The Oath aktm-29

by Michael Jecks

  ‘I wonder, Sir Stephen, why the men left Cecily alive in the first place? It makes no sense. They killed everyone else in the Capons’ house, did they not? Did that not strike you as peculiar?’ Simon asked.

  Sir Stephen shrugged, but Sir Charles had been listening carefully. He now set his head to one side, his eyes narrowed as he said, ‘You say that all in the house were killed bar one? That is indeed most peculiar, Bailiff. Was she hiding when they arrived?’

  Simon looked at Sir Stephen, who stared into the middle distance, racking his brains.

  ‘No,’ he said at last. ‘I recall that she had run out into the front court, where she was captured by the Squire himself, and there and then, he snatched the baby from her and dashed his head against a wall. I think that is what she said.’

  ‘That was written in the Coroner’s rolls,’ agreed Simon. ‘The Squire caught her outside – but then saw no need to hurt her.’

  ‘I believe she collapsed, probably from fainting. You know what women can be like,’ Sir Stephen said.

  ‘So he thought she was dead anyway, you mean?’ Simon said.

  Sir Charles gave a harsh laugh. ‘You believe a Squire would do that? Assume someone was dying when he had not even struck a single blow? No, more likely he’d have struck three times at a fallen body just to make sure. A man cannot take risks.’

  ‘I see,’ Simon said. In his mind’s eye, he saw again Cecily’s body, with the single stab wound. ‘Would a knight have behaved in the same way, Sir Charles?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Would a knight have stabbed many times, “just to make sure”?’

  Sir Charles looked at him very directly. ‘When we meet the King’s men, and if any of them dare to stand against me, I will strike each of them precisely as many times as I can before they fall to the ground.’

  ‘I was thinking of the woman. Cecily. Would you have struck at her more than once?’

  ‘No, not more than once,’ Sir Charles laughed. ‘But that once would have taken off her head!’

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Thursday before the Feast of St Martin [36]

  Neath Abbey

  They arrived late in the afternoon, as the light was fading. This pleasant little abbey, all grey stone walls, but with some well-carved blocks of paler stone at the corners and towers to reinforce them, it was a pretty sight as they approached, and Baldwin had asked a man who seemed to know the place a little about it.

  ‘Yes. It was built under a warrant from the King’s father, Edward I, who always loved this area. Fortunately, it is one of the few places down here that wasn’t attacked by the rebels.’

  Baldwin nodded. In the short wars of the Marcher Lords against the overweening arrogance of Despenser, many of these little abbeys as well as castles and manors owned by Despenser were laid waste. The buildings were robbed of all their better fixtures and anything movable was stolen.

  They rode in through the gates, and Baldwin was glad enough to drop from his saddle. The journey had not been long, only eight miles or so, but with the cold weather, it was not pleasant to ride even that far.

  They were all given a little time to take some refreshment and settle themselves in any spare corners they could find. Only the King’s closest companions would share the hall, while he took a chamber set next to it, over a small storage room. The Abbot had offered his own chamber, but the King piously refused his generosity. ‘This is your kingdom,’ he had said with a small smile.

  At the time it had sounded wondrously gallant, but Baldwin was sure that there were more prosaic reasons for his decision, such as the fact that the chamber the Abbot had was further from a room large enough to house all his guards, and the hall with its chamber was further from the abbey walls. Even now, tired and emotionally drained as he was, the King was careful about his safety.

  The summons for Baldwin and Sir Ralph came as the two were sharing a mess with two others. Their meal, a bowl of good, nourishing broth, with some barley to thicken it, and a loaf of bread between them, was marvellously warming, and Baldwin could feel the heat distributing itself through his body. The call was doubly unwelcome, for it meant leaving the remains in the dish for the other men, but Edward’s orders were impossible to ignore.

  ‘You called for us, Your Royal Highness?’ he enquired, after he and Sir Ralph had been permitted to stand again.

  The King waved his servant away, and leaned back in his seat. He was pale and nervous, a tic twitching near his left eye. Behind him, Despenser said nothing, but chewed at his nails and lower lip all the while. Baldwin thought he seemed unaware of anything that was being said.

  ‘Sir Baldwin, Sir Ralph, I wanted to ask you what you think we should do next,’ the King said quietly. ‘This is no longer a matter on which I can decide without suggestions from those whom I trust.’

  ‘My firm belief is that you should cross the sea to Ireland,’ Sir Ralph said. ‘There is no other course open to you, my lord.’

  ‘Sir Baldwin?’

  ‘Your Royal Highness, I do not know this land or the best places in which to fight,’ Baldwin replied. ‘If I had seen a place better suited than Caerphilly, I would suggest you go there. As it is, I would seriously think about returning to the castle, for the reason that it’s got excellent defences and a good store of food. Even with a great siege-train, Mortimer would find it an extraordinarily difficult fortress to demolish, and it would take him a long time. And in that time, perhaps, your people would remember that you are their King. Surely some would come, and perhaps raise the siege?’

  ‘I like this advice better!’ Edward said with a triumphant tone, shooting a look over his shoulder at Despenser. ‘I would return with a sword in my hand, rather than scuttle off with my tail between my legs.’

  ‘Your Highness,’ Despenser began. His voice had become weaker, as though he was fading from the strain of the last months. ‘If we had any additional men, Sir Baldwin’s advice would make sense. However, we have to live with the position we find ourselves in now. How can we rush back to Caerphilly, now that the Mortimer and his men are no doubt already at its drawbridge? It is too late. The only choice is for you to do as Sir Ralph said, and head further west.’

  ‘Run away to exile, then,’ the King said flatly.

  ‘There are times when a leader has to escape the traps set for him,’ Despenser said. ‘Even the Mortimer succeeded in that.’

  ‘You want me to copy a traitor?’ the King rasped suddenly.

  ‘There is another aspect, Your Majesty,’ Sir Ralph said in a placatory tone. ‘If you keep heading west, you may come across more allies among your people in Wales. You have enough friends here. Many will come to your call.’

  ‘Not one has come to my aid so far, and we have journeyed so far through the land already. How can I believe that there is a host of men waiting to support me when not a one has shown me his face, eh? Do you think me a fool who must be cosseted and lied to, in order that I may continue to believe? Believe in what? I don’t believe that the country wants me, I don’t believe that the realm will come to my banner any more. I have lost, lost all. But if I turn back and fight, then maybe the people will see that their King is resolute, and may come back to my standard.’

  ‘Send men to the west, Your Majesty,’ Sir Ralph urged him. ‘Send to see whether they will come to your assistance, as they should, for they are all men of Despenser’s lands.’

  ‘They are my men, but I fear they do not want to obey their own lord,’ Despenser said dully.

  ‘Then we should ride and find a ship,’ Sir Ralph said uncompromisingly. ‘You must not be captured, my liege. Under no circumstances should we permit that to happen.’

  ‘I… I do not think I should leave the kingdom. They already say I have deserted the realm – did you know that? The son of a whore has said that I have left England extra regnum, and that this is the reason why he is permitted to declare himself Regent. Have you heard such a thing before? He dares to do this, and I
cannot prevent it because no one comes to my support!’

  ‘My liege, please! He has done this already, so there is nothing to be changed by taking ship to Ireland. All you need do is collect a host of men from that land, and return and defeat these people. You have skill as a warrior – you showed that at Boroughbridge when you defeated Earl Thomas of Lancaster. Fetch a host and then come back to retake your kingdom. As soon as the people see you with a force, they will flock to your banner. You only need those first few men with you to make it all a reality.’

  ‘I do not know!’ the King cried out.

  To Baldwin, it felt like watching torture. The King had sunk in the last days until now he was a pale shadow of his former self. Despenser had gradually declined over the last year, the fear omni-present that soon he would be captured by the King’s enemies and killed. Edward’s fears were more for his friend than for himself, but whereas before he had always had a belief that at some point men would come to rescue him and Sir Hugh, it was growing clear that no such support existed, because Sir Hugh was detested by one and all.

  Everybody knew that the reign of King Edward II was teetering on the cliffs, and ruin lay below. Not only for the King himself, but for all those who had remained loyal to him in recent years. There was certainty about the fate of Sir Hugh le Despenser should Mortimer or the Queen capture him, and a degree of equal certainty about many of Sir Hugh’s servants; many of the King’s other advisers could go the same route. It was not a consideration which gave anyone in the Abbey great comfort.

  ‘Sir Hugh, what should I do?’ the King said at last, turning in his seat and giving his friend a look in which Baldwin saw anguish and longing

  ‘Send to find a ship,’ Despenser said flatly.

  ‘You think I should leave the kingdom?’

  ‘You need to ask me that? We’ll die if we remain here, my lord! We must get away while we still can.’

  The King turned to face Baldwin and Sir Ralph. ‘There,’ he said, and even as Baldwin watched, he looked as though he was shrivelling into himself, his skin going as grey as a corpse’s, his hands suddenly clawlike as they gripped the chair’s arms.

  As he was dismissed from the company of the King and his adviser, Baldwin felt a pang of sympathy for both men. They were trapped in a cage which they had forged for themselves, and gradually the walls were contracting in upon them. Against his advice, the King had decided to flee the country.

  But first they must find a ship to take them.

  Sunday before the Feast of St Martin [37]

  Hereford

  The party straggled along back into Hereford, defeated by the weather and their failure to find anyone who would aid their search for the King.

  They had been riding every day since their departure. Down to the coast, all along towards Cardiff and beyond, up to the manors of Sir Hugh le Despenser, visiting all the local magnates to ask who had seen the King or Despenser. All denied any knowledge. Nobody had seen either.

  Simon found it soul-destroying to ride about the countryside convinced that the surly, ungracious folk who denied all knowledge of the King were lying; but as the grinning Sir Charles kept pointing out, although the Welsh might not want to surrender him, King Edward was hardly in receipt of their undying devotion, either. At least that meant there were no forces of knife-wielding Welshmen on their trail.

  Sir Stephen and Sir Charles joined him.

  ‘That looks like a bush over that doorway,’ Sir Stephen observed. ‘Sir Charles, Bailiff, may I offer you a jug of something warming?’

  ‘I’d be glad of it,’ Simon said.

  Sir Charles said nothing. He was already striding towards the alehouse.

  Inside, there was no decoration, but the ale itself was tasty and strong, and the fire in the hearth was burning with a soft hissing sound, the coals warming both by their sight and their heat. Simon took a stool near the fire, thrusting his dagger in among the coals until it was glowing dully, and then used it to stir and heat his ale.

  ‘Wales is a large country,’ Sir Stephen remarked, as he sat on an up-ended barrel.

  ‘Large enough to lose a hundred men,’ Sir Charles agreed.

  ‘I believed we would have caught him by now.’

  ‘At least we have learned that he has left Caerphilly Castle,’ Simon said. ‘He won’t have come this way, because the Severn will force him up towards Gloucester and that would be too dangerous. He wouldn’t risk the lives of his men on a gamble like that.’

  ‘Gamble?’ Sir Stephen queried.

  ‘To gamble on passing between the Mortimer’s men,’ Simon explained. ‘He would be caught if he tried to head towards England.’

  ‘What about the ferries?’ Sir Charles said.

  ‘I don’t suppose they’ll be working, not with Mortimer holding the eastern bank. And if a ship did sail, the King would be a fool to board it with the risk of capture on the other shore.’

  ‘True enough. So you think he’s gone farther west?’

  ‘Yes. He’ll be trying to take a ship to Ireland.’ Sir Stephen sipped his ale disconsolately. ‘Which means we’ll be riding all the way to the arse of the country, I’ll be bound. Right over to the Irish Sea. There’s a lot of hills between here and there, and from what I’ve seen, every one has its own raincloud waiting for us.’

  ‘We shall find him soon enough,’ Simon said. He eased his shoulders with a grimace. ‘That’s better. I seem so tense.’

  ‘It’s the weather and all the riding,’ Sir Charles said. ‘Sleeping out in this poxy weather is no good for man or beast.’

  Simon grunted and sniffed, but it was not only the residue of his cold, it was also the thought of his wife, back at Bristol, waiting and wondering what had happened to him. She would be suffering, he knew, petrified that he might be dead or injured. News would take time to get to Bristol, because all the messages were being concentrated on Mortimer – wherever he was.

  They were all glad to buy some hot cakes and cheese, and sat about in comfort as they chewed, all too tired to talk. There was an easiness about all three now, which Simon found comforting. So often a knight would not deign to talk to those beneath his rank. There had been few indeed who would have spoken to Simon only a few years ago. It seemed as though that had changed when he first met Baldwin, and the new knight’s respect had done much to change Simon’s own attitude to other knights. There was something about his frankness and intelligent approach to people that set Sir Baldwin apart. And of course Simon had known Sir Charles for some years now, since his pilgrimage with Baldwin to Compostela and the great cathedral dedicated to St James, but it was good to see how even a man who hardly knew him, like Sir Stephen, could treat him almost as an equal.

  As he was thinking how fortunate he was to have met these men and be spending time with them, he heard steps outside. A man-at-arms entered, gazing about him with a frown. Then: ‘You! Are you Bailiff Puttock?’

  Simon looked at the fellow. He was maybe three and twenty, with a thin, gangling frame, even with his armour. ‘You wish for me?’

  ‘No, Master Puttock, I do,’ said the Duke of Aquitaine as he stepped into the room.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  The fire lighted the Duke’s face as he sat. It gave him an otherworldly look, and not a pleasant one, with his cheeks illuminated but his eyes in inverted shadow like a demon. But the red light also showed the lines on his brow and at his cheeks. He was no longer a child.

  Simon poured him ale from his own jug. ‘Your Highness, I am sorry, I did not see you there.’

  ‘No more should you have. I was hiding behind the door until I could be sure who was here with you. You trust those two – Sir Charles and Sir Stephen?’

  The two knights had hurriedly made their apologies when it grew clear that the Duke wanted to speak with Simon alone.

  ‘Yes, I think so. They have been honest with me, I believe. Sir Stephen is Coroner in Bristol, and Sir Charles is a good fellow.’

  The Duke’s mo
uth twitched upwards. ‘You say that most grudgingly, but I trust your judgement. I have heard that you have not yet found my father. Is that true?’

  Simon grunted. If he had, there was little chance that the discovery could have been kept secret. ‘No. We have found no trace, but he was apparently at Caerphilly a while ago. A local told us that the King stayed there, but has separated his force, leaving a garrison behind while he has ridden westwards.’

  ‘Where would he have gone?’ the Duke said with a frown. He stared into the fire, considering, before nodding to himself. ‘Neath. He always had a soft spot for the Abbey there. Assuredly, that is where he has gone. Poor Father. He will feel like the hart who hears the hounds upon all sides.’

  ‘It must be a most uncomfortable situation for the King,’ Simon agreed sadly.

  ‘I feel as though I am a traitor to my own father,’ the Duke said quietly, his voice scarcely more than a whisper.

  ‘Your Highness, this is none of your making. Your father’s adviser has set the realm against himself, personally, and that has made some of the barons react in this way, but it is no reflection on you.’

  ‘You think so?’

  Simon felt those eyes bore into him as though the Duke was trying to see into Simon’s heart. But the Duke looked away after a moment, and spoke as though to himself.

  ‘But they will see me here, and they will say, “The Duke is only a child. He cannot serve us.” And they will look at my mother, and think, she is only a woman. But then they will look at Sir Roger Mortimer and tell each other, “He is a leader of men. He has power and authority; he understands others and how to reward them.” So they will ignore me, and instead will cultivate their friendships with Sir Roger, for he is the strong man in the realm. My mother has no authority to compare with his. So, while I am here, Sir Roger will gain in power and influence. And my father: what will happen to him? A solitary figure without allies or friends, a shambling, shuffling figure of fun. The realm will laugh to see him because the kingdom does not fear him any longer. And what then? How will he be able to sit on his throne if no one looks up to him, respects him, fears him?’