Baldwin had already stabbed the bearded man who had led the attackers in Winchester. He had followed them all that way. Baldwin thought about it. It was very curious. He had never known of footpads showing such determination before. What’s more, the fellow was with different companions, too, which implied that he was a leader of men, who was prepared to hire others to help him as he planned his attacks. Why attack Thomas Redcliffe? There would have to be a significant reason, to persuade a fellow to hunt a man all the way from Winchester, let alone from London.
The alternative, that he was trying to catch a King’s Messenger, was more likely. Perhaps Redcliffe was thought to carry some dangerous message that must be stopped? Or perhaps it was more simple: he was killed because he had taken some business from a London merchant who resented his interference. The merchant could have paid someone to hunt him down and execute him.
But there was little point speculating. Better to leave such hypotheses to others.
Their way took them down a grassy bank to the road itself, a stony track that pointed like an arrow to the castle. Baldwin almost unhorsed himself riding down a particularly steep part, and he glanced back with a grin on his face, only to see Alexander a short distance away, gazing about him with caution.
It reminded him that even this close to the King, they would not be safe until they were inside the castle’s wall – and with that thought, he spurred his rounsey on again.
Bristol
The hall was filled.
Sir Stephen Siward was one of the most powerful knights in the country, one of only two thousand men who could call themselves members of the Order of Chivalry of England – and yet he had never seen a gathering like this. The Bishops of Ely, Hereford, Lincoln, Norwich and Winchester, the Earls of Kent, Lancaster and Norfolk, as well as barons, bannerets, knights and squires, thronged the large chamber, all presenting themselves before the Queen and her son as the new rulers of the country – and that itself was shocking.
It was the sort of gathering that a man would see once in his lifetime. The prominent nobility of the realm and the Church were never usually to be found all in one place like this. It was a proof of the importance of the matter, and yet it was profoundly wrong. Sir Stephen knew it, and despite his part in helping bring it about, this gathering was enough to make his flesh creep, for all these people were here in order to change God’s decision. His anointed King was being forced from his throne. In King Edward’s place sat the Queen and her son.
A steward bellowed, and his staff struck the ground. The people in the chamber fell silent and the meeting began.
Sir Stephen knew that he would never again witness such an event, but it passed like a dream, and afterwards, also as in a dream, there was little he could recall. The main part was the declaration being read out: the King had deserted the realm. He was extra regnum. That phrase somehow remained fixed in Sir Stephen’s head when so much else was gone. Extra regnum, outside the kingdom, and leaving the kingdom without a Regent.
That was not going to continue. Before the assembled nobles, Edward, Earl of Chester, Duke of Aquitaine, was declared Regent during the King’s absence.
Watching him closely, Sir Stephen felt the Duke’s mood was less joyous than he would have expected. A man who was presented with a kingdom should be glad, and the Duke would know that the people wanted him. There was near-rapture in the city when he entered, and Sir Stephen felt certain that his reception would have been no less enthusiastic wherever he had gone.
But as Sir Stephen watched him cast an eye over the men before him, he realised that the boy could see only rats gorging themselves. Edward had been held in France by his mother and her lover for the last year; since returning, he knew that his was the authority that allowed Queen Isabella and Mortimer to take over the kingdom. It was he who was being used to topple his own father, a distressing position in itself, but with the added irony that it would set a precedent for a future King – for Edward himself.
By destroying his father, he could well be planting the seeds of his own destruction.
Bristol Castle
When Simon left Margaret in their chamber with Peterkin, he was scarcely able to think straight. His wife was distraught with terror about the siege, and nothing would comfort her.
‘Come, Bailiff,’ Sir Charles said, seeing him in the corridor, and taking him to the Constable’s chamber. ‘You and I should witness this.’
Sir Laurence was at his table, which was piled with documents and scrolls, but his attention was not on them or his clerk, but on the man who sat before him.
Simon could scarcely recognise this ravaged figure as the man who had only yesterday been so sure of himself. There could hardly be a greater contrast between Earl Hugh then, and now. It was astonishing to see how he had fallen apart since the defection of Sir Stephen Siward.
‘So, two are least have not deserted their King,’ he said with a certain doleful satisfaction. He reminded Simon of a whipped hound that had expected another thrashing only to be given a tasty morsel instead. ‘Not all have run away.’
‘We have just learned that three more men of the garrison have climbed over the walls and run,’ Sir Laurence said.
Simon nodded. ‘How many are left?’
‘What does it matter?’ the Earl snapped bitterly. ‘If the cowards will run, who gives a farthing for them? Their courage and valour has flown. Sir Stephen ballocks Siward took it with him when he ran, the bastard!’
‘Surely we still have enough men?’ Simon said calmly, although inside he could feel his belly grinding with trepidation. It was awful to think that the place could be left undermanned in the face of so strong an enemy. For the attacking forces it would surely be easy to scale the walls if there was no one to watch for them. And then, were some of the garrison to be tempted, a rebellion inside the castle could see all the loyal men at risk of death. Meg, too. And Peterkin. He wanted to be sick.
Sir Laurence said nothing. He sat with apparent composure as the Earl expostulated about the quality of the garrison and their leadership: ‘Look at them! What sort of men are there here? The coward Siward has taken his men, and we don’t know whom we may trust. I know my men will remain loyal to me, but what of the others?’
‘My lord, we are all loyal to the King,’ Sir Charles said. ‘You know you can trust us.’
‘I know no one!’ the Earl spat. ‘We are lost! You will not aid me!’
‘This castle can hold with only a few men-at-arms, so long as we all stick to our purpose,’ Sir Laurence said quietly. ‘I am content that we can uphold our honour here. I made a vow to the King when I was made castellan here and I would not break it. But now it is different. The situation is changed.’
Simon was impressed with him. He was firm and calm under what must be immense pressure. Not so Earl Hugh.
‘You think I wish to surrender?’ the Earl cried out. ‘In Christ’s name, the King placed me in charge of all the south and west of the kingdom, and he ordered me to protect his realm so far as I may – and now, already, I must think of submitting, according to you.’
‘To avoid unnecessary bloodshed,’ Sir Charles murmured. ‘If it were only we men, it would be easy to bear. But think of all the others – the women and children – who must also die. That is harder to support.’
‘Yes, yes,’ the Earl agreed, but his mind was already moving on. ‘So, are we agreed?’
Simon looked from one to another, wondering what he could say. ‘I don’t know what . . .’
‘We cannot continue to fight,’ Sir Charles said smoothly. ‘Not now.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Simon said helplessly.
‘The Duke of Aquitaine has raised his banner along with the Queen’s,’ Sir Laurence said. ‘If we resist, we will be resisting the Queen and the King’s heir. We will be committing treason. If we surrender, we shall be failing in our oaths to the King. But if we do not, we shall condemn ourselves. I would not willingly lift steel against the King’s so
n.’
‘There is nothing more to be said, gentlemen,’the Earl declared, and rose. He gripped the table as he wobbled. ‘We must surrender and pray for terms. I cannot ask the men to fight their next King.’
CHAPTER THIRTY
The actual transfer of authority was an anti-climax, Simon thought. He had returned to the chamber to fetch Margaret and Peterkin as soon as the decision was made, and with them and Hugh, he made his way to the gatehouse as quickly as possible.
Down at the gates, Sir Charles was bawling for a man to whom he might speak, while the castle’s castellan stood beside him, a finger pulling at his bottom lip thoughtfully. While Simon watched, he heard a sniffling and weeping, and when he turned, he saw two of Earl Hugh’s men unashamedly sobbing. All knew that their master would be arrested. The Queen and Mortimer had good reason to think that a man like the Earl should be kept in a dungeon for the rest of his life. With fortune, he could be held in a decent chamber in the Tower, perhaps, or at Corfe or one of the other great royal castles. It was certain that he would not be permitted to go into exile. As the Queen now understood only too well, sometimes exile could mean an opportunity to recruit supporters.
There was a shout, then Sir Charles began to issue orders. In a short space, the gates were thrown open, and a small number of men walked inside, crossing the area to run up the ladders and stairs to the battlements. The guards already there were marshalled and marched down to the courtyard to wait. Simon was grabbed unceremoniously and brought to join them, as was Hugh. He threw a look at Margaret, and felt his heart wrench to see the tears streaming down her face.
They must wait for a short while, and then there was another order and a new man walked in.
Simon had seen Sir Roger Mortimer before, but then he had been in France, and Mortimer had worn the look of a man who was sure he was about to die. He was in exile, declared traitor by his King, and under sentence of death.
Not now. This was a man returned to pride and position. Confident, arrogant, certain of his authority. As soon as he entered the courtyard, he was looking about him, and then he began to point to specific points at the walls and inner buildings, ordering men to those vantages, others to hunt through the entire castle for people concealing themselves. Only when he was happy that the castle was secure, did he deign to look at Earl Hugh.
‘So, my lord. It appears your scheming to execute me has come to naught.’
On hearing that voice, Simon felt his heart turn to ice. Mortimer was devoted to honour and chivalry – but was also known to have no scruples about punishing those who stood in his way. And Simon was one of those who had held the castle against him.
Earl Hugh made a brave effort, but his voice was querulous. ‘I did not plot your death, Sir Roger.’
‘Truly?’ Mortimer said. He was clad in mail under his tunic, looking quite old-fashioned for such a modern warrior. But at nearly forty years old, he was already quite an age for a man who had dedicated his life to serving the King by leading Edward’s men in battles from Scotland to Ireland. His hair was grizzled now, Simon saw, but his build was still that of a fighter, trim at the waist, powerful in the shoulder.
Earl Hugh stood with slow deliberation, as though his knees and hips were giving him pain. As he stood, Sir Roger Mortimer said nothing, but turned and beckoned, and then Simon heard the sound of hooves walking slowly. Soon two beasts appeared under the gateway. The first to appear was Queen Isabella, riding on a bay mare that ambled in to stand at Roger Mortimer’s side; the second was the young Duke of Aquitaine, Earl Edward of Chester, the King’s son.
Earl Hugh bowed to both, and he smiled. It was clearly in his mind, as it was in Simon’s, that this lady would not order the death of a man she had known for so long. ‘Your Royal Highness, I surrender the castle of Bristol to you. In the name of the King, I beg that you treat all the men within with honour, and that you respect the King’s property.’
As he spoke, Sir Roger stood with arms akimbo as he looked down at the older man, and his low, controlled voice carried over the whole courtyard. ‘Earl Hugh, you will be held until we can convene a special court to consider your crimes. You should compose your soul for death, my lord. I will take no pleasure in it, but you have stolen and robbed for so long, you can receive no other punishment. The realm demands it.’
‘We agreed when I surrendered . . .’
‘Nothing.’
The Queen called out, ‘Sir Roger, there is no need to punish the good Earl. He is not the man who caused us so much grief – that was his son.’
‘My lady, I am afraid that this man is guilty of numerous offences. We can discuss them during his trial.’
The Earl shook his head, expostulating, ‘We agreed that the innocent would be released! You promised that.’
‘We agreed that you would surrender the garrison and the castle in the interests of protecting the innocent. There was no need to kill all the people in the castle, certainly. I am no bloodthirsty warrior. I only carry out those acts which are necessary for the good of the realm. Take him away!’
And Simon watched as the old man was grasped by both arms. His sword belt was unbuckled, and the sword and dagger allowed to fall to the ground, while he was firmly marched away to the little gaol set into the wall.
Fourth Monday after the Feast of St Michael28
Bristol Castle
There was a stillness in the cool air that morning, and Simon was stiff and uncomfortable as he rose.
They had been given some few blankets, but for the most part the garrison had been forced to sleep on the stone paving of a hall near the entrance to the castle. The chill felt as though it had entered his very marrow, and Simon prayed that his wife and son were safe. One thought nagged constantly at his mind. He could imagine Peterkin huddled in a corner while men took Margaret for their own pleasure – the little boy forced to watch, Margaret biting her lips to stop her cries so that he shouldn’t be too alarmed. Hugh’s voice was low and sulky. ‘Reckon we’ll be released?’ ‘What do you think?’ Simon snapped. ‘They’ve taken our weapons, and we’re stuck here like felons. I doubt they intend to give us gold for a journey home.’
Hugh said nothing, but shifted so that he was sitting upright. The man on his right was snoring, with a great bloody mark on his nose. He had been slow to respond when given an instruction to move towards this chamber, and the guard with him had slapped him across the face with a steel gauntlet, breaking his nose and almost knocking the fellow unconscious.
Seeing his servant shivering badly as he huddled himself into a small shape, Simon was instantlystabbed with pangs of contrition. ‘Hugh, forgive me. I was thinking of Meg when you spoke.’
‘’Tis all right. I just don’t like being stuck in here.’
It was more than that. Simon knew that Hugh had never liked towns. He was a son of the moors. Raised near Drewsteignton, he had watched flocks as a boy, learning how to fight, how to cook and eat on his own out on the rich pastures bounding the moors. For him to be locked in here, in a small room with a lot of other men, was like taking a lion and caging it. He needed to be able to breathe the clean air.
Rob lay in the corner of the wall; his mouth was open, and he was the picture of ease and comfort. His childhood had been spent in the port of Dartmouth, and to him a bed of stone floor and a scrap of rug was plenty. Having had threats of a thrashing from the sailors who were his mother’s lovers all through his life, the risks of his execution did not seem to affect him. It was just one more hazard. He had survived so many already in his short life.
Simon’s further contemplation of his servant was stopped as the door’s bolts slid back noisily. There were two, and as the last shot open, the door was pushed inwards. Three men with cudgels in their hands blocked the way, and the man in front, an ill-favoured watchman with a week’s growth of beard and the eyes of a ferret, slapped his against his open palm as he gazed about the room. ‘Where’s the one called Bailiff Puttock?’
Simon
stood. ‘I’m here.’
‘Come out here.’
Simon glanced at Hugh. ‘What of my servant?’
‘I didn’t call him, I called you. Get out here!’
There was little choice. Simon walked out, trying to catch Hugh’s eye, but the servant hardly looked his way.
Bristol Castle
The walk from the cell to the hall was brief, and yet to Simon it was as though he had walked from a scene of Hell into Heaven, and the fact filled him with a strange euphoria.
Inside the castle’s hall, he felt his belly lurch as he saw Margaret and Peterkin sitting on a bench engaged in animated conversation with a man in a bright green tunic. It was only when he turned that Simon recognised Mortimer.
‘Sir Roger,’ he said, bowing.
‘So, Bailiff. We meet again, and this time in our own lands! Please, come, sit with us. We have much to discuss. You would like some food?’
‘I would be very grateful,’ Simon said, and threw a quick look at his wife.
‘I am fine,’ Meg said, and in her face he could see no untruth. Her smile told him that she had slept safely, which was more than he could have hoped.
‘She has been kept safe from the men of the castle, Master Puttock,’ Mortimer said, seeing Simon’s expression. ‘Don’t fear for her.’
‘What do you want from me?’ Simon asked. ‘You have pulled me out of the prison, but you’ve left my men in there.’
‘Perhaps I can release them too before long,’ Mortimer said, and gave a sharp whistle. Soon a steward entered the room carrying a large cauldron of pottage, which he set beside the fire. Another man brought two loaves of bread, which he broke open and left on a trencher, while a bottler supplied a pair of large wine jugs. ‘First, though, eat and listen. I have much to tell you.’
Simon sat on a stool and took a mazer of wine, which he drained. He hadn’t realised how hungry he was, but the lack of a meal the previous night, followed by no breakfast, had left him with a belly that felt like a pig’s bladder with the air let out. There was a rush of warmth as the wine hit his empty stomach, and then a sensation of near-dizziness. It was so intense, so delicious, he held out his mazer to the bottler to be refilled.
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