29 - The Oath (6 page)

‘Leave the poor brute,’ Vyke muttered. He walked to the pony’s head and scratched it under the chin. The creature was too tired even to whicker, but rested its head on Vyke’s hand. ‘He’s all but done.’

‘Out of the way, you prickle – we have to get on! Come on, you justler, you swiver –
move your arse
!’

Vyke would have protested, but Otho put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Come on, lad. He’s right, you know that. The horse has his work to do.’

Struggling on, his eyes rolling in his head, muscles tightening like bands beneath his skin, the horse began to move again, and Vyke turned away in disgust and pity as the driver swore, cajoled and yanked on the beast’s reins.

Then, at the side of the road, there was a sight to drive the horse from his mind. Two young men stood, both dark-haired, their faces twisted with loss, while an older man lay between them, his hair almost white, his face grey and miserable, his lips blue.

Robert Vyke passed them with a short stab of jealousy. He was so tired, the thought of lying down amid the mud and thin grasses, to feel the rain upon his face, the coolness of water seeping into his bones, and know that he need not march further . . . that would be a sublime pleasure.

A memory snagged his mind as Robert glanced at the men. He had seen them before, in Reading, he realised. They had been with another vingtaine. The two were the old man’s sons, but it looked like they’d lost their father now. There was no movement in his breast, and his eyes stared, unmoving.

But their loss was not Robert Vyke’s. He had little room in his heart to feel sorrow for others when he missed his wife and child so very much.

Sometimes, while walking, he had a memory of his home. Of when he was with his Susan, her young face cracking into a smile as she joshed him, or that teasing expression of hers as she glanced at him from the side of her almond-shaped eyes. It was a look that he’d take to the grave, that was. When she did that, he had to follow. He knew what she was offering . . .

He would probably never again feel the warmth of her body against his. That was the thought that made him sigh. And all because his lord had thrown his lot in with the King. ‘Only a few miles,’ they kept saying. The King was only a little way ahead, over the next hill, and then they’d all see his host. There would be thousands there, they said, but no one believed it. They knew no one else supported the King any more.

A sob formed in his breast, near his heart, as he prayed that his Susan was safe and well, their little boy with her – but today, no one could tell. The country was aflame. He would perish out here somewhere, far to the west of the realm. They all would.

It felt as if the kingdom had been teetering on the brink of war for years, and now it had toppled into chaos. Old Otho had been ordered to collect twenty men for battle, and Robert had been one of the first to be chosen. That was just over a week ago now, and since then all he had done was march, first up east towards London, and now back west again. There was no sense in it. He didn’t know what they were doing, only that the King himself was in danger, and Robert, Otho, and the lads from the vill must try to protect him, while others tried to stop or slay them. It made no sense. Nothing made sense any more. All he wanted was to stop, to lie down and sleep.

There was a sudden crack and a shout, then a terrible scream. The pony lay on its side, a bloody froth at its mouth, kicking listlessly with two forelegs, while the cart’s body lay in pieces all about. A wheel had fallen and broken in a hole, and the poor beast had broken its heart trying to continue.

Robert Vyke walked over to the driver. ‘I said the poor brute wouldn’t be able to carry on,’ he told him.

The driver looked at him blankly, then kicked the horse’s head viciously. ‘Bastard son of a sow was useless,’ he burst out.

Robert’s hand was on his dagger – and then the blade was out, and the driver jumped back. There was a shout, a curse, and the driver had his own dagger free in his hand, and was reaching for his whip.

‘Stop that!’ The bellow came from Otho, the Constable of Robert’s vingtaine, and in a moment he was standing in between them. ‘You want the Queen to discuss your argument, boys? You want her here so that you can put your cases to her, wait for her judgement on you? Eh? Because I can tell you what her judgement would be – that you two prickles would deserve a good, tall tree to hang from, since you’re going to her enemies. Your King wouldn’t be too happy to learn you’d held us all up, neither. He’d hang you as an example. Put the blades away, boys, because so help me, if you don’t, I’ll break your pates, both of you.’

Robert and the driver stared at each other a moment, then Robert looked at Otho. ‘You think I can’t cut a fool’s throat like his?’

‘Leave him. He’s a son of a goat, and not worth getting yourself hanged over, Robert,’ Otho rasped.

‘I will do as you wish, Constable,’ Robert said, and thrust his dagger back in its sheath.

It felt as though he had pulled the lever in a mill and turned off the water from the sluice. Suddenly he had no energy again, and he saw that his companions from the village were all near him. He walked in among them, and would have fallen but for a friendly hand at his arm. And then they began their weary trudging again.

Third Tuesday after the Feast of St Michael
¹¹

Bristol

Cecily reached the house and pulled open the door. Trembling like a leaf, she pushed it closed behind her, then stood leaning against it for a while, her eyes shut.

‘Maid?’ Old Hamo the steward was at the doorway to his buttery, a cloth in his hand as he methodically wiped and polished a maple-wood mazer, a frown of perturbation on his kindly features. He was ancient, at least sixty years, and as bent and gnarled as an old blackthorn. ‘Maid, what is it?’

‘Nothing,’ she said. How could she explain the shock that had jolted through her body out there when she saw the little boy who looked so like baby Harry? The child in his mother’s arms had turned and stared at her with such an intensity, it felt as though Harry himself was there. God in Heaven, the accusation she thought she had seen in those eyes . . .

‘Hamo!’ she said, and then began to sob, her hands over her face as she slid down the door to the floor.

‘What is it, Cecily?’

She tried to turn away, but the tender concern in his eyes made her feel the guilt again. She saw Little Harry’s face, and as though in a nightmare again, saw the skull shatter, the blood and brains exploding out. ‘Oh, Holy Mother, save me!’

‘Speak to me, Cecily,’ the steward said, now seriously concerned. ‘You’ve been getting more and more fretful these last days – what is it?’

Cecily wept, head covered in her hands. She was aware of tears pouring down both cheeks, and gave a choking sob. But it was no good. Even behind her hands, she could still see the hideous events of that bloody day: the accusing death stare of Arthur Capon, the cold, calculating expression in the murderer’s eyes as he stood and slid his sword into Madame Capon’s breast. The baby . . .

She must carry her guilt with her to the grave.

Emma Wrey had heard the weeping, and it was enough to make her put her needlework aside and walk to the doorway. She watched for a moment, frowning as she considered her maidservant. Curious that Cecily had broken down like this. It was the first time she had been so distraught during the day. At night she had often cried herself to sleep, and woken with a yelp of horror or pain, but Emma had assumed that the dark memories would gradually fade.

It must have been a God-awful shock. Emma didn’t know how she herself would have reacted, seeing her master and mistress cut down before her, the daughter of the house dragged from her bed and stabbed to death, then the child who was her charge slammed against a wall and killed. Those were the sort of things that no one could witness with impunity. They would change a soul. Poor Cecily, she had thought.

But this recurrence of the maid’s terrors was alarming. There were stories of people who were dreadfully affected by such things, who lived normally for a while and then were prey to fears that drew their lives to an untimely end. Perhaps Cecily was so badly marked by her experiences that her heart would give out.

No! It would not do!

‘Hamo?
Hamo
?’

‘Mistress?’

‘I think a jug of strong wine would be a good idea. Cecily needs fortifying.’

‘Of course, mistress,’ Hamo said, walking stiffly from the room.

‘Make it good wine. Not the sour stuff, mind.’

He smiled and nodded.

When Emma married Master Wrey, she had been alarmed by the sight of this paragon. He was tall, suave and elegant, and had impressed her with his cool appraisal of her before he gave a nod, as though telling himself that while she was not perfect, she was at least young enough to be moderately malleable.

And perhaps she had proved to be for the first years, until her husband died. When that happened and she found herself thrown into the management of the business, Emma had grown harder and more uncompromising, but still, every so often, she would catch that same measuring look in Hamo’s eyes, and she would see him occasionally give a sign of approval, as if pleased that she had turned out so well; not in a patronising manner, but almost with pride.

Not that she needed such recognition now. She was content with her position in Bristol and her standing in the financial community. Since Arthur Capon’s death, her business had become one of the leading finance houses in the city.

‘Come with me, Cecily,’ Emma said, walking over to the fire and patting the stool beside her. ‘Maid, I’ve heard your tears often enough. What is it that upsets you?’

Cecily’s eyes were red-rimmed, and at the question, they brimmed with tears again. ‘Mistress, I’m sorry, I didn’t think to upset you. I—’

‘Enough, my dear. With all the angels as my witness, I declare I only want to help you. Now, ah . . . Thank you, Hamo. Put the wine there, and then you may leave us.’ She waited until he had left the hall, and then herself poured two cups from the jug.

When Emma passed her a cup, Cecily took it and sipped, but sat with her eyes downcast.

‘Look, the attack on the house was not your fault,’ Emma said patiently. ‘Squire William was a thoroughly evil man. He and his men were foul to commit such a dreadful crime.’

‘I know.’

‘You mustn’t blame yourself. I imagine you feel a little like me – guilty, because you survived. I felt that after my husband died, but . . .’

‘No! It’s because I didn’t protect
him
! He shouldn’t have been hurt. I should have protected him, as I swore. I failed Little Harry!’

Third Wednesday after the Feast of St Michael
¹²

Near Tintern Abbey

All along their route, the peasants stopped and stood staring as they heard the sounds of the marchers approaching. As the noise grew nearer, there was a rush as men and women dropped their tools, no matter how expensive, and flew away, scooping up children as they went and hurrying off to hide in the woods and shaws that stood about the vills.

No one wanted to be caught by the warriors. Everyone knew what could happen when a force arrived. Men with swords would always resort to blunt persuasion when they wanted food and drink – and women.

But the people of the village didn’t realise that these men-at-arms had more pressing concerns than mere pillage. They didn’t want to be caught by the host that followed so closely on their heels.

The main road was churned underfoot by the centaine of thin, anxious men in dirty jacks and leather, all stubbled, pallid-faced and sick with fear. Their legs and hosen were beslubbered with mud, and weariness made them stumble as they trudged, eyes downcast.

Sir Ralph of Evesham sat astride his rounsey feeling dejected as he surveyed the men about him. They were so exhausted, it was a miracle any of them were still on their feet. In the last twelve days they had marched all the way from London, with the perpetual fear of capture in every man’s heart, but as their journey progressed, men had disappeared. The numbers were down to below a tenth of the force which had set off.

In the early days, he had managed to retain his belief that at some point they would meet with additional men who would join them to help protect the King, but now the truth was clear and stark even to his optimistic eye. The idea that the Marcher Lords would come to the King’s aid was as false as the hearts of those further east who had broken their promises. King Edward II was alone but for this tiny force.

‘Sir Ralph, we should ride on, sir, and make a surveillance.’

Sir Ralph nodded. Thank the Lord for his loyal men, he thought gratefully. Pagan and Alexander were both still with Squire Bernard and himself, which was little short of a miracle. So many others had seen their pages and heralds leave as the force trudged on towards Wales.

‘Good idea,’ he said, and lashed his palfrey’s flanks with his reins’ ends.

They cantered ahead together, Sir Ralph slightly ahead of his squire, and could soon see the village ahead.