29 - The Oath

by Michael Jecks

  ‘And you think Sir Stephen did not expect you to learn anything?’

  ‘No. And I shall not learn anything.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Simon, my friend, there is no point in my trying to seek for the woman’s killer. If I do, Sir Laurence may learn about it and use his influence to stop me accusing him. It would distract him from the matter of our defence, which could be disastrous. Also, I have duties here to help in the protection of the city. Whereas a man without responsibility . . .’

  ‘I see,’ Simon said heavily.

  ‘It need not take you long. But if you could learn whether Sir Laurence has any connection to the dead woman, and whether he had any reason to wish to see her dead, that would be a great help.’

  He smiled at Simon. ‘That isn’t too much to ask, is it?’

  Sir Stephen finished his cup of wine and stepped out into the rain. There were four men at the end of the street, all drunk and shouting incoherently at each other.

  It was a sign of things to come. Sir Stephen had not endured a lengthy siege before, but he knew men who had, and was aware that the first thing to fall apart was law and order.

  He walked towards them, and felt the usual tingle of excitement in his belly as he saw two of the men stare at him, one unfocused, the other with a look of malevolence. It was he who picked up a stone from the roadway.

  His voice was slurred, but his meaning was clear: ‘Look, a lazy, thieving knight, just like the others who got us into this mess. Sod the lot of them! Gits who argue, and when things go wrong, who do they use to try to get them out of the shit? Us, that’s who! Let’s get him!’

  Sir Stephen did not slow his footsteps. Soon he was within striking range, and then, as a stone was flung, only to miss him by a foot, he sprang forward. His gauntlet caught the bold man about the mouth, and the steel plates cut him badly. Then Sir Stephen shoved hard, and the drunk fell back onto his rump, while the knight stood contemplating the rest. ‘Any more?’ he said pleasantly.

  The three picked up their bleeding companion and were off in a hurry. It was pathetic, but the mob could not be permitted to gather about a ringleader like him, Sir Stephen thought as he walked on.

  He found the place a few moments later. The church had a small gate, and he walked inside, bowing at the altar.

  The priest was already holding a small service, and Sir Stephen stood at the rear of the great empty space, listening to the monotonous droning of the man’s voice, wondering how long the fellow could last. But finally all was done, and the body was carried outside into the rain. Sir Stephen walked along after it, and as it was lowered into the freshly dug hole, he saw that the water had already pooled in the bottom, and mud was soaking into the winding sheet. It was a sad end to an unhappy life, he thought.

  At his side the priest muttered the ritual words quickly, in a hurry to get back inside his church and hide from the rain. A man should take a little time over a burial, Sir Stephen thought, giving him a frown, especially when the corpse had no family to mourn her, no husband or child. No one but himself.

  The priest slowed, scowling, before reluctantly bending over, grabbing a handful of sodden soil, and babbling on in his uneducated Latin, hurling the mud at the body. Soon he was finished, muttering the last lines, and then he made the sign of the cross, before turning and almost running inside.

  ‘Cover her,’ Sir Stephen said to the fosser, who nodded, took up his spade, and began to shovel the earth into the hole. The first throw slapped wet soil onto her face, and the damp linen took on the lines of her mouth, nose, eyes. It was almost as though she was watching Sir Stephen through the gauzy material. A fresh shovelful landed on her belly, making the points of her breasts stand out, and the next smacked into her shoulder.

  It was enough. He looked away, and then he reached inside his jack and pulled out the little bundle. He hefted it in his hand a moment, looking at it sadly, before glancing into the grave, and throwing the pack in.

  Turning, he left the cemetery and went out into the road.

  The fosser had buried more than a hundred people here in this graveyard, and he had often seen people throw in little trinkets of no value as he covered the bodies. And more than once he had seen those people return, peering in to make sure that he had actually left their gift to the dead and had not stolen it.

  This time, he was not going to take any chances. He carried on piling in the soil at the foot and at the head of the woman’s body, until it was not possible to continue without burying the gift. Only then did he crouch quickly, slip the edge of the shovel under the packet, and slide it up the side of the mound of soil at Cecily’s feet. Taking it from the grave, he whistled in surprise as he slipped the wrapping from it to reveal a golden hilt and two rubies.

  He quickly covered it in the waxed linen again, shoved it under his shirt, and finished his work.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  It had taken Simon little time to decide to visit Emma, the mistress of the maid killed the previous night. The idea of leaving poor Cecily’s body unavenged did not sit well with him. He was not a sentimental man, he told himself, but the notion of a man taking a woman and then slaying her as though she was nothing more than a toy to be discarded was repellent. He loved his own wife and daughter too much to be prepared to let it go.

  However, it was unthinkable that he should leave Margaret alone in the city when she was already so scared.

  Her concern was entirely rational, of course. He knew that. They had been in the Tower at London when the city began to fall apart in early October, but although there had been the threat of danger there, there had not been engines of war, such as there would be here. The idea of those monsters lurking out beyond the walls was enough to make any man or woman fear for their lives. It was natural. Once those things began to fling rocks at a city, that city must fall. Nothing could withstand the onslaught.

  Simon was certainly not happy to be here as the threat of battle loomed ever nearer, yet curiously, he was not afraid. During a siege, terror affected all differently. Some would find the nearest alehouse and consume as much drink as they could, which was why there were so many scared men wandering the streets, bellies filled with wine and ale, and muttering bellicose threats to all and sundry.

  No, Simon most definitely did not dare to leave his wife alone. Instead, all four of them set off from the inn in the middle of the rainy morning. Their way took them under lots of buildings whose jettied upper storeys loomed over the streets, so their progress was a series of quick sprints from one area of moderate dryness to another.

  Margaret was unhappy to be taken from her chamber, especially in this weather. They should never have come here in the first place, she thought resentfully. They could easily have ignored Sir Charles and ridden on along the coast. Soon they would have been out of the reach of the Queen’s men, and could have taken it more easy as they wandered down to Exeter and beyond. There was no need to be stuck here, in this ridiculous little city. Or the castle, the focus of the coming battle.

  However, after a short way Meg found that her mood was lightening. There was something gay and carefree about this journey. None of them could maintain the fear of men on the streets full of ale, because no one else appeared silly enough to brave the elements. The roads were all empty. Instead, Margaret was struck with the urge to giggle helplessly as she saw an enormous wash of water sweep down from a gutter overhead, to soak her husband. Simon stood scowling furiously up at the offending gutter, and turned to his wife with an expression of utter rage, only to be struck again. This made her howl with laughter, and after a moment or two, Simon began to chuckle as well.

  After all, they were all still alive, and with God’s help, perhaps the siege would not prove too lengthy or irksome.

  Their way took them from a wealthy area, through a part that was clearly very poor, and thence to a section of the city that was not so rich as the merchants’ houses down by the castle, but still clearly well-to-do. Here, Margaret
found herself peering in at the windows, where candles were lighted, trying to see what sort of hangings there were, and guessing at what type of person lived inside.

  ‘It is not like London, is it?’ she said, gesturing at a house with a large sign showing that here lived a glover. ‘In London there is much more ostentation; everyone wants to flaunt their riches. Here the people seem more sober.’

  ‘It’s the way folk are over here,’ Simon agreed. ‘In London a man doesn’t think he’s alive unless he’s rubbing another man’s nose in his wealth. This is a smaller city, so people have to muck in together. Just like home. We don’t have time to have grudges and feuds, do we? It’s more a case of trying to help everyone to survive when the winter’s bad and the sheep won’t lamb and there isn’t enough food to last. In London they can buy what they need always, I reckon, so they don’t care so much about getting on with their neighbours.’

  ‘Well, Master Philosopher, I don’t disagree, but I think it’s more that the people here are less rushed. They take time to enjoy their lives. Look at that magnificent bridge! London has one too, but theirs is so . . . I don’t know. These people seem to have more pride in their city, while in London all the displays seem intended to show you how mean your life is in comparison. Here, men wish to allow others to enjoy it with them. They want to share it.’

  ‘Perhaps that’s why the folk of Bristol always need controlling,’ Simon said wrily. ‘Too much freedom of spirit is worrying to a King.’

  They were at a neat house now, with limewashed walls and door, and the smell of a good stew emanating from the unglazed, barred window. Simon knocked at the door.

  When the door opened, Meg saw a woman a little older than herself, dressed in a tunic of fine green wool, with a red woollen cloth over her shoulders; her hair was decorously covered by a sober white linen cap instead of a wimple. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I am looking for the lady of the house,’ Simon said. ‘Emma Wrey?’

  ‘I am she. What do you want?’

  ‘Did you have a maid working with you? A woman called Cecily, of perhaps thirty, with fairish hair and—’

  ‘Sir, who are you to question me?’

  ‘Madame Wrey, I am sorry to bring sad news,’ Simon said, ‘but she was found last night. She’s been killed. I am called Simon Puttock, and was asked to look into the matter by Sir Charles Lancaster.’

  Emma Wrey’s face paled. ‘Dead? I . . .’ She shivered and clutched at the door. Margaret stepped forward, but before she could help the woman, Emma Wrey pushed herself upright again.

  ‘Oh, the poor maid! The silly thing! I did tell her to be careful when she went out. She obviously didn’t take my advice.’

  ‘When did you last see her?’

  ‘Last afternoon – almost evening. She was here to eat with me, and when she had finished, she went out.’

  ‘Would she have visited an alehouse or tavern?’

  The woman looked at him. ‘Sir, this city is under siege. All are anxious. Of course she might have visited a tavern. Who wouldn’t?’ She finally gave an ungracious jerk of her head to invite them all inside. ‘I suppose if you are trying to help poor Cecily, the least I can do is ask you in out of the rain.’

  ‘I thank you,’ Simon smiled and followed Margaret inside.

  Hers was a large hall, with a high ceiling and magnificent carvings on beams and panels. As they walked in from the screens, Simon was forced to stop and purse his lips as if to whistle. It was like entering a church, he thought, apart from the great fire that burned in the middle of the floor. The walls were painted and decorated with religious scenes, while there was a great halling over at the far wall depicting a garden with ladies and their gentlemen enjoying their leisure.

  ‘Please be seated.’

  Simon motioned to Hugh and Rob to remain at the door, but Hugh had already decided that it was not his place to walk into a room like this. He stood scowling ferociously in the door to the screens passage, clutching his staff like a man preparing to defend himself against a ravening horde.

  It was astonishing to see so many chairs, Simon thought. There were five of them, all comfortable chairs with highly decorated backs to them, and thick, soft cushions. He sank into one with a feeling that he could easily become used to living like this.

  The lady had a large handbell, which she rang now, and an elderly man appeared. Sent away, he soon returned with wine in large sycamore mazers with silver bands.

  ‘Well?’ she said when they were all comfortable. ‘I suppose you have more to ask? I knew something must have happened when she didn’t appear this morning – but I did not expect to learn she was dead.’

  ‘What can you tell me of your maid?’ Simon asked.

  ‘Cecily was a good, quiet, somewhat reserved woman. I was her second mistress. Her earlier home was torn apart. A very sad event.’

  Seeing Simon’s keen interest, the lady sat back in her seat and eyed him indulgently. ‘Cecily used to live with the family of Arthur Capon. He and his wife were . . . good fellows, very popular in the town, and known for their generosity to charities. But not, perhaps, for their generosity towards their servants. When Cecily was sent back to them from Petronilla’s side, she was sure that come the next Michaelmas fair, she would lose her position. You see, Arthur Capon did not want any hangers-on in his household. But his daughter left her husband before he could throw Cecily from his door.’

  ‘Their daughter?’

  ‘I am ahead of myself, I am sorry. Petronilla was their daughter. She married Squire William de Bar. You see, the Capons were wealthy, but only burgesses, and they sought a connexion with nobility. That was their big mistake.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Margaret asked.

  The widow tried to explain. ‘Poor Petronilla was only fourteen when they married her to Squire William, and for a while, all seemed well. The parents were grateful for access to the nobles of Bristol, Bath and Wells, and Squire William was glad of the money they supplied as dowry. He had a small manor which was sadly dilapidated. His father had made an enemy of King Edward I, the King’s father, and this enmity meant he lost all patronage. The hall itself was in a terrible state, and it wanted but their money to be rebuilt. But you cannot change a man’s spirit by paying him. They had not been married long when the bullying started.’

  She drained her wine and beckoned her steward, who refilled all their cups as she spoke. ‘Cecily was there with Petronilla, for she had been the child’s nurse and remained her maid from then on. But she saw terrible behaviour. The Squire was an obnoxious fellow: he would beat his young wife often, and without need. After some time, her parents came to stay, but they were discontented with the household and the way their daughter was treated. I think they had believed that Squire William was moderately wealthy, and when they saw the squalor of his home, it shook them. The reality was a shock. The Squire even threatened his father-in-law with a beating, when Arthur Capon remonstrated with him, would you believe? Cecily was the only friend Petronilla had. Apart from her confessor, anyway.

  ‘Matters grew worse after her parents had gone, since it was then that Squire William learned that Petronilla was not their natural child. She had been an orphan, and they fostered her when she was a child.’

  Simon winced. ‘That must have irked him.’

  ‘He was furious. If he had been unreasonable and cruel before, now he was ungovernable.’

  Margaret shook her head. ‘I don’t quite understand.’

  ‘Since the child was not their own, her parentage was . . . questionable. Some said she was daughter to a dead prostitute. The Squire threatened a legal action for their misrepresenting her position to him, and the Capons in return threatened to prosecute the squire for misrepresenting his own financial position. I think Capon even started proceedings to have the dowry returned. Squire William refused to discuss it, declaring it was his for the marriage. However, then he began his own case against them for marrying their daughter to him, when they knew she was
not of their own blood. It was an awful situation. And he sent Cecily away in an act of spite against Petronilla. The maid was packed off back to Bristol, where Capon wanted to dismiss her, saying she was no longer needed; he told her she was a reminder of his daughter.’

  Madame Wrey sighed at the cruelty.

  ‘All this took some years, and Petronilla was eighteen by this time. She had endured enormous shame, hardship, and beatings. The only friend she had left in the world, once Cecily had been sent from her side, was her confessor. At her husband’s manor, she was hated, not only by Squire William but also by all his family, for she had brought shame to them, and now there was the threat of financial disaster if they must return the dowry. She decided she could not remain there suffering abuse, so, determined to become free, she ran away.

  ‘As luck would have it, her young confessor was convinced that she had every good reason to escape her husband and commit the act of treason. So he helped her, but not very successfully. She was captured only a matter of miles from her house, and the priest himself escaped by the skin of his teeth. But they had already been alone for a month or more.’

  ‘I see,’ Simon said.

  ‘And nine months later . . . you understand.’

  ‘Of course,’ Simon said. ‘So what happened?’

  ‘There was a great noise at the time. In the end, the priest was taken away and put in a convent, I believe. He was certainly punished. The girl was also taken and held in a nunnery, although not as punishment. I think there was some fear that her mind was being harmed. She was so young, and had married so young, that I think the Judge wanted her to have a time to herself. So she was placed in the nunnery until she was considered sufficiently recovered, and then she was returned to her family. However, one terrible day her husband and some friends broke into the house and slaughtered the entire family. They killed her parents, they took her and stabbed her more than thirty times, and then they took her child too, and dashed the little babe’s head against a wall. Poor Cecily saw it all. She was there.’