The Oath

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Bristol Castle

Simon had never seen the host gathered before. He had heard of the massive forces which King Edward II and his father had gathered for their wars in Wales and Scotland, but had never thought he would see such huge numbers of men arrayed outside an English city. It was terrifying – and humbling.

From the battlements he could see north over a broad swathe of land, and everywhere there were men. Tents and canvas shelters covered the farther flat lands, and all about there rose smoke from a hundred fires. No, more than a hundred, he guessed. The sheer scale of it all was incomprehensible. It was like looking at a reflection in a pair of mirrors and seeing the images reflected on and on into infinity. Simon had never been particularly concerned about heights, but today, looking out at all those men, he was suddenly assailed by dizziness, as though he could topple from the walls.

‘They’re serious about taking the castle,’ Sir Charles remarked.

Simon was grateful for his relaxed attitude. When Simon looked at him, Sir Charles was peering at the men scurrying about below them with an air of calm amusement. This was what the knight had been bred and trained for. Not so Simon. As he watched the great siege machines being prepared, their arms being slowly winched down, their cradles loaded with massive rocks, he felt a sinking in his belly. Those rocks would slam into the side of the walls here with devastating effect. Surely nothing could withstand them.

A few minutes later, Sir Stephen and Earl Hugh arrived on the walkways, and the Earl stared out with as much shock as Simon himself had felt. ‘So many! So many!’ he said. ‘What have we done to deserve all this?’

Simon had not been so close to the Earl before. He had grown to detest the man’s son, Sir Hugh le Despenser, because the knight had selected Simon as an enemy, and Simon had been badly tested, but seeing Earl Hugh’s horror, he felt sympathy for him. The scene was enough to rock any man to the core of his soul.

He gazed around at the other side of the river to the south. There too, large numbers of men scurried about, building wooden shields to protect fixed positions. Trees were being felled from a little wood, and hauled to the city by oxen, then cut up and attached to frames to protect archers and artillery from the arrows of the castle and the city.

But when he glanced east over the city itself, he was struck by the lack of preparation. True, there were some barricades in the streets which would serve to slow men attacking along them, but surely they would not stop a force like this, were they to gain entry.

Sir Charles saw the direction of his gaze, and commented, ‘I do not think we can count on the city to halt their attack.’

‘I can see no one trying to save it,’ Simon said.

‘These fellows are merchants and peasants, not warriors,’ Sir Charles said with a chuckle. ‘They saw their city captured only ten years ago, and they felt the indignity of failure, as well as seeing the result of their disobedience. Exile to many, the loss of property to more. It was a disaster. And their city was sorely hurt by the King’s siege train. Why should they wish to see the same happen again?’

His attention was already moving on. Now he eyed the streets below, and Simon followed the direction of his gaze. There was a group of men walking from a large building, and all standing before it, involved in animated conversation.

‘Sir Charles, what are they doing?’ Simon asked, pointing.

The knight shook his head. ‘I wonder.’

While they stood, Sir Laurence had arrived and stood grimly surveying the people down in the street. ‘This is not good.’

Simon looked at him from the corner of his eye, wondering how to broach the subject of Cecily’s murder. But it did not seem the moment, somehow. Not while the city was at risk of being overrun. Instead, he glanced down into the streets again.

Where Simon had seen the little huddle, now there was quite a group, all standing together and talking. Simon could see one man expostulating with another, then three or four who appeared to hurry up to them, listening. After a short altercation, the bulk of the men ran towards the castle, and there Simon could see nothing of them because of the line of the western wall, but the others set off at a run to the northern gate, and Simon watched with a frown as they disappeared behind a building. ‘What are they up to?’ he wondered.

Sir Laurence paled. ‘They are going to open the gates! Sir Stephen, Earl Hugh, the city is about to capitulate, I think.’

Earl Hugh spun round and stared. There was a greyness in his features. ‘No! No, they wouldn’t. They must know that they only have to hold faith to the King and he will rescue us. They’d be mad to open the gates now! Don’t they realise the King will exact terrible revenge for a betrayal like that?’’

Sir Stephen said nothing. He had darted to the corner of the battlement, and was staring down at the roads. ‘Leave it to me, my lord,’ he said, and was off into the tower. Soon he was below in the court, bellowing for his squire and servants. In a short space of time, there was a hoarse shout, and Sir Stephen ran from the gates with six men behind him, all armed with axes, knives and swords. A moment or two later, Simon saw them pelting up the roadway in pursuit of the men he had seen before, chasing north towards the city gate.

‘Odd,’ Simon said musingly.

‘What?’ Sir Charles said.

‘I’d thought that the second party were going to guard us here, so that no one could get to the city gate and prevent their opening it.’

Sir Laurence stared at him, and then cupped his hands and shouted to the guard on the gatehouse: ‘Is there a band of men before the castle’s gate?’

The answer came back that there was, but Sir Stephen had passed through them without trouble, and now they stood apparently ready to repulse any force from the castle.

Sir Charles leaned against the wall and closed his eyes, while Sir Laurence set his jaw and glared down at the city. ‘I could get some men,’ he muttered. Bellowing down into the ward, he ordered a party of men-at-arms to gather weapons, and strode to the tower’s door.

Earl Hugh looked from Sir Charles to the city with perplexity. ‘What is happening?’

‘It would seem that Sir Stephen is also about to capitulate, my lord. I think that he is helping the city to open the gates.’

It was as he spoke that they all heard the roaring noise: the sound of a thousand men cheering as they entered the city.

Earl Hugh slumped as Sir Laurence returned. The knight gripped the nearest battlement and stared, but Earl Hugh could not look. He turned and slowly made his way to the staircase, his face waxen, like a man who had already died.

St Peter’s Church, Bristol

The job of fosser at St Peter’s Church in Bristol was not generally an arduous one, Saul thought; mind, it was possible that his duties would soon become more onerous.

As Saul the Fosser hobbled along St Peter Street, he reckoned that it was all to the good. Men tended to die quite often, and if their deaths were hastened for reasons outside his own control, he was content to take the pennies each body represented as his due.

‘Ach, God’s pains,’ he muttered as he came to another of the irregular barricades flung over the roadway to stop horses. ‘Oi! How do I get past here?’

A face appeared at the top, that of a boy aged ten or eleven. ‘You’ll have to go round, Grandad. There’s no path here.’

Cursing all little boys under his breath, the fosser went along an alley as the lad had indicated, and soon found his way to the church.

There was no burial today. He left his spade in the lean-to shed at the side of the church, and instead walked over the long grass of the cemetery. There were three mounds of soil. Two had sunk quite well now, both being a few days old, and only Cecily’s was yet rounded and proud of the grass.

He went to the nearer of the low graves and cast a wary look about him before thrusting his hand into the loose soil. It took no time to find the packet, and he took it out, shaking the muddy soil from it and shoving it into his shirt. Then he rose and strode from the cemetery as quickly as his gammy leg would allow.

It was an ancient wound, that. When younger, he had been apprenticed to a bowyer, but then he had had an accident: borrowing his master’s horse without permission he took part in a race against a friend. His horse put a hoof into a rabbit-hole at full gallop, and crashed to the ground, throwing Saul over and over. His prize was a badly broken leg that left him crippled, and the loss of his apprenticeship. He was lucky that he wasn’t forced to replace the beast, which had to be put out of its misery. That was the end of his aspirations. Now he lived from one day to the next, surviving on the pennies he was given for each burial and a small sum for keeping the cemetery neat.

Which was why the discovery of the little dagger inset with rubies had been so thrilling. It represented a sudden change in his fortunes. Every so often Saul had been able to ‘rescue’ some item from a corpse – a pilgrim badge, a cross, or perhaps a silver pin – but each was trivial and hardly worth the bother. Were his theft to be recognised, of course, the consequences would be catastrophic. The rector of St Peter’s was ever-vigilant for misdemeanours, and Saul would lose his post for ever.

But this dagger made all the other items pale into insignificance beside its gleaming gilt and precious stones. And Saul knew just the man who would be prepared to pay for such a trinket, too.

Guy le Dubber was a short, thickset man in his early forties. He had a flowing grey beard that entirely concealed his throat, and covered the whole of his face from the cheeks down. A perpetual scowl almost hid his eyes, and what was visible glittered with a shrewd speculation. Any man meeting him for the first time had the impression that his value was assessed in the first moments, and generally the result was unfavourable, if le Dubber’s expression was anything to go by.

Saul had known le Dubber for many years now, and he entered the little chamber with a swagger. ‘You’ll like this,’ he said confidently.

Le Dubber was sitting at his fireside, and stared at the little fosser with his habitual frown. He had a spoon in his hand, which he placed down, then wiped his moustache with the back of a hand. He rose from his stool, pushing aside a pair of hams hanging from a rafter, and said, ‘I’m eating.’

‘I’ve something you’ll want,’ Saul said without moving.

The broker hawked and spat onto his floor, then scratched his buttock and jerked his head to beckon his visitor closer. He walked around the hearth to the board under the window and waited.

Saul passed him the parcel, and the broker pulled at the twine holding it. He undid the wrappings, then Saul saw his brows rise with surprise at the sight within.

‘Nice, eh? It’d made anyone happy, that would,’ Saul said.

‘Shut up.’

Saul subsided, watching. He had seen the gleam of interest in le Dubber’s eyes as soon as the first ruby appeared from its wrappings, and knew that the broker would be able to make a lot of money out of it. He would start bargaining at five shillings, Saul told himself, and allow Guy to gradually knock him back to three. Three shillings! It was more money than he had ever possessed in one time. Thirty-six pennies!

‘No. Not interested.’

Saul stared at le Dubber as the broker pushed the knife back towards him.

‘What do you mean, no?’

‘It’s too dangerous. I don’t want it.’

He’s playing hard to knock me down, Saul thought to himself. ‘If you don’t want it, there’re plenty who will.’

‘Yes. I expect there are,’ le Dubber said, and walked back to his stool.

Now Saul was feeling desperate. ‘But, master, you can sell it for a lot of money! It’s worth at least eight shillings, isn’t it? I’ll sell to you for five. Five shillings, that’s all.’

‘No.’

‘Four, then – I can’t say fairer than that, can I? It’s worth double, and you’ll make all the money.’

‘You aren’t listening. I don’t want it. It’s worthless to me. It’s too valuable for me to have in my pantry, and I don’t know where you got it from. Looks to me like someone’s been murdered with it. You think I want people believing I killed someone for his knife?’

‘No, but you can make a good profit out of it.’

‘The kind of profit that gets you hauled off in front of the Justice of Gaol Delivery isn’t good. No.’

‘Three shillings.’

Saul watched as Guy picked up his bowl again and began to noisily suck at the pottage on his spoon.

‘Two shillings?’

There was no response. Saul stared at his broker, then back at the dagger still sitting on the board.

It broke his heart. He breathed quietly, ‘One shilling.’

‘Not one penny. You don’t listen very well, Fosser, do you? I said no. I wasn’t dickering with you. I don’t want it.’

‘What shall I do with it, then?’

‘Try a smith. He may be able to get the rubies out and melt down the dagger. It’s the only way you’ll get rid of it.’

‘Melt it?’ Saul said, appalled.

Le Dubber looked up at him. ‘You want something back for it? Right. That’s what you do, then. Now, take it away from here. I don’t want anything to do with it.’

Welsh bank of the River Severn

The ship reached its little dock with a soft scraping as the rope fenders rubbed on the wood, and the shipmaster ran to the ropes, flinging them to the waiting boy, who slipped them over upright posts so the seamen could haul the ship tight and steady.

It took a little while to get some of the horses from the ferry, and then the crew helped Sir Ralph and his friends to the shore.

Baldwin’s horse was one of the first off, and he joined the rounsey on the decking, leading him away, off the hollow-sounding wooden planking and up to the grassy banks. From here, he could see all along the south and he felt a pang as he gazed down towards Devon and his home. If only he had gone straight to his wife instead of stopping and then agreeing to help Redcliffe… But then it was foolish to think that way. He had made a decision which had seemed logical and right at the time.

‘Sir Baldwin,’ Jack said quietly.

Baldwin glanced at the boy. He was standing with his hands tightly gripping his own mount’s reins, and wore an anxious expression.

Seeing the knight nod, Jack blurted out, ‘I think I must be a coward, Sir Baldwin!’

‘Why is that, lad?’ Baldwin asked kindly.

‘When those men rode at us, I wanted to hide! I didn’t want to be killed, and I ran.’

‘Jack, that is natural. You are a brave boy, I know – you saved my life in France, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, but that was different. There wasn’t time to think. Here, I didn’t even want to protect the lady, but hid out with the baggage instead.’

‘Well, you aren’t a trained fighter, boy. It’s not surprising.’

‘But all of the rest of you went to protect the place.’

‘We are older, and we have been taught our arms.’

‘I had wanted to fight for the King. I wanted to take a sword and help defend him, but now…’ There were tears of shame in his eyes.

‘It is no bad thing to want to help defend your King,’ Baldwin said, ‘but it is a better thing by far to hate war. And I have seen enough men die to know that there is nothing good about it.’ In his mind’s eye he saw the fellow from Winchester, his stump of an arm waving as he screamed his horror at the realisation that he would never be able to use the arm again; his shock blinding him to the fact that Baldwin’s sword was about to remove his head.

The boy gulped.

‘Do you think I could learn to be brave?’

‘Of course. Later, perhaps you will learn your weapons, and then you can decide whether to fight or not.’ Baldwin gave him a kindly pat on the back, and the lad was comforted.

The knight’s thoughts went to Thomas Redcliffe. The merchant did not have the training or skill to fight against men who had both. He must have been an easy target for the bearded man’s dagger.

Baldwin wondered fleetingly if there had been more to Redcliffe than he had realised. Perhaps he had been carrying a message, and the bearded man had found it. Baldwin should have searched his body too.

It was curious to think that Redcliffe was dead. The men with him were all experienced, from Sir Ralph to Alexander and Pagan: they should have protected the man and his wife without difficulty. The idea of Jack throwing himself into the fray was ridiculous. He was much better suited to the delivery of messages – like Redcliffe, Baldwin thought to himself, remembering the purse.

When he had reached the ship, he had given the purse to Redcliffe’s wife, Roisea, as the money inside was surely hers. However, he had not checked inside beforehand, and he wondered now whether he should have done. There could have been a message inside that would have explained why one of the men with Sir Ralph could have killed him, rather than one of their attackers. It had happened when Sir Baldwin had ridden off to help Pagan, so he had no proof that one of the bearded man’s gang was responsible. He had not been overly concerned at that moment, though. Uppermost in his mind had been the idea of warm, dry clothing.

When he had an opportunity, he would ask Roisea, he decided. She might be able to cast some light on the matter. In the meantime, he would be forced to keep a close eye on the men.

Sir Ralph was walking up the bank from the ship. When they were all mounted, he gave Baldwin the signal, and they set off at a sharp pace heading westwards, to Cardiff and, they hoped, the King.