The Oath aktm-29

by Michael Jecks

  ‘Your courage may be, but you have no honour in you, by my faith!’ Sir Laurence spat. ‘This city was given away by you, when you were sworn to help defend it. That you did so proves your unfaithfulness. I call on you now. Draw your sword, Sir Laurence!’

  With a slither of steel, both men drew their weapons and crouched, Sir Laurence with his sword hanging in the true guardant – held with his fist above his head, the point aiming down and across his body towards Sir Stephen. The latter had his own weapon in the medium guard, his fist low at his belly, the blade pointing upwards, ready to rise and knock aside any attack. But before either man could make a move, there came a great bellow from the other side of the yard.

  ‘You – stop that! Both of you, put up your swords!’

  There was a moment in which the two knights stared at each other, and Sir Stephen saw Sir Laurence’s eyes narrow as though preparing to launch himself forward, but even as the idea began to communicate itself to his legs and arm, a pair of spears intruded, and guards stepped between them both.

  ‘Sires, I would be very glad if you would save this for another day,’ a serious-looking man said. He was older than either knight, and not noble, but for all that, he had a firm quarter-staff grip on a lance, and he looked as though he not only knew how to use it, but would willingly do so.

  A man with a sword stood little chance against a man with a staff. The reach of that pole gave him a great advantage, especially when it had a sharp tip. Sir Laurence gritted his teeth, but stood back, his sword at rest, but unsheathed. The tip of the lance came closer to Sir Stephen, who smiled politely at the intruders. ‘Tell me,’ he said pleasantly as he shoved his sword into the scabbard. ‘What is your name, my friend?’

  ‘I am Otho, sir.’

  ‘And you think you have the right to stop two knights from fighting over a matter of honour?’

  ‘Sire, I would not dare to stop a knight from doing what he wanted. But I was ordered to see to it that there was no brawling or fighting here today, and I obey Sir Roger’s orders.’

  ‘I see, Otho. Well, I wish you fortune. For if you try such a thing again, I think you may lose your head.’

  ‘Sir Stephen, when would you like to meet again?’ interrupted Sir Laurence.

  ‘At the first opportunity, my friend. If we are to come to blows, it would be better to do so sooner rather than later, eh? Perhaps in the morning?’

  Otho stood aside as Sir Roger stormed between the two. ‘There will be no fighting in the morning. There will be no fighting whatsoever here, not while I’m in charge. Tomorrow, Sir Stephen, you will join me, as will you, Sir Laurence. We go to hunt the King, and if you think I will willingly permit you two to deprive me of one or both of you, you are mistaken. Sheath that weapon, Sir Laurence. Better! Now, shake hands, both of you, if you don’t want to be gaoled and left here until I return.’

  Sir Stephen smiled thinly, and held out his hand. Seeing Sir Laurence’s reluctance, he smiled more broadly, until the two gripped each other’s hands. But there was no peace in either man’s eyes as they stared at each other.

  The Coroner let go, and stepped back quickly. It was not unknown for a man to be held by the hand while his opponent drew a knife and stabbed him. But Sir Laurence was not made in that mould, clearly. He turned, bowed casually to Sir Roger, and walked away.

  ‘You won’t leave him in charge here, Sir Roger?’ Sir Stephen asked.

  ‘You think I’d leave a man who is still coming to terms with his betrayal of his loyalty to the King? If Sir Laurence was left here alone, he could easily lock the gates again, and hold out even with a smaller garrison. No, I won’t let him out of my sight for a long while.’

  ‘Would you let me guard it for you?’

  Sir Roger turned and stared at him. ‘You think I’m a fool? You were unfaithful to the King after you gave him your word. What could you possibly say to me that would let me trust you now? You, Sir Stephen, will also stay near me, where I can see you.’

  Marshfield

  The priest was a sad man, Simon thought. His face was weary, as though he had already seen too much suffering and was scarred forever. In his sorrow, the man reminded Simon of Baldwin when they had first met; there was the same sense of one who was marked by the way he had been hurt. And yet, whereas with Baldwin Simon had always had an appreciation of the steel beneath, this man did not give that same impresssion.

  ‘You are Paul, Father?’

  ‘Yes, my son. You are from Bristol? I have been expecting you.’

  Simon and Sir Charles exchanged a look before they climbed down from their horses and lashed them to a tree nearby. The mounts immediately began cropping the grass.

  ‘Father, you know why we’re here?’

  ‘Yes. But I know nothing about it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The murder of Squire William of Hanham. Oh, don’t misunderstand me, I’d have killed him, gladly, and I would have confessed it with pride had you asked me – but I cannot take the credit for this death.’

  ‘Perhaps you would like to tell us your story from the beginning,’ Sir Charles said. Then: ‘I don’t suppose you have any wine here?’

  The priest led them into the church. There was a bench cut into the wall at the back, and here Father Paul had already lighted a charcoal brazier. The warm glow of the coals was a delight in that chilly chamber, and the two guests sat with cups and a wineskin, while the priest stood, his hands over the warmth, his face contemplative.

  ‘You must know my story, or you wouldn’t be here,’ he began. ‘People say the cruellest things, though, and I would have you know that for my part, I adored that woman. It was more than flesh and blood could bear, to see her so foully beaten and abused. Poor Petronilla was a delicate, beautiful little thing, slender as a willow-wand, with a smile that could heat a room.’

  ‘Aye,’ Sir Charles said drily. ‘And she was married.’

  ‘She was – but not by her own choice. Her father sold her. Yes, like a slave, he sold her. Squire William wanted money, and Arthur Capon wanted access to nobility. So Capon exchanged his daughter for the promise of high-born blood in his grandchildren’s veins. She could suffer so long as his family was well positioned.

  ‘Well, his daughter was a virtuous, honourable child. Fourteen years, she was, when the marriage took place. So young for a woman to be forced to a man’s bed. Squire William was greatly pleased by her, and the dowry she brought with her, and paraded her whenever he had the opportunity. Before long, however, her parents visited, and arguments began. She told me about them. Her mother was unimpressed with the manner of the Squire’s hospitality. She wanted better food – the cook, she said, was incapable, the house a mess; she hated hounds, and the Squire was a keen hunter; she hated noise, and the Squire was a loud kind of man. Wherever he went, there was much commotion.

  ‘I think Mrs Capon was too set in her ways. As was Arthur, her husband. He wanted for nothing at his own home, and he expected the same attention to be lavished on him when he visited another house. But Squire William was not rich. He could ill afford all the luxuries which his father-in-law demanded. Their little jibes grew into arguments and then into hatred. Real, bitter hatred. And the Capons returned to Bristol.

  ‘Arthur had a banker’s mind. He was always thinking of the cost of everything. He thought he could upset his son-in-law best by removing any money he had already paid in dower. That was why he made the statement.’ Father Paul sighed.

  ‘Which statement was that?’ Simon asked.

  ‘He told the man that Petronilla was not their natural child.’

  Sir Charles winced. ‘Ouch! Was it true?’

  ‘They swore it. She had been fostered from a whore, so they stated.’

  ‘What happened?’ Simon asked.

  ‘As you would expect, Squire William was enraged. They threatened to pursue him through the courts for their money, because there was no need for them to pay for her, they said, since she was not of their blood. M
eanwhile, he declared that since she was not theirs, he would keep her and their money, for if they had made the marriage vows with him in deceit, it was not his fault. He had married her in good faith, taking her dower in good faith. He would not give up the money. And it was then that he began to treat her really badly.

  ‘You have to understand, I was watching this terrible situation develop. It took three years for matters to come to this pass, a slow but inevitable slide into misery and despair for all concerned. And yet only now did I become so close to her that she allowed me to see her pain. Until then she had held herself composed at all times. Her fortitude was astonishing. I think it was that which compelled me to love her. Anyway, as her confessor, I knew all, of course. All this is common knowledge now, so the secrecy of the confessional is not relevant. But when I saw how she was becoming bruised and injured, although I attempted to remonstrate with the Squire, he would not listen to me. Why should he? All that bastard cared about was money.’

  Sir Charles shifted. ‘So, what happened? You ran off with her, eh?’

  ‘Only after a lot of soul-searching,’ Paul said. He was very calm, and Simon guessed that to be able to unburden himself of the whole story was in its own way a relief. He continued: ‘We ran away, yes. And yes, I was dreaming wildly of a new life with her. A life with rose petals carpeting the ground beneath our feet. We would live in a state of perpetual bliss, and our souls would become inextricably entwined. I was so innocent!

  ‘At first, we were happy. But she was used to furs and pewter: I could offer only rough fustian and wood. We scraped along somehow for almost six weeks before we were captured and brought back to Bristol.’

  He paused and smiled sadly. ‘Six weeks. It could have been a lifetime. My happy Petronilla!’

  ‘Her father was pleased to have her home?’ Simon asked.

  ‘It appeared that all was well. As I said, he was a money-man, and I swear he would have been happier to have the dower returned than his daughter. Still, he tolerated her. But then the truth of my love for her became obvious, and Petronilla was sent away to a nunnery. I had already been taken and held in the Bishop of Bath and Wells’s gaol for almost a year, before I was released. That was when I heard I was the father of a little boy.’

  ‘You are sure the child was yours?’

  Paul shrugged. ‘We were alone for almost six weeks. She had her natural blood in the first week after we ran away, but not again until Little Harry was born. He was my child.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Two and a half weeks ago I heard that they were all dead. Slaughtered in their hall by that wicked fiend, Squire William.’ There were tears in Father Paul’s eyes. ‘So, do you wonder why I would willingly have killed him?’

  Simon was watching him closely all the while. There was little doubt in his mind that, physically, the priest was nowhere strong enough to kill anyone, let alone a sturdy country squire.

  ‘Who else could have wanted him to be killed?’

  ‘I have no idea. Many, I expect, because he was a violent man. You know what these…’ he glanced at Sir Charles before saying anything more derogatory about knights… ‘rural Squires can be like,’ he amended.

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ Simon grinned. Then a thought struck him. ‘Do you know whether he was a loyal man to the King?’

  ‘He was pardoned, wasn’t he? And his men with him. I think that tells you what King Edward thought about his loyalty.’

  ‘And yet he did not go to the King to support him.’

  ‘Perhaps he died before he might do so,’ Paul said.

  ‘The man who found him…’

  Paul winced. ‘I still feel the shame of that. I saw the body in there, and saw the first finder with him, and I confess I panicked. I thought this fellow had killed Squire William, so I knocked him on the pate. But then I looked at the body, and realised that the man had been dead some while already, so the fellow I had struck down could not have been the murderer. However, I thought it better to say nothing. I put the poor fellow in a cart and took him home, and there I nursed him back to health. But I denied seeing the dead body, or finding him there, or knocking him down. I did not want Squire William found.’

  ‘Why?’ Sir Charles demanded.

  ‘Sir Knight, why do you think? Someone deliberately killed him near to my home in order to implicate me. If I had volunteered that kind of information, I could have been arrested again, sent back to gaol, and left to die unshriven.’

  ‘Like him?’

  ‘I feel pity for that. He deserved his chance – but he was long dead before I saw him.’ Father Paul looked away from Simon, down at the ground. ‘Perhaps he could have been brought to repent of his cruelty. I do know this: whatever his crimes, to kill him was wrong – as wrong as it was for him to murder Petronilla.’

  And he began to weep. He was still weeping when Simon and Sir Charles left him, seated hunched over, arms around his legs, rocking silently in his grief, and when Simon glanced back and saw him, he had a hideous vision of himself doing the same thing, were someone to kill his beloved family.

  It was enough to make his heart crack with dread.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Bristol Castle

  ‘Sir Laurence! Wait, please!’

  The knight turned at once, his heart still pounding painfully. Without the release of actual fighting, he felt weak, as though the explosion of rage that had flooded him had torn all energy from his soul. It was a huge relief to see that the person hailing him was David, his clerk.

  ‘Yes, old friend?’

  ‘Redcliffe, you remember? – you asked me to learn what I could. Good God, you look awful. Been back to the garderobes to get a whiff of the stench?’

  ‘Not now, David.’

  ‘Very well. The man you asked about was a merchant here in the city until he lost all his money. He was closed down some months ago. There were rumours that he was going to try to start again, but he had no money to begin.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘There was a story I heard…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Some say that he had been used by the King as a messenger, that he was especially trusted. He had been a purveyor of Spanish horses for the King, and used to take messages abroad for His Highness.’

  Sir Laurence nodded, but he still felt numb and couldn’t quite grasp the significance of this. ‘What would that matter to Sir Roger, then?’

  ‘There is one possibility, sir.’ The clerk looked around cautiously before speaking. ‘This man could have been suborned by Sir Roger. If he was truly a man with access to the King, he could, perhaps, have been sent to try to assassinate him…’

  ‘No, surely not!’

  Then Sir Laurence remembered the look on Sir Roger’s face, and thought about the latter’s strenuous efforts to be gone from here and chase after his quarry.

  ‘David, you keep this to yourself. Don’t mention it to anyone.’

  Caerphilly Castle

  In its own way, the note was thoroughly unremarkable. A short line it read simply: This man has my confidence. Give him all help. Roger Mortimer.

  And yet nothing could have been more shocking to Sir Baldwin. This scrap of parchment was, in effect, a letter of safe-conduct for the man. A man who was supposed to be a loyal messenger to the King.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Roisea protested. ‘How could he have something like this?’

  It made no sense. Unless… ‘Perhaps,’ Baldwin said, ‘Sir Roger Mortimer gave him free passage so that negotiations could continue?’

  But he knew perfectly well that Sir Roger would be highly unwilling to negotiate with the King. There could be no discussions about how to surrender. The whole process of war for Sir Roger Mortimer was concentrated on destroying the King, utterly.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Roisea said. ‘Thomas was never that close to the King. He was a merchant, that was all.’ Her face reflected her terror. ‘How could he do this? He was a traitor, wasn’t he? He must ha
ve been!’

  Baldwin put a hand on hers. ‘There is nothing to say that. One line on a strip of parchment like this is not proof.’

  ‘What would the King say? Would he need a great deal of extra proof?’ she said agitatedly. ‘Destroy it! Please, Sir Baldwin, burn it!’

  He took the strip and set it inside his chemise, passing her the purse again. ‘You keep that, and I shall keep this for now. It is nothing to do with you, and if you are asked, say you have no idea about it. You have not seen it. You do not know anything about your husband’s work.’

  ‘So you think he was a traitor, too.’

  ‘It is difficult to know what else to think,’ the knight admitted.

  Jack was nearby, and Baldwin lowered his voice so that only Roisea could hear him. ‘Whatever your husband was trying to accomplish, it is too late now. He cannot be punished, and there is no point in making you suffer for his actions. So try to forget all about it, madame.’

  She could not, of course. As Baldwin rode on, he could see the tears falling down her cheeks. This was the first time he had seen her weeping with such passion, he noted. The death of her husband had not affected her thus, but this discovery, which could potentially threaten her own safety, was different.

  He put her from his mind. She was not important – but the note was. It showed that all he had done since meeting that evil, lying fool in Winchester had been based on deceit. He had diverted himself from his home in order to protect the man who was plotting to kill the King! Instead of bringing a messenger, he had brought an assassin. That was how he read the message, and he could see that Roisea thought the same. It was terrifying. But at least Thomas had been killed.

  Which then brought another thought to his mind: if that man whom he had injured at Winchester, and then killed at the Severn, was actually determined to kill Thomas Redcliffe, then surely he had been ordered to do so by someone who was supporting the King and had learned something about the plot to hurt him. Which meant that Baldwin himself had tried to protect the assassin. If he had succeeded… A shiver of dread went through his frame.