‘Who are you, and where do you ride?’ Sir Ralph asked with an edge to his voice, reining in his horse.
He was suddenly taken by the sight before him. There was a large encampment, with men and horses resting. He saw the Earl of Winchester’s arms on a banner, and felt relief. ‘It’s all right,’ he said to the picket. ‘We’re with the King.’
Bristol
Simon and Margaret had been installed in a small inn a short way from the castle’s western gate, and Sir Charles had visited them the previous evening to ensure that they were as comfortable as they might be. He had done so by the simple expedient of explaining to the innkeeper that these were friends of Sir Hugh de Courtenay, the Baron of Devon, who would have the innkeeper stripped and held by the thumbs for the sport of the entire city if he didn’t see to it that Simon and his lady were fed only the best foods and drinks during their stay.
The quality of their food was certainly good. Simon and Margaret were also taken with the bed, which was the first comfortable one they had enjoyed for many long miles. Even now, unusually for Simon and although it was only close to noon, he felt the need to return to his bed and rest a little, and for once Peterkin expressed a desire to sleep too. Rob was already snoring, curled by the fire in the hall.
‘Simon, when do you think we can go home?’ his wife asked, entering the chamber with him.
Sitting on the bed and pulling off his boots, Simon twisted his face into a grimace. ‘I don’t know, Meg. The roads will still likely be filled with men looking to fight for one cause or another.’
‘I am still keen to return to Exeter, to see Edith.’
‘So am I, my love, but I don’t know when we may be able to leave. It’s a hundred miles from here, I think, and with the kingdom in an uproar, it wouldn’t be safe.’
‘But we cannot blithely sit here in comfort and hope Edith’s all right, Simon!’
‘Meg, she is married. Her safety is the responsibility of her husband.’
‘But she is your daughter!’
‘She’s my daughter, yes. But that doesn’t mean I have the right to take her from her husband, does it? And what could I do – what could we do – if we reached Exeter and learned that she was in danger because of the King’s forces besieging the city? Or Isabella’s men? We could do nothing, except get caught in the same trap, which would endanger Peterkin’s life as well as our own. I love Edith as much as you, wife, but there is nothing we can do just now to help her or anyone else.’ He closed his eyes.
‘It’s not good enough. I have to see her. I will see her!’ She stamped her foot, which made Simon open his eyes in surprise. Margaret had never been prone to displays of anger.
‘Meg, you can’t leave the city, not just now – be reasonable! It’s too dangerous. Now, please, just leave me a little while in peace? My old bones need rest.’
‘Yes, and I would hate to deprive you of your rest, while my own peace of mind is flown forever,’ she snapped.
‘Meg, please–’ he cried, but the door was already slammed behind her. Simon grunted, then rose to his feet and went after her. ‘Meg! Please take Hugh with you if you are going outside. We don’t know this city well.’
His wife looked back at him and nodded, just once, before continuing on her way.
Simon returned to the bedchamber, where his son was sitting on the bed, staring at him with wide eyes and an expression of innocence. ‘I’m very tired, Father.’
‘Yes, so am I,’ Simon said heavily, and sat on the edge of the bed again. He lay back, an arm going about his son, and closed his eyes, but sleep would not come for a good while.
He was stirred by the shouts.
North of Bristol
‘I’m taking these friars to meet the Queen to try to negotiate protection for the King’s friends, my lord.’
The Earl of Winchester was sitting on a chair chewing some choice tidbits when Sir Ralph was taken in to see him. He pulled the leg from a honeyed lark and bit into it, before wiping his fingers on a cloth presented by his laver.
Earl Hugh was a bright man, who had earned respect from knights and barons on all sides over many years of loyal service to this King and to his father. He was about sixty-six, a strongly-built man with almost uniformly white hair. His eyes were keen and penetrating, and he displayed little of the anxiety his son was feeling. Where the younger Hugh was nail-biting and fretful, the elder Hugh was still calculating the odds, a gambler with the strength of character his son seemed to lack.
His was a career characterised by loyalty, commonsense and ambition. Sir Ralph personally reckoned that ambition was the main ingredient of his make-up which had been passed on to his son, but where Earl Hugh was keen to improve his standing, there were limits to his avarice – perhaps because he had been born into troubled times. The son of a rebel, his father had died fighting his King at Evesham, and from the age of four, Hugh was tainted with an associated guilt for which he spent the rest of his life trying to atone.
By dint of hard effort and martial skill, he worked his way into the King’s affections. King Edward I was a warrior who knew little about peace, so to find a man like Hugh, who was not only a thoroughly competent fighter, able to prove his loyalty to the King at every battle, but was also a highly skilled administrator and negotiator, was very useful. Sir Hugh le Despenser gradually climbed the ladder of appointments with a stealth that would have impressed a fox.
By the time of Edward I’s death, Sir Hugh had become an honoured member of the King’s household, and practically a father-figure to the young Prince Edward. As King, Edward II grew to trust the older Despenser’s judgement, and as Sir Hugh the Younger rose in the King’s affection, his father also was rewarded. Sir Hugh the Younger became the supreme manager of access to the King, and Sir Hugh the Elder became an Earl.
Now the Earl glanced at the friars behind Sir Ralph. ‘If you vouch for them, Sir Ralph, I am content.’
‘I do. Have you seen sign of the Queen?’
Earl Hugh shook his head. ‘But her forces are closing in quickly. The bulk of them lie north of Bristol, working their way here. I understand that Berkeley Castle has turned to her. She may be anywhere near. Certainly some of her men have crossed the river and are pillaging and riding out south of the city too. Soon it will be encircled.’
‘Can Bristol hold?’
‘Yes, if the leaders of the city are resolute and loyal,’ Earl Hugh said, and Ralph saw the conviction in his face. ‘It will require a firm hand, however. I shall strengthen the resolve of them all. First of all, the gates must be closed as soon as I have reached the city. There can be no more pretending that the country is at peace. The Queen has been able to ride about as though on a perambulation of the realm. Ridiculous! She is a rebel, leading a force of mercenaries and traitors, and she is no more a friend to the people of this country than a wolf is a friend to a sheep. She can feign amity when she wishes, but she will soon bare her teeth, and I think it best to force her so to do. If she can show her true spirit, her cruelty and spitefulness, the people may rise up again to defend their King.’
‘I see.’ So that was the plan, Sir Ralph thought: to try to force the Queen to raze Bristol, and thus show the entire realm that they should protect King Edward and themselves from her.
‘You may assist us,’ the Earl added. ‘If you tell the Queen that our resolve is to hold it against her for as long as our supplies last, she may be persuaded to turn her full attention upon us. She cannot dare to leave Bristol behind her when she enters Wales. The risk of her supplies being attacked will be an immediate threat to her ambitions. Mortimer will see that. He is many things, but not a fool. You tell them we intend to fight, and we’ll see what she does.’
‘I shall rest the horses, then, and ride on,’ Sir Ralph declared.
‘Godspeed,’ said Earl Hugh, and after a short interval, Sir Ralph and his little party were riding north and east.
It was less than an hour later that they met the advance guard.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Robert Vyke found himself one of the very last to enter Bristol before the gates were locked, and he rode under the gateway with great relief.
The last few miles had been a hideous race. They were still some miles from the city when they had come across riders who were clearly up to no good. The men shouted at them loudly, with curious, foreign accents, but fortunately their old nags weren’t up to the chase, or they were too drunk to bother, and the Coroner’s party rode on unmolested. That was worrying enough, but soon things grew rapidly worse, because as they came past a small wood, they realised that the fellows they had seen were only part of a much larger force.
The Coroner was idling along on his rounsey, snapping questions at the clerk on his old donkey, and paying little heed to the road ahead, when Robert spotted the first of the great wagons. ‘Sir!’
‘Oh, in Christ’s name!’ the Coroner grumbled, muttering some other choice curses which Robert missed, and snapped his reins. The beast whinnied, and then leaped away to the north, so as to navigate a route past all the men and their provisions, but it was too late. The rearmost carters were already bawling and pointing, and men were pelting towards them. Coroner Stephen bowed low in his seat, galloping at full tilt, with Robert clinging on for dear life on his own chestnut mare, but falling behind, while the clerk was squeaking ineffectually and bumping along, lashing his donkey to little effect. He was soon overwhelmed, and Robert looked back to see him encircled by rough men. Then there was a narrow gateway, into a field divided into long, narrow strips for the peasants, and he was thundering along the line, praying that he might make it to the other side without falling and being taken by these murderous-looking fellows, when he was suddenly out the other side, and staring at a wide river.
The Coroner was a little way ahead of him. He and Robert set off again, along the side of the river, both horses flagging a little. There were men at the banks, watering their own beasts, there were dogs, yelping and snapping at their hooves, and other men, standing with polearms or swords drawn, who scattered as the two men lowered their heads and galloped onwards, and there were the flocks of sheep, no doubt stolen from every homestead and farm along the way for food on the hoof, which bleated and bolted as though the hounds of hell were after them.
And then… then they were through, and their mad career could slow, while they gasped for breath and stared about them wildly.
After that, their journey was less eventful, fortunately. Until now, reaching the gate. ‘What will happen to your clerk?’ Robert asked.
‘Him? He’d smell of roses if he fell in the city midden,’ Sir Stephen said dismissively.‘A luckier man never was born. He’ll be fine.’ But now they were in the city, he bellowed for the gatekeeper. ‘Keep an eye open to south and east, man. If you see anyone approach, lock the gates immediately. There is a host of men out there, and they’ll be here very soon, God save our souls!’
Margaret was angry with herself more than with Simon. She knew as well as he that it was dangerous even to think of leaving for their home, but the sense that they were betraying their daughter was so strong, she felt a powerful guilt, as if their inaction was itself about to put Edith into danger.
The inn’s yard was almost empty at this time of day. Usually it would be full of merchants, traders, hawkers and others jostling for space. There would be carts and wagons arriving every few moments with foodstuffs for the inn, and straw and hay for the stables. The inn was one of the largest in the city and, with its proximity to the castle, often took all the excess visitors from there as well – but right now it was all but silent. There were no travellers to the city.
It was mute proof of the fairness of her husband’s words, but it only served to increase Meg’s bitterness. The realm was falling apart, and the thought that they might soon be snared inside a besieged city was like a needle in her brain. It was a miracle that they had managed to escape the city of London, and doubly frustrating that their freedom had been of such short duration.
Hugh and Rob walked behind her as she made her way out and along the wall of the castle to the river, where she stepped silently, staring at the waters. There was a slight breeze, and clouds were covering the sky, so she had to wrap her arms about her breast to keep herself warm. There was something soothing about the river lapping against the bank, the trickling sounds, the sudden gurgles, that cooled her hot temper.
It was unlike her to be angry, and to respond so fiercely to Simon. It was not his fault, after all.
She had been married to Simon so long ago now, it was hard to remember a time when she had been free. He had come to their farm, and she had been taken by his looks and manner immediately. The son of the steward to the de Courtenay family, Simon was a man of some importance in their county, and Margaret was proud when he asked for her hand. And she had never had cause to regret her choice. He was kind, he was faithful, he was witty, and he had given her and the children a good life. What more could a woman ask from her man than all that?
Yet in the last months their lives had been entirely disrupted, and this last obstacle had been the final straw on the camel’s back. All along, she had coped with the strain of her daughter’s marriage, then the enmity of Sir Hugh Despenser, who had so cruelly broken them by seeing them thrown from their home of ten years or so at Lydford, and then the horrid periods when Simon had been sent off to London or Paris to do the King’s bidding. But like a thread wound too tightly, the tension of the last year or more had finally made her snap.
They had walked on and were near the main bridge to the city from the southern side of the Avon. She stood a moment, gazing out over the waters to the lands in front, wondering how long it would actually take to ride to Exeter, to go to her daughter’s house and make sure that she and her little child were safe. Five days? Perhaps three if she made haste. One hundred miles was not so terribly far, after all.
There was a bellow, and she looked up to see a small group of men riding fast towards the city gates. The man at the head of the group was an older fellow, and he had a herald with him who bore a fluttering standard, while behind him were thirty men-at-arms, all well mounted, and with armour that glittered and shone.
As they approached, a Bailiff of the city stepped forward with his polearm at the ready. ‘Who are you?’
‘Stand aside for the Earl of Winchester, Constable of the Castle of Bristol!’ the herald roared, and the men rode in at the canter, their hooves clattering on the cobbles as they made for the castle.
‘Hugh!’ Margaret said urgently. ‘Take me back to the inn. We have to tell Simon!’
Bristol Castle
He heard the shouting in the yard and hurried to the door of his chamber, pulling it wide open. There was a small corridor before the walkway on the castle’s wall, and Sir Laurence reached it almost before the first riders had swung down from the saddle.
‘Oh, Mary, Mother of God,’ he muttered, and went to the stairs in the tower nearby.
This was not what he had expected. The Earl of Winchester was one of the most powerful men in the country, probably somewhere after the King and his son, Sir Hugh le Despenser. Sir Laurence knew that in the realm there were few who could equal the Earl’s authority. Even Bishops and Archbishops did not have the same access to the King, because Sir Hugh was Edward’s most favoured adviser, and if the King’s adviser recommended an action or sought a specific end, it was highly unlikely to be refused.
He came to the bottom of the stairs and emerged into the courtyard. ‘Earl Hugh, my lord, you are very welcome.’
‘Don’t give me that ballocks, Sir Laurence! You’re wondering what in God’s name I’m doing here, aren’t you?’ the Earl said as he carefully climbed from his horse. ‘Time was, I’d have jumped from my mount. Beware old age, Sir Laurence. It creeps up on you like a draw-latch, and takes away all your abilities. I’ve been riding too quickly in the last few days, and my muscles are all complaining. I didn’t realise I had so many
in my backside, in God’s name!’
He stood a moment with a hand rubbing his lower back, and then nodded towards the hall. ‘Let’s go and talk.’
The castle’s hall was a good-sized room, with a fireplace set into the northern wall that was already filled with flames from some small logs. A pair of larger logs lay before it, warming before they too could be set on the hearth. There was little decoration here, apart from some paintings on the wall behind the dais, which showed scenes of hunting: men on horseback winding their horns as they galloped towards a glorious hart, raches and alaunts leading the way. It was a scene which Sir Laurence had always loved, being a keen huntsman himself. Away on the right of the picture was a final scene, in which the alaunts had encircled the hart and were preparing for their final attacks, teeth bared, while the poor creature remained at bay.
For the first time, seeing the picture, Sir Laurence was suddenly struck by this scene. It was as though the artist was depicting the final days of Bristol, the noble hart encircled by ravening foes preparing to rip it to pieces. The thought made him feel chill.
The Earl stomped into the room, glanced about him with a glower, and made his way to the fire. He barked an order to his page, who ran to the dais, snatched up a chair, and brought it to the fireside.
‘Well!’ the Earl said as he allowed himself to fall into the seat with a grimace. ‘We are in a pretty pickle. What’s the status of the castle?’
‘The outer walls are all strong. No weaknesses in the towers. It seems the foundations are all well-laid, and the undercrofts are provisioned. We have enough, with the full garrison, to last three months or more. The men are in good heart, and all are loyal to the King.’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ the Earl said, and wiped a hand over his face. Suddenly he looked more grey, as though he had become enfeebled. His eyes were watery as he looked into the fire, and he gave the impression of immense sadness.
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