29 - The Oath (24 page)

For Robert, the idea of the torture chamber was one that returned to his mind that morning when he was told that he was needed. He was called by a Sergeant with foul breath and a peculiar-looking beard which had a large gap in the left side of his jaw. When Vyke looked more closely, he saw that the man had suffered a ferocious wound there; the skin was all scarred, as though some weapon had torn away an inch-wide section of flesh.

‘Horse kicked me,’ the man said, seeing the direction of his attention.

‘In a battle?’

‘No,’ the Sergeant said, scowling. ‘I was grooming the bastard.’

Vyke was unsure what to say, so he followed the Sergeant out from the garrison’s sleeping chamber, where he had been installed for the night, along a short passageway, up two flights of stairs, and into a long, warm, rectangular room.

It was heated by an immense fire in the left-hand wall, and the glorious light illuminated rich hanging tapestries of hunting scenes, and a number of stools, chairs and two large tables. At one, a smiling older man was sitting, while opposite was a thin, grey-faced old fellow with wiry frame and grizzled hair. At the fireplace stood Sir Stephen, the Coroner.

‘Get in here,’ the Coroner said. His face was blank, just as it had been at the inquest. He was a strange serious man, who was either amused and jolly, or completely serious, concentrating on matters of importance. Now, clearly, he was considering something that gave him little cause for amusement.

The man with the smile was the Earl of Winchester, Vyke knew. He had heard about him from some of the garrison last night. Not a bad man, this one – unlike his son, by all accounts.

‘Come in, fellow. Come in. Now, the good Sir Stephen has said to us that you are bright, and capable of thinking for yourself. Is that right?’

‘I suppose so, sir.’

‘Good. You come from where?’

‘I’m from East Henret, sir. Oxfordshire.’

‘Oh. You’re a long way from your home, then.’

‘Sir. The men in the vill were arrayed and mustered and marched off. That was a while ago. We went east towards London, then we were turned about and came here instead.’

‘And your companions?’

‘They went on, sir. I was left behind because of my leg,’ he added, pointing.

‘You are loyal to your master?’

The impatient, grey-faced man interrupted him before he could reply. ‘You
are
loyal to your King, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Vyke said. He didn’t like the direction of the conversation.

‘You may be able to help the King in his trials now,’ the man said briskly. ‘We need to send him a message. Can you do that for us? Can you take him a message?’

‘I suppose so, sir.’

‘Good. Do this, and you’ll have the gratitude of the King, the Earl here, and of me, Sir Laurence Ashby.’

‘I’d gladly help, but I’d need directions. I don’t know this country.’

‘It should be easy enough to follow the King’s trail,’ the Earl said.

Sir Stephen folded his arms. ‘This is very important, Vyke. We have to make sure that the message gets through to him. You understand me?’

‘Yes. I understand, sir.’

‘Good. Then you can go now.’

‘One minute,’ the Earl said. ‘How bad is your leg? Can you use it for a long walk, do you think?’

‘If I need to. The cut was deep, but it’s not gone foul, my lord.’

‘You’re sure of that, are you? Has anyone looked at it?’

‘A priest did, my lord. He seemed very competent and—’

‘My friend Sir Stephen Siward here says you were hurt by a bent dagger: it sounds a curious accident. It is usually enough for a man to fall into a pothole without the additional encumbrance of a dagger inside. Do you have the dagger here?’

‘It is in my pack, my lord,’ Vyke said.

‘Good. Can you fetch it for our friend?’ the Earl said to the Sergeant, who still stood behind him. The Sergeant nodded and hurried from the room.

Sir Stephen pushed himself away from the wall and walked to the table where the Earl was sitting. He poured himself a goblet of wine from a pewter jug, but made no effort to offer it to the Earl or the other man, to Vyke’s surprise. It was almost as though the Coroner thought himself superior to the others in the chamber. Either that or he was so distraught at the idea of the coming days that he forgot himself.

There was the sound of steps approaching, and then the Sergeant walked in again. He had Vyke’s pack with him, and opened it on the floor near the Earl.

Earl Hugh took the dagger when it was offered to him, and Vyke saw him shake his head. ‘A valuable piece. I would think any man would rue its loss. You have done well to discover it, Vyke.’

‘I was going to see if I could straighten it,’Vyke said.

‘You mean to keep it?’ Sir Stephen asked.

‘Well, I don’t know whose it is, so . . .’ Vyke said, flustered. It seemed to him that Sir Stephen was planning to take it from him, and he was alarmed at the thought after all he had endured because of this damned blade with its pretty hilt.

‘I would think you would be better served to sell it,’ Sir Stephen said. ‘It is a valuable piece of metalwork, and if you were found with it, it may go evilly with you. Give it to me, and I will pay you a fair price for it. Six shillings?’

Vyke was about to take it gratefully when he spotted something out of the corner of his eye. It was the look on Sir Laurence’s face, an expression of sadness.

‘You know whose dagger that was, don’t you?’ Sir Laurence said. ‘It belonged to Squire William de Bar, who murdered Arthur Capon.’

‘You knew Capon?’ Sir Stephen said.

‘Many knew him. He was a useful money-lender to many nobles. I had reason to use him a few times – but I never expected to hear that he could have died at the hands of a man like that. Squire William deserved his end, for killing him and his family.’

Bristol

That afternoon, there was a bad feeling in the air as Cecily walked about. It was not only her and the weight of the guilt that bore down upon her shoulders, it was the atmosphere of the whole city.

There was no sign of the besieging force as yet, but the traders were already closing up as though they had sold all their wares. In reality, all knew that they would have to be more careful with their food and money.

Cecily had endured the siege here ten years before, and knew how people would change. Those who seemed happy-go-lucky could suddenly become depressed; others, who were rude, quarrelsome and argumentative could suddenly discover their Christian kindness and start to help their neighbours. Most, though, just tried to keep their heads down and survive.

Women, of course, were the most fearful of all, for when men were convinced that they were soon to die, they often lost all shame and fear of justice. During the last siege, Cecily had known women who had been raped by those who sought a momentary escape from the fears of death. She herself had been pulled into an alley by a neighbour, but had drawn her little knife and he had immediately slunk away, to stand sobbing at the alley’s entranceway.

It had shocked her more than anything, because he had always seemed a pleasant old man: thoughtful and amiable. To see someone like that suddenly turn into a monster who sought to rape her had been more terrifying than the thought of strangers attacking her, somehow. Perhaps, she wondered, it had been her fault? Maybe he had seen her so often, he had assumed she would welcome an advance from him? Or had he thought that she lusted after his body, just as he lusted for hers? Was it possible that she had, in her friendship with him, given him the impression that she would welcome his natural desires? Perhaps. But he had used the siege as the excuse. Yes, that was it: he was glad to have a reason which he could use for blame, rather than his own lustfulness.

Later, she had heard he had killed himself, taking a razor to his throat, and she felt sorry for him, although she couldn’t forgive him.

So now, as the mood of the city turned to fear and uncertainty, she walked in the wider roads, her head downcast beneath a hood, avoiding the eyes of passers-by.

It was when she passed along Peter Street that she felt the terror strike her again, and had to stop and breathe carefully so that her heart did not leap from her breast.

The two were lounging at the side of the street, chatting as though it was the most natural thing in the world. Anyone looking at them would think that they were normal men doing normal things. Only she, of all the people walking past, knew the truth about them both.
They were murderers
.

‘Come on, maid, you want to come and play?’ one called, seeing her and making an obscene gesture.

She could not look them in the eyes. Her loathing would be too clear, if she did that. She was no pretty young maid, but these men were drunk, and would go with any woman. She must walk on past them . . . if she could.

‘Maid, didn’t you hear us? Come here, let’s play the afternoon away.’

There was an edge to his voice; a hint of threat. If she could only walk on, simply placing one foot before the other, she would survive. Her knife was no match for these two.

‘Are you deaf? Or is it that you don’t
want
to lie with us, maid? Come on, you can say that. No? Ah, then you
do
want to?’

A loud laugh, a high giggling from the other, and she was aware of them both approaching her. She had to run, get away from here, as swiftly as she could, escape to the house where she lived now with Mistress Emma. But Cecily was frozen with panic.

‘Leave her, you men!’

There was a hand on her arm, and she squealed, wrenching it free, as Sir Stephen Siward smiled and said, ‘Come, Cecily. Do you not know me, then, that you look so fearful?’

Near Gloucester

It was already growing dark as the group was shepherded to their horses, and Sir Ralph mounted his beast with a feeling of enormous sadness.

‘Your Highness, I hope to meet you again in happier circumstances,’ he called.

She was standing some distance from him, but her pale face was fixed on him, and he saw her hold up a hand in farewell.

‘They’re ready, Sir Ralph,’ Bernard said, nodding towards the friars, and they set off, weaving their way past the unnumbered men.

The camp was enormous. From here, Sir Ralph could see tents stretching off into the distance, while many slept in the open, wrapped in cloaks and blankets, huddled close to the fires that burned fitfully. There were some houses with men inside, the peasants fleeing, and doors and furniture had already been thieved for firewood. The places all about here had lost everything. Only shells remained.

Any optimism on the faces of the two friars was gone now. They rode silently looking downcast.

When Bernard asked how they had fared, the younger friar shook his head sadly. ‘There are no guarantees. The only thing they would say was that the body of the King would be respected. He is inviolate, naturally; not so the others with him. Those who have committed the most manifest crimes must pay for them. There is no humility there, you see.’

‘Who was negotiating with you?’ Sir Ralph asked.

‘It was Sir Roger Mortimer,’ the friar answered. ‘He is a most resolute man.’

‘And his soul will burn in hell,’ the other friar added. ‘The devil himself could not have been more inflexible.’

Sir Ralph rode on without listening as Bernard asked what Mortimer looked like, what sort of character he had, how he held himself – those things didn’t matter to him. All he could see in his mind’s eye was the King’s few friends and retainers, struggling on, while the great mass of the Queen and Mortimer’s force swallowed them up.

‘We shall take a rest soon,’ he said, interrupting Bernard. ‘There is no hurry to bring news of this sort. I weep to think how the King will react to it.’

Bristol

The hammering on the inn’s door in the middle watches of the night was enough to make Simon curse loudly.

Their evening had not been restful. Margaret had been weepy and miserable, and Simon was convinced that his indecision was the cause of their current situation. If only he had made up his mind to do as she suggested sooner! If only he had agreed to leave that very night, rather than wait until the morning, they would be past the great line of hills to the south by now. If only he had been able to make a decision, his wife would be out of this damned city, and perhaps on her way to safety.

‘What do you want?’ he demanded.

Hugh was already awake and had taken hold of his staff as he rose, yawning and blinking, from his palliasse near the door. Margaret was awake beside Simon in the bed, while Peterkin and Rob slept on, huddled together on their own palliasse, wrapped in coverlets, Peterkin snoring gently.

‘Master Simon Puttock, if he is awake,’ came the drawling response, and Simon cursed as he pulled on a shirt, walking to the door and pulling it wide. ‘Sir Charles, what sort of hour do you call this?’