The Oath

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

It was already close to noon when Sir Baldwin and the men were horsed. There were ten horsemen, and the rest were on foot. Among the ambassadors he was surprised to see Robert Vyke, the messenger he had met at Cardiff.

‘How is your leg?’ he asked.

Robert Vyke smiled. ‘Well enough for me to swing a sword, Sir Baldwin.’

‘I am glad indeed to hear it. You are welcome with us.’

‘I’m happy to be doing something, sir. I’m used to being off out and about, not staying indoors all the long day.’

Baldwin nodded, but his mind was already on other matters. He had taken his leave of Sir Ralph, and the two had clasped each other’s hands before giving the other a short hug.

‘Be careful,’ Sir Ralph said. ‘Be wary of ambushes and being hunted, my friend.’

‘I shall,’ Baldwin responded. ‘And you be careful around the King and Despenser. Despenser is desperate and the King is desolate. Either could succumb to foolish suspicions or fancies. They could decide that someone here in their household has been spying, or that there is a traitor in their midst. Keep calm and ensure that they remain reasonable, so far as is possible.’

‘I will,’ Sir Ralph said. ‘But Sir Baldwin, there is another thing. There are men with Mortimer who would benefit from the King’s capture. Be careful of them.’

‘There is a host to fear, then,’ Baldwin said.

‘Some are worse than others. Be on your guard.’

‘I will.’ Baldwin bade him farewell, and soon he and his little group were riding out of the Abbot’s gates and down on the road towards Margam again.

Feast of St Martin[39]

Twenty miles west of Hereford

It was at noon that day, that Simon found an opportunity of speaking to Sir Charles.

The men had stopped to warm themselves, the weather having been so miserable all morning. Simon felt as though he would never be dry again. His clothing was sodden and clung to his back so closely he felt as if his chemise had been smeared with honey. It was a relief to loose his horse to crop the grass, while he pulled out his waxed purse from his breast.

His purse was the place where he routinely stored his tinder. Today he had a little roll of birch bark he had taken the previous night, along with some scraps of wool and some well-dried lichen, and fragments of charcloth.[40] All about were trees and he snapped off any dead twigs and branches that he could find. When he had enough for a small fire, he lit the charcloth, blowing on it as he wrapped it about with tinder, and held the whole lot in a parcel of birch bark. Soon he had flames, and he could set it down, placing the dead twigs over the top. There was a great deal of spluttering and spitting, but before long the twigs were catching light too.

‘You have spent a lot of time in the wilds, I see,’ Sir Charles said as he joined Simon.

‘You could have helped gather some sticks,’ Simon remonstrated.

‘Ah, but if I were to have done that, I would not have been able to collect this meat and bread,’ Sir Charles said with a chuckle.

Simon was not unhappy with the trade. The dried meat was tough as leather, but it was filling to an empty belly.

‘I spoke with Sir Stephen yesterday,’ Simon said. ‘He was most dismissive of Sir Laurence. What do you think of him?’

‘Sir Laurence? About as honourable as they come. Why?’

‘If Sir Stephen is to be believed, Sir Laurence was less so than you would think. He said that Sir Laurence was taking money in bribes, if I understood him aright. If there was work to be done at the castle, apparently he would give it to those who paid him most.’

‘That’s hardly unusual,’ Sir Charles said with a shrug. ‘It is the normal way of things.’

‘Did he strike you as the sort of man who would live by profiting from usurers? That is what Sir Stephen intimated, and yet I would expect most knights to look down on those who make money that way.’

Sir Charles gave him a lazy smile, and Simon was reminded again that this man was not one to baulk at profit by any means. He had been forced to survive as a renegade for too many years when his lord had been executed.

‘Simon, sometimes men are forced to do things they might regret, for reasons of survival.’

‘I make no comment about that. I would probably do the same. But to ally himself to a usurer, surely would be demeaning to a man who did not go through the same trials as you, Sir Charles? This is a man copying Despenser, I suppose, making money from a merchant who was paying him a fee to recommend his loans. To me, Sir Laurence did not seem so bent on profit that he would do something like that.’

‘Who is he supposed to have made money from?’

‘The banker who died.’

‘Capon, the man killed by Squire William?’

‘Yes. Sir Stephen said that Sir Laurence was doing very well out of his relationship with Capon.’

‘And then Capon died,’ Sir Charles said thoughtfully. ‘Did that happen recently?’

‘I think it was as the Queen was invading the country.’

‘If that is true, then he could have sought to prevent any discovery of his actions with Capon,’ Sir Charles said. ‘In God’s name, it would be a bold act – but surely the Squire William was guilty, was he not?’

Simon stared into the flames. ‘That is what all say,’ he agreed. ‘But I am fascinated by Sir Stephen’s attitude yesterday. He was very definite about Sir Laurence’s dealings with Capon.’

‘I daresay the man Capon had similar business dealings with many men in the city,’ Sir Charles said. ‘And if with Sir Laurence as well, what of it?’

Simon agreed, and before long they were mounted and moving away again. But no matter how he tried to put it from his mind, the matter of Capon and Sir Laurence would keep intruding. Especially since Sir Laurence could have been present at the death of Cecily that night… And if the Constable had, in fact, had something to do with the removal of Capon, he would also have wished to silence Cecily, because she might have witnessed his murder of her master.

But no, that was ridiculous, he reminded himself. Cecily had been anxious because of the appearance of Squire William’s men. Simon had heard that himself from Emma, her mistress.

Wednesday, Morrow of the Feast of St Martin[41]

Near Abergavenny

Simon and the Earl of Lancaster’s men had been riding all that morning, and it was good when they reached a stream to be able to get off and stretch their legs. Sir Charles stood with Simon as their mounts drank from the little brook.

‘The trouble with this land is that it is so perfect for ambushes,’ Sir Charles said.

Simon had noticed that he kept his right hand free, ready to grab his sword, but as they were here with more than fifty men, all well-armed, the likelihood of an ambush against them was surely remote?

But a little of Sir Charles’s wariness communicated itself to Simon and to the other men about. They kept together, and there was less chatter and joking than usual. When one man dropped his helmet with a clatter, more than one reached for a dagger or sword, and he was roundly cursed.

A short while after that, Simon saw one of the younger men freeze and stare ahead at the track. The lad had good hearing, because it was an age before Simon could discern anything, but suddenly, there it was: the irregular thud of hooves.

Sir Charles sprang into his saddle, drawing his sword. ‘Mount! By Saint Loy! Mount!’

There was a general rush to horses, and the neighing of alarmed or excited beasts, and then the whole group was ready. Sir Charles grinned at Simon. ‘Here we go – glory, or foolishness when we meet a farmer!’ and spurred his horse on.

They rounded the next bend, and almost rode into Baldwin.

‘Baldwin!’ Simon burst out as he saw his old friend. ‘What in God’s name are you doing up here? Weren’t you supposed to be home?’

‘I could say the same to you,’ Baldwin replied, delighted to see his old friend. ‘You were on your way home, too. But where is Margaret – and Peterkin?’

Explaining to each other why they were here whiled away a large part of their journey, and they were already quite close to Hereford before Simon glanced behind him at the other men in the entourage.

‘Baldwin, you know the King is lost, don’t you?’

He nodded. ‘It is clear enough that he cannot win. No one will go to his banner. Not now.’

‘Then why will you not join us now? It would be a great deal safer.’

‘I serve my King,’ Baldwin said simply. ‘I cannot turn from him now, just when he needs my support most.’

‘Sir Baldwin,’ Sir Charles said, riding up alongside him. ‘I do appreciate your loyalty, but there is another consideration in all this. I do not wish to have to kill you when we finally catch up with him. If you are there to defend him, we shall have to draw steel.’

‘I would regret that too,’ Baldwin said. ‘Let us hope that it does not come to that, for I would hate to have to kill you, Sir Charles.’

First Thursday after the Feast of St Martin[42]

Hereford

The Duke heard of the arrival of the contingent of men from the Earl of Lancaster’s host when he was at his table with his clerks, and immediately took up his sword and hurried from the chamber, down the passageway towards the hall of the castle where Sir Roger Mortimer was directing the efforts to find the King, stopping only when he reached the doors with the men-at-arms on either side.

This was a quiet hall usually. There were plenty of painted decorations on all the walls, and a set of hangings on one that showed a scene from the life of King Arthur. It was a picture that had caught the Duke’s imagination the first time he had seen it, and he thought how marvellous it would be, to recreate a little of the magic of King Arthur’s time here in England again. Not that it was likely to happen in his lifetime, he thought. His father’s decline in authority and his uncle’s rise to power in France both militated against any such possibility.

By now, Duke Edward could hear the raised voices inside. They were enough to make him stop dead. Standing here outside the closed doors, he was unsure whether he was right to try to enter. He was not a king, he was only the son of a King. Duke he might be, but only in name. If he were to upset the Mortimer…

It was that thought which made him set his shoulders. His chin rose. For the last years, his father had not dared to upset Despenser, as though Despenser himself had some superiority even over Edward. He did not. He was a servant, nothing more. And nor was Mortimer more important than any other. He too was a servant, whereas Duke Edward would one day be King.

He stepped forward, thrusting with both hands at the doors. They creaked, but then opened wide, one slamming against the wall on his left, and all the men in the room were silenced as the Duke entered, slowly tugging at the fingers of his gloves to pull them free, gazing about at the men inside, nodding shortly to Sir Roger Mortimer, then bowing more graciously to his mother.

‘I fear someone forgot to ask me to attend,’ he said, striding over the floor to the long table which had been placed in the middle of the room. This was where Mortimer had been sitting, and the knight bowed and vacated the space.

The Duke sat and looked about him. He beckoned the steward and took a goblet from him, sipping as he studied the faces of their visitors. ‘Sir Baldwin, you are welcome. Sirs all, please, be seated. Abbot, I hope you are in good health?’

He knew them all. Some of them perhaps better even than Sir Roger.

‘My lord Duke,’ Mortimer said after a moment, ‘these good men have come from your father to ask for terms.’

‘How is my father?’ He addressed this to the Abbot, a slender old monk with the face of a wizened apple, wrinkled and leathery.

‘He is well, my lord. Although it is no surprise to learn that he is very sad at the disloyalty of his subjects.’

‘His behaviour towards his subjects has been the cause of their discontent,’ Sir Roger grated. ‘You will remember that.’

‘Sir Roger, please,’ the Duke said sharply. ‘We are talking about my father. My lord Abbot, please tell him that I am sorry that affairs have come to this.’

‘He asks what you intend for him and for his household,’ the Abbot said. There was a light in his eyes as he looked at the Duke, the light of hope. He had been thinking that he would be forced to negotiate with Sir Roger, but now that the Duke was here as well, surely the negotiations would go more easily.

‘I intend nothing that–’ Duke Edward began, but Sir Roger Mortimer spoke over him.

‘He must surrender, along with all his household, and depend upon the kindness which we shall show. He can expect no more.’

‘Sir Roger,’ the Duke said admonishingly, his anger growing. ‘I would prefer to speak to the Abbot alone.’

‘My lord, I will not permit that. You are not of an age to govern nor to make terms. This is man’s business.’

‘I remind you, I am Duke of Aquitaine. I will be King after my father.’

‘But for now, your mother negotiates. I am her mouthpiece,’ Sir Roger said blandly. Turning to the Abbot again, he raised his eyebrows enquiringly. ‘Well?’

‘My lord, your King wishes for assurances.’

‘There can be none. If he and his household surrender themselves and their arms, they can expect more leniency. That is all.’

‘It is to be expected, Sir Roger,’ the Abbot said, speaking so forcefully he almost spat the words, ‘that a man of the King’s stature could expect assurances of safety. That the bodies of his comrades and servants will also be protected by you.’

‘In God’s name, Sir Abbot! This is a man suing for peace because he has run out of space to run to! He cannot expect more, and he will receive no more than this. We do not make war on the King, we seek only to punish Despenser for the manifest offences which he has committed upon the weary English. He will come and surrender with all his men, or he will be captured with them all. Do not try my patience with these petty demands. You may leave!’

The Abbot was shocked at the outburst. His mouth fell open, and he threw a look at the Duke as though pleading with him to intervene, but Edward could think of nothing to say. He felt as though he must weep if he so much as opened his mouth. For all the trappings of power that were outwardly his, he possessed nothing compared with the stern authority of Sir Roger. In the face of the man’s martial confidence, Edward was reduced to a child. He looked away.

‘Then, Sir Roger, there is little more to be said,’ the Abbot murmured. He bowed, then turned and began to head towards the door, his companions walking with him, but when he arrived at the doors, he stopped and looked back at the Duke. ‘Do you have a message for your father, my lord?’

Sir Roger snapped, ‘Yes, that he should surrender and stop any more of this waste and nonsense!’

‘And tell him I love him, please, my lord Abbot,’ the Duke said coldly, without looking at the knight.