29 - The Oath (43 page)

‘I think Mrs Capon was too set in her ways. As was Arthur, her husband. He wanted for nothing at his own home, and he expected the same attention to be lavished on him when he visited another house. But Squire William was not rich. He could ill afford all the luxuries which his father-in-law demanded. Their little jibes grew into arguments and then into hatred. Real, bitter hatred. And the Capons returned to Bristol.

‘Arthur had a banker’s mind. He was always thinking of the cost of everything. He thought he could upset his son-in-law best by removing any money he had already paid in dower. That was why he made the statement.’ Father Paul sighed.

‘Which statement was that?’ Simon asked.

‘He told the man that Petronilla was not their natural child.’

Sir Charles winced. ‘Ouch! Was it true?’

‘They swore it. She had been fostered from a whore, so they stated.’

‘What happened?’ Simon asked.

‘As you would expect, Squire William was enraged. They threatened to pursue him through the courts for their money, because there was no need for them to pay for her, they said, since she was not of their blood. Meanwhile,
he
declared that since she was not theirs, he would keep her
and
their money, for if they had made the marriage vows with him in deceit, it was not his fault. He had married her in good faith, taking her dower in good faith. He would not give up the money. And it was then that he began to treat her really badly.

‘You have to understand, I was watching this terrible situation develop. It took three years for matters to come to this pass, a slow but inevitable slide into misery and despair for all concerned. And yet only now did I become so close to her that she allowed me to see her pain. Until then she had held herself composed at all times. Her fortitude was astonishing. I think it was that which compelled me to love her. Anyway, as her confessor, I knew all, of course. All this is common knowledge now, so the secrecy of the confessional is not relevant. But when I saw how she was becoming bruised and injured, although I attempted to remonstrate with the Squire, he would not listen to me. Why should he? All that bastard cared about was money.’

Sir Charles shifted. ‘So, what happened? You ran off with her, eh?’

‘Only after a lot of soul-searching,’ Paul said. He was very calm, and Simon guessed that to be able to unburden himself of the whole story was in its own way a relief. He continued: ‘We ran away, yes. And yes, I was dreaming wildly of a new life with her. A life with rose petals carpeting the ground beneath our feet. We would live in a state of perpetual bliss, and our souls would become inextricably entwined. I was so innocent!

‘At first, we were happy. But she was used to furs and pewter: I could offer only rough fustian and wood. We scraped along somehow for almost six weeks before we were captured and brought back to Bristol.’

He paused and smiled sadly. ‘Six weeks. It could have been a lifetime. My happy Petronilla!’

‘Her father was pleased to have her home?’ Simon asked.

‘It appeared that all was well. As I said, he was a money-man, and I swear he would have been happier to have the dower returned than his daughter. Still, he tolerated her. But then the truth of my love for her became obvious, and Petronilla was sent away to a nunnery. I had already been taken and held in the Bishop of Bath and Wells’s gaol for almost a year, before I was released. That was when I heard I was the father of a little boy.’

‘You are sure the child was yours?’

Paul shrugged. ‘We were alone for almost six weeks. She had her natural blood in the first week after we ran away, but not again until Little Harry was born. He was my child.’

‘And then?’

‘Two and a half weeks ago I heard that they were all dead. Slaughtered in their hall by that wicked fiend, Squire William.’ There were tears in Father Paul’s eyes. ‘So, do you wonder why I would willingly have killed him?’

Simon was watching him closely all the while. There was little doubt in his mind that, physically, the priest was nowhere strong enough to kill anyone, let alone a sturdy country squire.

‘Who else could have wanted him to be killed?’

‘I have no idea. Many, I expect, because he was a violent man. You know what these . . .’ he glanced at Sir Charles before saying anything more derogatory about knights . . . ‘rural Squires can be like,’ he amended.

‘Yes, indeed,’ Simon grinned. Then a thought struck him. ‘Do you know whether he was a loyal man to the King?’

‘He was pardoned, wasn’t he? And his men with him. I think that tells you what King Edward thought about his loyalty.’

‘And yet he did not go to the King to support him.’

‘Perhaps he died before he might do so,’ Paul said.

‘The man who found him . . .’

Paul winced. ‘I still feel the shame of that. I saw the body in there, and saw the first finder with him, and I confess I panicked. I thought this fellow had killed Squire William, so I knocked him on the pate. But then I looked at the body, and realised that the man had been dead some while already, so the fellow I had struck down could not have been the murderer. However, I thought it better to say nothing. I put the poor fellow in a cart and took him home, and there I nursed him back to health. But I denied seeing the dead body, or finding him there, or knocking him down. I did not want Squire William found.’

‘Why?’ Sir Charles demanded.

‘Sir Knight, why do you think? Someone deliberately killed him near to my home in order to implicate me. If I had volunteered that kind of information, I could have been arrested again, sent back to gaol, and left to die unshriven.’

‘Like him?’

‘I feel pity for that. He deserved his chance – but he was long dead before I saw him.’ Father Paul looked away from Simon, down at the ground. ‘Perhaps he could have been brought to repent of his cruelty. I do know this: whatever his crimes, to kill him was wrong – as wrong as it was for him to murder Petronilla.’

And he began to weep. He was still weeping when Simon and Sir Charles left him, seated hunched over, arms around his legs, rocking silently in his grief, and when Simon glanced back and saw him, he had a hideous vision of himself doing the same thing, were someone to kill his beloved family.

It was enough to make his heart crack with dread.

Bristol Castle

‘Sir Laurence! Wait, please!’

The knight turned at once, his heart still pounding painfully. Without the release of actual fighting, he felt weak, as though the explosion of rage that had flooded him had torn all energy from his soul. It was a huge relief to see that the person hailing him was David, his clerk.

‘Yes, old friend?’

‘Redcliffe, you remember? – you asked me to learn what I could. Good God, you look awful. Been back to the garderobes to get a whiff of the stench?’

‘Not now, David.’

‘Very well. The man you asked about was a merchant here in the city until he lost all his money. He was closed down some months ago. There were rumours that he was going to try to start again, but he had no money to begin.’

‘I see.’

‘There was a story I heard . . .’

‘What?’

‘Some say that he had been used by the King as a messenger, that he was especially trusted. He had been a purveyor of Spanish horses for the King, and used to take messages abroad for His Highness.’

Sir Laurence nodded, but he still felt numb and couldn’t quite grasp the significance of this. ‘What would that matter to Sir Roger, then?’

‘There is one possibility, sir.’ The clerk looked around cautiously before speaking. ‘This man could have been suborned by Sir Roger. If he was truly a man with access to the King, he could, perhaps, have been sent to try to assassinate him . . .’

‘No, surely not!’

Then Sir Laurence remembered the look on Sir Roger’s face, and thought about the latter’s strenuous efforts to be gone from here and chase after his quarry.

‘David, you keep this to yourself. Don’t mention it to anyone.’

Caerphilly Castle

In its own way, the note was thoroughly unremarkable. A short line it read simply:
This man has my confidence. Give him all help. Roger Mortimer
.

And yet nothing could have been more shocking to Sir Baldwin. This scrap of parchment was, in effect, a letter of safe-conduct for the man. A man who was supposed to be a loyal messenger to the King.

‘I don’t understand,’ Roisea protested. ‘How could he have something like this?’

It made no sense. Unless . . . ‘Perhaps,’ Baldwin said, ‘Sir Roger Mortimer gave him free passage so that negotiations could continue?’

But he knew perfectly well that Sir Roger would be highly unwilling to negotiate with the King. There could be no discussions about how to surrender. The whole process of war for Sir Roger Mortimer was concentrated on destroying the King, utterly.

‘I don’t think so,’ Roisea said. ‘Thomas was never that close to the King. He was a merchant, that was all.’ Her face reflected her terror. ‘How could he do this? He was a traitor, wasn’t he? He must have been!’

Baldwin put a hand on hers. ‘There is nothing to say that. One line on a strip of parchment like this is not proof.’

‘What would the King say? Would
he
need a great deal of extra proof?’ she said agitatedly. ‘Destroy it! Please, Sir Baldwin, burn it!’

He took the strip and set it inside his chemise, passing her the purse again. ‘You keep that, and I shall keep this for now. It is nothing to do with you, and if you are asked, say you have no idea about it. You have not seen it. You do not know anything about your husband’s work.’

‘So you think he was a traitor, too.’

‘It is difficult to know what else to think,’ the knight admitted.

Jack was nearby, and Baldwin lowered his voice so that only Roisea could hear him. ‘Whatever your husband was trying to accomplish, it is too late now. He cannot be punished, and there is no point in making you suffer for his actions. So try to forget all about it, madame.’

She could not, of course. As Baldwin rode on, he could see the tears falling down her cheeks. This was the first time he had seen her weeping with such passion, he noted. The death of her husband had not affected her thus, but this discovery, which could potentially threaten her own safety, was different.

He put her from his mind. She was not important – but the note was. It showed that all he had done since meeting that evil, lying fool in Winchester had been based on deceit. He had diverted himself from his home in order to protect the man who was plotting to kill the King! Instead of bringing a messenger, he had brought an assassin. That was how he read the message, and he could see that Roisea thought the same. It was terrifying. But at least Thomas had been killed.

Which then brought another thought to his mind: if that man whom he had injured at Winchester, and then killed at the Severn, was actually determined to kill Thomas Redcliffe, then surely he had been ordered to do so by someone who was supporting the King and had learned something about the plot to hurt him. Which meant that Baldwin himself had tried to protect the assassin. If he had succeeded . . . A shiver of dread went through his frame.

The castle was before them now, the great keep rising up to a monstrous height. With such a small force as this, it looked enormous. So many of the King’s men had already disappeared, Baldwin wondered how long they could actually survive.

So long as he could keep silent about the note in his chemise, he would be safe. As soon as they arrived in the castle, he would seek a fire on which to burn it.

Bristol Castle

It was raining when they woke. It rained as they breakfasted; it rained as they packed their few belongings; it rained as they walked to their horses and saw them saddled and bridled; it rained as they mounted in the courtyard; it rained as they waited for the Queen and Mortimer to appear with the Duke of Aquitaine. The castle was an echoing chamber as heavy drops fell on helmets, armour, leather and the tiles of the roofs.

Simon wiped a hand over his face. ‘This is going to be absolute misery,’ he grunted.

At his side, Sir Charles, wearing a broad-brimmed hat that was already absorbing too much water, nodded. ‘I can scarcely remember a storm like this. It is, indeed, very unpleasant.’

Simon waved to the group standing at the door. There, he saw Margaret and Peterkin, with Hugh and Rob behind them. It was a wrench to be going, but Sir Roger had flatly refused to countenance releasing him.

‘I need you and every other spare man, Bailiff.’

‘But I—’

‘Will not be permitted to see the King by riding on ahead, Master Puttock. If you wish to do that, you will run the risk of your wife and child being kept here for a long time. I think that is plain enough.’

Sir Roger recollected something and lifted a hand to stay him.

‘Master Puttock – I recall that you were in France with another man. A knight.’