‘I daresay the man Capon had similar business dealings with many men in the city,’ Sir Charles said. ‘And if with Sir Laurence as well, what of it?’
Simon agreed, and before long they were mounted and moving away again. But no matter how he tried to put it from his mind, the matter of Capon and Sir Laurence would keep intruding. Especially since Sir Laurence could have been present at the death of Cecily that night… And if the Constable had, in fact, had something to do with the removal of Capon, he would also have wished to silence Cecily, because she might have witnessed his murder of her master.
But no, that was ridiculous, he reminded himself. Cecily had been anxious because of the appearance of Squire William’s men. Simon had heard that himself from Emma, her mistress.
Wednesday, Morrow of the Feast of St Martin [41]
Near Abergavenny
Simon and the Earl of Lancaster’s men had been riding all that morning, and it was good when they reached a stream to be able to get off and stretch their legs. Sir Charles stood with Simon as their mounts drank from the little brook.
‘The trouble with this land is that it is so perfect for ambushes,’ Sir Charles said.
Simon had noticed that he kept his right hand free, ready to grab his sword, but as they were here with more than fifty men, all well-armed, the likelihood of an ambush against them was surely remote?
But a little of Sir Charles’s wariness communicated itself to Simon and to the other men about. They kept together, and there was less chatter and joking than usual. When one man dropped his helmet with a clatter, more than one reached for a dagger or sword, and he was roundly cursed.
A short while after that, Simon saw one of the younger men freeze and stare ahead at the track. The lad had good hearing, because it was an age before Simon could discern anything, but suddenly, there it was: the irregular thud of hooves.
Sir Charles sprang into his saddle, drawing his sword. ‘Mount! By Saint Loy! Mount!’
There was a general rush to horses, and the neighing of alarmed or excited beasts, and then the whole group was ready. Sir Charles grinned at Simon. ‘Here we go – glory, or foolishness when we meet a farmer!’ and spurred his horse on.
They rounded the next bend, and almost rode into Baldwin.
‘Baldwin!’ Simon burst out as he saw his old friend. ‘What in God’s name are you doing up here? Weren’t you supposed to be home?’
‘I could say the same to you,’ Baldwin replied, delighted to see his old friend. ‘You were on your way home, too. But where is Margaret – and Peterkin?’
Explaining to each other why they were here whiled away a large part of their journey, and they were already quite close to Hereford before Simon glanced behind him at the other men in the entourage.
‘Baldwin, you know the King is lost, don’t you?’
He nodded. ‘It is clear enough that he cannot win. No one will go to his banner. Not now.’
‘Then why will you not join us now? It would be a great deal safer.’
‘I serve my King,’ Baldwin said simply. ‘I cannot turn from him now, just when he needs my support most.’
‘Sir Baldwin,’ Sir Charles said, riding up alongside him. ‘I do appreciate your loyalty, but there is another consideration in all this. I do not wish to have to kill you when we finally catch up with him. If you are there to defend him, we shall have to draw steel.’
‘I would regret that too,’ Baldwin said. ‘Let us hope that it does not come to that, for I would hate to have to kill you, Sir Charles.’
First Thursday after the Feast of St Martin [42]
Hereford
The Duke heard of the arrival of the contingent of men from the Earl of Lancaster’s host when he was at his table with his clerks, and immediately took up his sword and hurried from the chamber, down the passageway towards the hall of the castle where Sir Roger Mortimer was directing the efforts to find the King, stopping only when he reached the doors with the men-at-arms on either side.
This was a quiet hall usually. There were plenty of painted decorations on all the walls, and a set of hangings on one that showed a scene from the life of King Arthur. It was a picture that had caught the Duke’s imagination the first time he had seen it, and he thought how marvellous it would be, to recreate a little of the magic of King Arthur’s time here in England again. Not that it was likely to happen in his lifetime, he thought. His father’s decline in authority and his uncle’s rise to power in France both militated against any such possibility.
By now, Duke Edward could hear the raised voices inside. They were enough to make him stop dead. Standing here outside the closed doors, he was unsure whether he was right to try to enter. He was not a king, he was only the son of a King. Duke he might be, but only in name. If he were to upset the Mortimer…
It was that thought which made him set his shoulders. His chin rose. For the last years, his father had not dared to upset Despenser, as though Despenser himself had some superiority even over Edward. He did not. He was a servant, nothing more. And nor was Mortimer more important than any other. He too was a servant, whereas Duke Edward would one day be King.
He stepped forward, thrusting with both hands at the doors. They creaked, but then opened wide, one slamming against the wall on his left, and all the men in the room were silenced as the Duke entered, slowly tugging at the fingers of his gloves to pull them free, gazing about at the men inside, nodding shortly to Sir Roger Mortimer, then bowing more graciously to his mother.
‘I fear someone forgot to ask me to attend,’ he said, striding over the floor to the long table which had been placed in the middle of the room. This was where Mortimer had been sitting, and the knight bowed and vacated the space.
The Duke sat and looked about him. He beckoned the steward and took a goblet from him, sipping as he studied the faces of their visitors. ‘Sir Baldwin, you are welcome. Sirs all, please, be seated. Abbot, I hope you are in good health?’
He knew them all. Some of them perhaps better even than Sir Roger.
‘My lord Duke,’ Mortimer said after a moment, ‘these good men have come from your father to ask for terms.’
‘How is my father?’ He addressed this to the Abbot, a slender old monk with the face of a wizened apple, wrinkled and leathery.
‘He is well, my lord. Although it is no surprise to learn that he is very sad at the disloyalty of his subjects.’
‘His behaviour towards his subjects has been the cause of their discontent,’ Sir Roger grated. ‘You will remember that.’
‘Sir Roger, please,’ the Duke said sharply. ‘We are talking about my father. My lord Abbot, please tell him that I am sorry that affairs have come to this.’
‘He asks what you intend for him and for his household,’ the Abbot said. There was a light in his eyes as he looked at the Duke, the light of hope. He had been thinking that he would be forced to negotiate with Sir Roger, but now that the Duke was here as well, surely the negotiations would go more easily.
‘I intend nothing that–’ Duke Edward began, but Sir Roger Mortimer spoke over him.
‘He must surrender, along with all his household, and depend upon the kindness which we shall show. He can expect no more.’
‘Sir Roger,’ the Duke said admonishingly, his anger growing. ‘I would prefer to speak to the Abbot alone.’
‘My lord, I will not permit that. You are not of an age to govern nor to make terms. This is man’s business.’
‘I remind you, I am Duke of Aquitaine. I will be King after my father.’
‘But for now, your mother negotiates. I am her mouthpiece,’ Sir Roger said blandly. Turning to the Abbot again, he raised his eyebrows enquiringly. ‘Well?’
‘My lord, your King wishes for assurances.’
‘There can be none. If he and his household surrender themselves and their arms, they can expect more leniency. That is all.’
‘It is to be expected, Sir Roger,’ the Abbot said, speaking so forcefully he almo
st spat the words, ‘that a man of the King’s stature could expect assurances of safety. That the bodies of his comrades and servants will also be protected by you.’
‘In God’s name, Sir Abbot! This is a man suing for peace because he has run out of space to run to! He cannot expect more, and he will receive no more than this. We do not make war on the King, we seek only to punish Despenser for the manifest offences which he has committed upon the weary English. He will come and surrender with all his men, or he will be captured with them all. Do not try my patience with these petty demands. You may leave!’
The Abbot was shocked at the outburst. His mouth fell open, and he threw a look at the Duke as though pleading with him to intervene, but Edward could think of nothing to say. He felt as though he must weep if he so much as opened his mouth. For all the trappings of power that were outwardly his, he possessed nothing compared with the stern authority of Sir Roger. In the face of the man’s martial confidence, Edward was reduced to a child. He looked away.
‘Then, Sir Roger, there is little more to be said,’ the Abbot murmured. He bowed, then turned and began to head towards the door, his companions walking with him, but when he arrived at the doors, he stopped and looked back at the Duke. ‘Do you have a message for your father, my lord?’
Sir Roger snapped, ‘Yes, that he should surrender and stop any more of this waste and nonsense!’
‘And tell him I love him, please, my lord Abbot,’ the Duke said coldly, without looking at the knight.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Simon had been waiting outside with Jack and Wolf, whittling a stick into a point, and when the men appeared in the doorway, he looked up at Baldwin. ‘Well?’
Baldwin smiled, but his eyes showed how troubled he felt. ‘We are not to have any terms, it would seem. Our friend Sir Roger had already decided that the King is to be shown how low he has sunk in the estimation of the barons and people of the realm. There is no hope.’
‘What do you mean?’ Simon said. ‘Surely if he surrenders, he–’
‘The King cannot surrender, Simon. If he does, Sir Hugh will be executed, and the King will not have that. So instead he will defy Sir Roger, and that means that this will drag on a little longer. And what then? Who can tell.’
Simon clasped Baldwin’s hand, and the two men were silent for a moment. There seemed nothing to be said. They released each other and stood a pace apart, but it felt as though they were on opposite sides of a great river. Words could not bridge that gap. It was too profound.
‘Baldwin, be careful, my friend.’
‘You too, Simon,’ the knight responded. And then he tried a grin, and marched on, punching Simon’s shoulder with his fist in a rare display of affection.
Simon was walking to his horse when Wolf rose and lumbered across the area. Soon he was sitting, panting happily while being petted by a tallish man with a stained and filthy bandage bound about his lower shin. As Simon wandered past, he saw the man Herv Tyrel. He was with Otho, talking animatedly with the fellow stroking Wolf.
There was a shout. The King’s ambassadors were already preparing to leave, and Simon ran to his horse as Baldwin swung his leg over his own mount. Simon had his foot in the stirrup and was in the saddle before the Abbot had ordered his men to ride on. Sir Stephen had heard of the rapid departure of the men, and joined Simon now. ‘Are you intending to ride with them?’
‘Yes, I–’
‘Best to leave them, friend. They’re riding to the King. If you go too, they may think you’re trying to follow them – that you’re a spy. Wait a little. We will ride to the Earl of Lancaster’s men together.’
Simon nodded slowly, his eyes on the backs of the men as they rode out from the gates. One of them, he saw, was the man who had been with Wolf. He was a short way from Baldwin, who turned once, and stared at Simon as though in an effort to remember his old friend, and then they were gone.
First Saturday after the Feast of St Martin [43]
Neath Abbey
King Edward heard the group of men ride into the court. There was little doubt that it was them. Few enough men were coming and going from Neath Abbey at this time. Even those who had been bringing food in, demanding the most exorbitant sums in return, had dried to a trickle now they believed that the King would not be here much longer. No one wanted to be found there when Mortimer arrived.
He felt a fleeting urge to leap up and run to the men, to learn what they had managed to negotiate, but that would have been unseemly. Instead he motioned to his steward and tried to ask him to fetch Sir Hugh, but when he opened his mouth, no words would come. The steward gazed at him uncomprehendingly, as the King forced himself to relax, while his heart thundered. This terror of the future was unbecoming of a King. ‘Please. Sir Hugh. Bring him.’
It was the strain. The fear of the unknown was gnawing at them all, and the King was feeling it more than any.
It was a huge relief to hear the quiet steps and the quickly-closing door behind him. He recognised those footsteps.
‘Sire.’
‘Sir Hugh, we will soon know,’ the King said fondly. He knew that his favourite would not be permitted to live, if Sir Roger had his way. The Abbot had been instructed to tell Mortimer that if there was to be a surrender, the King desired safe passage for Sir Hugh and his other companions. King Edward II would hardly be expected to submit to the wholesale slaughter of his household. It was too ridiculous. And Sir Roger knew it. He would understand that there were limits, and would agree to perhaps hold Sir Hugh in the Tower where the King could visit him. Better that than exile. The thought of his friend being driven from his side for life was unendurable.
There they were! The envoys were approaching at last. King Edward put his hand out to Sir Hugh, and the two exchanged a quick look, before Sir Hugh took his hand away gently, and stood with his bitten nails concealed behind his back.
The Abbot and the others strode in, a herald preceding them. All bowed and knelt before their King, who motioned to them to rise. ‘Come, friends! No need for this today. Tell me, what is it to be? Do we agree to surrender, then? Is there safe passage and honour for us all?’
‘Your Royal Highness,’ the Abbot said, and there was a broken note in his voice. ‘I am truly sorry. We did all we could to secure some assurances.’
‘So, what are you saying?’ the King enquired, smiling still. ‘Please, do not keep me in suspense. What was his answer?’
There was a moment’s silence, and then Sir Baldwin stepped forward and bowed. ‘Your Highness, he refused all suggestions. He rejected your proposals and demands your unconditional surrender. There are no terms, no assurances, no guarantees.’
The King’s smile remained by an extreme effort of his will. ‘I see,’ he said. There was a horrible clenching in his breast that felt as though his heart was being squeezed, and his scalp tightened as though someone had grabbed it at the back of his skull and was dragging it over his head. ‘So, that is it, then? There is no more?’
‘Your son, my liege, he told us to tell you he loves you.’
‘Oh. He loves me. That is good,’ the King said. His breathing was more laboured now, and his chest rose and fell too quickly. ‘I…’ he began, then had to cough and clear his throat forcefully. ‘I am a little surprised by your news. Is there no hope of magnanimity?’
‘None,’ the Abbot said.
‘Then… then we must decide what to do,’ the King said helplessly, looking about him like a man thrown into a room he did not recognise.
‘Sire, there is only one thing we may do,’ Sir Hugh said urgently. ‘We have to leave this place and ride, fast, away.’
‘To where?’ the King demanded.
‘To Caerphilly,’ Despenser said, and to Baldwin’s surprise, his tone was almost pleading. ‘I was wrong to argue against it. We cannot find a ship now, but at the castle we could hold out for weeks, perhaps months. We have more men, and provisions. We should be secure for a while.’
The King
looked up at him with a smile. ‘And it would allow you to see your son, my lord. Very well. If we remain here,’ he told the abbot, ‘we would run the risk of demolishing your lovely Abbey, my friend, and I would not see it thrown into ruin. It is no place for a battle.’
He stood, a little shakily. ‘My friends, I thank you all for your forbearance and loyal service. I think now we should ride to Caerphilly, where we can take our places in the last, sad days. What comes after, God only knows.’
First Sunday after the Feast of St Martin [44]
Neath Abbey
That morning was heavy with rain. Even as they prepared themselves in the courtyard near the cloisters, the men were drenched.
Baldwin was wearing his armour with more discomfort than he could recall at any other time. At least on duty in Acre, he had been younger, and there was no rain to contend with. It had been more a case of worrying about sand getting in under the throat and at the back of the neck – because even a small amount of rough sand between aketon and skin was enough to create a bloody sore in half a day. Today, though, the collar of his pair of plates kept touching his bare throat – and it felt as if his flesh must freeze to the metal each time. His clothes beneath were already clammy and damp, and the coldness of the metal was transmitted perfectly through the wet clothing, which meant that the ride today was going to be deeply uncomfortable as well as dangerous.
He wasn’t scared. Baldwin was too experienced a warrior to feel fear, but he did have misgivings about setting off now, when they had been away from Caerphilly for so long. He only prayed that the castle was not already besieged. He wondered how Roisea would cope, if so. She was a lovely-looking woman – the sort who could all too easily become the target of men-at-arms with time on their hands.
They mounted, and Jack whistled to Wolf, who was idling away his time near the midden heap over at the wall’s edge. The mastiff came at a wary trot when he heard the summons, thinking he might be scolded for rooting about in the rubbish.
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