He dropped to his knee, bowing his head, urgently motioning to Hugh to do the same.
‘Master Puttock, please rise,’ the Duke of Aquitaine said.
He was only fourteen, Simon reckoned, but from his looks and deportment, he could have been a great deal older.
‘So, Master Puttock, I am very glad to meet with you again. You left France in a hurry.’
‘I had to, my lord. I had a bond of honour to Bishop Walter.’
‘Of course. It was a great shame that he died. You heard of that, of course?’
Simon nodded. It was odd – he could feel that thickening in his throat again at the mere thought of the Bishop’s death. He had been snatched from his horse, along with his squires and servants, and had his head sawn off with a bread-knife in the middle of a London street. Barbaric! ‘He was a good man. I know your mother had cause to—’
Sir Roger cleared his throat irritably. ‘Duke, I think I should continue with my discussion. With your permission, my lord?’
The interruption made the Duke pale. He was unused to being treated like a boy. From the first weeks of his life, he had been the Earl of Chester, and he had maintained his own household for years already, and yet from the look in his eyes, Simon saw recognition of the limitations of his position. In the eyes of the world at large, Edward, Duke of Aquitaine and Earl of Chester, was the King’s son and heir; but here, in this chamber, he knew he was at the mercy of Sir Roger Mortimer. The latter would allow him the feel the power of his position, but not to exercise it. For now, he was still a boy, and Sir Roger had assumed the role of Regent and adviser-in-chief.
The Duke nodded. ‘Bailiff, I look forward to speaking to you soon. You will come and see me.’
‘I am grateful,Your Highness,’ Simon said, kneeling again as the King’s son strode from the room.
‘So, Master Puttock,’ Sir Roger said, sitting at a bench. ‘Tell me all.’
‘Squire William is dead. He died some miles east of here. When we checked the Coroner’s rolls, we learned that there is a priest not far from the scene who was the confessor who ran away with Squire William’s wife. It is surely too great a coincidence that they could be in a similar area without the priest learning of it. If he heard that the woman he loved was dead . . .’
‘It would be natural for him to seek revenge.’
‘That was our thought.’
‘And this first-finder discovered the knife and brought it here. That makes a coherent story, if nothing else.’
‘Sir Stephen threw it in with the body because he felt it was proof that her death was avenged,’ Simon said.
‘Hardly. From what you say, the man was already long dead before this Cecily.’
‘Yes. But that doesn’t mean Sir Stephen didn’t want to honour her.’
‘It means we still have no idea why the woman died, and I do not like that,’ Mortimer said. ‘Find the priest. Question him, and return to tell me what he said.’
A clerk stepped forward with a board, on which were set parchments and ink and a reed. Mortimer picked up the reed and dipped it in the ink, scrawling his name on the papers. ‘So much to do. So many men to speak with. So many to threaten. The King is in Wales, apparently. It’s good. We had feared he could have made his way to Ireland. God is with us, though.’
‘Sir Roger, I would be most grateful if I could leave the castle with my wife and child,’ Simon said hesitantly.
‘Of course you may. As soon as the matter in hand is settled. That is enough. Thank you, Bailiff. You may leave.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Near Caerphilly Castle
‘You don’t like me much, do you, Sir Baldwin?’
He turned to look at Roisea Redcliffe with an eyebrow raised enquiringly. They were jolting along in the King’s column, heading almost due northwards, on the old road that took them up from Cardiff to Caerphilly. This castle was high in the hills, and had the advantage of providing them with a clear view of the land all about, but Baldwin could not help but think that the King would be better served by remaining near the sea, from where he could take ship either to another English port, or to Ireland. Coming inland here felt like the last march of a prisoner to his cell.
‘My dear lady, I am sure that—’
‘You never have liked me, have you? I thought at first it was just that you considered my husband and I were too foolish, or perhaps too parochial for your refined tastes. But it wasn’t that, was it? It was simple dislike.’
‘No,’ Baldwin smiled. He jerked his head to Jack, signalling a need for privacy, and the lad obediently rode on a short distance in front, Wolf at his horse’s heels. ‘Madame, it was merely anxiety for my own wife, who is all alone many miles away.’
‘No, I don’t believe that. You simply didn’t like me. And since my husband’s death, you have liked me still less.’
‘Why do you think that?’
‘I have seen your looks of suspicion, Sir Baldwin. They are plain enough. But I swear to you, I did not hurt my husband. I woke to find the camp in turmoil, and then realised that my darling Thomas was dead. It was a terrible shock to me. To see his poor, dead body . . .’
It was a scene she would never be able to forget. The sight of her dying husband clutching at his chest, as though he could push back all that blood, as his face blanched, his lips grew grey, and his eyes sought hers desperately. She had knelt at his side, helpless, while his life was leaking from him. All she had known was the overwhelming sense of failure – she could do nothing to save him. And then he was gone.
Baldwin’s words drew her mind from that terrible picture.
‘The men who attacked us that day were the very same men who had tried to kill your husband on the road near Winchester when I was with him. I do not suspect you, Madame. Rather, I blame myself for not being there to help him.’
‘What did they want?’
‘I assumed they wished to find his purse or something else. Or perhaps they simply wanted to kill him. That is what they told me beforehand. I didn’t believe them then – but maybe I was too mistrusting.’
‘I do not see what else he could have had. There was only his purse.’
‘You still have it?’ Baldwin asked. ‘May I see it?’
Roisea reached into the bag she had slung over her shoulder, brought out the leather purse and gave it to him. Baldwin had forgotten how heavy it was. He untied the thong that bound it, and lifted the lid.
It was an old purse, battered and worn on the outside – but inside, the lining could have been brand new. As he jolted along on his rounsey, Baldwin studied it with a frown. In the most part, the lining was sewn together with a plain dark thread. However, at the bottom of the purse, he could see a paler, creamy-coloured thread.
Working on impulse, he took his little eating knife from about his neck and used it to attack the thread. It was good, waxed linen, and he found it hard to cut, especially on horseback, but at last he managed it, and the lining came apart. Forcing a finger inside the little gap he had made, the knight found a strip of something, and managed to tease out the tiny shred of parchment.
‘What is it?’ Roisea asked, suddenly anxious at the sight of his face.
Baldwin could not answer for a moment. The crabbed, uneven writing on the scrap of parchment was too shocking.
Bristol Castle
Sir Laurence of Ashby was glad that he was not imprisoned immediately, although he knew that it could happen at any time. The Mortimer appeared content to have him remain here a little longer, and did not seem to fear that he might prove a danger to the Queen or her son.
And he was not, of course. He could no more hurt either of them than he could the King himself. It was galling to have failed to keep the King’s castle for him, but equally impossible for any man of honour to have held it against the King’s own wife and his heir.
Now that the castle was passed over to the men whom the Queen had installed, his main duty now, as he saw it, was to help the men o
f the garrison who had been arrested and were now held in little cells near the gates. It was cold in those chambers, and several of them were damp, which inevitably meant that the men within would succumb to illnesses. Sir Laurence saw to it that there was good pottage and broth taken to them to try to guard against the worst of the chills, and now, at last, he had an order for their release.
It was good to see the poor fellows stumbling out into the daylight. The weather was overcast, but at least it was dry today, and they could walk about on their stiff legs, blinking in the light without fearing the rain.
While he was there, a shout came from the gates, and a pair of riders cantered in. They rode past the guards, and then Sir Laurence saw that there were two bodies bound to a third horse. The beast was wild with the scent of blood, his eyes rolling, and he would scarce calm down long enough to allow the hostlers to grab his bridle and keep him steady, while others slashed the ropes holding the two corpses and lifted them down from the animal’s back.
Sir Laurence strode across the yard. ‘Take that brute away and calm him!’ he bellowed, before turning his attention to the two bodies. ‘Who are these?’ he demanded.
One of the riders was a man he vaguely recognised as belonging to Mortimer. ‘These two are known to my lord Mortimer. One was a trader he has used – Thomas Redcliffe – while the other was a page in the service of Sir Ralph of Evesham. They’re both dead.’
‘I can see that, you fool,’ Sir Laurence snapped. ‘Why? Did they get into a fight with each other?’
More horses were arriving with other men draped over them, and Sir Laurence stared at them in astonishment.
‘What’s all this?’ Sir Roger Mortimer had arrived and was standing in the doorway of the hall, glowering into the courtyard at the huddle of men. ‘Who are they?’
The man shouted out who the two were, and Sir Roger marched down the steps and crossed the yard. He pushed the bodies over with his boot, then shook his head thoughtfully. ‘This man was known to me,’ he said, reaching down to Thomas Redcliffe’s belt. ‘Who had his purse?’
‘Not us, sir,’ the man on the lead horse said. ‘Could it have fallen from him while we rode here?’
‘Where did you find them?’ Sir Roger rapped out, his eyes going to the gate as though to hurry out even now.
‘These two were by the ferry over the Severn, sir. They were lying almost on the ferry. These others were in a camp, and one in a forest.’
‘Were these two alone?’
‘No, there were other men there, but they managed to get on the ferry. They’d been going to take these two on board, I think, but us turning up stopped that.’
‘This is important,’ Sir Roger said. ‘I want to know who was with these two, and who could have killed them. Especially this fellow, because he was robbed.’
‘I don’t know if it’s right, sir, but I thought I heard someone calling out to “Sir Baldwin”.’
‘Really?’ Sir Roger said. Baldwin was not an uncommon name, and he wondered which knight this could be. ‘Search. Someone must have seen or heard something. If the worst comes to the worst, find a boat and go to ask the ferryman.’
The men glanced at each other, then nodded, before whirling their horses about and thundering out through the gate again.
Sir Roger Mortimer grunted to himself, and then caught sight of Sir Laurence. ‘Yes?’
‘You are very concerned about this one man?’
‘I have known him for some years. He used to buy horses for me.’ Then Mortimer continued quietly, ‘He had something of value to me.’
Sir Laurence shrugged. It was none of his business.
‘Sir Laurence, do you want something?’
Sir Roger Mortimer’s eyes were on him now, slightly wide, unblinking, and in that moment, Sir Laurence knew real fear. This man was perfectly capable of killing in an instant.
‘No, Sir Roger. I have work to do. Please call me if I can help you, though.’
There was no answer. He turned and walked back towards his chamber, and all the way he dreaded the blow that must come upon his hideously exposed back, until he had entered his chamber and closed the door behind him.
David was at his board writing. ‘Are you all right, Sir Laurence? You look shaken.’
The knight eased himself into his chair. It creaked as he tilted it back and rested his boots upon the table-top.
‘You know, David, I think there is something very odd about Sir Roger Mortimer,’ he said in a low voice.
‘I could have told you that a while ago,’ David snorted.
‘You are a most perspicacious fellow,’ Sir Laurence said. ‘And you have good contacts in the city, don’t you?’
‘What of it?’
Sir Laurence considered a moment. He had an urge to learn all he could about this friend of Sir Roger’s.
‘Find out all you can about a man called Thomas Redcliffe. But David?’
‘Yes?’
‘Your enquiries: make them with subtlety, old friend. We do not wish to arouse Sir Roger’s ire.’
Riding to Marshfield
They had set off as soon as they had broken their fast, Simon and Sir Charles. Simon had not been content to leave his wife all alone in the castle, and insisted that Hugh remain with her. Hugh was only too pleased to be spared another journey on horseback, for although he had grown accustomed to this mode of travel of late, it was not with any enjoyment.
It was about noon when the pair reached the little vill where they had been told the body had been found. Simon and Sir Charles looked around for any signs of someone who could help them, but there was nobody to be seen. Eventually they rode up to the nearest cottage – a poor, dilapidated little hovel – and Simon dropped from his horse and rapped on the green, mossy timber of the door.
‘What?’ The door opened a short way, and the bearded face of Halt glared at them suspiciously. His looks were not improved by the scabs on his broken nose, nor the bruises.
Simon smiled winningly. ‘I would like to speak to you.’
‘Well, I don’t want to speak to you—’ His words were cut short by the penny spinning and catching the light as Simon tossed it in the air and caught it.
‘There was a body found near here a few days ago,’ Simon said. ‘Do you know where?’
‘Just over there.’
‘Could you show us, please?’
Halt was keen to help. Crossing his garden to the roadway and taking Simon and Sir Charles up towards the little spinney, he showed them the hole in the hedge made by the jury as they had forced their way through.
‘Do you know who the corpse was supposed to have been?’ Simon asked.
‘No. All the Coroner said was, it was the Squire from over Hanham way. That was all.’
‘Did you know this Squire?’
‘Me?’ Halt shook his head. ‘He was from miles away, master. I’d never seen him before.’
Simon went into the little wood and gazed about him. There was no lingering aura of evil, such as he might have expected. ‘The body was here?’
‘No, sir, it was on the ground over there, and this is where his head was stuck.’
‘His head?’ Sir Charles repeated, interested. ‘You say he was beheaded?’
‘Yes. As if he was a criminal – or a traitor.’
‘To his wife, perhaps, as well as to his parents-in-law,’ Simon murmured. He looked about him, and then walked out, back to the road. There was nothing to be seen there, and to stand gazing about the trees felt ghoulish.
Simon asked where the priest lived – some two miles further on – and the pair made their way onwards after Simon had paid the man his penny.
‘I don’t think much of the quality of the peasants about here,’ Sir Charles said ruminatively.
‘He was a poor example of a dull-witted serf,’ Simon agreed with a chuckle. ‘But look at this landscape, Sir Charles! Good, wholesome territory. Any man would grow strong and hearty in a place like this.’
&n
bsp; ‘If you say so,’ Sir Charles sighed.
In truth, it was a good day to be out riding. The sun was breaking through the clouds, and as it did so, the leaves and puddles appeared to be outlined in silver. There was the constant calling of birds in the trees and, disturbed by their passing, flies rose up in fine swarms of mist. Simon felt all the worries of the last days fall away from him. It seemed as though all the troubles in this worried land were for a little while dissipated, and while he remained here on his horse, the country, and he, were safe.
His mood stayed with him all the way to the little vill where the priest was living. And then all his euphoria was wiped away as he spoke to Father Paul.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Bristol Castle
The castle was in uproar. Men ran about like headless chickens while Sir Stephen watched them from the comfort of an old bench, a jug of wine at his feet, a cup in his hand.
It was clear that the Queen and Mortimer were keen to be away from the place as soon as possible, although he would guess that the Queen’s son was less enthusiastic about the prospect. It was not surprising. The lad must be wondering what on earth would happen to his beloved father, when the Mortimer caught up with him. Edward had, after all, tried to have Mortimer executed – and that was never a perfect basis on which to maintain a friendship.
The Queen’s men were soon to be on the move, then. Well, so much the better. Sir Stephen did not enjoy being in the vicinity of so many men with weapons. He was happier when things were quieter, and he would be content to remain here for quite a while longer. It was a good city, he’d always thought, and now, with the place in Mortimer’s hands as a result of his own hard efforts, he was better positioned than ever before.
Carts were brought, and the barrels from the undercrofts, so carefully stored against the day of the siege, were rolled out and loaded. There was little point in larger wagons for transport. The oxen to haul them were too slow, and the Queen and Mortimer had an urgent desire for speed. Besides, the roads west of here were deplorable. In Wales the land was rough and undercultivated. It would be better to have their goods brought on sumpter horses rather than these carts even, because roads were few and far between. There had been some communications built in the days of good King Edward I, the man who had done so much to pacify the unruly Welsh peasants, but not enough. All that effort to gather up food, he thought regretfully, only to see it removed in this way.
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