The Oath

CHAPTER ONE

Bristol

Her nightmare always began in the same way.

It started with the urgent cry.

‘Cecily? Cecily, help me!’

Cecily hurried to her mistress’s door as soon as she heard the summons. A maid of almost thirty, short and mousy-haired under her wimple, she had an oval-shaped face and smiling green eyes. She walked in to find Petronilla Capon sitting on her bed’s edge, waving a hand in the direction of the cot, from which all the screaming emanated.

‘Good Cecily, can you do anything with him?’

Her mistress was almost eighteen years old. Quite tall, she had the sort of figure that men eyed with unconcealed lust, their wives with simple jealousy. Her face was unmarked with fear or sadness, which was a miracle after the last four years, but now there was an expression of mild panic on it which did not so much mar her beauty as add to it.

‘Let me, mistress,’ Cecily said comfortably, crossing the floor.

Cecily had been her maid for years now and was as much a part of Petronilla’s life as the cross which hung from the silver chain about her neck. Everyone who knew Petronilla knew how devoted Cecily was to her and, since the birth of Little Harry, the maid had grown still more attentive.

Little Harry looked up at Cecily with his blue-black eyes still fogged with despair. ‘Hush, little one,’ Cecily said, beginning to wipe away the worst of the vomit with his slavering clout.[1]

‘I did what you said,’ Petronilla stated with weary conviction. ‘He had finished feeding, and I just had him over my shoulder…’

‘You should have stopped feeding him a little earlier, mistress. Then, perhaps, you could have burped him before he was sick.’

Petronilla gave her a wretched smile. ‘I don’t understand the boy. He cries all night, sleeps all day, and when he whimpers and I try to feed him, he does this to me. Ungrateful little monster, aren’t you? Oh no, what now? Why is he crying now, Cecily?’

In answer, her maid picked him up and sniffed at his backside before pulling a face. ‘Why do you think?’

Her mistress often behaved as though she was a child herself still, thought Cecily. When she had married and moved to her husband’s house near Hanham, despite the fact that it was only some three miles outside Bristol, the girl had reacted as if it were the edge of the world. Cecily had looked after Petronilla from her eighth year, and when the girl had married Squire William de Bar nearly four years ago, Cecily had gone to Hanham with her. When Petronilla’s husband had evicted Cecily, forcing her from his young bride’s side, the maid had been distraught.

It had been an awful time. When Cecily was dismissed and sent back to Bristol, Arthur Capon was reluctant to give her house room, seeing her as a waste of space.

Cecily carefully unwrapped the boy, taking off the swaddling-bands then cleaning him with the old tail-clout.[2] The soiled bands were dropped into the bucket ready for soaking and washing, and then she massaged his limbs tenderly with a little oil of myrtle. It was hideously expensive, but there was nothing too costly for the young master. She wrapped him in fresh swaddling bands, then, cooing and shushing, she cuddled him close.

Petronilla watched her with a wan smile. The birth had been easy enough, but like so many new mothers, she was exhausted after too little sleep in the last two weeks.

‘Mistress, sit and rest. I can look after the little master for you. He just wants company, I’ll be bound.’

‘All I want is my sleep,’ Petronilla said with some acid. ‘Harry keeps me awake all night.’

Cecily said nothing. There was no need – both knew that it was Cecily who most often went to the baby in the watches of the night.

Taking the little mite with her as she left her mistress, Cecily quietly closed the door. Petronilla was already on her bed, her eyes closed, and young master Harry snuffled and nuzzled against Cecily’s breast. He seemed happy to accept her as a surrogate mother.

She murmured to him as she walked through the passageway to the hall. Little Harry looked up at her with those wide, trusting eyes, and she smiled as he burped.

Cecily had sworn to serve his mother and protect Harry, and she would not break that vow.

That part of her dream was always so happy. She had been content, then, easy in her mind. Before that, while Petronilla was away in Hanham, her life had been empty, her existence anxious, because unnecessary servants were easily discarded. Now, with Petronilla back once more, it seemed that Cecily could count on a secure future.

Later that same morning, Cecily respectfully ducked her head to Petronilla’s parents as she passed through the hall on her way towards the screens.

Arthur Capon sat near the fire, ignoring Cecily as he spoke with his wife who was sitting in the light near the window’s bars and working on a fine cap for her grandson, peering closely with her poor eyesight.

Cecily went to the little pantry near the front door. Here she could dandle the boy on her knee while chatting to the bottler. It was always best to keep a child busy. Just as he needed his arms and legs restrained so that they might grow firm and straight, there were other risks: a child might stare too long at a single bright light, and that would produce a squint in later years. Or a babe set to sleep in a hanging cot might wriggle free of the bindings, and fall and hang himself. There were so many dangers. But at least people tried to protect children. No one would hurt a child on purpose, would they? That would be wicked.

So she had believed, in her innocence.

In her dream, she remembered the knocking at the door, reminding her of her failure, her dishonour.

She had sworn to protect Harry. And instead…

The rapping was insistent. Cecily had remained sitting while the bottler rose from his stool and walked to the screens. There was nothing unusual in visitors coming to the house, for Arthur Capon was a successful merchant, and also a money-lender. Men often called by to speak with him, and so, as the bottler opened the door, Cecily did not look up. It was just a normal morning.

Except then it ceased to be normal.

There was a shout: full of malice, it was enough to startle Cecily and make her look up. The door was suddenly thrust wide, and the bottler remonstrated, only to make a strange noise, a watery, gurgling sound like Little Harry, and then he stepped back, falling hard on his rump. Seeing him, Cecily almost laughed aloud. He was so proud of himself and his position in the world, that to stumble like that would mortify him. But the smile was struck from her face as she saw the blood.

And then the men entered.

She told the jury at the inquest, held that same afternoon, that first inside was the squire, Petronilla’s husband.

Squire William de Bar was like a man made of steel that day, she said. His blue eyes were cold and uncaring, and as he strode over the threshold, his sword was already dripping with the bottler’s gore. He kicked the body aside before marching into the hall towards Arthur Capon and, as the older man demanded to know what he was doing in the house unannounced, he thrust his sword into his father-in-law’s breast. Capon stared at the man disbelievingly, his mouth working, but no words came. He tried to stand, but that merely forced his body further onto the blade, and the blood gushed from his nostrils and mouth as he attempted to cry for help.

The only voice Cecily heard in her dreams was that of Madame Capon. Cecily told the jurors that, as Madame Capon’s husband slumped back in his chair, his arms thrashing, legs beating a staccato rhythm as his soul fled, his wife gave a shrill little cry: the despairing whimper of a creature in the extremity of distress.

The jurors drew in a collective hiss of breath – like a snake’s curse – as Cecily told that part.

Madame Capon’s little wail had been enough for the murderer to turn to her. Pulling his sword free from Arthur Capon’s jerking body, he said in a voice low with rage. ‘You, you lousy old whore, you did this. You and him, you robbed me of my name, you took my honour and shamed me! Are you satisfied now, you bitch?’ Cecily could remember each word with absolute precision. With that, he punched the woman with his free hand, and she lay sobbing, her hand at her face. It was not sufficient to save her. She was stabbed three times in the breast and throat.

Cecily stood clutching the baby to her, staring in horror. Now she darted to the side of the screens in the pantry, concealing herself and hushing the baby as more men ran inside, through the hall out to the solar and Petronilla’s bedchamber, their boots thundering on the boards. Soon the hall was empty but for the two corpses and the dying bottler. So far, her quick thinking had saved her and the child from attack.

As the steps faded, she darted to the bottler. He was lying on his side, gripping his belly, and she saw between his hands the bulge of blue and pink intestines, the slow seeping of blood through his fingers as he began to shake, speechless with agony. ‘Go!’ he whispered.

With that, Cecily roused herself into action. She ran to her master and took his dagger from the sheath at his belt, turned, and began to run, Harry gripped tightly in her arms. She had sworn to protect him. Not that she repeated that to the jurors. They all knew her, they had seen her with her charge. No one could doubt her love for the mite.

Outside, in the paved court before the house, she heard another woman’s shriek, a rising ululation of torment that gradually faded as Cecily ran farther from that house of horror, clutching the baby to her breast like a woman possessed, hurtling to the gate that led to the road outside.

Yes. She had told the jury all that. Sometimes, when she was fortunate, that was when she woke from the dream, out near the gate before the house. Better that, than to remain asleep and remember the rest.

At other times, she continued in her dream, reliving what happened next.

And always aware of her lies.

First Wednesday after the Feast of St Michael, twentieth year of the reign of King Edward II[3]

Near Barnwell Priory

There was a chill in the air as the men of the Queen’s host moved down the broad roadway towards the next town, and young Edward, Duke of Aquitaine and Earl of Chester, shivered miserably. He was tired and feeling more than a little sick. Even with the aketon over his shirt, the hauberk and the pair of plates over that, the dampness seemed to soak into his very soul, making the nausea worse.

He was the son of the King, and the idea that he might shame himself and his father by puking in public was not to be considered. Except he was shamed already.

Always in the past the English King had travelled to Paris to pay homage for the lands owned by him in France. Guyenne was crucial to the English Crown, after all. The money from those great wine-producing regions brought in more to the exchequer than England and Wales together. It was inconceivable that the King could allow those lands to be lost.

However, the worst had happened. King Edward II had allowed the French to occupy the whole of his estates in France, and King Charles had declared them forfeit purely because King Edward had refused to pay homage. Edward was in an impossible situation. Were he to leave England, his barons would overthrow his Regent, Sir Hugh le Despenser, son of the Earl of Winchester, just as the Earl of Warwick had done ten or more years ago when he captured Piers Gaveston and had him beheaded. The King dared not leave another close friend to the mercy of his barons.

Queen Isabella, the Duke’s mother, was sister to King Charles, and had travelled to Paris to negotiate a truce and try to win back the English lands. Success seemed close at hand when she wrote to ask that her son be given the English lands in France. That way, she explained, he could travel to Paris, pay homage in his own right, and thereby satisfy the English King’s need to remain in England, while also giving the French King the gratification of knowing that he had procured the confirmation of his subject’s loyalty. It was the ideal compromise.

So the young Earl had been elevated to Duke and sent to France, but when he arrived, a year ago, he was thrown into a maelstrom of politicking. His mother had been recalled to England but refused to obey her husband, declaring that there was a third person in her marriage, and until her husband threw out Sir Hugh le Despenser, she would hold herself to be widowed. And then, although the King wrote to Edward to command him to return and not allow himself to be forced into a marriage contract or to remain under the control of his mother or the French King, he had been forced to do both.

He had not willingly disobeyed his father. He loved him – no son more; but he adored his mother too, and Isabella had made it clear that she could not return to Edward while Despenser remained at court.

‘Do not worry, he will see sense,’ she cooed to her son when he told her how anxious the separation made him. Not yet fourteen, he was a pawn in the battle between King and Queen; he feared he was the cause of their antagonism.

At first, to be in France was glorious. He had thought it a frolic, away from the stresses of life in England. But as the days grew into weeks, the weeks into months, he became aware of the influence the other man had on his mother: the witty, charming, shrewd and devious Sir Roger Mortimer.

Sir Roger, who had led the men of the Borders against the King, and who had escaped from the Tower of London when his death sentence was signed, was in France pouring acid into the Queen’s ears. Edward knew it – he had seen them together often enough. And it was clear that his mother’s relationship with this man was more than mere friendship. She was flaunting her affection for Sir Roger before all at the French court, and humiliating her son into the bargain. Duke Edward heard the whispers and gossip as courtiers discussed his mother and her adulterous affair. An affair that was not only against her marriage vows but also a terrible felony. A man committing adultery with a queen was putting the bloodline of the royal family at risk, as Queen Isabella well knew. Her brothers’ wives had committed adultery twelve years before, and their lovers had been executed, while the women languished horribly, dying in foul captivity. She knew she was causing mortification to her husband and heaping disgrace upon the family.

Unable to intervene, Duke Edward could only watch and listen as opprobrium was heaped upon his mother and her lover. And he felt that the same was his due, as he betrayed his father the King in all that he did. Now, here he was, back in England to fulfil his mother’s desire to see his father forced to lose his adviser, Sir Hugh le Despenser. And then, to lose his throne.

Edward almost despaired. All close to him were placed there by his mother or Mortimer. His life was hedged about with ‘protection’ at every turn, so that for the first time in his life, he had no independence. At almost fourteen, he was a man now, and yet the responsibilities he had assumed were taken from him and managed for him – and there was nothing he could do about it.

No. That was not quite true, he told himself as he watched Mortimer talking to a pasty-faced churl with greying hair and sallow complexion. Behind them a short way was his own fellow. Not even a knight, this, but a guard who had proved himself more loyal to Edward’s interests than any other: Sam Fletcher.

He was the one man whom the young Duke trusted.