29 - The Oath (49 page)

Simon grunted and sniffed, but it was not only the residue of his cold, it was also the thought of his wife, back at Bristol, waiting and wondering what had happened to him. She would be suffering, he knew, petrified that he might be dead or injured. News would take time to get to Bristol, because all the messages were being concentrated on Mortimer – wherever
he
was.

They were all glad to buy some hot cakes and cheese, and sat about in comfort as they chewed, all too tired to talk. There was an easiness about all three now, which Simon found comforting. So often a knight would not deign to talk to those beneath his rank. There had been few indeed who would have spoken to Simon only a few years ago. It seemed as though that had changed when he first met Baldwin, and the new knight’s respect had done much to change Simon’s own attitude to other knights. There was something about his frankness and intelligent approach to people that set Sir Baldwin apart. And of course Simon had known Sir Charles for some years now, since his pilgrimage with Baldwin to Compostela and the great cathedral dedicated to St James, but it was good to see how even a man who hardly knew him, like Sir Stephen, could treat him almost as an equal.

As he was thinking how fortunate he was to have met these men and be spending time with them, he heard steps outside. A man-at-arms entered, gazing about him with a frown. Then: ‘You! Are you Bailiff Puttock?’

Simon looked at the fellow. He was maybe three and twenty, with a thin, gangling frame, even with his armour. ‘You wish for me?’

‘No, Master Puttock,
I
do,’ said the Duke of Aquitaine as he stepped into the room.

The fire lighted the Duke’s face as he sat. It gave him an otherworldly look, and not a pleasant one, with his cheeks illuminated but his eyes in inverted shadow like a demon. But the red light also showed the lines on his brow and at his cheeks. He was no longer a child.

Simon poured him ale from his own jug. ‘Your Highness, I am sorry, I did not see you there.’

‘No more should you have. I was hiding behind the door until I could be sure who was here with you. You trust those two – Sir Charles and Sir Stephen?’

The two knights had hurriedly made their apologies when it grew clear that the Duke wanted to speak with Simon alone.

‘Yes, I think so. They have been honest with me, I believe. Sir Stephen is Coroner in Bristol, and Sir Charles is a good fellow.’

The Duke’s mouth twitched upwards. ‘You say that most grudgingly, but I trust your judgement. I have heard that you have not yet found my father. Is that true?’

Simon grunted. If he had, there was little chance that the discovery could have been kept secret. ‘No. We have found no trace, but he was apparently at Caerphilly a while ago. A local told us that the King stayed there, but has separated his force, leaving a garrison behind while he has ridden westwards.’

‘Where would he have gone?’ the Duke said with a frown. He stared into the fire, considering, before nodding to himself. ‘Neath. He always had a soft spot for the Abbey there. Assuredly, that is where he has gone. Poor Father. He will feel like the hart who hears the hounds upon all sides.’

‘It must be a most uncomfortable situation for the King,’ Simon agreed sadly.

‘I feel as though I am a traitor to my own father,’ the Duke said quietly, his voice scarcely more than a whisper.

‘Your Highness, this is none of your making. Your father’s adviser has set the realm against himself, personally, and that has made some of the barons react in this way, but it is no reflection on you.’

‘You think so?’

Simon felt those eyes bore into him as though the Duke was trying to see into Simon’s heart. But the Duke looked away after a moment, and spoke as though to himself.

‘But they will see me here, and they will say, “The Duke is only a child. He cannot serve us.” And they will look at my mother, and think, she is only a woman. But then they will look at Sir Roger Mortimer and tell each other, “He is a leader of men. He has power and authority; he understands others and how to reward them.” So they will ignore me, and instead will cultivate their friendships with Sir Roger, for he is the strong man in the realm. My mother has no authority to compare with his. So, while I am here, Sir Roger will gain in power and influence. And my father: what will happen to him? A solitary figure without allies or friends, a shambling, shuffling figure of fun. The realm will laugh to see him because the kingdom does not fear him any longer. And what then? How will he be able to sit on his throne if no one looks up to him, respects him,
fears
him?’

‘My lord, I do not know,’ Simon replied. Now that the Duke spoke of it with such a depth of understanding, Simon realised that no matter what happened between Mortimer and the Despenser, the King himself would be in an intolerable position.

‘You were asking about someone who was killed in Bristol the other day, I heard,’ the Duke said after a few moments, changing the subject. ‘A man?’

Simon sighed. ‘I have been asked to enquire into so many deaths in recent weeks, it is hard to recall them all. First there was a poor maidservant in the city itself, and then a man who had been a merchant, put to death just outside the city. Sir Roger Mortimer seems to have an interest in all the people of the shire.’

‘This merchant, what was his name?’

‘Thomas Redcliffe.’

The Duke sat back and smiled at last with real feeling. ‘
He’s
dead? Thank the good Lord.’

‘Why?’

‘He was an assassin, trying to kill my father.’

Vigil before the Feast of St Martin
³⁸

Neath Abbey

They had waited here for four whole days now, and there was still no news of a ship that could take them from Wales. It was making Baldwin feel half-crazed to think that all this while, Sir Roger Mortimer was preparing his men and getting ready to attack. Today, he had sent Jack off to ride his horse with Wolf to guard him. The boy was fretting at being kept here, too, and needed some fresh air and exercise for his muscles and his mind.

‘We have to leave this place,’ Baldwin said to Sir Ralph that morning as they walked about the Abbot’s garden and orchard.

It was a scene of perfect tranquillity. The sky was clear, for once, and he could see the woods to the north where they covered the hills. Should the weather deteriorate, however, it would be impossible to spot an approaching force of men.

‘The King is grown completely despondent,’ Sir Ralph said. ‘He has already resigned himself to capture, I think.’

‘Which is all very well, except it means he is consigning all of us, his most loyal men, to destruction with him,’ Baldwin said drily. He took a deep breath. All he could see in his mind’s eye was his wife’s face as she was told that he had been executed for his part in the flight of the king. ‘Sir Ralph, we have to do something!’ he went on. ‘We can’t just sit around, passively waiting for Sir Roger.’

‘What do you propose we do?’ There was an edge to Sir Ralph’s voice which Baldwin had not heard before. ‘We can flee farther to the west until we reach the sea, or we could try to work our way eastwards, through Sir Roger’s men, hoping to get to the English countryside in one piece. Do you have any better ideas, Sir Baldwin? If so, please enlighten me!’

He watched as Baldwin shook his head, before continuing, ‘I know, sir, that the situation is hopeless. Look at the men. They spend their time drinking and gambling. If Sir Roger appeared now, what could they do? Nothing. We are lost, my friend. There is no rescue for us.’

‘Sir Ralph, Sir Baldwin . . .’

The knights heard the voice together, and turned to face the man who walked in leisurely fashion towards them. Even messengers had lost all sense of urgency now. This was a man Baldwin had seen before – a tall fellow called Giles. ‘The King would see you both now, please.’

Hereford

Simon was ready to leave with the others at dawn. For once, he was glad to be out in the open air.

It was a fact that his interview with the Duke had not gone as well as he could have wished. Simon had had no idea what to say, nor how to react with him. All the while, he was aware that Duke Edward was restraining himself, watching his every word, wary of letting slip anything that could be construed as demeaning to his mother and Sir Roger Mortimer, while not wishing to be thought of as disloyal to his father. It was a tortuous path he trod.

And equally tortuous must be Simon’s. It was wearying to talk while having to watch that by neither word nor expression did he dishonour any of them.

Yes, he told himself, looking back at the town in the murk as he trotted away, it was far better, and safer, to be in the saddle and having a clear, defined function to perform, rather than being cooped up inside those town walls. At least here a man could speak freely.

They had ridden a league or more when he found Sir Stephen close by.

‘Master Puttock, I am glad that you are well. This riding to and fro is exhausting, is it not?’

Simon grinned, but he remembered Sir Laurence’s scathing words about this man, and decided to be circumspect. ‘Very tiring, Sir Stephen,’ he said.

At least Sir Stephen didn’t have too much in the way of wealth on display, unlike some other knights, who often seemed more prone to ostentation than a peacock. Simon detested all that dressing up in bright colours, the tight-fitting clothes, the emphasis on jewels and other fripperies. Sir Stephen’s red tunic and parti-coloured hosen, and his thick cloak were all of good quality, but unlike Sir Laurence and others, he was not dripping in gold. His sword was simple and robust rather than decorative, and his hair was cropped short after the fashion of Edward I.

‘You have had all your hair off,’ Simon remarked.

Sir Stephen nodded. ‘It seemed best while we were travelling. Do you have any idea where the King might be?’

‘I wish I did,’ Simon replied. ‘I don’t really know Wales, but what I have seen of it shows that a man could hide in the valleys for a year and a day if he wished to, and if the locals did not give him away – but as to whether our King would be happy to live in such a manner is another tale.’

‘I doubt it. He enjoys his comforts, as does Sir Hugh le Despenser. The two would find life in a peasant’s hut unendurable, to my thinking. They are not so hardy as some.’

Simon glanced at him. It sounded as though Sir Stephen was comparing their own relative positions. If so, he was honouring Simon more than he would have expected. ‘And who do you consider so hardy?’

‘You are a man of great resilience, master. I have seen that already. I think it is fair to say that I too have more capacity to endure hardship than many. Look at Sir Laurence, for example. To ride out in the rain like this would be a severe hardship to him. He needs his soft bed, his pewter and silver to dine from. Me, I have wooden trenchers, but prefer hard bread for my meats; I can drink wine, but am content with ale or cider. If there are good clothes which will keep me warm or dryer, I will buy them, but only because they serve a practical purpose. And look at my sword: it is simple, crafted of steel, with no decoration. Then consider Sir Laurence, with his fripperies, his goblet, his sword with gilt over his cross, the velvet of the hilts, his long hair . . . Was there ever a knight who looked less suited to campaigning? Ha! I hope I will never grow so soft and determined to seek fashion.’

Simon was careful to indicate a certain disinterest in his tone. ‘I believe Sir Laurence and you don’t enjoy the closest of friendships?’

Sir Stephen laughed loudly. ‘Closest? No! He and I have always been at odds; he dislikes me because he knows I eschew his life of ease. Oh, I don’t hate him, but I do find his attitude . . .
inappropriate
for a knight. Always seeking the next reward is not good for a man whose duty should itself be adequate reward.’

‘I don’t quite follow.’

‘Well, look at him,’ Sir Stephen said. ‘He’s always buying new flamboyant clothes, and then there’s his position in the castle at Bristol until Sir Roger took it. Sir Laurence was a close friend of Despenser, I think, and looked to him for his advancement. It is no surprise that he was so keen to hold the city, since to lose it would mean losing his status in the world, and much of his income too. A knight needs an income, of course, but he should be satisfied with the money he receives from his manor.’

‘Was he not?’

‘He used to go to usurers.’

There was a tightening of his lips at the word, Simon noticed. ‘Which usurers are you thinking of?’

Sir Stephen looked at him with a slight frown on his face. ‘I was the Coroner of the city, as you know. In that capacity, I would often learn things I was forced to keep silent about – but there is no concealing some facts. I dislike slandering the dead, you understand, but you are a Bailiff. You have seen how the world wags.’

‘Capon was a usurer, you mean,’ Simon said. ‘I have heard it said before.’

Sir Stephen nodded primly. ‘Occasionally I have had to make use of such people myself, so I shouldn’t look down on others who do the same, but I do confess that I find the attitude of men such as Sir Laurence to be thoroughly disreputable. The man knew Capon’s reputation, but still tried to profit by him.’