The Oath

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Banks of the River Severn

They had reached the river late in the afternoon, and there was no sign of the ferry. It could well have been on the opposite shore, but in the darkness, there was no way to tell; even a large fire could have gone unnoticed.

When he returned to Redcliffe and his wife, he found that Sir Ralph and the others had begun to make camp as best they could. There was no shelter to be had, other than that of a few trees. Jack had been given the task of carefully feeding the fire and making sure it didn’t go out. He had succeeded in keeping it smoking gently until Pagan pushed him out of the way and began to tease a full, hot flame from the glowing embers.

Baldwin made himself a bed of branches laid cross-ways over each other. They would be soggy, but better than nothing in this weather. He eyed Sir Ralph’s simple tent with a jealous eye, but resignedly told himself that in his youth he had been happy enough with a simple mattress of branches and the sky as his ceiling. Not that it convinced him. He had been younger then.

It was not only Sir Ralph who had a tent. Roisea and Thomas Redcliffe had a heavy strip of canvas which they spread out over a bent limb, and used some pegs of sharpened sticks to stab the corners into the ground. It made a simple tunnel, in which the two could sleep. Baldwin eyed his own bed without enthusiasm, and decided that he would see what protection he could achieve from hooking his riding cloak to a bush and draping it over his upper body. At least that way his face would remain drier.

It was a relief when dawn broke and he could rise, rubbing his hips. There was no doubt that he was not the fit and healthy, nor the young man he once had been. The branches felt as though they had moulded his very bones to fit them, and the ridges in his flesh felt permanent. His blanket was a soaked mass of wool, and he experimentally twisted it in his hands. Water ran from it in a stream, to his disgust. That explained why he felt so wet and miserable.

He went to the fire, and set about adding some tinder to the warmer part of the grey ashes, and to his surprise, it caught. Working swiftly with small twigs and some more tinder, he soon had a little fire burning, and he prodded Jack until the boy was awake, ordering him to fetch more sticks while he kept the fire going. Before full light they had a good fire blazing, and a pot of water already boiling, with wine warming beside it.

Sir Ralph appeared soon after Jack had supplied a second load of logs, and the man looked as refreshed and contented as a cat after a bowl of cream.

‘The ferry should be over here before long,’ he said.

‘Where will you go then?’ Baldwin asked.

‘The King should be at Cardiff by now. I will ride to him.’

‘I too,’ Baldwin said. He sighed.

‘You are upset?’

‘I do not wish to see the kingdom at war, but I would not break my oath.’

Sir Ralph stared at the fire morosely. ‘We have the duty of service.’

Baldwin would have said something in reply, but before he could speak, he peered over Sir Ralph’s shoulder. ‘Troops!’

The enemy had not seen the fire or the encampment yet. There were only four men, all on horseback, with cheap helms on their heads and for the most part wearing only boiled leather armour without insignia – and no banner, which made them surely mercenaries or felons, Baldwin thought. ‘We must stop them before they can ride back,’ he whispered.

‘I have safe-conducts from the Queen,’ Sir Ralph murmured.

‘You think they’ll care?’ Baldwin said. ‘The Queen isn’t here, and they’ll probably be happy to kill us and steal our swords and horses.’

Sir Ralph nodded. ‘We cannot wait to saddle the horses,’ he said. ‘They’ll have ridden off before we could catch them.’

‘No. We’ll have to trap them here,’ Baldwin agreed.

But any hope of surprise was already lost. Even as they spoke, Baldwin saw one of the men stop and point at them. Immediately, the four began to trot towards them, their mounts spreading out as though understanding that this could end in a fight. ‘They have seen us,’ he said.

‘Pagan! Bernard! To arms!’ Sir Ralph hissed.

Baldwin appreciated the tightness of the training in Sir Ralph’s team. As soon as he spoke, there was a swift rustling, but no shouts, no questions, just organised preparations. For his own part, he took his sword in its scabbard and set it close by, leaning against a little tree.

The men approaching were within thirty yards already, and the leading man had a lance which he pointed at Baldwin as he trotted forward.

‘Godspeed,’ he called, and poured some hot wine from the pot over his fire into a cup. Sipping it, he rose, comfortable that his weapon was easily accessible.

The first man was within ten yards now, and he stopped, looking about the little hollow where Baldwin and the others had slept. He was a rangy man, unkempt, with a thin beard and eyes that moved all over the place quickly, but seemingly absorbing all. ‘Who’re you?’

‘We are travellers. And who are you?’

‘I’m Ivor from Hereford, and we’re with Queen Isabella. What are you doing here? Answer or I’ll have you taken to her to be questioned.’

Baldwin smiled. ‘We are merely travellers, my friend. Now, Ivor, if you would like a little wine, we have some warmed.’ He took up the jug again, welcomingly.

‘You’ll come with us, then,’ the man said, and he trotted forwards. ‘Yield,’ he commanded, his spear’s point close to Baldwin’s breast.

Baldwin eyed the forge-blackened tip with the silver edges where the armourer’s wheel had ground. It was nearly a yard from his breast, and he waited until Ivor was closer, the point a scant foot from him, before bending to set the jug in the flames.

‘No,’ he said, and grabbed the timber, pulling.

The man was seated firmly in his saddle, but his lance was a weight that unbalanced him. By pulling it, Baldwin had removed it from beneath Ivor’s armpit, and now Baldwin grabbed his sword and flicked it free of the scabbard. At the same moment, Wolf came charging over. He had seen the way Baldwin grabbed at his sword, and now set up a baying that alarmed Ivor’s horse, which bucked and reared, and Ivor was forced to drop the lance and snatch at his reins to control the beast.

Baldwin waited until the horse was all but calmed, before slamming the heavy butt of the lance into the side of Ivor’s head. His eyes rolled into his head, and he fell from the back of his saddle, landing with a thud on the soft ground.

Instantly Baldwin was at the horse, grabbing the reins and speaking to it gently. There was a short scream from over to the left, and he saw that the Squire called Bernard was standing and thrusting downwards with his sword, three, four, five times, to make sure of his man. Sir Ralph was further on, standing with his sword ready, while another man slowly moved about in front of him, a long sword in his right hand, his left empty, but already wrapped in a cloak so that he could bat away Sir Ralph’s lunges.

The last of the men, Baldwin could not see. And then he spotted a man pelting away on horseback, and peering hard, he saw another horse in front. That must be Pagan, and without further thought, he mounted the captured horse and set off after Pagan and his intended victim.

Pagan’s man was riding fast. Very fast indeed, Baldwin realised. Pagan’s old palfrey couldn’t possibly keep up, and Baldwin’s beast was finding it hard to make headway, but then their quarry slipped left into a small wood, and had to slow down.

Baldwin spurred his beast on, and he lengthened his stride, neck straining, a snorting coming from his nostrils, as Baldwin gave him his head. The brute was a keen racer, and needed little by way of encouragement.

They pounded on the soft grass and mud, occasionally throwing up great gouts of muddy water as they hit puddles, and then the light was eradicated as they entered the woods.

Pagan was up ahead, and Baldwin bent low over his horse’s neck to avoid the branches and twigs that snatched at his hair and shoulders. There was one, a splinter from a snapped bough, that caught his left shoulder and raked along it, ripping the material and making him grit his teeth at the swift rush of pain, but then he concentrated again, and saw the figure of Pagan lift as though by magic, legs flopping, arms reaching ahead of him as though trying one last time to grab his quarry, before slamming down on the ground and lying still.

Baldwin was riding at such a speed, he was already on the body; his horse sprang over it and carried on. The sight of Pagan was only fleeting, but Baldwin saw the stubby crossbow bolt protruding from his breastbone. It made him realise that he could be riding into a trap, but the thought was irrelevant. If there were more men here to ensnare him, he would be no safer if he turned and fled back to his camp.

And then, blessed relief, he was in an open space in the midst of the woods, and the man he sought was attempting to span his crossbow. Seeing Baldwin, he gave a howl of despair and aimed his horse at him, his crossbow raised in his hand like a club. Baldwin charged, and his first sword’s stroke took off the man’s arm at the elbow. The fountain of blood sprayed over Baldwin’s face, arm, torso, and in his hair, where he felt it congealing. Then he was back, and the man was screaming shrilly, staring at his stump, waving it, oblivious to Baldwin and all else.

With one stroke Baldwin took off his head and the body rode on a short distance, the arm still waving wildly, a gush of blood erupting from the neck, until the body could topple slowly to the ground.

Not that Baldwin was watching it. His attention was fixed on the bearded head staring up at him from the grass, jaw slowly opening and closing like a fish’s.

‘You again,’ Baldwin breathed.

Bristol

He knew his wife was unhappy. Leaving Emma Wrey’s house yesterday, Margaret had sunk into a deep gloom, and their journey did nothing to lift her spirits. Returning by a different route, they came to a large barricade thrown up by the city, and that seemed to heighten her anxiety even more.

His Meg, his lovely Meg. He had loved her from the first moment he had seen her, when she was little more than a child, but tall, slender, fair… She was utter beauty. They married young, and their lives had been joyous until their first son had died. That had been hard. And it was then that he had last seen her looking like this. All the trials and difficulties of the last years, even when Despenser forced them from their home, had not caused this collapse in her appearance.

She was exhausted. Her eyes looked sunken, and there were shadows beneath them.

‘Come, my love,’ he said. ‘You need to eat something.’

‘No. I want nothing.’

‘Wouldn’t you like an egg, or warmed milk?’

‘I am fine,’ she snapped. ‘I don’t want food.’

It was not the time to try to force her. For now, he would have to hope that he might be able to tempt her later.

A groom arrived and told them that Sir Charles had arranged for them to have a room, so they left the inn and walked the short distance to the castle’s gate, but when Simon asked where they could lodge their horses, he was told there was no fodder for the beasts; they would have to remain in their stable at the inn.

Simon felt that blow keenly. Even as Sir Charles came and confirmed that there was nothing more he could do, since the only beasts allowed inside the castle were those which were needed by the garrison, and those which were to be slaughtered, Simon fretted.

‘I am worried, if they are taken…’ he said.

‘I know,’ Sir Charles answered. ‘But there is no point arguing with this command, Simon. In truth, you are better not to comment at all. The castellan is concerned about conserving food, and if you were to make a fuss, and people realised you were here solely to gain food that may not be forthcoming in the city…’

He needed make no further comment. Simon knew that if it came to a decision, any castellan in the land would order him and his family out of the castle. There was no room for sympathy in time of siege.

The chamber to which he led them was large, with a good fire already crackling in the fireplace. There were tapestries about the walls to keep the warmth in, and rugs thrown over the floor. Yet there was only one bed, no truckle, and one bench for Hugh to sleep on.

Sir Charles saw Simon’s look. ‘I shall order a palliasse for your servant and your son,’ he said.

‘You are very kind, Sir Charles,’ Simon said. ‘I don’t know what I’d have done without your assistance.’

‘There is no need to thank me yet, my friend. Wait and see what happens before you do that,’ Sir Charles said. On hearing a bell, he spun about, startled. ‘That’s the alarm bell. I must go. Simon, would you come too?’

Simon threw an anguished look at Margaret, who was sitting on the edge of the bed with Peterkin on her lap. She nodded, almost without meeting his eyes. Peterkin did, though, and as Simon ran along the corridor and out onto the upper battlements with Sir Charles, all he could see was his son’s petrified expression.

It set a new thought racing through his mind. He had lost one son. He couldn’t lose this boy too.

Banks of the River Severn

Baldwin left the body in the clearing, but brought the man’s horse back, leading it through the woods and out the far side, then over the grassy plain towards the camp. There was no sign of Pagan’s horse. Baldwin assumed it must have bolted, and he struggled to lift Pagan’s body on to the captured mount. It was enormously hard work, for the body would keep slipping and sliding off, but at last he had Pagan thrown over the saddle and lashed in place.

The others had finished off the men from the reconnaissance. The one who had been knocked from his horse by Baldwin was dead. Stabbed once in the heart and once in the eye, he would never rise again. Sir Ralph had taken his own man, too, and the fellow lay with a great slashing cut in his neck, while the last was pierced many times by Alexander’s sword. Bernard too was injured, with a terrible cut along the line of his shoulder and down his right arm, but he swore it was only a scratch and hardly worth looking at. Baldwin did try to clean it, and bound it in an old cloth he found among Bernard’s clothes. With luck it would heal.

But when he spoke to Sir Ralph, he learned that the intruders had done more than kill Pagan and wound Bernard. They had succeeded in finding Thomas Redcliffe too. One of the men had slipped into his makeshift tent and run him through several times with a dagger. The man who did it had been chased away by Pagan, a sobbing Roisea said, so Baldwin was at least happy that he had avenged her husband.

Sir Ralph was pleased with his own victory. ‘The fellow was a good swordsman,’ he said appreciatively. ‘He had a fair amount of training, I’ll be bound, to be able to hold his own so effectually against me.’

Baldwin shook his head as he saw the body. ‘The men who came here were determined, I’ll give them that,’ he said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘The leader who killed Thomas was in charge of a group which tried to kill him in Winchester some days ago. I was there, and that was why I decided to come up here to Bristol in the first place. I’d intended going straight home, but seeing that Thomas had been attacked, and because he admitted to me that he was a King’s Messenger, I thought that joining him was my duty.’

While they had been talking, Roisea had joined them. Her face was streaked with tears and dirt, and she wiped at her eyes with hands that were stained with blood.

‘What do you say about my Thomas?’ she asked. Her voice was broken with despair.

‘Madame, he was a messenger for the King, so he told me,’ Baldwin said.

‘No – he cannot have been. He has never travelled much.’

‘Perhaps he was given a message to bring to the King when he was on pilgrimage.’

‘Pilgrimage! I find it hard to believe that story,’ she said. ‘He told you that, didn’t he? When he left home, he said he would walk to St Thomas’s shrine, but I was ever doubtful. I never saw him try another pilgrimage in his life. Why should he suddenly begin now?’

‘What did you think he was doing, then, madame?’ Baldwin said.

‘I thought he travelled to London to speak with other merchants, men who did not know him and were not aware of is failure, to seek his fortune with them somehow.’

‘Why should he mislead you?’

‘I don’t know,’ she admitted sadly. ‘I think because he did not want me to grow hopeful. He felt as though he had failed me when his business folded, but it was not his fault all his lenders demanded their money back. Especially old man Capon. He was the most insistent.’

‘But Thomas would not have found it easy to get money from the merchants of London,’ Baldwin said. ‘He must have known that. They are the most hard-nosed, unpliant businessmen in the world. Prising money from their coffers is harder than getting it from the purse of a tax-collector!’

‘My Thomas did, though. He persuaded them.’

Baldwin eyed her pensively. ‘You say he succeeded in winning money from them?’

‘He told me that he would soon have his reputation and his resources renewed.’

‘He meant he would have money again?’

‘He was quite sure of it,’ Roisea said sadly.

Baldwin looked over at the body of her husband. ‘And he made no mention of being a King’s Messenger?’

There was no need for her to answer, and in any case, Baldwin was as keen as Sir Ralph to pack everything and leave. He left her there, ordering Jack to help her, while he gathered up his own belongings, before going to the body and searching it quickly for a message. There was nothing. Any message he held for the King must have been in his head, not committed to parchment.

They were on their way as soon as Baldwin had finished and Thomas’s body had been set slumped over his own horse. Thomas and Pagan would be given a Christian burial when it was safe so to do. It was the least Baldwin thought they could do for the two men.

Riding to the ferry, they were pleased to see that the boat was clearly visible, and bellowing and waving, they succeeded in gaining the ferryman’s attention. It felt like an age, but at last the vessel landed on the shore and the men could begin to board her. Sir Ralph insisted that the friars and Roisea should take the first sailing, and Baldwin was equally insistent that Jack should be safe.

Jack kept looking at Baldwin with a strangely earnest expression, rather like a lady’s lapdog begging for a treat or to be allowed outside. He was obviously shocked by the suddenness of the fight, the swift deaths of so many men. But Baldwin had no time for the lad’s fears, especially since he was nervous that the party’s disappearance must surely lead to an investigation before too long. He did not want to be caught between the River Severn and the whole of Queen Isabella’s host.

It was a glorious relief to see the boat sail away, and then a blessed age before it completed its cruise to the opposite bank. Baldwin paced fretfully up and down the shoreline all the while, chewing at his inner lip, casting an equal number of glances towards the ship and back towards the woods where the men lay dead.

‘The boat is coming back,’ Bernard stated laconically. Alexander was whittling at a stick with his short dagger, while Sir Ralph sat on his horse saying nothing. The three appeared perfectly easy in their minds, even with their friend and companion tied on the horse a short distance away.

The ship made its slow progress over the water towards them, and after what felt like half a day, ground its way up the shore. Sir Ralph and his men were first aboard, while Baldwin waited, and then he took the reins of the horses with the dead men on their back. As he did so, there was a cry from the ship.

‘Get on board quickly! They’re coming!’

Baldwin snapped his head around and saw a small contingent of horse, perhaps a vingtaine, milling about at their camp. Then the enemy saw the ship’s sails, and there was a flurry of orders and activity as they remounted, ready to pursue Sir Baldwin’s group.

There was little time. Baldwin took his own horse on first, and waited until the beast was aboard and held firmly before returning to the horses carrying the dead men. He had the reins in his hand, but some of his anxiety must have been communicated to Wolf, as the brute gave a bark, and set up such a row, that the two horses became nervous, and one began plunging wildly. There was a crack, and the lines holding Thomas snapped, the body tumbling to the ground, and then the horse was off, leaving Baldwin with a rope burn on the palm of his hand. Alarmed by the plunging of the other, Pagan’s horse too began to rear. There was no time to calm it. Cursing, Baldwin released the beast, and it galloped off after the first.

He was about to run to the ship, when he remembered Redcliffe’s purse. The man had been so proud of it and in any case, it was possible that there was money in it which his widow could use. Whipping out his dagger, he sliced through the laces holding the man’s purse to his belt, and then ran for the ship. It had already pushed away a little from the shore, and Baldwin tumbled into the freezing water, holding the purse aloft, but then he almost fell under from the weight of his mail on his back. He recovered, and Wolf was at his side. On a whim, he thrust the purse into Wolf’s mouth, and the solemn-faced dog took it gently, continuing paddling through the water to the ship.

Baldwin floundered on, and would have failed, had not Sir Ralph thrown him a coil of rope. Clutching it, Baldwin pulled himself up aboard, falling on his back to gasp for breath.

It was Alexander who reached down, grabbed Wolf by the scruff of the neck and tail, and hauled him bodily from the water.