First Sunday after the Feast of St Martin44
Neath Abbey
That morning was heavy with rain. Even as they prepared themselves in the courtyard near the cloisters, the men were drenched.
Baldwin was wearing his armour with more discomfort than he could recall at any other time. At least on duty in Acre, he had been younger, and there was no rain to contend with. It had been more a case of worrying about sand getting in under the throat and at the back of the neck – because even a small amount of rough sand between aketon and skin was enough to create a bloody sore in half a day. Today, though, the collar of his pair of plates kept touching his bare throat – and it felt as if his flesh must freeze to the metal each time. His clothes beneath were already clammy and damp, and the coldness of the metal was transmitted perfectly through the wet clothing, which meant that the ride today was going to be deeply uncomfortable as well as dangerous.
He wasn’t scared. Baldwin was too experienced a warrior to feel fear, but he did have misgivings about setting off now, when they had been away from Caerphilly for so long. He only prayed that the castle was not already besieged. He wondered how Roisea would cope, if so. She was a lovely-looking woman – the sort who could all too easily become the target of men-at-arms with time on their hands.
They mounted, and Jack whistled to Wolf, who was idling away his time near the midden heap over at the wall’s edge. The mastiff came at a wary trot when he heard the summons, thinking he might be scolded for rooting about in the rubbish.
When all were mounted, the King at last appeared in the doorway. Over his left shoulder, Baldwin saw Sir Hugh le Despenser, looking pale and fretful, his hands worrying at his face as though he was scratching at an itch near his mouth. Beside him stood Baldock. He was in little better state than Despenser.
‘My friends,’ the King called, and his voice was firm, if not so loud as once it had been. ‘There can be little doubt that there is no time for us to lose. You know that we cannot find a ship to take us to safety in Ireland, and no matter how we try, the rest of my people seem reluctant to come and help me wrest my kingdom from traitors and thieves!’ He stopped, took a deep breath, and continued more calmly again, ‘And so, we must ride. We go to Caerphilly. I do not doubt that it is strong enough to survive the worst onslaught that the foul Mortimer can throw at it.’
He looked around at all the knights and servants who stood watching, listening carefully. Baldwin glanced about him too, and saw so many taut, pale faces that it was brought home to him again just how dire their situation had become. No one there believed that the King could escape capture, and that would mean many of the men here would suffer the indignity of arrest and of gaol, of possible forfeiture of lands and goods, the disinheritance of their children, or even death. They all knew the position. And there was little that could be done to save themselves.
‘Friends, I call you, because you are all my friends. You have stayed with me through all the recent turbulence which has so shaken my reign. I love you for the courage you have displayed, for the conviction in the rightness of my position that you have shown me. I honour all of you. But it is time, for some, to leave. Any man among you who decides he does not want to come to share my fate, I release from my service. I do not demand that you join me in this dark time. Better that any who feel they have fulfilled the duty which honour has demanded, should leave now.’
Baldwin watched, and suddenly felt a warmth flushing at his eyes. He was forced to wipe at them with a gloved hand as he realised that not a man was moving. All the knights, men-at-arms and servants were determined to remain with the King, no matter what his fate. He saw Robert Vyke not far away, and the man was weeping, his head bowed, but when he looked up and caught Baldwin’s eye, there was no embarrassment. He was crying with pride, not fear.
The King looked about him with a look of mild bafflement on his face. ‘Are you all moon-struck? My friends, I am most humbled by your support. I will do all I may to protect you as you have served me. Thank you. Thank you all.’
He strode down the steps and climbed upon his destrier, sitting with a rigidly straight back. His herald mounted too, and set the King’s banner in its rest, and when Sir Hugh and all the others were sitting in their saddles, Edward nodded, and the whole cavalcade moved off and through the gates.
But not many saw, as Baldwin did, the tears that poured down the King’s face as he rode from the yard to the fate which no one could foresee.
Near Llanharry
Simon had already been riding for three hours that morning, and he regretted it immensely.
From dawn, there had been a torrential downpour that seemed to pause occasionally only in order for it to continue its onslaught with renewed vigour. It felt as though the deluge was battering their very souls. The misery of staggering on under that terrible wall of water sapped their energy and it was only by an enormous effort of will that the footsoldiers were able to tramp onwards. Among the Hainaulters, Simon heard many men swearing bitterly in French and other, incomprehensible tongues. For himself, he was too depleted to bother swearing.
Then the clouds cleared again, and he wiped his face on his sleeve before staring about. There were trees on his right, then a clearing off to the left, with pasture or common land ahead. Just more of what they were used to.
‘Enjoying the ride, Bailiff?’ enquired Sir Charles.
‘Loving every minute of it,’ Simon muttered.
‘I do not think,’ Sir Stephen said with deliberation, ‘that I have ever been quite this wet before in my life. Nay, not even in a bath – for then at least my head has remained dry. This,’ he continued, tugging his felt hat from his head and slapping it on his thigh, making it instantly shapeless, ‘this, is sheer, unadulterated wretchedness.’
They were riding a short distance behind Earl Henry of Lancaster; the Earl and his household knights rode in an armoured group bunched together as though they were clustered under a shelter.
And then Simon sat up, staring ahead, just as the rain began to pound at the land all around them again.
‘What is it?’ Sir Charles asked quickly.
‘I thought I saw something,’ Simon said. But he did not add the words that sprang to his lips: Baldwin’s dog Wolf.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
There were so few men left that Baldwin despaired.
Along with the King there was Despenser, of course, and Robert Baldock, the King’s Chancellor. Apart from them, there were only the retainers, including Simon of Reading, who had shown himself to be devoted to Sir Hugh. John Beck, John Blunt, John Smale, Tom Whyther and Richard Holden were all there, with Sir Ralph and his two, and the cautious Robert Vyke, who rode like a sack of turnips but had proved himself to be honourable and true to his word. There were some fifteen other servants and men-at-arms, most of them riding dazed, like men in a dream. The King’s Steward in particular looked as if he had suddenly aged twenty years.
He had never believed that this could truly happen, Baldwin thought. He had spent his life in service to this King, expecting to work until the King pensioned him off, buying him a corrody in a priory or abbey, where he would be housed, fed and clothed, and now it seemed certain that his dreams of ending his work at last and finding rest were flown. If the King were forced from his throne by Sir Roger, there would be nothing for his steward or for any others.
For his part, Baldwin only hoped that they were safe from Mortimer’s men. They must be all about Wales now, he was sure. They would have set off in pursuit as soon as they could when the Abbot and the other negotiators rode out of Hereford.
He cast an eye about him, wondering where Wolf could have got to. The damned brute was always wandering off, following his nose. He wasn’t down by Jack this time. It was only when he peered ahead, over the King’s shoulder, that he thought he saw Wolf in between squalls.
And then he caught sight of the men.
‘Your Highness! Ambush! Turn about, turn about!’ he cried.
/> Simon felt his stomach lurch as he recognised the great black dog with the white muzzle and breast, the brown cheeks and eyebrows. He blinked away the rain, but suddenly it was over, and there was a patch of clearness – and all the men saw the King and his entourage immediately before them.
No one spoke for a second. The King gaped, his horse pawing at the soil, and Earl Henry and his men were equally nonplussed for a moment, until there was a shout from the rear of the King’s men, and with a thrill Simon recognised Baldwin’s voice; and then all was thundering hooves as the Earl’s men set their horses at the King, and shrieks filled the air, while swords slithered from their scabbards and the horses lowered their heads to pound onwards.
Simon found his own mount plunging on ahead, as it careered after the Earl’s group. It was clear that the King’s men were forming a line to hold their enemies at bay. Simon recognised a few faces here and there, but even though they wielded their swords bravely enough, there were too few, far too few to hold back so large a force. The Earl’s men went through them in no time, and Simon felt a fleeting sadness to see the King’s own steward hacked across the neck and shoulder. He fell back in a fountain of blood, and Simon saw his body in the mud at the side of the road as he rode past, blinking and mouth moving, but making no sound as he died.
Then they were past, and up ahead Simon saw the King and Despenser, along with two knights. He crouched lower, to keep up with the others.
To the loud blaring of horns from his pursuers, the King rode with a mad determination. He would not allow himself to be caught, especially not by Lancaster. He had seen Lancaster’s brother executed for his treachery, and the thought of being in Earl Henry’s custody was not to be borne. He spurred his mount onwards, lashing at his charger’s flanks with the rein-ends, teeth clenched, his muscles tensed against the threat of an arrow in the back.
There was none. He rode on, around the first curve of the roadway, the cold rain slapping him in the face like small icicles, his horse lurching and slipping in the mud, almost throwing him at one point. Beside him, his face set in an expression of horror, rode Sir Hugh.
He couldn’t let them take Hugh! Hugh was his only friend in this repugnant world. All the friends he had were always snatched from him. It was so cruel, he could weep, but there was no time for tears. He had to stay on horseback, keep on riding, escape with Hugh. He couldn’t submit, not now!
A shout, a flurry of noise to his right, and he saw a group of fresh riders pelting towards him through the thin woods. The leader was a knight, but that was all he saw before he spurred his brute to greater efforts, and pointed his charger towards a gap in a hedge a short way ahead. Two paces, a bunching of muscles, and he was in the air, over the hedge, twigs and thorns snatching at his shins and thighs, then . . . down on the ground once more, and thundering over the turf towards the opposite side of a good-sized pasture, sheep scattering in terror as he came. And when he cast a wild eye over his shoulder, he saw Sir Ralph and Sir Baldwin behind him, Sir Ralph’s squire near him, but the second one was gone. His horse was still there, galloping with rolling, terrified eyes and a great smear of blood and gore over his saddle and flank from the blow that had killed his rider.
‘How many more?’ he asked himself.
Baldwin saw Sir Ralph gauging the distance ahead, then they were both in the air, their beasts leaping high over the hedge and down onto the soft soil the other side. There was a broad expanse of pasture in front of them, leading down to a small rivulet which Baldwin saw sweeping across from the left, and he hoped to Heaven that the King wouldn’t be foolish enough to head for that, because the ground nearby would likely be boggy and dangerous for their mounts.
He saw that Alexander’s horse had lost its rider, and he winced at the thought of yet another man dead, but before he could think more, he saw Wolf, who was galloping as fast as his heavy frame would allow, his tongue dangling free as he gazed up at his master in consternation.
But just as Baldwin saw his mastiff, he became aware of the man riding towards Wolf with a spear ready to spit him. Without thinking, Baldwin turned and rode for the attacker.
Wolf had no idea what his master was doing, but in his houndlike conviction of original canine sin, he stopped and cringed, thinking Baldwin was about to clout him. During that pause, he spotted the rapidly approaching horse and, yelping, shot across in front of Baldwin, startling the pursuer’s horse and making it stop so sharply that the rider was hurled over its head to the ground.
Baldwin was already spurring his horse onwards, back to the King and his companions, but even as he did so, he saw that it was too late.
Although the main force of men was still behind Baldwin, there was a second party in front, waiting patiently, while a third, smaller group had appeared at the other side of the brook. There would be no escape that way. And when Baldwin cast a look to the right, he saw that any exit from this pasturage was obstructed by the thickly laid thorn hedge which surrounded it.
It would be for the King to decide what they must do. Before he could be cut off from them, Baldwin rode at the gallop to join the King and the others.
Simon was a little behind the group, delayed by his shock at the sight of Wolf when the others were already whooping onwards.
He urged his rounsey on, and soon was galloping off after the others. He saw them all leaping over the hedge; where there had been a narrow gap, now there was a ragged tear, and the men were piling through, their horses whinnying with fear and excitement. Simon was the last man to go, and he felt no concern at taking it at the gallop. All the others were already throwing up clods of grass at the other side, and he had to duck to avoid one large lump of earth, and then he felt the huge muscles bunch and thrust, and he was shoved against the high cantle at the rear of his saddle and using his legs to haul himself upright, filled with the thrill of the chase.
There was a flash of red on his right, and his horse shied in mid-leap, trying to swing to the left; Simon found himself lurching, thrown first right, then left – and then he was out of his saddle. There was a moment of vague surprise as he realised that he was flying through the air, with his left foot caught in the stirrup . . . and then the stirrup leather tightened, jerking him in mid-air, only to slam him hard to the ground. His head bounced up, and his blurred vision caught sight of a horse and rider clad in red just before his body crashed to earth again. He felt the stones, twigs and thorns shred his clothes and rip into his flesh as his mount thundered on, and then something hit his head with a crunch that drove all pain, all fear and meaning from his mind – and he was engulfed by night.
Sir Charles had landed well, and as soon as he was at the other side of the hedge, he whipped and spurred his mount after the others, but even as he leaned down over his horse’s neck and felt the mane slap damply against his cheeks, he cast a quick look to his side, looking for Simon. Nothing. He shot a glance backwards and saw the horse trying to follow; it looked odd somehow – and he suddenly realised there was no rider on it.
‘God damn the fellow!’ he muttered, and pulled on the reins. His great horse pounded back, and that was when he saw Simon being dragged along by his leg. Sir Charles slapped his beast’s rump hard to make him hurry on, and was soon able to turn level with Simon’s horse. Calming him, Sir Charles grabbed at the reins. He had to do so twice before he managed to catch them, and then he pulled on both sets of reins to slow both horses; his own and Simon’s. It was hard work, and Simon’s horse snorted and tried to pull his head free, his eyes terrified, forgetting all his training and becoming almost a wild animal.
Sir Charles stood up in his stirrups, then sat down and hauled, and gradually both horses slowed, then stopped, and as soon as they were still, Sir Charles was out of his saddle and down beside his friend’s body. He saw that the stirrup was caught about Simon’s foot, twisting the whole of his leg, and without ado, drew his dagger and cut the leather. Simon’s leg dropped instantly, and he groaned.
Rolling him over ge
ntly, Sir Charles saw how his back had been lacerated, and winced at the sight.
‘My friend, you need help – badly!’
The King reined in his horse and stared at the men confronting him. There were thirty or so in this motley band. Ten on horseback, and those on foot already had their polearms, braced.
There were men in front, men behind, and a party over the brook. ‘Sir Hugh!’ he cried in desperation, and he saw Hugh turn to him. Under his helmet, Despenser’s handsome face was twisted with anguish.
‘My King!’ he shouted, and for a moment King Edward thought his friend might throw himself on the spears of the schiltrom before them, but then he bent his head and covered his face. There was no spirit left in him to fight further.
And that was it, King Edward thought. They were all too worn with trying to gather a force to defend his reign, with hiding and running again. A month and a half of trying to avert disaster – and it had all been in vain.
Sir Ralph rode up to him, with Sir Baldwin close by.
‘Your Royal Highness, we are ready to die for you,’ Sir Ralph said quietly. ‘Command us.’
The King looked at them both, at their resolute expressions. ‘Sirs, there is no point. Fighting will avail us nothing. How many more must die?’
He saw behind Sir Baldwin the armour and face of Earl Henry of Lancaster, and walked his horse to the man.
‘Earl. I submit.’
Llantrisant Castle
Simon was able to do little more than cling to his horse for the journey to Llantrisant, and he was fortunate that Sir Charles rode at his side all the way, for he was continually passing out and at peril of toppling off.
They rode into the castle before dusk, and the whole party entered the hall together, Sir Charles and Sir Stephen assisting Simon to walk. As soon as he was set down on a bench, he turned, leaned his shoulder against the wall, and began to snore.
It was only a small castle, this. It had been Sir Hugh le Despenser’s for some little while, but now it had been taken over by Mortimer’s men, and the place was filled with men-at-arms and their weapons. The King and Sir Hugh looked about them in astonishment to see how many men there were crammed into the place as they were taken up into the hall. While the King was given due honour, and many men tried to encourage him, Sir Hugh was set in a corner and left to his own devices. Food was brought, good simple fare, set out on wooden trenchers, but neither man appeared to have any appetite.
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