Earl Hugh looked from Sir Charles to the city with perplexity. ‘What is happening?’
‘It would seem that Sir Stephen is also about to capitulate, my lord. I think that he is helping the city to open the gates.’
It was as he spoke that they all heard the roaring noise: the sound of a thousand men cheering as they entered the city.
Earl Hugh slumped as Sir Laurence returned. The knight gripped the nearest battlement and stared, but Earl Hugh could not look. He turned and slowly made his way to the staircase, his face waxen, like a man who had already died.
St Peter’s Church, Bristol
The job of fosser at St Peter’s Church in Bristol was not generally an arduous one, Saul thought; mind, it was possible that his duties would soon become more onerous.
As Saul the Fosser hobbled along St Peter Street, he reckoned that it was all to the good. Men tended to die quite often, and if their deaths were hastened for reasons outside his own control, he was content to take the pennies each body represented as his due.
‘Ach, God’s pains,’ he muttered as he came to another of the irregular barricades flung over the roadway to stop horses. ‘Oi! How do I get past here?’
A face appeared at the top, that of a boy aged ten or eleven. ‘You’ll have to go round, Grandad. There’s no path here.’
Cursing all little boys under his breath, the fosser went along an alley as the lad had indicated, and soon found his way to the church.
There was no burial today. He left his spade in the lean-to shed at the side of the church, and instead walked over the long grass of the cemetery. There were three mounds of soil. Two had sunk quite well now, both being a few days old, and only Cecily’s was yet rounded and proud of the grass.
He went to the nearer of the low graves and cast a wary look about him before thrusting his hand into the loose soil. It took no time to find the packet, and he took it out, shaking the muddy soil from it and shoving it into his shirt. Then he rose and strode from the cemetery as quickly as his gammy leg would allow.
It was an ancient wound, that. When younger, he had been apprenticed to a bowyer, but then he had had an accident: borrowing his master’s horse without permission he took part in a race against a friend. His horse put a hoof into a rabbit-hole at full gallop, and crashed to the ground, throwing Saul over and over. His prize was a badly broken leg that left him crippled, and the loss of his apprenticeship. He was lucky that he wasn’t forced to replace the beast, which had to be put out of its misery. That was the end of his aspirations. Now he lived from one day to the next, surviving on the pennies he was given for each burial and a small sum for keeping the cemetery neat.
Which was why the discovery of the little dagger inset with rubies had been so thrilling. It represented a sudden change in his fortunes. Every so often Saul had been able to ‘rescue’ some item from a corpse – a pilgrim badge, a cross, or perhaps a silver pin – but each was trivial and hardly worth the bother. Were his theft to be recognised, of course, the consequences would be catastrophic. The rector of St Peter’s was ever-vigilant for misdemeanours, and Saul would lose his post for ever.
But this dagger made all the other items pale into insignificance beside its gleaming gilt and precious stones. And Saul knew just the man who would be prepared to pay for such a trinket, too.
Guy le Dubber was a short, thickset man in his early forties. He had a flowing grey beard that entirely concealed his throat, and covered the whole of his face from the cheeks down. A perpetual scowl almost hid his eyes, and what was visible glittered with a shrewd speculation. Any man meeting him for the first time had the impression that his value was assessed in the first moments, and generally the result was unfavourable, if le Dubber’s expression was anything to go by.
Saul had known le Dubber for many years now, and he entered the little chamber with a swagger. ‘You’ll like this,’ he said confidently.
Le Dubber was sitting at his fireside, and stared at the little fosser with his habitual frown. He had a spoon in his hand, which he placed down, then wiped his moustache with the back of a hand. He rose from his stool, pushing aside a pair of hams hanging from a rafter, and said, ‘I’m eating.’
‘I’ve something you’ll want,’ Saul said without moving.
The broker hawked and spat onto his floor, then scratched his buttock and jerked his head to beckon his visitor closer. He walked around the hearth to the board under the window and waited.
Saul passed him the parcel, and the broker pulled at the twine holding it. He undid the wrappings, then Saul saw his brows rise with surprise at the sight within.
‘Nice, eh? It’d made anyone happy, that would,’ Saul said.
‘Shut up.’
Saul subsided, watching. He had seen the gleam of interest in le Dubber’s eyes as soon as the first ruby appeared from its wrappings, and knew that the broker would be able to make a lot of money out of it. He would start bargaining at five shillings, Saul told himself, and allow Guy to gradually knock him back to three. Three shillings! It was more money than he had ever possessed in one time. Thirty-six pennies!
‘No. Not interested.’
Saul stared at le Dubber as the broker pushed the knife back towards him.
‘What do you mean, no?’
‘It’s too dangerous. I don’t want it.’
He’s playing hard to knock me down, Saul thought to himself. ‘If you don’t want it, there’re plenty who will.’
‘Yes. I expect there are,’ le Dubber said, and walked back to his stool.
Now Saul was feeling desperate. ‘But, master, you can sell it for a lot of money! It’s worth at least eight shillings, isn’t it? I’ll sell to you for five. Five shillings, that’s all.’
‘No.’
‘Four, then – I can’t say fairer than that, can I? It’s worth double, and you’ll make all the money.’
‘You aren’t listening. I don’t want it. It’s worthless to me. It’s too valuable for me to have in my pantry, and I don’t know where you got it from. Looks to me like someone’s been murdered with it. You think I want people believing I killed someone for his knife?’
‘No, but you can make a good profit out of it.’
‘The kind of profit that gets you hauled off in front of the Justice of Gaol Delivery isn’t good. No.’
‘Three shillings.’
Saul watched as Guy picked up his bowl again and began to noisily suck at the pottage on his spoon.
‘Two shillings?’
There was no response. Saul stared at his broker, then back at the dagger still sitting on the board.
It broke his heart. He breathed quietly, ‘One shilling.’
‘Not one penny. You don’t listen very well, Fosser, do you? I said no. I wasn’t dickering with you. I don’t want it.’
‘What shall I do with it, then?’
‘Try a smith. He may be able to get the rubies out and melt down the dagger. It’s the only way you’ll get rid of it.’
‘Melt it?’ Saul said, appalled.
Le Dubber looked up at him. ‘You want something back for it? Right. That’s what you do, then. Now, take it away from here. I don’t want anything to do with it.’
Welsh bank of the River Severn
The ship reached its little dock with a soft scraping as the rope fenders rubbed on the wood, and the shipmaster ran to the ropes, flinging them to the waiting boy, who slipped them over upright posts so the seamen could haul the ship tight and steady.
It took a little while to get some of the horses from the ferry, and then the crew helped Sir Ralph and his friends to the shore.
Baldwin’s horse was one of the first off, and he joined the rounsey on the decking, leading him away, off the hollow-sounding wooden planking and up to the grassy banks. From here, he could see all along the south and he felt a pang as he gazed down towards Devon and his home. If only he had gone straight to his wife instead of stopping and then agreeing to help Redcliffe . . . But then it w
as foolish to think that way. He had made a decision which had seemed logical and right at the time.
‘Sir Baldwin,’ Jack said quietly.
Baldwin glanced at the boy. He was standing with his hands tightly gripping his own mount’s reins, and wore an anxious expression.
Seeing the knight nod, Jack blurted out, ‘I think I must be a coward, Sir Baldwin!’
‘Why is that, lad?’ Baldwin asked kindly.
‘When those men rode at us, I wanted to hide! I didn’t want to be killed, and I ran.’
‘Jack, that is natural. You are a brave boy, I know – you saved my life in France, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, but that was different. There wasn’t time to think. Here, I didn’t even want to protect the lady, but hid out with the baggage instead.’
‘Well, you aren’t a trained fighter, boy. It’s not surprising.’
‘But all of the rest of you went to protect the place.’
‘We are older, and we have been taught our arms.’
‘I had wanted to fight for the King. I wanted to take a sword and help defend him, but now . . .’ There were tears of shame in his eyes.
‘It is no bad thing to want to help defend your King,’ Baldwin said, ‘but it is a better thing by far to hate war. And I have seen enough men die to know that there is nothing good about it.’ In his mind’s eye he saw the fellow from Winchester, his stump of an arm waving as he screamed his horror at the realisation that he would never be able to use the arm again; his shock blinding him to the fact that Baldwin’s sword was about to remove his head. The boy gulped. ‘Do you think I could learn to be brave?’ ‘Of course. Later, perhaps you will learn your weapons, and then you can decide whether to fight or not.’ Baldwin gave him a kindly pat on the back, and the lad was comforted.
The knight’s thoughts went to Thomas Redcliffe. The merchant did not have the training or skill to fight against men who had both. He must have been an easy target for the bearded man’s dagger.
Baldwin wondered fleetingly if there had been more to Redcliffe than he had realised. Perhaps he had been carrying a message, and the bearded man had found it. Baldwin should have searched his body too.
It was curious to think that Redcliffe was dead. The men with him were all experienced, from Sir Ralph to Alexander and Pagan: they should have protected the man and his wife without difficulty. The idea of Jack throwing himself into the fray was ridiculous. He was much better suited to the delivery of messages – like Redcliffe, Baldwin thought to himself, remembering the purse.
When he had reached the ship, he had given the purse to Redcliffe’s wife, Roisea, as the money inside was surely hers. However, he had not checked inside beforehand, and he wondered now whether he should have done. There could have been a message inside that would have explained why one of the men with Sir Ralph could have killed him, rather than one of their attackers. It had happened when Sir Baldwin had ridden off to help Pagan, so he had no proof that one of the bearded man’s gang was responsible. He had not been overly concerned at that moment, though. Uppermost in his mind had been the idea of warm, dry clothing.
When he had an opportunity, he would ask Roisea, he decided. She might be able to cast some light on the matter. In the meantime, he would be forced to keep a close eye on the men.
Sir Ralph was walking up the bank from the ship. When they were all mounted, he gave Baldwin the signal, and they set off at a sharp pace heading westwards, to Cardiff and, they hoped, the King.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Bristol Castle
The castle was filled with urgent activity. The men inside began to rush about, making for the armoury as the alarm rang out, then hurrying back to the walls with polearms and helmets. One lad was tall and lanky, and his over-large helmet rattled and moved as he walked; normally, his mates would have poked fun at him, but not today.
Simon fiddled with his sword in its scabbard, pulling it loose and checking how easily it came free. It was a nervous reaction to the knowledge that there would soon, surely, be a fight. But the tension came from not knowing when, or what form it would take. Whether there would be a sudden assault or a gradual build-up of violence, he didn’t know and couldn’t guess, but he felt afraid.
It was less fear for himself and how he might acquit himself in battle, more that he was fearful for his wife and child. There was a terrible irony in his decision to bring them here inside the castle, since it was now the cause of their danger.
‘They have given up the keys of the city,’ Sir Charles said.
The men-at-arms from the Queen’s forces were striding arrogantly about the city from all the gates already. Some Captains were already standing little more than a bowshot from the castle’s walls, pointing out likely places of attack, while others brought up huge shields of timber covered with leather, and crossbowmen scurried nearer. Soon, from these safer vantage-points, quarrels would be fired at all the guards on the battlements, and there was little the garrison could do to defend themselves, other than keep their heads down.
Sir Charles turned to Simon as he was drawing his sword again. ‘I am sorry, Bailiff. I had not expected the city to give up and throw open the gates with such indecent haste.’
‘It’s not your fault,’ Simon said.
‘It is, though. I should have considered how the city was likely to behave. Why should they risk themselves for the King, when Edward has already fled? Why would anyone try to hold true to him?’
Simon shot a look at him. It was the first time he had heard the knight talking in such a cowed manner; it was most unlike him. ‘We should try to ensure that as few people as possible are hurt,’ he responded.
‘You are not a friend to Despenser, are you?’
‘Not to Sir Hugh, no. But his father, the Earl, is not the same kind of man. I hold no grudge against him,’ Simon said truthfully.
‘Well, one thing is certain sure,’ the knight sighed, peering down over the battlements. ‘If we hold this castle against the men out there, it will not endear us to the Queen or Mortimer.’
‘No. What will happen to us, when they break in?’ Simon said.
‘I don’t want to think about that,’ Sir Charles said.
Bristol
Saul the Fosser felt as though he was carrying a dangerous secret with him as he made his way down the street back towards his own home. He didn’t know any smiths, and the thought of enlisting the help of a man he did not know was alarming. The fellow might just take the rubies and keep them. After all, Saul could hardly run to a law officer and complain. There was no one who could mediate for him if the things were stolen.
The fosser hobbled along with a face like a slapped arse as he considered the position he was in. His dreams of wealth were gone, his hopes for a sudden financial windfall evaporated. ‘Might just as well have left the damn thing in the soil,’ he muttered spitefully. But returning it to the grave was the last thing on his mind.
The broker had suggested one smith who was more reliable than most – a man called David, who lived nearer St Mary le Port, and Saul found that his feet were bending their way in that direction almost of their own volition. The road broadened out here, and the smithy was soon located: a man only had to follow the sound of ringing steel.
David Smith was slim and wiry, with hands callused and grey from the coals he worked with. His face was dark, but his eyes were as bright as a shrew’s. ‘I don’t do horses,’ he declared as soon as Saul appeared.
‘I don’t have a horse.’
‘Didn’t think so,’ was the response, and Saul stood a moment, frowning, trying to work out whether he had been insulted or not.
‘I have something . . .’ he began hesitantly.
David was gripping a length of steel in a coal forge, working a great bellows with one hand to heat the steel to red heat. Leaving hold of the bellows, he used both hands to pull the bar from the fire and dropped it on his anvil. Grabbing a hammer, he began to beat the metal around into a curve. ‘Best
get it out, then,’ he said loudly over the din.
The fosser looked all around, and then pulled the dagger from his shirt. He tugged the wrapping away, and held up the hilt for the smith to see.
David whistled. Reaching out for it, he motioned to the steel which he still gripped. ‘Take this.’
Saul reached for it, passing the dagger at the same time. His hand closed around the end of steel, and he watched as the smith held the item up to the light. Suddenly realising that his hand was burning, he dropped the bar with a little yelp. Seeing the smith’s disgusted face, he hastily picked it up again in a fold of his jack, and held it back on the anvil with his good hand, while he surreptitiously blew on the injured one.
The smith held the dagger up to the light, eyeing the two bright stones in a cursory manner, and then peered at the blade shaking his head and muttering. Then he rubbed at the top of the blade with his rough old thumb, and peered closer. He walked to his anvil and took a fine-graded stone, dampened it, and began to rub at the metal.
Saul, forgetting to blow on his scorched hand, craned his neck. ‘What’re you doing?’
‘Seeing if there’s a mark here. Polish away the old metal at the side, and you’ll see the print more clear.’
The smith stopped, held the blade almost to his nose, and gazed at it. Then, with a nod to himself, he wrapped the dagger in the waxed material once more, and strode from the forge.
‘Hi! Oi! What’s your game?’
His attention split between the disappearance of the valuable blade and the danger of dropping the steel, Saul put down the metal bar and hobbled painfully outside.
He could see the smith up at the top of the alley, and hurried to join him.
‘This is the one,’ the smith was saying to a short, stolid-looking man.
‘Fosser, eh?’ the man said. ‘How would one of them get his hands on a lord’s dagger like this, eh?’
‘Why? Who cares?’ the fosser said spiritedly. ‘That’s mine, that is. Give me back my knife!’
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