Without his bill, which Otho had taken, he had no protection, and perhaps this dagger would help him. Not that it would be much use in its present state. Better by far to rely on his old dagger . . . and then he realised that the horse-driver had stolen it. At his waist there was nothing but an empty sheath.
‘Bastard son of a diseased whore,’ he muttered from gritted teeth.
Well, that made his decision easier. He had to bend this dagger straight if he wanted a weapon of some kind. With that in mind, he set his good foot on it, wincing as his injured shin twisted, but the metal didn’t budge; his whole weight wouldn’t move it. Behind him was a hedge, and there were surely stones at the base to maintain its shape. Robert hobbled over to it, trying to find a gap between the rocks, but there were none; the vegetation was too thick. Pushing his way through further, he finally found a good gap, and here he managed to set the blade into a niche. By throwing his body’s weight against it, he succeeded by degrees in setting the blade almost true.
Looking down the length of the metal, he was satisfied. Pushing it into his old sheath, he found that it fitted very loosely, but at least it should be safe there.
His next problem was the matter of a staff. To walk without one in his present state was impossible. There were no decent lengths he could take from this hedge, for the boughs were all thick, and those that weren’t, were too short to be of any use. However, at the far side of the hedge was a small wood. The trees loomed overhead.
With some effort, Robert pushed himself through a thinner part of the hedge. It appeared to have been used before, for the way was already partly hacked, he noticed. Once in the wood, he was about to search for a six-foot staff, when he became aware of a strong odour in the air. To a countryman there was something familiar about that smell; like the stink of a fox, it was instantly repugnant. He realised it was rotting meat.
A gust hit him. The smell was everywhere. Keeping hold of the branch he had found, wincing with pain, he had to swallow hard to stop from throwing up. Then his eyes were drawn upwards, and he felt his breath catch.
It was like a blow in the belly, that sight. The head was that of a man with wild, dark hair, and it lay resting in the fork of a tree a scant two feet away. The eyes were heavily-lidded as though stupefied, the mouth just a little open, the lips blue and, beneath the chin was the raw meat where his throat had been hacked apart.
And Robert fell back, cursing, before his body at last convulsed, and his vomit spattered on the grass. Rising, he dare not look at that hideous spectacle, but pushed sobbing through the hedge once more, out into the clear, wholesome road.
Then something clubbed him below his ear, and he fell, senseless once more, to the muddy ground.
Bristol Castle
In the castle’s hall, Sir Stephen Siward the Coroner stood warming his hands by the fire. His clerk and he had been holding an inquest into the death of a boy knocked down by a cart in the street. The matter was simple, the accidental death sad, but commonplace. But now, as the clerk carefully bound the rolls ready to be installed in the chest where they must await the arrival of the Justices, Sir Stephen found his mind returning to that other inquest.
He remembered it so well that it almost felt as if it were only yesterday afternoon that he had been called to the Capon house, to stand there watching, his heart in his throat, as those awful, mutilated bodies were dragged out and laid in a row.
The Capon inquest must have been completed legally, for his clerk, who was a stickler for the correct words and due process, did not criticise. The bodies were rolled over and over, naked, while the jury watched in grim silence, but their self-possession began to fracture at the sight of the last two. The men of the jury were roused to rage at the sight of Petronilla’s slaughtered body, and that of her baby, his head crushed and bloody.
Cecily was a hopeless witness. She could hardly speak: she muttered, stared at the ground, and closed her eyes completely when asked to look at the corpses. It was all quite frustrating, for Sir Stephen needed a clear declaration of the attack. Still, she had managed, finally, to make the necessary statements, and she had been convincing enough for the Squire and his men to be arrested.
Of course, it was natural that she should be in a state of shock. The poor young woman had lived with the family since Petronilla’s childhood. A long, long time.
After Petronilla’s marriage to Squire William, the latter had fallen out with his father-in-law, the burgess Arthur Capon. Sir Stephen himself wouldn’t have stood against the Squire in one of his rages: the man was known for his ferocity, and his impotent fury over his wife’s infidelity and flight must have been all-consuming.
The jury had no need of lengthy deliberations, but simply agreed that the assassins must have been Squire William with a gang of his men. Any man would want revenge in these circumstances, especially since his woman had run away with her confessor.
Everyone knew the background to the attack, and although Cecily had agreed that she had seen Squire William, it was not necessary for her to give lengthy evidence about his part in the attack. That was quite a relief to all concerned. The Squire and his men were arrested soon after.
Afterwards, Cecily had not wanted to see Sir Stephen for a long time. Well, that was all to the good, Sir Stephen thought. He had no wish to become attached to her permanently. It was hardly appropriate for a knight to be seen too often in the company of a serving-maid.
Third Thursday after the Feast of St Michael13
Marshfield
The sudden darkness brought on the terror again, and he stirred and sat up, thinking that he was in danger, but there was nothing here. Only a hideous pain in his leg, and Robert groaned to himself when he recalled the horrible wound.
Opening his eyes, he saw that he was lying on a comfortable bed with a rope base over which a palliasse of straw had been laid; at the foot of it stood a large chest. It was the sort of thing in which a man would keep his spare belongings, and Robert eyed it with curiosity. Made of pale, gleaming wood, with a pair of heavy bands which appeared to pass over the lid to padlocks at the front, it was a temptation to try to open it and peer inside, but something stopped him. There was an aura of evil in the chamber: something that emanated from within the chest.
Then, despite himself, his hand moved over the chest’s lid, his questing fingers stroking the blued steel of the bands, reaching down to the padlocks . . . and his heart pounded as he felt the hasp of the first lock give under his fingers. His hand went to the other lock – and suddenly the lid was flung open, throwing Robert onto his back. He screamed, and saw before him that head once more – the narrowed eyes, the blue lips – floating towards him. Robert flailed at it with his arms, but the thing drifted effortlessly past, moving ever nearer, and there was the smell of the grave about it. And then it was right in front of him, coming closer and closer until it seemed about to touch his lips . . .
‘Christ’s bones!’ he screamed aloud, and this time it was enough to shake him properly awake, and he was sitting up, mouth gaping, panting, the sweat pooling on his breast. He looked around wildly, and found himself in a bright, warm chamber, lying on a good bed, and there were firm hands on his shoulders gently pressing him back.
‘You are safe here, my son. Do not fear. Lie back. Be still, be easy.’
Robert stared about him. The room was sparsely furnished. One stool sat near a small, low table, and the only decoration on the walls was a stoup set at the door, and a simple cross of dark wood on a wall nearby. The floor was made of packed earth, and the fire, which burned with a steady, heartwarming hiss, lay on a hearth of clay in the middle of the room. Over it a pot bubbled, giving off a wonderful smell of rosemary and bacon.
‘Where am I?’
‘In my house. I am Paul, the priest for this little vill, and you have been here since your discovery beside the road.’
‘My discovery . . . What does that . . .?’
‘You were found there,’ the priest said. He was
a slim man, but wiry, with a tonsure that left the majority of his skull bald. Bright blue eyes held his own, and Robert was comforted by the sympathy in them. ‘You were bleeding badly from that gash in your shin. It’s a matter of good fortune that you lost no more blood, my friend, for had you done so, I doubt that you would have survived. As it is, the wound appears to have all but healed.’
‘Healed? How long have I been here?’
‘We can talk about that in the morning. For now, you should rest. Have some broth, settle back, and forget these horrible dreams.’
‘I’ve had them before?’
‘You have returned to the same dream many times, I think, my friend. It is most sad to see you thrashing in your fear. Do not worry, though. We shall soon have you well and free of these mares.’
Robert nodded and allowed the priest to ease him back against the wall, watching while Father Paul busy himself with wooden bowl and spoon.
But Robert did not see the priest. All he saw with his mind’s eye was that decomposing head floating towards him again.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Bristol
The city of Bristol was still the second city of the kingdom, no matter what anyone might say, and Sir Laurence Ashby, the Constable of Bristol Castle, was convinced that his adopted home eclipsed London in many ways. It was better served with access to the sea, it was more pleasant on the nostrils and eye, being much cleaner than the capital, and from his point of view, as a warrior, it was infinitely more secure. Not only were there walls encircling the whole town but the river also formed a strong barrier to the south, while the fields to the north were notable for their bogs and marshes.
There was a good, strong wall about the castle, too, which was one of the most imposing in the land. Raised on a hill, its square keep reared up over the city it was intended to protect, while the curtain walls concealed a mass of smaller buildings: sheds, smiths’ forges, stables, and a vast number of storage chambers. Usually the castle was manned by only a small contingent, but now the realm was on a war footing, matters had radically changed, and Sir Laurence was glad that his calls for the garrison to be enlarged had been heeded.
It was with good reason that people called this ‘almost the richest city’. Merchants there plied their trade all over the world from Bristol’s good, deep-water port. Many years ago, the city had begun the great work of moving the River Frome, the burgesses excavating the new line of the river in St Augustine’s Marsh, so that access to the harbour was greatly improved. The sea was the source of the city’s power and wealth, and as soon as that great work was completed, the townspeople set out on another ambitious project: damming the River Avon and diverting it, so that a stone bridge could be constructed over the river, giving access from the south.
‘Sir Laurence, there is a messenger.’
The Constable closed his eyes for a moment, cursing all messengers. Since the beginning of this terrible dispute between the King and his Queen, the number of messages had increased to a steady flow. In the past, the Constable of a royal castle would be left to get on with his many tasks, but not now. It seemed as though the King was ever more determined to keep tight control over every aspect of life in the kingdom, especially in places like Bristol. Or was it that he was attempting to maintain the fiction that he had some control of events?
Sir Laurence supposed it was to be expected. A man who was so suddenly overtaken by fate must try to assume command by whatever means he could.
Taking the note, he read down the sheet quickly. Sir Laurence was a man of middling height in his early thirties. His head was almost as bald as a priest’s, with a fringe of yellow hair curling about. His eyes were clear and blue, set in a rather pale-complexioned face with thin lips that gave him the look more of an ascetic than a man of action. The truth was, he was infinitely happier with a sword in his hand than a book, and although he had less time to spare now, he was always more content to sit in his saddle with a lance at the ready, than bent over at a desk.
Not that there was much likelihood of that, these days. Knights were no longer permitted to test themselves in jousts of honour, since King Edward disapproved of such martial displays. He had been very happy to participate in such celebrations when he was younger, but Piers Gaveston had died following a plot conceived during a jousting match, and after the loss of that most beloved adviser, the King had refused to allow any more.
‘Very good,’ Sir Laurence said, and folded the parchment carefully, pushing it into his shirt. The writing was atrocious again – he had scarcely been able to decipher it. The King’s clerks were clearly under a great deal of stress themselves, he thought to himself.
Leaving the messenger and guard, he strolled towards his little chamber in the keep, where he pulled out the message and threw it onto his table. His clerk, David, peered at him with interest. ‘More complaints about the privy?’
‘Silence!’ Sir Laurence snapped.
David was less a clerk, more a comrade against the world. A lean, astute man, his sarcasm was a welcome shield against the foolishness of men, especially those who tried to achieve their will by politicking. ‘Oh, having a good morning, then?’ he responded calmly.
‘No one’s grabbed me about the shit-house this morning, no,’ Sir Laurence grunted.
‘Something else, then?’ The clerk knew all about the many troubles which dogged his master. As Constable, he was nagged about any problems with living quarters in times of peace, and now there was war, for some reason the complaints about the privy had escalated. True enough there was a foul stench rising, and guards and servants alike were unhappy that they might inhale some of it.
Sir Laurence himself reckoned it was less a fault with the chamber itself, or the chute into the moat, and more a reflection of the garrison’s nervousness in the face of impending war. They were shitting themselves.
He kicked the door shut. ‘Yes. I reckon the King has lost his mind.’ It was hardly surprising: there was his wife, flaunting her adultery with the man whom King Edward had ordered to be executed, plus she had kept their son with her even when King Edward had demanded his return. Who wouldn’t be made lunatic in those circumstances?
‘Do you really mean that?’ David set down his reed and stared at Sir Laurence, his head to one side.
‘Read this,’ the Constable grumbled, picking up the message and passing it to the clerk. ‘He’s only written from Tintern, demanding that we all hold array and provide at least one centaine of men, along with provisions and horses to equip a force of hobelars. Madness, complete madness! The King must realise that the first city Mortimer will want to take is Bristol.’
He slumped down in his chair. Bristol was the jewel of all the cities in the kingdom, and Sir Laurence loved it with a passion. Even the scars on large portions of the walls, rebuilt after the insurrection ten years ago, were like the birthmarks on a lover. He knew them all intimately.
‘We don’t have a hundred men to spare, and if we did have them, we’d still need them here to protect the city. We can’t survive another siege.’
The last siege had been terrible. Sir Laurence had heard much about it when he first arrived here. A small group of fourteen rich men controlled the city and refused to countenance the justifiable demands of other burgesses to be allowed the same privileges and rights. The matter had come to a head eleven years ago, in the eighth and ninth years of the King’s reign. First, the King was petitioned by the fourteen to have judges listen to their issues, because they were sure that they would win the matter and retain their powers. But when the judges arrived and took up their positions in the Guild Hall to open the case, a mob began to riot, convinced that the judges were biased in favour of the few instead of the majority. Harsh words were spoken, some stones thrown, and it was said that twenty or more men lay dead at the end of the fight.
Many claimed that the garrison was responsible, that the mob was innocent, but it didn’t help the city. Eighty of the inhabitants were to be attached and held f
or judgement; they would be declared outlaw if they did not surrender themselves. However, they preferred to conceal themselves in the city, and as the situation deteriorated and the fourteen fled the city, terrified of retaliation, the city itself closed the gates and prepared for war.
The townspeople declared that the city was not rebelling against the King, but Edward II would hear none of it. His position was simple: they had rebelled against his Justices, and that meant against him. He sent the Earl of Pembroke to demand surrender, but the city refused, and the fighting began.
It was thoroughly one-sided. The river was blocked by Sir Maurice de Berkeley, while the siege was prosecuted by Sir Bartholomew Badlesmere and Sir Roger Mortimer, who had called on the posse comitatus to prosecute the campaign. The castle remained in the King’s possession, and Mortimer’s strategic mind saw how to force the capitulation of the city. It was he who decided where to position the great mangonel or catapult machine in the castle, and it soon started to destroy buildings, while the posse outside the city laid to with a vengeance. Attacked from both sides, there was little the citizens could do, and they surrendered after a few days.
And now this same Mortimer was returned, this time with a large force of Hainaulters, and if the city were to attempt to hold out again, history would repeat itself.
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