29 - The Oath

by Michael Jecks

  ‘No, I am sure you are right there, Father. Will you give me a blessing?’

  Paul gave him a hug, and muttered a prayer, making the sign of the cross over his brow and wishing him Godspeed, and soon Robert was on his way, following the road as Paul had suggested.

  But as he set off, his teeth gritted against the pain, he knew that the reason he wished to seek that body was less because of the dead man, and more because he was determined to learn what had happened to himself.

  He remembered finding the head, remembered crouching to vomit – and then nothing. Perhaps it was the effect of the knock on his head the previous day, but surely the blow wouldn’t still have had such an awful impact on him after such a long time.

  Stopping in the road, he ran his fingers questingly over his skull, quickly finding the area of intense soreness where the tranter had hit him. And then his finger found another place, right above his left ear. Touching it was enough to make him wince. So that was it, he thought. Someone had knocked him down again.

  But why would his attacker take him somewhere else, unless it was to confuse him and hide the location of the dead man? If that was all the fellow intended, surely he would simply have killed Robert too, as a witness to his crime? It made no sense.

  Robert suddenly set his face to the north. There were trees in the distance, and he was sure that there was smoke, too. It was painful to walk on his bad leg, but it would heal sooner if he kept it moving. Resting it too much was the surest way of losing his mobility for good and all.

  The way soon became overgrown with brambles and blackthorns. Robert struggled on for a while, until he found himself on the edge of a small wood. He turned off through the trees, hoping that the way would become easier, and at first it was, but only if he followed a shallow incline to a little valley below. Here there was another trail, this time heading more southwards and getting marshy. He went carefully on the soft ground, testing the ground with his staff before putting his foot anywhere dangerous.

  It was a slow, painstaking progress along this track, and he could have wept when he saw that the track was bending around to head south-east of here. He was going in the wrong direction entirely. Soon, if he wasn’t careful, he would be back at the priest’s house where he had started.

  And then he saw the trees. There was something about them . . . He stopped, and stared hard, before setting off again in his jerky manner, moving carefully to protect his bad shin and skull, all the time aware of his emotions being pulled this way and that.

  At the forefront of his mind was the necessity of finding the dead man, if there was one. If a fellow had been killed, and his body dismembered, Robert wanted to find it so that it could be reported. There were many people who would hurry away from a corpse on the basis that they would not want to be attached as first finder. Robert himself didn’t want to have to pay any man to be bound over to return to this place when the Coroner came to hold his inquest, and later, when the Justices came to listen to the evidence in court. No, of course he didn’t want to get caught up in all that, but still less did he want the murderer to escape.

  Also, it was only by finding the body that he could assure himself he wasn’t mad. His dreams had been growing more and more grotesque, the dead man’s head following him as though begging him to return. Maybe if he did so, peace would be granted to him.

  The path led in among a stand of trees, and he saw with a thrill of excitement and trepidation that there was a hedge on one side, with a puddle nearby. With a grunt of resolution, he forced himself to look at the hedge. Sure enough, there was a gap in it large enough for his body to have crawled through. If he was right, the head was just over there . . . He bent and peered in.

  And saw the head still sitting on the branches where it had lain before.

  Near Amesbury

  Simon and Margaret sat gratefully on the stools provided, and sipped the wine passed to them.

  ‘So, Master Puttock, I think you must be glad we appeared when we did, eh?’

  Simon looked up at the man who had appeared. He was a big fellow, but a man encased in a coat-of-arms and mail tended to have a commanding presence. This one still had his face concealed by his helmet, and Simon stood, a little unsteadily, and bowed. ‘Sir, I am very glad to see you and to be able to offer my profound thanks. I don’t . . .’ Then he paused. ‘How did you know my name, sir?’

  ‘How would I not know the name of a friend?’ The man laughed, and lifted off his helmet. ‘Remember me?’

  Simon gasped with pleasure to see Sir Charles of Lancaster. ‘Sir, never was a knight more welcome!’

  The knight nodded with a grin. He was a tall, confident man, with clear, blue eyes that told the world he knew it existed, in large part, in order to entertain and amuse him. Sir Charles was not a man to suffer from a sense of inadequacy or jealousy. He believed that he had a right, by birth and position, to enjoy his life in any way he wanted to.

  There had been some significant changes since the last time Simon had spent any time with Sir Charles. That had been in France, and there, Sir Charles had suffered the loss of his most devoted man-at-arms when he was murdered, and Simon and Baldwin had helped him.

  It was apparent that Sir Charles recalled the same incident. ‘So, it seems I am able to return your favour to me,’ he said. ‘You helped me in Paris, and I am able to help you here.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Simon asked.

  ‘The country would seem to be growing a little fractious,’ Sir Charles said loftily. ‘I have been asked to come and try to keep this area quiet, and I’ve been doing my best, but I confess, it appears that my best is inadequate. There is,’ he added thoughtfully, taking a large mazer of wine from his servant, ‘quite a vast amount of unrest among the peasants.’

  Sir Charles and his men had killed all the members of the gang which had attacked Simon and Margaret. There had been one survivor, whose horse had died in the attack, and who had tried to bolt for some trees to escape, but two of Sir Charles’s men cantered easily after him, and in a few moments, the man was hacked into pieces. There was no sympathy for such scoundrels. Outlaws could expect instant justice.

  ‘This is the first we have seen of it since leaving London,’ Simon said. ‘I had thought we had left the madness behind.’

  ‘When a kingdom collapses, I fear that some men will always rise up and take what they want,’ the knight said, airily waving his mazer while his servant struggled to unbuckle his greaves. ‘You have these peasants who toil in their fields musing about life, and when they see law and order dissipating, they think, “Aha, I could steal a shilling or two, and live like a lord for the day.” They really are that simple: they only look for the next ale, the next pie. Further than that, they are blind, poor fools.’

  Simon was irked by the knight’s facile explanation, but there was little point arguing, he knew. Sir Charles had the ability to see what he wished, and took the view that other opinions were supremely irrelevant. Simon glanced across at the others. The man they had met on the roadway was over beyond Meg, who was playing five stones with Peterkin, while Hugh and Rob stood guard behind her. ‘We all owe you a great debt of gratitude,’ Simon said solemnly. ‘And now, I suppose we’ll have to make our plans for escaping any other mishaps on our way home.’

  ‘You think to travel to your home in Devon?’ Sir Charles chuckled. ‘I would not advise it.’

  ‘We have to return,’ Margaret said firmly. ‘Our daughter is in Exeter, and—’

  ‘Will be considerably safer than you,’ Sir Charles finished for her. ‘If you travel the roads, you will be at risk from every felon, outlaw and disgruntled peasant. The roads, Madame Margaret, simply are not safe. You cannot possibly ride that way. The King has ridden westwards, and no one knows when he will return. The Queen and Mortimer are after him, and he has yet to gather his host.’

  ‘He has issued instructions for his knights to gather, surely?’ Margaret said.

  Sir Charles nodded, but
grimly now. His cheery manner was put to one side for the present. ‘Oh, yes. He demanded his first men before he left London. I was given a writ myself – but no one would obey the summons. I am told there were sheriffs and knights who arrayed their men, formed their hosts – and then took them straight to the Queen. It appears her forces have been swollen a great deal since her landing, while the King’s have declined. The force you see with me here is the best I could gather together. We are on our way to join the King now.’

  ‘If you are right, and the Queen’s strength is growing,’ Simon said, shocked, ‘you surely don’t think that the King could lose, do you?’

  Sir Charles eyed him. ‘I would not say so. But until the final reckoning, all may change in an instant. And for now, the fact is that the roads are far too dangerous for any small group to hope to travel so far alone. In any case, as I said, your daughter is sitting in Exeter, behind sturdy city walls. If she is in danger there, she is in danger anywhere in the realm. For now, the King and Queen are not near her.’

  ‘What will you do, then?’ Simon asked.

  ‘I am inclined to head towards the King and join him in Bristol,’ the knight replied. ‘I think that there I should be able to see how matters are developing.’

  ‘And then?’

  Sir Charles smiled, but didn’t respond to the question. ‘I would recommend that you join me in my journey. Bristol is said to be a fair city. I am sure you would find it delightful.’

  Simon glanced at Margaret, who nodded, gazing up at the knight sadly. ‘Yes, thank you, Sir Knight. But I am so worried about Edith, Simon.’

  For once the knight appeared to show some sympathy. He bowed low. ‘Madame Puttock, I am afraid that many will fear for their loved ones in the coming weeks. But there is no need for you to rush into danger to be with her. Better that you travel safely and arrive in one piece, than travel unwisely and never see her again.’

  *

  David was still working at his table when Sir Laurence threw the door wide and marched back into his chamber.

  She was insufferable, that woman! As if a castellan had time to worry about her maid, just because she was upset at the sight of some men who scared her. He had a mind to go to the wench and give her a short instruction about the responsibilities of a man at time of approaching war.

  ‘You have been a long while,’ David observed.

  ‘Oh dear, have you been bored?’ the Constable snapped. ‘Don’t you have enough to do without me commanding you?’

  David lifted his eyebrows. ‘This was nothing to do with the garderobe, then?’

  ‘The privy has been safe from me today,’ Sir Laurence grunted as he slumped into his chair. ‘Let’s not talk about it.’

  David eyed him uncertainly a moment before beginning to discuss the business of the day: a small fire that had damaged one of the storerooms, fodder for the horses and how many ought to be stabled within the court, a report on the total sacks of grain for bread and ale-making, as well as the honey, charcoal and brimstone stored for making the new blackpowder. The King had ordered two barrels of honey to be held at his castles for this purpose four years ago, along with all the other items necessary for repelling a siege, and Bristol was well served in all.

  Sir Laurence tried to concentrate, but his mind kept returning to his interview with Emma Wrey. Cecily was an object of some fascination in the town, because of her narrow escape, and she had been pointed out to him a few times, usually by men using that hushed undertone that denotes some sort of notoriety.

  It was said that only one man could have wanted to kill Arthur Capon and his family, but most people in the city knew that was ballocks.

  Many, like Sir Laurence, had had cause to visit the man in his great house, less a merchant’s humble dwelling and more of a palace, with the great paved and grassed court at the front, and high walls to keep it all private from wanderers in the street outside. Yes, every so often even a castellan needed money, and Arthur Capon was always prepared to help a man, with his sly little smile and oleaginous manner, and huge funds of ready coin. It was only later that his clients learned how they had been fleeced by the ruinous charges Capon levied upon them.

  All too many of these disgruntled citizens would have been happy to enter his house and slit his greedy throat for him. There were fewer who would have killed his wife and daughter too, but in these days of violence, when even the throne itself was rocking with dissent, was it so surprising that a murderer should seek to eradicate the whole family? No. To leave a son would be to leave a future avenger.

  And that, Sir Laurence thought, would have been simply foolish. A man ruthless enough to kill the father had to be prepared to kill all in the house.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Near Salisbury

  Baldwin and Thomas Redcliffe were riding abreast, while further back was Jack, today looking remarkably relaxed as he trotted along. Wolf was jogging along happily at the side of the road, sniffing occasionally at the grasses and brambles.

  ‘Another day and we should be in Bristol,’ Baldwin said.

  They had set off almost as soon as Baldwin had spoken to Redcliffe at the inn yesterday, telling the innkeeper to release the felons. The bearded leader’s flank was giving him some grief, and it was plain enough that they would not be able to follow in a hurry. In the event, Baldwin and his companions had made good time after Winchester. The way to Salisbury and thence to the plains had been surprisingly clear of all other travellers, and Baldwin was glad of the views in all directions from up here on the clear grassland. Any man attempting to waylay them would find his task made infinitely more difficult by the absence of trees and other means of concealment.

  ‘I am enormously grateful to you, sir,’ Redcliffe said once more.

  It was a refrain which Baldwin had heard too many times in the last days. He made no reply now, staring at the horizon ahead, but inside he raged with himself for agreeing to come all this way. Travelling to Bristol would add at least two days to his journey home, and he was desperate to get to Jeanne and make sure that she was safe. But as soon as he had admitted to the men in the shed that he was a Keeper of the King’s Peace, he had found himself bound. The men who had attacked Redcliffe had received his promise to release them, and no matter what he wished, he could not retain them without breaking that promise. That Baldwin would not do. Meantime, he had a duty to protect the King’s Messenger. Not that the fellow looked much like a messenger, in his opinion; he looked much more like a spy, and Baldwin had a healthy dislike of such men. Usually they were motivated by money, and he detested all forms of mercenary. Men who conspired and plotted were all untrustworthy, to his mind.

  ‘You are good to help me in this way,’ the man said.

  ‘I had placed you in a position of danger; it was the least I could do,’ Baldwin said.

  ‘But still very kind. Many would not have helped me.’

  ‘I wish I had realised the danger those men posed.’

  ‘I wish I had known myself!’ Redcliffe said. ‘I still wonder who it was who paid them.’

  The fellows had all denied any knowledge of the man who told them to hunt Redcliffe. It made Baldwin wonder who could have had such a violent hatred of the man that he was prepared to pay a gang to murder him. It was possible that Redcliffe knew who this man could be, but he vehemently denied it when Baldwin asked him, and from his apparent shock when he heard what the men had said, Baldwin reluctantly had to believe him. He was the subject of someone’s irrational hatred, apparently. Well, such things did happen. Or perhaps it was merely that the Queen had heard Redcliffe was coming this way, and had set men to catch him. It would depend on the importance of the message he carried.

  Redcliffe himself had suggested that it could be a past competitor in his businesses. Not only had he been successful as a merchant, he had been known as a good judge of horseflesh, and had three times travelled to Lombardy and Spain to buy destriers and other mounts for the King and his nobles. Were othe
rs perhaps jealous of his trading? he wondered.

  ‘I confess, I find it astonishing that you do not know who this murderous enemy could be,’ Baldwin said now. ‘Surely it was a man who saw you on your travels and set those fellows on you at the inn.’

  ‘There was no one I noticed.’

  ‘You are certain you have not offended any other fellows on your journey? I recall one man who felt himself offended.’ Baldwin recounted the tale of a murder some years before: in that case the murderer had been a parson, from Quantoxhead in Somerset. He had taken umbrage at a man who accidentally jostled him in the street. In a sudden rage, he declared that he would see the man in hell within a day, and was in fact better than his word. The fellow was found dead the same afternoon, his servant also murdered at his side.

  ‘The idea that a man should seek to have me killed is appalling,’ Redcliffe said with a shudder. ‘I have never been in such a situation before. It is most extraordinary to think that I could be the target of a killer.’

  ‘You have much to remember this year. Losing a ship, then being attacked while on pilgrimage, then this latest incident . . . It was Black Heath where you said you were robbed, was it not?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Those men: did they appear to want to kill you, or were they interested only in robbing you?’

  ‘Oh, they seemed solely interested in my purse. If they had wanted to, they could easily have slain me. They had me at their mercy.’

  ‘Did they get anything else?’ Baldwin asked. ‘Something that told them you were a King’s Messenger? You could have become the target of someone who seeks to support Queen Isabella against the King.’

  ‘No, only money,’ the man repeated.

  Baldwin glanced at the purse at his belt: it was a very old, worn-looking leather one. ‘I am surprised your purse was returned to you,’ he remarked.

  ‘Yes. I was fortunate,’ Redcliffe said. ‘I found it later in the roadway.’ He put a hand on it as though protectively, although there was not much money in it, from what Baldwin could see.