29 - The Oath (42 page)

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.’

‘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.

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.

He heard steps behind him, and cast a glance over his shoulder. In a moment, he was on his feet. ‘Sir Laurence. I wish you a good day.’

‘Do you?’ Sir Laurence said. ‘Well, I wish
you
a slow death. You betrayed us all, especially your King.’

Sir Stephen gave a weary smile. ‘Look about you, sir knight. Would the King have preferred to see one of his greater cities devastated, the buildings destroyed, the land laid waste? I think if he wishes to retain his crown, he will be glad of a few places like this left standing. He will need the money.’

‘Money! What good is that to a man with no honour?’

‘You press me hard, my friend,’ Sir Stephen said. He spoke with a lazy drawl, but his hands moved to his belt and rested, thumbs hooked near the buckle.

‘Why, would you like to fight now?’ Sir Laurence said contemptuously. ‘I will be happy to stand here and defend my honour. What of you, though? Is your honour worth the defence? Or can you no longer find it?’

Sir Stephen kept his eyes on Sir Laurence. ‘I will fight you here and now, or at any other time and place of your choosing. I am no coward, and will show that my courage and honour are of the highest.’

‘Your courage may be, but you have no honour in you, by my faith!’ Sir Laurence spat. ‘This city was given away by you, when you were sworn to help defend it. That you did so
proves
your unfaithfulness. I call on you now. Draw your sword, Sir Laurence!’

With a slither of steel, both men drew their weapons and crouched, Sir Laurence with his sword hanging in the true
guardant
– held with his fist above his head, the point aiming down and across his body towards Sir Stephen. The latter had his own weapon in the medium guard, his fist low at his belly, the blade pointing upwards, ready to rise and knock aside any attack. But before either man could make a move, there came a great bellow from the other side of the yard.

‘You – stop that! Both of you, put up your swords!’

There was a moment in which the two knights stared at each other, and Sir Stephen saw Sir Laurence’s eyes narrow as though preparing to launch himself forward, but even as the idea began to communicate itself to his legs and arm, a pair of spears intruded, and guards stepped between them both.

‘Sires, I would be very glad if you would save this for another day,’ a serious-looking man said. He was older than either knight, and not noble, but for all that, he had a firm quarter-staff grip on a lance, and he looked as though he not only knew how to use it, but would willingly do so.

A man with a sword stood little chance against a man with a staff. The reach of that pole gave him a great advantage, especially when it had a sharp tip. Sir Laurence gritted his teeth, but stood back, his sword at rest, but unsheathed. The tip of the lance came closer to Sir Stephen, who smiled politely at the intruders. ‘Tell me,’ he said pleasantly as he shoved his sword into the scabbard. ‘What is your name, my friend?’

‘I am Otho, sir.’

‘And you think you have the right to stop two knights from fighting over a matter of honour?’

‘Sire, I would not dare to stop a knight from doing what he wanted. But I was ordered to see to it that there was no brawling or fighting here today, and I obey Sir Roger’s orders.’

‘I see, Otho. Well, I wish you fortune. For if you try such a thing again, I think you may lose your head.’

‘Sir Stephen, when would you like to meet again?’ interrupted Sir Laurence.

‘At the first opportunity, my friend. If we are to come to blows, it would be better to do so sooner rather than later, eh? Perhaps in the morning?’

Otho stood aside as Sir Roger stormed between the two. ‘There will be no fighting in the morning. There will be no fighting whatsoever here, not while I’m in charge. Tomorrow, Sir Stephen, you will join me, as will you, Sir Laurence. We go to hunt the King, and if you think I will willingly permit you two to deprive me of one or both of you, you are mistaken. Sheath that weapon, Sir Laurence. Better! Now, shake hands, both of you, if you don’t want to be gaoled and left here until I return.’

Sir Stephen smiled thinly, and held out his hand. Seeing Sir Laurence’s reluctance, he smiled more broadly, until the two gripped each other’s hands. But there was no peace in either man’s eyes as they stared at each other.

The Coroner let go, and stepped back quickly. It was not unknown for a man to be held by the hand while his opponent drew a knife and stabbed him. But Sir Laurence was not made in that mould, clearly. He turned, bowed casually to Sir Roger, and walked away.

‘You won’t leave him in charge here, Sir Roger?’ Sir Stephen asked.

‘You think I’d leave a man who is still coming to terms with his betrayal of his loyalty to the King? If Sir Laurence was left here alone, he could easily lock the gates again, and hold out even with a smaller garrison. No, I won’t let him out of my sight for a long while.’

‘Would you let
me
guard it for you?’

Sir Roger turned and stared at him. ‘You think I’m a fool? You were unfaithful to the King after you gave him your word. What could you possibly say to me that would let me trust you now? You, Sir Stephen, will also stay near me, where I can see you.’

Marshfield

The priest was a sad man, Simon thought. His face was weary, as though he had already seen too much suffering and was scarred forever. In his sorrow, the man reminded Simon of Baldwin when they had first met; there was the same sense of one who was marked by the way he had been hurt. And yet, whereas with Baldwin Simon had always had an appreciation of the steel beneath, this man did not give that same impresssion.

‘You are Paul, Father?’

‘Yes, my son. You are from Bristol? I have been expecting you.’

Simon and Sir Charles exchanged a look before they climbed down from their horses and lashed them to a tree nearby. The mounts immediately began cropping the grass.

‘Father, you know why we’re here?’

‘Yes. But I know nothing about it.’

‘What?’

‘The murder of Squire William of Hanham. Oh, don’t misunderstand me, I’d have killed him, gladly, and I would have confessed it with pride had you asked me – but I cannot take the credit for this death.’

‘Perhaps you would like to tell us your story from the beginning,’ Sir Charles said. Then: ‘I don’t suppose you have any wine here?’

The priest led them into the church. There was a bench cut into the wall at the back, and here Father Paul had already lighted a charcoal brazier. The warm glow of the coals was a delight in that chilly chamber, and the two guests sat with cups and a wineskin, while the priest stood, his hands over the warmth, his face contemplative.

‘You must know my story, or you wouldn’t be here,’ he began. ‘People say the cruellest things, though, and I would have you know that for my part, I adored that woman. It was more than flesh and blood could bear, to see her so foully beaten and abused. Poor Petronilla was a delicate, beautiful little thing, slender as a willow-wand, with a smile that could heat a room.’

‘Aye,’ Sir Charles said drily. ‘
And
she was married.’

‘She was – but not by her own choice. Her father sold her. Yes, like a slave, he sold her. Squire William wanted money, and Arthur Capon wanted access to nobility. So Capon exchanged his daughter for the promise of high-born blood in his grandchildren’s veins. She could suffer so long as his family was well positioned.

‘Well, his daughter was a virtuous, honourable child. Fourteen years, she was, when the marriage took place. So young for a woman to be forced to a man’s bed. Squire William was greatly pleased by her, and the dowry she brought with her, and paraded her whenever he had the opportunity. Before long, however, her parents visited, and arguments began. She told me about them. Her mother was unimpressed with the manner of the Squire’s hospitality. She wanted better food – the cook, she said, was incapable, the house a mess; she hated hounds, and the Squire was a keen hunter; she hated noise, and the Squire was a loud kind of man. Wherever he went, there was much commotion.