29 - The Oath (56 page)

‘I have already thanked Sir Baldwin for his service and assured him that he is free of any stain on his character,’ the Duke said.

‘He was with the Despenser when we caught him,’ Sir Roger said.

‘I was never a companion or ally of Despenser,’ Baldwin said coldly. ‘I
am
a loyal servant of the King, however.’

‘Do you mean you would serve his interests?’ Sir Roger said.

‘Absolutely,’ Baldwin said, feeling his belly churn at this statement. He had no idea how Sir Roger would respond to such a declaration. ‘I made him my oath of allegiance. I honour that vow.’

‘Good. So you should,’ Sir Roger said. He pursed his lips. ‘Come, Sir Baldwin, I believe you are a fair and reasonable man. Come with me, both of you, and share in the festivities. There is no reason for any of us to feel rancour towards each other, this day of all days.’

Sir Laurence was forced to fix a smile upon his face and raise his mazer to his neighbour as another toast was given in honour of the brave men of Hainault, as their leader, Jean, stood, braying with delight.

The hall was filled with shouting, joyous men. At the head table, Jean de Hainault sat with Sir Roger Mortimer and the Queen, while her son had been sitting near her at the end of the table. The rest of the hall was given over to merrymaking knights, squires and men-at-arms, all engaged in mutual congratulation at their part in the destruction of the King. Drinking vessels were all raised periodically in toasts, while men staggered from one table to another, as drunk as a peasant at a midsummer’s feast.

It was revolting to be forced to witness this, Sir Laurence thought. To listen to the paeans offered to these grubby mercenaries, one would think that they were the epitome of all that was chivalrous and honourable, when in reality they were nothing more than paid servants without even the merit of having given an oath. He sipped his wine, feeling the desolation of loneliness in this hall filled with happiness, and offered up his own prayer for the King, his master.

‘Sir Laurence, I hope I find you well?’

He looked up. ‘Master Puttock. You survived the capture of the King, then.’

‘Only by the merest margin, I fear,’ Simon said. His head injury was making him feel unwell, and he motioned to the bench. ‘May I join you?’

‘Of course.’

‘Do you know Sir Baldwin de Furnshill?’

‘I believe we have met.’

The two knights nodded amicably enough, and Sir Laurence moved along his bench to make space for the other two.

‘You were hurt in the action?’ Sir Laurence asked.

Simon winced. ‘I fell after a jump, and was caught in my stirrup and dragged a distance. I’m lucky to look this well.’

Sir Laurence whistled. ‘I had a friend who died in such a manner. You are fortunate.’

‘Yes. Thank God. Sir Charles was there,’ Simon said. ‘He saved my life.’

‘Oh,’ Sir Laurence said.

‘You do not like him?’ Baldwin enquired.

‘I mistrust those who will seek mercenary reward,’ Sir Laurence said. ‘In my youth, all men gave their oaths and were rewarded from their lords’ largesse. Now, apparently, a man’s body and soul are likewise for sale.’

‘Sir Charles was forced into it,’ Simon said protectively. ‘And surely, if you feel like that, you would not wish to go to a banker and make money from your position.’

‘No. I would not wish to do so, and would not do so in practice.’

‘Really?’

Sir Laurence glanced at Simon with some surprise. ‘Yes. Why?’

‘I’ve heard it said that you yourself were involved with projects in Bristol, and that you were close to Arthur Capon,’ Simon said.

‘Whoever said such a thing was lying to you!’ Sir Laurence snapped. ‘I scarcely knew Capon – and never had any dealings with him. I saw my position there at Bristol as a position of trust, not a venture from which to gain profit. And in any case, I have no need of money. My manors bring in plenty each year, unlike those of others.’

‘Of whom do you speak?’

This was Sir Baldwin, and there was a curious intensity about him as he asked the question.

‘I was thinking of no one in particular,’ he answered. ‘But if you must have an example, I would say that the best is a man your companion here knows only too well. I am sure that it’s the reason why he sold the city and castle of Bristol.’

‘Sir Stephen, you mean?’ Simon said.

‘Yes. It is no secret that his manors have failed him, and that he cannot maintain the standard of expenditure that once he managed. There was a time when he was among the wealthiest in the land; now he is almost penniless. He needed money desperately badly, and I am sure he was counting on the gratitude of Mortimer when he opened the city gates.’

Second Tuesday after the Feast of St Martin
⁵⁰

Hereford

The next morning, Simon and Baldwin sat down to breakfast together in a small building near the hall. It was cold, but was at least quieter than the main hall, where many of the men had not bothered to sleep, and instead continued drinking through the night.

‘Interesting that Sir Laurence denied anything to do with the moneylender,’ Baldwin said. ‘From all you said before, I had thought that he would be a more vain, self-conscious man.’

‘Me, too’ Simon thoughtfully kicked a pebble from under the table and watched it roll across the floor to strike the wall. ‘If he is right, Sir Stephen is more likely to have seen Capon, but then Sir Stephen is the man he most detests in the world, because he surrendered the city at Bristol, and directly led to Sir Laurence being forced to give up the castle as well.’

‘Well, all I know is that I shall be inordinately glad to be home again,’ Baldwin said as he drank a little of the weak ale. He bit into a crust of bread and pulled a face. ‘Dear Heaven! Someone made this from a piece of moorstone, not flour.’

Simon smiled as he chewed at his own. ‘Anyway, surely it’s a fact that the men who killed Capon weren’t motivated by money.’

‘No, not if you are right,’ Baldwin agreed. ‘That was a matter of a simple family dispute. There are enough cases of men who kill their wives, whether by accident or intentionally.’

‘Yes, although it’s rarer for them to kill their parents as well,’ Simon said.

‘True enough. But not unknown,’ Baldwin shrugged.

They finished their meals in comparative silence. Only when they were done did Baldwin look across at his friend with a pensive frown.

‘Simon, did Sir Roger actually say that we could leave now? I am not sure that he did, and yet that was the implication, was it not?’

‘So far as I could tell,’ Simon said.

‘Perhaps,’ Baldwin said, ‘we should ask for a letter of safe-conduct for ourselves, just to make sure.’

Simon agreed, and soon they presented themselves to the clerks who were serving Sir Roger in a chamber in the castle’s keep.

‘Safe-conduct? Why would you need them?’ the harassed senior clerk demanded. ‘If you are attached to remain here, remain here. If you haven’t been taken, then go, if you want. It’s nothing to do with me, but if you think I have the time to get my boys here,’ he waved his hand, taking in the seven middle-aged clerks behind him in a belligerent sweep, ‘to write foolish notes for all and sundry, you have another think coming!’

‘I am Sir Bald—’

‘You could be the Holy Father from Avignon, and I’d give you the same answer. I have suddenly discovered that I am the senior clerk to the King, the Queen, their son and heir, and the kingdom, as well as Sir Roger Mortimer, so begone. Now!’

And to their surprise, Simon and Baldwin found themselves pushed unceremoniously from the hall.

‘That cheeky . . .’ Simon said, and would have returned into the chamber, had Baldwin not taken his arm and begun to laugh.

Simon glared at him, until Baldwin’s mirth communicated itself to him, and soon the two men were helpless, Simon leaning against the wall, while Baldwin wept with the tears falling down his cheeks, while he held his stomach to try to stop the pain of so much amusement.

‘What is the matter with you two?’ the clerk demanded, throwing the door open. ‘If you don’t bugger off, I’ll call the guards to have you arrested immediately. Did you hear me? I’ll have you arrested, I said!’

Simon tried to hold his gaze, determined but the sheer incoherent fury on the clerk’s face forced him to turn away and face the wall, his whole body jerking with the gales of laughter that enveloped him.

‘You must be moon-struck. Madmen the pair of you,’ the clerk sniffed disdainfully, and then, unsure that they were not deriving much of their delight from his own discomfiture, he slammed the door again.

‘Simon, Simon,’ Baldwin protested weakly, ‘my belly aches so much!’

Simon sniggered again, wiping at his eyes. ‘I think we are safe to leave, don’t you?’

‘First, old friend, I think I need another pot of wine!’

Simon and Baldwin made their way back to the tavern they had attended the day before.

It was open today, and quite well-filled, but Baldwin was able to forge a path to the plank set on two barrels that served as a counter, and the two of them were soon gripping large jugs of wine, leaning against a wall while they discussed matters of less importance than their safety.

And Baldwin felt as though this was truly a wonderful, safe day. Over the last few days, he had feared that at any moment he might be arrested and raised to a gallows, kicking his heels in a scaffold’s dance while the crowds laughed and jeered. To go from those nightmare visions to this peacefulness seemed little short of a miracle.

Preparing his soul for death had been a hideous strain, he realised, because now that the fear was gone, he was aware of a ridiculous feeling of freshness and gaiety. It was as though he had been reborn, and with the feeling came a flood of gratitude and joy that he had never known quite so poignantly before.

He could not keep the broad smile from his face.

‘You look like you’ve just been given the whole of Devonshire for your own hunt,’ Simon commented.

‘I feel as though I’ve been given the whole of Devon and Cornwall as my plaything,’ Baldwin countered. ‘The relief is intense.’

Simon tapped his jug with his own. The pots met with a dull tone, and then both men drank deeply again.

‘You know, Baldwin, all I want now is to return to Bristol and see my wife and child.’

‘And I to get home once more,’ Baldwin agreed. ‘So you don’t intend to do more about the dead maid Cecily when you get to Bristol, eh?’

‘What more could I hope to learn?’ Simon said. ‘All the while I was thinking of her, it was really my own neck I was considering. I thought that Mortimer would see me arrested if he didn’t see me working. But I spoke to the maid’s mistress, then her lover, the priest, and learned all I could about Squire William’s inquest. There was little more I could do.’

‘Did you speak to those who were said to have attacked her with this Squire?’

‘No. But she must have been shocked to see them, I suppose,’ Simon said.

Baldwin nodded. ‘Well, if she saw them go into the Capons’ house and slaughter all inside, including her charge, it would be hardly surprising if it almost turned her mad.’

‘Indeed. She must have felt greatly threatened.’

‘And, if you are right, at least one went on to murder again. Not that it would be very sensible for them to kill her,’ he added with a frown.

‘Because they would be laying themselves open to another arrest.’

‘Yes. And so to kill her was madness, unless she posed a novel threat to them,’ Baldwin said.

‘She saw them; she pointed them out.’

‘You think one of them killed her for revenge? Foolish, but you can never tell why a man draws his dagger. Perhaps he was drunk. Or it was someone who sought to rape her? Was she a comely woman?’

Simon drew down the corners of his mouth and shrugged. ‘You know what a dead woman looks like, Baldwin. When dead, they are mere husks. There is nothing to show what sparks they used to hold in their eyes, how they would wriggle their backsides to tease a man, or how they could torment with their bawdy speech, is there? And even the plainest-looking wench can be attractive when she is talking about something that excites her.’

‘True. So perhaps it was rape, perhaps it was not. Poor woman.’

‘Admittedly there was no actual sign of rape,’ Simon remembered. ‘Sir Charles and I did look, but there was no bruising or blood. You know, where she would have . . .’ He did not need to finish. Baldwin knew perfectly well that Simon had always been affected with a curious reluctance to study dead bodies from close quarters, a trait that Baldwin found either touching or intensely irritating. Today, it was irrelevant to him. He was in too good a mood.

‘Well, if she was not raped, you are led straight to the obvious conclusion that she was killed as a result of her evidence. The Squire or his men did it.’

‘Not the Squire,’ Simon told him. ‘I believe he was dead already.’