29 - The Oath

by Michael Jecks

  So now here he was: alone. Without host, without castles, without hope.

  He could never know happiness again.

  Third Friday after the Feast of St Martin53

  Bristol

  Roisea Redcliffe walked into her house with a feeling of mild curiosity; she wanted to see if there was anything in there that could remind her of her darling Thomas.

  The fool! Thinking he could renew their fortunes by killing the King. Oh, that would have been a magnificent act, that would. What had he imagined he would do? Just draw a dagger and stab him during a meeting? And what would have happened then? Succeed or fail, the first thing would have been that the King’s men would have slain him – and Roisea too, since she would have been assumed to be guilty by association.

  She walked through to the hall. The place had been stripped of anything valuable by the men who had encircled the city. The house had been used as quarters. The hallings she was so proud of were gone. Her cushions, the decorative candle-holders, the little crucifix from its niche by the fire – all had disappeared – and in their place were bones, filth, and excrement. The bedroom, she was sure, would be as bad, and when she walked through to the solar, she had to leave in a hurry. From the stench, this whole area had been used as a privy.

  Outside, she sat on the step and put her head in her hands, thinking furiously. There was no money, nothing to sell, and she had not eaten for a day.

  Then she stood and eyed her horse. It was a good beast, and would bring in some welcome money. That was first: sell the horse and use some of the payment to buy food. And then she would have to clean the house.

  That would keep her busy for a while. And meantime, she would have to work out how to make some money.

  She looked over at the horse again. He was a well-bred beast, worth several pounds, if she was careful about where she sold him. And then she remembered a man Thomas had used, over towards Berkeley, who could usually be relied upon to sell beasts for a reasonable sum. In recent times the horses all about Bristol had been depleted, but with luck the Queen’s men would not have gone so far as Berkeley. Perhaps she could use the money she made to buy some more horses, bring them here and sell them on to make a little profit, and fund another trade.

  Whatever else happened, Roisea was determined that she would not lose her house. She would somehow keep it all together. And if it took time, so be it. She had time and enough to spare.

  Bristol Castle

  Margaret heard the crying in the darkness, and rose, shivering, to go to Peterkin. There was no candle, and she drew on a robe, trying to find her slippers with her feet to save them from the cold stone floor.

  ‘Hush, my love,’ she cooed, picking up her son from his small bed and hugging him tightly. ‘Hush!’

  She began to rock him with the automatic maternal movement which was second nature to her, almost asleep herself. It was hard to imagine what the world was like outside. All was dark, all was grim. There was no happiness left in her, since her husband had been taken from her.

  Simon. She thought of his calm grey eyes, his kind smile, his companionship. In the last weeks she had felt so entirely alone, it had been like living in a cage. All the guards about the castle stared at her suspiciously, while the servants and maids who had been here before the capture of the castle, avoided eye-contact with all, in case they were suspected of some offence. Only one guard eyed her differently from those who seemed to think she was about to poison the entire garrison, and Meg found his attentions even harder to bear, as he licked his lips lasciviously whenever he saw her glance in his direction.

  In the front of her tunic, under her chemise, she had taken to wearing her little sheath knife. She swore that if the man came within a foot or two, she would kill him before he could touch her body.

  She rocked Peterkin.

  In her mind it was summertime in the woods up behind her home, just after the last bluebells were dying away, and the little star-flowers were sprinkled over the grass under the trees. There was the scent of rich soil, the smell of cattle and sheep on the air, and the sound of Simon walking beside her as they tramped down to the stream at the bottom of the second pasture. He would unstopper the wine skin, and both would drink before they lay in the grasses together. She would sleep then, with the sun on her body, his kiss on her lips.

  And then she woke. The sun was streaming in from the window in the southern wall, Peterkin was yawning and stretching his little arms, and Simon was over her, grinning wolfishly as he leaned forward to kiss her again.

  ‘Morning, wench!’ he said.

  Baldwin watched as a hostler began to rub down his horse, making sure that the fellow knew his business, before following Jack and Wolf into the inn itself.

  It was so deeply engrained in him from his earliest days as a Knight Templar that a knight should always see to the needs of his mounts first, that even at a good inn like this, and even when he had his own servant to keep watch over the beasts, he still preferred to see to their welfare himself.

  Jack was standing at the fire already, a quiet figure with large, anxious eyes, and Baldwin pursed his lips at the sight of the lad. ‘Are you ailing?’ he asked.

  Jack stared at the flames. ‘I wanted to do right and help protect the King, but all we did came to naught, Sir Baldwin.’

  ‘It did, I fear. But that is how life is sometimes, lad. We did our best, and no man can ask more.’

  ‘I had thought that to fight would be glorious. In Normandy in the summer, I was brave enough.’

  ‘You were.’

  Jack looked at him. ‘I thought that the most honourable thing would be to serve my King – but he was caught anyway, and so many men have died.’

  ‘Men die all the time, Jack,’ Baldwin said quietly, repeating Sir Ralph’s words. ‘It is not the dying that matters, it is how the man lived.’

  ‘But think of the men at the river’s side, when poor Master Redcliffe was killed. He died, and so did those who attacked us. Then Sir Ralph’s servants, both there at the river, and later, when the Mortimer’s men caught up with us. They didn’t deserve to die there. It was all wrong!’ The boy’s eyes were full of tears now.

  Baldwin held his hands to the fire. His feet were frozen, and his hands felt so cold they could crack like icicles. ‘But Sir Ralph’s men were proud to have served him, and they died doing their duty,’ he said patiently. ‘No man enjoys dying, just as only a fool enjoys taking life. There is no merit in killing, but there is great merit in dying honourably, for a good cause, and being remembered for that. The men with Sir Ralph will always be remembered by him, and honoured for their courage.’

  ‘It is not as I expected.’

  Baldwin gave him a long look. ‘Did you think to learn that you were glorious just because you fought on one side rather than another?’

  ‘No. But I had hoped I would at least show some courage. Instead, I found myself petrified. And not just because I feared death – but because I feared that I might have to kill.’

  ‘That is good,’ Baldwin said, and his eyes returned to stare at the fire. ‘Because the first man you kill, Jack, will stay in your mind forever. If you must kill, kill swiftly and for a good reason. Because I swear this: if you kill a man for the wrong reasons, your soul will be tormented all your life.’

  Jack’s tone was hushed. ‘Are you speaking of yourself? Have you regretted killing a man?’

  Baldwin smiled. ‘No, Jack. I was a warrior, and helped defend the Kingdom of Jerusalem as I might, but without success. The kingdom failed. I have killed several men, but always only when I thought it necessary. Never from a frivolous motive. No, I was thinking of others.’

  In particular, he was thinking of Sir Hugh le Despenser, and his mean butchering at Hereford. And it made him think too of Sir Roger Mortimer, the man who had caused Sir Hugh’s execution.

  One who could act with such casual savagery was not the sort of man to rule the realm, he thought.

  ‘Come! Let us dis
card these solemn thoughts, Jack,’ he said. ‘Soon we shall be at my home, and you will be welcome to remain there with my family if you wish. There is peace in the land now, and with God’s help you will never need to confront your fears of warfare again.’

  Baldwin hoped that was true. But as he thought of the King, now the prisoner of his wife, his son, and Sir Roger Mortimer, he was aware of a grim certainty.

  The kingdom would not know peace until the throne was occupied properly once more.

  Lane near Devizes

  The way here was muddy and thick, with stones of different sizes. Walerand the tranter had thought that his new cart would fit perfectly, but now, several hundred yards down the lane, he realised that he was unable to continue. He got down and thrashed the pony a few times to work off the worst of his rage, but it didn’t achieve anything.

  Edging his way past, he saw that one of the wheels had become clogged with nettles and old brambles. The wheel had fallen through icy mud into a deep rut that ran close to the wall where the weeds grew, and now the wheel’s hub was jammed against the wall itself, firmly fixed in place. He set his jaw. He would somehow have to push the cart away from the wall to free the hub, but doubted he would be able to move it on his own.

  ‘You need help, friend?’

  ‘What do you think?’Walerand said rudely, looking up to see an older man gazing down at him. ‘The cart’s stuck here, and it’s so tangled up, I can’t move it forward or back. Can you give me a hand?’

  ‘Cost you a shilling.’

  ‘What?’Walerand exploded. ‘I only want you to help push it, not build me a ruddy new one!’

  ‘A shilling if you want me to help.’

  ‘Six pennies.’

  ‘Two shillings.’

  Walerand put his head to one side. ‘What? You said one!’

  ‘You argued. If you try that again, it’ll go up again.’

  ‘All right, all right. Two it is.’

  ‘Show us your money then.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘You heard.’

  Walerand looked at the cart, then at the man again. Two shillings! But God alone knew when someone else was likely to come by here, and he’d never be able to pull the damn thing free on his own. He’d have to empty the cart, take the pony from the traces and tie her up, then cut out the weeds and move the empty cart, before setting the pony back, refilling the cart . . . Reluctantly he pulled two shillings from his purse and held them out.

  The old man took the coins and studied them carefully, before pushing them into his purse. Then he climbed down from his horse and studied the cart’s wheel. ‘You’ve got it jammed in there.’

  ‘Thanks for the information – I’d never have guessed,’ Walerand said sarcastically. ‘Put your shoulder to the wheel.’

  It took five minutes of grunting effort before they could move the cart away from the wall and heave it out of the rut.

  ‘That’s the problem with lanes like this,’ the old man panted. ‘Get your wheels stuck in a rut and you’ve had it.’

  ‘Aye. Well, friend, I thank you for your help,’Walerand said, wiping sweat from his brow. He jerked at the pony’s halter and teased it onwards.

  The old man remounted his horse and stared after him thoughtfully, before riding back the way he had come.

  Walerand found the inn at the edge of the next wood, not far from a little ford. There was a patch of scrubby grass, and he left the pony there, nibbling, before stalking inside and ordering himself a pint of strong ale. He sat down at a bench, and drank thirstily, stretching his boots towards the roaring fire. The weather was that cold, it was a wretched time of year for a man to continue with his travels. His passage here had been long, too. At least four-and-twenty miles today. Christ’s cods, but it would be good to get back to Farnham and rest awhile, he thought, bending his right leg and feeling the tightness of his calf.

  There was a rattle at the old door, and it creaked open to show the man he had met on the trail. Walerand did not greet him. The fellow had taken him like a cutpurse. Two shillings! Daylight robbery. It would be tempting to hold a knife to his throat and take his money back. In fact, it was more than tempting, it was a damned good idea.

  With that thought, he set his cup on the floor, and was about to rise, when a second man entered, glanced about him, and followed Walerand’s two-shilling helper to the bar in the corner.

  Too late. Walerand pulled a face and settled back down on his bench. He should have jumped the bastard as soon as he walked in. The two seemed to know each other. Talking together now, they were, and he strained an ear to see if they spoke of anything useful.

  Another man walked in, but this one didn’t join the other two as they chatted. He stood staring down at Walerand.

  ‘What?’ the tranter demanded. ‘Who you gawping at, you prickle? Stare somewhere else!’

  The man smiled, and there was something about him that stirred Walerand’s memory.

  ‘Walerand, I note you have a new pony.’

  ‘How do you know my name?’

  ‘A gull never forgets the thief.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘He’s forgotten me, Otho,’ the man called out.

  The older one was leaning on the bar, his pot of ale in his hand. ‘Forgotten you, Robert?’ he said pleasantly. ‘No, I reckon he remembers you. He was upset that day, though, don’t forget. He’d just seen his horse die.’

  Walerand felt the memory like a kick in his flank. He saw the cart, the filthy, rainswept roadway, and a man shouting at him for thrashing his pony. And he distinctly recalled hitting the fellow over the head and taking his dagger.

  ‘Oh, master, yes, I remember now,’ he said silkily. ‘I am glad you made it to safety – but I did all I could to help you.’

  ‘You struck me down and broke my head!’

  ‘Not I.’

  Robert sucked at his bottom lip. ‘Very well friend, I think I should take your dagger now, to repay me for your theft.’

  ‘I stole nothing. You can go to hell with my blessings!’

  ‘I want compensation for the theft of my dagger, or you’ll find bad luck will befall you.’

  He had moved away from the door towards Walerand, and the latter saw his chance. Quickly flinging his ale in the man’s face, he darted out. It was fortunate that he had possessed the good sense to leave his pony in the traces. It was the work of a moment to jerk the pony’s head around, and whip her into movement. He would keep tight hold of his whip, he decided, and if the arses came close, he’d cut them about the face. They wouldn’t get him that easily.

  The cart rumbled and squeaked more than usual. It needed grease on the hub, he reckoned, and the pony neighed and complained, but then the thing was moving . . . and then he heard a rending sound, and the cart lurched. A huge splinter of wood sprang from the wheel, and as he watched with appalled eyes, the whole carriage began to tilt over, the bed moving, and then the wheel fell to pieces. The cart collapsed and shed its load, a bale ripping open on a broken spoke, and all the rest of his goods tumbling out on the muddy roadway.

  ‘God’s ballocks!’ And in the doorway, he saw the three men peering out and grinning at him.

  Robert Vyke raised his pot in a mocking toast. ‘Oh, you can keep the dagger,’ he said. ‘My new one’s got a good enough blade. Shame about your cart, though. Looks like the wheel’s broken.’

  And as they watched his crestfallen expression, they began to laugh.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Michael Jecks gave up a career in the computer industry to concentrate on writing and the study of medieval history, especially that of Devon and Cornwall. A regular speaker at library and literary events, he is a past Chairman of the Crime Writers Association and judges awards for the CWA and other literary groups.

  Michael lives with his wife, children and dogs in northern Dartmoor.

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