‘Don’t give me that ballocks, Sir Laurence! You’re wondering what in God’s name I’m doing here, aren’t you?’ the Earl said as he carefully climbed from his horse. ‘Time was, I’d have jumped from my mount. Beware old age, Sir Laurence. It creeps up on you like a draw-latch, and takes away all your abilities. I’ve been riding too quickly in the last few days, and my muscles are all complaining. I didn’t realise I had so many in my backside, in God’s name!’
He stood a moment with a hand rubbing his lower back, and then nodded towards the hall. ‘Let’s go and talk.’
The castle’s hall was a good-sized room, with a fireplace set into the northern wall that was already filled with flames from some small logs. A pair of larger logs lay before it, warming before they too could be set on the hearth. There was little decoration here, apart from some paintings on the wall behind the dais, which showed scenes of hunting: men on horseback winding their horns as they galloped towards a glorious hart, raches and alaunts leading the way. It was a scene which Sir Laurence had always loved, being a keen huntsman himself. Away on the right of the picture was a final scene, in which the alaunts had encircled the hart and were preparing for their final attacks, teeth bared, while the poor creature remained at bay.
For the first time, seeing the picture, Sir Laurence was suddenly struck by this scene. It was as though the artist was depicting the final days of Bristol, the noble hart encircled by ravening foes preparing to rip it to pieces. The thought made him feel chill.
The Earl stomped into the room, glanced about him with a glower, and made his way to the fire. He barked an order to his page, who ran to the dais, snatched up a chair, and brought it to the fireside.
‘Well!’ the Earl said as he allowed himself to fall into the seat with a grimace. ‘We are in a pretty pickle. What’s the status of the castle?’
‘The outer walls are all strong. No weaknesses in the towers. It seems the foundations are all well-laid, and the undercrofts are provisioned. We have enough, with the full garrison, to last three months or more. The men are in good heart, and all are loyal to the King.’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ the Earl said, and wiped a hand over his face. Suddenly he looked more grey, as though he had become enfeebled. His eyes were watery as he looked into the fire, and he gave the impression of immense sadness.
Sir Laurence told his steward to fetch wine, and waited while the Earl sat thinking.
He took the wine when it arrived and lifted his mazer to Sir Laurence in a mute toast of appreciation, then drained it. ‘Well, you will know already that the Queen is outside your city. She has a force of thousands. The King has a few tens remaining. His reign is in trouble. If we can just hold the city for a little, we may yet prevail. She cannot sweep past us and hope to be safe. I would immediately order an attack on her supply-lines, and try to raise enough men to attack her flanks, if I may. We could destroy her, with only a little luck. Mortimer’s a shrewd devil, so he’ll know that. They’ll do their best to reduce us to rubble. That’s my feeling. Do you disagree?’
‘No, my lord.’
‘So, we must hold the place. The King has placed me in charge of all the west of the country: Somerset, Devon, Cornwall, Dorset, Hampshire, Wiltshire – it’s all mine. While he attempts to raise his own forces, it is our duty to hold the Queen and her rabble here for as long as we can.’
‘Very well.’
‘What is the mood of the city?’
‘Generally good, I think. The people here are a contrary lot. They tend to hate Mortimer more than the King, though.’
He went on to discuss the stores within the city, the different city walls and the options for defence. It was not overall a bad situation. ‘With a strong garrison, we can maintain the castle without problem even if they break into the city.’
‘I see.’ The Earl looked at him. ‘I know, Sir Laurence. It’s not a bad position for us. We must only pray for God to look over us – and over our families,’ he added quietly, staring into the fire again.
That was when Sir Laurence realised the truth: that the Earl did not expect to be able to hold the city. He only hoped to keep it long enough to allow his son and the King to escape.
Sir Laurence’s eyes flew back to the picture of the hart, but now, in his mind’s eye, he saw the city encircled, while bloodthirsty demons laughed and gibbered about it, ready to crush the city for ever.
Simon was relieved when Margaret arrived back. She sent Peterkin out of the room with Hugh to find Rob.
‘The Earl, eh?’ Simon said. There was a note of hope in his voice. ‘That’s better news. He’s a fair man, I reckon. His son is a prickle of the first rank, but the father isn’t so bad – and he’s had some experience of warfare. Perhaps he can hold things together here.’
‘What will we do, Simon?’ Margaret could feel the onset of tears in her eyes, and there was a panicky feeling in the pit of her stomach. ‘I can’t stay here and suffer another siege, not after all that we went through in London.’
‘Meg,’ he said, rising and putting his arms round her. ‘Where can we go? The way home is bound to be dangerous, with armed men wandering about at will. The only safe place for us is here in the city. Would you really be prepared to leave Bristol if it meant you were putting Peterkin’s life at risk?’
‘Simon, if the city is besieged, the first thing the locals will do is throw all the useless, foreign mouths from the gates. That would mean me and Peterkin.’ She pulled away from his encircling arms. ‘If we stay here, are you prepared to watch as Peterkin and I are forced out of the city and left as a barrier between the wall and the army? That’s what you said happened in sieges before now, Simon – that the women and children were evicted and left to starve so that the besieged and besiegers didn’t have to feed them. They’d keep you here because you can handle a sword, but us? No. We’d be thrown from the gates.’
‘I don’t think it’ll come to that,’ Simon said.
She tore from his grasp. ‘Don’t say that! Don’t try to calm me, when you have no idea what may happen! You don’t know that we’ll be safer here in the city than on the road, do you? You don’t know that Bristol won’t be fired and pillaged, with many people inside slain, which means all of us! How can you stand there and try to be so rational when it’s our lives you’re gambling with?’
He was infuriating her! Did he mean to insult her? She was intelligent enough to manage his household when he was away, and yet now he was treating her like a child!
It was only then, when she had spat the last words into his face, that she saw his own despair. He was not arguing because he seriously believed that one choice was better than another: both had strengths and pitfalls – and he was confused and desperate. He needed help to choose the better option. In his face she saw her own anguish reflected. He was disheartened by this latest proof of his inability to serve his family.
‘Oh, Simon,’ she said, and felt the tears beginning to flow as she put her arms around his neck again and held him close. She was relieved to feel his arms about her waist, his head resting on her shoulder.
‘I’m sorry, Meg,’ he said, his voice curiously quiet. ‘I had thought we would be safe here, and I had thought all our problems were over, but no decision I take ever seems to work in the manner I intend. I didn’t want Edith to marry when she did; I didn’t want to work in Dartmouth; nor did I want to become stuck in the King’s arguments with the barons or upset Despenser – but it’s all happened. I’ve lost our treasure, our daughter, and now we’re in danger too. I no longer know what to do for the best!’
She shushed him, stroking his head as she would a weeping child’s. ‘You are a good man, Simon Puttock. Be strong for me. Don’t let my complaining offend your good sense. You make the decisions based on your reason.’
‘My “reason”,’ he repeated bitterly, and pushed himself from her, walking to the window. ‘My “reason” told me we would be safe here because no one in their right mind would want to
harm the second city in the realm. And now the Earl of Winchester is here to defend it with all his might. Well, every choice I have made so far has turned to disaster. So no, Meg, I won’t choose this time. This time, I will follow your judgement. It is always better than mine. So we shall pack and leave the city, and make our way as swiftly as possible to Exeter.’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Fourth Thursday after the Feast of St Michael23
Bristol
Next morning was dry, but the clouds were hanging low in the sky, and Margaret thought they looked like dirty muslin dangling from a line. But there was nothing could spoil her mood today. They were leaving. They were going home at last!
It had been a horrible evening, with Simon quiet and introspective, and she tormented with the thought that she had brought him to this pass. It was her task, as his wife, to support him in all he did, and make him content with his lot. She knew that. It was how she had been brought up, how her mother had taught her, how people expected a woman to behave – not to carp and argue and force her husband to change his mind, no matter what the provocation. And this time, surely he might well be correct.
She made her way to the church of St Peter, a short way from the castle’s bastion, and there prayed with absolute dedication for their journey to be safe. Like many travellers, she would often beg for God’s aid when going on a long journey, but this was more serious and the dangers more clear than at any other time she had set off. And there was the feeling that she needed to beg forgiveness for insisting that they should depart. It wasn’t fair that she should have forced Simon into changing his mind about staying here in Bristol.
When she rose, making the sign of the cross, she felt a conviction that her prayers had been heard, and it gave her a warm glow. With fortune, He would watch over them as they made their way homewards.
It was with this comfort in her heart that she walked from the church and returned to the inn. Here, she found Simon already loading the last of the packs on their horses, while Hugh was testing the saddle-straps and harnesses, glowering suspiciously as usual.
‘Our room is cleared,’ Simon said, seeing her. He did not try to embrace her. His face showed that he was still greatly troubled. ‘Everything is ready.’
She smiled, and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, before taking the reins and walking her mare to a series of steps to mount. Once upon her horse, she felt again as though things must now begin to improve. Peterkin loudly demanded to be allowed to walk as far as the bridge, and Margaret indulged him today. The last thing she wanted was a row before setting off. That would be a dreadful augur. She desired calmness, for herself, but also for her husband.
As Simon and Hugh helped Rob to his pony, and then the two clambered aboard their own beasts, she was reminding herself that the further they descended into Devon, the safer they would be. Men who wished for battle and war would all be up here, or in Wales, not in the quiet lanes of Devonshire. With luck, they would be home within five days. That was all that mattered.
The small group walked their horses out of the inn’s gates, past the barbican to the castle, and thence along St Peter Street towards the High Street and the bridge. The sun was fighting hard to escape the clutches of the clouds, but didn’t quite succeed.
As they approached St Mary-le-Port Church, it became clear that there was some kind of blockage ahead, for carts, horses and shouting men thronged the way as far as the High Street itself. Hugh dropped down and, ruffling young Peterkin’s head, lifted him on to his mother’s sadddle, out of harm’s way.
‘What’s the matter up there?’ Simon demanded of a man nearby, who merely shrugged.
‘Probably a cart’s broken a wheel. You know what this place is like.’
Simon muttered a curse under his breath, and began to cast about for a different way to the bridge. However, if there was one, he thought the other inhabitants of the city would surely have availed themselves of it rather than queue up like this.
There was a man shoving his way through now, heading back the way they had come, and Simon hailed him. ‘Friend, can you tell us what is holding us all up?’
‘The gates are closed. The Queen’s host is approaching, and all the city’s gates are barred against her.’
Near Gloucester
Sir Ralph was glad that they had given him a place to lie down inside a tent. The weather worsened during the night, and the misery of trying to sleep on wet ground was not an experience he intended to repeat. He had been forced to do that often enough in his youth.
The Queen’s men were a curious mixture. There were voices from all over the world, with the guttural tones of those from Hainault and Frisia, clear, refined French, rougher Breton, and plenty of English from different parts of the country. She had truly gathered together one of the most cosmopolitan forces ever seen on English territory.
He recognised her as soon as he saw her.
The Queen was a slim lady, perhaps nine-and-twenty years old, and her reputation as the most beautiful woman in the whole of Christendom was not to be disputed. Her dress was black, a widow’s weeds, because she had declared that her marriage was being broken by Sir Hugh le Despenser, ‘this Pharisee’, and until she was avenged on him, she would dress like a widow; however, the black clothing only served to highlight her blonde beauty, as she must surely have known. Sir Ralph bowed low as he entered her presence, remaining bent until commanded to approach.
‘Sir Ralph of Evesham. It is a long time since I have seen you. Please, don’t bow again. You will give me a crick in my neck!’
‘Your Highness is most kind to remember me,’ Sir Ralph said.
She still had that little lilt of a French accent that had proved endearing to so many when she first arrived in England fifteen years ago. Then the child bride had been lonely, installed in this strange country without friends, apart from the few who were allowed to remain in her household. But soon it became clear that the King was more interested in certain among his advisers than a young girl, and her misery was complete. It was only after the barons revolted and forced the King to agree to limits on his powers that Isabella began to come into her own, and at last her husband started to treat her as a woman and wife, not an irritating little child.
That happy time was all too short. Then Sir Hugh le Despenser flexed his own ambition and the Queen started to be sidelined. The King preferred the companionship of his friend to that of his wife. Gradually the snide remarks grew into open hostility, and Queen Isabella lost all. Her lands, her dower, even the income from her possessions, such as Bristol, were taken from her. Then, after years of wrangling, the French King grew furious at the English prevarications about the French territories, and invaded King Edward’s possessions in France.
Malicious courtiers were happy to drip poison in the King’s ear. They pointed out that the Queen was herself French. She would support a French invasion, naturally. And her lands in Devon and Cornwall would provide the perfect location for an invasion force. To prevent this, her lands were sequestered, her income confiscated, her children, all of them, taken from her and placed in the protective custody of Lady Eleanor, Sir Hugh le Despenser’s wife; the Queen’s own worst enemy.
As soon as a chance presented itself, she fled to France, and began to raise her own force to wrest the kingdom from Despenser’s control.
Queen Isabella stood and clapped her hands. A steward arrived with jug and goblets, and soon Sir Ralph was sniffing a good, strong wine that made his mouth water.
She looked to the steward and nodded. Immediately, all the servants left the tent, and there was only the Queen and Sir Ralph. Instantly he felt more endangered than before.
‘So, Sir Ralph. I am glad to know that you are here.’
‘Where are the friars?’
She waved a hand in an impatient gesture. ‘They are safe and comfortable. Doing what they were sent here to do – to haggle. They are like a farmer who seeks the best price for his bushel of wheat, dickering for a da
y, while other men agree a price in the morning and enjoy the use of the money in the afternoon. Your friars are quibbling over details. Nothing more.’
‘They were to negotiate with you, Your Highness.’
‘They have seen me, and now they see my negotiators. Later, I shall speak with them again, perhaps. For now, they serve me better by meeting with others while I speak with you.’
‘What would you say to me?’
‘These friars, they came from my husband?’
‘Yes, my lady.’
‘How is he?’
Sir Ralph considered. ‘Hale and hearty. He has the heart of a lion.’
She smiled. ‘So, he is very anxious? Worried?’
‘I . . .’
‘Do not answer and forswear yourself, good sir knight. It does not suit you. You will not tell me that my husband is weak and worried, I can understand. Instead, tell me, how is the good Sir Hugh? Is he still as full of bile?’
Sir Ralph knew as well as any that Sir Hugh le Despenser was the primary cause of her leaving the country. He grinned. ‘I think you would be pleased to see him,’ he said.
‘Ah,’ she said, and chuckled. ‘If only that fool were here. So! You know that my husband is attempting to demand that all those with him should be spared. He wishes for safe custody for Sir Hugh and others. Yes, of course you know. Well, I think you also know the answer as well as any.’
‘You will not permit Sir Hugh to live.’
It was not a question. Her feelings towards Sir Hugh were clear in her eyes. When she mentioned his name, it appeared to burn her lips like acid, and her face momentarily lost its beauty.
‘Allow him to live?’ she said quietly. ‘I will give no such undertaking. Good men have died in the last days. You know Bishop Stapledon? Even though I had reason to deprecate his behaviour in recent years, I admired him. Yet the London mob hacked off his head and sent it to me. I received it at Gloucester. Poor man! Many others have been dispossessed, robbed or killed, and all because of the arch-felon Despenser. No, I will not permit him to live. He is a danger to the entire realm. His greed is without bounds.’
29 - The Oath Page 16
