The camp was enormous. From here, Sir Ralph could see tents stretching off into the distance, while many slept in the open, wrapped in cloaks and blankets, huddled close to the fires that burned fitfully. There were some houses with men inside, the peasants fleeing, and doors and furniture had already been thieved for firewood. The places all about here had lost everything. Only shells remained.
Any optimism on the faces of the two friars was gone now. They rode silently looking downcast.
When Bernard asked how they had fared, the younger friar shook his head sadly. ‘There are no guarantees. The only thing they would say was that the body of the King would be respected. He is inviolate, naturally; not so the others with him. Those who have committed the most manifest crimes must pay for them. There is no humility there, you see.’
‘Who was negotiating with you?’ Sir Ralph asked.
‘It was Sir Roger Mortimer,’ the friar answered. ‘He is a most resolute man.’
‘And his soul will burn in hell,’ the other friar added. ‘The devil himself could not have been more inflexible.’
Sir Ralph rode on without listening as Bernard asked what Mortimer looked like, what sort of character he had, how he held himself – those things didn’t matter to him. All he could see in his mind’s eye was the King’s few friends and retainers, struggling on, while the great mass of the Queen and Mortimer’s force swallowed them up.
‘We shall take a rest soon,’ he said, interrupting Bernard. ‘There is no hurry to bring news of this sort. I weep to think how the King will react to it.’
Bristol
The hammering on the inn’s door in the middle watches of the night was enough to make Simon curse loudly.
Their evening had not been restful. Margaret had been weepy and miserable, and Simon was convinced that his indecision was the cause of their current situation. If only he had made up his mind to do as she suggested sooner! If only he had agreed to leave that very night, rather than wait until the morning, they would be past the great line of hills to the south by now. If only he had been able to make a decision, his wife would be out of this damned city, and perhaps on her way to safety.
‘What do you want?’ he demanded.
Hugh was already awake and had taken hold of his staff as he rose, yawning and blinking, from his palliasse near the door. Margaret was awake beside Simon in the bed, while Peterkin and Rob slept on, huddled together on their own palliasse, wrapped in coverlets, Peterkin snoring gently.
‘Master Simon Puttock, if he is awake,’ came the drawling response, and Simon cursed as he pulled on a shirt, walking to the door and pulling it wide. ‘Sir Charles, what sort of hour do you call this?’
‘One of the more unpleasant ones, Master Bailiff. Madame Puttock, I am sorry to disturb your rest. I trust I may bring your husband back very soon.’
‘You want to talk?’ Simon asked, rubbing his bearded face and yawning.
‘I would like to take you to see something, master. But not, perhaps, until you have had a chance to clothe yourself. You may find the night air a little inclement. And it’s raining.’
Simon grunted and reluctantly went to his pile of clothes. Drawing on his hosen and binding the cords about his waist, he cast a bitter eye at the knight. ‘So what is it? Some debate about military matters? How to defend the city? I’m not experienced in matters such as those, you know.’
‘No, Bailiff,’ the man replied, and now his manner was deadly serious. ‘No, this is a case of murder, I think. And I am sure that I need help in the matter.’
Bristol
Sir Charles had said that the body was a fair distance away, but since the whole city bounded by the wall was tiny, Simon doubted that it could be far.
‘Christ’s cods!’ he spat as he stumbled into a rut. ‘Why do you want my help?’
‘You have experience of dead bodies, Bailiff, and investigating them. I remember that much from our meetings in the past. There has been a woman killed, and I would appreciate your experience.’
‘You’ll be disappointed,’ Simon grumbled. ‘If you really want help, it’s Baldwin you should speak to. He is the one who understands death and dead bodies. I am the one who tries to avoid them. My help was only needed when he had less knowledge of a local village, and I knew more of the people. Anyway, isn’t there a Keeper of the King’s Peace or someone else here to investigate such matters?’
‘Yes, there are plenty of people here in the city, Master Bailiff, but in case you had not noticed, they are all rather busy with arranging for the defence of the city just now.’
Simon grunted. ‘I see. But what is the reason for calling on me at this time of night? I ought to be with my wife. We have not had a good day today. We’d hoped to leave and make our way home, but were turned back at the gates.’
‘I think there are a lot of people who will soon wish that they had escaped Bristol,’ Sir Charles said with sudden sombreness. ‘Myself included. I didn’t intend to come here and be imprisoned in the city.’
Simon nodded as he followed Sir Charles up a lane, along a broader street, and then into an alley that narrowed until it took a turn at the end.
It was clear that this was where the unfortunate body lay, because there was a large group about it. With the curfew operating, these people must be neighbours, called like Simon from their beds to witness the body. A pair of horn lanterns flickered and cast a baleful light on the area, making faces look devilish or unwholesomely pale by turn. Sir Charles called out to a pair of watchmen, both older men with grim faces and figures that would compel a man to be polite. They held thick staffs, one as short as a cudgel, the other as long as a bow, and both looked entirely competent to handle them. Hearing Sir Charles’s shout, they stood back, and commanded the rest of the people to give way, pushing with their staves to clear a wider circle.
Simon shoved his way through and found himself confronted by the body of a woman in her middle years. She lay on her back, her eyes wide open. One arm was at her side, while her right had the elbow bent, and her hand was up near her shoulder.
Simon knelt beside her and closed his eyes for a moment or two. Not so very long ago, he would have reached for a bucket – but he was grown more accustomed to the horrors of murder, and as he opened them again, his eyes began to take in the details even as his mind rebelled at the sight. He had often heard Baldwin say that a dead body was a person with a story to tell, but who had been struck dumb. The killer had left his reasons for the killing all about the corpse, and a man who had eyes to see and a brain to think, would be able to read the tale.
In the dark he had to peer closely, but first he surveyed her body, how she lay, the ground about her, searching for any little hints as to what might have happened here.
The first thing that sprang to mind was rape, naturally. A man who felt he had been rejected might, after some ales, decide to repay the woman who had spurned his advances. Rape followed by homicide was all too common.
Her skirts were lifted, but here in the dark he was reluctant to investigate her intimate parts further. In the morning when the inquest was held they could see whether she had been savagely assaulted; perhaps the story here was that simple? Certainly, when Simon peered at her face, he was sure that there was bruising about her mouth. He motioned to a boy and took a lantern from him, studying her more closely. Yes, her mouth had been roughly gripped, which could mean she had been held down to stop her calling for help. It brought to his mind a picture of this woman squirming, trying to break away, her eyes wide with terror and horror… It was a thought to make his stomach turn.
He felt her body gently, seeking a wound, but at first could find none. Her flesh was still quite warm, although there was no breath in her. She was plainly dead, but she must have died quite recently. Then he felt the little patch of stickiness, and beckoned the moon-curser[24] to him.
The boy lowered his lamp and Simon lifted a fold of material. There, just under her breast, was a stab wound. At least an in
ch in breadth, he reckoned.
She had been stabbed only once that he could tell; was there another wound? In his experience, men and women often had defensive cuts on their hands when they tried to shield themselves. He studied her palms but there was no mark there.
He squatted on his heels, thinking. Perhaps she had been hit on the head. If she had been knocked down, she wouldn’t have been able to defend herself. He reached behind her head, lifting it and feeling the scalp all over. The ground here was rough, and taking his hand away, he saw blood on his fingers. It was not proof of anything, of course, but the way she was lying here, the bruising about her mouth, seemed to imply that she had been held down, a hand over her mouth, her head pressed into the ground.
Simon stood, and spoke to Sir Charles, explaining his findings.
‘I see. There is nothing more to learn, you think?’
‘In this light it is not easy, Sir Charles,’ Simon said sharply. ‘I wouldn’t think she was killed a very long time ago, because the rats haven’t been at her yet, and she is still warm.’
‘So she was thrust on the ground, a hand over her mouth – what, while she was raped?’
‘Yes, possibly,’ Simon said. ‘At the moment, I cannot tell whether she was raped.’ He beckoned the moon-curser and went back to the body, picking up her hands and studying her fingernails. ‘No, there is no blood under her nails. I had hoped…’
‘So her killer has not even gained scratches to show he was here,’ Sir Charles said.
‘Do you know who she was?’
In answer, Sir Charles beckoned the watchman with the shorter cudgel. ‘Tell the good Bailiff here all you know.’
‘What is your name?’ Simon asked.
‘Reg Bothel, Bailiff.’
He was a sturdy-looking man, this Bothel. As he spoke his eyes remained on Simon’s face, which impressed him: he liked the fellow’s honesty.
‘She was called Cecily, I think. Lived at Emma Wrey’s house which is over at the top road from here.’
‘This Emma, was she a relative?’
‘No, she was just Cecily’s mistress.’
‘Has anyone told her that her maid is dead?’
‘We haven’t had time yet,’ Bothel said.
‘And now it is late,’ Sir Charles said, and soon they were returning to Simon’s inn, leaving the poor woman’s body to the care of the watchmen.
Simon waited until they were out of sight of the huddle of men and women by the body before saying, ‘All right, Sir Charles. What was that really about?’
The other man gave him a quick look, but then shrugged, saying, ‘I was asked to look into that woman’s death, even though I have no experience of investigating murder. Still, since the fellow asking me to look at her was the Coroner, I thought I should do the best job I could.’
‘Why didn’t the Coroner come himself?’
‘Busy. He’s helping with the city’s defences.’
‘And you wanted my help just to view her?’ It did not sound to Simon as though the knight was being entirely straightforward
‘I do not like to think of that poor woman lying dead without taking action to get the culprit brought to justice.’
‘I doubt you’ll have much luck with this one, my friend,’ Simon sighed. ‘The fellow is here in the city, for as I know to my cost, there is no way out of here. But trying to find him? Well, that is another matter.’
‘And that is why I would be grateful for your help,’ the knight replied. ‘I told you true, Bailiff Puttock. I do not like to see a woman killed and her murderer go unpunished.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Fourth Friday after the Feast of St Michael [25]
Bristol
Margaret was still distressed as she sat with her husband the next morning. The reappearance of Sir Charles was not welcome.
The knight entered the inn with a mildly distracted air, but smiled at the sight of Simon and his wife. ‘Old friend, I am glad to see you are not still trying to flee the city, like so many. They are queuing all about the gates, demanding the right to leave. They won’t be allowed to do so, though. We cannot afford to let them.’
‘Why not?’ Margaret asked quietly. ‘Surely it would be better to have the city emptied of all the unnecessary mouths? Couldn’t some, like us, be allowed to leave?’
Sir Charles turned his smile upon her. ‘My dear Madame Puttock, it would be too dangerous. How many of those leaving could tell the enemy how to break into the city? How many know where a weak point in the wall lies, or where a postern to access the castle may be found? They may not wish to betray us, but if they are captured and put to the torture… No, better to keep everyone caged here, and ensure that none go to the Queen to tell her the secrets of the city.’
‘We are strangers here – we know nothing of such things,’ Margaret protested.
‘The rule is to be enforced nonetheless, Madame.’
‘I am not happy that we are to be kept here as prisoners,’ Simon said.
‘I know – and if I could find a way for you to escape safely, I would do so immediately. But the way things are just now, you’d not get far before being captured. If the stories are true, the Queen’s men are almost in sight now. They encircle the whole city.’
Margaret turned away, hiding her tears. They were trapped here in this damned city for as long as the Queen maintained her siege. She wondered whether she would ever see her daughter again, whether she would at last see her grandson. But no. It was likely that she and her son would perish here.
Despair made her bitter. ‘Simon, I should like to find food,’ she said curtly.
‘My love, I think that all the food is likely to be locked away now.’
‘I want dried meat and some bread here, for Peterkin and me,’ Margaret snapped. ‘As soon as this siege begins to bite, the city will likely allow all strangers and foreigners to starve. You will be all right, Simon, because you can help guard the city, so they will feed you. What about Peterkin and me? Simon, I don’t want to watch our son die!’
This last was a wail of despair, and Simon felt it like a punch to his belly. He stared at Sir Charles, wretched in his inability to help his own wife, to protect his family.
Sir Charles was not the fastest-thinking knight Simon had ever met, but now he held up both hands. ‘Madame Margaret, you and your husband will stay in the chamber allocated to me in the castle, and I shall find somewhere else. Then you will be able to eat the food stored for the siege. Nothing could be easier. I will not permit you to go hungry, my lady.’
Simon had gone to his wife and held her in his arms. ‘You are sure?’ he asked.
‘Of course. My lady, do not worry yourself – it is all solved. There is no need for you to be alarmed. Now, Simon, let us discuss this unfortunate peasant – Cecilia? Cecily?’
And Simon went to sit and talk with the knight about the woman found the night before, while Margaret watched unhappily. Because it was one thing to say that they would be fed within the castle, but another for Simon and she to be safe, when all the Queen’s forces were now to be aimed at that self-same castle, with bolts and stones hurled from the siege machines of her artillery.
She glanced up at the ceiling as though expecting the sky to begin to rain rocks upon her head. It was terrifying. And there was no escape.
South of Bristol
Exhaustion kept Baldwin in a deep slumber, and it was only when a hungry Wolf thrust his nose in his armpit that he was jerked fully awake.
Although the knight was keen to be away on the road to Furnshill, he found himself content in the hall with Thomas Redcliffe and his wife. The couple chattered happily, and it was pleasant to see their ease with each other this morning. They clearly enjoyed their domestic existence, even with the disaster of his business failure.
Their companionship was not the only reason for Baldwin’s reluctance to make a start. From the moment he had woken he had heard the steady thrumming of rain on the roof, and as soon as he
pulled open the shutters, he knew that the day would be miserable. It reminded him of the time a decade earlier, when the rain had been so unrelenting that crops failed and famine struck the whole of Europe. People died in such vast numbers that English Coroners could not view all the bodies, and a special dispensation was given to all vills to hold their own inquests – unless there was good reason to suspect foul play.
Sir Baldwin offered a prayer that there would be no such repetition. None who had lived through the famine had survived unmarked by tragedy.
At the table, while he and Jack ate a large breakfast of thick pottage in which cubes of ham floated, Redcliffe spoke of the trials of the King.
‘It is a terrible thing for the Queen to have deserted her husband,’ he said.
‘I am sure that it was not a decision she took lightly,’ Baldwin said.
‘You do not mean to support her in her treason?’ Redcliffe asked.
‘I myself intend to ride to the King’s support,’ the knight pointed out. ‘A man can do no more. But I do not condemn.’
‘There are few who would be so moderate as you, Sir Baldwin.’
‘Perhaps we should talk of happier matters,’ Roisea suggested, seeing their guest’s discomfort. ‘How far is your home, Sir Baldwin?’
‘If we ride well, I suppose three days from here,’ Baldwin said, and tried to block out the noise of falling rain. Wolf sat at his side, shoving his head under Baldwin’s hand. ‘Yes. We should be on our way,’ he muttered.
They completed their meal, and after a short period of leave-taking, Baldwin and Jack were on their way. Redcliffe had advised on their best road. They should follow the great river westwards, and then take the coastal route towards the moors. From there Baldwin would be able to find his own way, he was sure.
It was a relief to be setting off on the last part of their journey, and Baldwin tugged his heavy riding cloak about him as he and Jack trotted slowly up the road which led away from the city, Wolf behind them. Soon they could see the hills rising in front of them, and in the miserable weather it was good, Baldwin reflected, to have such clear, distinct targets to aim for.
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