29 - The Oath (17 page)

‘I just held him here, sir, until you could come to view him.’

‘You have misused him appallingly. Someone get a bucket of water and wash the poor devil’s face. If you seriously think that this man is a danger, when he has been so badly abused already, you are a bigger fool than I thought.’

‘Coroner, I—’

‘Haven’t fetched the water yet. Get to it, man, or I’ll have you gaoled instead of him. Understood?’

Robert Vyke heard all this, but it was too much of an effort to open his eyes. He remained lying on the ground, his whole soul encompassed by the flames that rose from his wound. He wondered if the pain would cease when the leg finally burned away entirely, or whether the flames of agony would continue up his frame to engulf him.

‘Open your mouth, man. Drink this.’

He did as he was commanded, and a blessed gulp of ale soothed his throat. A second gulp, and his eyes could open again, and take in his surroundings.

There was a circle of faces about him. All scruffy fellows generally, with worn linen shirts and threadbare hosen, apart from the short, tubby clerk with black hair, who stood nearby, an anxious expression in his pale brown eyes. He held a reed in his hands, and was prepared to scribble notes on behalf of Vyke’s rescuer. The latter was a tall, dark-haired man clad in a crimson tunic and heavy brown cloak. He had blue eyes and a perpetual smile on his round, amiable face. He was standing with his legs spaced widely, thumbs stuffed in his war belt, and staring down at Robert.

‘Master, you have suffered a considerable amount in recent days. Did that cretin Halt cut your leg like that?’ he said.

‘No, sir, that was in a pothole.’

‘A hole in the road did that to you?’

‘There was a bent and damaged dagger in the hole, and it caused this cut.’

‘I see,’ the man said, and smiled kindly.

‘It is in my pack. The man Halt took it last night. It’s a good knife, with jewels in the hilt.’

‘Is this true, Halt?’

Reluctantly, the squat man grimaced and went into his hovel to fetch Robert’s belongings. The dagger was separate, and he did not meet Robert’s accusing stare, merely passing it to the Coroner, who turned it over and over with a surprised look about him. ‘This is a valuable knife, masters. The man who lost this would have been seriously discomforted. And you say this was in the hole?’

‘Yes,’ Robert said, and told the story about his falling into the hole and then trying to bend the blade back into a straighter line and finding the body.

‘Where was this head, then, fellow?’

‘In the little shaw over there,’ Robert said. ‘I came here as first finder to report it.’

‘I found him in there, Sir Stephen, and knocked him on the pate to hold him until you could get here,’ Halt said proudly.

‘Yes,’ Robert Vyke said, ‘this fool held me and beat me. He said I must have killed the man myself. I don’t even know who it is!’

‘Halt is a fool of the first order,’ the Coroner said. He turned to Halt and suddenly swung his gloved fist backhanded across the man’s face, hard. ‘That is a lesson to you. If a man comes and reports a crime, it is
hardly
likely that he is the criminal. The felon will be long gone. And a man who has such a wound as that leg deserves care,
not
a beating.’ He glared. ‘Besides, if you had a brain, you would have realised that the dead man has been here for days, if this fellow speaks the truth. You beat him before you bothered to go and view the body, didn’t you? That makes
you
the felon here.’

‘It was growing dark,’ Halt said. His lip was bleeding where it had been smashed into his teeth. ‘I couldn’t go out and—’

‘Shut up. You have nothing to say which can help us in any way. The only saving grace you possess is that you would not have sent for me if you had killed the fellow yourself. Has anyone else seen the body yet?’

No one had, from the way that the people all about suddenly began to shuffle their feet and murmur about their fields, and how busy they all had been.

‘Good, so the vill shall be amerced for that. You do know that you are supposed to send a man to guard the body from the moment of its discovery to the moment your Coroner arrives?’ the man asked the assembled men rhetorically. There was another shuffling of feet.

Robert Vyke eyed the Coroner closely. He wore his dark hair very closely cropped, and with his bright blue eyes, at first glance he looked as though he was smiling all the time, as if genuinely happy and contented. He had crows’ feet at the corners of both, and his mouth seemed formed specifically to grin. But Robert knew enough knights to be aware that any initial impression could easily be false – he didn’t need to look at Halt’s broken nose and bloody lips to remind him that knights obeyed only those laws which appealed to them.

Back at home in his own vill, the lord of the manor was a knight who looked rather like this one: a man called Sir Hector who seemed equally amiable. But when you looked carefully into his face, you could see the cruelty in his eyes, a disdain that encompassed all who were not of his rank. It was no surprise to Robert to learn that a knight could be guided by the power that his status gave him. They were trained to kill and maim from an early age, so it was scarcely to be wondered at that they would turn to violence as a first resort rather than a last.

The jury appeared to know the man, from the way that they all avoided his gaze. And yet there was no proof of this knight’s viciousness. Thinking about it, Robert Vyke was unwilling to hold the blow at his gaoler’s mouth against the knight. That, he felt as another twinge of pain shot up from his shin, was entirely justified.

As all were herded off along the lane to the place where he had been struck down again, Robert Vyke had the support of a young peasant who, although he smelled strongly of sheep, was possessed of a strong arm. And then they arrived at the place where the head still lay upon the branch. The knight stood here and stared around him as though dazed. There was no cruelty in his eyes here, only sadness. ‘This,’ he said slowly, ‘is terrible.’

The head was much deteriorated now, with the flesh falling away, the eyes . . . well, he couldn’t look at them again. They had haunted his dreams for too long. Instead Robert gazed about him at anything else, rather than the face – and that was when he saw a fresh horror.

On the ground, a few yards away, lay a torso, presumably belonging with the head. One arm was almost removed, while the other, the left, was hideously marked. The palm of the hand was scored with great cuts and slashes, and insects and small animals had nibbled and worried at the loose flesh. The belly had been opened, and animals had gorged on the corpse’s entrails. For all that, the victim had been wealthy, from the look of his clothing. A rich scarlet material covered his upper body, and his cloak was of good quality – a thick, emerald-coloured item that had fur at the edge of the collar.

‘You did not notice this, Halt?’ the knight demanded, his face twisted into a rictus of disgust at the smell.

‘I haven’t been this way in a week or more,’ Halt said whiningly. ‘Been working out the fields and hedging with everyone else, these last few days.’

‘Oh, really?’ the Coroner said unsympathetically.

The inquest was brief enough. Standing in the midst of the shaw, the Coroner gazed about him, announced fines for the people there, declared that the body had been slashed and stabbed twenty or more times, and the head removed. Then he asked who the dead man was.

There was a renewed bout of nervous coughing and shuffling before someone admitted that they had no idea. It was not a local, they said. He must have come from some distance, because a man clad in such rich clothing would no doubt be famous to people for many miles about his hall.

The Coroner nodded to himself pensively as they said all this. ‘Yes, very interesting. But I happen to know him. It is Squire William of Hanham, who lived little more than three leagues away, I think. So the vill is fortunate. You will not be fined the
murdrum
, since you can present Englishry, but will only be fined for the death – and for not reporting it properly. However, because you are not a rich vill, I doubt you will manage to pay it. Which means I shall have to return, no doubt, and seize what I may in order to pay the King’s fee. I am very sorry for all this, but it is the law.’

‘Squire William, you said?’ the clerk confirmed.

‘Yes. And I think his death may be fortunate,’ the Coroner said musingly. ‘He was responsible for the murder of the Capons, and there could have been trouble in the city, were he found there again. We don’t want the folks of Bristol falling into chaos and disorder.’

‘But who would do this to him?’

‘To dismember and behead a man . . . it implies a punishment for treachery. Perhaps because he killed his own father-in-law? I wonder if the family left any heirs.’

‘Shall I note all that?’ the clerk asked.

‘If you wish, John. Perhaps you would like to see me prosecuted for my behaviour, eh? I do not think it will happen. There are more pressing matters for the King to be troubled by without his concerning himself over my affairs. Right, you, Halt: is there a spare horse or pony here?’

‘No one has any animals to spare, Sir Stephen.’

‘Then I shall require one that you cannot spare. This first finder is coming with me. I will not have him left here to expire from lack of care by you and the others in the vill. Find him a pony or ass, or I will increase the fine on you for contumacy.’

Fourth Tuesday after the Feast of St Michael
²¹

Chepstow

It was another miserable day, Sir Ralph of Evesham thought as he listened to the rain splashing outside. The clouds were all low and rimmed with black, and the views were of greyness in every direction. It was hard to remember a time when the sun had shone, he sighed as he mopped at the back of his neck with a square kerchief. He had been out to squat, his bowels playing merry blazes after too many days and nights with poor food and lodgings, and got a soaking in return.

They had been here in Chepstow for a couple of nights now, and in that time they had heard several reports about the progress of the Queen. It was enough to make a man weep. All were going to her, none coming to support the King.

‘More wine?’ enquired Bernard, his squire, holding up the wineskin.

‘Why not?’ Sir Ralph said, lifting up his cup.

They were seated about a fire in this little chamber. They had not stolen anything, but the owners were not around. As so often happened, the moment a force of men arrived, many householders fled. It was natural enough. No man wanted to wait in order that his daughter could be raped. Troops were always an untrustworthy mob at the best of times, and these were not the best of times.

‘You heard about the Queen’s proclamation at Gloucester?’ his squire asked, poking their fire with a stick.

‘No.’

‘It’s all over the camp. She has said that the King isn’t at fault, she’s not here to harm him; her argument is with Despenser, and she’s come to remove him from her husband’s side for the good of the realm.’

‘That’ll wash well with the people,’ Sir Ralph said.

‘Aye. But it won’t work.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘If she is serious about getting rid of Despenser, she’d have to kill him. The King exiled him before, didn’t he – and how long did that last?’

Sir Ralph nodded. Sir Hugh le Despenser had been forced from the realm, but he didn’t go far. Instead, he based himself on the South Coast of England and preyed on the shipping in the English Channel, acting the pirate. To this day the French King had a price on Despenser’s head for the French ships he had robbed, so if he were to appear in France, he would be executed on sight. Then, as soon as the King felt strong enough, he had invited his most favoured adviser back to his court, and launched a war on those who had thwarted him. No, he would never willingly give up Hugh le Despenser, and it was equally unlikely that his Queen would believe him if he promised to do so.

‘There’s a story going round about London, too,’ Bernard added.

‘Oh yes? London has rebelled has it?’ Sir Ralph said dully, staring into the flames and playing with the cloth in his hands.

‘They’ve killed Bishop Stapledon,’ Bernard said quietly. ‘I heard they cut off his head, threw his body in a ditch, and sent the head to the Queen. She received it in Gloucester.’

‘God’s blood!’ Sir Ralph looked up at that. ‘
Stapledon
? He was a good man. Christ’s pain, but the country’s falling apart. It’ll be a wonder if we any of us survive,’ he breathed, shaking his head.

There was a shout, then a rattle of armour – the sound of many men hurrying.

‘Alarm!’ Sir Ralph hissed, and grabbed his sword. Bernard darted to the back of the chamber, calling for Pagan and Alexander, snatching up his own sword-belt and buckling it as he went. In short order all four were outside, running towards the tumult, and then, as they drew nearer, they all began to slow.

‘What is it, Sir Ralph?’ Pagan asked, frowning. His eyesight was never very good.