The Oath aktm-29 Read online

  So she had believed, in her innocence.

  In her dream, she remembered the knocking at the door, reminding her of her failure, her dishonour.

  She had sworn to protect Harry. And instead…

  The rapping was insistent. Cecily had remained sitting while the bottler rose from his stool and walked to the screens. There was nothing unusual in visitors coming to the house, for Arthur Capon was a successful merchant, and also a money-lender. Men often called by to speak with him, and so, as the bottler opened the door, Cecily did not look up. It was just a normal morning.

  Except then it ceased to be normal.

  There was a shout: full of malice, it was enough to startle Cecily and make her look up. The door was suddenly thrust wide, and the bottler remonstrated, only to make a strange noise, a watery, gurgling sound like Little Harry, and then he stepped back, falling hard on his rump. Seeing him, Cecily almost laughed aloud. He was so proud of himself and his position in the world, that to stumble like that would mortify him. But the smile was struck from her face as she saw the blood.

  And then the men entered.

  She told the jury at the inquest, held that same afternoon, that first inside was the squire, Petronilla’s husband.

  Squire William de Bar was like a man made of steel that day, she said. His blue eyes were cold and uncaring, and as he strode over the threshold, his sword was already dripping with the bottler’s gore. He kicked the body aside before marching into the hall towards Arthur Capon and, as the older man demanded to know what he was doing in the house unannounced, he thrust his sword into his father-in-law’s breast. Capon stared at the man disbelievingly, his mouth working, but no words came. He tried to stand, but that merely forced his body further onto the blade, and the blood gushed from his nostrils and mouth as he attempted to cry for help.

  The only voice Cecily heard in her dreams was that of Madame Capon. Cecily told the jurors that, as Madame Capon’s husband slumped back in his chair, his arms thrashing, legs beating a staccato rhythm as his soul fled, his wife gave a shrill little cry: the despairing whimper of a creature in the extremity of distress.

  The jurors drew in a collective hiss of breath – like a snake’s curse – as Cecily told that part.

  Madame Capon’s little wail had been enough for the murderer to turn to her. Pulling his sword free from Arthur Capon’s jerking body, he said in a voice low with rage. ‘You, you lousy old whore, you did this. You and him, you robbed me of my name, you took my honour and shamed me! Are you satisfied now, you bitch?’ Cecily could remember each word with absolute precision. With that, he punched the woman with his free hand, and she lay sobbing, her hand at her face. It was not sufficient to save her. She was stabbed three times in the breast and throat.

  Cecily stood clutching the baby to her, staring in horror. Now she darted to the side of the screens in the pantry, concealing herself and hushing the baby as more men ran inside, through the hall out to the solar and Petronilla’s bedchamber, their boots thundering on the boards. Soon the hall was empty but for the two corpses and the dying bottler. So far, her quick thinking had saved her and the child from attack.

  As the steps faded, she darted to the bottler. He was lying on his side, gripping his belly, and she saw between his hands the bulge of blue and pink intestines, the slow seeping of blood through his fingers as he began to shake, speechless with agony. ‘Go!’ he whispered.

  With that, Cecily roused herself into action. She ran to her master and took his dagger from the sheath at his belt, turned, and began to run, Harry gripped tightly in her arms. She had sworn to protect him. Not that she repeated that to the jurors. They all knew her, they had seen her with her charge. No one could doubt her love for the mite.

  Outside, in the paved court before the house, she heard another woman’s shriek, a rising ululation of torment that gradually faded as Cecily ran farther from that house of horror, clutching the baby to her breast like a woman possessed, hurtling to the gate that led to the road outside.

  Yes. She had told the jury all that. Sometimes, when she was fortunate, that was when she woke from the dream, out near the gate before the house. Better that, than to remain asleep and remember the rest.

  At other times, she continued in her dream, reliving what happened next.

  And always aware of her lies.

  First Wednesday after the Feast of St Michael, twentieth year of the reign of King Edward II [3]

  Near Barnwell Priory

  There was a chill in the air as the men of the Queen’s host moved down the broad roadway towards the next town, and young Edward, Duke of Aquitaine and Earl of Chester, shivered miserably. He was tired and feeling more than a little sick. Even with the aketon over his shirt, the hauberk and the pair of plates over that, the dampness seemed to soak into his very soul, making the nausea worse.

  He was the son of the King, and the idea that he might shame himself and his father by puking in public was not to be considered. Except he was shamed already.

  Always in the past the English King had travelled to Paris to pay homage for the lands owned by him in France. Guyenne was crucial to the English Crown, after all. The money from those great wine-producing regions brought in more to the exchequer than England and Wales together. It was inconceivable that the King could allow those lands to be lost.

  However, the worst had happened. King Edward II had allowed the French to occupy the whole of his estates in France, and King Charles had declared them forfeit purely because King Edward had refused to pay homage. Edward was in an impossible situation. Were he to leave England, his barons would overthrow his Regent, Sir Hugh le Despenser, son of the Earl of Winchester, just as the Earl of Warwick had done ten or more years ago when he captured Piers Gaveston and had him beheaded. The King dared not leave another close friend to the mercy of his barons.

  Queen Isabella, the Duke’s mother, was sister to King Charles, and had travelled to Paris to negotiate a truce and try to win back the English lands. Success seemed close at hand when she wrote to ask that her son be given the English lands in France. That way, she explained, he could travel to Paris, pay homage in his own right, and thereby satisfy the English King’s need to remain in England, while also giving the French King the gratification of knowing that he had procured the confirmation of his subject’s loyalty. It was the ideal compromise.

  So the young Earl had been elevated to Duke and sent to France, but when he arrived, a year ago, he was thrown into a maelstrom of politicking. His mother had been recalled to England but refused to obey her husband, declaring that there was a third person in her marriage, and until her husband threw out Sir Hugh le Despenser, she would hold herself to be widowed. And then, although the King wrote to Edward to command him to return and not allow himself to be forced into a marriage contract or to remain under the control of his mother or the French King, he had been forced to do both.

  He had not willingly disobeyed his father. He loved him – no son more; but he adored his mother too, and Isabella had made it clear that she could not return to Edward while Despenser remained at court.

  ‘Do not worry, he will see sense,’ she cooed to her son when he told her how anxious the separation made him. Not yet fourteen, he was a pawn in the battle between King and Queen; he feared he was the cause of their antagonism.

  At first, to be in France was glorious. He had thought it a frolic, away from the stresses of life in England. But as the days grew into weeks, the weeks into months, he became aware of the influence the other man had on his mother: the witty, charming, shrewd and devious Sir Roger Mortimer.

  Sir Roger, who had led the men of the Borders against the King, and who had escaped from the Tower of London when his death sentence was signed, was in France pouring acid into the Queen’s ears. Edward knew it – he had seen them together often enough. And it was clear that his mother’s relationship with this man was more than mere friendship. She was flaunting her affection for Sir Roger before all at the French c
ourt, and humiliating her son into the bargain. Duke Edward heard the whispers and gossip as courtiers discussed his mother and her adulterous affair. An affair that was not only against her marriage vows but also a terrible felony. A man committing adultery with a queen was putting the bloodline of the royal family at risk, as Queen Isabella well knew. Her brothers’ wives had committed adultery twelve years before, and their lovers had been executed, while the women languished horribly, dying in foul captivity. She knew she was causing mortification to her husband and heaping disgrace upon the family.

  Unable to intervene, Duke Edward could only watch and listen as opprobrium was heaped upon his mother and her lover. And he felt that the same was his due, as he betrayed his father the King in all that he did. Now, here he was, back in England to fulfil his mother’s desire to see his father forced to lose his adviser, Sir Hugh le Despenser. And then, to lose his throne.

  Edward almost despaired. All close to him were placed there by his mother or Mortimer. His life was hedged about with ‘protection’ at every turn, so that for the first time in his life, he had no independence. At almost fourteen, he was a man now, and yet the responsibilities he had assumed were taken from him and managed for him – and there was nothing he could do about it.

  No. That was not quite true, he told himself as he watched Mortimer talking to a pasty-faced churl with greying hair and sallow complexion. Behind them a short way was his own fellow. Not even a knight, this, but a guard who had proved himself more loyal to Edward’s interests than any other: Sam Fletcher.

  He was the one man whom the young Duke trusted.

  CHAPTER TWO

  First Thursday after the Feast of St Michael [4]

  London

  All about London, there was an air of expectation as the King finally rode out through the gates of his castle, the Tower of London, and past the great crowd of men and women watching silently in the streets outside. There was no fanfare.

  From his vantage point, Thomas Redcliffe watched most intently, eyeing the King himself, the man riding at his side – Sir Hugh le Despenser – and then the other knights all riding in a knot. Behind them came the men-at-arms of all degrees, the group of Welsh knifemen whom the King honoured so highly, the pikemen with their long weapons shouldered ready for the march. And all about was the slow clank and rattle of chains and harnesses, the leaden rumble of cartwheels turning on the cobbles as wagons and carts passed by.

  The King looked furious, Redcliffe thought. He rode upright, stiffly ignoring the stares from all sides. The whole world could have been here, and his disdain would have passed magnificently over it, noting nothing worth seeing, for this King was being forced to ride from his own capital by his Queen.

  Those with him looked fearful of their own shadows, the marching men-at-arms ready to take up their weapons at the slightest provocation. They had been bottled up in the Tower for too long as the city began to fall apart. Law and order were collapsing as the King’s authority waned, and the men in the King’s guard knew it. It would take very little for the crowd to launch themselves on them, knowing that Edward’s son and wife were only a few leagues away. The hated Sir Hugh le Despenser would die in moments, and all those who committed such a crime would be pardoned in an instant by the Queen. There was a rich reward offered for his head.

  The entourage was still passing when Redcliffe dropped from the side of the building where he had been waiting, and in a moment he was gone, invisible amongst the restless hordes about the streets.

  It was something he had always regretted, this ability to disappear in the midst of a throng. In the past he was sure that it had cost him membership of the Freedom of his city, and yet now he hoped it would help him to regain his lost fortune. He had much to win back.

  All because of pirates and a thieving banker.

  On the Road to Baldock, Hertfordshire

  That evening, when they all settled in the next town, the Duke of Aquitaine was eating a solitary meal when his door opened and Sam Fletcher walked in.

  ‘My lord, I have messages from Sir Roger for you.’ He waved at the Duke’s steward to leave, and the man bowed his way from the room.

  Fletcher was a heavily-built man, but all was muscle, not fat. His face was square, with an unfashionable moustache and beard, and his leathery skin was burned dark by the wind and the sun. He was not a restful companion, because he rarely relaxed. His grey eyes tended to be ever-watchful for danger. Now, they were fixed unblinkingly on the Duke.

  Duke Edward sighed. ‘Is there never to be any peace? Put them down and let me alone.’

  ‘Yes, my lord. Shall I fetch you some wine first?’ Sam said, closing the door behind him.

  Duke Edward threw down his spoon and glared at Sam. The seething resentment which had been brewing for months was ready to spill over, and he felt as his grandsire must have done, when he was frustrated in his ambitions. Tales of King Edward I’s rages were numerous in the household, especially over his son, Duke Edward’s father, who once, so it was said, was grasped by King Edward I and shaken so firmly that handfuls of his hair had been pulled free. Now the Duke could feel a similar vexation even with his most loyal guard.

  ‘You son of a hog – do you never listen to me?’ he raged. ‘No one else does, I know, but I’d hoped you at least would pay me some attention, man! Why does–’

  He broke off as Sam Fletcher held a finger to his lips, then pointed at the door. Others were outside, listening.

  ‘Oh, bring me some wine, Fletcher, if you insist I must read these things,’ Duke Edward muttered, slumping in his seat. There was no point in arguing.

  There were so many notes and orders for him to read and sign each day, so much to approve. He suspected that he was being deliberately given work to do, to maintain the feeling that he was important, while others went ahead and did just as they wished. He was caged here, a prince without the title, without the freedom to pursue his own ambitions, tied to his mother’s apron-strings and forced to trail after her and her lover, always taking second place.

  ‘Here, my lord.’

  Still scowling, he took the goblet and drank off a half in one gulp. When he looked up at Sam Fletcher, he saw something in the man’s eyes. ‘What?’

  Speaking very quietly, Sam Fletcher walked around until his back was to the door. No one could see his face through the keyhole or gaps in the planks. ‘My lord, you must listen carefully,’ he whispered. ‘I dare not speak loudly in case we are overheard. Do not shout or exclaim, I beg. It would bring you trouble, and cost me my life.’

  The Duke nodded slowly.

  ‘I have a friend in Sir Roger’s household. He tells me there is a plot to seek out the King your father and see him murdered. A man has been hired to assassinate him.’

  First Saturday after the Feast of St Michael [5]

  Marshfield near Bristol

  Father Paul stepped back towards his church as the light began to fade, the old spade in his hand.

  Today he had been out in the little strip fields with the other villagers. It was a long way away, but the walk did him good. Anything that could help him forget was good.

  He had been fortunate, or so he had thought, to be given the job a few weeks ago of priest here in the little vill near Marshfield. It offered him that element of freedom from the Bishop that a little distance conferred. Marvellous to wake in the morning and hear only the wind in the trees rather than the rattle and clatter of the city. Not that he disliked Bristol itself, but he did not see how the city could ever give a man enough peace in order to consider the more important issues of life. The idea that a man would be able to find his place in the world while living in so hectic and febrile an environment was laughable.

  And then there was the loss which he had suffered.

  The wind was cold, a gust of pure ice that seemed to shear through his jack and chemise to the very marrow in his bones, as though his flesh and blood were no protection whatever. He stood a moment, feeling the weight of the
wooden spade, a piece of carved wood with a strip of metal at the bottom of the wooden paddle to help it cut into soil, and the exhaustion that came from a day’s hard work. Exhaustion both mental and physical.

  It was hard to think of her and their babe. The little one should be four or five months old now, and yet Paul had not seen it. Never would, knowingly. That had been made quite clear to him. He had besmirched himself with the sins of the flesh but, what was worse, his Bishop said, he had also tempted a young and immature married woman into adultery. That was unforgivable.

  Yes, it was. He knew that. He knew it as he first met her and felt that magical lurch in his breast at the sight of her smile. That she felt the same was written there in her eyes. He could not have been mistaken. She came alive at the sight of him.

  And it was hardly surprising, after a look at the Squire. A more cruel and inflexible sinner it was difficult to imagine. The man did not deserve to own poor little Petronilla, as he proved that day when he took hold of her wrists and beat her across the back and buttocks. That was why Paul had to save her.

  About him, a few beech trees were hissing in the wind, their little bronze-coloured leaves dancing, and he shuddered as he returned to the present.

  The ferns were all turning, too. Their fronds golden and umber, they had begun to collapse on top of each other, while behind them the dark purple sloes were showing in the blackthorns. It was a lovely time of year, he always felt, but terrifying too, because it was the onset of the death of nature, the beginning of winter. He only prayed that his stock of food would last him. At least now, he thought with a small sigh, all memories of that other life were fading. He was a soul at rest, more or less, once more.

  Continuing to the small single-bay cottage, he set the spade beside the chest where he kept his belongings, and pulled off his thick, fustian overtunic, hanging it on a hook near the fire to dry while he shrugged on a thick robe.