29 - The Oath (44 page)

‘Sir Baldwin, you mean?’

‘A little while ago, a horse dealer and confidential agent of mine was murdered on the banks of the Severn. Do you think you know anyone who could have been there? No? Interesting. Well, it shows how even my agents can be killed. The assassin was, I think, on his way to the King. You may try to do the same if I release you. So do I trust you? No. But this way, you come with me, and your wife and child remain here in Bristol as hostages. You will serve me until I release you, Master Puttock, and you will do so with all your heart.’

The scene came back to Simon out in the ward. He turned back to the gates as the first men began to leave. This was not what he had hoped for when he had prayed that Despenser might be removed from power. The man was a poison at the heart of government, and Simon had wanted to see him destroyed – but now that his replacement was here, Simon was beginning to wonder whether he was any better. Perhaps Mortimer would be powerful enough to make changes, but if the main difference was only a name, Simon was not sure that the fighting and deaths would be worth it.

‘What did he say when you told him about the priest?’ Sir Charles asked.

‘Only that the man must have been lying. Who else had as strong a motive to kill Squire William as Father Paul? Sir Roger said he would have him arrested and brought here, but I think he has more on his mind than a mere churchman who may have committed homicide. There are murders all over the realm just now. Most will go unpunished.’

‘I wonder how he will get all these men across the Severn,’ Sir Charles said, glancing all around as they rode up the streets of Bristol towards the northernmost gate.

‘I don’t know, but if there is one thing that impresses me about this man, it is his ability to organise. He will surely have a plan.’

They spent the morning battling through torrential rain, heading north and east towards Gloucester. The river was too formidable a barrier, especially with this weather: there was no possibility of a crossing. In normal conditions, they might have made the city by nightfall, but with this downpour, that was out of the question.

‘I wonder where we’ll stay the night,’ Simon said miserably. ‘If this weather holds, we’ll need real roofs over our heads.’

‘I think you can dream of such things,’ Sir Charles said, ‘but do not expect your dreams to come true!’

Caerphilly Castle

He had not destroyed it.

The scrap of parchment was stored in his own purse for now, but Baldwin had changed his mind about burning it, for reasons he dared not consider too deeply. The main thing was, Roisea did not still carry it about her person. She was safe.

He had installed her in a house in the town itself. The castle was no place for a woman. Not now, with the garrison filling it.

Here, within Caerphilly Castle, there was an atmosphere of scarcely restrained panic amongst the men. Some were managing to hold themselves together; this was most apparent with the smaller, close-knit groups like Sir Ralph’s men. Even though his squire, Bernard, was suffering from the wound he had received at the Severn, he and Alexander were entirely devoted and loyal to the King. The three would not falter, Baldwin saw, and he was impressed by their fortitude.

However, others were losing control. There were several cases of extreme drunkenness, especially amongst the peasants. The more that Baldwin saw of these poor fellows, the more obvious it was that they were formed for farming or other country pursuits, not for drawing steel and trying to hack at another man. Although two men did just that last night, picking a fight with each other, bickering and spitting insults until at last one drew a dagger, and the two began rolling about in the muck, trying to stab each other. Afterwards, only one was left alive. Not any longer. His body now moved with the wind outside the castle walls, his face swollen, tongue protruding, the rope tight about his throat.

Baldwin knew that the execution was necessary, for with so many men, all armed, it was essential that order was maintained. But it was shameful to see such a waste of young men. The fellows here were all terrified of Sir Roger Mortimer’s men arriving, that was all. They knew they could expect little sympathy when Sir Roger demanded their surrender: there would be no quarter for any who refused. Thus it was that they retired to the buttery and undercrofts, seeking what solace they could in the wine and ale barrels. If the attack did not materialise for a couple of days, there would be no effective troops left, Baldwin considered. They would all be drunk or too hung-over to put up any resistance.

At least Caerphilly was one of the new design of castles: it required fewer men to defend it. There was no single keep as in castles of old. Instead there was a powerful curtain wall, strongly protected by a series of circular towers that allowed defenders to fire weapons at attackers below. There was a second wall, lower, but with similar defensive towers, and then beyond that a large artificial lake that encircled the whole castle. It lay in a wide, flat area with hills rising in the distance.

Baldwin could appreciate the location and the strength of the place. Originally it had been built for the Earl of Gloucester, and its construction had caused the wars in Wales. The Prince of Wales, Llywelyn ap Gruffydd, had deprecated the appearance of such a fortress in the middle of his realm, and eventually his resistance was to lead to Edward I’s invasion with a huge force of fifteen thousaand men.

The castle remained, and when Despenser managed to acquire the lands, he took it over as well. It was now the strongest remaining fortress upon which the King could depend. After this place, there was nothing left. The men knew that, and drank to try to forget.

Baldwin was up at the battlements of the gatehouse when the rider appeared. He was rolling in his saddle with fatigue. The challenge was given and the gates finally opened, and the man trotted into the inner ward of the castle, having to be helped down from his horse as grooms held the reins.

‘I have messages for the King,’ he gasped.

The messenger was little more than a boy, Baldwin thought to himself.

As soon as the fellow had been taken into the main hall, he and all the knights and knights banneret were summoned to hear his words.

The fellow was kneeling on the ground when Baldwin entered. Sir Ralph and Bernard were standing opposite him, not far from the King, and as the men gradually filed into the chamber, Baldwin was struck by how even this room, small by the King’s standards, did not seem to be filled. Those men left who were loyal to Edward were pitifully few.

The King himself glanced about him as the men of his household entered, and his face had taken on a tragic mask, as though he suddenly truly appreciated his predicament.

As he should, Baldwin said to himself. He felt betrayed by the King. His life had been one of service, and while he had occasionally sought to thwart Sir Hugh le Despenser, yet had he always been loyal to his monarch. Through all the tribulations of the last ten years, Baldwin had been determined to remain so. Yet on each occasion when it had been possible for the King to step back from the brink, he had pushed on. Now the last opportunities had been squandered, Baldwin felt, and while there might be a face-saving scheme that would allow the King to recover some of his royal dignity, it was not entirely up to Sir Roger Mortimer. The King simply lacked authority.

He caught the eye of Sir Ralph, and could tell that the other knight was sensing the same dejection. All the men in the room must be aware of it.

‘Your Royal Highness, I bring very grave news,’ the messenger began. He remained kneeling, his head towards the ground, as though it would protect him from the inevitable wrath.

‘Speak. You need not fear in this room,’ the King said. ‘We are all understanding of your concern, my friend, but know that here we appreciate your courage in bringing us messages.’

‘Do you have a message from my father?’ Sir Hugh le Despenser blurted out. His fingernails were bitten so badly, Baldwin could see only a quarter inch of nail on each.

‘My Lord Despenser, I am sorry. Your father was captured.’ The messenger’s voice was almost inaudible. ‘He is dead.’

‘My father? No, he cannot be dead,’ Sir Hugh said. He was shaking his head, and now he put a forefinger into his mouth, raking the nail with his lower teeth. ‘My father is an Earl. They wouldn’t dare . . .’

‘The garrison surrendered three days ago, my lord. Your father was executed the day before yesterday.’

The King swallowed and put a hand on Hugh’s forearm to silence him. ‘Mortimer and my son – where are they? At Bristol?’

‘They were to leave Bristol yesterday, and make for Gloucester. They will, I think, be there tomorrow, and then I doubt me not that they will come here.’

‘And what then?’ the King said mildly. ‘They plainly intend to see me dead. I can see no other outcome for me.’

There was a protest, a cry of ‘No!’ but it was a solitary one. The majority of men within the chamber were eyeing each other thoughtfully, and all were considering the same: would they be safer, were they to leave the King and join with Mortimer? One or two, like the Chancellor, Robert Baldock, and Edmund Fitzalan, the Earl of Arundel, could expect little in the way of magnanimity when they were paraded in front of Mortimer. After all, they had shown none to him.

‘Come, what then? Is there any hope? Did you hear that they will send a man to negotiate with me?’

The messenger did not look up. Slowly he shook his head. ‘I have heard nothing of that, my liege. All spoke of the Mortimer riding with his host to find you.’

‘My friends,’ Edward said, ‘we are alone in this world. We have no means of escape. In truth, I fear I am the unhappiest King that ever ruled this sad kingdom. My doom is fast approaching.’

Two Thursdays before the Feast of St Martin
³¹

Gloucester

Simon’s worst fears were realised on the way to Gloucester. All the last day, they had plodded on in rain that seemed to fall more heavily the further north they travelled, and by the time they stopped for the night, all were entombed in misery. There was no way for the men to warm themselves or to dry their sodden clothing. The only thing that served to lighten Simon’s spirits was the efficient foraging of the man Otho.

Otho reminded him of Hugh – but an older Hugh with a more pleasant attitude. As soon as the order was sent for the men to make camp, Otho and his companion, Herv, had headed off towards a small shaw. There, beyond the trees, Simon found them a short while later. Although there was no firewood or hot food, at least Simon and Sir Charles could settle down in the dry of the hovel.

‘How much further is it to the city?’ Herv demanded as he tugged his boots from his feet and stared at the blisters. ‘My boots may make it, but I don’t know that me feet will.’

‘Goose grease,’ Otho said knowledgeably. ‘That’s what you need for them.’

‘Oh. Good. Don’t suppose you’d noticed, Sergeant, but there isn’t any here.’

‘No?’ Otho reached into his pack and withdrew a wide-mouthed pot stoppered with a piece of cork. He opened it, and passed it over. ‘Don’t use too much. God knows when we’ll find any more.’

Simon had closed his eyes soon afterwards. There was some bread and biscuits to eat, but he had little appetite. He was more interested in where they were going, and what he was expected to do. Mortimer had given him little idea what he intended to do with him, and Simon found it made him anxious. And yet, no matter what Mortimer intended, Simon was less afraid of him than he would have been of Despenser. The latter was a far more dangerous and unpredictable foe.

The next morning, thank the Lord, the skies were leaden but dry. They gathered up their belongings, and while Simon and Sir Charles saddled their rounseys, Otho made a little fire, enough to warm some water, into which he threw some chunks of dried bread to make a drink that, while fairly tasteless, was sustaining. They also had some cured sausage, too, which they chewed as they returned to the column, and joined in the general march northwards again.

It was when they had been travelling half the morning that a rider came down the line, seeking Simon, and asked him to go to speak with Roger Mortimer.

Simon bade Sir Charles godspeed, and cantered off to the front of the column.

Sir Roger was a different man from the fellow Simon had seen in France or even in Bristol. In France the last year, Sir Roger had been living under a shadow, aware that the King of England would stop at nothing to see him executed. He was living under the protection of the French King, but that support was liable to be removed at any time, since Charles was a fickle ally who would use any lever to try to unsettle his English neighbour, especially if it gave him a pretext for snatching of the English territories remaining in France. Guyenne and the rest of Aquitaine were enormously valuable lands.

The position of sitting between two powerful men meant that Roger Mortimer’s life was always at risk. But now, he was once more a leader of men, with thousands behind him, ready and able to challenge King Edward and his right to rule. There was a feeling that Mortimer had God behind him, as if even He was distraught at how King Edward II had squandered all the good fortune with which he had been so liberally showered at birth.