Sir Laurence narrowed his eyes. Yes, but in the years since the last siege, the city had invested a lot of money in rebuilding the walls to make them more secure. So it might just be possible to keep Mortimer at bay. Not an easy task, but one surely worth attempting.
One thing was for certain: there would be no help from the King. All that could be done must be done by the city alone – if the city could do aught to defend Edward’s interests.
David carefully folded the parchment and sat for a long time staring at it. ‘The city will fall,’ he said simply.
Sir Laurence stood, his chair grating over the boards. ‘It will not!’ he growled. ‘While I live, I will keep this city for the King, and protect it as I may!’
‘Sir Laurence, the Queen will soon be here. And she has artillery with her, you can be sure. Think what those machines will do to the city, and to the people. The King wants your men; there will not be enough to protect the city and the castle, will there?’
‘I will not allow it to fall,’ Sir Laurence repeated.
Then he left the room and walked up the narrow staircase to the north-eastern tower, frowning over the town from the wall at the top.
The city was sprawled beneath him, bounded by the two rivers. He was looking down over St Peter’s to the Avon now, a broad, sluggish river today. He turned and stared over the long, rectangular yard enclosed by the outer walls of the castle, and then beyond, musing.
There was one thing he was certain of, and that was, while his King wanted Bristol kept, Sir Laurence would do all in his power to hold it. He wouldn’t give it up willingly to a rebel like Mortimer. It was a matter of honour.
While he held the town’s walls, Bristol was safe even from that scoundrel.
Third Friday after the Feast of St Michael14
Near Winchester
As they reached the outskirts of the city, passing by St Katherine’s Hill, they had been riding like madmen for a day and a half already – a man, a youth and a large dog.
Although in his middle fifties, Sir Baldwin de Furnshill rode like a man many years younger. His beard, which trailed about the line of his jaw, was pebbled with white now, and his hair was grey but for two wings of white at his temples. He had been a warrior all his life, and his neck and arms showed that he had kept up his regular exercises. Riding every day meant that his muscles were honed, too, but his companion was only a lad, and at the end of this second day Baldwin threw him an anxious look. ‘You are well, Jack?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You look as though you are about ready to fall from the horse,’ Baldwin said gruffly.
If he could, Baldwin would have left the fellow behind in London, for then he would have been able to ride more swiftly, but it was impossible to find somewhere safe for the boy. With the realm sliding towards war, the city was in a turmoil, with bands of rifflers running over the streets, robbing passers-by, plundering houses, raping women and killing any who argued with them. Even the Tower was to fall to the London mob, Baldwin was sure of that, with the King away, and no one certain whether he would remain King. No, London was no place to leave the lad. And Sir Baldwin was also anxious to ride to his wife and ensure that she was safe in their manor in Devon.
Wolf, Baldwin’s great mastiff, looked up enquiringly for a moment, before following a scent. He was an amiable-tempered brute, with white muzzle, brown eyebrows and cheeks, and a white cross on his breast, but he was as dull-witted as he was handsome, and had an annoying habit of walking in front of horses as the whim, or scent, took him. Baldwin muttered at him as he meandered across the lane again.
The sun was sinking swiftly now as they peered ahead at the city. A warm orange glow illuminated the sky, highlighting the spires, the towers of the Cathedral and the roofs of the Bishop’s Palace. Looming over the city in the south-west corner, Baldwin could see the outline of the castle, a huge monstrosity in comparison with the rest of the little city. Twenty or more years ago there had been a fire in the royal apartments there, and the King and Queen had nearly died. They had been forced to hasten from their chambers as the flames took hold. There was no risk of the King and Queen of today being immolated, Baldwin told himself sadly, and turned to the city gates. They would be unlikely to spend another evening in each other’s company again.
It was already too late, as he had feared. As soon as the sun began to sink, the gates of this, like all the other cities in the realm, were closed and the curfew imposed. For those inside the walls, it meant security and safety; for those outside it meant a night shivering in the cold, constantly fearing brigands, unless they could find a room for the night at a village inn.
Baldwin looked at Jack. The boy was swaying gently as the horse moved beneath him, his face looking much older than his fourteen years. With the dirt from splashes of mud on his cheeks, and the strain of the last few hours etched deep into his skin, he could have passed for a man six years older.
The boy was a responsibility Baldwin could have done without, but Jack deserved his protection. The boy had saved his life. In a short skirmish earlier in the year, Baldwin had fallen and would have died, had not Jack saved him. It left Baldwin with a sense of indebtedness that was not to be easily cast aside.
‘Come, we’ll find an inn for you,’ he said gently.
‘I can carry on,’ Jack said quickly.
‘We cannot,’ Baldwin said. ‘The roads are too dangerous. If our mounts fall into a pothole, we shall lose both. I cannot afford that. No, we shall seek a room for the night. That will be safer.’
On hearing his words the relief on Jack’s face was like a warm beacon in the dark. Baldwin chuckled, for he could see it even in the gloom of twilight. It was no surprise that he should be glad: Jack was a peasant’s son from Portchester who had been taken at the array and sent to help on a raid in France, but he was only a youth, with no experience of fighting and less of riding a horse. Yet in two days he had covered as much ground as a King’s Messenger. His thighs must be rubbed raw, at the very least.
Baldwin spurred his horse on, calling to Wolf, and they trotted around the city’s wall, following the old road. It was no great distance: the total circumference of the wall Baldwin reckoned to be less than a mile and a half. On the way they met with a carter, who warily kept out of sword’s reach as he listened to their questions, and then told them that there was an inn at the southern gate of the city, which was where most would settle for the night if they missed the gate. It was to this that Baldwin led Jack, and before long the two were standing before a great fire that crackled and glowed in the middle of the room, while Wolf slumped to the floor with relief.
Jack looked about him with eyes dulled by exhaustion.
The innkeeper was reluctant to let them in at first, but that was normal at such an hour. Most inns would prefer to err on the side of caution and bar their doors after dark. As it was, the keeper brought them ale and then returned to speak with a strongly-built man with dark hair and beard who sat on an old barrel, watching Baldwin mistrustfully.
‘Do not worry,’ Baldwin said soothingly, only partly to reassure Jack. ‘We shall be safe in this place.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
Near Marshfield
Robert Vyke peered at his leg. The wound was not smelling foul, which was a relief, but there was plenty of pus leaking out and turning the linen bandages yellow.
‘It hurts?’ the priest asked.
‘Very much, Father.’
‘I have heard it said that this leaking fluid is the “laudable pus”. It means that you should have a fully healed leg in a little while.’
‘It is feeling stronger. And there is less fluid.’
‘You can stay here as long as you wish, my friend. There is no hurry for you to leave.’
Robert Vyke couldn’t help but glance at the door. ‘Have the Queen’s men been here?’
The priest was sitting on his stool, a wooden board on his lap containing some old cheese and bread. He had been about to push a
lump of the bread into his mouth, but now he stopped and fixed an eye on Robert. He had a shrewd look about him, for all that he was no older than Robert himself. He would have been a good-looking man, with his fair hair and blue eyes, were it not for the sadness that seemed to lie on him. ‘Have you cause to fear her?’
‘I was here because of the King. I was arrayed, and marched with him.’
‘I think that there will be many like you,’ the priest said, shoving the bread into his mouth and chewing. Crumbs flew from his mouth as he spoke. ‘There is no need for you to fear, my son. She and her army may pass here, they may not. The most important thing is that they won’t be stopping here to find you. Do you think she will seek out all those who have ever shown themselves loyal to their King? No. It is not as though you are a wandering felon, is it?’
‘No!’ Robert protested.
‘I did have to ask, my son. Your leg will heal, so far as I can tell. I have washed it with egg-white, and there is no poisoning of your flesh. Perhaps in a week or a little more, you will be able to walk again.’
‘A week or more?’
‘If you will rest it and behave sensibly, yes.’
Robert stared at his leg. He had hoped to be able to return home to his Susan. She would be so happy to see the . . . Where was the knife?
‘Father,’ he said tentatively, ‘when I fell, there were belongings of mine in a bag, and . . .’
‘Yes, of course,’ the priest said. He stood, set his board on his stool, and came over to the bed. Reaching beneath Robert, he withdrew the old pack. ‘The dagger is a strange device for a man of such lowly upbringing,’ he noted.
All at once the memory of the face returned to Robert. ‘I found it . . .’ he began, but was cut off by the priest holding up his hand.
‘I am sure you came by it honestly, my friend. After all, who could have wished to keep a weapon in that condition?’
‘It was lying in a pothole, with the blade pointing up, and it was that blade which so injured me.’
‘A great misfortune,’ the priest said. ‘I wonder whose it could have been?’ His voice held a strange note, and when Robert looked at him, his posture was that of a priest, awaiting a man’s confession.
‘There was a man there,’ Robert said. ‘I was trying to straighten the blade, and he was in there. In the trees. His head – it was sitting on a fork of two branches, and that was when I fell. I can remember now.’
‘Where was this?’ the priest asked, frowning.
‘In the trees.’
‘Can you describe the place?’
‘I . . .’ He stopped. He might recognise it if he saw it again, but it was just a bit of roadway. ‘There was a road, with a pothole, a hedge, and trees behind it.’
‘My son, you were found in the field behind my church here. Did you walk here from the wood?’
‘No, I was beside the road with my friends,’ Robert said.
‘Which road? Do you know which vill you were near?’
Robert shook his head slowly. ‘All I know is, we were close to Bristol. We stopped there to rest, for our company was passing through on our way to the King. I hurt my leg and had to be left behind – and then a damned sumpter-man struck my head because I remonstrated with him for his cruelty to his beast. He killed it,’ he added as an afterthought.
‘There was no party came past here,’ the priest said. ‘I’ve heard of the King’s host passing by a few miles to the north, but none down here.’
‘We were only one vingtaine,’ Robert said tiredly. His head and leg were throbbing. ‘And it was very early in the morning when we came past.’
‘You think I’d have missed you?’ the priest chuckled. ‘Not here, my friend. There is no concealment for a vingtaine, I assure you. I sleep lightly, so I would have woken at the sound of a force riding past.’
‘I didn’t see a church,’ Robert admitted. ‘The road was tree-lined, and there were hedges, and a little cottage: I saw it.’
‘Well, not here, my friend,’ the priest said, and there was a kindly look in his eye. ‘Don’t forget, you have seen the skull rise before you several times over the last day, in your sleep. Perhaps you should lie down again?’
‘I am not mad!’ Robert said, but he could feel the onset of a kind of panic. Had he dreamed the whole incident – the fall, the discovery of the head? Was it all just a fiction planted in his mind by a mare?
Inn outside Winchester
Baldwin and Jack were shown into the main bedchamber. Palliasses were thrown higgledy-piggledy over the floor, and some had already been taken. Their occupants were curled up or lying on their backs, and there was little noise, apart from one man, who was snoring so furiously it was as though he was fighting for every breath. There was a boot lying by his head – perhaps someone had thrown it to silence him. The shutters were pulled tight, Baldwin noted, to prevent any thieves entering during the night, but he still looked about him cautiously.
By the little rushlight it was hard to see much. He could make out six men on the floor, of whom only one appeared to be awake still, and he was hardly a threat. He was a short fellow, scrawny as a man who’d fasted for a fortnight, and he lay watching the two of them from dark, suspicious eyes that raked over Baldwin, from his green tunic to his sword.
Baldwin undid his sword belt with slow deliberation, staring back at the fellow as he did so. Then, choosing the least noisome of the spare palliasses, he rested his back against the wall and placed his sword at his side, motioning to Jack to lie nearby. Wolf padded to his side and lay down.
There were no safe inns in the land now, he knew. The kingdom was too unstable. King Edward II was running for his life. Throughout his reign, from the earliest days, Edward appeared to have been doomed. His wars to protect his lands against the Scottish had all foundered against the resolute tactics of that devil Bruce, while the one war he had finally won, against the Marcher Lords, had been fought not for his own benefit, but for that of his adviser and friend, Sir Hugh le Despenser.
His choice of friends and advisers had been disastrous, since he had selected those who were more keen to enrich themselves than work for the good of all and govern wisely. First it had been that cretin Piers Gaveston, and more recently Despenser. There were few in the realm who did not loathe Despenser; even those who protested their affection for him were often lying. His avarice and insatiable hunger for power were despised by all who believed in chivalry and honour.
Baldwin himself detested the man. He had seen how Despenser had persecuted his friend Simon Puttock. A good, decent man, Simon had been hounded from his home and forced to give up his offices working with the Abbey at Tavistock, returning to his old home near Sandford and taking on the mantle of a simple farmer. Yet compared with others who had endured the enmity of Despenser, he was fortunate. He was at least still alive.
There were many within the King’s circle in past years who had inspired such hatred, but few could have attained such heights of influence. For Baldwin, it was a cause of conflict and frustration since, although the Despenser represented all that was hateful to him, yet Baldwin must fight to protect the man – because to refuse would be to disobey his King. And he could not do that.
The rushlight was dying, and Baldwin snuffed it between dampened finger and thumb. Instantly the room was thrown into darkness, and he listened carefully. There was no apparent difference in the sounds of quiet breathing and snoring, but he would take no chances. Reaching for his sword, he placed it on his lap, his right hand ready on the hilt.
Shutters could be closed against burglars and draw-latches, but sometimes they could seal in a victim.
Chapel near Marshfield
As the sick man began to murmur and moan in his sleep, Paul knelt beside his bed and gently mopped his forehead with a cloth.
It was expensive having this man here. He had already eaten much of Paul’s store of food, and his logpile was sadly depleted, all gone to keep the room warm for the invalid. At least his le
g did appear to be healing.
But it was worrying, this story he told. His descriptions were vague, but as soon as news was abroad that he had been out this way, the chances were that his story would take on a new meaning.
‘God help me,’ the priest muttered under his breath.
This fellow was probably the most profound danger to Paul of all the men who walked upon the earth. As soon as his story became known, everybody who had heard of the Capons and Petronilla, the faithless bride, would flock to gawp at him – her lover. It would be impossible to remain here. What would his congregation think?
Squire William had slaughtered his Petronilla and her family, even a babe who could never have hurt anyone. They had all died for nothing. Petronilla and Paul had been foolish, perhaps, but that was no reason to murder the Capons. If anyone, it was Paul who deserved that.
He closed his eyes as the tears came once more. It was hardest now, in darkness, to hold back the terrible misery; the shame that lay so heavily on his soul.
As he opened them again, the rushlight flickered and almost blew out. He glanced across. It was only a gust coming in through one of the many holes in his walls. A rat had gnawed its way through a beam at ground level, and the big hole there was one of the banes of his life. Every so often he would try to fill it with clay, but at this time of year it wouldn’t hold. It would dry out on the inside from the fire’s heat, then wash away outside.
Something glinted temptingly, and he turned to look around. There, in the rushlight’s warm glow, lay the knife with the warped blade.
He reached down to pick it up, but something made him stop. He recognised it.
This knife had been the Squire’s, he was sure. He had seen those gemstones so many times, prominently displayed at the man’s belt. He suddenly realised, with a horror that almost stopped his heart, that this blade might have been the one that ended poor Petronilla’s life. And here, in his bed, lay a man with his leg cruelly harmed by it – more proof of the weapon’s malevolence.
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