29 - The Oath Read online

  ‘She’ll be fine,’ Simon said.

  ‘Yes,’ Margaret said, but without conviction. There was no telling how their daughter might be. Not while they could not speak to her.

  Third Sunday after the Feast of St Michael19

  Bristol Castle

  Sir Laurence left the pile of requisitions and other papers with his clerk David, and walked out to the battlements, as was his wont, checking that the men on the ramparts were awake and alert, seeing for himself what the mood of the city below was, and glancing about the castle’s inner ward as he walked. Only out here in the open air, did he feel a man again. He was not suited to dealing with clerks and papers.

  It was one of the regrets of his life that he must now subject himself to this office incarceration each day. Staring out over the city, he felt the resentment of a prisoner. This castle might be a glorious fortress, and the city might be his favourite in the kingdom, but when a man was effectively tied to them, it took the savour from both. He gazed longingly out to the east, over the woods and fields. The trees of the ancient woodlands and coppices rose high, while the cattle in the pastures moved sluggishly in the cold morning air, and he felt envious of those men out there now, peasants with their billhooks ready to attack the trees in the coppices, preparing to go hedgelaying, or merely running or riding for the pleasure of it.

  If he closed his eyes, he could imagine himself on horseback again, the wind in his face freezing his shaven cheeks, his hair flying behind him, the smell of sweating horse in his nostrils as he bent down to hurtle all the faster along the roads . . .

  He opened his eyes as he heard footsteps, and saw his porter hurrying along the walkway towards him.

  ‘Yes?’ he said testily.

  ‘Woman to see you, Sir Laurence.’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Near Amesbury

  They had started off in good spirits, but by noon it seemed the day was to end in disaster for Simon and his wife.

  Their beasts were well-rested, and Margaret had slept better than for many weeks past in that little inn. It was not too busy this morning, for most people were sensibly keeping close to home at this time of trouble for all. The alehouses in the villages, by contrast, would be making plenty of money as the locals gathered to swap stories about the progress of the Queen in pursuit of her husband, for men enjoyed gossip as much as women, but the amusement ended as the men left the ale behind and went home. None of them was certain what the future would hold.

  This part of the country appeared to have little enough reason to fear battle, Margaret thought. The crops and apples in the orchards had been harvested, and the peasants were out in their fields preparing for winter, trimming hedges and collecting faggots for their fires, and dealing with the numberless little jobs which had been put off during the harvest. None had suffered from the ravages of violence in the same way as the people about London, or the folks of the Welsh Marches in the last four years. The Despenser had enraged other barons to the limit of endurance, and they had risen against him, rampaging over the Despenser territories, killing, looting, pillaging wherever they went, and finally marching on London itself, where they held the King hostage until he agreed to exile his favourite.

  But King Edward had had no intention of honouring his promise. While Despenser agreed to take to his boat and leave the kingdom, in reality he based himself on the coast, while the King prepared to bring him back. The resulting war devastated swathes of peasant lands, and Despenser returned, only to bring ferocious revenge upon those who had dared to try to curb his ambition.

  Here, thank God, there was little evidence of such violence. Margaret cuddled her son closer to her and began to relax, but in the middle hours of the morning, trouble arose once again.

  They had ridden into a large village not far from a place called Basingstoches, when they were accosted by a man riding fast from the south.

  ‘Beware! Stop! There are men up there who’ve clubbed others for what they can steal! Don’t head that way, friends, as you value your lives.’

  Margaret could see that her husband was on his guard immediately. Hugh was the same; he trotted on his little pony up to Simon, his large staff in his hand, to listen carefully, while motioning to Rob to join them. Rob appeared not to notice, and despite the situation, Meg had to stifle a giggle to see Hugh’s scowl as he prodded the boy sharply with his staff.

  Unaware of their antics, Simon was asking, ‘Where have these men come from, fellow?’

  ‘They’ve just appeared in the last day or two. Bastard thieves, the lot of them. There’s a tale told that a poor widow backalong was found in her house when they passed by, and they made play with her. Sorry, mistress, but the truth can be shameful.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Simon said. ‘We are on our way homewards, and that means Exeter.’

  ‘You’d be best served to take a wide circuit of Basingstoches, friend. I’d not see a family attacked if they can be saved.’

  Simon nodded, his eyes staring back the way the fellow had come from. ‘What’s that?’ he asked.

  The scene was pleasant, the sun breaking through the clouds and sending shafts of golden light stabbing at the ground to the south. A natural curve of the land gave them a view past two gently undulating hills, and through the pass between them. There were woods on top of the hills, but the lower-lying ground was all pasture and field. In among the trees there was a fire, seemingly, and the smoke rose in a thin stream. It appeared to climb a little above the trees, only to be whipped away by the little gusts of wind that licked at his face moments later.

  ‘Oh, God’s bones, it’s them!’ the man said with a gasp of horror. ‘They’ve come nearer than I realised. Master, you must ride from here.’

  ‘How many are they?’ Simon said.

  ‘Thirty, perhaps? Too many for you to protect your family against them.’

  Simon shot a look at the rest of his party, and reached out to his wife. ‘Meg, give me Perkin. I can carry him more easily than you. Hugh, you stay with her, and Rob – keep up. This is no time for whining about bloody horses, boy! Now, ride!’

  Margaret gave him Perkin, and then leaned forward impulsively to kiss him. She cast a swift glance towards the smoke, and then he saw her mouth fall open. Two men were approaching at the gallop, and then behind them he saw another – and then another. ‘Meg: ride!’ he shouted, and slapped her horse’s rump to get it moving.

  Looking over her shoulder, Margaret saw him turn to face them, assessing the threat, his horse springing up on its hind legs, sensing the excitement.

  If it were only the two, and he hadn’t already taken Perkin, she knew he would have chanced his luck. One rider could hold two at need; but there were more and more appearing, tumbling out of the trees on horses that appeared fresh – six . . . no, eight. Margaret could see that Simon’s own mount was not exhausted yet, but they had covered some miles and hadn’t yet taken a rest, for they had been planning to stop and take some food shortly. She saw him curse their bad fortune as he wheeled his horse round to follow the others, and clapped spurs to the flanks, one arm about their wailing son’s waist, the other gripping the reins tightly.

  Margaret could not watch, for her mare was always likely to stray too close under a tree, forgetful of her rider. It was all she could do to cling to the beast, head low over her neck, trying to avoid the mane as it whirled about in front of her, and shoving her face into the horse’s coat every so often as a branch flashed past. Only when they had ridden into a patch of more open roadway did she look back once more, and see that her husband was falling behind.

  ‘Simon!’

  Bristol

  Emma had been waiting in the gatehouse for an age, or so it felt, when the damned man deigned to come down and see her, and her mood was not of the best. Christ’s bones, but she was a woman of some position in this city! The fact that she was clad in her richest clothes, the bright crimson cloak with the squirrel fur trimming, the green velvet tunic, sewn to taper in
at her waist and show off her bosom – all was designed to prove that she was wealthy enough to be taken seriously. Yet she was left waiting here like some common petitioner at a lord’s doorway. It was outrageous!

  When the figure appeared, she remained on the bench where she had been sitting, so that their roles were subtly reversed. She eyed him contemptuously from his boots to his head. ‘You are Constable here?’

  ‘I am Sir Laurence Ashby, Constable of Bristol under the King,’ he acknowledged, and gave her a bow.

  He at least appeared to have some manners, she conceded. Still, his voice showed that he was a foreigner, and as such, not to be trusted. She could tell he was not from Bristol.

  ‘I am here because of an error,’ she said stiffly.

  His eyebrows lifted. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Some weeks ago, a man and his wife, the Capons, and their daughter, Petronilla, along with her child, were all killed, with their bottler; they were murdered by their son-in-law, Squire William de Bar of Hanham.’

  Sir Laurence nodded, a slight frown at his forehead. ‘I have heard of the case. It was most distressing.’

  ‘But the curious matter is, my maid saw his men in the city, and after asking at the gaol, I learn that he has been released with them. Is this so?’

  ‘I fear it is.’

  Her voice hardened. ‘Then I respectfully ask that you have him taken into custody once more, sir. He is an enormously dangerous man, and should be held in the gaol until the Justices can listen to the case and see him executed.’

  ‘With respect, madame, I cannot. He has been granted a royal pardon.’

  Emma opened her mouth to speak, but for a moment no words would come. Then, ‘I think I must have misheard you, sir. A fellow who has killed two women, a babe and an innocent bottler and his master, cannot be granted his freedom. He is a convicted felon, and should pay the price for his crime.’

  ‘The King has himself granted the pardon. There is nothing I can do, madame.’

  ‘It is not possible that a man with such a heinous record could be released!’

  ‘The King has need of any man who can wield a sword or bill, madame. I am very sorry, but that is all there is to the matter. The Squire is free and his past crimes are forgiven, in exchange for which he will be required to serve his King once more.’

  Emma stood. ‘I consider this an insult to the whole city of Bristol!’

  ‘I do not expect you to comprehend the necessity, madame,’ Sir Laurence said. ‘All I can do is apologise for the distress you clearly feel. Has this fellow offended you personally?’

  ‘No! That is not the point. My maid was in the house when he rampaged through it and killed all those people. Now she sees him strutting around in the street with his men – the very man who stood with gore on his sword and threatened to murder her in her turn! How can she possibly feel safe here again? She is a weak woman, sir, perhaps only of low birth, but a decent, obedient maid for all that. Her ease of mind is taken from her, and so is mine. Can you not have him held?’

  ‘No. I am afraid I cannot.’

  Emma stood and stared at him. ‘So any felon may be released from the gaol, so far as you are concerned?’

  ‘Madame, as I have explained, I have no authority to deny the King’s decisions,’ Sir Laurence said patiently. ‘I assure you, if I could, I would have held him here longer. I have no love of homicides.’

  ‘Your assurances mean little to me while that man and his friends walk the streets.’

  Near Amesbury

  Simon bent low, his world encircled by noise: the snap of his cloak in the wind, the squeals of terror from his son, the snorting of his rounsey’s breath, the clatter and crash of his horse’s hooves on the stones of the road . . . but now he could sense the beast’s energy draining away. The poor beast had already covered half the day’s ride without a break, yet despite that, the creature was doing all he might, exerting himself as never before. Simon knew, however, that the chase would be lost.

  Simon Puttock had been an officer of the law, a Bailiff, and had fought often enough. On Dartmoor he had chased murderers, even large gangs of outlaws, and killed when he needed. There had been moments of fear, it was true, but in the main he reckoned he’d been courageous enough.

  This was different. He had his wife and son to protect. He was aware of a curious tightening of his scalp, as though it was readying itself for a crushing blow from a mace or axe, and he knew only the terror that here, today, he would see his last surviving son die at another man’s hand.

  The fear lent new urgency to his frantic spurring of his mount, and the rounsey seemed to gather himself and pound onwards, as if the beast too realised the enormous danger of their position. Simon ducked to avoid a low branch, and risked a glance over his shoulder. The nearest man was a scant two yards away, a heavy-set fellow with black hair and a roughly-stubbled chin. He wore a green tunic, much patched, but it was not his clothing that held Simon’s attention: it was the long sword in his hand.

  And then Simon’s mount stumbled. A momentary lapse, that was all, and suddenly the sword was within striking distance. Simon knew he was done for: he couldn’t get away fast enough, not with his poor rounsey flagging. Then the man was almost level, and Simon saw the sword flash, the blade slashing at his cloak, but by a miracle missing his torso.

  It was at that moment, when he was about to lose all hope, clinging to Perkin, who was sobbing now in his panic, that Simon saw salvation lurch into view: Hugh.

  His servant rode with an expression of grim truculence, heading straight at the outlaw, and at the last instant, the fellow saw his danger. He jerked his reins, and his horse rode almost into Simon, missing by a mere half foot, while he stabbed with his sword at Hugh. But Hugh wasn’t close enough to be hurt. His horse hurtled past, more than two yards distant, with him wielding his staff like a lance. He held it firmly under his armpit, and the inch-thick timber struck the outlaw under the chin like a rock from a mangonel. Simon heard the man’s jaw shatter, an eruption of blood flying into the air. The fellow arced backwards over his horse’s rump, to hit the ground with a hideous thud that Simon could hear over his hoofbeats.

  Hugh now turned his mount and came after Simon, but the others were almost on him. Simon bit his lip, wanting to turn and help his servant, but knowing if he were to do so, he would risk his son’s life. There were six men in close proximity, and Simon dared not turn back.

  As he watched, he saw Hugh suddenly canter off to his right. One man in the pursuit seemed to waver in seeking this new quarry, but then he thundered off after Hugh. His beast was large, heavy, and not built for great speed, but he was a better rider than Hugh, Simon could tell, and he felt the fear assail him again, even as he saw Hugh suddenly stop his mount dead, swinging his staff in a circle. The man chasing him was slashed across the face, slamming his head back. Then more trees blocked Simon’s view, and he peered to where he could see Meg, with Rob riding a few yards behind. The boy looked like a sack of grain, both legs out-thrust, his entire body bouncing up and down with each of the pony’s movements. It was a miracle he hadn’t fallen off.

  And then he saw his Meg stop and look back. Sweet Mary, Mother of God, she had stopped – she was calling to him!

  Simon felt the breath catch in his throat, for to pause here was to die. The men were so close, they would surely catch them all, and Meg, his lovely Meg, would be raped and killed, her body plundered like Simon’s purse. At that instant, he was flooded by and uncontrollable rage. He would not submit and die without taking as many of these murderous lurdans with him as he could. Perkin would not be slain without Simon losing every drop of his own blood to defend him. Three, four, or more of their attackers would die first.

  He forced his beast to slow, and then stop, pulling its head around to face back the way they had come. And now Simon took his son and kissed him quickly, about to set him gently down upon the ground, saying, ‘Perkin, my lovely boy, go to a tree and hide behind it.’

>   That was when the cries reached him. There was a swirling of dust from the road, a thunderous sound, and seven men-at-arms galloped past him, whooping and shrieking, two with lances couched, while the others bore heavy swords. They crashed into the outlaws, and Simon saw a fountain of blood rise through the dust that enfolded them, saw men tumbled from their horses, heard the whinnying of petrified beasts, the echo of axes against armour, the crunch of steel crushing bone.

  The bloodlust suddenly left him, leaving him overwhelmed by a terrible exhaustion, and he had to force his fingers to keep hold of his son. It felt as though to drop him would be to lose him forever, and Simon knew he must not do that.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Near Hanham

  He was still in pain as he left the priest’s little home, but Robert Vyke couldn’t remain there any longer. He hobbled along the roadway with a large stick to serve as a staff, looking about him carefully.

  ‘Master Vyke, where are you going?’ The priest appeared, carrying wood he had gathered.

  ‘Father, I am sorry, but I have to see if I can find where it was that I was struck down.’

  ‘I can understand your confusion, my son. But I do not think you should be using that leg yet. Will you not stay here a little longer and rest it?’

  ‘I thank you, but no. I cannot sit idly, while a man’s body lies rotting.’

  The priest nodded slowly. ‘Do you have any idea where you should go?’

  ‘No, but it cannot be too far from here, as the man who knocked me down must have carried or carted me here.’

  Paul looked dubious. ‘Perhaps so. Well, if you head east from here, and a little south, you will come to Bristol. That may be a good place to aim for, my son. Perhaps you will strike the place on the way. Otherwise, you will have to search in all directions trying to find it, and I do not know that you would be content to hunt all over the shire.’