That changed as it grew dark. There was a rattle of hooves in the ward, then loud bellowed commands, and a short while later, three men marched inside, closely followed by Henry of Lancaster. He strode in without looking to either side, going straight to the King, and standing at his side without kneeling. It was a while before he appeared to make a decision, and he dropped quickly to one knee, then stood again, his short demonstration of respect complete.
‘Your Majesty,’ he said, ‘I am glad to have you safe in my custody. You will consider yourself my guest, and I will ensure your protection. Is there anything you require?’
‘I have all I need.’
‘You will be gracious enough to tell me or my men if you require anything else. Tomorrow we shall set off for Monmouth, thence we shall travel to Hereford, where we shall meet your wife and your son. I fear that the accommodation here will be stretched to its limits, but I can at least provide you with the solar block, if you wish some solitude.’
‘No. I will remain here with my men.’
‘Very well. I will leave a guard here for your safety, and hope that you rest well, my lord.’
The King nodded. His reverse of fortunes, while expected, had still come as an appalling shock, and he glanced at Sir Hugh as though expecting his friend to chastise those who had taken him and now held him in this demeaning way. But Sir Hugh had nothing to say.
As the Earl made to walk from the room, he said, ‘Sir Baldwin! I hope you are well?’
‘As well as a prisoner may be,’ he answered. He held no malice for those who had caught him, only trepidation. All could be executed for remaining at the King’s side, if Mortimer wanted. It was a distressing situation, but not so worrying as the thought of how Jeanne would survive without him. His only consolation was that Edgar, his Sergeant from his Templar days, was still with her and would ensure her safety, if it were humanly possible. ‘Thank you for not binding us.’
‘There is no need with honourable men. Is that the Bailiff? Was he with you?’
‘No, my lord. The good Bailiff was with your men, but when your fellows charged through the hedge, he was knocked from his saddle and dragged along by his mount. His back is sorely lacerated. Sir Charles of Lancaster has gone to fetch a leech for him, and I will stay at his side, if my captor will allow it.’
‘For my part, Sir Baldwin, if you give me your parole not to try to escape, that will be good enough for me.’
‘I so swear.’
‘I will have wine brought for you both. I hope he will recover. Is there anything else I can do for you?’
Baldwin saw that Sir Charles was returning with a fretful-looking cleric hurrying along behind him. ‘Only that you tell your men that if the clerk asks for hot water, or anything else they might have here for treatment of wounds, that they fetch it for him. I am worried that Simon is sleeping. A man with a broken head will sometimes sleep and snore, and I fear his injuries may be worse than I realised.’
‘I’ll tell them. You make sure that he recovers.’
The clerk stood at Simon’s side, gauging his injuries, but when he tried to cut away the clothing to look at Simon’s back, the Bailiff suddenly woke, staring about him in a state of shock. ‘Settle yourself, my son,’ the priest said, wincing at the sight of his back. ‘This will take time.’
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
It took an age to clean Simon’s back. The priest had a bowl which the guards filled with hot water, and in that he steeped rose petals and lavender, using it on a clean linen strip to wash the damaged skin. There were so many thorn splinters and bloody gashes there that he could only dab gently, while Simon hissed and muttered. He seemed very drowsy still, and Baldwin felt sure that Simon must have hurt his head badly. The wound resembled one that a mace or cudgel could produce, and Baldwin knew that on occasion a man would die from such a blow even when there was no sign of blood or broken bone, and he worried more now for Simon than he did for himself.
Sir Ralph had assisted, and now that the clerk had completed cleaning and salving and binding Simon’s wounds, he advised the two to go and rest themselves, for they could do no more to help Simon now. His health was in the hands of God.
Reluctantly, Baldwin walked away, while the clerk pulled a blanket up over Simon’s poor back and settled at his side.
‘At least he’s stopped that snoring,’ Baldwin sighed. ‘It worried me to hear that.’
‘Yes, I’ve known men snore like that, and vomit,’ Sir Ralph agreed. Both had seen enough men die in such a manner for them not to need to discuss it further.
Robert Vyke was sitting a short way away with Wolf, stroking the great mastiff’s head. He looked up as the two approached.
‘Do not worry,’ Baldwin said, for Vyke looked terrified, as though he could be punished for making a fuss of his dog. ‘Wolf enjoys attention.’
‘He is a handsome animal.’
‘You like such brutes?’ Baldwin said. He could not deny his own affection for the dog, but it always rather surprised him to see others who had the same feeling. ‘I bought him from a Bishop who detested him. He would keep beating and kicking poor Wolf, wouldn’t he, fellow?’
‘I dislike cruelty to dogs.’
‘I know I distrust those who would use such behaviour. A good dog is a wonderful thing,’ Baldwin said. He was suddenly struck with the thought that if he were to die, Wolf would have no master. Perhaps, if Simon was well enough, he could take Wolf back to Jeanne.
It was his last thought as he settled himself later – that he had so many people and animals dependent upon him. It left him feeling feeble. At this precise moment, was unable to support anyone.
He had nothing left he could give.
First Monday after the Feast of St Martin [45]
Llantrisant Castle
The Earl of Lancaster was as good as his word the next day. Baldwin was woken by a servant to tell him that a light cart had been procured for ‘the good Bailiff’, and would he be ready to travel with the rest of the men?
Simon did look a little better. His eyes opened when Baldwin sat beside him, although the right one was bruised and bloody, and had swelled alarmingly.
‘I imagine I am a pretty sight?’ he croaked.
Baldwin chuckled. ‘It is good to see you in your usual humour, Simon. I think it is fair to say that Margaret would find it hard to recognise you.’
‘Aye, well, she may desire a new man, of course,’ Simon said with a grunt of pain as he tried to ease himself upright.
‘I would take your movements cautiously for now,’ Baldwin said. ‘Your back is a mass of scabs.’
‘I’m not surprised. I feel as though someone’s thrown me into a bear pit for the fun of watching me be torn apart.’
Baldwin said, ‘If not for this good priest, you would feel greatly worse.’
‘I thank you, Father.’
The priest yawned expansively. ‘I am glad I have provided some service to you, my son.’ But soon he made his apologies, and hurried off to his chapel to hold services for those who wished to pray and confess.
The two old friends chatted quietly for a while, about the small matters which both felt comfortable discussing, nothing to do with their arrival at that place, nor what might happen to Baldwin once they had returned to England. His future was uncertain, and both knew it.
In the clear morning, they were herded outside, and mounted their horses. Simon was helped to the back of a cart, but looking at the worm-infested wood and the wheels with their worn and rusted tyres, he shook his head firmly. ‘No. I’m not travelling on that. Bring me my horse.’
It took some little time to get going. A number of men were injured from the fighting the day before; they lay in three carts, moaning piteously at every rut and pothole.
The rain of the day before had given way to a steady drizzle now, and more than one man was shivering with an ague as they marched or walked their horses.
Simon did not feel too bad. His head still hurt abominabl
y, but apart from an occasional desire to vomit, which he reckoned was as much due to the poor food he had eaten yesterday as to any injury, he felt well enough in himself. A spare chemise and jack had been found for him, and his cloak, mercifully, had not been too badly torn during his terrible dragging, but the stitches where the earlier damage had been mended were now ripped a second time. His leg was extremely painful where the muscles had torn, but his back was surprisingly good, provided he did not try to move too suddenly and reopen the scabs that dotted it. The cold seemed to soothe it.
It was not like him to have fallen in such a manner, he mused. His horse was usually so reliable. And then he had a sudden memory of redness flashing across in front of him… It was almost as if a man had been there – but that was ridiculous.
‘Are you all right, Simon?’
‘Talk to me, Baldwin,’ Simon said thickly. ‘Every so often I get this urge to puke, and I’d appreciate some distraction. How did you get here?’
Baldwin whistled to Wolf, who was padding along behind the horses of Robert Vyke and Herv Tyrel with a hopeful air, watching as the two shared some dried meat.
‘There is not much to tell,’ Baldwin began. He told Simon of his fast journey across the South of England, intending to get to Furnshill before war could reach it, and how he met with Redcliffe. ‘It was clear enough that the man was in danger.’
‘I know that name,’ Simon said with a frown. It took him a long time to recall where he had heard it. ‘Oh, I’m a fool. He’s dead, of course!’
‘Yes, I had to leave his body at the banks of the Severn,’ Baldwin said.
‘He was intending to murder the King, so the Duke of Aquitaine thought,’ Simon said.
Baldwin nodded. ‘Yes – and I sought to protect him. If I had succeeded, he would have killed our King.’
‘Who discovered him?’ Simon asked, remembering Sir Roger Mortimer’s interest. ‘Was it you?’
‘No. The man who tried to kill him at Winchester managed to reach him in the end,’ Baldwin said, and explained about the bearded killer.
Simon closed his eyes as a wave of nausea washed through his belly, and he shuddered with the taste of bile in his throat. ‘I think, my friend,’ he said very quietly, ‘you managed to kill the Duke of Aquitaine’s man. He sent a fellow called Sam Fletcher to kill the man Redcliffe before he could get to the King.’
Baldwin screwed up his face into a grimace of anguish. ‘Ach! And I thought at the time I was only protecting a messenger for the King.’
‘Best to keep quiet about it, I think,’ Simon said weakly.
‘There is one thing,’ Baldwin said, and he pulled out the note of safe-conduct which he had found in Redcliffe’s purse. ‘I still have this.’
‘Keep it safe, my friend,’ Simon advised, reading the somewhat bedraggled sliver of parchment. The ink had begun to smudge in places, but it was still legible. ‘You never know when it may come in useful.’
Second Friday after the Feast of St Martin [46]
On the road to Hereford
After three days in the saddle, Simon’s back was giving him less pain. He winced at regular intervals as a sudden lurch of his mount jolted his leg, but at least his head and neck were healing.
The aim had been for them to ride to Monmouth first, and thence to Hereford, but progress was slow. With all the injured men, they were only managing a scant three leagues a day, and the Earl of Lancaster was to get back to Sir Roger Mortimer and the Queen.
Baldwin understood their urgency, but could hardly share it. He did not know how he would be received when they reached Mortimer.
The King was obviously deeply troubled, and whereas Baldwin had the companionship of Simon, Jack, and even Robert Vyke and his ever-present Wolf, the king had no one to comfort him. His oldest servant had died in the battle trying to protect him, and Despenser was a spent force.
It was strange to see the Despenser now. He rode loosely, as though he was drugged or filled with burned wine,[47] and his eyes glittered. He looked about him menacingly, as though storing up a memory of each and every face in order to ensure that all were captured and tortured when he had an opportunity, and Baldwin wondered if his mind was unbalanced. He must surely have realised that there would be no escape for him.
In those periods when he was able to speak rationally, Despenser was coldly polite, but for the most part he would say nothing, not even to the King who had risked so much and had now lost all on his behalf.
He must be fearful, Baldwin thought, and this appeared to be confirmed by the fact that he refused all food. Nothing had passed his lips since Llantrisant, and he was showing signs of deterioration. His eyes, Baldwin saw, were growing yellow instead of white, and his face was sinking in upon itself.
Sir Hugh had made the decision to starve himself, Baldwin reckoned. Perhaps that was not a bad idea. Sir Roger Mortimer would want him to be executed in public, in the most humiliating manner – probably by having him dragged all the way to London so that the mob could jeer at the sight of their hated oppressor. But if he drank nothing and ate nothing, Despenser would never reach London.
Perhaps, Baldwin wondered, that was a reason for the Earl’s haste? He wanted Despenser to be delivered alive so that he could be punished for the sport of Mortimer and Sir Hugh’s many enemies. It would not please Sir Roger Mortimer to be cheated of his revenge.
So on they trotted and ambled, a small force guarding the two men who until the last month had been the most powerful beings in the whole country, and who were now little more than wraiths, their energy and souls sucked clean from their bodies.
Baldwin pondered on this thought. And wondered what would happen to him.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Second Sunday after the Feast of St Martin [48]
Outside Hereford
Robert Vyke dropped a crust of bread for Wolf as the great mastiff lumbered along beside him, and when he looked up, he saw Otho and Herv riding nearby.
‘Not far now,’ Otho muttered. He was not comfortable on horseback, and his body lurched from side to side in the saddle.
Robert Vyke smiled, but his heart was not in it. There was no telling what would happen to him when they arrived. When captured, if you were rich and important, you would be ransomed and your life saved; but if you were a simple peasant from another lord’s host, you ran the risk of being slain out of hand. He had a nasty suspicion that his own fate could follow that path.
‘You look like you’ve swallowed a wasp,’ Otho said after contemplating him for a moment or two. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing. I just don’t want to get to Hereford that soon.’
‘Your leg all right?’
‘Yes. It’s no trouble now,’ he said, flexing it to show.
‘You’ll live.’
Robert Vyke shot him a look. ‘What?’
Otho shrugged. ‘Your leg, I meant. Why?’
‘What’s the chance of me living, though? They will want to make a show of those who supported the King, won’t they? And I was with him when our master went over to the Queen. I’m a traitor to my own master.’
‘You didn’t do that on purpose,’ Herv objected.
‘Doesn’t matter, does it? Not to a knight or a lord. They just look at me and see a peasant who can’t be trusted.’
Otho sucked at his front teeth. ‘I think you’re missing something here, Rob. If this was the other way round, and the King was waiting for you to be brought to him, maybe you’d be right. But I reckon the one who’s worried most now is that one there.’ He pointed at Despenser.
‘You really think so?’ asked Vyke, cheering up.
‘Yeah. He’s shit scared.’ Otho studied the man for a while, and then spat. ‘Nah, you’ll be fine Rob. They’ll hardly even notice you.’
Second Monday after the Feast of St Martin [49]
Hereford
They reached the city in the middle of the morning. Trotting down towards the gate, Baldwin saw a party of men rid
ing out to meet them. If he could, he would have turned his horse and galloped away.
‘What is all that lot?’ Simon asked, gazing ahead with his eyes narrowed.
‘Looks like Sir Thomas Wake at the head,’ Baldwin said. ‘I know him – he’s a good man. The others, I don’t know.’
They were soon to find out. As their party reached the gates, there was a flurry of activity. Three men came and took hold of Despenser’s horse. He was forced to dismount, and while four men rode to the King and took him into the city at a brisk trot, Despenser had the tunic ripped from his back and chest, and was forced to stand still while a fresh tunic was placed over his head.
‘What’s that?’ Simon asked, peering. His eyes had not recovered their full vigour yet, and trying to focus from here was giving him a fresh headache.
‘They have made a tunic with his arms reversed,’ Baldwin said, his voice hushed. ‘His arms are destroyed.’
‘Oh?’ Simon said.
‘Yes. “Oh”. It means his place in the nobility will cease to exist,’ Baldwin said.
Simon nodded, and then, ‘What now?’
‘They are writing on him,’ Baldwin said. It was impossible to hear what was being said, but someone had tied his wrists, and now men with reeds and inks were scrawling all over Despenser’s back, sometimes straying onto his neck and bare shoulders, while the man stood whey-faced and uncommunicative. Around him was a growing crowd who taunted him and laughed. Then a crown of green nettles was brought and rammed on his head. That brought on a reaction: he writhed with pain as the stings burned his brow and temples.
He was not alone. Baldock also had his tunic cut from him, and naked, he was clothed in his own arms reversed, with his own crown of nettles shoved hard over his brow. Despenser’s herald, Simon of Reading, was given a banner, but he refused to accept it, his face showing his revulsion.
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