet that maid again. He knew she had held an infatuation for him. It was a relief that his involvement with her was ended, he reflected.

The widow gave him a gracious little duck of her head just then, honouring him with the correct amount of esteem, no more. It was enough to send him on his way smiling, his blue eyes glinting in the sun.

Yes, this city was a good one, although for how much longer it was hard to tell. He had only been away for a couple of days, but the change in atmosphere was marked: the place had a defeated air about it. The King had passed by, but it was the Queen whom all truly feared. She was a matter of days away, if the reports were accurate, and she had with her enough men to encompass this little city. Unless the King managed to magically summon up a host from somewhere, he could not hope to stand against her in a fight.

There was little to be gained by worrying about such things. Sir Stephen was a professional knight, and a professional politician. He kept his feet on the ground, and a foot in each camp wherever possible. So far he had successfully held on to his position with the King by regular doses of flattery aimed at that devious shit, Sir Hugh le Despenser, while at the same time assuring others who sought to give succour to the Queen that he was entirely on her side.

Here at Bristol it was easy to keep in contact with both sides of the debate. The city was, in theory, the Queen’s own, a part of the gift to her on her marriage to the King. The Queen of England must be permitted her own resources and finance to maintain her household and allow her to support those whom she wished from her largesse. And yet the King had chosen to grant the city to his friend and adviser, the ever-acquisitive Sir Hugh. The Despenser would steal the milk from a mother’s breast if he could sell it, Sir Stephen reckoned.

In recent years Sir Hugh had taken over almost all of Wales, robbing some, threatening others, capturing and beating a few. There was no need to wonder why the Marcher Lords, living in the lawless borderlands between England and Wales, had grown to detest him. Well, now he was being chased across the kingdom by those same men whom he had dispossessed.

Sir Stephen had reached the end of the roadway, and was in the middle of the market. Here, he wandered idly among the stalls. There was not a huge amount on display, he noticed. As the threat of war increased, farmers outside the city were keeping their food stores against the day when their price had risen. Those who manufactured goods were staying away from the markets. It was a shocking proof of how the locals felt. There would be a war here, they believed. And the city could go to the Queen in the blink of an eye, even though the castle at the eastern edge of the city was held by the King’s garrison.

From now, things would get tight, and that in itself was a concern. Sir Stephen looked at the rows of stalls selling food. He bought a cold pigeon and pulled the carcass apart in the road, tossing the bones to a hopeful-looking dog.

Yes, money was a problem. He had enough to last a week or two, but after that, he wasn’t sure what he could do. Still, the castle had food, and more came in each day. The barrels of salted meat and fish were already beginning to fill the castle’s undercrofts, but Sir Stephen had no wish to be held there and forced to eat rations of badly salted food.

Well, there was no need to worry. Sir Stephen would not remain inside, waiting to be starved or killed. As soon as he knew which side was likely to win, he would make his move and join them.