‘What are your orders, Sire?’ Sir Hugh asked.
‘Eh?’ The King gazed at him for a moment as if he didn’t recognise his own favourite.
‘You will need to move away,’ Baldwin said. ‘You must go to a place of safety as soon as you may, Your Highness.’
‘Safety?’ the King repeated blankly, and then he bellowed the word, bringing a fist down onto the bench beside him with enough force to make the servants turn and stare. ‘Safety? And where shall I find this safety in my kingdom? Or anywhere? I may not travel to France, because the King would likely arrest me and give me to his sister, my wife, for her sport. To Scotland? Bruce would see me executed.’
‘There is yet Ireland,’ Sir Hugh le Despenser muttered. ‘We can go there and raise another host to retake the country. At least we would be safe there.’
‘Perhaps. For a while,’ the King said heavily. His eyes dropped and his toe tapped on the floor as he considered. ‘And then, what?’
‘As I said, my lord. Raise an army, fight these rebels, remove them, and retake your throne,’ Sir Hugh le Despenser said.
‘You would have me wage war on my Queen, then, and my son? What then, Sir Hugh, when I have retaken my throne, and these rebels have been executed or imprisoned, and I have gained a new reputation for cruelty? What then? For as soon as I have seated my backside on my throne, you may be assured that the next plot to remove me will already have begun. There were hundreds who resisted last time, and after that battle I had many killed for their treachery. And when I won, it gave an impetus to these, who immediately sought to start anew where they had failed. If I win again, events will repeat themselves. Must I always prepare for the next war with my barons?’
‘Perhaps, yes, my lord,’ Despenser said irritably. ‘You must do something, though. You cannot stay here – it is too dangerous.’
‘What is the point of continuously moving about the country?’ the King retorted. ‘All that happens is, our forces erode as the men desert us. I may as well wait here for them. I am sure my wife would not be so cruel as to–’
‘A fig for your wife! The one you should fear is Sir Roger Mortimer,’ Sir Hugh spat. ‘He’s the one you imprisoned in the Tower, he’s the one who had his death warrant signed by you, Your Highness! Forget your Queen. She is a pretty face at the head of the Mortimer’s force, but it is not she, nor yet your son, who directs them. It’s Mortimer who tells them where to go, what to do, and who to kill!’
The King put a hand to his temple. ‘Then prepare the men to leave this place. We shall ride to Caerphilly. At least we should find some peace there. Dear God, I hope so!’
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Bristol
Simon, Hugh and Sir Charles crossed the town to return to the castle. On the way, they passed the execution ground where the headsman, liberally beslubbered with gore, was drinking from a great skin filled with wine, humming a tune with a slurred inflection. Sawdust had been liberally spread over the area to soak up the blood, and Earl Hugh’s body was already being fought over by the dogs.
‘It is a terrible thing to see a man brought so low,’ Simon murmured as they passed.
Hugh grunted. He had detested the Despenser family since his wife’s death, because it was Despenser’s men who had killed her and her child, he believed. The shock of it had, if anything, turned him still more introverted and misathropic than before.
Sir Charles was not concentrating. ‘Hmm? Yes. Not good to see that the highest in the land can be killed. Precedents like that should not be popularly displayed to the peasants. They may get all sorts of unwholesome ideas!’
Sir Charles was one of the new knights, a man who had lost his home and livelihood when Earl Thomas of Lancaster had been toppled from power and executed by his cousin, the King. That had been a terrible time, with many of the Earl’s followers being taken and knights who had been loyal to him being forced to flee. Sir Charles was one of them. He had reached France, hoping to make his fortune in the tournaments, but later managed to win the trust of the King again, and had returned to favour. He had experienced the lowest fortune and the highest, and even now there was a measuring look in his eye as he glanced over the gibbet.
He looked at Simon. ‘Where do you wish to go?’
‘The knight described by the fosser sounds like the man who was so keen to throw open the gates of the city for Mortimer and the Queen: the Coroner, Sir Stephen Siward. Let’s see if we can speak with him.’
It was easy enough to find the knight. He was lounging at a table at an inn not far from the one where Simon and Margaret had stayed on their first night here.
The impression Simon gained was entirely positive. Sir Stephen Siward was a large man, heavy and tall, and with black hair cut short, and with his piercing blue eyes in that round face, he looked the sort of man who would make excellent company around a table. ‘So, you seek me?’ he said amiably. ‘What, will you join me in a cup or two of wine?’
Sir Charles agreed with alacrity, sitting on a bench, and Simon too was glad of the offer. Soon the patron had arrived with two flagons of wine and more cups, and all three could begin talking, while Hugh stood a short distance away like a guard, leaning on his staff.
‘How may I help you?’
‘Sir Stephen, this is nothing to do with the surrender of the city. This is about a woman who was killed here a little while ago.’
‘I won’t pretend I don’t know who you’re talking about,’ the knight said. He frowned into his wine, then, tipping his head back, he emptied the cup. ‘Poor Cecily. She was such an unfortunate woman. To escape one hideous attack, only to be slain in another.’
‘You knew her well?’ Simon asked.
‘No. I thought you realised: I am Coroner here for the King. I cover a wide area, but I happened to be here in the city, fortunately, when Squire William went on his mad crusade of death. You know the story of him and his wife? Oh. Well, you know then, that he assaulted the Capons’ house with a gang of men, slew the old doorman, then Capon, his wife and daughter, before finally dashing out the brains of the baby. A terrible revenge. There were – oh, I’ve lost count of them now – but many, many blade wounds on his wife’s body. Poor girl – she was only eighteen when he killed her.’
Simon felt his belly tighten at the thought of such carnage. ‘He was arrested?’
‘Oh, yes. In little time. Everyone knew him, and poor Cecily was able to identify him and some of his henchmen once she recovered. It was enough for the jury. Besides, as she accused him, he tried to launch himself at her. It was hard enough in the first place to persuade him to come to the court, but then to try to attack Cecily just because she told what she witnessed… that was shameful.’
Sir Charles leaned on an elbow. ‘Why would they leave her alive?’
‘Well, when they took the baby from her, the horror made her faint – so perhaps they thought her dead?’
‘Committed killers are rarely so careless,’ Sir Charles said. Then: ‘Why was the Squire not in gaol?’
‘The King has issued a general pardon to those who will serve him. Squire William was more than happy to take that offer with both hands. I had heard he was going to join the King when His Highness arrived here – but his body was so mutilated and decomposed, I suppose he was killed before the King arrived.’
‘Was there any sign as to who could have killed him?’ Simon asked.
‘I swear I do not know. I… But no.’
‘Please?’ Simon pressed him.
‘It is probably nothing, but I did hear that there was a priest out there, not far from where the man’s body was discovered. A fellow who recently arrived from Tewkesbury.’
‘What of it?’ Sir Charles said.
‘Only this: young Petronilla ran away with her confessor, a young priest called Paul. Now I hear that a priest by that name has been given a living just far enough from here to be safe from people in the town, and far enough away from Squire William, too, generally. Unless…’<
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‘You are speaking in riddles,’ Sir Charles snapped.
‘Am I? You must accept my apologies. All I meant to say was, that if this same Paul, who is some three to four leagues from Bristol, were to hear from some passing traveller that a woman called Capon, along with her father and mother and a little illegitimate baby, had been slain by her husband, and that the husband had been captured, but then freed under the King’s order – well, if you were that priest, thinking it was your woman, your baby, what would you wish to do? Forgive – forget? Or waylay the Squire and hack off his head and disembowel him for the traitor he had shown himself to be?’
Simon pursed his lips in a whistle. ‘That makes sense. What would your priest do then?’
‘Return to his church as though nothing had happened. What else would he do? There’s nowhere for him to run to now, and if he is found, what can you or I do about his crimes? Nothing, for he has Benefit of Clergy! And I confess, I find that there is little merit in the idea of chasing him down and capturing him. What, would it bring back any of the dead? No, of course not. I think it would be better to leave him alone. There is enough to think about here, with the King and Queen’s enmity.’
‘True enough,’ Sir Charles said. He made ready to stand.
‘One thing, though,’ Simon said. ‘The dagger. Why throw that into Cecily’s grave?’
‘The dagger? What dagger?’
There was instantly a falseness in his tone, and as Simon looked at him, he saw that the man’s eyes were averted. ‘Sir Stephen, a man saw you throw the dagger into the woman’s grave. Why did you do that?’
Sir Stephen looked away, over towards the castle’s open gates, as though musing on the foolishness of life.
‘I did not know Cecily, not until I had to go and view all the bodies at the Capon household, but I do distinctly recall the feeling of something akin to joy, to find one person who was still breathing in that slaughterhouse. She was a mere maidservant, but the fact that she survived seemed to me to be a good thing in its own right.’
He rubbed at his nose. ‘So, you can understand how appalled I was to be called to her body when she was killed. In fact, I was so horrified, I asked Sir Charles here to go to it instead. I could not face the accusation in her eyes. To know that she had died as well… it felt as though I too had failed her.’
‘And the dagger?’
Sir Stephen glanced at him as if startled. ‘Oh, that. Well, the dagger was the property of Squire William de la Bar of Hanham. The husband of Petronilla, the man who killed her entire family.’
‘Where did you get it?’ Sir Charles asked with frank astonishment.
‘From the man who found his body,’ Sir Stephen said.
Simon put his head to one side as Sir Stephen spoke of the dagger and of Robert Vyke finding it in the hole in the road. ‘So someone waylaid Squire William and killed him… and his knife fell into a hole. None of that explains why you set the knife in Cecily’s grave.’
‘Because I thought it would be better for her soul if the knife that slew her mistress was with her. To show that in the end, right did prevail. Her mistress was avenged.’
‘Tell me,’ Sir Charles said, as they walked away from the knight once more, ‘did that make any sense to you, because it made very little sense to me.’
‘I suppose there are some who believe that the weapon which caused so much death could be a symbol of the maid’s rising up over the earthly horrors – or something,’ Simon replied, ‘but I am fascinated by this. If the Squire was dead some days ago, according to the knight’s words, then he did not kill the maid. And nor did the dagger.’
‘In that case, we need to find out what happened to the Squire as well, if we are to learn what happened to the woman.’
They were inside the gatehouse to the castle when Simon had an idea. He led the way up to the first level, and along to the Constable’s chamber. Inside he found Sir Laurence Ashby.
‘Yes?’ the knight asked.
Simon bowed a little from respect. ‘Sir Laurence, my apologies for troubling you about this again, but I have been ordered to investigate the murder of the woman Cecily. Sir Roger himself demanded it.’
‘I will help if I may,’ Sir Laurence grunted.
‘There are some interesting circumstances because of Squire William. Sir Stephen was holding inquest over him a little while before Cecily died. Can you tell me where the Coroner’s rolls are kept? I would like to see the one concerning his inquest, and perhaps speak with the clerk involved.’
Sir Laurence ran a hand through his hair. ‘I don’t know myself, but my own clerk is bound to. If a mouse farts, he knows about it.’
He stood and walked with the men along the walls to a small, cell-like chamber set into the next tower. Here, David was sitting upon a stool and carefully ruling lines on a piece of perfect vellum.
Sir Laurence stood in the doorway and indicated the two men with him. ‘David, do you know these men?’
‘I know Sir Charles. You, sir, are a stranger to me.’
Simon nodded and introduced himself, saying that he was seeking the murderer of Cecily and explaining about their meeting with Sir Stephen. ‘And so, if the dagger was there, and the Squire was killed already, I wish to learn who killed the Squire. Then, I can perhaps learn who killed Cecily. I do not see how these two, who must have been enemies, could have been struck down by the same man.’
David frowned. ‘Well, for that, I will leave you to decide, master. I can at least take you to the Coroner’s rolls, for they are stored here in the castle.’
They were taken down to the castle’s courtyard, and then up into the main keep, in which there was an iron-barred door. David used a key on a thong about his neck to open it, and they were inside a small cellar which smelled mainly of rats and piss. Four great chests were inside, and the clerk walked straight to the third, unlocking the lid and lifting it.
‘Here,’ he said, ‘are all the rolls for the last six years, when the Justices last came to hold their eyre.[29] The latest ones are on top. Sir Stephen’s clerk was captured by the Queen’s men on his way here, but they did not molest him, and he was able to bring his rolls here without hindrance.’
‘Good!’ Simon said, looking through the various cylinders of parchment. Soon he found the one he was searching for, and eagerly unwrapped it. Reading through it, while David held a candle aloft to aid him, Simon frowned at the ecclesiastical language. It was many years since he had learned his letters in Crediton, and he had to work hard to make sense of the characters used here. They were more rounded than those to which he was accustomed. ‘Dear Heaven!’ he exclaimed.
‘What is it?’ Sir Charles asked.
‘The man who found the body – he said he was held and looked after by a priest – a priest called Paul.’
‘So?’
‘Paul was the name of the priest who seduced the maid Petronilla and persuaded her to run away with him,’ Simon reminded him. ‘So this same man, whose love had been slaughtered by Squire William, was also the same one who rescued the man who found Squire William’s body.’
‘You mean, the priest could have killed the Squire?’ Sir Charles said.
‘No!’ David protested. ‘Father Paul is a good and generous-hearted soul – he would not go against the Holy Commandments and kill.’
‘But he broke the sixth and eighth, did he not – and I think you will find any man can kill, given the right provocation,’ Sir Charles said lightly.
‘You do not know him. I do,’ David said stoutly.
‘Did you think he would take a man’s wife and make him a cuckold?’ Sir Charles asked.
‘No, of course not!’
‘Then perhaps I know his kind better than you,’ Sir Charles said suavely.
Two Tuesdays before the Feast of St Martin [30]
Bristol Castle
‘Master Bailiff, I hope I find you well?’
Sir Roger Mortimer strode into the hall like a man in a hurry t
o be off with his hounds. He reminded Simon of his old friend Bishop Walter II when he was younger – a strong, charismatic man, with an almost feral energy about him. Where Sir Roger went, a small group of others always followed. There was the pair of clerks, a priest, three men-at-arms, two messengers, and behind, Simon saw a familiar face.
He dropped to his knee, bowing his head, urgently motioning to Hugh to do the same.
‘Master Puttock, please rise,’ the Duke of Aquitaine said.
He was only fourteen, Simon reckoned, but from his looks and deportment, he could have been a great deal older.
‘So, Master Puttock, I am very glad to meet with you again. You left France in a hurry.’
‘I had to, my lord. I had a bond of honour to Bishop Walter.’
‘Of course. It was a great shame that he died. You heard of that, of course?’
Simon nodded. It was odd – he could feel that thickening in his throat again at the mere thought of the Bishop’s death. He had been snatched from his horse, along with his squires and servants, and had his head sawn off with a bread-knife in the middle of a London street. Barbaric! ‘He was a good man. I know your mother had cause to–’
Sir Roger cleared his throat irritably. ‘Duke, I think I should continue with my discussion. With your permission, my lord?’
The interruption made the Duke pale. He was unused to being treated like a boy. From the first weeks of his life, he had been the Earl of Chester, and he had maintained his own household for years already, and yet from the look in his eyes, Simon saw recognition of the limitations of his position. In the eyes of the world at large, Edward, Duke of Aquitaine and Earl of Chester, was the King’s son and heir; but here, in this chamber, he knew he was at the mercy of Sir Roger Mortimer. The latter would allow him the feel the power of his position, but not to exercise it. For now, he was still a boy, and Sir Roger had assumed the role of Regent and adviser-in-chief.
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