The Oath

CHAPTER FIVE

Third Tuesday after the Feast of St Michael[11]

Bristol

Cecily reached the house and pulled open the door. Trembling like a leaf, she pushed it closed behind her, then stood leaning against it for a while, her eyes shut.

‘Maid?’ Old Hamo the steward was at the doorway to his buttery, a cloth in his hand as he methodically wiped and polished a maple-wood mazer, a frown of perturbation on his kindly features. He was ancient, at least sixty years, and as bent and gnarled as an old blackthorn. ‘Maid, what is it?’

‘Nothing,’ she said. How could she explain the shock that had jolted through her body out there when she saw the little boy who looked so like baby Harry? The child in his mother’s arms had turned and stared at her with such an intensity, it felt as though Harry himself was there. God in Heaven, the accusation she thought she had seen in those eyes…

‘Hamo!’ she said, and then began to sob, her hands over her face as she slid down the door to the floor.

‘What is it, Cecily?’

She tried to turn away, but the tender concern in his eyes made her feel the guilt again. She saw Little Harry’s face, and as though in a nightmare again, saw the skull shatter, the blood and brains exploding out. ‘Oh, Holy Mother, save me!’

‘Speak to me, Cecily,’ the steward said, now seriously concerned. ‘You’ve been getting more and more fretful these last days – what is it?’

Cecily wept, head covered in her hands. She was aware of tears pouring down both cheeks, and gave a choking sob. But it was no good. Even behind her hands, she could still see the hideous events of that bloody day: the accusing death stare of Arthur Capon, the cold, calculating expression in the murderer’s eyes as he stood and slid his sword into Madame Capon’s breast. The baby…

She must carry her guilt with her to the grave.

Emma Wrey had heard the weeping, and it was enough to make her put her needlework aside and walk to the doorway. She watched for a moment, frowning as she considered her maidservant. Curious that Cecily had broken down like this. It was the first time she had been so distraught during the day. At night she had often cried herself to sleep, and woken with a yelp of horror or pain, but Emma had assumed that the dark memories would gradually fade.

It must have been a God-awful shock. Emma didn’t know how she herself would have reacted, seeing her master and mistress cut down before her, the daughter of the house dragged from her bed and stabbed to death, then the child who was her charge slammed against a wall and killed. Those were the sort of things that no one could witness with impunity. They would change a soul. Poor Cecily, she had thought.

But this recurrence of the maid’s terrors was alarming. There were stories of people who were dreadfully affected by such things, who lived normally for a while and then were prey to fears that drew their lives to an untimely end. Perhaps Cecily was so badly marked by her experiences that her heart would give out.

No! It would not do!

‘Hamo? Hamo?’

‘Mistress?’

‘I think a jug of strong wine would be a good idea. Cecily needs fortifying.’

‘Of course, mistress,’ Hamo said, walking stiffly from the room.

‘Make it good wine. Not the sour stuff, mind.’

He smiled and nodded.

When Emma married Master Wrey, she had been alarmed by the sight of this paragon. He was tall, suave and elegant, and had impressed her with his cool appraisal of her before he gave a nod, as though telling himself that while she was not perfect, she was at least young enough to be moderately malleable.

And perhaps she had proved to be for the first years, until her husband died. When that happened and she found herself thrown into the management of the business, Emma had grown harder and more uncompromising, but still, every so often, she would catch that same measuring look in Hamo’s eyes, and she would see him occasionally give a sign of approval, as if pleased that she had turned out so well; not in a patronising manner, but almost with pride.

Not that she needed such recognition now. She was content with her position in Bristol and her standing in the financial community. Since Arthur Capon’s death, her business had become one of the leading finance houses in the city.

‘Come with me, Cecily,’ Emma said, walking over to the fire and patting the stool beside her. ‘Maid, I’ve heard your tears often enough. What is it that upsets you?’

Cecily’s eyes were red-rimmed, and at the question, they brimmed with tears again. ‘Mistress, I’m sorry, I didn’t think to upset you. I–’

‘Enough, my dear. With all the angels as my witness, I declare I only want to help you. Now, ah… Thank you, Hamo. Put the wine there, and then you may leave us.’ She waited until he had left the hall, and then herself poured two cups from the jug.

When Emma passed her a cup, Cecily took it and sipped, but sat with her eyes downcast.

‘Look, the attack on the house was not your fault,’ Emma said patiently. ‘Squire William was a thoroughly evil man. He and his men were foul to commit such a dreadful crime.’

‘I know.’

‘You mustn’t blame yourself. I imagine you feel a little like me – guilty, because you survived. I felt that after my husband died, but…’

‘No! It’s because I didn’t protect him! He shouldn’t have been hurt. I should have protected him, as I swore. I failed Little Harry!’

Third Wednesday after the Feast of St Michael[12]

Near Tintern Abbey

All along their route, the peasants stopped and stood staring as they heard the sounds of the marchers approaching. As the noise grew nearer, there was a rush as men and women dropped their tools, no matter how expensive, and flew away, scooping up children as they went and hurrying off to hide in the woods and shaws that stood about the vills.

No one wanted to be caught by the warriors. Everyone knew what could happen when a force arrived. Men with swords would always resort to blunt persuasion when they wanted food and drink – and women.

But the people of the village didn’t realise that these men-at-arms had more pressing concerns than mere pillage. They didn’t want to be caught by the host that followed so closely on their heels.

The main road was churned underfoot by the centaine of thin, anxious men in dirty jacks and leather, all stubbled, pallid-faced and sick with fear. Their legs and hosen were beslubbered with mud, and weariness made them stumble as they trudged, eyes downcast.

Sir Ralph of Evesham sat astride his rounsey feeling dejected as he surveyed the men about him. They were so exhausted, it was a miracle any of them were still on their feet. In the last twelve days they had marched all the way from London, with the perpetual fear of capture in every man’s heart, but as their journey progressed, men had disappeared. The numbers were down to below a tenth of the force which had set off.

In the early days, he had managed to retain his belief that at some point they would meet with additional men who would join them to help protect the King, but now the truth was clear and stark even to his optimistic eye. The idea that the Marcher Lords would come to the King’s aid was as false as the hearts of those further east who had broken their promises. King Edward II was alone but for this tiny force.

‘Sir Ralph, we should ride on, sir, and make a surveillance.’

Sir Ralph nodded. Thank the Lord for his loyal men, he thought gratefully. Pagan and Alexander were both still with Squire Bernard and himself, which was little short of a miracle. So many others had seen their pages and heralds leave as the force trudged on towards Wales.

‘Good idea,’ he said, and lashed his palfrey’s flanks with his reins’ ends.

They cantered ahead together, Sir Ralph slightly ahead of his squire, and could soon see the village ahead.

‘Shall I see if there’s an ambush?’ Squire Bernard said as they paused at the edge of the woods.

‘No, we will go together,’ Sir Ralph said.

They trotted down a shallow incline, both keeping a wary eye open for the threat of danger, but like so many other villages along their way, the place was deserted.

‘Get back and tell the heralds that it’s safe,’ Sir Ralph said, and dismounted. He walked to the well at the side of the road and pulled up a pitcher of water. It was brackish, but wholesome.

He sat down to wait, and it was just then that he heard the unmistakable sound of hooves approaching at a canter.

‘Sir Ralph? You are wanted, sir. The King has sent me to fetch you.’

Sir Ralph mounted and rode to the King as soon as the summons came. He swung from the saddle, throwing his palfrey’s reins to a waiting boy, and dropped to his knees in front of the King. ‘You ordered me to come, your Royal Highness?’

The King stood, tall and handsome with his long, curly fair hair. Nearby was Sir Hugh le Despenser and a circle of guards. This was not the camp of a man who felt secure in his own realm.

‘Sir Ralph, please stand. You have excelled yourself on the journey,’ the King said. He had a quiet voice today, but whether that meant anything, Sir Ralph did not know. From what he had seen and heard, the King was prey to remarkable changes of mood; he could coo like a dove when he wanted to, only to shriek with fury a moment later. Now, if he had to guess, he would have said that the King’s tone was more one of bafflement than anything else.

‘Thank you, sire.’

‘But the Queen is close at hand, I believe,’ the King said. ‘She is hunting us with the ferocity of an alaunt. How can we keep from her?’

‘Your Highness, we must ride on.’

‘Lancaster has gone to her, did you know?’ the King went on, as though not hearing. ‘After I showed him mercy and magnanimity, he ignored my friendship and now rides with her. All wish to be with her.’

‘You yet have loyal knights, Your Highness.’

‘Only a few, I fear.’

Sir Ralph shot a look at Sir Hugh le Despenser. The adviser was listening intently, but for all that his eyes were on the King and Sir Ralph, there was something about his demeanour that made the knight think that he was not concentrating. His expression was that of a little boy told to consider some writing on a slate, who stared, but to whom the words made no sense. He was uncomprehending in the face of so much disaster. Last year, the man had held the realm in his fist, but now all he gripped was sand, and it was running through his fingers no matter what he did.

‘We have made good time, Your Royal Highness,’ Sir Ralph tried. ‘Soon we shall be in Wales, and perhaps there you will find loyal subjects ready to defend you.’

‘I wouldn’t have her hurt, you know,’ the King said suddenly. ‘She is the mother of my children, and I would not have her hurt.’

‘I know, sire.’

‘She has been misled. That is the matter at hand. She thinks that my good knight, Sir Hugh here, is her enemy. Yet he declares every day that he loves her – why should she believe he seeks to injure her? He has always put her case to me most fairly, often taking her part in disputes. Why should she feel he is not her friend?’

Sir Ralph could scarcely comprehend what he was hearing. Did the King seriously believe that the Queen would be glad to know that her petitions to her own husband had to be mediated by Sir Hugh le Despenser, the man who had wreaked such havoc in her life?

‘And now this,’ the King said, and there was a tone of such shock and dismay in his voice that Sir Ralph felt anxious.

‘Your Highness?’

‘They demand that I surrender, and that I yield up Sir Hugh, and his father, the Earl of Winchester. They say that Sir Hugh is profligate, and that I have taxed the realm too much to support him – when all who know the Treasury are aware that I have ever been careful with the nation’s money! How can they say such things, Sir Ralph?’

‘My lord, I…’

‘No, it is not for you to answer this. You are right. But I fear that the Queen may come to attack us. There are other groups of men on their way here to join us, I believe. Sir Ralph, I would be glad if you could take some men and find them and bring them to us here at Tintern. We must concentrate our forces.’

‘Of course.’

The King’s tone became peevish. ‘Sir Ralph, you will remain loyal, won’t you? You wouldn’t run to them?’

In answer, Sir Ralph knelt again and held up his hands, palms pressed together. ‘I will renew my vow to you now, my lord, if you wish.’

The King smiled sadly. He placed his own hands around Sir Ralph’s, as he had all those years ago when Sir Ralph was made a knight by him. ‘Sir Ralph, good Sir Ralph, I am sorry. Your honour is not in doubt.’

He made Sir Ralph stand, and kissed him.

Sir Ralph went to his horse and mounted, but before he left, he caught sight of the huddle of men again. Earl Hugh of Winchester was next to his son, Sir Hugh le Despenser, and the King himself was alone a few yards away.

There was nothing could soothe that monarch’s fretful heart, Sir Ralph thought as he cantered back to his camp.

Approaching Bristol

The exhausted men were close to collapse that morning. As they struggled onwards, desperate to find the host they were meant to join, they came across a broader roadway.

A good place to rest, Robert Vyke thought wearily. Trees ranged on both sides, and a thick hedge was to his left. There was a small building up ahead, the limewash old and fragile, falling away with old cob in places. It was the beginning of a hamlet, perhaps, or a small farm.

‘Only another four or five miles, boys!’ Otho was calling, entreating them onwards. ‘Then we’ll be in Bristol. We’ll soon be with the King, then.’ Spotting Robert Vyke, he nodded. ‘You all right?’

‘Good as I can be.’

‘Aye, well, forget that tranter. He’s got enough trouble on his hands moving all the gear without a horse.’

‘He deserves it.’

Otho smiled as they continued. He knew the cause of Vyke’s rancour.

It was almost two months since the King’s purveyors had reached their village and made their demands. There were more wagons coming, and the King had need. The village was to be ravaged: food, goods, iron, all were taken and thrown into the wagons, together with all the ale they could grab. And then one of the horses had stumbled and broken a leg.

There was no pause. The purveyors had their orders, and they must fulfil them. So they took Vyke’s only horse, set it in the traces, and were off. The dead brute they dragged with them, for the meat.

The horse was the only valuable possession Robert Vyke had owned. Without it, he was impoverished. His wife Susan would find life more harsh and cruel. A horse meant transport, it mean income when loaned to a friend, it meant barter: ale and eggs and cheese. But the purveyors had taken him.

Before Robert Vyke lay a puddle, and he splashed into it unthinking, unaware of anything but his own misery, but then there was a tearing pain in his ankle and leg, and he felt himself fall, the long shaft of his bill tumbling through his hands to clatter on the stones of the road, his pack of belongings thumping down beside him, while men scattered from the bill’s sharp blade.

‘What is it, you fool?’ Otho demanded.

‘My leg, my leg!’

‘Get up, you hog’s arse! You think we’re going to wait for you?’ the Sergeant demanded, and he hawked long and hard, bringing up a large gobbet of phlegm, which he spat near Robert’s face. ‘On your feet! By Christ’s blood, you make a man want to kick you, you do. First you pick a fight with a poor bastard who’s only gone and lost his pony, and now you want to doze by the wayside. Waiting for a frisky wench to snuggle up to, eh? Maybe a pair? Well, forget it!’

Otho was known for his rough humour, but Robert was not of a mind to laugh. He took a long look at his Sergeant and then, sobbing with the pain, he slowly eased himself upright. Only then did the Sergeant stare down at his leg. ‘God’s ballocks, man! How did you do that?’

‘Mary save me!’ Robert said, as he saw the blood slowly pulsing from the long gash. ‘Otho, I–’

‘Christ’s pain! you’re no good to me like that, you tarse,’ the Sergeant said mildly. He was staring at the men behind them as though Robert was already passing from his mind. ‘No good to us at all. You’d best stay behind and hope the bastards don’t see you. They’ll be after us anyway, not you. You piss off up north of this road, and you may be all right. Understand?’

‘Yes, Sergeant.’

‘No, better than that, lad, you make your way to Bristol after us. It’s only a few miles from here. Can you do that?’ Otho added doubtfully, glancing at the flap of skin hanging loose. He then leaned forward and said in a low voice, ‘Look, if they do catch you, just give yourself up, eh? There’s no point trying to fight. No point any of us trying to fight,’ he added to himself dully. ‘Right – you got a thong or some twine?’

While Robert stretched his leg out before him, Otho bent and bound the wound with a length of linen, then he wrapped a thick leather thong over it to hold it in place. ‘Take care, boy.’

‘You too, Otho.’

‘Yeah. Well, I hope we’ll meet again.’ The Sergeant rested a fist on Robert’s shoulder, and Vyke saw that he was thinking about something. Otho was a man who considered his actions carefully. If he wished to say something important, he would weigh his words. Now, he looked away as though saddened. ‘Look, Robert, if you get home safely, see my Agnes, eh? Tell her… just tell her I wanted to get home,’ he said.

Robert nodded. There was no need to say more. They both reckoned it was unlikely either of them would see the village or their wives again.

Then Otho hefted Robert’s bill on to his shoulder and bawled at the rest of the men: ‘What’re you lazy gits staring at? Taking a rest while you can? It’s going to be a long march before we get to see the King, me boys, so get a bleeding move on!’

Gradually, with many a curse and muttered complaint, the men began to stagger forwards again, while Robert watched from the side of the road with eyes filled with tears. He had no idea where he was, nor how far from his home, and now all his friends were walking on and leaving him. Herv Tyrel broke from the shambling mass and passed him a lump of old bread he had saved, then winked, while others either nodded and gave him a ‘Godspeed’, or looked away, ashamed to be deserting him.

The little party shuffled on past, and if it weren’t for the pain, for the fear of capture, and the desperate loneliness that was engulfing him, Robert Vyke could have enjoyed the exquisite delight of sitting here at the wayside while the others all continued on their way.

‘You’ll be dead in a day.’

The vicious whisper came from his right, and he was about to turn when he felt the dagger at the side of his neck.

‘Who are you?’ Robert Vyke asked, scarcely moving his head.

It was the horse-driver. ‘Walerand the Tranter, most call me. Won’t do that again now I’ve lost my only pony, swyve them all.’

‘Well, Walerand, I am called Robert Vyke. When you have finished serving the King, you come and find me, and I’ll be glad to set my dagger against yours, anywhere, any time. Unless you’re such a coward that you’ll kill me here instead.’

‘I’m no coward, horse-lover. I’ll find you, and I’ll cut your throat like a hog’s.’

‘Really?’ Robert said, and he slowly turned his head to stare at the man. ‘Next time we meet, Tranter, you’ll pay for your stupidity.’

‘Mine?’ the Tranter said, and grinned. Then he slammed the pommel of his dagger into Robert’s head, and the young man knew no more.